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Authors: Diane Whiteside
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chair, ignoring Sara’s brief squawk of protest over damage to the upholstery. “You’ll still need to feed and drink deep when you do. But this will keep you on your feet for another hour or so while you wash. The servants are preparing everything now.”
“And tell you what happened.”
“If you wish to and are ready.” Their eyes met, and Jean-Marie saw a battle-hardened commander’s bone-deep, bitter experience there. Rodrigo would give him time—but only while silence endangered no one else.
“You need to know.” His body tightened again at the thought of reliving, even through retelling, that horror. He tried to think of a gentle, elegant summation and failed. He settled for bald facts.
“The Paris mob’s womenfolk have captured the royal family at Versailles and brought them back to be immured.”
“That’s impossible! What about their bodyguards? Or the Swiss Guards?” Sara demanded.
Jean-Marie shuddered, a thousand horrific images whipping before his eyes.
“Slaughtered.” He didn’t recognize his own voice. “All of them butchered. The mob fought over the pieces of their bodies and tossed the shreds about for trophies.”
“And you?” Rodrigo’s steadiness was a lifeline.
“Early last night—after I delivered Sara’s message to her, the vicomtesse asked me to wait while she composed a reply. I couldn’t sleep and was visiting some of my childhood haunts in the palace.”
He rose and began to pace, unable to sit still even now though the battle had ended.
“The howling crowd attacked unexpectedly in the dead of night. I heard them coming—so damn fast!—and took the dauphin to safety through the old secret passages. I found the king wandering aimlessly afterward and managed to get both of them to Marie Antoinette.”
He inspected the bottom of the goblet, decided he wouldn’t ask for any more of Rodrigo’s blood, and drank the dregs.
“After that, I went back to the guards but there was nothing…Even so, I tried. But all I could do was give them a decent burial.” Would he ever stop seeing their broken, scattered bodies? Or his childhood home, bloody and defiled?
Fire crackled on the hearth.
“The mob found the Royal Family hours later, when their bloodlust had been sated. They’re bringing them back to Paris. I doubt they’ll ever leave alive.” He studied his goblet again, before he headed for the wine. Rodrigo’s hand pressed down on his shoulder, and he reluctantly settled back into his chair. The big Spaniard refilled Jean-Marie’s glass and placed the bottle at his elbow.
Jean-Marie thanked him silently and gulped the wine greedily, even though it wouldn’t blur his compañero senses enough to make him forget. But it did bring him to the next step, understanding the implications for France—and by extension, his adopted family. “The monarchy is gone.”
“The break truly happened in July when the Bastille—that great prison—fell to the mob, because the governor lacked the machismo to shoot them.” Rodrigo’s big shoulders lifted in a shrug.
“And nobody else, either the monarchy or the elected representatives in the National Assembly, called them to task for killing men in the public streets and parading them like barbarians. Today’s events only confirmed it.” Jean-Marie couldn’t keep his bitterness out of his voice. Or his longing for his father’s iron hand, even with the sure knowledge that his father’s time was long gone.
“Society left Paris afterward, leaving only the queen’s dearest friends and the legislators.” Sara shook out her skirts with a snap. “Now your belle amie will surely never return to the capital, Jean-Marie, even though we’ve lingered here for two years. You can return to me.”
“Never! I will never share your bed again!” He sprang to his feet with a roar of denial. “A century ago, I was a foolish young man, vulnerable to anyone who’d speak softly and at least half-truthfully to me. You lured me
“And tell you what happened.”
“If you wish to and are ready.” Their eyes met, and Jean-Marie saw a battle-hardened commander’s bone-deep, bitter experience there. Rodrigo would give him time—but only while silence endangered no one else.
“You need to know.” His body tightened again at the thought of reliving, even through retelling, that horror. He tried to think of a gentle, elegant summation and failed. He settled for bald facts.
“The Paris mob’s womenfolk have captured the royal family at Versailles and brought them back to be immured.”
“That’s impossible! What about their bodyguards? Or the Swiss Guards?” Sara demanded.
Jean-Marie shuddered, a thousand horrific images whipping before his eyes.
“Slaughtered.” He didn’t recognize his own voice. “All of them butchered. The mob fought over the pieces of their bodies and tossed the shreds about for trophies.”
“And you?” Rodrigo’s steadiness was a lifeline.
“Early last night—after I delivered Sara’s message to her, the vicomtesse asked me to wait while she composed a reply. I couldn’t sleep and was visiting some of my childhood haunts in the palace.”
He rose and began to pace, unable to sit still even now though the battle had ended.
“The howling crowd attacked unexpectedly in the dead of night. I heard them coming—so damn fast!—and took the dauphin to safety through the old secret passages. I found the king wandering aimlessly afterward and managed to get both of them to Marie Antoinette.”
He inspected the bottom of the goblet, decided he wouldn’t ask for any more of Rodrigo’s blood, and drank the dregs.
“After that, I went back to the guards but there was nothing…Even so, I tried. But all I could do was give them a decent burial.” Would he ever stop seeing their broken, scattered bodies? Or his childhood home, bloody and defiled?
Fire crackled on the hearth.
“The mob found the Royal Family hours later, when their bloodlust had been sated. They’re bringing them back to Paris. I doubt they’ll ever leave alive.” He studied his goblet again, before he headed for the wine. Rodrigo’s hand pressed down on his shoulder, and he reluctantly settled back into his chair. The big Spaniard refilled Jean-Marie’s glass and placed the bottle at his elbow.
Jean-Marie thanked him silently and gulped the wine greedily, even though it wouldn’t blur his compañero senses enough to make him forget. But it did bring him to the next step, understanding the implications for France—and by extension, his adopted family. “The monarchy is gone.”
“The break truly happened in July when the Bastille—that great prison—fell to the mob, because the governor lacked the machismo to shoot them.” Rodrigo’s big shoulders lifted in a shrug.
“And nobody else, either the monarchy or the elected representatives in the National Assembly, called them to task for killing men in the public streets and parading them like barbarians. Today’s events only confirmed it.” Jean-Marie couldn’t keep his bitterness out of his voice. Or his longing for his father’s iron hand, even with the sure knowledge that his father’s time was long gone.
“Society left Paris afterward, leaving only the queen’s dearest friends and the legislators.” Sara shook out her skirts with a snap. “Now your belle amie will surely never return to the capital, Jean-Marie, even though we’ve lingered here for two years. You can return to me.”
“Never! I will never share your bed again!” He sprang to his feet with a roar of denial. “A century ago, I was a foolish young man, vulnerable to anyone who’d speak softly and at least half-truthfully to me. You lured me
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