Louisa Rawlings (19 page)

He shook his head in amazement. “Now, by my faith…”
 

She ignored him. “And the bread wasn’t fit to feed swine, it was so stale. And you a miller of grain. For shame!”
 

“The baker only comes every few days,” he defended himself.
 

“Well, I suppose it’s too much to hope that baking a proper loaf of bread can be counted among your talents…”
 

“I have a talent for anger,” he interrupted, scowling.
 

“Pish tush!” she exclaimed, waving a disdainful hand at him. “Swallow your anger. And your pride. You know I’m right.”
 

He stared, then began to laugh, the hard lines of his face softening. “The only thing I’m certain of is that I’ve taken on a deal of trouble by allowing you to stay! Very well. I grant you my wretched cooking. What’s to be done?”
 

“If you have a bit of fine white flour to spare, I’ll bake you some bread in the morning.”
 

He indicated the fireplace. “A hinge on the oven door is loose, and the stonework is crumbling. I’ll need to send for a stonemason first.”
 

“Do so. In the meantime, I’ll take stock of your larder and cupboard and garden.” She indicated the remains of the supper on the table. “I’m sure I can do better than this.” She yawned. She was beginning to get sleepy. “And I’ll need soap to wash the sheets in the morning.” She plucked at the sleeve of her chemise. “And my linens. Have you a spare shirt that I can wear while it’s drying?”
 

He nodded. “Peddlers come along often. Perhaps you can buy another chemise.”
 

She yawned again, rubbed her eyes. “And stockings. And hairpins.” She was getting too tired to think. “You never found my hairpins?”
 

“Only one.”
 

She sighed unhappily. “Tintin gave me those hairpins.” She sighed again, a woeful sound that ended in another yawn.
 

Lebrun stood up abruptly. “You can grieve in the morning,” he said dryly. “Sleep now. ’Tis not such a long time since you were shivering with fever.” He started for the door to the mill room. “I want to bolt the door below and close the shutters. Get you to bed in the meantime.”
 

“But the dishes…” she protested feebly.
 

“In the morning. To bed.” He went into the other room.
 

Rouge stared at the candle on the table. The light flickered and danced before her tired eyes, drawing her into its golden spell. She leaned forward, put her elbows on the table, rested her head on her forearms, and closed her eyes.
 

She heard laughter. Strong arms were lifting her from the bench, holding her, cradling her. “A contradiction, Mademoiselle Rouge. You tell me how I must manage my kitchen, yet you cannot even get to bed by yourself.”
 

She looked up at the miller and smiled sleepily. His arms were warm and strong. “Must you always carry me?”
 

“’Tis my habit, to carry things. Though you’re more interesting than a sack of meal.” He chuckled and deposited her gently on the bed.
 

“The letter to my servant…” she mumbled.
 

“You’ll write it in the morning. Now, can you undress yourself? Or must I do that too?” His fingers reached for the hooks of her mantua.
 

“Devil take you.” She sat up in surprise, suddenly wide awake.
 

He laughed. “I’ve seen you as God made you. Have you forgot so soon?”
 

She clicked her tongue in mock anger. “You’re a rogue and a devil,” she chided. “Have you nothing more to do now?”
 

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “My horse is waiting to be fed. You can be undressed and safely under the coverlet before I return.”
 

While he was gone, she blew out all but one candle, stripped down to her chemise, and crawled between the sheets of his bed. Though she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, she found it impossible.
Ciel!
she thought. This will never do! There would be an unfortunate appearance of intimacy if they were to lie awake together in the same room. A bad precedent for the next few weeks. Well, if nature couldn’t oblige her, she would have to feign sleep. At the sound of the door opening, she closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply. But the room was shadowy from the single candle; she found that she was able to watch the miller through half-closed eyes without his being the wiser.
 

He hung the pot of soup on its hook in the fireplace, stored the lard and the ale and the remainder of the bread. He scraped the remnants of supper onto a plate which he set on the floor for the cat Jerusalem. Then he stretched and rubbed tiredly at his neck, sat in his chair, and removed his shoes and stockings. He stood up again, pulled off his full breeches. His loose shirt reached just to his knees; the long legs beneath were strong and sinewy, with hard-muscled calves. Rouge watched him shamelessly. After all, had he not undressed her when she’d been ill? And taken his pleasure, no doubt, at the sight of her naked flesh!
 

He crossed to the large trunk and pulled out a straw-filled
paillasse
and a blanket, which he set on the floor in front of the fireplace. He leaned over the last candle on the table and wet his fingers to extinguish the flame. Then he seemed to change his mind. He glanced once in Rouge’s direction, and picked up the candle.
 

Sweet heaven! she thought, closing her eyes quickly. She heard his steps approach, could almost feel his burning gaze on her where she lay. Why was he looking at her? She felt a moment’s panic, wondering if she was safe—if he wouldn’t, after all, expect her favors,
demand
her favors, impose himself upon her. Despite the fearful thumping of her heart, she forced herself to breathe in an even rhythm. It was not until she heard the soft rustle of his retreating footsteps across the grasses on the floor that she allowed herself to open cautious eyes.
 

LeBrun blew out the candle and set it on the mantel. He leaned his arm on the mantelpiece and stared into the dying embers of the fire. In the dim light, Rouge could just make out the look of perplexity on his handsome profile.
 

He shook his head. “Pierre,
mon vieux
,”
he muttered softly, “you’re a fool.”
 

Chapter Five

When she awoke in the morning, he was already gone. Across the foot of the bed he had placed one of his shirts. It was obviously intended for her. She pulled off her soiled chemise and slipped the shirt over her head, rolling the full sleeves above her elbows. She frowned down at her bosom. Even with the top button fastened, the neckline of the shirt gaped. And lacing on her stays would only push her rounded breasts more into view. Oh, well. It couldn’t be helped. She crossed to the bench, where her clothes were neatly piled; as she bent over to find the brown skirt of her mantua, the miller came in at the door. He was carrying a bucket of water. Rouge straightened quickly, aware that her naked bosom had been exposed to his view.
 

“Good morrow,” he said. His moss-green eyes were bland and impassive.
 

She nodded a greeting, unsure whether she was pleased or annoyed at his nonchalance. He had called himself a fool last night. Name of God! From his lack of interest this morning (and she half-naked in his shirt!), it was clear he hadn’t cursed himself for allowing her to sleep alone! She was safe on that score, at least. Doubtless he had been angry at himself for taking on the burden and expense of an unwelcome visitor. Well, she’d show him that she could earn her keep. She glanced about the small room. Her fingers were positively itching to attack the dust and grime! She yawned and stretched away the last remnants of sleep, then indicated the bucket of water. “May I have a bit of that to wash my face?”
 

He set the bucket next to the cold fireplace, poured some water into a small basin, and watched as she splashed the water into eyes still puffy from sleep. “We rise early in the country,” he said. “There’s no time to idle in bed, wasting precious daylight.” Clearly, he had meant it for a criticism.
 

She dried her face and glared at him. She was beginning to find his disapproval tiresome. And unwarranted. Perhaps it was time to remind him once again of her station. “At
Versailles
,”
she said, her voice as cold and as haughty as she could make it, “there are amusements to keep one up at night past sunset!”
 

He stared at her bare legs, the revealing neckline of her shirt. His mouth twitched in amusement. “I have no doubt of that.”
 

“Oh! I didn’t mean that at all!” She turned her back on him and reached for her clothes. Curse the man and his scurrilous thoughts! There was no point in defending her virtue; he
would
see her as a trollop, whatever she said. She picked through her garments. Everything was gray with dirt and in need of a good washing. The hems of all her petticoats and her mantua were soiled from the night of the storm. Even her neckcloth—her long steinkirk—had managed to get mud on it. She chose at last the simplest costume—LeBrun’s shirt, the brown petticoat from her mantua, her stays—putting aside the rest to be washed. She was conscious of his eyes on her as she dressed. Still angry, she tried to ignore him as she sat to don shoes and stockings.
 

He muttered a soft oath. “Plague take me. God should be your judge, not I. If you’re accustomed to a life of indolence, who am I to condemn you?”
 

She stood up and smoothed her skirt. “A halfhearted apology, Monsieur LeBrun. I’m surprised you didn’t turn me out at cock-crow, feeling as you do!”
 

“You needed your sleep.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle. “A fever such as yours ought not to be treated lightly. And my name is Pierre.” He smiled, a tentative smile that deepened to a grin as her expression told him she had accepted his apology. “Perhaps tomorrow I
shall
turn you out at cock-crow, mademoiselle.”
 

She returned his smile with her own. How could she be angry with eyes, a smile, that warmed her as his did? “
My
name is Rouge.” She looked about the room, suddenly practical. “But I should welcome an early start. There’s so much to be done.
Dieu!
And the fire not yet started and breakfast to cook! Have you something I can use for an apron?”
 

“In my trunk. I’ll get the fire going, and then we can heat up the soup. There’s still a goodly portion left.”
 

“Faugh! The beans were vile enough last night. By this morning they will have turned the soup to thick paste! Have you hogs or chickens to feed it to?”
 

He looked shamefaced. “No.”
 

“Oh, well.” She sighed. “I suppose I can strain it through a bit of fine muslin and use the broth to start again. But that still leaves breakfast to consider. What’s left of last night’s bread?”
 

“Only a small piece. I have another loaf, however.”
 

“As stale as its fellow?”
 

“Alas, yes. The baker comes tomorrow.”
 

“Well, there’s lard. I can fry the bread in that. It won’t seem so stale if I moisten it with water first. I don’t suppose you have any milk?” she asked hopefully.
 

“Not a drop. Jerusalem’s a good mouser, but she likes to steal the milk when I forget to put it away.”
 

“Which is rather often, I should suspect,” she said dryly.
 

He shrugged his helplessness and crossed to the fireplace. While he built up the fire, Rouge searched in the trunk for an apron, finding a large, clean square of muslin which she tucked into her skirt beneath her stays. In a corner of the trunk she spied one of the miller’s neckerchiefs, nicely finished with a fine drawnwork edging. Just what she needed to cover her hair until her steinkirk was washed. She folded it in half, tied the ends securely at the nape of her neck. Then she turned her attention to the business of breakfast. She wiped out the skillet with a rag and brought it to the hearth, where LeBrun still knelt.
 

“
Mon Dieu
,”
he said softly, looking up to where she stood. “You’re the picture of a country maiden.”
 

Self-consciously she touched the scarf on her head. “I trust you don’t mind my wearing your neckerchief.”
 

“Not at all.” He stood up and smiled. “You look charming in it.”
 

He was so close she could see that his green eyes held flecks of gold in their depths. She gulped, then lowered her own gaze. “In heaven’s name,” she said quickly, “let me get to my cooking! I’m perishing from hunger.”
 

Though the fried bread was all that there was to eat, there was plenty of it and, washed down by the ale, it made a passable breakfast. At last, with a contented sigh, LeBrun pushed away his plate. “That was far better than my soup would have been, Rouge. Thank you.”
 

It had been said simply and with sincerity. Rouge found it more flattering than half the compliments—florid and extravagant—that had been her daily portion at Versailles. No wonder the village girls vied with one another for his favors! “But what are we to eat for the rest of the day? Will you fish again this morning?”