Page 5

A glance over her shoulder revealed he had fallen to his knees in the hollow that had almost been her own undoing.

She felt a surge of primitive satisfaction. She hoped the villain had broken his leg. It would serve him well if—

A bullet whistled by her ear, striking the tree next to her.

“The boy. Give me the boy.”

The guttural voice came not from behind but ahead of her!

A huge, burly man dressed in ragged trousers and a coarse white tunic stood only a yard in front of her, holding a smoking pistol in his hand. He threw the empty pistol aside and drew a dagger from his belt.

Juliette froze, her gaze on the gleaming blade of the knife.

She couldn’t go back toward the man in black. She desperately sought some way to escape.

The branch lying on the path a few feet away!

“Don’t hurt me, Monsieur. See, I’m putting the child down.” She set Louis Charles on the ground at her feet.

The huge man grunted with satisfaction and took a step forward.

Juliette snatched up the branch and brought it up between the man’s legs with all her might.

He screamed, clutching his groin and dropping the knife.

Juliette picked up Louis Charles again and darted past her victim.

Only seconds later she heard the man cursing as he pounded after her. How had the lout recovered so quickly? She knew how disabling a blow to that part of a man’s anatomy could be. Only a few months earlier the Duc de Gramont…A stream to jump. Her skirts trailed behind her in the water.

Within seconds she heard the splashing of heavy boots in the water.

He was closer!

A meaty hand grasped her shoulder, jerking her to a halt.

“Bitch! Whore!”

She caught the gleam of metal from the corner of her eye as he raised his dagger to plunge it into her back.

Sweet Mary, she was going to die!

The dagger never fell.

She was jerked and whirled away from the peasant’s blade with such force she fell to her knees on the ground.

Black Velvet .

She gazed in stunned amazement at the bloody stain spreading on the shoulder of the black velvet cloak worn by the man who had thrust her aside to take the peasant’s blade himself.

Pain wrenched the tall, lean man’s features into a grimace even as his own dagger plunged into the other man’s broad chest.

The burly peasant groaned, then slumped to the ground.

The man in black velvet stood there, swaying, before staggering to lean against a pine tree a few feet away.

One hand clutched at his left shoulder from which the dagger still protruded.

His olive skin had faded to a sickeningly sallow shade, his lips drawn thin.

“My dear Mademoiselle de Clement. May…I say.” His voice faded.

“That…you…make it damnably hard for a man to…rescue you?”

Her eyes widened. “Rescue?”

“I brought reinforcements to help the guard when I learned of the plan to attack the carriage. If you’d stayed in the coach—” His palm clutched blindly at the bark of the tree as his face convulsed with pain. “The battle should be…over by now.”

“I didn’t know what was going on,” Juliette whispered. “Whom to trust. Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“Jean Marc…Andreas. An inn nearby…Inn of the Blind Owl…” His gaze shifted to the peasant lying on the ground a few feet away. “Not clever. Boots…”

His eyes closed and he slid slowly down the tree trunk in a dead faint.

“Don’t argue with me. You must send for the physician in the village and I’ll need hot water and clean linen.”

Jean Marc opened his eyes to see Juliette de Clement belligerently confronting a large, stout man. Jean Marc dimly recognized him as Monsieur Guilleme, the proprietor of the inn where he had been residing for the last few weeks.

The innkeeper shook his head. “I’ve no wish to offend His Majesty by sending for the physician in the village if Monsieur Andreas truly saved the life of the prince. We must wait for the court physician to arrive.”

“The palace is too far. Do you wish to be responsible if he dies?”

Why, she was scarcely more than a child, Jean Marc realized hazily.

When he had first caught sight of the girl running through the forest his only impression had been of a thin, graceful form, a storm of shining dark brown curls and wide, frightened eyes.

Now, although she stood with spine straight, shoulders squared as if to compensate for the fact that the top of her head barely came to the third button on the innkeeper’s shirt, it was clear her slim body bespoke only the faintest hint of the maturity to come.

“Can’t you see the man’s lifeblood is pouring onto your floor?”

Jean Marc shifted and became aware he was being held upright by two soldiers dressed in the uniform of the Swiss guard, both of whom were grinning as they watched the confrontation. “What a truly depressing…picture,” he whispered. “I devoutly hope…you’re not referring to myself, Mademoiselle.”

Juliette whirled to face Jean Marc, and an expression of profound relief lightened the tension in her face. “You’re awake. I was afraid…” She turned back to Monsieur Guilleme. “Why do you just stand there? He must have the dagger removed from his shoulder immediately.”

Monsieur Guilleme spoke soothingly. “Believe me, sending for the court physician is best. You’re too young to realize—”

“I’m not too young to realize you’re more afraid for your own skin than for his,” Juliette interrupted fiercely. “And I’ll not have him bleeding to death while you stand there dithering.”

Jean Marc grimaced. “I do wish you’d stop talking about my pending demise. It’s not…at all comforting.”

“Be silent.” Juliette glanced back at him, her brown eyes blazing. “I’m sure speaking is not good for you. You’re behaving as foolishly as this innkeeper.”

Jean Marc’s eyes widened in surprise.

“That’s better.” She nodded to the two soldiers supporting Jean Marc. “Take him to his chamber. I’ll follow as soon as I deal with the innkeeper. And be gentle with him or, by the saints, you’ll answer to me.”

The soldiers’ grins faded and they began to bristle with annoyance as the girl’s fierceness turned on them. Christ, in another minute the chit would have the men dropping him in a heap on the floor. He flinched at the thought and asked hastily, “The prince?”

“I told you not to—” She met Jean Marc’s gaze and nodded curtly. “He’s safe. I sent him on to the palace with my nurse and the captain of the guard. I thought it safer for him.”

“Good.” Jean Marc’s knees sagged and his eyes closed wearily. He let the soldiers bear the brunt of his weight as they half dragged, half carried him toward the stairs.

The next ten minutes proved to be an agony unsurpassed in Jean Marc’s experience, and when he was finally lying naked beneath the covers on the wide bed in his chamber he was barely on the edge of awareness.

“You won’t die.”

He opened his eyes to see Juliette de Clement frowning down at him with a determination that was strangely more comforting than tenderness would have been. “I hope you’re right. I have no—”

“No.” Her fingers quickly covered his lips and he found the touch infinitely gentle in spite of its firmness. “I told the innkeeper you were bleeding to death only to make him move with some haste. He wouldn’t listen to me. He thought me only a stupid child.”

“A grave error in judgment.”

“You’re joking.” She gazed curiously at him. “I think you must be a very odd man to joke with a dagger sticking in your shoulder.”

Her image wavered before him like the horizon on a hot day. “Only because I find myself in an odd predicament. I’m not at all a heroic man, and yet I’m thrown into a position where I must”—he stopped as the room tilted and then began to darken—“act the hero.”

“You do not consider yourself heroic?” Juliette’s tone was thoughtful. “I see.”

“I wish I could. It’s growing fiendishly dark. I believe I’m going to—”

“Go to sleep.” Her hand swiftly moved to cover his eyes. “I’ll stay and make sure no harm comes to you. You can trust me.”

She lied. He could trust no woman, he thought hazily.

But Juliette was not yet a woman, she was still a child. A strong, brave child whose hands were as gentle as her tone was sharp.

Yes, for the moment he could trust Juliette de Clement.

He let go and sank into the waiting darkness.

When he next opened his eyes Juliette was kneeling by the bed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up yet,” she whispered. “The village physician’s here.”

“So you…won.”

“Of course. The man appears even more foppish than the court physician, but I hope he’s not a fool.” She hesitated. “He’s going to pull out the dagger now.”

Jean Marc stiffened, his gaze flying across the room.

A small, rotund man dressed in a violet brocade coat and wearing an elaborately curled white wig stood by the hearth warming his bejeweled hands before the blaze.

“I’ve no doubt I, too, will be wishing I hadn’t regained my senses in a few minutes. I have no fondness for pain.”

“Of course not. You’d be a twisted soul if you did.” Still kneeling, she frowned thoughtfully. “Listen to me. It will hurt, but there are ways of making the pain less. You must try to think of something else, something beautiful.”

The physician straightened his cravat and turned away from the fire. Jean Marc braced himself.

“No, you mustn’t tense, that will only make it hurt more.” Juliette reached out and took both Jean Marc’s hands in her own. “Think of something beautiful. Think of—No, I can’t tell you what to think. It has to be your own beautiful picture.”

Jean Marc watched the physician stroll toward the bed.

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you,” Jean Marc said dryly. “Would you settle for panic? Beauty evades me at the moment.”

“It shouldn’t. There are a great many beautiful things in the world.” Her hands tightened on his. “I always think of how I feel when I’m painting or when I look at the Wind Dancer.”

“The Wind Dancer?” Jean Marc’s muscles contracted, his gaze shifting from the approaching physician to Juliette’s face.