Read Online Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) by Dawn MacTavish - Free Book Online Page A

After a time, his eyelids grew heavy and finally closed, the darkness behind them diluted by the brightness of the moon, until something blotted it out. Seasoned warrior that he was, he sensed a presence and vaulted to his feet, drawing his sword and donning the helmet he’d set aside in one motion.
    He stood in the presence of a short, vigorous man, whom he calculated to be in his late fifties or early sixties, darklygowned, wearing a four-pointed cap. The brilliant moonlight revealed rosy-apple cheeks, a high, square forehead, straight, determined features, and extremely keen eyes. He could not make out their color, but they shone like polished silver.
    “Doctor Nostradamus?” he breathed.
    “Take ease, my lord,” the healer soothed. “Sheath your sword and remove the helm. I have already seen what lies beneath.”
    Robert raised the helmet and set it on a shelf of rubble, while the healer came forward and took hold of his chin, tilting it this way and that in the moonlight.
    “Can you…help me?” Robert urged, studying the healer’s pursed lips and narrow-eyed scrutiny.
    “Does it pain you?” Nostradamus queried.
    “No. There is occasional tightness, but no pain.”
    “I can give you an ointment that will soften the skin and relieve the tightness, young Scot, but the scars will remain. Those burns go deep, and were acquired early in your life. You are fortunate that only one side of your face was affected; the other is quite handsome.”
    “I was but a bairn in my cradle, a sennight old, when it happened,” Robert said, desolate.
    “Ummm,” the healer grunted. “Growth has distorted the scarring. There is no treatment. But one day, such will be remedied as a matter of course, though not in your lifetime I fear. When were you born—the month, and day?”
    “I was born the thirtieth day of March, in the year of 1533.”
    “The fire-sign of the ram. The flames have marked you. Warring is your…occupation?”
    “Yes…”
    “You have chosen well.”
    “You were my last hope,” Robert despaired, “and in coming I have put many in danger—my Uncle Aengus, who is amonk at the abbey of St. Michael’s Mount, seigneur de Montaigne, and an innocent little blind flower vendor, who has become caught up in my trouble; all for naught.”
    “I am not your last hope, but we will come back to that. Tell me about the flower vendor? How has she come to harm?”
    “Her name is Violette Cherier, and I do not know for certain that she has,” Robert admitted. “She seems to have vanished.”
    “Hmmm,” the healer mused, “let me hear how little Violette has become embroiled in your…adventure.”
    “You know her, then?”
    “All Paris knows Violette, young ram. Her flower cart has been a fixture in the square for years, and her beauty and vivacity have won her many friends. What has she to do with you?”
    Robert sank down on the ledge beside his helm, and recounted his capture and release from the Bastille, and the strange reception he received in the vendors’ quarter when he went there to thank her. When he had finished, the healer did not speak directly.
    “Do you know what’s become of her?” Robert asked.
    “The vendors protect one another,” he replied. “She is probably in hiding. Jean-Claude and Henri would be looking for her, seeking satisfaction for their chastisement. Rumor has it that they have been dealt with severely, and Garboneaux has been demoted in rank. You are under Montaigne’s protection. She has no such champion, and she is blind. You can be assured that her vendor friends have spirited her away to some safe haven. They will keep her whereabouts secret so that no one can lead the gendarmes to her. It is wise thinking. Do not trouble yourself about her. If she had met with foul play, we would certainly have heard of it. One thing you must know about Paris, young ram—the very air you breathe has ears, and word travels quickly.”
    “I feel responsible for her,” Robert