“We’re approaching the inn,” Philippe said, leaning back in the seat. “You’ll feel better when you see for yourself that Jean Marc’s wound isn’t serious.”
Of course she would feel easier to know Jean Marc was getting better. She was very fond of Jean Marc.
And it was wicked to want the journey to go on and on so that she could remain within the warmth of Philippe’s luminous smile.
“They’re here.” Juliette stood at the window gazing down at the coach that had just stopped before the door of the inn. She frowned as she saw the footman help a fragile-looking, splendidly gowned girl from the coach. “Or perhaps not.”
Jean Marc moved haltingly to the window and glanced out to see Philippe take Catherine’s arm and escort her. “Yes, that’s Catherine.” He quickly sat down on the closest chair. “You seem surprised.”
“She’s not what I expected.” No voluptuous angel but a beautiful, frail child no older than herself. Juliette quickly masked the relief surging through her and turned away from the window to look at Jean Marc. When she had gone into his chamber that morning and seen him fully dressed, it had given her a queer shock. Lean, elegant, powerful, the bandage hidden by the finelinen of his white shirt, he had appeared independent and totally in command. However, now she noticed the paleness of his complexion and the weariness of his posture as he slumped in the chair, and these signs of his weakness brought her another freshet of relief. She hadn’t lost him yet. He would still belong to her for a while longer. “You’ve been up long enough. Lie down and rest.”
“Presently. Are you not going down to welcome our guests?”
“They’re your guests, not mine.” She crossed to the easel and picked up her brush. “Monsieur Guilleme will bring them to your chamber.”
“Juliette…” Jean Marc shook his head with a faint smile. “You can’t hide behind your painting and that gruff tongue forever.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I just don’t wish to—”
“Jean Marc, what idiocy have you been about?” Philippe Andreas threw open the door and allowed Catherine to precede him into the chamber. “It’s not at all like you to involve yourself in physical combat. You much prefer a battle of wits.”
“An error I have no intention of repeating,” Jean Marc said dryly. He frowned as he looked at Catherine. “You’re well, Catherine? You look a bit pale.”
“It’s you who are ill, Jean Marc.” Catherine’s gaze moved from the painting that had immediately captured her attention to her cousin’s face. “I do hope you’ve recovered.”
“As well as could be expected, I suppose. I’d like to present Mademoiselle Juliette de Clement, who has been both my salvation and my torm—Catherine! Catch her, Philippe!”
Catherine swayed but remained on her feet, clinging desperately to Philippe’s arm. “I’ll be fine. Perhaps it’s the heat.” Her breath was coming in shallow bursts. “If I could sit down…”
“Why didn’t you say at once that you weren’t feeling well?” Jean Marc demanded.
Catherine’s eyes widened in distress as her gazeshifted to Jean Marc. “You’re angry. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I’m sorry—”
“I’m not angry.” Jean Marc was obviously trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Is your stomach upset?”
“No. Yes. Perhaps a little.” Catherine seemed barely to get the words past her pale lips. “I’m sorry, Jean Marc.”
“It’s not your fault. I’ll send for the physician.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure I’ll be quite recovered in a few moments.” Tears rose to Catherine’s eyes. “I should never—” She stopped and swayed again. “Jean Marc, I think…”
“It’s her corset.”
Jean Marc turned at Juliette’s clear voice. “I beg your pardon.”
She ignored him, scowling at Catherine in disgust. “Why don’t you tell him you can’t breathe?”
Another blush tinted Catherine’s delicate skin. “Please, I can…” She trailed off miserably.
“Oh, for the love of God.” Juliette turned to Philippe. “Give me your dagger.”
“What?”
“Your dagger,” she repeated as she stretched out her paint-smeared hand. “There’s no time to unlace her. Do you want her flopping like a fish at your feet?”
“The idea certainly doesn’t appeal to me,” Jean Marc said lightly. “Are you saying her corset’s laced too tightly?”
She cast him an impatient glance. “Of course, can’t you see she can get little air?”
