Louisa Rawlings (12 page)

She bit her lip in consternation. “I can’t. Forgive me. My coach is leaving.”
 

“Let it go. You can travel home with me. My calèche is large and far more comfortable. And we’ll have time for a fine breakfast before we leave.”
 

“Oh, but I couldn’t.”
 

He frowned. “You
do
go home?” Was that jealousy she read in his face?
 

“Yes. Of course.”
 

“Where is your château?”
 

“Just beyond Montoire.”
 

“I’ve told you I live near Tours. Montoire is on my way.”
 

She fidgeted with indecision, plucking at a fluff on her skirt. “But the coach is paid for, and my trunk and boxes are aboard…”
 

He laughed ruefully. “I tell you I adore you. And still you must be practical, Marie-Rouge?”
 

How cruel she was! And how foolish. “You shame me. Very well,” she nodded. “I’ll travel with you.”
 

“Good. And if it will make you feel the better in that practical soul of yours, you can allow your boxes and trunk to stay on the public coach, since they’re paid for. Let me go and see to our breakfast, and then I’ll send the coach on its way. If I give the coachman a crown or two, I’m sure he can arrange to have someone from your château pick up your belongings when they reach Montoire.”
 

She smiled and rose to her feet. How gallant he was. And she’d nearly lost him, thanks to Torcy. “You think of everything.”
 

“Wait for me here. I’ll return in a moment.”
 

She hesitated. He’d still not apologized for the words he had called her. “Will you…give me a kiss first? To show me we’re friends again?”
 

His blue eyes smoldered with desire. “Of course.” He crossed the small room to her and swept her into his arms, holding her tightly against his body. His kiss was hot and passionate; it took her breath away. His tongue ravaged her mouth, plundering its sweetness, demanding her surrender. It would be very easy to succumb to him, she thought, losing herself in the delights of his kiss.
 

At last, gasping, she pushed him away. Best to proceed slowly. But her heart was filled with gratitude. Thanks be to God he’s come back! she thought. And if he continued to kiss her like that, he’d be a husband she could surely learn to love!
 

“I want you more than ever,” he murmured. “You tempting witch!”
 

She giggled. “That wasn’t a
friend’s
kiss! Now go. Before the coach departs.”
 

He
smiled and turned to the door. “A very
close
friend. Who hopes to be closer.”
 

When he’d gone, she hugged herself in pleasure. He was already eating out of her hand. By the time they reached Sans-Souci, she was certain that they’d be pledged in marriage! And then her troubles would be over.
 

Breakfast was a lighthearted affair; they managed to recapture the sparkle of their earlier encounters, talking of foolish trifles and laughing a great deal. The morning was half gone by the time Arsène’s coach was brought into the yard.
 

Rouge sank into the velvet cushions and smiled across at Arsène. Things couldn’t be more splendid. The coach was comfortable, her belly was full, the sun was shining. And Arsène still adored her. He had told her so half a dozen times during breakfast. The footman closed the door of the carriage, wiped a smudge of dirt off the glass of the window, and hopped up on his perch at the back of the closed coach. Facing toward the rear, Rouge could see the blue of his livery through the small window behind Arsène’s head. The coachman whistled to the team, and they were off.
 

By early afternoon, the sun had stopped shining, and a light rain had begun. The terrain they passed through was sparsely populated, with few villages; the rolling hills that Rouge could see from the window were patchworked with newly plowed fields, rich and brown, or pale yellow squares of early wheat. Here and there, a green mountainside lay uncultivated, dotted with snowy flocks of sheep. Rouge waved at a shepherd boy huddling under a small blanket, his dog curled at his feet.
 

It was now raining too hard to stop for dinner. And besides, as Arsène informed her, there wasn’t a decent inn for many leagues. “I come this way when I’ve been at Fontainebleau,” he said. “Not often. The roads are bad. The trip will take a bit longer than I had supposed.” He smiled. “But I’ve not forgotten how you like to eat!” Opening a small box that sat on the floor of the coach, he produced bread and meat and cheese, and a small jug of wine with silver cups.
 

Rouge exclaimed in delight, helping him to cut slabs of meat for the bread, and spreading on the mustard she’d found in a little jar at the bottom of the box. But the rocking of the calèche on the country roads nauseated her slightly, and after they’d eaten, she began to regret the last piece of cheese, the final swallow of wine. Still feeling queasy, and lulled by the steady drumming of the rain on the roof, she dozed fitfully for most of the afternoon, aware that each time she awakened Arsène was gazing at her with a burning intensity. She smiled gently and slept again. The next time she awoke, the coach was stopped. She sat up and looked out of the window, surprised to see that night had fallen.
Mon Dieu!
she thought. I must have slept for a very long time! Perhaps that was why her head was throbbing. She looked across at Arsène. “Why have we stopped?”
 

“It’s getting too dark to see. And the rain has turned the road to mud. My men are lighting the lamps, but I fear the footman will have to go on ahead with a lantern to show the way.”
 

The carriage door opened. The coachman handed in a small lantern that Arsène hung from a hook on the roof of the calèche. With a muttered oath, Arsène slammed the door shut, but not before the velvet cushions had become soaked from the driving rain. “
Ciel!
What a night!” exclaimed Rouge. “And your lackey must walk the road on a night like this?”
 

Arsène shrugged. “I pay him well. And I think we’re less than an hour away from Vendôme. There’s a snug inn I know of. But for the rain and the muddy roads, we should have been there by now.”
 

“I shall be happy to arrive. My head hurts, and I’ll welcome a good rest.” She laughed. “Though I seem to have done little save sleep this afternoon! While you watched me,” she added, teasing him gently.
 

“While I watched you.” The coach started up again, rumbling slowly through the mud. The lantern swayed, casting its yellow glow above Arsène’s head. Rouge wished she could see his eyes, but they were hidden in the shadow from his brow. “You have me in your spell, Marie-Rouge. I’m not sure I like it,” he said softly.
 

“Tell me about the inn,” she said. A safe topic. Something in the way he was leaning forward, his body tensed, made her uneasy.
 

“The inn is small and comfortable, with a warm fireplace and a large bed in my chamber.”
 

“And my chamber?”
 

His voice was like honey. “Your chamber is mine. I told you it was a small inn. And out of the way. There’s but the one room for guests.”
 

She felt a sudden constricting of her heart. “And if I should refuse the arrangement?”
 

He chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. “You won’t, my sweet. I’m at
least
as persuasive as Don Lopes. Or the young man you met in Orléans. The one who gave you violets. It was quite by chance that I inquired for you at the very tavern where you both supped so…intimately. I believe that was how it was described to me. And I’m far more persuasive than Albret de Montigny. You surprised me taking up with him. I thought the
tapette
didn’t care for women.”
 

“Albret?” she croaked, taken aback at the sudden shift of Arsène’s mood.
 

“Yes. You were not lonely, I understand, while I was away in Paris. You seem to have visited Albret in his private apartments with much frequency of late.”
 

Dear Madonna! she thought. Where could her wits have been? She must have been blind the whole day! Arsène had spoken of his desire for her. He had never mentioned marriage. All the day. And he’d never apologized for thinking her a woman of easy virtue. Well, she’d soon put a stop to this nonsense. “You’re quite mistaken,” she snapped. “Albret is a friend. Nothing more.”
 

“Of course.” His mouth twisted in a sly smile. “As am I. And intend to be more so, before the night is through. You’ve led me a merry chase, you teasing devil. But tonight I’ll bring the fox to ground. And to our mutual satisfaction, I think.”
 

“You flatter yourself,” she said coldly.
 

“We’ll see. I think I can make you forget all the others.”
 

There was no sense in being delicate at a time like this. “I’m not a wanton,” she said firmly. “I sleep alone. Always.”
 

He shook his head. “No. No, Marie-Rouge. You’ve played that game once too often. Until Don Lopes, and Albret de Montigny—and your secret lover in Orléans—you had me almost believing in your virtue. But the game is finished. Despite your pretty little protests, I think you want me. And, God knows, I’ve waited long enough for you. My patience is at an end.” He laughed softly. “Truth to tell, my sweet coquette, you should consider yourself fortunate. My first thought, when I followed you, was to take you over my knee and make you pay, thoroughly and well, for the grief you’ve caused me.”
 

She glared at him. “I don’t take kindly to threats of a beating!”
 

“Don’t fret, my charming one. I’d much prefer to make love to you. You’re safe from chastisement—so long as you behave yourself.”
 

Her mind was racing. Since she’d managed to get herself into this situation, she might as well be bold! “And your proposal of marriage?”
 

“I might be persuaded to tender it again. But there’s no reason why I can’t…sample the goods tonight. I’d scarcely be the first, eh?”
 

She cursed silently. Thanks to Torcy’s schemes, she must appear far from virtuous to Arsène! But she could scarcely tell him the truth! Perhaps she could appeal to his sensibilities. She put a gentle hand on his arm. “Arsène…”
 

He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. His voice, when he spoke, was thick with passion. “Tonight, when you’re in my arms, we’ll both be glad this charade is over.”
 

She couldn’t fight him. Not here. Not now. At the inn, with others around… She smiled wanly. “Perhaps you’re right, Arsène.”
 

He leaned back against the cushions, savoring his triumph. “My God, you’re beautiful,” he said. “With those eyes, those ripe lips that promise a thousand delights. And now they’re mine.”
 

“Yes, Arsène.”
 

The coach continued on its bumpy way, creaking slowly through the rainy night. A quarter of an hour ago, she’d wished the journey ended and the inn in sight; now she wished the ride could go on forever. Dear Mother of God, she thought. What
am
I going to do? If only her head would stop pounding! It was so hard to think, with the pain like a knot between her temples. She continued to smile at Arsène as best she could; the longer she could lull him into complacency, the more time she’d have to decide how to avoid granting him the last favors. If it came to that, of course, she
would
submit. Better to yield than to suffer the indignity of the rape she was sure would follow a refusal.
 

The calèche rocked on, swaying rhythmically, monotonously, through the mud. Still smiling, Arsène dropped his head forward on his chest, and nodded off to sleep. Rouge gazed out the window at the dark night. Off in the distance, she saw a pinpoint of light. Some peasant’s cottage, she thought, her heart filled with longing for the simple life which that small light represented. If a father was there, he couldn’t afford to gamble. If there was a daughter, she’d doubtless be secure in the love of her country swain, not wondering how she could protect her virtue on a wet and friendless night!
 

Above the patter of the rain on the roof, she heard the coachman call something to the footman, who, she guessed, was still running on ahead, lighting the way. The coach lurched once and slowed almost to a standstill. Arsène still slept. On an impulse, Rouge opened the door and eased herself out. The drop to the ground was farther than she had imagined; she stumbled and fell, landing in a rainfilled rut. By the time she’d struggled to her feet, the coach had moved down the road.
 

She watched it go.
I’m safe from him,
she thought. Then… You fool! You impetuous
fool
! The rain beat down on her. And she hadn’t even thought to take her cloak! And except for that small light that had caught her eye, the night was as black as pitch. Well, there was nothing for it now but to head for the light. She couldn’t call to the coach; they’d never hear her over the wind and rain. Besides, the more she thought of it, the more it seemed like a good idea after all. To make for the light. Arsène would wake to the rain in the carriage and come looking for her. A little worry might make his heart fonder and cool his lust. She shivered. The rain was beginning to soak through her mantua. She moved in the direction of the light, feeling the beginnings of fear. What if it
wasn’t
a cottage? Some sort of shelter? The driving rain beat down on her, the trees caught at her clothes; the oozing mud sucked at her shoes. She fell half a dozen times, soaking her skirts, until every inch of her was wet and cold. The weight of her soggy garments slowed her progress even more: each step was an exhausting effort. She began to giggle, feeling light-headed. I’ll die out here, she thought. And no one will find me. And then Tintin will
have
to marry Nathalie!