"Simon... Hurry."

He wouldn't do it. "Slow down. Make it last..."

He wanted nothing more.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

France. Southeast of Rouen.

Under the summer sun, horses' hooves thundered as Simon and his party of twenty men rode toward Robert's home, Chateau Nevelon.

It had taken all Simon had to walk off his ship and ride away from Angelica. He'd become so accustomed to her presence, he loathed the thought of being without her.

Affections and pa.s.sions between them had not cooled over the course of the voyage. In fact, the closer they got to France, the closer they became. He knew every endearing dimple, freckle, every sweet part of her. He knew how to make her smile, and he knew what she wanted from him. Forever.

He'd spent weeks vacillating between what was right and what he wanted until the lines began to blur, until he couldn't deny that what he wanted-her-felt so right. However, in the end, he hadn't committed to her as she'd asked. Not out loud, anyway.

Not just yet.

Though, he had decided he was going make a last attempt to gain n.o.bility-to be with her. But first, he needed to speak to Robert to fully understand the new att.i.tude of their twenty-two-year-old king. How much or how little would it take to convince Louis to grant him letters of n.o.bility? He had the wealth of silver from La Estella Blanco, and he had his determination to remove Fouquet from his powerful position. Would Louis be interested in any of this?

Because of so many uncertainties and unknowns, Simon was approaching this guardedly. But with conviction. He had, therefore, not been able to bring himself to tell Angelica how much he wanted her to be a permanent part of his life. Despite her declarations that social status didn't matter, he knew from experience it did.

With a resolve he hadn't known since before Thomas's death, Simon pushed his horse, challenging those who rode with him to keep up.

Whatever it took, Louis would enn.o.ble him so that he could marry Angelica and give her all the honor she deserved. She'd changed him, brought him back to life, and revived his dream. Only this time, he didn't want it for personal gain but solely, strictly for her. She'd enriched his life, and he wanted in turn to enrich hers. Once he had his Letters, he'd tell her how much he loved her and ask her to marry him. Over the final week, it had all but killed him not to say the words he longed to voice. But he would. In time.

Simon had held back the king's seven warships, still at sea, north of Le Havre, while his own four ships were at port in Rouen, replenishing supplies. Immediately thereafter, two of his ships would sail to Robert's Chateau Arles, in the south of France.

He'd left orders for the four ships, instructions for Angelica's safety, organized two parties of men, obtained horses, and left all before Jules could disembark from the ship he commanded and confront him, forcing answers Simon couldn't yet give.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It would seem he had luck on his side today.

Angelica awoke, reached out, and realized Simon was gone.

This was not new. He always rose before her and went on deck.

Sighing, she stretched. Sounds from outside drifted into the cabin, the men moving about blending with the lapping of water against the hull of the ship. A woman's shout pierced through the familiar, followed by children's laughter and nickering horses.

Angelica sat bolt upright. France.

She jumped out of bed and dressed at a frantic pace. Once done, she s.n.a.t.c.hed open the cabin door, startling Paul, who was walking past.

"Where is he, Paul?"

"The captain has disembarked."

Her stomach dropped. "Disembarked?" Without saying anything to her? "Where are we?"

"Rouen."

Rouen? Simon had kept her in her cabin for the last two days, making love. They had not only reached France, they'd pa.s.sed Le Havre at the mouth of the Seine and were not far from Paris. "When will he return?" She couldn't keep the anxiety from her tone.

"I don't know. Perhaps several days. Maybe longer. He has matters to attend to."

"What matters?"

"I'm sorry. I cannot say."

She could feel the slow, hard thuds of her heart.

"Cannot say or will not say?"

The young man shifted his weight, looking uneasy and unsure how to answer.

"Paul, bring me Mathieu G.o.deau. He's second in command of this ship, is he not? I demand to speak to him."

"No need, Paul, I'm here," G.o.deau said from behind the younger man. Paul stepped aside, looking relieved as the tall blond man approached. "What can I do for you, mademoiselle?"

"I want to know where your captain has gone."

"The captain has left with a number of men to meet a friend. He gave me this note to give to you."

She opened the note quickly and read the words. Brief. To the point. He was gone for two weeks. She was to stay on board. He would speak to her upon his return.

"What friend is he seeing? For what purpose?" She resented this male wall of silence.

"Mademoiselle, the captain will return soon enough. You can ask him the details of his trip then."

"Is he going to Beaulieu? Before you tell me you cannot say, I a.s.sure you, you can. In fact, I insist! I have nowhere to go, so it's quite safe to tell me. Now, is he going to Beaulieu? Yes or no!"

The commander remained quiet.

"Answer me!"

"Yes."

The word hit Angelica like a fist. How could he? He knew how she felt about returning there. All her hopes, all the dreams of having a lasting loving bond with him were crushed under the weight of that one ugly word. Beaulieu.

"Is there anything else?"

She shook her head. Softly, she closed the door and leaned against it. There was nothing more to ask. She crumpled the note in her hand and let it fall to the floor.

She'd asked him to commit to her before they reached France.

And he had not.

He'd had many opportunities to voice words of love and marriage and forever. Yet he'd uttered none. He was carrying on with his original intentions of returning her to Beaulieu and retreating from her life, even after weeks of indescribable bliss.

Any illusions she may have entertained during the voyage, that he would change his mind and not let her go in the end, shattered. How much clearer could he make it?

He was not going to stay with her.

He left knowing how she would interpret his departure, and he hadn't even had the courage to tell her in person that he was leaving the ship. She swiped away a tear off her cheek.

She refused to add to her grief. No matter what was done about her stepfather, she could never, would never, step foot in Beaulieu again. Not after what had happened to her there.

Simon might have left orders for her to stay on board, but she didn't take orders from him. It would be unbearable to hear the words of rejection. She wouldn't survive hearing him tell her good-bye. He must have felt a.s.sured that she would stay put, obey his instructions. After all, where could she go?

Gripped by grief and anger, she marched up to her chest, holding back the tears she wouldn't shed for him.

She opened the lid.

At the bottom of one of her trunks, she had a simple valise already packed. Though she'd prayed she'd never have to use it, she was prepared, in the event this horrible day would come.

The valise had some necessary items, clothing, and money. She'd saved every bit she'd earned as the schoolmistress. Fortunately, Simon had been generous with her pay. In addition, Gabriella, Sabine, and Suzette had insisted on providing her with a tidy sum collectively.

As she moved around her clothing to locate the valise, she stopped, realizing she was touching the fine gowns Simon had insisted on purchasing for her. Prior to their departure, he'd made certain that all four had been completed. Now she understood the true reason why. It was so she could dress the part when he returned her to her social standing.

The realization was a stab in the heart. It hadn't been a gift after all. Not really.

The dresses would remain behind. She could never bring herself to wear them again. Her fingers touched upon the book of love sonnets. Picking it up, she ran her thumb tenderly over its leather cover. A lump formed in her throat. Before she succ.u.mbed to the emotions welling up inside her, she put the book down on the dresses and closed the lid.

She had enough money to make it to her destination. There was one man in the realm she could turn to. He'd been her father's friend and had a chateau not far from Paris. Although her father had seldom seen his friend, she remembered the fond way he spoke of him. Always with high regard. This man had once been an officer in the King's Navy. Was he still alive? She prayed yes. Would he be in residence? She'd no idea. In fact, she knew little about him.

But her father had trusted him, and she had no choice but to do the same.

She would seek out Robert d'Arles, Marquis de Nevelon. She would go to his home, Chateau Nevelon.

Late afternoon, Simon heard hooves approaching. He and his men had just stopped to rest the horses. Watching the bend in the road, he waited for the riders to appear from behind the trees. The riders were many, and with a mission in mind, given the pace.

In a country of desperate people, one never knew what to expect. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. His men were immediately on their feet. He heard the collective whisper of their blades being unsheathed.

The first riders came into view. Simon was surprised when he recognized the group.

"Simon!" Jules jumped down from his horse almost before the animal came to a complete stop. "Angelica is gone!"

The words froze Simon's blood.

"What do you mean, gone?" he demanded. "She has nowhere to go!"

"We've searched both ships from top to bottom. She is not on board either. What's worse is that the other two ships have already set sail for Chateau Arles."

"What? Are you suggesting she's on one of those ships?"

Mathieu G.o.deau stepped forward. "Captain, I fear this is my fault. Your lady demanded to know your whereabouts, and I mentioned the party of men heading to Beaulieu. She paled at the very utterance of the name."

Simon felt sick inside. He'd sent a small party to Beaulieu to learn Angelica's stepfather's name, yet no doubt she thought he was proceeding with his original plan to eventually return her there, instead. Merde!

Within moments, Simon was racing back to his ships, intent on catching up with the two already sailing to the south of France. Near Genoa.

She's heading back to the convent...

He prayed he was right.

Nicolas Fouquet stood before his ma.s.sive desk scowling as he watched Pellisson, his paunchy gray-haired secretary, enter the library in his newly completed palace, Chateau Vaux-le-Vicomte.

"My lord, you wished to see me?"

"What took you so long? Never mind. I don't care. Take those brown ledgers and see that they're put in the safe place in my library at Beaulieu. See to the task personally, Pellisson. I want no mistakes."

"Of course, my lord," his trusted a.s.sistant responded. "It shall be done immediately."

"I'll have the black ledgers delivered to the king by Bruno."

"As you wish." Pellisson picked up the brown ledgers off the ebony side table.

Exasperated to the limit, Fouquet sat and slammed his fist down on the desk. "Have I not done an excellent job for France, Pellisson?"

"Absolutely, my lord!"

Fouquet rose to his feet, only mildly appeased by the answer. Walking around his desk, he stopped in front of the window to gaze out at his gardens. This chateau and its splendor was no less than he deserved. It stood as a testament to his success and skill in finance. Over the years, he had turned the impoverished treasury around and built Louis a financially sound kingdom.

"Yet Louis wishes to review my accounting," he growled, still reeling from the sting of such an insult. "Why does he question me at all? After all I have done... He should be indebted to me. The young fool has no idea how to run this country without me."

He turned to Pellisson. "Have I not always made certain that there were enough funds to pay for Mazarin's wars and the king's whims? Have I not done everything Louis and Mazarin have asked of me? And more?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Since Mazarin's death, Louis's demands are unceasing, and he gives the appearance that he does not trust me. It's intolerable!"

He began to pace across the rush mats that warmed the stone floor. For years, he'd worked tirelessly, enduring the demands of his post, enduring Mazarin. He'd shown the n.o.bles-everyone-that he belonged in his exalted position. Without his accomplishments, the treasury would be bankrupt. "I intend to do something to remedy this situation, Pellisson."

Pellisson, holding the brown ledgers, stared at him with rapt attention.