Louisa Rawlings (74 page)

With the ragout bubbling away in its covered pot, she turned her attention to the cleaning. She shook out the bedding, leaving it outdoors to air while she found a stout rod and thoroughly beat the straw mattresses and pillows. She swept the floor clean, wiped it down with a damp cloth, and strewed it with a few dried rushes that she’d managed to find at the millpond. She found herself singing, filled with the joy that had lightened her work in the spring. As twilight fell, she set out the fresh candles she’d bought; the little room glowed in the light, its golden stones warm and friendly.
 

She heard a scratching sound. She went to the door and opened it. There on the doorsill stood Jerusalem—her gray fur matted and filled with burrs—meowing indignantly. Rouge gasped. “You wicked cat! Where have you been all this time?” She swept the creature up in her arms, laughing and crying all at once. How thin the poor thing was! She carried it into the cottage and gave it a bowl of food; then, while it alternately purred and licked at her fingers, she fetched her comb from her portmanteau and worked at Jerusalem’s fur until the animal was smooth and silky, her coat shining. At the bottom of the cupboard, she found the little rug that had belonged to the cat. The minute she set it in front of the fire, Jerusalem curled up on it and went to sleep.
 

Ah,
Dieu
! She held her breath at the sound of a horse’s hooves in the distance. They came closer, then stopped just outside the cottage door. She heard footsteps—uneven, hesitating. Like someone limping. She turned away from the door, her heart beating wildly. Oh, God, she thought, I’ll cry. Like a silly fool. The door opened just behind her. She took a steadying breath. “Mind you scrape the mud off your boots,” she said primly. “I’ve only now swept the floor.” She turned, her lip trembling.
 

Pierre smiled and pulled her into his arms. “Devil take the floor, woman.” His mouth covered hers in a burning kiss. She clung to him, safe at last in her lover’s arms. At length he released her and held her away from him, his eyes filled with love and tenderness. “I thought you were at Sans-Souci. We were nearly there, Colinet and I, in the carriage. Then he told me, just to make conversation, how you’d asked him to fix this place.” He laughed, his voice shaky with emotion. “I should have known at once, my dearest Rouge. I sent Colinet home.”
 

“To Emilie. He’ll be glad for that.” She brushed away the foolish tears. “Come in and close the door. The draft will blow out the candles.”
 

He kicked the door shut behind him, his eyes never leaving her face, as though he’d memorize every feature. “I’d pick you up like the old days,” he said, “but I haven’t the strength yet. But you can sit on my lap, if you stay away from the side that’s mending.”
 

She began to weep. “It was all my fault.”
 

“Don’t be foolish. I wasn’t about to let Bleyle harm you. But I didn’t
intend
to take the arrow. It just happened. Now come here.” He led her to the chair, sat down, and pulled her onto one knee. “Rouge,” he said hoarsely. He kissed her over and over again, his mouth hot and possessive, his hands roaming her back and shoulders and breasts. At last he pulled his lips from hers and wrapped her tightly in his embrace. She sighed, her head cradled against his chest. “Sweet Jesu,” he muttered softly. “What a botch I made of things. Galloping off to Rochenard like a wild-eyed, jealous husband!”
 

“You never had cause to be jealous.”
 

“I know that now.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “A
spy
!
Name of God! I thought Torcy was mad when he told me. But then, when he explained how he’d forced you, kept you in his power, everything that had happened was suddenly clear to me. All those things that had made me distrust you. Distrust your love. The reason you kept returning to Versailles. Your desperation to save your father.” He looked at her, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “You didn’t really cheat at cards, did you?”
 

She giggled. “Tintin and I were superb at it.”
 

He laughed. “No wonder Torcy wanted you as an agent!” His green eyes were suddenly serious. “And that was why you went with Arsène, wasn’t it?”
 

“I’d heard something at Versailles. Snatches of the assassination plans. Like a fool, I hadn’t told Torcy. When Arsène came to Choisy, still pursuing me, I nearly turned him out. Then he said something, quite by chance. And I knew that he was involved with the plotters, and that it was going to happen soon.”
 

He frowned. “And so—in one of your wild flights of fancy—you went with him.”
 

“No. I was quite sensible, as a matter of fact. I realized the dangers. I wrote a letter instructing Colinet to follow me at once and to notify Torcy. But Arsène thought it was a letter for you, and he burned it.” She smoothed back the wisps of hair from his forehead and kissed him softly. “He was a far more jealous lover than you.”
 

His eyes were clouded. “Damn him,” he muttered.
 

“Pierre, my love. The mark on my breast…”

“No,” he growled. “I don’t want to hear about it. It doesn’t matter. You did what you had to do.”
 

“Yes, it does matter. It will haunt us both forever if I don’t explain. He put it there. I…was trapped. I had to pretend that I wanted him. I had to let him kiss me like that. But nothing more happened. I swear it. It was just good fortune that we were interrupted, thanks be to God!”
 

“And if you hadn’t been?”
 

She gulped, reliving the horror of that moment. “I don’t know how I could have endured it,” she whispered. “Because I love you so.”
 

“My poor Rouge. What a fool I was. I knew you did. The day I got you drunk…I knew you loved me, despite your angry words. That’s why I went away the next day. To give you time to think, and begin to forgive me for deceiving you.”
 

“It wasn’t such a terrible deception.”
 

“Yes. It was cruel and perfidious of me. I meant to buy you. I went to your father out of anger. But when the time came to claim you”—he looked away, but not before she’d seen the soft vulnerability in his eyes—“I was afraid, I thought you’d hate me. That you’d never forgive me.”
 

“And that was why you didn’t come to Sans-Souci?”
 

“Yes.”

“And why you arranged to have me sign the contract before we met?” Ah,
Dieu
! She’d thought he’d planned it out of malice.
 

He stared at the night-darkened window. “Yes. I confess it. I can battle the fiercest enemy. But I trembled in terror of your rebuff.”
 

“You never told me,” she said softly.
 

“We both hid behind our pride. As Colinet tried to tell me, though I wouldn’t listen.”
 

She bit her lip, remembering. “And said cruel, foolish things to each other. I
love
Choisy-aux-Loges. I never liked Versailles. I only said it to hurt you. And I love this cottage.”
 

He kissed her softly. “Then we’ll keep it. For our refuge and escape.”
 

“But Selommes needs another mill. Another miller.”
 

“We’ll build another mill, then. But this is ours.” He looked around, his eyes taking in every detail of their snug cottage. “This is…
mon Dieu
! I just realized! Jerusalem?”
 

“She turned up at the door tonight. Just like that.”
 

He stroked the side of her face, his gentle fingers caressing her downy cheek. “She knew that you were here.” He kissed her tenderly, then groaned. “Oh, God, Rouge! How did it happen? So many lies and secrets—the miller who wasn’t what he seemed, the frivolous coquette who was a deadly serious spy. We nearly lost each other in the tangle of it all. How heartless I was to you at Versailles. The things I said.”
 

“And I was mean and spiteful at Choisy. Breaking my own heart to hurt you. How could I have done it?”
 

He smiled, the twinkle returning to his eyes. “Well, you
are
given to wild impulses!”
 

“But they’re usually tempered with common sense.” She felt as though her heart would burst with happiness, suddenly eager to share her news with him. “But I’ve heard that troublous emotions are usual for someone in…my condition.”
 

“Your condition?” He began to laugh, his eyes filled with wonder and joy. “Your condition? A
child
?” She nodded. “Rouge. Dear Rouge!” He blinked and cleared his throat, overcome by his emotions. “We’ll go home tomorrow, my love. To await the next Villeneuve.”
 

She nodded happily, then, “No!” she said. “I nearly forgot. Tomorrow we’re going to a wedding.” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Angélique and Barnabé,” she said, in answer to his expression.
 

“Sweet Jesu! Did you have a hand in that, woman?”
 

She shrugged and giggled. “Who knows? A clever coquette from Versailles can do many things!”
 

“Including stealing a man’s heart.” He grinned and looked over at the bed. “Will you share my bed, wench?”
 

She shivered, remembering the thrill of his body pressed against hers. Her hands trembled as she pulled at his coat, untied his cravat. She ached to be his, to be possessed once again by her lover. She tore at his clothes.
 

He chuckled and held her frenzied hands in his, stilling their movements. He sniffed the air. “I’ve missed your cooking. What have you made for supper, woman?”
 

She laughed, and uttered the words she never thought to hear from her own lips. “Supper can wait,” she said. “I’m not hungry.”

Author’s Note

It has been said by historians that Louis the Fourteenth outlived his glory. The accession of Philip to the throne of Spain began the slow decline of France. Louis was to live for fifteen more years, years marked by disasters for France, and deep personal tragedy for Louis. As Torcy had feared, France was forced into a disastrous war—the War of the Spanish Succession—against England, Austria, and most of the rest of Europe. It was a war that depleted the treasury and disheartened the citizens of France. Before Louis sued for peace in 1713, he had been compelled to melt down the silver tables in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles to pay his troops.
 

Four heirs to the throne died during those unhappy years. Louis’s son, Monseigneur, the Grand Dauphin, died in 1711. The following year, the Dauphin’s son and his wife, the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne, and their infant son, died within the space of one week. The Duc de Chartres, with his interest in chemistry, was rumored to have poisoned them, though measles seem to have been the culprit. The fun-loving Duc de Berry died in 1714, after a hunting accident.
 

When the great Sun King, Louis the Fourteenth, died in 1715, at the age of 76, there was little mourning. The last dark years of his reign had eclipsed his days of glory.
 

The new King, Louis the Fifteenth, was his great-grandson, the second son to the late Bourgogne. He was a boy of 5. The Duc de Chartres, now called the Duc d’Orléans, was named Regent for the boy. His regency was marked by the same ambivalence—great strengths and great weaknesses—that characterized the man himself.

About the Author

Award-winning author Louisa Rawlings was born in Toronto, Canada, and raised in Western Massachusetts. She studied Art History and French Literature at Brown University. She raised four children in New York, while working as an interior designer and indulging her passion for “trivia” by appearing on quiz shows and constructing crossword puzzles for the New York Times. She is now a grandmother of nine.

Her first historical novel, written as Ena Halliday, was chosen by Pocket Books to launch their Tapestry line. She subsequently wrote for Popular Library/Warner and Harlequin Historicals under the pen name of Louisa Rawlings, the name of her maternal great-grandmother. She has written for Kensington/Zebra under the pseudonym of Sylvia Halliday. She has published 14 historical romances.

Her novel Forever Wild earned 5 stars from Romantic Times and Affaire de Coeur, and was a RITA finalist for the Romance Writers of America.

Look for these titles by Louisa Rawlings

Now Available:

Forever Wild

Stolen Spring

Coming Soon:

Promise of Summer

From the corruption of Boss Tweed’s New York to the Paris of the Impressionists, two couples fight to fulfill their greatest dreams and desires.

Forever Wild

© 2013 Louisa Rawlings

Willough, a well-bred child of wealth, yearns to take her place at the head of her father’s iron empire in the wilderness of the Adirondacks. Accustomed to polished city men, she finds herself drawn to the raw masculinity of Nat, her father’s foreman. Can she leave behind the trappings of city life and learn to embrace the rough country and rough man she is destined to love?