Louisa Rawlings (33 page)

“Bitch!” Jacquelan grabbed one of Rogue’s hands and clamped her teeth over the tender flesh.
 

Wincing in pain, Rouge pulled her hand away before the other woman had managed to break the delicate skin; then she boxed the side of Jacquelan’s head. She looked up. Monsieur Billot, the baker, was standing near the fountain, smiling grimly. The poor cuckolded fool! she thought. If he gave fewer blows to the hapless Cosme and more to his errant wife, she might learn to be content. Rouge backed away from Jacquelan, wanting to be done with their brawl; but the other woman, her face twisted in an ugly grimace, leaped at her and pushed her to the ground. Rouge sat down hard, grunting in pain as her tailbone slammed onto the packed dirt.
 

“I’ll tear your eyes out!” screamed Jacquelan. She threw herself down on top of Rouge, knocking her back; but Rouge had anticipated her, and managed to wriggle out from under at the last moment. Jacquelan lay face down in the dirt, struggling to rise. Curse her! thought Rouge. This was the woman who was content to see her husband murdered, and had tried to involve Pierre in her ugly scheme! On an impulse, she sat down on the other woman, planting herself firmly on Jacquelan’s back. Near at hand lay a broad plank, meant for the bonfire. She picked it up. “This is for your husband, madame,” she muttered, and brought the plank down on Jacquelan’s backside. Jacquelan yelped in surprise. “And this, for my
cousin
.” Another blow. “And this”—with as much force as she could bring to bear—“for me!” Jacquelan howled. Rouge tossed aside the plank, smiled up at a grinning Pierre, and held out her band. “Will you help me up?” she said airily.
 

He laughed and pulled her to her feet. “A brawling tiger! Who would have believed it? And were you fighting over
me
?”
 

She giggled wickedly. “Don’t be silly. What makes you think you’re worth fighting over? I…” She heard a shout of warning, and turned just in time to see Jacquelan, her face red and covered with dirt, hurling the bucket at her. Rouge lifted her hand to ward off the blow; the bucket crashed against her little finger. She gasped, feeling a sharp pain in her hand. “Damn your soul!” she cried, and leaped for Jacquelan; with all the fury of her outrage she pushed the woman backward and tumbled her into the fountain. As the water splashed up and Jacquelan shrieked, Rouge whirled to the baker. “Unless you enjoy your wife making a fool of you, monsieur, you’ll take her home and finish what I’ve begun!”
 

She turned back to Pierre. He was now laughing uproariously, joined by the crowd, who had watched the brawl in open-mouthed fascination. The pain in her finger was excruciating. She stumbled to him, her head spinning, and held out her trembling hand. The little finger was twisted into a peculiar zigzag.
 

The smile faded from Pierre’s face.
“Merde,”
he swore softly.
 

“It hurts,” she mumbled, and collapsed into his arms. She scarcely remembered his carrying her to the inn. She was aware of the frantic bleats of the innkeeper Dugard and his wife, Berthe, and Pierre’s barked commands, ordering them to light the way to his room. She cradled her injured hand and leaned against his hard chest. There was only the pain, the terrible pain—and the warmth of his arms.
 

They reached the room by way of a narrow staircase. “Her shoes are wet!” cried Berthe in alarm. “Don’t put her down until I’ve stripped back the coverlet!”
 

“Name of God, woman, she’s in pain!”
 

“Nevertheless…” Berthe pulled back the coverlet. “And take off her shoes and stockings!” she demanded. “I haven’t a sheet to spare while the village is so crowded.”
 

Pierre set Rouge gently onto the bed. She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes, fighting to keep from swooning. “I’ll take off her wet shoes and stockings,” said Pierre angrily. “But you can make yourself useful. Fetch me some bandages, and something I can use for a splint for her finger. And you, Dugard,” he added, “see if you have a bit of brandy.”
 

“It will cost you additional,” said Dugard.
 

Pierre loomed over the man. “Damn it, you fetch it or I’ll kick you down those stairs!” As the innkeeper and his wife scurried away, Pierre pulled off Rouge’s shoes, untied her garters, stripped off her damp stockings. When he was finished, he pulled the coverlet over her feet to keep her warm. “I’ll see to that finger in a moment.”
 

She nodded, trying to smile, to reassure him. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered.
 

Dugard and his wife returned, bearing the items they’d been sent for. But they hovered so nervously over the bed, clucking in such concern as Pierre lifted the glass of brandy to Rouge’s lips, that he snapped at them and sent them away, swearing that they were more trouble than the injured Rouge.
 

He sat on the bed beside her and carefully examined her finger. His touch was gentle; she tried not to show how much it hurt. “It’s not broken,” he said at last. “At least I don’t think so. But it’s out of the socket. I’ll have to snap it back.”
 

She laughed shakily. “My foolish impulses! I can win a battle of words with any hussy in Versailles. I shouldn’t have tried a battle of brute strength!”
 

“Nonsense. You fought that battle like the best champion in the lists!”
 

“And I have a twisted finger to show for it.”
 

“Jacquelan got the worst of the battle, I think. And perhaps Billot will have the courage now to do what he should.”
 

“And you?”
 

He sighed. “I regretted Jacquelan a long time ago. Now let me deal with that finger.” His eyes were soft in the light of the single candle. Soft, and filled with concern. “It will hurt, you know.”
 

She shook her head. “It can’t hurt any more than it does now.”
 

“I’m afraid it will,” he said gently. “But just for a moment.” Reluctantly he took her finger in his strong hands. “Forgive me,” he murmured, and gave a savage wrench to it. She gasped aloud as a searing pain tore through the joint and raced up her arm. She sagged against the pillows of the bed, feeling beads of sweat materialize on her upper lip and brow. She moaned once as the pain subsided and became a dull ache that sapped her strength. Carefully Pierre broke the splint—a small, flat lath—into the proper length, trimmed the edges smooth with his knife, and bound it securely to her finger. “We’ll leave it on for a day or two,” he said.
 

There was a piece of bandage left over. Tenderly he dabbed at her forehead, then her upper lip. His eyes searched her face, seeming to peruse every line and curve. He let go of the bandage, but his hand stayed at her mouth, one long finger stroking the sensitive flesh, circling around and probing gently between her parted lips.
 

She drew a shuddering breath and trembled, her heart pounding, her body aflame with an all-consuming desire.
 

“Oh, God,” he groaned, “I’m only a man!” and pressed his burning mouth to hers.
 

Chapter Eight

She hadn’t known a kiss could be so fierce and hot and intoxicating. She twined her arms around his neck and clung to him, caught in his strong embrace, her breast pressed to his. His lips moved against hers—hard and strong, demanding and possessing, a passionate caress. He seemed unwilling to release her mouth, her pliant body. His tongue stroked the edge of her lips, following the path that his finger had traced but a moment before. She quivered, feeling his firm lips molded to hers in fulfillment of all her aching desires. His tongue sought sweeter territory, exploring the warm moistness of her mouth; she felt her senses spinning wildly out of control.
 

At last—and only because he stopped to gasp for breath—he lifted his mouth from hers. “Rouge,” he panted, and buried his face in her neck, kissing the pulsing softness of her throat. “I want you,” he said huskily.
 

“I’m here,” she whispered. “And I’m yours.”
 

“Beautiful, beautiful Rouge.” He pressed burning kisses into the hollow at the base of her neck; then his impatient mouth sought the first rounded swell of her bosom. He grunted in annoyance and lifted his head. He plucked at the bone around her neck. “What am I to do with this?” he growled. “Must I be assaulted by it?”
 

She smiled secretively. “Take it off. I don’t need it now.”
 

He lifted the amulet from around her neck and tossed it carelessly to the floor. He put firm hands on her shoulders, then moved them down to cup her heaving breasts through her thin chemise.
 

She moaned in frustration, feeling a hunger, a primordial need that was both achingly familiar yet new to her. It wasn’t enough, his burning touch through her clothing. She wanted every part of her to be his. Now. Oh, God, now! Impatiently she pushed his hands away; with unsteady fingers she tore at the drawstring of her chemise and pulled the garment down beneath her bosom.
 

His eyes, heavy-lidded with passion, flickered at the sight of her bare breasts, the nipples like pink diamond-points on the soft white flesh. His hands shook with haste as he fumbled with the lacings of her stays, cursing softly. He pulled off the stays, unhooked her skirt, stripped the hindering chemise from her body. For a moment he stared at the naked loveliness that waited for him, welcomed him; then he bent his ardent mouth to her breasts. While she writhed in delicious torment, he stroked her eager flesh with his tongue, first one breast, then the other; then he took one nipple gently between his teeth. His soft bites tingled, sending spasms of hot lightning racing through her body. She clutched at his back, scratching wildly at the fabric of his shirt. She had never known such a feeling.
 

He released her, stood up, and shed his clothing with an eagerness that made him tremble. He lowered himself to the bed, his hard-muscled frame close beside her. He bent over and took her mouth again and again, burning her with the fire of his kiss. She tangled her fingers in his warm brown hair and arched her back so her breasts pressed against the furry softness of his chest.
 

His hand glided down her belly and found the soft triangle of hair. He grabbed it roughly, his fingers moving, kneading, working her into a wild frenzy. His hand slipped lower, to the pulsing, throbbing core of her; he pressed the heel of his hand up against the tender mound, pushing with a hard, rhythmic movement that seemed to demand entrance. She gasped at the sensations he aroused, her body alive to rapturous pleasure and aching desire. Helpless before his passionate siege, she raked her nails across the smooth flesh of his back; his hand, almost cruel, almost painful, teased and tantalized the soft guardians of the barrier that awaited the final glorious assault. She moaned, one hand curling into a fist that pounded softly against his ribs. There was no time for gentleness for either of them. The weeks of yearning, of suppressed desire, now burst forth in a frenzied torrent.
 

I’ll go mad! she thought. Was there no release from this delicious agony? She groped for his hand, trying vainly to force his fingers to enter her. Surely that was the way to ease the aching hunger, the burning need! She felt as though she’d burst. “Pierre! For the love of God!” she cried.
 

He kissed her hard, a long, draining kiss, and moved on top of her, positioning himself between her parted legs. His hands slid down to her flanks, lifting and cradling her hips to receive him. He closed his eyes, his face tight with passion, and thrust into her.
 

She felt a sharp twinge; then she was filled, warmed, possessed. He was within her, hard and strong; even the quick pain of his entry was part of her joy and wonderment. She was content for a moment just to lie there, enjoying the exquisite pleasure of a sensation that was new and thrilling. Then he began to move, gliding and stroking, and she felt her senses inflamed anew—a wild hunger, an aching torment, the spark that waited to light the bonfire. She found herself arching to him, meeting each impassioned thrust with a gasp of pleasure. His movements quickened as his own passion grew, his mouth, his body claiming her for his own. She lost all sense of herself; there was only the glory of his body and hers, the ember that smoldered within her.
 

Suddenly, ignited by the heat of their passion, the fire flamed up, a roaring inferno that swirled her in hot ecstasy and peaked in a great shuddering explosion. She clung to him, feeling herself released at last from the nameless ache, the tension that had filled her for so many nights and days. In that moment Pierre cried out and thrust violently into her once more, inhaling sharply through his teeth. He shivered, then collapsed against her, his chest damp with sweat.
 

Weak with contentment, Rouge kept her arms around him. The pounding of her heart slowed, her breathing returned to normal. They lay there together, locked in each other’s arms, too filled with satisfaction and happiness to be parted.
 

After a few minutes, Rouge began to laugh.
 

Pierre’s face had been against her soft blond curls. Now he lifted his head and looked at her, his green eyes hazy with emotions she could scarcely read. “You find that cause for laughter, woman?” he demanded.