Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers
While she wolfed down a slice of cold mutton pie she listened as he explained that the captain had given him orders to see that she got safely to Paris. If she had no objections, they would tell anyone that asked she was his French niece whom he had not seen since she was a baby, and that they were on their way to Paris from the province of Toulouse.
Marisa gave him a suspicious look.
“How do you know so much about France?”
“I don’t, lassie! Only some of the ports. But the captain told me what I was to say.”
She sniffed. “How considerate of him! I’m sure he’s good at making up lies.”
“Ah, well.” He shook his head at her. “He’s a hard man to understand, sometimes, an’ there’s a devil riding his shoulder that makes him the way he is. You wouldna’ understand.”
Marisa bit her lip to stop herself from asking the questions she longed to, and she told herself that she had already put him out of her mind. Once she arrived in Paris she would never see him again. No doubt he’d go back to his pirating after the broken mast was fixed and Donald had returned to Nantes, his errand completed.
And in the end, it was easy enough to occupy her mind with other things, once their journey had begun.
The crowded diligence followed the meandering course of the Loire River for a while, and, although their progress was slow and they stopped frequently to rest or change the horses, Marisa did not really mind. Donald pretended to sleep for the most part, and she was free to gaze out of the window, reacquainting herself with the familiar landscape. Her fellow passengers were peasants or minor clerks, and once she had told them she was taking her Scottish uncle to visit some friends of the family in Paris, they did not question her further. Even during these changed times there were refugees everywhere trying to find the families they had been separated from during the revolution. And spies as well, if the rumors were true. It was best not to ask too many questions.
It took them several days to reach the outskirts of Paris, and by this time Marisa felt tired and wilted. She had watched smart carriages, sometimes escorted by dashingly uniformed soldiers, rattle by them in a cloud of dust and had noticed with a pang of envy the women who rode in them. What a peasant she looked like after all!
Suddenly the whole notion of her traveling all the way to Paris on the off-chance of finding some member of her mother’s family seemed utter madness. Look at the trouble it had already brought her! She should have stayed in the convent and obediently married that detestable Don Pedro Arteaga. She should have….
But she had to collect her wandering thoughts quickly when the diligence pulled to a halt with a squeaking of wooden brakes and the passengers began to clamber over each other in their eagerness to alight.
They had stopped before an inn, but on what street and in what part of the city she had no idea. She had no bundle of clothes to cling to; she had nothing, in fact, but the garments on her back and the small purse Donald had thrust awkwardly at her before they set out. Payment for her services, she had thought, blushing angrily, but she had taken it so she wouldn’t hurt Donald’s feelings, and now she was glad she had, for the few coins gave her a feeling of independence.
She had begun to glance around, confused, almost forgetting Donald until he touched her arm gently.
“It’ll be dark soon—and a rainy night into the bargain, to judge from the looks of the sky.” He was looking around him anxiously as he spoke, as if he, too, were at a loss now that they had finally arrived. “Perhaps we’d best—” he had begun when suddenly he gave a grunt of relief as a man, unobtrusively dressed, who had been studying the faces of the passengers, came forward and spoke in English.
“You’re Donald McGuire? I’m Silas Winters, late of the brig Stella Maris out of the Carolinas. Captain Challenger sent me to look for you.”
Apart from a slight, polite inclination of his head in her direction Silas Winters, a quiet young man, was tactful enough to leave Marisa to her own confused thoughts. He helped her into the small closed carriage, but he seemed more at ease talking to Donald, explaining that his ship had been taken by a Frenchman, and he had recently been released in exchange for a French prisoner.
“I’ve signed up with Captain Challenger. It was a stroke of luck running into him at the ambassador’s house just two nights ago. It seems that we’ve settled our difference with France—for the time being, anyhow!”
All during this time, Marisa felt herself incapable of uttering a word. If she opened her mouth she might very well shriek with sheer rage and frustration. How dare he? She wouldn’t become his prisoner again! If he thought he could treat her as he had done, abandon her without a word, and then have her picked up and brought to him on some whim—what did he want with her this time?
The answer, springing into her mind, made her blush and clasp her hands tightly together in the darkness of the carriage. Oh, no, she wouldn’t! They were no longer on his ship, where as captain he had the power of life and death over everyone on board. She was free, and in Paris, and if he attempted to molest her she would not hesitate to scream as loudly as she could, to bring the gendarmes running. He’d find out….
It began to drizzle as the carriage bowled along the darkening streets, some of them already lit with sputtering oil lanterns, but Marisa was too agitated to notice anything, not even when the two men who sat opposite her fell into a low-voiced conversation that excluded her.
‘He cannot do this to me. Only a few days ago he was telling me how glad he would be when we could go our separate ways. And now, oh! It’s too much to bear.’
She gritted her teeth as the carriage came to a sudden halt before a tall, narrow house in a quiet street, and it was all she could do to murmur a few polite words of thanks to Mr. Winters, who bowed solemnly over her hand. What did he think of her being here? How would he react if she suddenly jumped back into the carriage and demanded to be taken away—taken back to the inn they had just left?
But he had turned away to unlock an iron gate set into the wall and now stood aside to allow her to precede him up a flight of steps lit by a lantern over the door that now loomed up in front of her.
An elderly servant answered a tug on the bell cord, and Marisa found herself within—looking about a small, rather shabby-looking hallway leading to a thinly carpeted stairway at one end and some closed doors to the left and right.
“Guillaume will show you to your room, miss,” Silas Winters said behind her. He coughed apologetically. “I am afraid there are no other servants, not yet. Accommodations are difficult to find in Paris at this time with the English swarming across the channel in droves trying to satisfy their curiosity.” He added quickly, as if he had said too much, “The captain will be staying over at the ambassador’s house tonight—there’s a reception there. But I was to tell you he hopes you’ll find everything you need. Guillaume has already prepared a light supper, and—” he said giving her a sudden, shy smile “—you must be very tired, I’m sure.”
He was quite young, Marisa noticed with surprise. Probably no more than twenty-two or-three at the most. And at least he had the manners of a gentleman. She gave him a tentative smile in return, uncertain now what she would do, and heard Donald say briskly, “That’s right, lass. You go upstairs and rest. And if someone would just show me to the kitchen, now, it’s something I’m needing to eat!”
Once again Marisa felt matters taken out of her hands. Mixed with a feeling of relief that he was not here she could feel her keyed-up mood vanish to be replaced by exhaustion. It wouldn’t hurt, after all, to spend one night here, and in the morning, when she felt rested, she could leave. Somehow, she didn’t feel that this polite young Mr. Winters would feign ignorance at her being kept locked up like a prisoner. Yes, there was always the morning.
How soundly she slept that night! Waking, she did not at first realize where she was. A strange room, like so many others she’d slept in as they had traveled the long road to Paris. The bed was more comfortable than most, and the room quite large