Marrying the Musketeer (21 page)

He shrugged with an easy gesture.
 
“Merchanting must be in your blood.
 
You make it sound so easy.”

What did he think was so difficult about it?
 
As long as you could read and cipher well enough and didn’t put too much trust in your fellow man, you would get along.
 
Trusting people too much had led to her father’s downfall.
 
“It
is
easy.
 
There is no magic to making money as a merchant.
 
It is easier work than soldiering, if you have a mind to it.
 
It’s a wonder more younger sons don’t take to it.”

He sat quiet for a moment, pondering her words.
 
“I do not fear the hard work in soldiering, but I have no stomach for it any more.”

She looked and him and waited, knowing that he would fill the silence eventually.
 
He would give her the clue she needed to decipher what he wanted.

He drank deeply of his ale.
 
“I loved your cousin,” he said at last.
 
She could have sworn that she saw him wipe a tear from his eye, but the smoky darkness of the tavern meant she was not quite sure.

She did not want to hear of his love for her.
 
What use was such a pale weak love as he had once felt for her?
 
It had not been strong enough to keep him by her side.
 
She would not fall for his foolish words ever again.
 
They were devoid of honesty and meaning.
 
It was too late.
 
Too late.
 
“You’ll get over her soon enough, I’ll warrant.
 
Pretty women are as common as pins.
 
No doubt the horrible thought of polluting your bloodlines with a woman from the merchant classes will help you to put her from your mind.”
 
She could not keep all the cynicism and bitterness she felt out of her voice.

He did not like her tone.
 
With an evil glare at her, he let his hand drift to the handle of his sword.
 
“Your cousin, Mademoiselle Ruthgard, was not common.
 
She was more than pretty – she was beautiful enough to take your breath away and sweeter than the finest sugar cane.
 
She did not look like a vulgar merchant’s daughter – or act like one, either.
 
Mademoiselle Ruthgard was an angel - and better bred than most of the women at court.
 
I will not allow any man, especially not you who should know better, to say a word against her.”

She could hardly believe the sad irony of his words.
 
Her false lover was singing her praises and defending her honor to her very face?
 
She never thought she would live to see the day.
 
She did not know whether to laugh or cry.
 
“Why did you not wed her then, if she is all that you say?”
 
Despite her hatred of him and her determination to be revenged on him, she was curious to hear his answer.

He put his elbows on the table and stared morosely into his ale as if he would find the answer to his troubles at the bottom of his mug.
 
“It is not that simple.”

She was glad to know that he had not walked away from her without a scratch.
 
She was glad to see that his heart ached for what he had done to her.
 
He deserved to ache for it.
 
She wanted to make him regret the day he had abandoned her.
 
“Why not?” she asked, with a veneer of careless ignorance.
 
“If you love a woman, then marry her if you have the inclination and can do so.
 
If you cannot, then find some other woman to replace her in your heart.
 
It does neither of you any good for you to moon over her in secret.”

He was silent for a while as he stared into the bottom of his ale.
 
“I loved your cousin well,” he said at last, his voice low with sorrow.
 
“I love her still.
 
I will never love another woman after loving her, but I doubt I can ever marry her.
 
I have wronged her too greatly for her ever to forgive me.”

She lifted up one eyebrow.
 
So he had a conscience after all, did he?
 
‘Twas a pity that his conscience was so late in making itself felt.
 
Better he had let his conscience stop him before he had taken her virginity and ruined her father instead of tormenting himself with guilt after the fact.
 
None of his guilty pangs would free her father or mend her broken heart - or stop her from taking her revenge on him for all the trouble he had caused her.
 
“Why did you wrong her, if you love her so well?”
 
She would like to hear him explain
that
away, if he could.

He was silent for a long time, vouchsafing her no answer.
 
She did not expect a reply.
 
What answer could he possibly to give to such a question that would not incriminate him more than it would excuse him?
 

From the tavern kitchen came the clutter of pots and pans and an aroma of rich roast beef.
 
Courtney surprised herself by starting to feel hungry.
 
She must be recovering from her night of drinking.

“I hate the King.”
 
His words were so soft she nearly did not hear them.

“I beg your pardon?”
 
Had he, a trusted member of the King’s Guard, openly confessed to a hatred that was at best impolitic and at worst could land him on the executioner’s block for treason?

“I hate the King.”
 
The words were low, but they carried a force behind them that showed how much and how deeply they were meant.
 
“I hate being his soldier.
 
He does not deserve my service.”

“He does not?”

He gave a bitter laugh.
 
“On second thoughts, maybe he does deserve it.
 
After all, he is no worse than I am.
 
He asked of me things I should not do.
 
Out of fear of losing my place in the Guards and having to return home to my family disgraced and penniless to beg my bread from my elder brother, I did them, though I knew I ought not.
 
Which of us is the greater scoundrel?
 
The King, who asks me to do evil, or me, who performs that evil?”

She did not want to feel any sympathy for him.
 
He did not deserve her pity.
 
“So, leave his service, then.
 
Find another man to serve -
 
one who will not ask evil of you.”

He gave a bitter laugh.
 
“Where could I find such a man?
 
What King would be better to serve than my own?
 
Even if I could find such a mythical beast as a good King, would even accept my service now?
 
No – The King of France deserves to sow what he has reaped – he deserves the service of a scoundrel who hates him and would run him through the body with the point of his sword if he had but a single chance to do so.
 
I will serve the man who corrupted my soul and may the Devil run off with his all the sooner.”

“And my cousin?
 
Should you not right the wrong you have done to her if it is in your power to do so?”

He shook his head as if it pained him too much to think about it.
 
“I will if I can, with all my heart, but I fear I have nothing to offer your cousin that would not poison her to accept.”

Courtney sat in her apartments buffing her fingernails with a soft cloth.
 
Though she was now a soldier, she was not about to let her nails grow raggedy and unkempt like a common trull.
 
Once her soldiering duties were over, she would return at last to her life as a woman.
 
She needed to keep herself in practice for that happy day.

Besides, Pierre had always admired her hands.
 
She wanted to keep them beautiful for him…

She pinched herself on the back of the hand for her traitorous thoughts.
 
Pierre would never notice her hands again.
 
He was nothing to her now.
 
Nothing at all.
 
It would be wise of her to remember that and keep her mind focused on her goal – freedom for her father and revenge on the man who had betrayed them both.

She would not dwell on his sorrow for the harm he had caused her.
 
She would not dwell on the look of settled sadness that lay permanently on his brow.
 
She would not pity him and she would not love him.

There was a knock on her door and she heard her landlady bustle to answer it.
 
Surely it would not be Pierre.
 
She had never invited him to her lodgings.
 
Though she needed to find out where his vulnerabilities lay, she knew only too well where her own lay to risk having him in her apartments.
 
She was not confident enough in her own strength to test herself yet.
 
She would keep to dealing with him as a man, on neutral ground.
 
There was less danger in that for her.

Besides, Pierre had left on a mysterious journey some days ago and she doubted he was back yet.
 
He had been more close-mouthed than usual about where he was going – saying only that he needed some weeks to take care of business in the south.
 
He had traveled light, with only his horse and some food packed in his saddle bags.
 
Despite his lack of preparation, he talked as though he would not be back for some time.

She wondered what his business was.
 
Ever since he had announced that he was leaving, he had been imbued with a new excitement and hope that gave an extra sparkle to his eyes.
 
The cloud of despair had lifted off him and he had been more than ever like the carefree man she had fallen in love with all those many months ago.

She heard a couple of pairs of feet tramp up the stairs, the sound of their boots muffled on the carpet runner.
 
Not Pierre, then, returned early from his travels.
 
Were he ever to come, he would come alone, she was certain of it.
 
She chided herself for the unreasonable disappointment she felt that it was not him.

For sure it was her new found friends – Musketeers and women like herself – that she had met in the tavern the other night.
 
Her head still ached with the memory of the wine they had drunk that night to celebrate their finding of each other.
 
The three of them had spent much of their off-duty time together since then, all of them grateful for the chance to let down their guard in each other’s company without fear of giving away the secret of their sex.
 
She had never realized how much the friendship of other women had meant to her until she was deprived of it by living as a soldier.

She and Miriame had even attended the wedding of Sophie and yet another Musketeer, the Comte de Lamotte, just the other day.
 
She smiled with the remembrance.
 
How good it had felt to wear a dress again just for that afternoon, to feel like a proper woman again, instead of like a counterfeit male.
 

How she had loved to feel the swish of silk around her legs, and the luxurious softness of silk stockings tied around her thighs.
 
She had even gone so far as to curl her hair with painstaking attention – not to mention a couple of fingers scorched on the hot curling papers - just for the occasion.

She still did not trust the Comte any more than she trusted any other faithless forsworn male, but he was easy on the eyes, and Sophie seemed content enough with her lot in marriage.
 

She was glad that her friend had found some measure of happiness in her life.
 
She only hoped that Sophie’s taste of it was not as ill-founded or as fleeting as hers had been, and that it did not leave her with such a bitter aftertaste as her own had done.

Sophie Delamanse, or rather Sophie Lamotte as she was now, was the first in the door, her face alight with some mission or other.
 
Courtney bit back a groan.
 
She had quickly pegged Sophie as the sort of woman and soldier who would stop at nothing to do what she felt was right.
 
She was not sure, however, that Sophie was always wise in her choice as to what was right and what was not.

Miriame Dardagny, the onion thief and all round scoundrel, followed behind her with the look of someone who has been dragged in against her will.