Chapter 18
She slept lightly, waking in the predawn black already poised on the edge of desire before conscious thought took purchase.
Nathaniel’s breathing, too, shifted from sleep to an answering awareness.
Unspeaking, their hands caressed, their mouths sought one another, bodies drifting towards bliss without the raw fever-dream quality of before.
“I took you, before,” he murmured at some point, settling her atop him. His hands shaped her hips, gentle and careful with her for all their strength.
“I’d say we had one another equally.” She was pleased with her admirably dry tone given she was presently made of liquid heat.
His chest under her hands vibrated soundlessly with amusement. She traced his lips with a thumb, searching for a smile. How often did he contain private entertainments, hidden away so that the world did not see them? The barest hint of his tongue against her, and she gave up the hunt.
One of his hands made a careful ascent from rib cage to breast and then back to her hip. “All the same—” he began to say and then, “Yes,” when she brought him inside her. He rose to meet her as she rolled her hips to take him deeper. She caught him, palm to palm. He curled his fingers through hers.
“Aye . . . Take your pleasure of me,” he whispered. The words pooled warm, deep within, a separate wave of pleasure unto themselves as she moved upon him. She rippled above him, around him.
Desire flowed, a river still but not the raging torrent of before. It was a lazy summer current, warm and unhurried, rather than the merciless force of the spring thaw; they were not at its mercy but directed it to their own desire.
The wealth of tenderness between them was all the more pronounced for the lack of it before. He was a man of fierce passions capable of infinite softness. It was enough to undo her utterly.
She found her pleasure, but his pleasure was hers too. She delighted in being the cause of his surrender, this man of limitless strength who let himself be undone by her. She gave herself over to it.
“Isobel . . .” His voice was hoarse with need.
She was on the brink of euphoria now herself.
She gave him back his own name on a sigh.
He surged up into her, and she held him fast with her thighs, bore him to the bed to ride out his surrender.
She contracted around him, endless deep pulses until she could not tell where hers ended and his began.
It was her surrender too, granted so willingly, all of it fathoms deep within her.
With this too, she would need a reckoning.
When next she woke, it was to muted light streaming through the window.
The previous night’s wind had ceased and taken with it some of the clouds.
As soon as conscious thought returned, so too did the memories from the night before.
She was alone in bed, and the still air told her Nathaniel was not present.
A careful glance confirmed it. The damson net gown of the night before was draped neatly on a chair, the revealing stays and stockings atop it and slippers tucked beneath.
She tentatively stretched, sore in unexpected places outside and in.
The slight redness of a blooming bruise on one hip showed itself when she moved the blankets aside.
She didn’t know when specifically that happened, but she viscerally remembered the animalistic way they’d grappled with one another, undressing.
One of her shoulders was sore from where he’d pushed her into the door; the wood had scraped her skin.
Even alone, she had to bury her face in the pillow for a moment. Then the pillow recalled a new line of memories, of being on her hands and knees . . .
She pressed hands to her burning cheeks.
A knock sounded on the door. She froze, relaxing marginally when a voice called out, “Mlle Blanchet? Are you there? It is Jean-Francois.” One of the errand boys downstairs that Nathaniel had pointed out as trustworthy. A French spy-in-training for Amélie, perhaps.
Wrapping herself firmly in a blanket, mindful of Nathaniel’s caution to open the door to no one but himself, étienne, or Amélie, she called out, “Yes, I am here.”
“Bien s?r. I come from Madame Amélie’s. I have for you a note. I will leave it here outside the door.”
“If you wait downstairs, I will fetch a coin for you shortly.”
“Non, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Nate has instructed me if you answer to leave the note and then to go away at once. This errand, it is already paid for. Of course, you may pay me double for another favor if you wish. I will not say no to this.”
She smiled, both at his cheek and at the idea of Nathaniel giving those instructions, for she could picture it. “Merci, Jean-Francois.”
“But of course, Mademoiselle. Bonne journée.”
She listened for his retreating steps down the adjacent stairs; he sounded as though he were taking them two at a time. Cautiously she opened the door and quickly stooped to retrieve the note.
It was from Amélie, inviting her to come over at her leisure if she wished. Nathaniel had been to L’Orchidée already this morning if he’d paid Jean-Francois to deliver the note from there. Had he also asked Amélie to look after her, after last night?
It was hardly an order, and her mind was so jumbled that she felt herself not fit for company, but upon consideration, she did not wish to be alone with her thoughts either.
Too, she would need to prepare for the night’s meeting at Le Repaire.
She was still determined to go despite the risks, however much they’d increased last night.
If there was any chance that Thérèse was Lucy . . .
She dressed quickly. Although there were several modest, pretty gowns among those sent over in the trunk from L’Orchidée, she set them aside in favor of a blouse and one of her own rough skirts and jackets, purchased just after her arrival in France.
She had no particular attachment to them, but they were in some way a more comfortable choice this morning, in some manner more true to herself than an elegant borrowed frock.
She also had no wish to draw anyone’s eyes after the previous night.
She knew by now the way through alleys to the back entrance of L’Orchidée. The taciturn men set to watch it recognized her. A short time later, she sat with Amélie.
Amélie settled back into a chair after an exchange of greetings, watching her with a patient look without forcing conversation.
She wished to unburden herself to Amélie but hardly knew what it was specifically that she wished to discuss—or where to begin, did she.
So very much had occurred in the past few days that was outside the realm of her usual living, and both gravity and urgency of unfolding events were rapidly picking up speed.
She’d felt confident last night in taking on the role of someone other than herself but was grappling this morning with the sense that perhaps she did not in fact know herself after all, even beneath the guise.
And Lucy . . . Oh merciful God, it must be Lucy. It had to be her sister, or this was all for naught.
No, not for naught if it increased Nathaniel’s chances at learning whatever it was he needed to indict Compton.
Lucy . . . She drew a ragged breath.
“You are troubled this morning, ma chère,” Amélie observed. “No, do not deny this. Perhaps you wish for a bath? Sometimes it helps, to have this time to relax when one is troubled. I will order at once some hot water delivered if you wish it.”
How badly she did want to bathe, now she thought on it. “Please. I would be most appreciative.”
Amélie pulled the bell rope and directed the maid to prepare a bath. Buckets of hot water were brought up and the large claw-footed tub in Amélie’s dressing room filled.
“Come, we will choose some soaps. After, I will be in the next room over. Perhaps we will talk when you are finished with your soak, oui?” Amélie draped a thick towel over a chair and left her alone.
She sank gratefully into the steaming water, at first doing nothing more than resting with her eyes closed, head tipped back against the tub’s lip.
She tried to appreciate the warm water on sore muscles, but the relaxation was only surface-deep.
It did not quiet her mind, which turned inevitably to the previous night and fixed there.
She was overwhelmed, totally confounded, by events and revelations, everything in her mind coming loose at once and untethering her from security and reason.
This time she did not have Nathaniel to anchor her, his arms helping her to feel less alone, even though he was also author of some of her disquiet.
Tears came, slowly at first. She tried keeping them silent, with Amélie in the room beyond, but they overtook her in wracking sobs.
Despite bone-deep grief, she had not truly broken down, had not allowed herself to give in fully to tears, not in all these months: not for Jamie, not for her parents, not for Lucy.
Having finally let loose her tears, she couldn’t stop.
And then she couldn’t breathe either, suffocating for want of air, unable to do more than clutch the side of the tub and gasp.
Amélie, rapping lightly on the door, came in despite receiving no answer.
She fought for breath as Amélie knelt by the tub, a hand on her shoulder. Gradually she regained control, although the tears still flowed, unceasing. She couldn’t stop.
“Have you washed, ma petite? Non? Then I shall help, if you will permit. Once you are out and dried, you will tell me what it is that causes this crise d’angoisse.”
Utterly wrung out, she submitted to being bathed like a child. Amélie’s hands were gentle with soap and cloth and a pitcher of warm water to rinse her hair.
She let herself be drawn out of the tub and the towel wrapped around her. Amélie brought out a comb and worked it gently through her hair. Wearily she allowed Amélie to guide her into a robe.