Louisa Rawlings (65 page)

Arsène stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with surprise. “Marie-Rouge! What are you doing here?”
 

Her heart thumped in her breast. God save me, she thought, and moved toward him. “I just wanted to be here. I was feeling out of sorts and lonely. I couldn’t sleep. And
I thought…just being where you live and breathe would cheer me.”
 

“Sweetling,” he whispered, and swept her into his embrace.
 

She allowed his kiss, pretending ardor, then stared at him. “But why are
you
here? Didn’t you ride?”
 

“I couldn’t,” he said. “I thought I’d come to your room and kiss you as you slept.”
 

“How sweet.” How strange! “But surely you knew my doors would be locked.”
 

“It doesn’t matter now,” he breathed. “You’re here, my dearest, and I adore you.” He wrapped his arms about her, his hands on her buttocks, pulling her to his loins. With only her single petticoat, and her stays put aside, she could feel the tenseness of his body pressed to hers, the hard swelling that betrayed his passion. “I knew you wanted me, my love. I knew you couldn’t wait,” he exulted.
 

She moved uneasily in his arms. “No, I only wanted to be here. To see you when you returned…”
 

“Don’t be shy now, my love. Not now, when the moment’s come.”
 

“Arsène, you don’t understand…” Sweet heaven, what could she say to him?
 

He pushed her away, his eyes filled with cold danger. “You don’t want to tease me again, Marie-Rouge,” he said tensely. “Not like this. Not when you’ve come to my bed- chamber!”
 

She didn’t intend to be raped. And that was clearly what she read in his eyes. She smiled, smoothed away his frown lines with delicate fingers. “Of course not.” She cast down her eyes. “How well you know my heart. I
was
shy. I thought to…sit alone in your room this afternoon, lie on your bed, look at your books. Share a secret intimacy with those things that touch you every moment of the day. But my shyness vanished in your arms. Oh, my dearest, tonight will see no locked door between us.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him with all the warmth she could feign. There’d be time enough tonight, after supper, to lock herself in her room and claim a headache.
 

“No!” His eyes were shining with passion. “Now. I want you now!” He began to tug at the laces of her mantua.
 

She trembled in horror, aware that he would read her trembling as desire. Oh, Pierre, forgive me, she thought. She had three choices. She could tell him she was a spy for Torcy. In which case, he or his cohorts would surely kill her. She had no illusions on that score; they had too much at stake. She could reject his advances, and anticipate a rape, and possibly a violent beating: she’d led him on too often in the past. Or she could submit. Practical Rouge, she thought bitterly. Better to lose her honor, and save an unknown victim from an assassin’s hand, than to lose her life. “Wait,” she said, struggling with his grasping hands. If she could forestall him as long as possible, something might intrude to prevent his final triumph. She had a sudden foolish, irrational thought. If only she had the gypsy’s amulet now! But, alas. All she had were her wits. She managed a coquette’s smile, her eyes crinkling like a cat’s. “You’ve wooed me, and won me. May I not woo you now?”
 

He stared at her in surprise; then his mouth curved in a pleased smile. “What a devil you are, Marie-Rouge. Well, then. Woo me.” His eyes glinted, the smile cooling perceptibly. “But don’t take too long about it,” he warned.
 

She giggled. “Sit down, then. Not the bed. Not yet. The chair.” When he was comfortably settled, she danced slowly to him, moving her body in a seductive rhythm. She pulled off his boots, then made him stand while she removed his riding coat and waistcoat. She untied his cravat and slid its silken softness across his chin and neck. He shuddered and dropped his head back. She unbuttoned his shirt, while he gasped in pleasure, and ran her fingers across his smooth chest. She nearly faltered, her strength failing her, when she thought of Pierre and the thrill of making love to him. No! She couldn’t think like that! Arsène would read it in her eyes and she’d be doomed. Arsène groaned and reached for the fly buttons of his breeches, his hands shaking. Rouge laughed softly, “Not yet,” and pushed him gently into the chair. “Don’t you want to look at me first?”
 

“Yes, you temptress,” he said hoarsely. He pulled his small riding wig from his head and tossed it to the floor, then reached into the pocket of his breeches for a silk handkerchief to mop his brow. Rouge heard a metallic click on the floor. Arsène smiled, his chest heaving with emotion. “Woo me, you devil.”
 

As slowly as she could, she began to pull off her clothes. She cursed herself now for having worn so little; it took only a few moments—however much she delayed—before she was naked. Dear God, save me now, she thought.
 

He drew in a sharp breath. “I knew you were beautiful. I dreamed of it.” He held out his arms. “Come to me.” He still sat in the chair. She crossed to him, trying not to shudder as his hands caressed her bare back, and his head bent to her breasts. She closed her eyes, hands rigid at her sides, as his mouth explored the vulnerable flesh of her bosom. His lips sucked at the tender skin of her breast; she felt a sudden sharp tingling. He raised his head and laughed softly. “I’ve put my love mark on you now, Marie-Rouge.”
 

She looked down at herself and gasped. Above the nipple of her left breast, on the first rounded swell, was a small red mark. “Oh, Arsène, how could you,” she said. Her voice shook. She’d never be able to see this through. She fought back the tears of disgust, the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.
 

“I told you long ago that you were mine. And now I’m claiming you.” He stood up abruptly and lifted her in his arms, carrying her with haste to the bed. He set her down and fumbled with his breeches.
 

“Monsieur le comte!” There was a sharp rap on the door.
 

Arsène whirled about. “Go away, damn you!”
 

“I wouldn’t disturb you, monsieur, but it’s important.”
 

“Merde!”
Arsène ran his hand through his cropped hair, clearly torn with indecision. He sighed, swore again, and pulled the bed hangings closed against Rouge’s nakedness. “Come in,” he growled.
 

Through a small opening in the curtains, Rouge could see Arsène’s steward, Prévost, bustle into the room. He glanced at Arsène’s state of undress; then his eyes took in the open door to Rouge’s bedchamber, her garments heaped on the floor. “I regret to interrupt, monsieur. But Monsieur de Bleyle has just arrived.”
 

“For that you disturb me? Put him in the Mercury suite, as usual, damn it!”
 

“He’s in a state of extreme agitation, monsieur. He insists that he must see you at once. He has unexpected news.”
 

Arsène muttered angrily. “Have you told the others?”
 

“Not yet.”
 

“Has Quinton arrived?”
 

“Not yet.”
 

Arsène sighed. “Well, go and inform the others. I’ll join them in a minute.” He waited until the steward had left the room, then he turned back to the bed and Rouge. He opened the curtains, bent down, and kissed her. “Oh, my sweet Marie-Rouge. What torment. Wait for me here. I’ll return to your side as soon as I can.”
 

Rouge’s mind was racing. She’d been reprieved once again. And with the keys to her room she’d be safe. She wouldn’t wait until supper to lock herself in; she’d see to it that supper was brought to her room in secret. And let him stew until morning. By which time, she’d be on her way to the intendant at Tours. She still didn’t know
what
the plot was. But she knew most of the plotters. And now Bleyle had arrived. She looked up at Arsène and frowned. “Do you think I have no feelings?” she pouted. “You tease me, make me long for you. Then, at the first knock on the door, you’re gone.”
 

“But this is important, Marie-Rouge.”
 

“As I am not?” She flounced out of the bed and picked up her chemise.
 

Arsène swore, and tugged on his boots. “Of course you’re important. I adore you.”
 

She slipped into the chemise and climbed into her petticoat. “But you won’t stay.” She could afford to be bold; she knew that Bleyle’s news must be vital.
 

Arsène pulled on his waistcoat and tied his cravat. “Then you won’t wait for me?”
 

Rouge dressed quickly, though with seeming nonchalance, trying to keep pace with him. She didn’t dare linger. She remembered the Mercury suite: a very handsome
appartement
at the opposite wing of Rochenard, near the stairway. She’d noticed the beautiful murals of Mercury and the gods that adorned its walls. If she hurried, she could find her way there through a back passage and listen in at a door. “No,” she said in answer to his question, “I’ll not wait for you. I’m very angry with you. I intend to return to my room and lock that door. You’ll have to woo me again. Persuade me that I’m at least as important as your foolish business!”
 

“Marie-Rouge…” he began.
 

She waved him away. “When you return, you’ll find the door locked. Now go.”
 

He slammed his wig back onto his head and stormed from the room, a man bedeviled.
 

Rouge sagged against the bedpost, shaking in every limb. She didn’t know how she could have endured it, to have him make love to her. Thanks be to God she’d be safely locked in her room tonight! She turned to the connecting door, then stopped. Something caught her eye. She remembered the clank of metal on the floor as Arsène had pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. She stooped down to retrieve the object. It was a key.
Ciel!
A very familiar-seeming key! She hurried to the door of her room and put the key in the lock. It turned silently. That villain! she thought. That’s why he’d come back from riding. To kiss her while she slept, he’d said. More likely to rape her in her bed, damn him! And all that charming pretense of giving her both keys, so she’d think that she was safe! She shuddered. And she had slept soundly last night, believing it so, while the whoremaster had the key to her virtue in his pocket all that time! Well, the key was hers now. She tried it on the other doors to his room to be sure there were no similar locks, and was pleased to see that it didn’t fit. In all likelihood there were no other duplicates. She hurried to her room, locked the connecting door, and slipped the two keys with their ribbon about her neck. The third key, the one she’d just found, she hid in the box that held her jewels. Then she sped down the passageway to find the back entrance to the Mercury suite.
 

It was in a narrow, seldom-used gallery, and quite dim; twilight was already falling beyond the château. She’d be safe here. She found that she was able to kneel down and see clearly through the keyhole to the room beyond; a large candle stand illuminated the tense faces of the men who sat around the table. Rouge recognized Gourgon and Trivelin, as well as two other men to whom she’d been introduced. The Duc de Bleyle was there, still brushing the dust of travel from his coat. And Arsène had just come into the room, followed by Prévost bearing a tray of wine cups. Very curious, thought Rouge. It should be a page or a maid, not the steward, for such a menial chore. Unless most of the servants were unaware of the sinister meetings at Rochenard. It was certainly apparent—from the few men in the room, as against the number of guests at Rochenard—that only those nobles who knew of
Val d’Amour
by
that
name came here for more than simple amusements and sexual pleasures.
 

Arsène glared at Bleyle. “I trust your news is vital, to interrupt my diversions!”
 

Bleyle laughed. “A charming creature, no doubt.”
 

“And in a fury because of your untimely arrival, damn you!”
 

The Duc de Bleyle shrugged. “There’ll be time enough for women when the deed is done. But I’m surprised, Falconet. I haven’t seen you so distracted by a woman since we were in Paris in June, and you were tearing your hair out over that de Tournières wench! Whom you were burning to bed!”
 

“This
is
Marie-Rouge,” said Arsène tightly.
 

“
Hein!
You don’t mean it! I’m sorry you didn’t let me bring her father into this.” Rouge almost gasped aloud in relief. Bleyle’s words meant that Tintin was innocent of complicity.
 

“No,” said Arsène. “I didn’t want Tournières in. The woman might have learned too much, between her father and me.”
 

“And she’s here?”
 

Arsène took a swallow of wine and banged his cup down on the table. “And just about to capitulate, devil take it, when you arrived! The moment we’re through here…” Gourgon, who had been listening in fascination, snickered.
 

Bleyle glared at him, then turned to Arsène. “No. Not tonight. We have letters to write, you and I. We need to know who, at Versailles, will support us when the time comes. You can take the woman in celebration tomorrow night. When the job is done.” Rouge silently blessed Monsieur de Bleyle. He might be a disagreeable man, and a bad influence on Tintin, but tonight he was her savior!