Louisa Rawlings (15 page)

“Monsieur LeBrun. Pierre.”
 

“Monsieur Knave!”
 

His mouth curved with amusement. “I’d prefer to be called Pierre.”
 

“Not while I live!” she snapped. She shivered involuntarily. “May I have my chemise, at the very least? If it’s dry? I’m still cold.”
 

“Of course.” He crossed the room to the bench, where her clothes were neatly piled, and returned with the garment. “Sit up, if you can,” he said, “and we’ll see how this can be managed.”
 

Indignantly she pulled the chemise from him. “
We’ll
not manage anything! Turn your back!”
 

“It seems a false modesty, after what’s happened. I’ve already seen what there is to see! And I doubt you can do it alone, but…” He shrugged and turned away from her.
 

He was right, of course. She knew it the minute she began. She felt as weak as a baby. She couldn’t even find the openings for the sleeves, let alone sit up enough to get the foolish thing over her head! She grunted with the effort, then collapsed against the pillow, defeated. “Will you…help me, please?” she said at last. “Monsieur?
Pierre
?”
she added reluctantly, as he hesitated.
 

He had the grace not to smile in triumph as he drew the chemise over her head, put her arms through the sleeves, pulled back the coverlet to slide the garment down over her hips. It made her shame all the greater. With her nakedness exposed to those searching green eyes, she would have enjoyed despising him for a lecherous villain; his solicitude made it impossible. While he worked, she steadfastly kept her own eyes turned away from him, focusing on the partly opened door as she inhaled the
muguets
on the soft night breeze. The large gray cat came in at the door, padded across the room, and hopped up on the bed beside her.
 

LeBrun settled Rouge back on her pillow and tucked the coverlet under her arms. “No, Jerusalem,” he said to the cat.
 

Rouge reached out her hand and stroked the animal. “Let him stay. I like him.”
 

“Her.”
 

“Yes. It would be female, for an arrogant Don Juan like you!”
 

He chuckled. “You must be getting better, when you can remember your dislike of me! Was my kiss that distressing?”
 

She ignored him and stroked the cat again. Her fur was soft. And dry. But she’d been outside! Rouge frowned at the door. “Has it stopped raining, then?”
 

“It stopped this morning.”
 

Rouge rubbed her eyes. That made no sense, but she was getting woefully tired again. Too tired to think. “I’d like to sleep,” she said, closing her eyes. Then opened them. The nagging thought refused to go away. “What do you mean, it stopped this morning? It was raining tonight.”
 

“No. Not tonight. You’ve been ill with a fever.” He leaned over and touched her forehead, the gesture surprisingly tender. “You still feel warm.”
 

“A fever? For how long?”
 

His voice was gently teasing. “Except for the sweet hour or so when I lay with you, you’ve been the sole possessor of my bed for the better part of twenty-four hours.”
 

A whole day. Her mind scarcely registered the fact; she was already fading. But she hadn’t forgotten how proprietary he’d been about his bed. Sighing, she curled on her side and clutched the pillow to her breast. Her eyes were heavy, closing with exhaustion. But she had the strength for one parting shot. “I’ll share your bed with Jerusalem,” she mumbled, reaching out to touch the purring cat. “But never…never with you, monsieur…”
 

She heard him murmur, “Pierre.” And then sleep claimed her.
 

She woke in the morning to the sound of birds chirping. The cottage room was filled with sunlight—streaming across the scented rushes on the floor, enhancing the golden glow of the stone walls. She felt light-headed but deliciously rested. She smiled in contentment and sat up. For a moment, the room wavered before her.
Ciel!
Perhaps she wasn’t as well as she thought! She took a minute to regain her senses, then pushed back the coverlet and swung her legs to the floor.
 

The mill was quiet within. It must still be early, she thought, and the miller LeBrun had not yet begun his day’s grinding. A pot on the hearth simmered over a small fire. Rouge could hear the rush of water from the millstream just outside the window next to the bed; from the open door on the other side of the room came a steady cracking sound, like the noise of an axe striking wood.
 

She stood up slowly and examined her rumpled chemise. It would have to serve her for now. The day was warm, and she hadn’t the energy to put on her mantua. She took a few tentative steps; the rushes scratched her bare feet. Next to the bed was a pair of plain leather shoes. They seemed to be just about her size; she slipped her feet into them and moved carefully to the open door. Exhausted by that small effort, she leaned against the door frame while she surveyed the day.
 

It
was
early: the grass was shimmering with dew, and the earth smelled rich and damp. To one side of the mill there was a small stone building—a barn or stable, perhaps. In front of the building the miller was hard at work, chopping wood. He had taken off his shirt. His torso, hard muscled and glistening with sweat, was bronze from the sun. The thatch of tight curls on his chest and the thick hairs on his arms were of a lighter hue than his chestnut locks; they shone with a red-gold glint in the morning sun.
 

Watching the bulge and stretch of the powerful muscles under his smooth shoulders and biceps, Rouge was reminded once again of her roan stallion. There was something almost frightening in such power, yet seductive as well. She gulped involuntarily, remembering the sudden jolt she’d felt the first time he’d looked at her with his green eyes; remembering the feel of his strong arms around her, the soft possessiveness of his kiss.
 

“Fool!” she whispered. Wasn’t her life complicated enough? Too complicated to allow herself to be swayed by a passing attraction to a man she’d never see again!
 

Stooping to gather the split wood, the miller saw her in the doorway. He frowned and dropped his burden, then hurried to her. “What are you doing out of bed?” He scooped her into his arms, shaking his head in annoyance.
 

His skin was damp, filling her nostrils with a masculine scent that was intoxicating. “I…I’m not a child,” she stammered, feeling small and helpless in his embrace. She kept her body rigid, trying vainly to keep from touching his warm, taut flesh. “Put me down. This is absurd! I’m quite capable of…” What was the matter with her? She sounded a perfect idiot!
 

“It’s back to bed with you,” he said firmly.
 

“But I’m not tired!”
 

“And you’re not ready to go prancing about, either.”
 

“No. Wait,” she said, as he turned to carry her into the cottage. “If I promise not to…prance about, will you let me sit in the sunshine for a little while? It’s such a pretty day.”
 

“Well…” He carried her back outside and deposited her on a small bench, then stood grinning down at her as though her return to health was the greatest triumph of his life. His hazy green eyes, deep-set and filled with laughter, surveyed her with a directness that made her squirm.
 

“Have you nothing better to do?” she asked, aware that her face was flaming. “I promise I’ll not swoon again the moment your back is turned!”
 

He laughed and reached for the shirt that he’d left hanging on a hook by the door. There was a stone horse trough nearby. He splashed a handful of water over his face and torso, dried himself with the shirt, then slipped the garment over his head. He tucked it into the low waistband of his breeches and rolled the sleeves above his elbows. The muscles of his hairy forearms were thick and knotted. Despite several attempts at indifference, Rouge found herself watching his every movement. He was tall, but he moved with a lithe grace that made even the simple act of donning his shirt a sensuous sight. From his well-formed body and the square lines of his jaw—far from the softness of a raw youth—she took him to be a man well into his twenties. He turned to her and smiled, his eyes filled with a knowing look, as though he were aware of her scrutiny. “Are you hungry?” he drawled.
 

Curse him! She blushed once more. She wasn’t at all sure he hadn’t meant to mock her searching gaze. A hunger of the senses, not of the belly—was that what he’d meant to suggest? Still taking her for a wanton? For Arsène’s mistress? But the thought made her aware, suddenly, that she
was
hungry. She nodded, surprised at how good it felt to want to eat again. “Yes. I am.”
 

“I’ll bring you some soup,” he said.
 

While he fetched the soup, she looked about her. The stone mill and its barn were set on a grassy knoll—a pleasant expanse of green that rolled away to a cluster of apple trees, thick with fragrant, pink-white blossoms. Next to the outbuilding was a small herb and vegetable garden. Before her stretched a wide dirt path, leading—she guessed—to the road whence she’d come the night of the storm. Off in the distance she saw a meandering stream; she followed its course with her eyes until it vanished around the back of the mill, where the waterwheel was situated. The
muguet
must grow there, she thought. Along the moist banks of the stream. From within the cottage came the sound of the miller whistling. Rouge sighed, filled with the serenity and beauty of the setting, yet envious as well of the miller’s simple joys.
 

LeBrun returned carrying a bowl of soup and a thick chunk of bread. “It’s yesterday’s bread,” he said, “and stale. But you can put it in the soup.” He looked shamefaced as he handed the bowl to her. “And I’m not a very good cook, as you might have noticed the other night.”
 

She lifted the steaming bowl to her lips. She sipped hungrily at it, then closed her eyes in contentment, feeling the hot liquid slide down to her empty belly. “Mmm,” she murmured. “I don’t remember how it tasted the other night, but today it is finer than anything King Louis has ever served at Versailles!” She opened her eyes, smiled at him, and reached for the bread he proffered, dipping it into the thin broth and eating silently and steadily until there was not a crumb or a drop left. She sighed again and handed the empty bowl back to him. “
Ciel
, but that was good!” She frowned, seeing his bare arms as he took back the bowl. They were covered with long scratches, equally spaced, like the marks of fingernails. “Did I do that?”
 

He turned his head and indicated an angry red line on his neck. “And that, as well.” His eyes twinkled. “You were a tiger about shedding your wet clothes. Even a robust country wench in full possession of her wits is not such a deal of trouble to get out of her petticoats!”
 

She snorted. “I thought they came willingly to your bed.” She glanced away. The sudden recollection of that night made it difficult to jest. “I’m sorry I scratched you,” she said, embarrassed. “I remember thinking that you…”
 

His mouth curved in a crooked smile. “Well, I
did
get you into my bed upon the instant, as I said I would. Though I didn’t expect you to fall into my arms in quite that fashion!”
 

Her embarrassment was now acute. “I’m sorry I slapped your face,” she whispered.
 

He shrugged. “I deserved it. You hadn’t invited my kiss. Truth to tell, I was curious to see how easily a court mistress could be wooed.”
 

She pressed her lips together in annoyance. “I’m not monsieur le comte’s mistress!”
 

His green eyes cooled perceptibly at her haughty tone. “It’s scarcely my concern
what
you are.”
 

She shivered. There was still a chill in the morning air. “I’m surprised Arsène hasn’t returned,” she said at last. “Your lies were scarcely convincing. I’m sure he knew I was in hiding.”
 

“He
did
return. The very next day.”
 

“What?”
 

“I saw his coach in the distance and managed to waylay him. I told him you
had
been hiding in the mill, that you’d spent the night—chastely, of course—and had left the next morning.
That
lie he believed.”
 

Rouge scowled. On the whole, she wasn’t sorry to be free of Arsène for the moment, but the miller’s presumption couldn’t go unchallenged. “By what right did you speak for me?” she demanded.
 

His eyes narrowed. “Are you just now remembering my low station, that I am beneath you, mademoiselle?” His voice rasped like stone on steel. “By the right of my own safety! And
yours.
Did you truly want him to find you in my bed? I can’t imagine that, with your intimate knowledge of men, you can be such a fool! Besides, you’re well rid of him for now,
n’est-ce pas
?
A little mystery. A little disappointment. Isn’t that how the game is played to bring a man to heel?”