Louisa Rawlings (37 page)

“Ah! How fortunate,” said Pierre. “At the very moment I’ve finished the Rossolis. Fetch me a jug of wine, woman.” His voice was slurred, and the eyes that glared in fierce anger seemed oddly out of focus. Rouge remembered that the crock of Rossolis had been full when she’d put it away. Name of God, he’d drunk it all!
 

She hung the lantern on a nail and crossed to him, leaning over and grasping him firmly by the elbow. “How could you?” she scolded. “Drinking yourself into this state! Is this because of me? Come along to your bed. Whatever must be said will keep until morning. When you’re quite sober again, your common sense will tell you that it’s best for me to go.”
 

He shook off her hands and struggled to his feet unaided. “How noble. How sensible. Never at a loss for something to say.” He bowed low, tottering, then regained his balance by leaning against the wall. “Your servant, lady. You must tell me how a woman who seems so warm can have such a cold and guileful heart.”
 

“Don’t be a fool, Pierre,” she said with tenderness. “You know I’d stay if I could.”
 

“Fool?” He laughed sharply. “Would you like to know what kind of a fool I really am? The depths of my folly? I
loved
you. From the first. I told myself it was madness. I’d seen the torment and frustration on Arsène’s face. I swore I’d not become another one of your unhappy slaves, to be trapped by your smile, captured by your eyes. And then forgotten when it suited you.” He took a step toward her, staggering slightly. “But Cupid mocked me, and I loved you. You see? Some of us are not so sensible.” He passed a hand across his eyes. “I loved you. Does that please you? To add one more heart to your treasure trove?”
 

“You loved me?” she whispered.
 

“And fought against all your charms.” There was bitterness in his voice. “And nearly won. But for the witchery of the May Queen.”
 

He
loved
her! “Pierre…”
 

“Oh, God.” He pointed unsteadily at her. “Look at you, your eyes filling with tears, your red lips trembling. How skilled you are. How often, smiling like an innocent, did you make me think that you…” He shrugged. “Well, it’s of no consequence.”
 

Dear heaven, the sweet agony of this moment! “That I loved you in return.” She held out a yearning hand to him.
 

Angrily he waved her away. “Sweet Jesu, no! That you had a heart to
give
! But you’re just another petticoat. Not worth the grief, God knows.”
 

For all his hard words, she knew he played his own game to save his pride, his fragile emotions. She had to give him
some
explanation, even if it was a lie, to ease his pain. “Pierre,” she began, “please listen…”
 

His mouth curved in a mocking smile. “And then we’ll go to bed together? Where you’ll sigh and moan and deceive me once again…before you leave?”
 

“Damn you,” she muttered. She had her own pride. Even understanding his pain could scarcely excuse his cruelty. “You’re too drunk to be reasonable tonight. Sleep with your horse. You’re not fit for the company of a human soul tonight.” She turned about to leave.
 

He lunged and grabbed her by the arm. “Will you go back to him?”
 

“Name of God, Pierre, can’t we talk in the morning?” Perhaps in the morning, short of revealing her secret dealings with Torcy, she could make him understand the hopelessness of their love.
 

His hand was an iron clamp on her shoulder.
“Will you go back to him?”
 

“Yes, but…”
 

“And marry him?”
 

She nodded, unwilling to speak. “Yes,” she said at last.
 

“Why then, damn you—you lying, perfidious wanton.”
 

“
No!
I never played you false! I was as you saw me!” she cried. “You must believe that.”
 

He shook his head. “No. A leopard can’t change its spots. I should have listened to my head from the first. For here you are, playing the coquette’s game again. You amuse yourself, take your pleasures where you will. You ensnare a man’s heart, then run away and seek another. Sweet Jesu, I never thought I should feel kin to Arsène! But I should have let him have you that night. He deserved to be rewarded for the trouble you’d put him to.” He stared at her in silence. “As do I,” he growled at last.
 

His expression hadn’t changed. She sensed, rather than saw, the danger. Trembling in fear, she turned and fled into the night. She could hear his pounding footsteps behind her. He grabbed her with rough hands and swung her around. She struggled frantically in his arms for a moment; then his strength prevailed and he wrestled her to the grass. He knelt down and bent her shoulders across his arm. She moaned in pain, feeling her back arching with the pressure of the hand that clasped her shoulder, her bosom rising unwillingly to the cruel grasp of his other hand. She slapped weakly at his hard fingers that curled around her breast and squeezed the tender flesh through her chemise. “Tonight I’ll take my reward,” he said. “In payment for the amusement I’ve given you!” He bent his head to hers; she smelled the pungent liquor on his breath. She turned her head away, writhing in helpless misery beneath him. His hot mouth sought the patch of flesh above the lace of her chemise; he rained burning kisses on her neck and shoulders. By the time he had moved up to her face, she had stopped struggling and lay limp in his arms. Her heart was filled with grief. He would take her, like a savage beast. Like a savage, drunken beast—and there was nothing she could do to stop him. Bitter tears seeped from her closed eyes. He kissed her soft mouth, unresisting but passive to his ardor. He kissed her eyes, then lifted his head. “Tears?” he said mockingly. “Are we to have tears as well?”
 

She opened her eyes. His handsome face was harsh in the moonlight. “Don’t, Pierre,” she sobbed. “I love you.”
 

He swore angrily. “Now, damn you! Is there no trick too mean for you to employ? Love, you deceitful courtesan?
Love?
By God, every whore swears her love in hopes of better recompense. But you’ll wish you’d never mocked me with the word!” He clutched at the bosom of her chemise and tore it savagely from her. She gasped and pounded at the grass as his cruel hand assaulted her tender flesh, caressing with a roughness that was painful. At the same moment his mouth took hers in a punishing kiss.
 

She felt a small rock beneath her hand. Holding it tightly, she swung it against his head. He grunted and loosed his hold on her, rubbing his temple in pain. In a second she was up and racing for the cottage, her ruined chemise clutched to her breast. She had time to bolt the door and close the shutters before he reached her. She could hear him pounding on the door with his fists, and shouting curses through the heavy beams.
 

Filled with terror, she cowered in a corner of the room, praying for her safety. And praying as fervently for an end to Pierre’s torment—torment that had unleashed this horror. Sobbing with fear and heartbreak, she clapped her hands over her ears to block out the frightening sounds.
 

She had found love here. She had not known, until now, that love had a dark side.
 

She awoke at dawn, still in her corner on the floor. She was stiff and cold. The light that streamed in from the open window above the waterwheel showed a dull day, dim and overcast. She pulled the remnants of the torn chemise from her body and dressed in her other one, the chemise that she had trimmed with Pierre’s lace. Cautiously she moved to the window next to the door and opened the wooden shutters. She peered carefully out of the casement, leaning forward to look for Pierre.
 

He was sprawled under the linden tree, snoring heavily. Jerusalem lay curled at his feet.
 

Rouge sighed in relief. His head didn’t appear to be bloodied from the blow she’d delivered. Even in her fear last night, she had pulled back at the last moment, unwilling to do him serious harm. She sighed again. It was clear she couldn’t stay. Not for another day. Another hour. He might be more reasonable when he was sober, but the hurt and anger, the hatred that had burst forth last night, was not something she wished to chance again.
 

But how to get home? She racked her brain while she dressed in her mantua and fontange, arranging her hair in a formal fashion. It was time to resume her position as a court lady. Penniless but aristocratic, she thought bitterly. Well, perhaps she could make for Selommes, reveal herself to the Baron de Ruffec, wait—as his guest—for Tintin to return and forward some money. No. Pierre would learn of it. The gossips in a small village passed on news all too readily. She supposed she could board the public coach at Selommes and persuade the coachman to take her on credit until they reached Montoire. But what if there was not a livre to spare at Sans-Souci? How could she pay him? She could, of course, have the coachman take a message to Arsène, near Tours, telling him of her troubles. She had a few crowns yet; enough perhaps for a night’s lodging and food, if she found a humble inn while she waited for Arsène.
Dieu!
What was she thinking of? To send for Arsène? Then pray that he would take her home, and not force her into bed as payment? Mother of heaven, she’d do better to stay here and take her chances with Pierre!
 

But wait! Pierre had money. For his rent and taxes, he had said. But they weren’t due until the end of June. And she would be able to return the money long before then. She pulled the small cask from the shelf and pried open the lock with a knife. (She wasn’t about to risk fishing in his pocket for the key, name of God!) She took out only what she would need for the coach and replaced the box. She felt sick with self-loathing. She had stolen his heart; now she stole his gold. After last night and his savage attack, she no longer knew if she loved him. But he had been kind to her all these weeks. He deserved more than a thief in his house.
 

She murmured a soft farewell to his sleeping form, then set off down the road, heedless of the burning tears that fell. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t love she had felt. Only the magic of the mill, the unexpected release from her cares, the soft beguilement of spring. The tears only fell the faster, burned the hotter. Oh, Pierre, she thought, filled with grief. Why did he want it all? Her love, herself, now and forever? Could he not have been content, as she was, with the sweet memories of their days together? And now the memories would be sad and bitter, colored by the ugliness of their last hours.
 

Just before she reached Selommes she saw the public coach in the distance, leaving the village. She waved it to a halt, negotiated with the coachman for the ride to Montoire-sur-le-Loir, paid her fare, and clambered aboard. Mercifully the coach was almost empty, with a deaf old man and a fat merchant who seemed content to sleep most of the way. She couldn’t have borne noisy company, nor young people filled with gaiety and laughter.
 

The day was still gray when she reached Montoire, alighting from the coach before the chapel of St. Gilles. She shivered. It was cold without a mantle. But the town was large and had several cheery taverns. She would stop and have something warm to eat and drink before she rented a horse to take her out to Sans-Souci. She found a dim corner in the tavern, away from the bustle of townsfolk who might recognize her and stop to chat. It was easier to be alone with her thoughts.
 

“Rouge!
Cousin!
”
 

She gasped and whirled to the masculine voice that had called her “cousin.” A splendidly dressed young man was hurrying toward her table. He was tall and thin, with dark brown eyes and handsome features, save for the sharp, pinched nose that made him appear contemptuous of the world around him. His clothes were magnificent, though somewhat out of place in this country setting. His coat, rich with braiding and embroidery, was left unbuttoned to reveal his waistcoat, a large-pocketed garment of the same length that rivaled the coat in its lavish trim. His cravat was edged with lace, and several ribbon bows and knots adorned his costume: on the top of one shoulder, on the hilt of his sword, at the side of his feather-trimmed, three-cornered hat. His dark brown wig was full and curled about his shoulders. Rouge wasn’t sure, in this dim light, but his lips appeared to her to be redder than nature would provide, and the
passionée
, the small black beauty mark near his eye, seemed distinctly to have come from a patch box. He smiled warmly at her. “Cousin!” he said again. “Have I changed so?”
 

She stared in bewilderment. “Saint-Esprit? Girard?” she said at last.
 

He doffed his hat and bowed with a flourish. “The same. And happy to see you again.”
 

She frowned, still shaken from the greeting that had wrenched her thoughts back to the mill. And Pierre. “Why did you call me ‘cousin’?”
 

“Had you forgot?” he said, sitting down at her table. “When we were younger, and I used to escape my lessons to come riding and join you at Sans-Souci? And I would persuade my fool of a tutor that I was going to Montoire to meet my cousin, a very important personage at court?”
 

She smiled. “I
had
forgot. Such a long time ago! What was I? Fourteen?”