Part 4 (1/2)

”Well, it would appear that you are a fortunate woman,” Toussaint said. ”I don't believe your injuries are serious.” The physician eased her down onto her back. She lay stiffly, watching Toussaint warily. Her hands still clutched the bed linens to her chest.

From Simon's vantage point, he could easily appreciate her form with the discerning eye of a libertine. Against his will, his mind flitted through the various ways in which he could coax the stiffness from her body. The various ways to make her warm and yielding-just for him.

”I would advise you to stay abed a few days. I shall leave you some headache powders to help with your pain.” Toussaint's gaze lingered on Angelica's face, more of a perusal of her fine features than an a.s.sessment of injury.

Simon strode over to the door and s.n.a.t.c.hed it open. ”Thank you.” He didn't miss Toussaint's look of surprise at the abrupt dismissal.

”Yes...well, you're quite welcome.” Turning to Angelica, the physician picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. ”It was my pleasure.”

Alone at last in her chamber, Angelica took in a fortifying breath. She was going to have to flee from France. Having escaped these borders before, she knew she could do it again. She was accustomed to overcoming challenges. She hadn't survived this long without that skill. Securing Simon de Villette's help would make things easier. However, with or without the stranger's a.s.sistance, she would gather Gabriella and leave the realm for good. She could not-would not-remain here.

It was far too dangerous.

Men like Nicolas Fouquet didn't change, no matter how many years pa.s.sed.

Nicolas Fouquet did not forgive.

Or forget.

Chapter Four.

Domenico Dragani leaned over toward his friend Armand Rancourt seated comfortably in the velvet chair next to him in the library of Chateau Arles.

”Armand?”

”Yes?”

”Did he”-Domenico indicated Simon with a motion of his chin -”just say convent? Two women?”

Seated behind the large ebony desk, Simon tightened his jaw. ”Yes, that is exactly what I said. Convent. Two women.” Merde. He felt like a complete imbecile telling two of his top commanders and closest friends about the guests he'd brought with him from the Republic of Genoa. But he could hardly hide the women indefinitely.

Domenico sat back. His lips twitched, his sorry attempt to hold in his mirth. ”Ah...Simon? Have you run out of women that you now pluck them out of convents?”

”I think we'll move on to more pressing topics.” Simon took a drink from his goblet of brandy and set it down on the desk.

Domenico leaned toward him. ”Do they have warts and whiskers?” He grinned.

Simon frowned.

”What possible difference could any of this make?” Armand questioned their Italian friend, Armand's blond hair and light eyes a sharp contrast to Domenico's darker coloring. ”Just as Simon mentioned-we have more important things to concern ourselves with. Fouquet. Thomas's death. The fate of Gilbert and Daniel. And the imminent arrival of our s.h.i.+ps. Or have you forgotten about those, Domenico?”

”Of course not. But, Armand-a convent. Women with warts and whiskers.” Domenico shuddered in mock horror.

”Excuse me...” Gabriella interrupted from the doorway, looking nervous and unsure.

The old servant, Henri, reached the door in a great rush. ”Your pardon, Captain. I will return the mademoiselle to her chambers straightaway.”

Simon waved Henri away. ”Gabriella, come.” He rose, momentarily surprised to see her out of her religious garb and dressed in a pale blue gown. He'd ordered that a chest of women's clothing, captured from one of the Spanish s.h.i.+ps, be offered to the two women. From the way Gabriella kept smoothing her hand over the skirt of the gown, he could tell she very much liked the garment made for aristocracy. One of the servants had clearly helped her dress. Her auburn hair was arranged in a fas.h.i.+onable coiffure of ringlets.

What would Angelica look like in such finery? His blood warmed at the mere thought.

Gabriella stepped forward. ”I-I'm sorry to disturb you. I would like to see Angelica.”

”She is asleep at the moment,” Simon said. ”She was awake earlier and was seen by a physician. He advises that with some rest, she will be well in a few days. If you wish, you may see her when she awakens.”

She brightened. ”I would like that very much. I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”

Simon brushed off the comment. He could hardly look at his action as a good deed when his conduct had been initially motivated more by a disreputable inclination than a gallant one. ”Allow me to introduce you to two of my commanders. Gabriella Santino, this is Armand Rancourt.” Armand gave her a nod and a bow. ”And this is Domenico Dragani.”

Domenico approached with a smile, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. ”It is a pleasure to meet you.” He gave her a sweeping bow.

Gabriella blushed and beamed. Simon shook his head, amused.

Armand leaned toward Simon and asked sotto voce, ”Does she speak French?”

Simon had asked her that very question onboard the s.h.i.+p. ”No.”

Turning to Domenico, Armand inquired in French, ”Do you detect any warts? Or whiskers?”

Domenico smiled. ”Not a one,” he responded in kind, his look indicating approval of her feminine qualities.

”Domenico, why don't you show Gabriella the gardens?” Simon suggested, noting her instant pleasure over the prospect.

Needing no further encouragement, Domenico tucked Gabriella's hand in the crook of his arm and left the room, boasting about his knowledge of the botanicals on the chateau's grounds.

Gabriella looked pleased to be out of the convent and content to keep it that way. If only Simon could understand why her friend felt such a compulsion to return.

”Angelica... Where is my little Angelica?”

She was six and giggled as her father called out to her from the grand foyer of their country estate, his voice drifting up the stairwell to her small ears. Quickly, she dashed down the stairs, her small shoes tapping on each step in her rapid descent.

”Papa!” She jumped into the outstretched arms of the man she loved the most and looked into his adoring eyes, then at her mother who stood by smiling as she watched their loving exchange. Her long, dark curls flounced about as he spun her around. And around. She squealed happily, hugging his neck with fierce affection; his laughter filled her world with joy. Her surroundings blurred. Objects became indistinguishable. And the laughter suddenly changed then from gaiety to harshness. Cruelly taunting her.

Her world stopped revolving at once.

Laughing down at her was the face of another man her mother had called husband, yet Angelica could only call him ”Evil” in the quiet of her fourteen-year-old mind.

Angelica jolted awake to find herself sitting up in bed, her heart pounding. Her head balked at the sudden movement, punis.h.i.+ng her promptly with a sharp pain.

Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to knead away the ache. She hadn't had a nightmare like that in years. No doubt it had occurred because she was in France. Near Fouquet.