The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(21)

Plonplon leaped off the bed and ran to and fro, barking hysterically. There was a body behind him. Michael flung himself off the bed, tangled in a winding sheet of damp, sticky bedclothes, then fell and rolled in panic.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!”

On his knees, he gaped, rubbed his hands hard over his face, shook his head. Could not make sense of it, couldn’t.

“Lillie,” he gasped. “Lillie!”

But the woman in his bed, tears running down her face, wasn’t Lillie; he realized it with a wrench that made him groan, doubling up in the desolation of fresh loss.

“Oh, Jesus!”

“Michel, Michel, please, please forgive me!”

“You … what … for God’s sake …!”

Léonie was weeping frantically, reaching out toward him.

“I couldn’t help it. I’m so lonely, I wanted you so much!”

Plonplon had ceased barking and now came up behind Michael, nosing his bare backside with a blast of hot, moist breath.

“Va-t’en!”

The pug backed up and started barking again, eyes bulging with offense.

Unable to find any words suitable to the situation, he grabbed the dog and muffled it with a handful of sheet. He got unsteadily to his feet, still holding the squirming pug.

“I—” he began. “You—I mean … oh, Jesus Christ!” He leaned over and put the dog carefully on the bed. Plonplon instantly wriggled free of the sheet and rushed to Léonie, licking her solicitously. Michael had thought of giving her the dog after Lillie’s death, but for some reason this had seemed a betrayal of the pug’s former mistress and brought Michael near to weeping.

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I just can’t. You go to sleep now, lass. We’ll talk about it later, aye?”

He went out, walking carefully, as though very drunk, and closed the door gently behind him. He got halfway down the main stair before realizing he was naked. He stood there, his mind blank, watching the colors of the Murano lamp fade as the daylight grew outside, until Paul saw him and ran up to wrap him in a cloak and lead him off to a bed in one of the guest rooms.

* * *

Rakoczy’s favorite gaming club was the Golden Cockerel, and the wall in the main salon was covered by a tapestry featuring one of these creatures, worked in gold thread, wings spread, and throat swollen as it crowed in triumph at the winning hand of cards laid out before it. It was a cheerful place, catering to a mix of wealthy merchants and lesser nobility, and the air was spicy with the scents of candle wax, powder, perfume, and money.

He’d thought of going to the offices of Fraser et Cie, making some excuse to speak to Michael Murray, and maneuvering his way into an inquiry about the whereabouts of the young man’s aunt. Upon consideration, though, he thought such a move might make Murray wary—and possibly lead to word getting back to the woman, if she was somewhere in Paris. That was the last thing he wanted to happen.

Better, perhaps, to instigate his inquiries from a more discreet distance. He’d learned that Murray occasionally came to the Cockerel, though he himself had never seen him there. But if he was known …

It took several evenings of play, wine, and conversation before he found Charles Pépin. Pépin was a popinjay, a reckless gambler, and a man who liked to talk. And to drink. He was also a good friend of the young wine merchant’s.

“Oh, the nun!” he said, when Rakoczy had—after the second bottle—mentioned having heard that Murray had a young relative who had recently entered the convent. Pépin laughed, his handsome face flushed.

“A less likely nun I’ve never seen—an arse that would make the archbishop of Paris forget his vows, and he’s eighty-six if he’s a day. Doesn’t speak any sort of French, poor thing—the girl, not the archbishop. Not that I for one would be wanting to carry on a lot of conversation if I had her to myself, you understand.… She’s Scotch; terrible accent …”

“Scotch, you say.” Rakoczy held a card consideringly, then put it down. “She is Murray’s cousin—would she perhaps be the daughter of his uncle James?”

Pépin looked blank for a moment.

“I don’t really—oh, yes, I do know!” He laughed heartily, and laid down his own losing hand. “Dear me. Yes, she did say her father’s name was Jay-mee, the way the Scotches do; that must be James.”

Rakoczy felt a ripple of anticipation go up his spine. Yes! This sense of triumph was instantly succeeded by a breathless realization. The girl was the daughter of La Dame Blanche.

“I see,” he said casually. “And which convent did you say the girl has gone to?”

To his surprise, Pépin gave him a suddenly sharp look.

“Why do you want to know?”

Rakoczy shrugged, thinking fast.

“A wager,” he said, with a grin. “If she is as luscious as you say … I’ll bet you five hundred louis that I can get her into bed before she takes her first vows.”

Pépin scoffed.

“Oh, never! She’s tasty, but she doesn’t know it. And she’s virtuous, I’d swear it. And if you think you can seduce her inside the convent …!”

Rakoczy lounged back in his chair and motioned for another bottle.

“In that case … what do you have to lose?”