Louisa Rawlings (35 page)

They drove for a little while in contented silence. Rouge was astonished to see how different the world appeared this morning. Had the grass ever been so green? The sky clearer and bluer? The flowers more fragrant? Had there ever been a spring like this one, a May morning brighter than this since the world began?
 

Pierre chuckled. “You’re smiling again.”
 

“I can’t stop.”
 

He closed his hand over hers. “Nor can I,” he said softly. He reined in the horse, then pointed beyond a hedge. “There’s a patch of wood violets there, if they’re still in bloom. Shall we look for them?”
 

She laughed. “Only if we take the food with us.”
 

“Of course.” He hopped down from the wagon, led the horse to a shady spot on the side of the road, thick with sweet grass. He unhitched the animal and tied it to a tree. “She can eat, too, if she’s hungry. I seem to be cursed with hungry females!” He turned to Rouge and lifted her down from the wagon, taking the occasion to steal a kiss; then he pulled a straw hamper from the back of the wagon and held it out to her. “Here, woman. Carry this.”
 

She snorted indignantly. “So much for chivalry! What will
you
carry?”
 

“You!” He swooped her up in his arms and started off toward the meadow.
 

She slipped one arm about his neck, sliding her hand under his tied-back hair and tracing the edge of his ear with a sensuous touch. He swallowed hard, glanced at her mouth, and almost tripped. She widened her eyes in innocence. “
Ciel
, but you’re clumsy! If you mean to astound me with your wondrous skill at carrying a woman, you ought to be more careful!” She stuck out her pink tongue and ran it suggestively around the inside of her lips. He choked and muttered a curse under his breath. She smiled seductively at him. “Your eyes are the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen,” she murmured. “I tremble whenever you look at me.”
 

“Enough!” He set her on her feet and glared at her, the laughter in his eyes putting the lie to his stern expression. He took the basket from her hand and set it on the ground. “If you’re not the most teasing coquette who ever learned the arts…!”
 

She dismissed him with an airy wave of the hand. “Is this the Don Juan who used to brag so of his conquests?” She grinned impishly. “Am I too much for you?”

“By God,” he muttered, “a sack of grain keeps quiet when I carry it”—he lunged for her and tossed her over one shoulder—“like
this
!” Ignoring her squeals of protest, he picked up the basket with his free hand and continued on into the meadow, whistling a merry air. She struggled and wriggled a few times, then kept still. When at length he set her on her feet, he was beaming in triumph. “A very agreeable sack of grain, after all.”
 

She smiled humbly, straightening her tousled curls. Then she threw herself against him and pushed him to the ground.
 

He sat up, his mouth open in surprise, and stared at her. “Devil! Not chastened yet? For that you forfeit a kiss. And more.”
 

Temporarily the victor, she grinned. “If you can catch me,” she taunted.
 

While he struggled to his feet, she raced off across the meadow. She was fleet of foot, but his legs were longer, and though she eluded him for a few minutes, dodging and twisting away from his grasp, he caught her at last and imprisoned her in his arms. “Now,” he said, “I intend to kiss you until you concede defeat.”
 

Which he did, much to her satisfaction. Although—in the spirit of their lighthearted battle—she was loath to let him see that her knees were shaking. At length, and with some reluctance to end the delicious torture, she surrendered. “Take your prisoner, monsieur. I’m yours.”
 

He kissed her once more and ran his hands down her back, cradling her round bottom in his strong hands and pressing her up against his loins. “Now what do you want?” he breathed.
 

Aha! she thought. Perhaps she hadn’t lost after all!
“Food,”
she said, and smiled wickedly.
 

The battle was joined once again. They frolicked like children, laughing, falling in and out of each other’s arms, pursuing and eluding in a joyous dance of love as old as time itself. When at last they sank to the greensward, exhausted, Pierre had lost the string from his chestnut hair, and Rouge—her lips tingling from innumerable kisses—was missing a garter.
 

They ate the food that Pierre had brought, though Rouge found once again that the sight of him, his eyes warm with affection, sustained her more than did the food. He plucked spring blossoms and twined them in her hair while they spoke of foolish trifles: the taste of roasted chestnuts at Christmastide, the smell of a dusty road in hot August, the sound of children’s laughter at Carnival. Rouge was aware that to talk of anything else—their lives, their future—in this time and place would be to invite the darkness.
 

Pierre sighed and stirred, replacing the remnants of their picnic in the basket. “We’ll never get home today. And I want to sift the grain I bought before we lose the light.” He stood up and helped her to her feet.
 

“Sift the grain? I thought, to a miller, everything was grist.”
 

“I make a handsome enough profit that I don’t have to grind the occasional twig or grasshopper. Come on.”
 

They sat very close in the wagon. Pierre’s sleeves were rolled up above his elbows; the light caught the sun-bright hairs on his sinewy arms, turning them to gold. Rouge yearned to touch the soft tufts. Idly she reached out and ran her hand along the length of his forearm. The hairs were soft and silken, a sensuous delight to her fingertips. She stroked his arm dreamily, lost in pleasure, in the wonder of this beautiful, masculine body beside her. Her heart began to pound.
 

“Woman, if you value your life…” He gave a low moan, half in pain, half in ecstasy.
 

She looked up, startled out of her sensual reverie, aware suddenly that she had been thinking of his making love to her. “Does this vex you?” she asked in surprise. His face was taut, a small muscle working in his jaw. She glanced down and saw the unmistakable bulge that betrayed his feelings. She smiled. He, too, was thinking of their night of passion. “Why must we be in such a hurry to return?” she murmured. Delighted at her unexpected power, she continued to fondle the hairs on his forearm.
 

None too gently he removed her hand from his arm. “The grain,” he said. “I should get to it today.”
 

“Yes, of course. The grain. The grain is
very
important.” She began to hum.
 

He eyed her with suspicion. “Now what?”
 

“Why, nothing! We must get back to sift the grain today,
n’est-ce pas
? Surely it can’t wait until tomorrow!” She resumed her song.
 

“Don’t touch my arm,” he warned.
 

“I wouldn’t dream of touching your arm,” she said, and put her hand firmly over the bulge of his groin.
 

He muttered a strangled oath and hauled violently on the reins. “Now, by my faith,” he said, jumping down from the wagon and going around to her side, “if you aren’t a woman to bedevil a man!” He reached up, pulled her from the seat, and swept her up in his arms. Carrying her to the back of the wagon, he tossed her onto the sacks of grain. He took the reins, brought them across the top of the wagon, hopped in beside Rouge, and clicked to his horse. “She’ll just have to find her way home without my help,” he said, and gathered Rouge in his arms. He kissed her hard, then loosened the drawstring of her chemise and bared her breasts. His hands circled the firm orbs, his work-roughened fingers scratching tantalizingly against the soft flesh. He touched the nipples with his thumbs, stroking gently until they stiffened and hardened in willing response. Rouge closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the thrill of his kisses and caresses. The wagon rocked on in the sunshine. She felt a hot wetness bloom within her, aching, yearning for more than this.
 

The wagon stopped. Rouge opened her eyes. “What is it?”
 

He laughed and retied her chemise. “We’re home.” He hopped out of the wagon, which had stopped just at the front of the mill. Grinning, he swung her out to the ground. “There’s work to be done, woman. And my supper to be cooked. You’ll just have to wait until tonight.”
 

She scowled at him, not sure whether she was truly angry or not. “In
my
bed?” she asked.
 

“In
my
bed,” he said firmly. “I’m reclaiming it.” As she turned away to go into the cottage, he pulled her into his arms. “And take that look of disappointment off your face,” he said softly. “It will be sweeter for the waiting. For both of us.”
 

He was right, of course. By the time they had stored the remains of supper, banked the fire, and put Jerusalem into the mill room, she was trembling with anticipation. He stripped her down, standing before the last embers of the fire, his hands caressing her as he worked; every touch, every brush of his fingertips was ecstasy. He pulled off his own clothes, then led her to the bed. With skill, and tenderness, and burning passion, he brought them both to glorious fulfillment.
 

The days that followed were filled with happiness and laughter. They worked as before, he in the mill, she at the hearth, but the work seemed to take twice as long. For as often as Pierre tiptoed in to steal a kiss, Rouge found reasons to pass him on the way to the larder, tossing her shoulders seductively so he would stop whatever he was doing, curse good-naturedly, and sweep her into his arms. They chafed with impatience if a customer intruded, blowing kisses to each other behind his back and praying he would leave in good time. Late in the afternoon they would skip off to the millpond and swim naked together, then make love in the meadow with the warm sun kissing their entwined bodies. Rouge had not known there were so many ways to give and receive pleasure. Pierre guided her in the ways of love, encouraging her to explore his body as he had hers.
 

Though they didn’t speak of it, she knew the time was nearing when she’d have to leave. The first week of May was coming to a close. Any day now she expected to hear from Tintin.
 

She sat across the table from Pierre, watching him finish the last of his breakfast. As long as I live, she thought, I’ll not forget these sweet days. “I’ll bake today,” she said.
 

He looked up and smiled. “It can wait. Do it tomorrow.”
 

“No. You’ll need bread to see you to the end of the week. If I wrap it well, it will still be fresh when you need it.” How strange. Her heart was breaking, yet she could talk of the time when she’d be gone—and not weep. She scanned the cozy room, memorizing each chair and table and dear corner. “And I must clean…” Before I go, she thought.
 

He glanced at her hand. “How does your finger feel?”
 

She lifted her hand and flexed it. “I haven’t felt any pain since you took off the bandage.”
 

“Good.”

She spent the morning cleaning and scrubbing; then she washed and mended his shirts and hose. By the time he took a few minutes from his work to down a bowl of soup with bread, she had already stacked the baking oven with kindling and had a lively blaze going. “
Dieu
, but it’s hot,” she said, dabbing at her forehead with her sleeve. “If it stays this way, we’ll have a cold supper. Will you mind?”
 

He laughed. “I haven’t found cause to quarrel with your cooking yet, woman! Do as you wish.”
 

To the accompaniment of the rumbling millstones from the next room, Rouge began her bread. She scooped some of Pierre’s best flour into the kneading trough, added a pinch of sage and dried fennel, a small handful of salt, and a bit of yeast. She blended it with warm water, mixed it well, and set it aside. While she waited for the dough to rise, she made up several meat pies that would go into the oven after the bread was baked and the oven had cooled a trifle.
 

The bread dough was now ready to be kneaded. She took it out of the trough and set it on the well-floured plank that was kept for this purpose. She worked the dough with the heels of her hands until it was smooth and elastic, then cut it into four quarters that she shaped into round loaves. While the loaves sat and rested, she took a shovel and scraped the embers and ashes from the oven; then she spread the bottom with a thick paste of flour and water to keep the bread clean. Her thrifty soul always protested this part of the baking process in Pierre’s kitchen. Had he kept pigs, she would have been able to feed this “cake” to them when the oven cooled. She pushed one sleeve of her chemise well above the elbow, thrust her bare arm within the oven, and slowly counted to ten, as her mother had taught her. When, at the count of eleven, it was too hot to endure, she knew the oven was just right for the loaves. She slipped them in, one at a time on the end of a large wooden paddle, and closed the oven door.
 

She stretched in satisfaction and crossed to the window, waving to several farmers who were just leaving with their ground meal. She turned about and began to clean her baking utensils. She squealed in surprise, nearly dropping her knife. Pierre’s hands were around her waist.