The English Heiress (13 page)

“Have you had enough to eat, Leonie?” Roger asked, sounding as if someone had him by the throat. Leonie nodded. He could not see her but felt the movement against his shoulder. “I think we had better try to sleep then,” he went on. “I wish it were not so cold, but if you take my coat—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You will freeze. I am wearing more than you are already.”

To silence him—because she was cold and wanted very much to be warm—Leonie pulled her rags as closely as she could around her and lay down. Beside her she could feel Roger sliding himself flat. It would be warmer, Leonie thought, if she could lie against him as she used to lie against Papa—but she did not dare suggest it and Roger was careful not to touch her. A wave of misery flooded over Leonie and she uttered a small sob in spite of her efforts to be silent.

“Don’t,” Roger murmured turning toward her. “God in heaven, I wish there was some comfort I could offer you.” His hand touched her tentatively, and Leonie could bear her cold and her sense of aloneness no longer. She moved so that she was pressed against him, shivering and sobbing. Roger clutched her close, half horrified and half delighted. He tried without releasing her to take off his coat, but she guessed what he was doing and would not let him. However, while it was open, her hands slid under it. Sensing a reasonable compromise, Roger pulled the coat around her as far as it would go. Leonie’s back was still exposed, but her arms were now warmed by Roger’s body. Unthinking, craving only the comfort his warmth offered, Leonie pressed her legs against Roger’s.

For a little while, as warmth and a sense of security diffused through her, Leonie sobbed harder than ever. Roger patted her back and murmured soothingly, just as he had done for his son when Philip was little and frightened. His sense of Leonie’s femininity was temporarily submerged in his pity and concern for her. Slowly, however, the sobs diminished to an infrequent shuddering sigh and Leonie lay relaxed, her head on Roger’s shoulder. Her breathing softened and slowed. Warmed by her body and by his satisfaction in having calmed her, Roger drifted asleep also.

Some time later he was wakened by Leonie’s movement. Still asleep, she was trying to snuggle tighter against him. Fuddled and sleep-dazed, Roger responded automatically to the feel of a body against his by kissing her face. He wondered muzzily as his lips touched Leonie’s dirt-streaked skin why the bed was so hard and cold, then recognized he was not in a bed. Could he have been so drunk as to pick up a Covent Garden nun and lie with her right in the street? A shock of revulsion startled him really awake, and he remembered where he was and why. In sleep, his hands had relaxed their hold on his coat and on Leonie. She was merely seeking warmth.

Unfortunately, Roger’s body did not catch up with his mind. What with staying at his father’s house and his trip to France, it had been longer than usual since he had visited his regular pleasure haunt. Still unaware, Leonie pressed her leg between his thighs. Instinct responded as if she had offered him a deliberate sexual provocation. Desperately he tried to swing his hips back, away from her. The movement was sudden Leonie jerked awake.

“What is wrong?” she whispered, still pushing forward toward the source of warmth. Then her breath caught and she froze. Her movement had pressed Roger’s swollen manhood into her groin.

He jerked himself away from her and sat up, pulling his coat off and flinging it down on her. Leonie lay perfectly still, terrified and thrilled. There was a stirring in her body, a response to Roger’s arousal that she had never felt before and did not recognize for what it was now. She felt him shift and bit back a whimper, not knowing whether it was a sound of protest or desire, but he moved farther away so that there was no longer any contact between them.

“I am very sorry,” he muttered, his voice choked. “Please try to forgive me. I know you are offended, but I—I had no intention of insulting you, Leonie. Men—sometimes a man’s body…” How the hell did one explain such a thing to a girl like Leonie? Roger’s voice died.

“I am not insulted,” Leonie faltered. She could hear him breathing, deep intakes of air followed by pauses. “I am sorry too,” she added softly. “I should not have—have leaned against you. I am not so ignorant as that. It was—I was asleep and cold.”

“It is not your fault,” Roger said stiffly. “I just hope you are not going to be afraid of me. If there was someone I could leave you with, I would not—”

“No!” Leonie cried aloud, seized by such a sense of loss and desolation at the idea of separation from Roger that she forgot the need for silence.

Instinctively Roger reached out and placed a hand over her lips. “Hush,” he murmured tensely.

Both held their breaths as Leonie’s cry rolled and echoed back and forth in the tunnel, reverberating hollowly until all semblance to a human voice was gone. They heard nothing more. There were many feet of packed earth and thick old beams between the tunnels and the rooms of the house above them. However, farther along, beyond the turn that sent the echo back to them, a narrow airshaft reached up through earth and floors into one of the chimnies of the château. From the hearths connected with that chimney issued a series of fading, unearthly moans, pulsing into silence as the echoes of Leonie’s cry died.

In two different rooms of the château, men started nervously and peered around. Even though it was full daylight, the ruin and desolation were having an effect. Hatred emanated from the charred walls and shattered remnants of furniture. Those who had destroyed had hated, and the ruins reflected that hatred back. The men glanced around once again and left the rooms to join their fellows and ask whether they too had heard—something.

Had only one man heard the sound, the others would have laughed him into silence, but they were searching in pairs so that the two escapees would not be able to overwhelm one man. The four men passionately supported each other, unconsciously increasing one another’s sense of horror until they all began to look around nervously.

“It was the wind in the chimney,” Marot snarled furiously. “I can tell you there is nothing and no one in this house, or de Conyers and his bitch daughter are hiding here and deliberately trying to frighten you.”

“What wind? There is no wind,” one of the men said angrily.

“Then it was a bird or a loose stone,” Marot snapped back viciously. “We must find de Conyers. Do you want him running to his friends in Paris and bringing the army down on us? He and Lafayette were bosom friends. Go back and search, I say.”

Somewhat sullenly the men went back to their task. They had already been through the barns and stables and two top floors of the house, looking into every cupboard, turning over every heap of rubbish and rags, while others stood guard at the doors and the foot of the stairways so that the quarry could not escape. Most of them had lost their enthusiasm and began to murmur that de Conyers would not have been such a fool as to return to this house, which he must realize would be one of the first places searched. More likely he was hiding in the town itself—the gate guards all swore no one had been past them—or if they were lying, de Conyers must be well away on the road to Dijon or Paris already.

Marot alone knew a good reason for de Conyers to return. There had been money in the strongroom, money and jewels. He had got that information out of de Conyers’ solicitor in Saulieu while questioning him in an effort to discover something discreditable about his enemy. Naturally that ill-gotten money, wrung from the sweat of the people, had been quietly taken and put to better use, but since de Conyers could not have known that his solicitor had given away the secret, he would believe the money was still there and he would return. However, this was not a reason Marot could afford to give his men. He knew them now. Most of them thought money and jewels wrested from the oppressors should go into their own pockets. They did not consider the public need. If they found out about de Conyers’ cache, they would demand a share, thinking Marot had kept the money for himself.

* * * * *

For a long time after she cried out, Leonie and Roger were still as death, listening. At last Roger lifted his hand from Leonie’s lips. She uttered a tiny sob. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

“I do not think anyone can hear anything,” Roger replied, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. The shock had added to his chill. “But it is only reasonable to take care.”

“Yes, I know, but… Monsieur St. Eyre…please… I—I am not so innocent as you think me. Please, I would rather be with you. Even—” Leonie barely stopped herself from saying, even if you wish to make me your whore. Somehow she realized that to say that would be a greater insult to Roger than to herself. “Even if there were someone else who would take me, I would rather go to England with you…”

Her voice drifted away, a pathetically lonely sound. Roger clenched his fists to keep himself from drawing her back into his arms. Not so innocent as he thought—poor child, what could she mean? And then the realization of what she meant nearly choked him.

“Leonie! Do you mean you were… The men who took you prisoner misused you?”

“Yes.”

The one word, thin, less than a whisper, cut Roger like a knife. “Oh God, oh God,” he breathed, “you must want to kill me. I would never… Child…”

“I am not a child,” Leonie said firmly, “and I certainly do not want to kill you. Why should I blame you for the bestiality of other men?”

It had been bitterly hard to get out that “yes”, but Leonie was now relieved and delighted with the turn the conversation had taken. It had occurred to her that she would never need to confess her relationship with Louis. There was something ugly in that, the trade of flesh for benefit, even though the benefit had not been her own. There was nothing she could have done about Marot’s assault though. The only unfortunate thing was that Leonie knew some men set a very high price on virginity, and it was very likely from the horror in Roger’s voice, that he was one of them. Realizing how much he was beginning to mean to her, desolation touched her again.

Roger had responded immediately to Leonie. He was not sure whether he was more surprised by her seeming generosity of spirit or suspicious because she could be dispassionate about such a subject. Senselessly he repeated his apology, again trying to assure her that no matter how unruly his body, he would never force a woman, particularly one under his protection. He was not, he said with indignation, apologizing for even thinking of such an abomination, only for an uncontrollable physical reaction that might have frightened Leonie.

“Indeed, I believe you,” Leonie murmured. “I have said over and over that I was not frightened or angry.” There was a little pause and Leonie sat up also, regretfully pulling off Roger’s coat and pushing it back to him. “You cannot sit there for hours and hours uncovered. You will be ill from the cold.”

It was impossible to contest that. Roger was shaking with chill. However, if he took the coat, Leonie would suffer. They needed each other’s warmth, but the thought of taking Leonie back into his arms brought an immediate response. Why could the girl not be an ugly, whining burden, Roger thought petulantly. Then an idea dawned. If he put the coat on backward and Leonie lay against his back, she would be reasonably warm and his reactions would not be apparent.

Hesitantly, Roger made his suggestion. He did not know whether he was more pleased or shocked at her prompt acceptance. It was nice to have proof that she trusted him, but should she have? Perhaps she had not found his behavior offensive, had in fact found it pleasant? No, Roger told himself. This is not a lightskirt or a fancy piece, but a decently raised girl. Nonetheless, when he pulled on his coat and lay down and Leonie cuddled close beside him. Roger found himself fighting a losing battle against images of Leonie that were not in the least decent.

Leonie had slid one arm against his back and the other around his chest and buried her face in his nape. Roger closed his eyes and swallowed, struggling to keep his breathing steady. He could not understand why he should be so tormented by desire. His sexual appetite was strong but not indiscriminate, and this girl had done nothing to provoke him. Her grip on him was not more than necessary to hold them together, yet his flesh burned, where she touched him, sending thrills down his chest and back that provided a near-intolerable stimulation.

It was worse than the misery of his early marriage, when he had desired Solange with an intensity that amounted to physical torture. She had often refused him so that he was frustrated—and in those early years he had been too much a romantic fool to pacify himself with whores—but he had at least been able to go away. Now he could do nothing but endure, with Leonie’s body pressed against him in a constant, false simulation of willingness. He could not even ease himself with small movements. Each time he shifted his body, Leonie murmured and pressed herself even more tightly against him. She was, he thought, already asleep, but even that idea did not calm him. He ached to turn and hold her, to kiss her and caress her, but she was a gentlewoman. He could not use her like a drab, and he was resolved there would be no more gentlewomen in his life—no more dainty flowers that distilled a poisoned perfume.

In fact, Leonie was not asleep. Her clinging was as much to ease a restlessness in her body that she really did not understand, as to keep warm. Well experienced in the sexual act, Leonie was totally unacquainted with desire. She was aware that she wanted Roger to do to her what Louis had done, but she did not know why she wanted it or what would result. She did not recognize the physical symptoms of passion and pressed herself against Roger to satisfy a need for contact, not realizing she wanted more.