Page 33 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Stare all you like, Englishman,” Lazare muttered, self-consciously touching a hand to his scarred flesh. “In a month’s time the maggots will have devoured your eyes.”
And as for the Avenging Angel—Lazare sneered—she would count herself blessed if her own death came so swift as the one Lazare envisioned for Carrington. Because Lazare had far different plans for Belle, a vengeance more subtle and sweet. She herself had given him the key to it, that long ago night when her fever had raged. In her delirium she had cried out her terrors of being locked away in the Conciergerie, of mounting the steps to the guillotine, of her despairing love for Jean-Claude Varens.
“So rest while you may,ma belle.” Lazare’s mouth tightened with grim satisfaction. “I am about to make all of your worst nightmares come true.”
Paulette’s laudanum took effect.Oblivious to the rocking of the ship and the three men who stalked the deck above her, Belle slept.
Seven
The drums pounded in Belle’s head. Like marionettes, the soldiers’ stiff arms rose and fell, beating out the steady rhythm. They kept step beside the rough wooden tumbril creeping through the streets, bearing the latest cache of victims to the guillotine’s relentless blade.
Tossing on the cot, Belle moaned, trying to pull herself out of the dream. But the webbings of nightmare held her fast, as tight as the cords that seemed to bind her hands.
She was not a spectator. This time it was she who stood braced against the jolts of the cart, her arms bound behind her as she stared out over a sea of jeering faces that had lost all trace of humanity. Gaping mouths, burning eyes, their features were indistinguishable except for the man who stood a little apart, gentle and solemn, untouched by the hatred of the rabble surrounding him.
“Jean-Claude! Jean-Claude!” Her throat muscles ached with the effort of trying to call to him, but the drums sounded louder, drowning out her cries. The cart lurched to a stop, and rough hands seized her, dragging her to the ground. She strained toward her husband, but Jean-Claude had turned, about to vanish into the crowd.
“Jean—”
“Belle!”
This time her cry was cut off not by the drums, but by someone shouting her name.
“Belle! Wake up!” The hands gripping her shoulders gave her a brisk shake.
She felt herself slipping back into the midst of the mob, but the deep male voice, so familiar, so insistent, snapped the tenuous threads of the nightmare. With a gasp, Belle jerked to a sitting position. Forcing her eyes open, she struggled to focus on the person perched on the edge of the cot, bending over her.
Glossy black hair tumbled over a furrowed brow, anxiety mirrored in dark-fringed eyes of crystalline green. The mouth that should have been smiling with its customary lazy good humor was not.
“Sinclair?” she said thickly.
“Yes, I am right here, Angel.”
The simple words had a strange effect on her. She flung her arms about his neck, burying her face against him, drawing comfort from the unyielding hardness of his shoulder. He felt so solid, so real after the phantom images of her nightmare.
His arms closed about her, strong and steadying. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he rested his chin against the top of her head, gently rocking her.
“It’s all right, Angel,” he murmured. “You are here, safe with me.”
Belle released her breath in a tremulous sigh. Yes, but where was here? Her mind yet hazy with sleep, she turned her head enough to study the room through bleary eyes. She took in the swaying lantern, the trunks propped against the wall, the empty glass tumbled upon the floorboards of the cabin aboard the Good Lady Nell.
Memory flooded back to her, of waiting on the dock, finding the little boy, seeing Jean-Claude, telling Sinclair?—
Sinclair! With a jolt, she realized how she clung to him like a frightened child. She struggled to break free. He attempted to soothe her, but she wrenched out of his arms. Her head swam so dizzyingly she was obliged to sink back flat on the cot.
With a low groan, she covered her face with her hands. It was the cursed laudanum. That was what was causing her to feel so weak and to behave so strangely. She’d be damned if she would ever touch the stuff again. The brief peace it had brought her was not worth the self-loathing she now felt.
She noticed Sinclair’s weight shift from the cot and thought he had left her. But he returned to her side in a minute. Pulling her hands down, he dabbed a cool, damp cloth upon her brow.
“Don’t!” she said, twisting away from him. “I am not ill. I was only having a nightmare.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No!”
She thought her blunt refusal brought a flicker of hurt to his eyes, but in the dim light it was hard to tell. He looked unconcerned enough as he straightened. “Well, perhaps some other time.”
“How long have I been asleep?” she demanded.
