The orange and yellow fire mesmerized her, and Narcise felt her eyes begin to burn from the heat and lack of moisture from not blinking. But deep in the hot glow, she saw Giordan Cale, in her mind, strung up on iron manacles, his dark, intense eyes boring into her.
Trust me, Narcise.
He'd certainly proven his trust that night. She shivered, but not from the chill. No, thoughts of Giordan Cale invariably brought heat, not cold, to her body.
Yet, it had been more than a week since he'd left The Chamber, closing the door behind him and leaving her to her thoughts and confusion-not to mention a warm, sated body. Since then, she'd drawn and dreamed of him, even as she tried to keep herself from hoping...for something.
A log shifted in the fire, loud and sudden, sending sparks scattering on the hearth. The noise brought Narcise from her musings back to the reality that she was still Cezar Moldavi's sister, still his toy and bargaining chip, and still unwilling to trust anyone.
Unwilling was the wrong word. She was unable to trust.
With a sudden burst of frustration, Narcise turned from the fire and rang for Monique, her maid. Monsieur David would arrive soon for their weekly lesson, and he did not like to be kept waiting. And since the murder of his friend David Marat, he'd become even more ill-tempered and fanatical. Narcise had mused privately more than once that her brother either paid the artist exceedingly well for his continued lessons, or that he had some other hold over Monsieur David that required the man's presence on a weekly basis, despite his complete immersion in Robespierre's movement.
It was ironic: despite the fact that Narcise was Cezar's prisoner, in many ways he treated her as a beloved sister. She had lovely, fashionable clothing, comfortable accommodations, activities to keep her mind occupied and her body in good form, and servants at her beck and call. She was invited to participate in her brother's social appointments, which most often occurred safely in his own residence, and was treated as respectfully as he was.
The one thing she had no control over was her body.
But that was something she would change. She must. And nary a day went by that she wasn't considering some plan or possibility, gathering some information and tucking it into the recesses of her brain. After decades of captivity, most prisoners might have long given up hope of escaping or changing their situation, but Narcise would not. After all, she had immortality. She had forever.
She watched and listened, honed her fighting skills, made friends with some of the lesser servants and slowly, but surely, built a refuge within her prison.
Perhaps it was Monsieur David's fiery rhetoric, fueled by the Revolution happening beyond the walls of her home-like prison. Perhaps the artist's determination and belief that one should rule oneself, that no royal family or clique had the right to impose control over another, had given Narcise hope. After all, if an entire city, no, a country, could overthrow its reigning family and weaken the grip of an entire privileged class, why could one woman not overthrow her own personal dictator?
By the time the maid Monique had helped Narcise with a simple day dress and covered it with a painting smock, she had hardly enough time to plait her mistress's hair in a fat black braid.
The knock on the door to her adjoining parlor heralded Monsieur David's arrival and Narcise followed her maid into the next room. Monique answered the door to the artist as Narcise began to sort through her canvases, but when she turned to greet her teacher, she faltered.
Confused, but recovering, she turned to her maid. "Monique," she said in a brusque tone, "you may go. Bonjour, monsieur." Something was not right, and awareness teased her consciousness along with an odd mixture of scents lingering in her nose. She swallowed, tasting and smelling a familiar presence.
The artist, wearing a low-brimmed hat that showed his dark brown curls, strode into the chamber with his familiar satchel of paints, brushes and palette. He appeared to have had his hair trimmed since she'd last seen him, a week earlier. His long coat, perhaps one too long for the summer, swirled about his powerful, breech-covered legs as he placed the bag on a table.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said. His words were thick and oddly pronounced due to a tumor that deformed his cheek and mouth, but were perhaps a bit deeper in tone today. "Shall we begin? But no, you are not yet ready for me." His disgust at the delay was clearly apparent in his voice and stance, and Monique, intelligent girl that she was, beat a hasty retreat.
David was not known for his patience nor his tact.
By now, Narcise's palms were damp and her stomach had filled with swirling, fluttering emotions. Was it possible? "Of course, Monsieur David. I am nearly ready. I was only looking for the camel hair paintbrush that you insisted my brother have made for me."
All of her brushes had handles made of bamboo or light metal, for Cezar would not allow anything resembling a wooden stake into her chambers. Her rooms were regularly searched for such contraband as well.
The door had closed behind Monique, and for the first time, the man's eyes, still shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, met Narcise's. The irises were brown, flecked with blue and ringed with black, and the last time she'd seen them, they'd been hot with desire.
Narcise's stomach did a quick flip, leaving her unsteady and weak. It was him. She'd scented Giordan Cale beneath the cloak, hat and satchel that also smelled of Jacques-Louis David, but until their gazes locked, she wasn't certain.
She gave a little warning shake of her head even as she turned to gather up her painting accoutrements, trying to keep her suddenly nerveless fingers from dropping the brushes and palette. "Ah, here it is," she said, producing the brush in question. She could see, now that she actually looked at him, the way his right cheek bulged-just as Monsieur David's did. It changed the shape of his face, and along with the heavy brim of the hat, there was little to see unless one looked very closely.
"So now you are at last ready for me?" he asked, still in that thick voice of disguise, still managing to make it sound annoyed. "But you will not need that brush today."
You are at last ready for me.... His words held the most subtle of underlying meanings that made her cheeks warm like that of a schoolgirl's.
"But of course, monsieur. I believe that our last lesson was in relation to perspective." As she spoke the words, Narcise wasn't certain whether Giordan Cale was at all familiar with the particulars of drawing and sketching, and she hoped she wouldn't inadvertently expose his masquerade.
For, although at least in her chamber she had privacy from prying eyes and ears-she knew this because she examined every inch of wall, floor and ceiling every month to ensure it-Narcise also knew that at any moment...