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He seized both of her hands in a quiet, firm clasp. “I want you to come back to me, be my wife again, the mother to my son.”

Belle studied his earnest face in the moonlight filtering past the window, those solemn features she had so long held dear. He offered her everything that she thought she had ever wanted, the security of a home, his love, even his child, the last being perhaps the most precious gift of all.

Yet she felt herself drawing away from him, even though she knew this gray-eyed man would ever hold some small corner of her heart, the place where memories were kept, bittersweet like faded roses pressed between the leaves of a book.

His image already wavered before her eyes, replaced by another, a midnight-haired rogue with a warm smile, green eyes vivid with love, laughter, life.

Set beside Sinclair, Jean-Claude paled, becoming naught but a gentle ghost from her past.

She disengaged her hands, letting him down as easily as she could. “I thank you for your offer, Jean-Claude. You cannot know how happy it makes me to know you have forgiven me at last. But we both know that I cannot possibly accept.”

A soft cry of protest escaped him, but she continued.

“You will realize this yourself if you search your heart. We were always ill-suited. Perhaps we might have remained happy if the Revolution had not disrupted our lives. But it did. We cannot pretend otherwise. It is useless to say that the intervening years do not matter, for we know that is not true.”

“We could make all those lost years not matter,” he pleaded. “Surely we could if we desired it enough.”

She placed her fingers against his lips to gently silence him. “You will only give us both more pain if you try to pursue this dream. I beg you say no more. This time when we part, let it be as friends.”

He slumped against his seat. Belle feared he meant to give way to despair. But the age-old dignity of the Comte de Egremont came to his rescue. “As you wish, my dear,” he said quietly.

After such a discussion it seemed intolerable to both of them to remain closed together within the carriage. Jean-Claude alighted first, handing her down. Belle discovered Sinclair sitting up on the coachman’s box, Baptiste pacing by the front wheels.

“I have never known Crecy’s men to be late,” Baptiste grumbled to her. “They would be delayed on one of the coldest nights thus far this year.”

“I am sure—” Belle never finished what she had been about to say. The thud of hoofbeats carried to where they stood, the sound of a mount crashing through the brush.

“At last,” Jean-Claude said, brightening.

But Belle tensed, listening. She caught Baptiste’s worried frown and knew he was thinking the same thing.

“Something is not right,” she muttered. “It sounds like a single rider and coming through the forest, not by the road.”

She turned to call up to Sinclair, to warn him as the pounding of hooves drew nearer.

The next instant a horse and rider burst through the thicket onto the road.

The stallion’s mane whipped back, flowing black as the cape of the man astride him, both seeming phantom-spawned of the night and that secret primeval darkness which was the depths of the Rouvray.

Belle froze with dread as the beast charged toward her. She heard Jean-Claude’s gasp, and Sinclair’s warning shout as he scrambled for Baptiste’s blunderbuss.

But she could not tear her gaze from the rider.

He sawed at the reins, dragging his horse to such a violent halt, the beast’s head jerked to one side, its eyes rolling wildly.

The man’s hood flew back, revealing Lazare’s ravaged features, his lips pulled back in a snarl of hatred.

Belle caught the flash of a pistol in his hand and read her death in his eyes.

Before she could react, Baptiste dived forward, shoving her aside. The pistol went off in a blaze of blue fire. The sound rang in her ears, but she felt herself unharmed. With a savage curse, Lazare struggled to control his plunging mount.

Another shot cracked through the clearing as Sinclair leveled Baptiste’s ancient weapon, but missed. The sound only served to terrify Lazare’s horse. The stallion reared and threw him to the ground, where he lay stunned.

Jean-Claude tugged at her arm. “Isabelle, you must get back inside the safety of the coach.”

Belle shook him off, her alarmed gaze drawn to Baptiste as he sagged against the coach wheel, his knees buckling beneath him.

“Baptiste!” she cried, breaking his fall. A cry of pain breached the old man’s lips, his face drawn white as he tottered into her arms. As he sank down, Belle’s hand came away, sticky with blood.

“No!” she whispered. “Oh, God. No!”

With Jean-Claude’s help, she eased Baptiste to the ground, her one thought to stay the crimson flow spreading over his chest. She was oblivious to all further danger.

Although stunned by his fall, Lazare regained his feet. With a bestial snarl, he drew forth the knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the moonlight. Sinclair leapt down from the coach, flying at him.

The two men toppled to the ground, grappling for possession of the knife, Lazare fought with almost inhuman strength, his rage-crazed eyes glaring up at Sinclair. But Sinclair’s heart fired with a fury of his own, a tempest of anger such as he had never felt.

“Drop the blade, maggot, before I crush your arm.”

Lazare spat in his face. With a violent jerk Lazare nearly broke Sinclair’s grasp.

The tip of the knife glanced off Sinclair’s throat.

He barely deflected the deadly slice. Clenching his teeth, he forced the blade hand down, cracking Lazare’s fingers against a jagged stone to the sound of splintering bone. Lazare screamed, releasing the blade.

Sinclair drew back his fist and drove it against Lazare’s hate-twisted features again and again, his hand smearing with blood.

Lazare’s head snapped back and he was still.

With great difficulty, Sinclair stopped himself from meting out the punishing blows.

A low groan assured him that Lazare was still alive.

Yanking off the man’s own scarf, Sinclair used the silk to bind Lazare’s hands behind his back.

Only then did he turn back to face the scene unfolding by the side of the coach.

Belle hovered over Baptiste, his head pillowed on her garrick as she tried futilely to stop the flow of blood from the gaping wound in his chest. As Sinclair approached with halting step, he met Jean-Claude’s gaze above her.

Looking at Sinclair, the comte sadly shook his head.

“Damn you Baptiste,” Belle cried. “What sort of trick was this to play upon me? Now I shall have to return to your wretched Paris to nurse you back to health.”

Even through his pain, Baptiste managed a crooked smile. “ Non , mon ange . Not this time.”

Belle felt a lump form in her throat, hard, burning. She wanted to deny Baptiste’s words, but she could feel the old man’s life slipping away beneath her hands.

“You should have let him shoot me! Oh, Baptiste, what have I done to you? I should have left you alone amongst your fans to live in peace. I should have …”

She could not go on. His hand closed round hers and squeezed, those slender, clever fingers already so cold. “No regrets,” he rasped. “I have none. You forget that it was I who chose. I had brothers once, avenging to do of my own.”

A spasm of pain wracked his leathery features, a pain she felt pierce her own heart. The hand clutching hers grew weaker. He tugged her closer to make her hear, his voice barely a whisper.

“One last favor. I beg you, mon ange .”

Belle swallowed hard. “Anything, Baptiste. You have but to tell me what it is.”

He tried, using the last of his strength, but he could not seem to make his lips form the words. He released her, raising his hand in a final gesture. Then his arm slumped to the ground, those clear brown eyes staring sightlessly past her into the endless depths of the night.

“Baptiste?” She breathed his name, knowing he could no longer hear her.

After all the horrors she had seen, Belle had never had trouble accepting the reality of death before.

Not until now. She continued to kneel beside Baptiste, frozen as though she knew any movement would disrupt the moment of numbing disbelief, allowing the pain of realization to come flooding through her.

Sinclair stooped down, gently closing the old man’s eyes. Still Belle did not stir, not until she felt Jean-Claude’s tentative touch on her shoulder. She wrenched away. She wanted no comfort.

Jerking herself to her feet, she glanced wildly about her until her gaze focused on the one she sought.

Lazare. The murdering bastard rested but yards away, making no effort to struggle against his bonds.

He was conscious. Even beneath the hideous swelling that was his face, the streaks of blood, she could see the vicious gleam in his eyes.

Her grief threatened to burst the confines of her heart, forming a fiery knot of rage, searing through her veins. Her mouth grim with purpose, she stalked forward and picked up Lazare’s knife from the ground.

She heard Jean-Claude’s frightened voice. “Isabelle! What are you doing?”

Ignoring him, Belle moved relentlessly closer to Lazare’s tensed form. Jean-Claude stepped in front of her. “Ma chére , there is no need for you to—to— The villain has been rendered harmless.”

“Leave her alone,” Sinclair said quietly. Her gaze flashed briefly to his. He said nothing, but merely watched her intently, waiting.

She placed one hand against Jean-Claude’s chest, shoving him out of her way. With three quick strides she towered over Lazare, the knife poised in her hand.

She longed to see him squirm in terror, his eyes fill with the tormenting fear of the death he had inflicted upon so many others.

But his swollen lips stretched back in a sneer that was almost obscene, his eyes lighting up with insane triumph.

She gripped the blade so hard, it trembled in her sweat-slickened hand, seeing nothing but the face of Lazare.

In those ravaged bloodstained features seemed centered all the ugliness, the violence, the cruelty in the world, the dark side of the Revolution.

Or was it her own reflection she saw at this moment, mirrored back to her in the mad depths of those piercing eyes?

The thought gave her pause. She raised the knife, but it was too late. With that brief pause came the return of her sanity. Drawing in a deep breath, she cast the blade aside with a dull thud. Lazare’s vicious triumph turned first to bewilderment, then rage.

“Bitch,” he panted as she turned from him. “Cowardly bitch. Come back here. Kill me. You know you want to.”

As she walked slowly away, he started to sob, to curse her. “Isabelle!” He screamed her name, the sound echoing in the vast rustling silence of the Rouvray.

Belle marched onward to the two men waiting for her by the coach. Jean-Claude looked sick with relief, but Sinclair’s expression remained calm.

As she met his eyes, she realized that Sinclair had known all along she would never kill in cold blood. He knew her better than she did herself.

Slipping past him, she returned to keep vigil over Baptiste. Jean-Claude joined her, gazing sorrowfully down at him.

“A courageous man,” he murmured. “It is a pity he could not tell you his final request.”

“He had no need. I know what he wanted.” Belle bent down beside Baptiste’s still form, folding his hand across her old friend’s breast, the hand that had been gesturing toward Paris.