“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 oddpredicament. 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.
“You’re heard of it?” Eagerness illuminated her face. “It’s the most beautiful statue in the world. Sometimes I look at it and wonder—” She broke off and fell silent.
“Wonder what?”
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
“It’s just that I don’t see how any man or woman could create such beauty,” she said simply. “It’s more than beauty, it’s—”
“Don’t tell me.” Jean Marc’s lips twisted. “The dream.”
She nodded. “Youhaveseen it. Then perhaps you could think of the Wind Dancer.”
He shook his head. “I regret I’ve never seen your Wind Dancer.”
Her face clouded with disappointment.
