Chapter Nine

"P leasure, as always."

Nicolas slipped his wool coat over his massive shoulders. While she watched him dress, something tugged at Violette's heart. A deep, lingering ache that could only be lessened with the word tomorrow .

"Yes, I'll see you tomorrow."

Three days ago, she'd shared her plan with Suzanne, three days of training with Nicolas in the dimly lit underground ballroom, three mornings of strange, undefinable giddiness bubbling up in her stomach when she was on her way to meet him, followed by a long, agonizing wait that stretched through the afternoon and evening, driving her to distraction.

Last night, she'd almost gotten caught picking the pocket of a gentleman during a lights display in front of the Tuileries. An easy mark. Everyone was enraptured by the strings of colored lanterns lighting the square, but she'd pulled the purse too hastily and the gentleman had turned around, forcing her and Bravard to make a run for it.

Careless. Foolish. It could not happen again. If it did, getting caught by the gendarmes would be the least of her worries.

Nicolas buttoned his coat. "Before I go, there's something I must tell you."

Her heart gave a little jolt and her mind started to race. Was he about to say they couldn't meet any longer? Inevitably, there would come a point where there would be no tomorrow left, but… Not now. Just a little while longer.

"I'm listening," she said cautiously.

"If you're to train properly, you must eat well."

She blinked at him. She certainly hadn't been expecting that . "I beg your pardon?"

"You can't fight properly on an empty stomach." His expression had hardened into concern. "Are you getting enough to eat?"

She stared down at her feet. "We manage."

It wasn't an outright lie. She and Emile weren't starving, after all. They did manage, though she couldn't remember the last time she had felt satiated, or truly enjoyed a meal. But she couldn't bear the humiliation of admitting that to Nicolas.

"Believe me, I know what it's like," he said quietly. "There is no shame in it. I've had to beg for food or steal it more than once in my life. If you are in need of anything…"

"I'm not."

Her words came out sharp. Sharper than she intended. By God, he was only offering to help her, so why was she reacting this way? A strange sort of fear niggled at her. If she came to depend on Nicolas's kindness too much, and he disappeared from her life…

"Thank you," she added in a softer tone, "but the only thing I need is to know how to defend myself."

Nicolas nodded. "Of course. Keep yourself safe, then. Until tomorrow."

Violette waited a few minutes before wrapping herself in her shawl and heading to the entrance of the brothel, where Suzanne was chatting with her surly cousin-or-half-sister near the seashell fresco. The moment Violette reached the last stair, Suzanne scampered up with a grin and slipped her arm into hers.

"Oh good, you're ready to go! I'll see you later, Lili," she called over her shoulder, then led Violette into the street.

Violette squinted against the pale sunlight. "You were waiting for me?"

"Of course. We've got a savate match to attend."

"Oh! Right now?" True, she'd asked Suzanne for help in finding out when and where she could see Nicolas fight, but she'd expected more plotting and planning.

Suzanne pulled her with each brisk step toward the Palais Royal. Would she return in time to get ready for the evening? Would Emile notice if she wasn't there when he woke up in the afternoon? No, nothing could penetrate the fog of his mind these days. When Violette had suggested they attend the Christmas service together like they did in the past, he'd merely turned a bleak gaze toward her and asked if she had a few francs on her.

But what about the maid Lenoir employed to clean their home, wasn't she supposed to come today? Even if her brother didn't take note of her absence, the maid certainly would.

"Trust me, this is an opportunity we can't miss," Suzanne replied. "First I thought we might sneak into Saint Aphrodise in the morning so you could watch Nicolas train his students, but then Raoul told me…"

"Who's Raoul?"

Suzanne sighed and batted her eyelashes so theatrically that Violette bit back a laugh. "A dark handsome brute of a man who holds my heart in his palm. And one of Nicolas's closest companions. They met in Marseille when Nicolas fled Paris years ago, then they returned together."

Marseille? How had Nicolas ended up on the other side of the country? And what could have possibly chased him away from Paris? He seemed… fearless. Utterly unafraid of the Boneman and his ilk. Capable of defending himself against the worst sorts of thugs. The string of questions whirled in her mind, begging to be let out, but Suzanne still hadn't explained where they were going.

They stepped onto Capucine Boulevard and bundled together as a cold dry wind swept over them.

"According to Raoul," Suzanne went on, "an investor has taken interest in Nicolas's savate school. They've organized a small tournament at Saint Aphrodise this afternoon, at the man's request."

Violette raised an eyebrow. "Does this Raoul have a loose tongue?"

Suzanne's eyes glinted with impish amusement. "Not by half, but I'm getting rather good at loosening it. The trick is to show him he doesn't intimidate you, no matter that he's a big, brawny fellow who can slit a man's throat as if it were made of butter. He might make your knees weak but you're woman enough to handle him."

"I see." Violette had never heard anyone talk about seduction this way. Suzanne made it sound almost easy. "And that works, then? You and Raoul…"

"Not yet. For once I'm trying to get him to do the actual wooing, and that's much trickier than simply luring a man to your bed."

"You seem to know quite a lot about the topic." Suzanne frowned, and a flush of embarrassment stung Violette's cold cheeks. "Forgive me, I did not mean to cause offense. On this subject, I am utterly ignorant, and I would not even know where to start if… Well, if I wanted to…"

Suzanne watched her from the corner of her eye. "And is that the case?"

Violette stared down at her feet. "No, of course not."

It couldn't be the case. Could it? For as long as she had known what took place in a marital chamber, the idea of laying with a man had filled her with disgust. When she'd turned fifteen, her mother had explained to her the necessity of preserving herself for her husband and had described in vague terms what her wifely duty would entail—lying in bed and keeping absolutely still while some unpleasant, often painful coming and going took place between her legs.

Illness had already taken hold of Maman, and perhaps she had sensed she would not live to see Violette married. But then Violette's uncle had tried to find a match for her and the feeling of dread had only rooted itself deeper. Now it gripped her throat every time she was in Lenoir's presence.

With Nicolas, however… When his brilliant green gaze settled on her, when he caught her hand or leaned closer to correct her position, the disgust melted like ice before a fire into nothing more than an unpleasant memory. That mysterious nameless feeling took its place, hot and dizzying, gripping not her throat, but deep in her belly and between her legs. Simply thinking about his rakish smile, the way his golden hair curled on his forehead, the low, smooth pitch of his voice ignited that liquid sensation.

She bit her lower lip. Lord help her, but she didn't want that feeling to stop.

"Well, if you should ever happen to find yourself in that situation, I'm here to help," Suzanne said lightly. "Your secrets are safe with me."

"That's very kind of you."

Yes, she could trust Suzanne, perhaps more than she could trust herself. She was already taking too many risks. And yet with each step bringing them closer to the Palais Royal, excitement bubbled up within her again, drowning any trace of fearfulness.

"How will we get inside unnoticed?" she asked Suzanne.

Suzanne grinned. "A secret passage. Too small for Nicolas or any of his students, but you should be able to squeeze in."

When they arrived at Saint Aphrodise, Suzanne led her to the side of the church to a small door. It still hung on its hinges, but part of it had been smashed in, leaving a narrow gap between broken planks. Suzanne crouched and wiggled through. Violette followed suit. The splintered wood snagged at her shawl and scraped against the wool of her dress, but she managed to push through.

A rumble of shouts and voices filled Violette's ears, but the wall of a narrow wooden staircase separated them from the sanctuary. She followed Suzanne up the rickety steps, carefully placing her feet so as not to make the ancient wood creak, to a loft overlooking the church. Had an organ once stood there? If so, there was no trace left on the smooth stone.

"On your hands and knees," Suzanne breathed. "They won't see us that way."

The two of them crawled along the stone balustrade. Violette's pulse quickened as the cold stone bit into her knees and palms. Between the columns, she caught a glimpse of the savate ring. It was empty, but men crowded it on each side, jostling, drinking, calling out names—one in particular, repeated by several. Boutin! Boutin!

Suzanne glanced back at Violette with a short nod and sat down, hugging her knees, peeking down at the crowd.

"Best view in the building, wouldn't you say?" she whispered.

Violette smiled. "Indeed. Boutin, is he one of Nicolas's students?"

"Yes. Look, there he is."

A mountain of a man entered the ring along with his adversary—shorter by a head, but hopping nimbly from one foot to the other. Violette scanned the crowd until her gaze landed on a head of curls the color of burnt gold. Nicolas . He wasn't at the side of the ring this time, but speaking with a gentleman in a silk hat. Next to him stood a dark-haired man with broad shoulders and a ferocious glower.

"And that's Raoul," Suzanne added, following Violette's gaze. "What I wouldn't give to see him in the ring!"

"He doesn't fight?"

"He does, but not for sport, unfortunately. So I can only hope that one evening he'll get into a quarrel at the cabaret."

A shrill whistle pierced the air and the match started. Boutin slammed a fist dead center into his opponent's gut. The other man barely wavered. His foot lashed out and hit Boutin square in the chest. The smack of flesh on flesh echoed against the stone. Boutin staggered for only a moment. Then with a roar, he grabbed the other man's legs and flipped him over. His back hit the ground with a thud.

Another match, another pair of fighters. And then another. Violette's gaze struggled to follow the fighters' rapid blows. But her attention kept slipping back to Nicolas. His eyes were fixed on the ring, his expression hard and stern. A sharp command would sometimes burst from his lips, but he was no longer talking to the gentleman next to him. Yet as soon as a match ended, his expression would lighten, smooth over, and he would exchange pleasantries with his guest again. As if he was slipping a mask on and off at will.

"Go on, Lefevre," Boutin shouted after the most recent match-up. "Jump in. Or are you afraid to wrinkle those fancy clothes?"

Nicolas laughed, and his fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat. "If that's a challenge, you know I'm always glad to take you on."

"No, me!" a younger man cried out. "It's my turn now!"

Nicolas shook his head. "Not a fair match, Richieux."

Richieux pounded his chest with his fist. "You afraid I'll punch out your teeth, old man? Try me and see!"

Violette frowned. Nicolas's fingers hovered over the buttons, but the crowd clamored for the match, shouting out both their names. Finally, Nicolas shrugged off his waistcoat and untied his cravat. A roar of approval rang out in the nave.

"Oh my, he's really going to do it," Suzanne said. "Richieux hasn't been fighting that long, but he's tough as nails. This could get interesting."

Violette couldn't answer. Her mouth had gone dry at the sight of Nicolas kicking off his shoes and stockings. Then, his fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, untucking it before pulling it over his head…

She'd felt his firm, unyielding strength under her fingers, but it was nothing compared to witnessing his corded muscles rippling under smooth skin, pale as marble and just as exquisitely defined. Longing rose within her. Her palms itched to run over it, stroke every hard ridge, explore every angle. The very idea robbed her of breath, roused the nameless feeling again right from her core, stronger this time, impossible to contain.

The whistle trilled. The match was starting. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.

Nicolas circled his opponent, his movement lithe, cat-like, calculated. And then he lunged.

Smack. Smack. Thump.

Chest. Face. Kick. Just like he'd told her. But God, it looked so different when he did it. His hands and feet flashed like lightning into a string of lethal blows. And lord help her… it did things. Forbidden things. Flames curled in her midsection, coiled in her veins, threatened to engulf her. She felt each slap of skin on skin deep inside, and her mind reeled with the desire to have that same strength seize and claim her.

Richieux hit back with furious energy, managed to land a punch on Nicolas's brow. Nicolas's head snapped back and droplets of blood splattered the ground. He regained his bearings, a crimson rivulet pouring down the side of his face, and attacked again. His blows were even faster, more precise. Chest. Face. Kick. Kick. Kick.

Richieux reached for Nicolas's thigh and tried to spin him, but just before losing his balance, Nicolas pulled him into a headlock and they tumbled to the ground in a heap.

A sickening crunch. A cry of pain. Then silence.

"No!"

Violette covered her mouth with her hand. Too late. The word slipped out of her mouth and echoed on the stone walls.

Nicolas staggered back up, panting hard, his right arm cradling his ribs. His adversary writhed in pain, but Nicholas wasn't looking at him. He was staring straight in her direction, his green eyes blazing with anger.