This Burning Desire, Joslinne Morgan [essential reading .TXT] 📗

fell from his lap and landed spine-up on the floor. He paid it no heed. He had made his decision. He was going to have to be careful, but in the end, he knew it would be worth it.

~*~*~*~*~

"Where are you going?" Quasimodo stirred on his pallet and glanced at Esmeralda. Cursing under her breath, for she had thought him asleep, Esmeralda rotated slowly to face him.

"Nowhere," she said, smiling gently. "Just go back to sleep, it's not morning yet."

"Mm," Quasimodo rolled back over on his side and closed his eyes again. After a few moments, he was back to snoring.

Pausing only a few more seconds to make sure he really was asleep, Esmeralda tiptoed quickly across the room and towards the door. Her bare feet made no sound as she threw open the door and began her flight down the staircase. God knew, she loved Quasimodo. He was as dear a friend to her as she had ever had … but she needed some breathing space without him hanging over her shoulder every minute of the day.

Just a little walk around the sanctuary… that was all she wanted, and then she would be back up to the tower before anyone knew she had gone. Neither Frollo nor his men would ever have to know she had broken the rules, already, after barely 24 hours.

The sanctuary was completely empty, considering it was in the middle of the night. Biting her lip, Esmeralda began to wander through the corridors, remembering with no particular fondness her last visit to the cathedral. How ironic, she thought, that the very man who she had once sought sanctuary from was now offering sanctuary to her.

Safe, yes, but not happy. With a sigh, she ran a hand over the thick stone column and pressed her cheek against it. Now, of course, she was happy for the long-sleeved robe. It was damned cold in the sanctuary.

A loud clanging sound came from behind her. Jumping about ten feet, Esmeralda whirled around, cursing Frollo's guards for having taken her knife along with all her other possessions. At first, all she saw was a tangle of red and gold, but upon closer observation she made it out to be a rather tall man struggling to keep his red and gold caplet over his shoulder as he bent down to pick up a fallen candelabrum.

"Fichu, fichu, fichu!" he sputtered, pulling it upright. Once it was up on all four legs, he straightened his hat and his cape, brushing himself off and lifting his hat briefly to smooth his curly blonde hair away from his face. Esmeralda took a cautious step back as the man finished fussing over himself and turned to face her direction.

For a brief second, he looked just as shocked as she to see that anyone else was in the Cathedral.

"What are you doing here?" Esmeralda hissed.

"I assume I have just as much right to be here as you," he narrowed his eyes. "The Cathedral is open to anyone, after all. At all times of the night."

"Yes, but it's nearly midnight." She folded her arms under her breasts and glanced at him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

"Don't look at me like that." He said, taking a step closer. She took another step back, and he glanced at her, one blonde eyebrow raised. "I'm not going to hurt you,"

"How do I know that?" she challenged. "You're a brightly dressed clumsy maniac who wanders through cathedrals at midnight and knocks things over."

"That wasn't my fault," he replied indignantly. "It jumped into my path."

"Else, you weren't watching where you were going."

"Actually, I was checking to make sure the guards weren't following me."

Esmeralda stiffened. "You're running from the guards? What did you do?"

"They're all still loyal to their old captain, they don't quite trust me yet." He shrugged. "They-"

"Wait," she held up a hand. "Are you their captain?"

"Oh!" he smacked his forehead. "Did I not introduce myself already? Votre rémission, svp. I am Sir Sebastian Montagiu, the most recent Captain of the Guard." He reached out and grasped her hand, brushing his lips across her fingers. She pulled away almost immediately.

"And may I have the honor of your name?" he asked, smiling.

"Esmeralda," she replied. His expression did not change, but a glimmer appeared in his eyes that had not been there before.

"Esmeralda?" he repeated. "Such a beautiful name, but it hardly does your own beauty justice, mademoiselle, if I may say as much."

Esmeralda blushed, and ran a hand through her dark hair. "You're wasting your flattery one me," she admonished him.

"It is honest truth, my dear. If you knew me at all, you'd know that I do not waste my breath with anything less than truth."

"But I don't know you," she reminded him. "You're a random stranger who just happened to walk into the cathedral at the same time I did."

"A dashing stranger, nonetheless." He took a step closer. She took another step back, and her heel bumped into the base of the stone column. With momentary panic, she realized she was trapped between him and the column.

"You still think I'm going to hurt you?" he asked teasingly.

"No," she said, glancing up at him and meeting his blue gaze. "Just cautious, after all. It is you who should be worried about getting hurt. I'm not above kicking."

"Thank God for armor, then."

Esmeralda opened her mouth to make a disdainful reply, but before she could say anything, she felt his gloved hand on the back of her neck, and his lips met up with hers, his tongue sliding into her open mouth. Jean-Francis's free hand closed over the hilt of the knife. Just a moment more, and his task would be complete. A piece of cake.

To his surprise, Esmeralda didn't pull away and smack him soundly across the face, as he was expecting. Rather, she submitted quite readily to the kiss, her body relaxing beneath his and turning animal instinct on high. His grip on the knife relaxed, and finally fell away altogether. Too easy, far too easy. He hated a simple job, and it would be so much more interesting if the stakes were upped a notch.

"I can't stay here very long," he informed her, when he pulled away.

"It doesn't take long," she murmured, her eyes only half open. Jean-Francis chuckled, and stepped away.

"I'm afraid I haven't even the time for that," he said regretfully. "However, tomorrow night, I shall be here again to make my evening prayers. I trust you will be free?"

"I've nothing better to do," she replied, her haughty air returning once again.

"Then tomorrow it is," he brought her hand to his lips once again before his departure. "May the angels be with you until my return."

"You have the words of a poet, for someone who is only a soldier."

Jean-Francis laughed again. "I have many facets," he promised her. "Not all of which you will ever come to know."

"Just you wait," she shot him a vicious smile. "You've no idea what I'm capable of uncovering. I'm of gypsy blood, after all."

"Then it would appear we have more than just beauty in common." He bowed to her. "Good night, mademoseille." And with those words, he was gone, so quickly and so silently that it was if he had never been there.

Esmeralda was still, shocked by the implications of his parting words. More than just beauty in common. Was he implying that he, too, was of gypsy blood?

Impossible, she dismissed the motion with a shake of her head. The man was obviously full of airs, and wasn't expected to make any sense.

But he does have a nice face; she smiled with the memory, and brushed her fingers against her cheek. Her step was considerably lighter as she made her way back to the bell tower. Perhaps there was going to be an upside to her imprisonment.

~*~*~*~*~

Neither of them had heard him enter, they were both entirely too occupied with each other's company to notice much of anything else, Frollo realized bitterly. A knot tightened in his throat as he turned away and made his way back to the cathedral doors. He had seen her, seen the way she reacted once the idiot had departed. The dream-like smile that touched her swollen red lips, the way she had brushed her delicate fingers against her smooth cheek… it was enough to drive him mad. How dare the captain, indeed.

Frollo had come to talk to her, to confess his love for her, and now … this. It was worse than betrayal, it wasn't even technically betrayal. She wasn't his, he had to remind himself. She is not yours.

But she will be, he clenched his teeth. God as my witness, she will be mine!

He left, but he had every intention of returning. He would not let her be stolen away from him – no – not again!

Chapter Nine: Sins of the Flesh

"Why didn't you kill her?" Jean-Francis berated himself. He should have done so while he had the chance, but clearly, he had not been thinking. Like most men, Jean-Francis had the bad habit of thinking with organs other than his brain, under certain situations. And for all he knew, she would turn right around and tell Frollo all of what had occurred. And when he returned the next night, he could very well be walking into an ambush.

He had to bear in mind who he was dealing with. She had betrayed her own people; she was capable of most any treachery. And if she turned him in … even if he managed to escape the grasp of the guards, then he didn't know how he was going to get back into the cathedral to see her again. And what if she gave away the location to the Court of Miracles before he could manage to silence her? Clopin would kill anyone who betrayed him, his own cousin not excluded. Death at the hands of his beloved cousin would be a fate not even Jean-Francis was willing to face.

"You're a fool," he sighed. "A handsome one, at that, but a fool nonetheless."

Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. He could only hope for the best, and pray that Clopin was still too drunk to berate him.

He rounded a corner which opened up into possibly his favorite street in all of Paris. He and Clopin had frequented this place many times, whenever Jean-Francis had happened to be in town. Of course, there had been times when Clopin had been otherwise occupied and Jean-Francis came on his own. He held the eyes and ears of Paris at his fingertips, and he used them to his full advantage. They relayed useful information that they had gleaned from their client's drunken stupors and he had even used them once or twice to spy on his cousin. He remained unashamed of this fact. Information was information, it wasn't in how you acquired it, it was all in what you did with it.

Thus, he turned straight into the elegant, ancient building that was, coincidentally named, Les péchés de la chair. Or, "The Sins of the Flesh".

As soon as he walked through the door, his nose was assaulted with the smells of heavy perfume and warm spiced wine. A buxom young blonde accosted him before he could even take