Louisa Rawlings (14 page)

While LeBrun righted the furniture, Rouge limped to the fireplace. Her lopsided fontange was hanging over her forehead; impatiently she pulled it from her head and cast it to the floor. Her pale blond hair was soaking. “Have you a towel?” she asked.
 

He opened his trunk, and pulled out a torn rag, tossing it carelessly in her direction. “When you’re through with it, sop up some of the water from the floor.”
 

She scowled at his imperious command, and began to rub her hair briskly, moving closer to the warmth of the fire. Nothing seemed to help. She was chilled to the bone. She sniffed at the pot. “Your soup smells good,” she began.
 

“That’s my breakfast.”
 

She gulped. “But I haven’t eaten supper.”
 

He stacked his books neatly on the table, frowning at a torn page. “I’m not an innkeeper.”
 

“But I’m
hungry
!” she cried. He didn’t respond. Perhaps a more businesslike approach would be better. “See here. I’ll pay you for some supper.”
 

He nodded. “Very well.”
 

She looked at him, waiting.
 

“Help yourself. I told you I’m not an innkeeper.” He indicated the disordered room. “And your swinish inamorato has left me enough work. I’ll not wait on his spoiled mistress.”
 

Her brocaded purse hung wet and limp at her waist. She fished out two sols and put them on the table, then fetched a bowl and spoon from the cupboard. She nearly burned her hand on the soup ladle. Conscious of his mocking eyes on her, she lifted a corner of her damp skirt and wrapped it around the utensil. She doled out a small portion, feeling a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness that took the edge off her appetite. She carried her bowl and spoon to the armchair, and was about to sit down when his sharp voice stopped her.
 

“That’s my chair.”
 

She sighed and chose the stool instead. He finished his straightening, then sat down in the chair, picking up his pipe and relighting it with a taper from the fireplace. The smell of the smoke increased her nausea. “
Must
you smoke?”
 

He looked over at her, his green eyes expressing his distaste for everything he saw her to be. “I forgot. The gentry think that smoking is vulgar,
n’est-ce pas
?
Only the ‘common folk’ pick up a pipe.”
 

“That’s not it at all!” she said defensively.
 

His lip curled in scorn. “Really?”
 

She put down her spoon. What was the use? “Oh, never mind,” she said. “I’m not very hungry after all.” She set her bowl on the edge of the hearth.
 

He shook his head. “And you waste food, too. Doesn’t it ever occur to you…”
 

“Oh, do be still!” she snapped. She put her hands to her temples, trying to drive out the pain. But it only seemed to get worse; fueled by the frustration and anger she felt with him. He seemed determined to misread everything she said.
 

“Now what?” he asked.
 

She looked up blankly. It was so difficult to concentrate with her head throbbing. “What are you talking about?”
 

“Your lover. What do you intend to do?”
 

“By your leave, I’ll spend the night here. When Arsène comes looking for me in the morning, I’ll be very angry with him. It should make him regret his brutish behavior tonight.” She nodded in determination. Tired as she was, she hadn’t lost the wit to be practical. Except, of course, for that mad moment when she’d left Arsène’s coach!
 

“And you’ll wait for him here in the morning?”
 

“Of course. Why not?”
 

He sighed tiredly and pressed his hand against his still painful abdomen. “Why don’t you simply go home in the morning and play your coquettish games without me? I don’t like being caught in the middle of a lovers’ falling-out.”
 

Who was he to presume to tell her how to deal with Arsène? “I’ll do as I wish!”
 

He stared at her, his moss-green eyes boring into her. It was really quite disconcerting. “It seems to me,” he said, “that if you felt so strongly about escaping your comte tonight—and your eyes
were
frightened when you came here, for all your light words now—it seems to me you shouldn’t be so eager to resume your journey with that lecherous knave. Unless, of course, you were eloping together, and you’re more reckless and foolish than you seem.”
 

Oh, she was getting too tired to think! Why couldn’t he understand that Arsène was not a villain, merely an over-ardent suitor? And a man she could handle very well, thank you, without the advice of a country miller. “Monsieur de Falconet wishes to marry me,” she said haughtily. “He’ll forgive tonight’s misadventure. Of that you may be sure.”
 

He grinned wickedly. “If not, Mademoiselle de Tournières, I certainly hope to be there when you get the thrashing that you’ve no doubt earned.”
 

She drew herself up, glaring at him. “I’m very tired,” she said icily. “I should like to go to bed now.”
 

He stood up and stretched. “Not in
my
bed, mademoiselle. I’m not about to give it up. I’ve had a hard day. A great deal harder than yours, I’ll wager. Unless climbing in and out of a man’s bed is more exhausting for a court mistress than it is for our country girls.”
 

Villain!
she thought. But she smiled sweetly at him. “I wouldn’t think of turning you out of your bed. I have no doubt you’d charge me for it, in any event.”
 

“Indeed, I probably would.” His mouth curved in a smirk. “However, it’s a
big
bed. I’m willing to share it.”
 

“Devil take you,” she muttered. “I’ll sleep in your chair. If I may,” she added with sarcasm.
 

“As you wish.”
 

While Rouge pulled the chair closer to the fireplace, LeBrun crossed to the bed, sat down, and removed his shoes and stockings. He stretched out on his pallet, watching her. She still had the blanket he’d given her; wrapping it tightly about her shivering body, she huddled close to the fire. The cold seemed to start from within her; she twisted and turned on the chair, teeth chattering, and wondered if she’d ever be warm.
 

“Name of God!” he said, relenting. “At least get out of your wet clothes!”
 

She laughed lightly, though her voice shook without her willing it. “With you in the room, watching me?
Ciel!
Can it be that country men are as lecherous as courtiers?” She stood up to push the chair nearer the fire. She turned to him, her eyes filled with contempt. “And what endearments are country men using this year?”
 

He chuckled and rose to his feet. His eyes raked her body; she felt naked under his searching gaze. “Country men don’t need endearments. I can have you in my bed inside of a quarter of an hour.”
 

She sniffed her disdain. She’d fenced with seductive courtiers; this homespun cavalier scarcely frightened her. “But not willingly,” she said.
 

“Yes.
Willingly.” In a few long strides he was standing before her. He slipped his hand around her neck, tangled his fingers in her damp hair, and pulled her to him. Bending his head, he claimed her mouth. His kiss was intoxicating, his lips sweet, moving softly over hers. In another time, another place, she might have melted into his arms. But her head was aching, and the quivering within her had become a violent trembling. As he released her, she swayed on her feet and clutched at the chair back to keep from falling.
 

“Willingly,” he repeated, his eyes reading her unsteadiness as submission. Smiling in triumph, he crossed back to his bed and swept his arm toward the pallet in a gesture of invitation.
 

A pox on him! she thought. He thinks he’s won! Well, the hand wasn’t played out yet! She sighed, pretending to acquiesce, and moved toward him. It seemed to take forever. What’s happening? she thought. Her feet were like lead. Her head was spinning. The room seemed to darken around her. She was looking through a tunnel. His face—smug and confident—was at the end of it. Curse his arrogance! She must manage to reach him, to confound that overbearing pride. She smiled, to maintain the pretense. Or thought she did: her face, her body no longer seemed to belong to her. She stumbled across the room to him. If it was the last thing she did…that arrogant smirk… She closed her eyes for a second, fighting to still the roaring in her ears.
 

She was standing before him, still smiling. His eyes
were
beautiful, a hazy green that smoldered with desire. And assurance. He raised a mocking eyebrow. “Well?” he said.
 

God give me strength, she thought, and swung at him with all her might. Her palm struck the side of his face; her flesh stung with the force of the blow. His head snapped back, and a look of astonishment came into his eyes. On his tanned cheek there appeared a bright red patch, the mark of her fingers. The astonishment turned to fury, his brows knitting together in an angry scowl.
 

If she’d had her wits about her, she might have been afraid, seeing the expression on his face. But there was no time for fear. The tunnel was closing in on her. The pounding in her head had become a white-hot poker. The floor wavered. Her knees were boneless, incapable of supporting her. With a tired sigh, she closed her eyes and pitched forward into his arms.
 

She struggled feebly. Someone was undressing her. Was it Arsène? The miller? Who was it? She cried out, feeling gentle hands on her naked flesh. The lecherous pig! The lustful coward, waiting until she had no strength to resist! Cursing, she struck out with her nails, and had the satisfaction of hearing someone grunt in pain, before she reached the end of the final dark tunnel.
 

Chapter Four

Rouge stirred, feeling a gentle breeze on her cheek. The air smelled sweet, perfumed with
muguets
, the dainty lily of the valley that grew in such profusion around Sans-Souci. She sighed and opened her eyes.
Ciel!
She was staring at a rough stone wall. This wasn’t Sans-Souci! Where in the name of heaven was she? She frowned and turned in the bed. It was so difficult to think. Her thoughts were shadowy, drifting in and out of her brain. The room was familiar: a snug chamber warmed by a large fireplace, comfortably glowing in the light of a fat candle. And the man bending over the fire to stir something in a large pot. He was familiar, too. Ah, yes. The miller. But what was she doing here? In his bed? She moved uneasily beneath the coverlet, feeling the rough sheets on her bare flesh. Her bare flesh! Sweet Mother of God! she thought, anguished. He couldn’t have…he wouldn’t have
dared
to…! Not like this. Not while she slept! “You villain,” she whispered. Her voice was a soft croak in her throat, strange to her own ears.
 

He turned and smiled. “You’re awake. Good! Would you like some water?”
 

She ran her tongue around her dry lips. She hadn’t imagined she could be so thirsty. She nodded, struggling to sit up.
 

“No, don’t,” he said. “I’ll help you.” He poured a cupful of water from a stone crock and crossed swiftly to Rouge. He knelt beside the bed and put his arm about her bare shoulders, supporting her while he brought the cup to her lips. She was aware of the strength of his muscular arm, the feel of his homespun shirt against her flesh. As she drank gratefully, tasting the cool sweetness of the water on her tongue and parched throat, she had enough presence of mind to hug the coverlet to her naked bosom, though it seemed a trifle foolish, in view of what she feared had happened while she slept.
 

He smiled gently, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Why am I a villain?”
 

She frowned and turned her head away from the cup. Her cheeks were burning with shame. “To take advantage of me, to have your way, like an unbridled savage…”
 

The smile deepened. “It was very pleasant. Your garments were drenched, and you were shivering. I found it necessary—and quite agreeable!—to lie with you and hold you close to keep you from trembling.”
 

“Oh, you villain! Curse you!” She twisted free of his arm and sank back to the pillow, glaring fiercely at him. She tried to make a fist, but her weak hand wouldn’t obey her.
 

He stood up and put the cup on the table, then returned to her. He tried to look serious. “Alas. You haven’t the strength to strike me again. But I can assure you, Mademoiselle de Tournières,” he continued, as she almost choked on her anger, “that I didn’t assault you. I merely stripped you of your wet clothes for your own good.” He laughed softly, his green eyes filled with gentle mockery. “
Mon Dieu
,
if I make love to a woman, I expect her to swoon
after
my embraces, not before!”
 

“Buffoon!” she snorted. But the tightness in her heart eased with the realization that her virtue was still intact. “It was knavish of you to let me think that…” She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Pure villainy, monsieur!”