The Misguided Matchmaker by Nadine Miller Read Free Book Online

finally up a flight of stone stairs into a
wide alleyway. Here the covered sections were separated by long stretches open
to the moonlit sky, and the half wall was topped by a grillwork which cast
eerie shadows over the walkway.
    She
watched Tristan Thibault lean against the grillwork and stare up at the open
sky. He was breathing heavily and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.
Even in the sparse light of the lantern she could see he was deathly pale.
    “Are
you ill, monsieur?” she asked, anxiously searching his face. Thibault’s
muttered answer sounded suspiciously like a curse and he gave her a look so
coldly angry, she felt the blood freeze in her veins. Acutely embarrassed, she
quickly turned away. Grandpère had always claimed Englishman were a
nasty-tempered lot; Monsieur Thibault proved the story true.
    “Stay
close to me,” she warned. “Many traboules converge near here. You could
become lost if we are separated.”
    Tristan
Thibault instantly moved forward to walk close behind her. Too close. The heat
from his body warmed her back, and every inch of her skin tingled with the awareness
of his presence. She found the sensation decidedly unnerving.
    It
was not as if she were a green girl unaccustomed to men. She had been flattered
and courted by every young Royalist in Lyon who hoped to ingratiate himself
with her grandfather. They were French; they were charming; they were romantic;
one in particular was as handsome as any hero of any novel she’d ever read—but
not one of them had made her skin tingle.
    How
could she have such a disturbing reaction to a man who snarled at her if she asked
a simple question—a man who, in the best of moods, resembled a bear with a
thorn in its paw. It simply was not logical…unless she
was so weakened by grief and exhaustion she was no longer capable of reacting
in a rational manner. Of course, that must be the explanation. Her grandfather
had been ill for so long, she couldn’t even remember when she’d last had the
luxury of a full night’s sleep.
    She
was still pondering her dilemma when she realized they’d arrived at the spot
she’d been dreading—an open courtyard onto which six separate arched
passageways converged. She had not been entirely honest when she’d claimed she
knew her way around the traboules . It had been years since she’d walked
them with her grandfather, and the memory was vague, to say the least. But the
alternative—hiding in the church, trapped and helpless—had been unthinkable.
    Frantically,
she surveyed the six identical arches, aware she hadn’t a clue which one led to
La Croix Rousse. One wrong turn and they could be lost for hours or, worse yet,
end up in one of the notorious traboules mystérieuses , where it
was rumored the Black Mass was regularly celebrated. Then she would be
in trouble—in the company of a “priest” whom Monsieur Forli had rightly claimed
looked like a reincarnation of le diable himself.
    “I
must get my bearings,” she said, halting so suddenly Tristan Thibault plowed
into her and Forli into him.
    “Damnation!”
he hissed, catching her around the waist as the collision sent her tumbling
forward. He released her immediately, but not before she felt the incredible
strength in his arms and in his lean, hard body.
    There
it was again. That tingling sensation. She shuddered, aware how foolish she’d
been to put her life in the hands of this powerful stranger simply because he
purported to represent her English father—and equally aware it was too late to
worry about it now. Good or bad, she’d been dealt a hand; she had no choice but
to play it out. Crossing her fingers for luck she made a quick decision and
headed for the third arch on her right.
    Forli
followed her into the dark passageway and reluctantly Tristan brought up the
rear, praying it would lead to another of those open areas before his
traitorous nerves betrayed him. With grim determination, he forced himself to
put one foot before