Page 36 of Temptation and the Artist

Philippe considered her. “That is a problem,” he said, placing the glass in front of her. After which, he sat down to her left.

Swine.

Basil set down his small beer after one swallow and stalked up to her. Lifting the glass, he held it to her lips and let her drink. Over the rim, she held his gaze and closed one eye. Basil’s face lightened, and he set down the glass, taking the seat on her other side.

If the inn staff thought it odd she still wore the traveling cloak when they brought in the dinner, they said nothing. After all, to them, this party was foreign and therefore strange and probably heathen.

“Just leave the dishes,” Philippe commanded. “We shall serve ourselves.”

They bowed themselves out, no doubt shaking their heads on the other side of the door. Gaston served everyone soup.

“One free hand would be helpful,” Aline pointed out. “I wouldn’t like to upset your digestion by slurping from the bowl like a dog.”

“I cannot imagine you sacrificing your dignity,” Philippe replied, raising his spoon to his mouth. “But your hands will remain as they are.”

Beside her, Basil let out an exclamation of outrage, glaring at his great uncle who, however, held Aline’s gaze blandly and carried on eating, as did Gaston.

“You never used to be cruel, Philippe,” she observed. “I wonder what André would think of you now?”

“André!” Philippe all but dropped his spoon in his sudden irritation. “André lost all sense when he married you! You took him away from us, turned him against his family, his country—”

“You misjudge him if you think I could influence him to that degree. He was against neither his family nor his country, only Bonaparte when he named himself emperor. And he never ever lost his human decency. A lesson there, I think, gentlemen.”

“Basil, feed your mother,” Philippe said. “At least it might stop her talking.”

“Saying things you don’t wish to hear.” Gracefully, Aline accepted a spoonful of soup from her son. The role reversal was meant to humiliate her, but she made the most of it, reminding Basil how she had used to feed him by pretending the spoon was a bird flying across the sky to deposit food in his mouth. He even smiled, doing the same for her, and thus it was a game.

It was also a distraction. While Basil fed her morsels of food in between his own mouthfuls, she loosened her hold of the reticule dangling from her left wrist and once more inserted the fingers of her right hand and managed to grasp the dagger. It took some time, but she eventually got it out of the reticule and maneuvered the blade against the rope.

She actually had to hold the dagger by the blade with the fingers of her right hand, which was both dangerous and painful. And still, she had to eat and focus overtly on Basil, who played the silly feeding game like a younger child, as though he knew she was up to something and was joining in to help.

Her heart swelled as she worked and planned and played. And among all that concentration on so many activities, something else slipped into her mind, half recognition, half pure emotion.

Stephen Dornan was worth fighting for. She had known he was different from the first time she had met him, and that difference was love. Lasting, powerful, overwhelming love. It did not fight her maternal love. It absorbed it, shared it. And so, she cared nothing for the cuts on her fingers or the raw chafing of the ropes, because she would do anything to save Basil and return to Stephen.

He might never love her the same way. But she would try, and she would do her best to win him and make him happy… She could have a proper family, safety, security for herself and Basil…

But first, she had to get out of here.

A piece of apple tart was pushed in front of her. Again, Basil fed her a forkful before beginning his own. The Monteignes were looking sour, as if annoyed that she had defeated humiliation. And with one last minute saw of the blade, the rope was cut.

It was such a relief she had to fight to keep her hands in place, to keep hold of the blade that become slick with blood. Her fingers shook as she changed position, holding the dagger by it its hilt and waiting for the trembling to stop.

Two, three more pieces of apple tart, carefully taken and chewed and swallowed, and then she pushed back her chair, as though finally impatient.

“I’ve had enough, Basil. Eat your own,” she said.

She pushed to her feet. “Am I to sleep like this as well?” she demanded.

Philippe smiled, the moron, as she paced behind him. “Sadly, yes.”

“Wrong,” she said and shrugged off the cloak. In almost the same movement, her arm snaked around Philippe’s neck and the dagger pricked at his throat. “Not one move, uncle, or I shall be forced to upset my son further.”

Basil had dropped his fork, staring at her hand. “B-blood, Mama!”

“My fingers will heal,” she said soothingly, while the dagger pricked more significantly at Philippe’s skin, saying the unspoken words for her. Your throat will not heal.

As though released from paralysis, Gaston leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair. “Papa!”

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