Thief of Hearts Read online

  She looked momentarily taken aback at his jest. “You are not serious.”

  “Are you?”

  “Always. I never jest about dismemberment.” But she was at least smiling again – a real smile of warmth and laughter, not one of cold, hard threat.

  He was surprised how much he liked to make her smile. He would have to come to terms with his anger at her deception and learn anew how to deal with her not only as a woman but also as a soldier. God knows, but her eyes were a glorious dark brown whatever she was wearing. He reached out and twirled one loose curl around his finger. How he loved the touch of her hair, so smooth and soft. He wanted to bury his face in it and breathe in her sweet scent. “It’s just lucky for me that you like my member enough not to dismember it.”

  She snorted and tossed her head, pulling her curl out of his fingers. “So you like to think.”

  “So I know. But I still have some questions that I want answered.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Not here. Not now.”

  She shrugged. “Suits me.”

  “Come to my chamber this evening, so we can talk in peace.” Remembering how carried away he had become the last time she had visited his chamber, he hated to suggest it, but there was nowhere else for them to go. Nowhere else could they spend time together with any privacy, unless she were to invite him to her chamber. Somehow, he didn’t think that such an invitation was likely to be forthcoming.

  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “All you want to do is talk?”

  He nodded. “Just talk. I promise you.” He would act more honorably this time and not leap on her and rip her clothes off the moment he had her to himself again. He would control his urges if the effort killed him.

  Still, the thought of her in his chamber again was almost more than he could bear. How could he remember the sight of her spread-eagled naked across his bed, the feel of his cock stroking inside her, wet and warm, the sound of her harsh breathing in his ears as she moaned in pleasure at his touch, the sweet taste of her honey golden skin on his hungry lips: how could he remember all this and not want to repeat the experience?

  She hesitated, obviously unsure as to whether she should agree or not.

  Suddenly it was more important than anything that he talk with her once again, that they be together, just the two of them, where no one else could see or hear them. “I swear to you that I am telling you the truth. I will not take advantage of you. I will do my best to forget that you are a woman.” He could not resist adding a little jab. “Unlike some of my comrades, I do not make a habit of deceit.”

  The golden brown of her face became tinged with a rosy pink. “We each choose our own path in life. What makes you set yourself up so high as to judge what I do?”

  He squirmed a little uncomfortably at the deserved rebuke. He should not simply assume that her motives were bad. She was a thief, true, but she had become one out of sheer necessity. He owed her the courtesy to listen to her explanations before he condemned her. “So you will come tonight?”

  “Maybe.” She turned on her heel and started to walk away. “Or maybe not,” she said over her shoulder. “You never can tell with us deceitful people. I suppose you will simply have to take it on trust.”

  He hated to take such an important issue on trust, but he had no choice. He could hardly compel her if she didn’t want to come. Maybe a friendship at least could be salvaged from the wreck of their relationship, but what chance did even a simple friendship between them have unless he could trust her to keep her word?

  He bit back the angry retort that lurked on his tongue. Maybe if he trusted her a little, she would learn to trust him in her turn. “Until tonight.”

  Chapter 9

  Francine leaned back on her pillows and allowed Berthe to smooth some almond oil into her white hands to keep them soft and supple. Now that she was the King’s mistress again, in deed as well as in reputation, she could afford such luxuries whenever she pleased. She often pleased.

  She had it all back again now – the bowing and the scraping, the fawning and the flattering, the snide whispers about her behind corners when she was not quite out of hearing. Not even the Cardinal could spoil her moment in the sun. If he had the incriminating letters, he had been wise enough not to use them against her as yet. Her triumph was complete. How she loved it.

  Unfortunately the King was just as dull and pompous as ever. She sighed as she watched Berthe attend to each cuticle with painstaking exactness. Why had it not been her lot to live in an age in which the King was handsome and lively, witty and entertaining, instead of the greatest dullard that had ever lived?

  She needed some entertainment or she would die of boredom. She was weary of court masques and formal dances. Even in the center of the court, she needed constant distractions: a group of tumblers or even a naughty Italian puppet show was just what she felt like seeing...

  She needed to be kept amused. The King, dullard that he was, contented himself by preening under the pomp and formality of ceremony. As long as his courtiers shielded their eyes at his sight, pretending that they were dazzled by the brightness of his glory, by the glory of the Sun King, he was content.

  She was tired of ceremony and such ridiculous playacting, and of having to treat the King as if were more than a mere man. Maybe she should get herself a jester, or even a dwarf, to keep her merry. Or maybe she should do what she had always done before, take a new lover...

  That reminded her - Jean-Paul Metin the second had not been to see her for some weeks. Maybe he had heard the news that she was reinstated in the King’s favor again and had wisely kept his distance for the moment. Yes, that must be the reason.

  He was a sensible fellow to be sure – maybe too sensible for her liking. She would not believe that he was tired of her – not for a moment. She knew how to play the game better than that. Men did not tire of her. She kept them dangling after her until she was tired of them.

  Now that she had brought the King to heel again and her star was blazing even brighter than before, she had the leisure to please herself a little more.

  She sat up and snatched her hand back again. Having her nails done had become tiresome. She was sick of being fussed over and pampered and petted like an expensive poodle. “Peacock quill and a sheet of rose paper, Berthe.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  She tickled her cheek with the brightly-colored feather as she thought what best to write, what would best lure him in to her web again, and yet promise him nothing. A veiled invitation, but no more than that.

  Have you forgotten me so soon? Your friend, F. Yes, that should do the trick.

  She folded it in two and sealed it with a blob of wax, pressing her ring into it to leave her own distinctive mark. “Have it delivered to Jean-Paul Metin in the King’s Guards,” she said, as she handed it to Berthe. “And for God’s sake don’t let the messenger boy get them muddled this time,” she added irritably. “Give it to the dark one, not the blond one.” She didn’t want her old lover back again: she wanted the mysterious young boy with his dark curls and golden brown skin and eyes as dark and deep as one of the King’s oubliettes.

  If nothing else, his ridiculous stories of brave deeds in battle made her laugh.

  At the sound of the rough knocking, Jean-Paul opened the door of his chamber and peered out into the gloom.

  Miriame stood in the shadows, her brown eyes shining almost yellow like those of a cat. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  In the dimness of the half light he noticed something that he’d never seen before. “You’re wearing my boots.”

  She looked down at her feet and wriggled her toes. “They’re a little long for me, I have to admit, but other than that I can hardly fault them. You have excellent taste in footwear.”

  The little minx. She had robbed him blind while he’d been lying wounded and dying in the inn. “You even stole my boots.”

  “I had none of my own. I hardly thought you’d be needing them
while you were lying in a coffin.”

  How low could a woman go, robbing a corpse before it was even cold. She was such a little opportunist it was almost funny. “You really have no morals, do you.”

  “Not when I’m hungry. Now that I’m well-fed and warm most of the time, I suppose I could afford one or two. I just haven’t yet decided which ones I should choose.”

  He was torn between irritation at her levity on such a serious matter and amusement at her wit. In the end amusement won out and he had to laugh. Miriame was so unlike every other woman he knew. She danced to nobody’s tune but her own. He hardly liked to admit, even to himself, that he rather liked her that way. He opened the door wide. “Please, come in.”

  She bent her head to pass under the lintel and came in to his chamber, throwing herself down on one of the chairs in front of the fire.

  He’d tidied his chamber up in the hopes that she would come that night – even going to the effort of borrowing one of his landlady’s chairs so they had one each. Judging by the way her eyes swiveled around the room, noting each of the changes, his effort had not been wasted.

  “Well?”

  “Those men who want to kill me. I believe they really are after my letters.” He’d thought long and hard about the reason why he had been jumped in the street – twice – and this was the only explanation that made sense. The man whom Miriame had wounded must have spoken true.

  There was no other cause he could see. He had no jewels or money to make it worth a robber’s while to waylay him. His parents were not wealthy enough to make it worth holding him for ransom. He didn’t even have any enemies to speak of – other than the brigands who had tried to murder him. He couldn’t think of any reason why anyone else would want to kill him.

  Francine had called for him specifically to ask for her letters back. She would not have bothered if they had not been very important to her.

  Someone must want those letters very badly. Someone besides Francine. They wanted the letters badly enough to kill him for them.

  Miriame shrugged. “That’s hardly news. The man said so himself when we had him cornered. He had no reason to lie.”

  “Which means I’m never going to be free of those damned attacks until something is done with the letters.” He threw himself into the chair opposite her. “Now that you’ve muddied the waters by claiming to have them yourself, you are in danger as well.”

  She leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs out in front of her. Her body looked quite at ease, if you did not catch the watchful look in her eye. “You’d simply hand them over to the men who tried to kill you for them? You surprise me. I thought you had more fight in you than that.”

  He smacked his hand against the arm of his chair, irritated at her assumption that he would cave in to his enemies out of fear. “Of course I don’t want to give them to the Cardinal. For one thing, he would use them to ruin Francine.”

  She had the gall to laugh at him. “Ah, so now we have the real reason. You are still pining for the fair Francine.”

  Francine? How could he possibly want Francine when Miriame was in front of him, her legs caressed by her tight breeches, looking infinitely desirable and even more infinitely unobtainable. “God damn it, I am not pining for that woman. She is nothing to do with anything.” He had promised not to touch Miriame, but he could not stop himself from thinking about touching her. His lust for her was making him irritable.

  She sat at her ease in her chair by the fire and held out her hands to the flames. “Actually, she’s quite a lot to do with everything. If you had never crawled into her bed in the first place, you would never have come to Paris and been wounded, I would never have robbed you or joined the Musketeers, and we would not be sitting here in front of the fire together.”

  “All right, so Francine was the cause of all our problems,” he admitted grumpily. “That still doesn’t mean that I am pining for her.”

  She grinned at his frown. “I rather liked her myself, when she wasn’t trying to kiss me, of course. That part was a bit of a nuisance.”

  “She tried to kiss you?” He loosened the neck of his linen shirt a little, suddenly feeling even more hot and bothered than ever.

  “We were alike in so many ways,” Miriame said easily. “Both of us are adventurers, determined to make our own way in a man’s world. We just chose different ways of going about it.”

  Alike? He shook his head. Never were two women more unlike, except of course, that they both seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in tormenting him. “Francine is a heartless bitch.”

  “She broke your heart. I robbed your corpse. There is little to chose between us.”

  No, Miriame was not like Francine. Francine rode her way to the top heedless of those she stepped on and squashed along the way. Miriame, for all her toughness, had a heart – a heart that he was determined to claim for his own. “Maybe so,” he conceded, not caring to argue the point any further, “but I have made my choice. I want no other woman but you.”

  “I thought you didn’t trust me?”

  He gave a wry smile. “I don’t trust you. But I want you anyway.”

  “Sorry, not interested,” she said carelessly, as she rose to her feet. “Now, was there anything else you wanted to talk with me about, or can I go now?”

  She wasn’t as impervious to his words as she tried to make out. He knew it by the way her legs shook slightly as she moved towards the door.

  He took her by the shoulder and steered her back towards her chair. She made no protest, but sat down again. This time he drew his chair close to hers so she could not leave before they had finished. “There is something else we need to discuss. The letters.”

  Her face wore a look of determined unhelpfulness. “What about them?”

  He could tell that in such a mood as this, she would shoot down anything he suggested on the instant, just for the sake of being contrary. He decided not to give her the satisfaction. “What shall we do with them?” he asked instead.

  “Returning them to Francine is the obvious solution,” she said reluctantly, after it became clear that he would not offer a suggestion of his own until he had heard hers. “Indeed, now that you mention it, I received a summons from her to wait on her in her apartments later this week. I could take them with me and deliver them with all due ceremony.”

  The idea sounded plausible enough, but he shook his head. He would not have Miriame put herself in danger. “That is far too dangerous.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve visited her many a time in the past. What makes it too dangerous for me to see her now?”

  “The men who jumped me last time while we were fighting at the western gate know you have the letters in your possession, but they evidently don’t know much more about you. I have been watching them. They have been waiting in ambush there for the last few weeks, hoping to catch you with the letters on you. Were you to pay a visit to Francine now, you would be dead before you had finished knocking on her door.”

  “Waiting to ambush me? In this foul, wet weather.” She laughed, a low, melodious chuckle that made him want to take her into his arms and feel her laughter vibrating against his chest. “I’d just die laughing if they all got frostbite in awkward places.”

  No doubt she would, too. So would he, for that matter. “We need to get rid of them before we return the letters to Francine. Permanently.”

  She shook her head, her lips pursed together. “I cannot kill them, if that is what you are suggesting. I’ve seen too much death already. Besides, the Cardinal would only send more men out after us and we would be no better off that we are now. Worse in fact, for we would have the blood of three men on our hands.”

  He did not understand her sudden squeamishness. “You have killed before. You told me so.”

  She shuddered. “A man who deserved death many times over.” There was a distant look in her eye, of a sorrow that she had not spoken.

  “And they do not? They have tried to kill me
twice over. Both times you saved me or I would be dead. I have no doubt they would kill you, too, without a second thought, did you ever cross their path.”

  “If they die at my hand in a fight, then so be it.” Her voice did not waver in its determination. “I will not grieve for them, but neither will I deliberately set out to kill them.”

  She was in danger no less than he was. He did not understand her sudden reluctance to shed blood. Heaven knows, she was no coward. Did she not see that if he were to fail in this mission, they would eventually come after her? “I will see to them alone then, if you will not aid me.”

  “You misunderstand me. I will help you dispose of them, and more effectively than if you had killed them.”

  Much as he misliked the thought of deliberately butchering his enemies, he could not see any other way of being free from the danger of a sudden ambush in the night. He had been lucky twice to escape with his life. He could not count on Fate to give him a helping hand for a third time. He had to choose now – to kill or be killed. Better that he kill them than die himself. He would not go to them like a lamb to the slaughter. “How is that?”

  Miriame gave a smile that boded ill for those who would cross her. “Ridicule is a far more potent weapon than even your sword could be. We shall make them the laughingstock of all Paris. They will not dare to lift a sword against us ever again, and neither will any of their fellows, for fear of meeting the same fate.”

  “Ridicule?” He thought of the way Francine had humiliated him in her chamber at her levee and held him up to the ridicule of the whole court. Miriame was right. He would rather die a thousand times than face such shame again. “Tell me more.”

  Miriame opened the door a crack to peer inside. A thin beam of light escaped into the street where she stood in the shadows. “Here goes,” she muttered to Jean-Paul, who stood at her shoulder. “I hope they haven’t forgotten me, and are willing to do an old friend a favor.”