Louisa Rawlings (16 page)

The sarcasm in his voice made her blood boil. As though she were a scheming coquette! “And what did you tell him?” she asked coldly.
 

“I told him that I thought you’d gone home, wherever that is. But that, in any event, you didn’t wish to see him for a while. And that he was not to seek you out until your anger had cooled.”
 

“You
do
presume!”
 

He frowned his disgust. “I have no doubt you’ll find your way home without him. May it be so! I want neither to be a witness to your reconciliation nor to further quarrels. Where do you live?”
 

“Montoire-sur-le-Loir.”
 

“We’re very near to Selommes here. A few leagues. The public coach passes through Selommes and travels to Montoire. When you’re restored to health…a brisk walk…half an hour or so…”

She closed her eyes and put her chin in her hands. It was just one more complication she didn’t want to think about today.
 

His voice softened. “Well, perhaps I can take you in my wagon to Selommes.”
 

She sighed and opened her eyes, staring down at her feet and the coarse leather shoes she’d borrowed. “Did you find my shoe in the mud?”
 

“No. I’m sorry. I’ll search again this afternoon, but I think it’s hopeless.”
 

She held out a toe. “I found these near the bed. I hope you didn’t mind my using them…”
 

“Not at all. They were meant for you. When I couldn’t find your shoe, I took its mate for a measurement. The cobbler happened by for his flour. It was fortunate that he had a new pair that seemed your size.”
 

She smiled up at him, regretting their angry exchange. After all, there
would
have been the devil to pay, had Arsène found her (naked,
mon Dieu
!)
in the miller’s bed. “That was very kind of you. To give me the shoes.”
 

He eyed her with indifference. “Not really. You paid for them. I can’t afford gifts. Not for court ladies reckless enough to risk life and limb. And shoes!”
 

“I? What do you mean, I paid for them?”
 

“I found a few spare coins wrapped up in a handkerchief in the pocket of your petticoat. I didn’t think the daughter of a marquis would balk at the expense.”
 

“Sweet Jesu,” she whispered, horrified.
 

He bristled defensively. “Don’t trouble yourself! I’m not a thief! I didn’t touch your purse. I didn’t even open it. It’s still with your gown, inside.”
 

Ah,
Dieu
! She chewed on the end of a curl, her mind whirling. He couldn’t have known it, of course, but the money in her petticoat had been the
bulk
of her fortune; the few coins in her purse would scarcely buy her a meal at an inn, let alone a carriage ride home! She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She felt lost and defeated. “Where are my hairpins?” she demanded petulantly. “And I need a comb!” It suddenly seemed the most important concern in the world.
 

“I found only one hairpin. And I’ll bring you a comb,” he growled. “Humble wood, not ivory. But it’s the best I have.”
 

Her hair was filled with snarls. While the miller, still scowling, stacked the kindling he had chopped, Rouge tried to drag the large comb through her locks, wincing in pain with each fresh knot. She was overwhelmed by woes. Her life was in ruins. Nothing seemed to be right. She’d lost Arsène, probably for good. Perhaps it wasn’t such a loss, in view of his lustful behavior. Still, she’d lost the wedding dole that would have saved her and Tintin, and freed her from Torcy. And how in heaven’s name was she to get home? Arsène and his coach wouldn’t return for her a second time! And her mantua was torn, and her shoe was lost. And she was stranded with an insolent man who thought her a court whore. A
rich
court whore! And she had no comb of her own, no hairpins, and her hair was tangled and… She dropped the comb to her lap and bent her head, feeling the hot tears burning her eyes. She wept bitterly. Where was the sensible, practical Rouge now? Defeated by her tangled hair and the scorn in a stranger’s green eyes.
 

The comb was pulled from her lax fingers. She felt rather than saw the miller behind her. He stroked the back of her head. “All that fevered tossing upon your pillow. I should have thought to comb it and tie it up while you slept.” His voice was warm and tender. Very gently he began to pull the comb through her silvery blond hair. His touch stirred something within her. She felt comforted, protected. Yet strangely disquieted as well. He wielded the comb with a delicate touch, until it became almost a sensuous thing, a caress. Each time the comb caught on a knot, he lifted the tress in his hand, gently working through the tangle without pulling at her hair. Several times his fingers touched the soft skin of her neck and sent a thrill racing through her. Her weeping stopped, driven away by the enchantment of the moment. He was a sorcerer, and she was in his spell. “There,” he said at last. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll comb the rest of it after you’ve slept again.” He came around and knelt in front of her, lifted her chin with his fingers, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “No need to weep. You’re pretty enough to make a summer rose blush.” He smiled, peering deeply into her eyes. “How many hearts have you broken with that face? Ah, well. You’ll soon be back at court with your own kind. Where your tears can be assuaged with jewels and kisses.” He stood up and lifted her in his arms. “Now, back to bed. You’ve had quite enough activity for your first day up.”
 

He laid her gently on his bed, pulled off her shoes, and tucked the coverlet around her.
His
bed. She bit her lip. “Where have you been sleeping?”
 

“I have a straw pallet that I set before the fire. It serves me.”
 

That only made her miserable again. “But you need your rest. You told me so. It isn’t right… I’ve taken your bed… You work hard and I’ve… Oh, alas!” She began to sob, turning her cheek against the pillow.
 

He laughed softly. “Will you take on all the burdens of the world today? At least wait until you’re well again.” He stroked away her tears once more, then reached down and scooped up the cat, who had followed them into the cottage. He put the animal in the crook of her arm, smiling in satisfaction when the cat settled in comfortably. “Take good care of our guest, Jerusalem,” he said, and went out again into the sunshine.
 

Rouge could hear him whistling as she fell into a deep sleep.
 

She thought she’d slept only a few minutes, but the shadows were long across the floor when next she opened her eyes, and the morning fire had been allowed to die down. The mill was in operation. She could hear the rumble of the stones grinding away in the next room, the splash of water dropping from the turning wheel outside, the soft creak of wooden gears and machinery. More remarkable than the sounds that reached her ears were the sensations that assailed her other senses. She could smell the earthy richness of the grain, giving up its odors as it submitted to the pulsing stones; a musky, intoxicating scent that held the sharp tang of the stones themselves. The air was filled with a golden dust—shimmering and magical in the small room. And the steady movement of the millstones had set the floorboards to vibrating, a soft, sensuous rhythm that worked its way into the frame of the bed and the straw pallet upon which she lay, and finally into her very being. It felt like the caress of a lover. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the sweet seduction of the mill. Sweet Mother of God, she thought, I could stay here forever!
 

With some reluctance, she opened her eyes at last and sat up. She didn’t really want to be found this way by the miller. It was disconcerting enough to be in the presence of those searching green eyes, with their veiled laughter; to appear weak and helpless before him was not to be borne. She’d always been able to control men, to bewitch them with her glances, her smile. Indeed, now that the danger was passed, she was convinced that even Arsène could have been safely dealt with, had they reached the inn at Vendôme. It baffled her how LeBrun could make her feel soft and vulnerable just by looking at her. But perhaps it was only that she’d been ill. The fever had probably been upon her that day in the carriage with Arsène, even before her rash and hasty flight into the arms of the miller. If she’d had her wits about her, she would have been able to deal with
both
men. Of that she was certain.
 

She swung her legs to the floor and stood up. She felt remarkably strong, despite having lain abed for two days. Strong enough to begin to put her life in order again. She crossed to the partly opened door that led into the mill room. In here, the air was thick with flour dust, though the wooden shutters before the glassless windows had been thrown open for ventilation. A fine dusting of golden flour covered everything: the large grain bins, the round wooden casing that enclosed the millstones, the heavy beams that supported the ceiling. Even the crevices of the rough stones that made up the walls had accumulated pale yellow drifts. The millstones grumbled noisily while the flour sifted from the casing down a spout into a wide bin.
 

Rouge looked around the large room. LeBrun was not about. Good. It was just as well. She wasn’t ready to deal with him yet. Not until she’d collected her thoughts, made her plans. She turned back to the smaller room. In the light of the late afternoon sun, it didn’t have nearly as much charm as it had held at night. The dust, of course, was natural to life in a mill. But the place needed a thorough cleaning. The rushes on the floor were old and caked with dried mud, there were strings of cobwebs hanging from the beams, and the pewter pots and copperware that were piled carelessly in the cupboard were woefully in need of a good scouring. The small panes at the windows seemed merely to have been rubbed once or twice in the centers, leaving clear circles on the grimy glass. Rouge clicked her tongue in disapproval. That first night LeBrun had told Arsène he lived alone. But his explanation was unnecessary. One look at this room was enough to show anyone with eyes to see that the place had never known a woman’s touch!
 

Her clothes were lying across the bench. She was pleased to see that—despite his failures as a housekeeper!—the miller had taken the care to smooth and fold her garments. And her muddy stockings had been washed. She could have wished for a change of linen, a fresh chemise, but it couldn’t be helped. She laced on her stays, then donned her several petticoats, including the brown silk twill that matched her mantua. At the last moment, she remembered that the gown itself had been torn; frowning, she examined it carefully and was glad to see that the rip was quite minor, and easily repaired. She cast her eyes about the room and spied a basket with several items of clothing and a small pair of scissors resting on top. Sure enough, when she rummaged through the basket, she came upon thread and pins and needles. She sat before the cold fireplace, choosing the stool (certainly not
his
chair!), and proceeded with her mending.
 

As she worked, her orderly mind reviewed her predicament. She was—most assuredly!—stranded here. She had a few coins in her purse. No more. The miller had used every sol in her pocket to buy the shoes. And a coach trip was expensive. Tintin was with Nathalie, God alone knew where! It was now the middle of April, and he wasn’t expecting to return to Sans-Souci before the first week of May, at the very earliest. There was no one to write to, to send her money. Her father’s tenants wouldn’t be eager to pay their debts if the
seigneur
was not in residence!
 

As for Torcy, he had made it clear that she was not to come begging to him again. Besides, he didn’t expect her back at Versailles until the middle of May. He had reiterated it at their parting. It was more a command than an expectation, of course. (“The middle of May, mademoiselle, or I shall be quite put out!”) But until that time, he wouldn’t care if she lived or died. No. She could scarcely turn to the minister. And perhaps she didn’t really want to.
 

Arsène? But if she sent for him, he might do harm to the miller. She had begun to realize that his passion for her fired a jealousy that was unpleasant to see. Dangerous, even. And if she allowed him to rescue her, she’d be at his mercy alone at Sans-Souci—vulnerable to his ardent wooing at best, unprotected from a direct assault at worst. There was still a chance, if she played her cards right, made him suffer with doubt and longing, that he’d marry her. She was rather glad, now, that LeBrun had lied to Arsène, told him that she didn’t wish to see him for a while.
 

She snipped the end of the thread and surveyed her handiwork, nodding her head in satisfaction. There was no way to tell where the rip in the gown had been. She picked up the other items in the basket—several stockings with large holes in the heels, a shirt with a sleeve that had come loose from the armhole. She rethreaded her needle. A simple enough task, to mend the miller’s clothes, and she’d be repaying him for his kindness. Besides, she had begun to realize something: if she couldn’t go home, couldn’t seek help of Torcy, couldn’t send for Arsène…she would have to stay
here
for a few weeks, relying on the generosity of LeBrun. She couldn’t tell him of her penurious state, of course. He would scarcely believe her. And besides, she had become used to lying about money, to save Tintin’s pride. She wasn’t about to tell a humble peasant that a member of the nobility couldn’t live within his means!