Chapter Forty-Four

Beaufort, South Carolina

October 26

T wo days passed. They had all agreed that Miles and Clara would stay isolated while the Bishop Security team scouted the area and checked for chatter to ensure no one had tracked them. Clara imagined Emily, Calliope, Very, and Twitch agreeing to this plan with twinkling eyes. Little did they know.

Miles was cordial and attentive. He was his normal self. Clara had just never realized before how detached his normal self was. After seeing the fire in his eyes, the glimpses of vulnerability, going back to this arm’s length detente was depressing.

They hadn’t had sex since Miles pinned her to the tree in the woods outside Lucien Kite’s house. They didn’t even share the bed. Miles stayed up late, watching their surroundings and reading. She guessed he eventually drifted off on the living room couch, where she would find him in the morning.

She was desperate to know what had triggered Miles’s reaction in the mud room, but Clara knew the surest way to get him to retreat further was to press. So she mirrored his distant civility and busied herself plotting the art heist.

Clara was sitting at the distressed farm table off the kitchen, poring over an aerial map of Lucien Kite’s property, when Miles appeared holding two highball glasses filled with a drink the color of sunrise. He was barefoot, wearing battered jeans and a white T-shirt, and Clara nearly melted into a puddle.

“Aperol spritz on the porch?”

It was the sincerity that got her. Something in his soft tone said sorry, I’ve been a colossal ass for the past two days.

“Where did you find Aperol?”

“In the liquor cabinet. There are postcards on the fridge from Lake Como and Florence, and the print in the bedroom is the Bridge of Sighs in Venice. I think the owner is an Italophile.”

Clara accepted the drink and took a sip. “Lucky us.”

“Indeed.” Miles winked. My God, he was the hottest man Clara had ever seen. His sheer masculine beauty, coupled with his relief that she had accepted his peace offering, prompted a heated response. Clara shifted in her seat.

If Miles noticed her reaction, he didn’t show it. He simply turned and walked to the front door, holding it open so she could pass through.

Clara sat on the white wicker porch swing, cradling her drink in both hands. Miles parked next to her. The supporting chains creaked gently as he slowly rocked the swing with his feet. After a healthy swig of the cocktail, he said, “Do you ever think about your childhood? Before you went to live with Reynard?”

“Sure. Sometimes.”

“Do you mind if I ask you about it?”

“Of course not. We’ve known each other long enough. I think I assumed you knew. That maybe Reynard had told you.”

Some emotion colored his cheeks. “I never bothered to ask.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. What was your life like? Did you go to school? Did you have a home?”

“The answer to both is sometimes. My mother was a prostitute. She died when I was five. I don’t remember her. The landlord found her body when he came to collect the rent. He was creepy. I hid, then I ran. It was easy to disappear in that part of Paris. The streets were lined with tents where immigrants and refugees lived. There was a family from Armenia who lived in the basement apartment of our building. I mostly stayed with them.

In the woods beyond the lawn, a white-tailed doe and her yearling munched leaves. The mother’s ears twitched, aware of their presence but unthreatened.

Clara sipped her drink, and Miles spread his arm along the back of the bench. He was so close to comforting her, she could feel his heat. Clara knew opening herself up like this was tipping an already uneven playing field, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t ashamed of her wretched start in life; she was proud.

“Saint-Denis is where I learned to judge people. It’s also where I learned to steal.”

“I don’t imagine there was much worth stealing in that neighborhood,” he said.

She laughed at that. “I used to sneak onto the metro. In the Fifth and the Sixth, the police would chase me off even if I was just poking through trash cans. Then, one day, I was wandering in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and a nanny was watching two children. The little girl left her coat on a bench—bright blue wool with a black velvet collar. It was the fanciest thing I had ever seen. Life got a lot easier with that coat.”

Mile’s hand brushed her nape as he toyed with her ponytail. “I bet.”

“I could pickpocket anyone. I would say I couldn’t find my mother or that my puppy got loose, and as they scanned the crowd, I helped myself.”

“You were a regular Oliver Twist.”

“Except my Fagen was not how Dickens portrayed. There was a man in Saint-Denis. All the children knew to stay away. We called him Le Chasseur .”

“The Hunter.”

A chill ran down her spine. Miles sensed it and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. The feeling of that big, protective palm was instantly soothing.

“One day, I stole money from him. He passed out in a lawn chair in front of his building. The black bag, stuffed with euros, open at his feet. It was like he was showing all these starving people how much he had and daring someone to take it.”

Against her better judgment, she relaxed into the warmth of Miles’s side. “I snatched the money and ran down the row of tents, throwing cash and coins into the openings. People were cheering and shouting.”

“Even as a child, you couldn’t stand inequity.”

She snorted. “I couldn’t stand hunger.”

“But you still shared the bounty.”

“Then we heard The Hunter roar.”

Miles stiffened beside her.

“I ran like a rat, slipping into all the little hidey holes and spaces between walls. Le Chasseur was like a wrecking ball, storming through allies, ripping down shanties. He was yelling Je vais te vendre au pire des hommes que je connaisse. ”

“He was going to traffic you.”

Miles slid his arm from the back of the swing and circled her shoulders as if he could protect her from the memory.

“I ran like my legs were on fire. I aimed for the warehouses across the road. There were a million places to hide in those huge buildings. I paused for just a second to check the traffic. The Hunter grabbed me.”

“Oh, Clara.”

“Now comes the best part. A sleek black car pulled out from the dock entrance. It was expensive. No one good drove cars like that in Saint-Denis. It came to a stop right in front of me. I was scratching and clawing to escape. The back door of the car opened, and a man in a black wool coat stepped out. His driver came around beside him. I was still kicking and struggling. The man lifted his hand and told The Hunter to release me. Libérer l’enfant .”

“Reynard.” Miles relaxed his hold. He knew how the story ended.

“The Hunter refused, but I squirmed free and ran and hid in the folds of Reynard’s coat. I was filthy. I’m sure I ruined it, but Reynard didn’t care. He stood and listened as The Hunter ranted that I was a thief and he was going to kill me or sell me. Then, as calmly as he would reach for a handkerchief, Reynard pulled a gun and shot The Hunter dead. Reynard handed his driver the weapon; then, he lifted the flap of his coat. He didn’t touch me or speak. He just looked at me.”

Clara looked up at Miles and blinked the moisture from her eyes. “I can’t explain his expression. All I remember was one word popped into my head. Famille .”

“Family,” Miles echoed in English.

“I didn’t ask permission. I just scrambled into the back of the car. He followed me in, and we drove away.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Just one thing. Je suis un criminel .”

“That couldn’t have been comforting.”

“It was everything.” His words were honest, apologetic. They were a warning and a promise. She had known instantly Reynard was worthy of her trust. And he had never disappointed her.

“Those first days in Dordogne must have been a shock.”

“First few months . I spent weeks stealing food and hiding it in my room. The drawers of my dresser looked like a larder. One day, cook knocked on the door and asked if I had any jam. She had run out.”

Miles chuckled. “I imagine it was strange.”

“Not the house. I know it’s funny, but to me, it felt like my old block in Paris, just all covered with a roof. Lots of hidden rooms with old furniture and back passageways. Quiet, peculiar people wandering about. To me, the magic was outside. I had never seen so much green. I can remember so clearly plucking an apple from a tree in the orchard and eating it. Then another. Then another. Reynard never crowded me in those early days; he let me do anything I wanted, but that day, he came out from his study. He laughed so hard. Imagine the sight—this scrawny child standing among a sea of apple cores. Reynard scolded me, told me I would get sick, and then he stood there as I filled my shirt with apples and trotted off to the house.”

Miles squeezed her thigh. “Reynard was always kind to me, too. He has a fatherly way about him.”

“He barely spoke to me the first month I lived there. We ate dinner every night in virtual silence, seated at opposite ends of a formal table. He bought boxes and boxes of gifts: clothes, books, electronics. The housekeeper, Mrs. Trovik, showed me how to take a bath—my first bath ever. I would swim in the tub until I looked like a raisin. I had awful head lice, so Mrs. Trovik and I cut off all my hair.”

Miles wrapped a hand around her long ponytail. “I’m glad it grew back.”

“Finally, I got fed up with Reynard. I picked up my dinner plate, marched to his end of the table, and sat. I said, ‘ Je n’ai pas peur de toi .’”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Miles translated.

“He had a morsel of duck on the end of his fork, stopped halfway between the plate and his mouth. He set it down and said, ‘Ma chérie, j’ai peur de toi.”

Miles laughed. “I bet he was afraid of you—a widower with no children in his fifties. Reynard wouldn’t know the first thing about raising a child. What did you say?”

“ Je vous apprendrai .” I will teach you. “Reynard said, ‘ Bien .’”

“The next day, he took me into town. I was a little tour guide blabbering about everything. Look at that tree. Look at that bird. Look at that bug. Every time I pointed something out, Reynard would follow my direction and smile. He was always so patient.”

The feel of Miles’s big hand on her neck grounded Clara once again as she continued the story.

“We stopped at a dress shop. In the window was a child-sized mannequin wearing a bright blue coat with a black velvet color. It looked nearly identical to the one I had taken in Paris. Reynard saw my expression and walked into the store. The only time I had ever been in shops like this was to steal, so I huddled near his legs. The salespeople swirled around him like butterflies. One of the ladies came toward me with a measuring tape, and I was terrified. Reynard stopped her. He told her to bring a coat to try on to determine my size.”

“He didn’t want anyone touching you or frightening you.”

“I like to pretend nothing scares me, but Reynard always knew.”

“Did you get the coat?” he asked.

“In red, gray, and blue. I used to wear the blue one around the house like a robe. I hated taking it off.”

Miles’s arm stretched around Clara and pulled her close.

“Reynard would read me bedtime stories in a big chair upholstered with butterflies, and I would sit against the headboard in my pajamas wearing one of the coats.”

“What was your favorite story?”

“At first, it was Eloise at the Plaza . A little girl roaming free in that big hotel. It felt like my life. Then, when I was a little older, Reynard chose a book that…” Clara searched for the words. “ Cela a parlé à mon ame .”

“It spoke to your soul,” Miles translated.

“Lupin,” Clara said.

“Ah, the gentleman thief.”

“Fighting to avenge his father and bring the evil-doer to justice.”

“It does have a familiar ring to it,” Miles added.

“In my mind, I imagined the Louvre. I had never even been inside, but the very idea of sneaking in and wandering about all that priceless art.” She sighed. “One day, I’m going to do it.”

“I have no doubt.”

“I feel like the luckiest girl in the world, sometimes.”

“Even with your rough start?”

“Especially because of that. Reynard gave me safety. He gave me purpose. But if I had nothing to compare it to, I wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Miles kissed Clara gently on her temple. “Thank you for telling me.”

She looked at him expectantly. Clara had followed him out to the porch, hoping to hear his story, not share her own. Why had he turned to stone in that mud room? What had made him the way he was? Even now, with the added quid pro quo, Miles was locked up tight. With his palms on his thighs, he pushed to his feet and walked to the edge of the porch. Examining the sky, he said, “Looks like rain.” Then he turned and walked into the house.

Clara stayed on the porch swing for a long while, processing yet another disappointment. In the woods beyond, the doe rotated her head and looked blankly at Clara as if to say What did you expect ?

Eventually, the smell of garlic and roasting chicken lured her back inside. Clara prepared herself for another evening of polite chit-chat and planning the heist. Her quiver was empty. She had shot her useless arrows at the Miles Buchanan fortress, and the walls still stood. With sad resolve and a fake smile, she set the table.