Louisa Rawlings (42 page)

She had been feeling tender toward him, the brash youth who surely could change and mature with gentle guidance. Now the doubts returned. She sighed. “Please go now, Girard. I should like to sleep.”
 

She dressed in her riding habit the following morning. It really was quite attractive, with gold embroidery and bands around the edges of the jacket and skirt. And the little black tricorn with its red feather, a dramatic contrast atop her silver-blond curls, added a piquant touch to the costume. Tintin had certainly known what he was about when he chose the habit! At the last moment she remembered Girard’s brooch. She had worn it the night before on the bosom of her court dress; Girard had approved both her gown and the location of her brooch. Remembering his sudden impassioned assault last night, Rouge wondered now if he hadn’t used his scrutiny of the brooch as an excuse to look at her bosom as often as he could. This morning she placed it on the shoulder of her riding coat, in a somewhat more modest spot.
 

She hurried down to join Girard for breakfast. She was not surprised to see that his riding habit was more splendid than hers: his heavily braided coat was folded and pleated so the skirts stood out at a sharp angle, and the ruffles at his neck and sleeves were fit for a great ball. Though they would be riding, he hadn’t neglected the touch of color on his lips and a dusting of powder on his full wig. He bowed in pleasure at her arrival, and seated her at the table himself, grandly waving away the lackey who had sprung forward. While they ate, he described the horse he had chosen for her. “A handsome mare, and quite gentle. I think you’ll enjoy her.”
 

Rouge nodded. “I’m glad she’s gentle. I haven’t ridden for months. I’ll welcome a good ride.”
 

They finished eating and rose to leave. A servant came in and bowed nervously to Girard. “Monsieur, the furniture you ordered has arrived. The cabinetmaker brought it in, and I’ve had Henri and the others carry it up to your
appartement
.”
 

“Very good. Tell the man to leave his bill.” Girard turned to take Rouge by the arm.
 

“But, monsieur…”
 

Girard frowned. “What is it?”
 

“Henri isn’t sure where you want the new bedstead to go. He asks you—if it pleases you, monsieur—to take a moment to show him.”
 

“The fool! Does he not know I’ve planned to ride this morning?”
 

“But, monsieur…” bleated the servant.
 

“You buzzing gnat! Will you harry me?” Girard raised his hand to strike the servant; then, catching Rouge’s eye, he took a deep breath and swallowed his anger. “Do you mind?” he asked her. “This will only take a few minutes, I’m sure.”
 

“Take as long as you like,” she said, smiling, pleased that he had remembered her advice of the night before. “I’ve forgotten my gloves. I’ll fetch them, and meet you here again whenever you’ve finished with the furniture.” She went back to her rooms and picked up her gloves, which she folded into her pocket. She thought a moment. Girard had said the horse was gentle. Still, she’d never known a horse that wasn’t easier to befriend if he had a piece of sugar to nibble on. She thought she remembered where the kitchens were in Girard’s château. Unlike some châteaux that had confusing wings and additions, this one was laid out in a regular pattern, with two rectangles enclosing two inner courtyards. The stables and workshops surrounded the first courtyard, the living quarters overlooked the second. The kitchens were beneath the long wing that separated the two courtyards. She hurried there, taking an inner passageway. The arched stone corridor was cold and damp. She shivered. If the day stayed so cool, she might send for her cloak before they went riding. She could hear echoing footsteps on the stairs at the end of the hall, coming up from the kitchens.
 

Two men appeared. One of them was speaking with great animation, and Rouge caught the words “bedstead” and “pay me betimes.” The cabinetmaker, she guessed. The other man, his dark coat tossed carelessly over one shoulder, was munching on an apple. It was Pierre.
 

Rouge gasped, her heart beginning to pound wildly. She leaned up against the wall, feeling as though her legs could no longer support her. It was nearly a month since she’d seen him, yet her yearning lips still tasted his kisses.
 

He looked up and saw her. Except for the small crease that appeared between his green eyes, his expression scarcely changed. He turned to the other man. “Wait outside at the wagon, Jean. I’ll join you in a few minutes.” Jean nodded and scurried past Rouge to the outside door, his mouth twisted in a sly smile, as though he suspected a dalliance. Pierre tossed away the apple and moved nearer to frown down at Rouge. His eyes scanned her riding habit, her little hat, with undisguised insolence. “You’re looking very prosperous, mademoiselle. Is Arsène here?”
 

Her throat was so dry she could barely speak. “What…what are you doing here?” she croaked.
 

“Have you forgot? I earn my living. Sometimes by renting out my horse and wagon. Jean has a shop in Vendôme. And this Saint-Esprit has been spending his gold like a drunken sailor.” He lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “And what are
you
doing here? I should have thought you’d be at Versailles by now, amusing yourself with someone new.”
 

Her heart was breaking at his coldness. “Don’t, Pierre. Please,” she whispered. “You said you loved me once.”
 

He laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. “Did I? I must have been drunk. You can’t believe the ravings of a drunken madman. I’ve confessed as much to half a dozen pliant whores after a night of carousing.” He looked about the long corridor and glanced out a window. “A handsome château, this. What
are
you doing here?” He might have been a courtly cavalier making polite conversation.
 

She bit her lip. He’d denied his love. Well, she wouldn’t let him see how he’d hurt her! “The Saint-Esprits are friends and neighbors,” she said casually. Two could play that game.
 

“Really? Jean says the young marquis is a faultfinder. And a bit of an ass.”
 

“He’s my neighbor, not yours,” she said, frowning, “so you needn’t trouble yourself about him. How are things in Selommes?”
 

“I’m surprised you bother to ask. I should have thought you were like the storm that brought you to us—blowing in on a whirlwind, creating havoc, and then leaving.”
 

“Damn you,” she said, choking back her tears. “Do you think I have no feelings? Do you think what happened between us has left no scars on my heart?”
 

His eyes were like green ice. “I wasn’t talking about you and me,” he said. “I meant the mischief you caused with Angélique and Barnabé.”
 

“
Mon Dieu!
What do you mean?”
 

“That innocent girl, filled with unrealistic hopes for the future, and emboldened by the love of her Barnabé, found the courage to defy her father. She refused to sign the forms of consent for her marriage to the banker from Vendôme. When Ruffec swore he’d sign them himself in her name, she confessed that she was no longer the chaste virgin that the banker had been promised. Then Ruffec beat her savagely, hoping to learn the name of her seducer, but she defied him even then.”
 

“Oh, heaven,” murmured Rouge.
 

“In a rage, Ruffec knocked her down the stairs and broke her arm. Scarcely able to move for her pain, she was spirited off to a convent before anyone knew what had happened. She’s now kept a virtual prisoner in the convent, under lock and key, until she comes to her senses and allows herself to be given to another man.”
 

“But that’s monstrous!” cried Rouge. “That villain Ruffec!”
 

“The tale of Ruffec is the only good part of the story,” he said sardonically, rubbing his knuckles. “The baron met with an unfortunate accident—a masked highwayman who overtook his litter and thrashed him within an inch of his life. All the while his servants, having watched his cruelty to his daughter, and spoken of it to…certain people, stood by and did nothing.”
 

“And Barnabé?”
 

“After drowning his sorrows in ale for three days straight, he volunteered for the army when the recruiters came to the village. Four years of fighting for the king should help him to forget Angélique.”
 

“Oh, alas,” she said, weeping.
 

His mouth twisted in an ugly smile. “Yes. Alas. The dangers of meddling.”
 

Angrily she brushed away her tears. “Was I so wrong? Would you have had her deny her feelings, marry for money at her father’s behest?”
 

He shrugged. “Why not?
You
will.”
 

“But I choose it,” she snapped. “Not willingly, but the choice is mine.”
 

His eyes were filled with contempt. “Then she’ll be chattel. And you’ll be a harlot.”
 

“Damn you,” she muttered, and leaped for him, her hand upraised.
 

He grabbed at her wrist and held her hand away from his face. “Still the tiger?” he said mockingly. “Poor Jacquelan has not forgot you! They jeer her in the village yet.”
 

“Let me go, curse you,” she said. “I…” She stopped, staring at his hand. “My ring,” she whispered. “You’re wearing my ring!”
 

He released her wrist and turned away. “It didn’t seem fair to have the gypsy keep it, when she could use coin instead.”
 

“You reclaimed it,” she said softly.
 

“In a moment of madness. God knows why.”
 

“But you wear it still, for all your harsh words.”
 

“To remind me of my folly. And of a woman’s treachery.”
 

She ached to throw herself into his arms. “No,” she said, her eyes filled with hope and love. “You wear it because you love me still. Say you do, Pierre.” She put a trembling hand on his arm.
 

His glance wavered; then he pushed her violently from him. “You have no magic amulet today,” he growled. “Save your coquette’s tricks. I want no part of you!”
 

“Then give me back my ring!” she cried.
 

“What the devil’s going on here?”
 

Rouge spun around in panic. Girard had come into the passageway. She turned back to Pierre, filled with dread at the angry gleam in his eye. “Nothing, Girard,” she said. She forced herself to speak calmly. “Are we ready to ride now?”
 

Girard indicated Pierre. “Who is this man?”
 

“He’s…he’s only a miller from Selommes. He was helping the cabinetmaker. Please, Girard, can we go? I’m so longing to ride.”
 

Girard’s mouth was set in a stubborn line. “I heard you speak of a ring. Kindly explain the why of it.”
 

Pierre gave Saint-Esprit a withering glance. “It’s none of your concern.” He turned toward the door.
 

“Jacques! Michel!” At Girard’s call, two gardeners came running in from the courtyard. They were both tall and robust, and one of them carried a stout hoe. Girard smiled and brushed a piece of straw from his coat. “Now, my friend miller,” he said, “unless you wish these men to break your hand, you’ll take off that ring of your own accord.”
 

Pierre shrugged. “The jade is scarcely worth a broken hand.” He removed the ring from his little finger and gave it to one of the gardeners, who passed it on to Saint-Esprit.
 

Girard frowned, examining the circlet. “But that’s the Desportes crest,
ma chère
.”
 

Rouge stirred uneasily. “Yes, I…”
 

“Is this your ring?”
 

“Not anymore.”
 

“You needn’t protect him, for the love of God! Did the rogue steal it?”
 

“No! I gave it away. That is…I gave it to
him.
For…certain kindnesses,” she added lamely.
 

Pierre laughed, a dry bark that held the edge of mockery. “Daintily put, Rouge.”
 

Girard drew himself up and stared down his thin nose in a lordly manner. “You dare to speak to this lady in so familiar a fashion?”
 

Pierre bowed, swirling his coat in the air in scornful imitation of a cavalier’s salute. Rouge held her breath. He could only push Girard so far. “Shall I be more formal?” he asked. “Mademoiselle, Queen of Deceit, shall I tell him how I came to have the ring?”
 

Girard’s face had begun to turn pink, and his voice skipped to a higher pitch. “Hold your tongue!” he squeaked. “Mademoiselle de Tournières is to be my wife! I’ll not have you speaking so to her!”
 

“What?”
Pierre glared at her, his eyes dark with condemnation. “My God, Rouge, have you no shame at all?”
 

She cringed, filled with her own sense of guilt. She had gone from Arsène to Girard without a blink of the eye. “Name of heaven, Pierre,” she whispered, “don’t look at me like that.” If she could have vanished from the face of the earth, she would have done so at this moment.