Louisa Rawlings (13 page)

She plodded on. The pounding in her head had become an anvil hammer. But she could see quite clearly now, through the pelting rain, that the light was coming from a window. Thanks be to God! she thought, rubbing at her eyes to wipe the streaming water from them. They had begun to sting. Her stiffened fontange had collapsed; its starch, pouring down her face with the rain, burned her eyes. She stopped once more to wipe at them. As she did so, she caught sight of several lights coming from the road she’d just left. Arsène and his men, already searching for her. Well, perhaps she’d let him find her in the cottage.
No!
What was she thinking of? He’d already threatened to beat her. Having to search for her in a storm like this would surely put him in a high temper. And she had no wish to be thrashed like a child! Or to be at his mercy for whatever he had in mind!
 

She covered the last few steps to the cottage and peered in at the window. There seemed to be only one occupant: a man who sat in an armchair before a cheery fire. He was reading a book by the light of a single candle. Above his head curled a wisp of smoke from the pipe he held between his teeth. Rouge stumbled to the door, lifted the latch, and almost fell across the threshold.
 

As a sudden gust of wind whipped past Rouge’s skirts to agitate the flame of the candle, the man jumped to his feet.
“Nom de Dieu!”
He threw down his book, hurried to her, and pulled her inside, shutting the door against the downpour. “Are you mad to be out on a night like this, woman?” His eyes were smoky green and filled with concern.
 

She sagged against the door for a moment, trembling with exhaustion, while the water dripped from her garments to the reed-strewn floor. “I saw your light,” she gasped.
 

He smiled and set his pipe on a small table. “Then I’m glad I didn’t close the shutters. Come in. Please.” He held out his hand, indicating the blazing fire. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his homespun shirt and knee breeches resting easily on his muscular frame. His shoulder-length hair was tied back with a dark ribbon; obviously he never wore a wig. The color of the soft waves—so natural and attractive after the tightly curled, artificial
perruques
of the court—was a rich brown, with glints of red that shone in the firelight. It reminded Rouge of a chestnut stallion she’d had once, before Tintin had lost it to a moneylender. Indeed, the man himself reminded her of a stallion, with the proud set of his head and his chiseled jaw and angular nose. But his eyes were warm, with crinkles of laughter at the corners, and his firm mouth seemed accustomed to smiling. He chuckled softly, surveying her drenched clothes, her ruined fontange. “Where did you come from? Were you born of the torrent? With that hair and those eyes—a silvery raindrop that went astray?”
 

Sweet heaven, she thought, dabbing at her wet face with wet fingers. I must look a sight! What can he be thinking of me? Gazing so steadily with those eyes of his?
Dieu!
She shook off her foolishness and snapped back to reality, escaping the prison of his green eyes. I must be mad! To concern myself with a peasant’s opinion, and Arsène in hot pursuit! She turned to the window and peered out into the night. Arsène’s lights were coming closer. There’d be the devil to pay if he found her tonight; one way or another, he’d expect his satisfaction! She turned back to the man. “Hide me! He must not find me!”
 

He nodded at once, then glanced at the puddle at her feet. “Wait here. I don’t want you to leave a trail.” He went through a door to darkness beyond; while he was gone, Rouge looked about the small room. She couldn’t imagine what the other room held, for this one seemed to contain all that a person could desire. A table with a bench was placed just to one side of the large stone fireplace; next to it was an open cupboard piled with pewter dishes and copper pots. A steaming kettle hung in the fireplace itself, pushed to one side of the flames. At this hour, supper must be done, but the delicious aroma coming from the kettle meant there was still food remaining. On a small rug before the fire a gray cat lay curled in sleep. The walls of the cottage were of pale yellow limestone, roughly hewn; and the two windows—one next to the door, and the other on the opposite side of the room—were of real glass, not oiled paper. Thanks be to God for the man’s extravagance, Rouge thought, or she never would have seen the cottage. Beside the brass-studded leather armchair in front of the fire was a three-legged stool and a small table with a fat candle and a neat stack of books on it. In one corner there was a carved wooden chest and in the other, a large bunk bed, which seemed to have been extended by several inches to accommodate the height of the man. On a shelf above the bed were more books. A literate peasant. And a cozy and complete room. But who lives in the other room, then? she thought. It had been too dark outside to see the outline of the cottage, but from the sound of the man’s shoes tapping across the floor of the other room, it seemed a cavernous space.
 

He returned carrying a blanket. He put it around her. It scarcely warmed her chilled body. “To keep you from dripping too much,” he said. Then, before she realized what was happening, he lifted her easily in his arms. She sighed, suddenly aching with fatigue, and sagged against his hard chest. He carried her through to the darkened room and deposited her in what seemed to be a large box with a lid. “It closes quite tightly,” he said. “But I’ve wedged a bit of wood in, so you’ll be able to breathe. Don’t move until I come for you.” He put down the lid. She heard soft thumping sounds, as though he were piling something on top of the box. She leaned her face close to the lid; the wedge allowed an opening about an inch or so at the top. She could see the lighted room beyond this one, then his retreating back, then darkness, as he closed the door. The box had a strange smell, like a baker’s shop, but more pungent. And she could distinctly hear, above the sounds of the storm outside, the noise of rushing water.
Morbleu!
she thought. Where
am
I?
 

She heard a crashing as the outside door banged open. Then the man’s voice: “What do you want?” There was the sound of furniture being upset in the other room, the clatter of pots and dishes, the outraged yowl of the cat.
 

“Get out of my way, bumpkin!” Arsène’s angry tones. Then, “Search in there!” he barked. The connecting door opened, and light streamed in from the lantern held by Arsène’s lackey. Rouge saw quite clearly now that they were in a mill; on a landing reached by four small steps were the round millstones, enclosed in their wooden case. She realized she must be in an empty grain bin; from what she could see of the rest of the room, she guessed that the miller (he of the remarkable green eyes!) had piled heavy grainsacks on top of the bin.
 

The miller’s voice was cold and controlled. “What do you want?” he said again.
 

The rain dripped from Arsène’s cloak and tricorn. “I’m looking for a woman.” He cursed at his coachman. “Look in the bins.”
 

“I protest, monsieur,” said the miller, indicating the footman and the coachman, both of whom were twice as wet as Arsène. “If the grain gets wet, it will rot. And you can see there’s no woman here. I live alone.”
 

Arsène ignored him. “By God, I’ll make the jade pay! Look in the bins!”
 

“But, monsieur…” bleated the footman, putting down his lantern and struggling with a heavy sack atop one of the other bins, “I’m not strong enough for this!”
 

Arsène snapped his fingers at the miller. “Help him, bumpkin!”
 

“My name is LeBrun. Pierre LeBrun, monsieur.” The miller smiled tightly. “And I’m damned if I’ll lift a finger. There’s no woman here. Why should you think there is?”
 

“I’m not a fool, bumpkin! I saw the light from afar, as your door opened. And there’s rainwater all over your floor.”
 

“But not in this room. Until you brought it in. Perhaps your fury has clouded your reason. Why do you want the woman? A lover’s quarrel?”
 

“Damn you! My love affairs are none of your concern! The wanton seems to enjoy tormenting me! She leaped from my coach, not ten minutes ago…”
 

“And came not here.”
 

“I think you lie. There’s nowhere else to go.” Arsène’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why is your shirt wet?”
 

The miller shrugged. “My cat pissed on me. He knew a nobleman was coming to call.”
 

“You insolent cur!” Arsène leaped at LeBrun, slapping him sharply across the face with his leather gauntlet.
 

The miller’s green eyes burned with a dangerous light. He growled, an ugly sound low in his throat, and raised his fist.
 

In that moment, Arsène had drawn his sword: LeBrun froze as the rapier’s point touched his neck. Arsène laughed softly. “I could leave you a souvenir of this night that you wouldn’t soon forget! But that devil in petticoats is my concern. I know she’s hiding somewhere.” He looked around the large room with its dark corners and crannies, noticing the ladders that seemed to go up to a loft and down to a lower level. “Well, the bratling is safe for now! It would take us half the night of searching. And I want my rest. I want to be refreshed for what I have in mind for her!”
 

LeBrun sneered his contempt. “Now, by my faith, if I
knew
where she was, I’d scarcely tell you!”
 

“It’s not your concern, bumpkin! But I’ve never known a woman who didn’t beg to be made love to, once she knew a man was her master. Marie-Rouge is no exception.”
 

“Name of God, is that what passes for gallantry among the gentry this year?”
 

“I wonder you haven’t had your rogue’s tongue cut out ere now!” Arsène sheathed his sword. “I’ll be back for the wench tomorrow, you lying dog. In the meantime…” He signaled to his men. “Hold him!” The two servants clutched at LeBrun’s arms. The miller cursed them and struggled to break their hold. In that moment, Arsène drove his fist into the man’s gut. Twitching, Rouge covered her mouth to keep from crying out her dismay. LeBrun gasped, coughed, and sank to the floor. “Until tomorrow,
bumpkin
,”
said Arsène. Wrapping his cloak more tightly about him, he strode to the door and went out into the storm, followed by his servants.
 

LeBrun sat on the floor, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped around his belly. “Damn you, woman,” he muttered.
 

Rouge’s face was pressed as close to the top of the bin as she could manage. “Are you all right, monsieur?”
 

He grunted and pulled himself to his feet. “Yes. No thanks to you.”
 

“Then let me out of here, for the love of God. I’m freezing!” Her clothes were cold and wet against her skin; she shivered uncontrollably. It seemed an eternity while he lifted the sacks from the lid and opened the bin. She stood up and held out her hands for his help; the bin was too deep for her to scramble out unaided. His eyes were like green ice. He made no move to help her. She frowned. “Are you angry with me, monsieur?”
 

“Shouldn’t I be?” he growled. “I thought I was saving you from genuine danger, not just an overzealous suitor! A lovers’ quarrel! Bah!” He rubbed at his stomach. “You’re not worth the pain, or I’m damned!”
 

He was getting under her skin, setting her teeth on edge with his disagreeable manner. “I wasn’t responsible for his striking you,” she snapped. “You brought it on with your own insolence! You should have held your tongue. He’s a great comte!”
 

His nostrils flared in anger. “And you—Marie-Rouge, I think he called you. Have you a title that excuses
your
spoiled behavior?”
 

He really was impossible! “I’m Mademoiselle Marie-Rouge de Tournières. My father is the Marquis de Tournières. Now, get me out of here!” She wanted to cry. Would her head never stop its aching?
 

He reached down and pulled her roughly from the bin. The overskirt of her mantua caught on a jutting nail. There was a tearing sound. Rouge moaned in dismay. It was her only traveling mantua. If it was badly torn, it would mean that she and Emilie would have to redo the whole gown!
 

LeBrun set her on her feet. He towered over her. It made her very uneasy. He laughed sharply. “Alas, your poor dress. But perhaps your paramour will buy you a new one. For services you’ve rendered him, no doubt. And services yet to come, if your comte has his way.”
 

She gasped her outrage. “By God, you
are
insolent! I could almost wish that Arsène had struck you twice! Once on
my
behalf.”
 

“Your gratitude is just what I’d expect,” he sneered. Turning on his heel, he stormed back to the other room.
 

“Oh!” She started to follow, then looked down at her feet. Devil take it! Her feet were so wet, she hadn’t noticed that one of her shoes was missing. “I’ve lost a shoe! It must be in the mud.”
 

“I’ll look for it tomorrow, if the rain stops.
Merde
!" he swore softly. His cozy room had been turned into a shambles by Arsène’s men. The books had been thrown from the table, the armchair was overturned, the straw pallet had been pulled off the bed and cast onto the wet and muddy floor. The gray cat, disturbed by all the activity, was prowling nervously about the room.