Strange, how after all these years fate had driven her once more into his circle of power and protection as it had at the inn so many years earlier. Strange and damnably frustrating; her vulnerability shielded her from him now even as her youth had in the past. It almost made one believe in a guardian angel for the innocents of the world.
Almost. Catherine was also an innocent and the angels hadn’t protected her.
He reached out and gently stroked Catherine’s fair hair flowing over the pillow. He hadn’t been the guardian his father would have wanted him to be. He had always been too busy, too impatient, moving from place to place. Even when Catherine had come home for visits from the abbey he’d given her cursory attention, never stopping to see if she needed a word of kindness or understanding.
He swallowed to ease the aching tightness in his throat and turned away. Self-recrimination could not help now. At least, Catherine and Juliette were alive.
They must accept what had happened and find a way to go on.
EIGHT
Philippe Andreas arrived early the next morning, white-faced, sober, and infinitely relieved when Jean Marc told him Catherine and Juliette had escaped the massacre at the abbey.
“You’re right to be angry, Jean Marc,” Philippe said miserably. “When I heard of the massacre as I entered the city I felt—you can’t blame me any more than I blame myself.”
“You’re damned right I can. Mother of God, what the hell delayed you?”
Philippe flushed as his teeth sank into his lower lip.
Jean Marc gazed at him in astonishment. “A woman?”
“One of the pickers. She was…I didn’t think it would matter. It was only two nights…”
Jean Marc laughed mirthlessly. “Christ, I hope you found your dalliance with a flowerpicker worth what happened to Catherine.” Jean Marc’s lips tightened. “You can’t simply say you’re sorry and walk away from this, Philippe. My God, why thehelldidn’t you do what I told you to do?”
“I didn’t believe this could happen,” Philippe said simply. “You know how it is at Vasaro. The war and revolution seem not to exist there.”
“Damnyou, I told you to leave at once and—” Jean Marc broke off as he saw Philippe’s forlorn expression. Why was he shouting at Philippe? Jean Marc was the one who should have gone directly to the abbey. Philippe was so far removed from the turmoil of the revolution in his Garden of Eden that undoubtedly he had been blind to the harm his delay could do. Jean Marc had no such excuse. He’d had experience with the fanatics and the money grubbers of the assembly, and the mobs of starving rabble roaming city streets and country roads.
He straightened and relaxed his clenched fists. “All right, it’s done. Now let’s try to repair the damage. Juliette told me they were helped by a man named François Etchelet who is in league with Georges Jacques Danton. I want to see him. Go find him and bring him here.”
“Do you think that’s wise? Danton has publicly stated he approves of the massacres.”
“We need help and Etchelet has a reason for giving it.”
Philippe turned to go and then hesitated. “May I go up and see Catherine first? I want to tell her how much I regret—”
“I don’t think she’ll want to see you.” Juliette stood in the doorway, gazing accusingly at him. “I remember you. You’re Philippe. I’m Juliette de Clement.”
Philippe nodded and bowed. “I recall you as well, Mademoiselle. I can’t tell—”
“Why, by all the saints, didn’t you come for her?”
He flushed. “I was…delayed.”
“And Catherine was raped.”
“Jean Marc told me. I can’t tell you how sorry—”
“Go, Philippe,” Jean Marc said. “I want Etchelet here before dinner.”
Philippe bowed again to Juliette and quickly escaped from the room.
Juliette turned to Jean Marc. “You sent for Etchelet? Good. Why didn’t you—What are you looking at?”
“You.”
“Do I have a smudge on my face?” She lifted a hand to her cheek. “I was scrubbing the floor of the foyer this morning and—”
