By Honor Bound (21 page)

This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be happening.

Honneure took a step toward the window. Another.

She could see his face now. Tears streaked his cheeks. His lips silently formed the sound of her name.

He had come to her. She did not want him, had not ever wanted to see him again. But she could not stop herself from moving toward the window. Could not stop her fingers from opening the latch.

Philippe swung the window wide himself. He braced his hands on the sill, heaved his body upward.

Then he was standing in the room. Honneure threw herself into his arms.

Their tears mingled as Philippe covered her face with kisses. He kissed her eyes, her brow. His lips retraced and found every spot he had kissed the first time he had kissed her. He heard the sob escape her throat, heard her moan his name.

“Sssshhhh.” Gently, he covered her mouth with his hand. “Keep your voice low, Honneure, but don’t be afraid to wake the old man. I watched him through the kitchen window. He woke, took another drink, and passed out with his head on the table.”

A hundred questions, a thousand words crowded Honneure’s tongue, tripping it. “But how … why … ?”

“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything,” Philippe whispered urgently. “First and foremost, I did not betray you, Honneure. I did not. I would not.”

“But I saw …”

“You saw exactly what Olivia and Madame du Barry wanted you to see.”

Honneure listened in stunned silence as Philippe related the tale to her, revealed the deception, exposed it to the light. And in the light it turned to dust and blew away.

Philippe had not deceived her. He loved her. They had both been duped. Madame du Barry had eliminated a rival. Olivia had eliminated her rival
and
had her vengeance. Honneure was gone from the palace but not with Philippe, not as they had planned. The horror of it rose like a crushing wave breaking over her head. In a moment she would drown.

“Honneure … Honneure, what’s wrong?” Philippe grasped her arms as she sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

“Don’t look so stricken. Everything will be all right now. I’ll take you away from here. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Honneure shook her head slowly in denial of the entire hideous situation.

“If you’re worried about the old man, don’t be. I’ll talk to him, explain to him. He can’t keep you here against your will.”

The sound that came from her wasn’t even human. It frightened him. Though he hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours, the weakness in his knees wasn’t from hunger. Philippe sank to the ground at Honneure’s feet. He took her hands.

“Honneure, what is it?” Philippe whispered. “Tell me.”

“Armand and I were married. This morning.”

Her eyes were so huge he could get lost in her gaze. He wanted to. He wanted to be lost and never found. He did not want to think his next thought or experience the agony that was going to accompany it. But the knowledge was relentless.

“You’re … married.”

Honneure nodded, unblinking. Tears welled. “We drove into Honfleur. There was just the priest,” she said in a small voice. “We came back here, and Armand started drinking …”

Philippe closed his eyes. Thank God she had married an old man who was fond of the bottle. “So nothing … nothing happened tonight?” It was more a statement than a question.

When Honneure shook her head, he let out a long sigh. “Listen, Honneure, my love. It isn’t too late. It
can’t
be.”

“But, Philippe …”

This time it was Philippe who shook his head in denial. “No. He’ll let you go. He has to let you go. He’ll release you. I’ll go to him, talk to him. First thing in the morning.”

Was it possible? Did she dare to let herself hope? Philippe’s excitement was contagious. But she was afraid.

“Armand is not … not an easy man, Philippe.”

“I’ll convince him. We’ll be together, my love. Please don’t think any other way but that. We belong together, and we will
be
together, Honneure. I promise you.”

A tiny spark of hope ignited in her breast. Could it be that her future did not lie at the bottom of a black abyss after all?

“Believe me, my love. Believe.” He kissed the hands he held. He pressed his lips to each knuckle, the back of her hand, and then turned it over and kissed her fingers, her palm. He heard her breathing quicken.

The nightmare, perhaps, had ended. But now she was caught in a dream. Philippe was here, in her room. Moonlight streamed through the window as he kissed her hands. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull him closer to her.

Philippe felt Honneure pull her hands free. She placed them on either side of his face and gently pulled him nearer. His head pillowed against her breast, and he could hear, feel, her heart beating. Through the thin material of her nightdress, he could feel the warmth of her flesh. His senses swam. He rocked back on his heels to clear his head.

It was her wedding night. Events had gone horribly, terribly wrong, and Honneure found herself wed to the wrong man. But Philippe had come to her. Philippe, her love, her life.

And it was her wedding night.

Honneure rose slowly from the bed. In one smooth, seductive motion she pulled her nightdress over her head. The gauzy material trailed a moment from her fingers and dropped to the floor. She raised her arms and lifted the long, heavy lengths of her hair from her shoulders and then let them fall again. Philippe sucked in his breath.

There was not a more beautiful woman in the world. Everything about her was perfect. Her pink-tipped breasts were full but not too heavy. Her waist was slender, hips ever so slightly flared. Her legs were straight and shapely. She stood before him with unaffected grace. He rose to his feet.

It never occurred to Honneure to feel shame in her nakedness. There was one love in her life, one husband in her heart. It had always been so. She belonged to Philippe in every way, as he belonged to her.

It was Philippe’s turn. She had seen him unclothed once before, when he had lain at Olivia’s side. Even in her shock and horror, a part of her brain had registered the beauty and elegance of his form. Her lips parted with desire as he revealed himself again but so differently this time. So differently.

Philippe unbuttoned his coat and let it fall. His shirt followed. He stood on alternate legs, perfectly balanced, to remove his boots.

Honneure’s eyes followed the dark line that began at his throat, down across his muscular chest to his flat belly. She watched him hook his thumbs into his waistband. He was hard already, straining against the taut material. A hot, delicious weakness blossomed in her belly.

Naked and fully erect, Philippe stood before Honneure. She held out her arms.

Her first sensation was the softness of her breasts compressing against his powerful chest. The columns of his thighs pressed to hers. His rigid, pulsing maleness seared a brand into her skin. She closed her eyes to shut the world away and experience pure sensation.

She was his; she was open before him. He had merely to take the cup and drink from it. Philippe tilted Honneure’s chin upward and brought his lips down to hers.

She had tasted him before, but never so languidly, so sensuously. She reveled in the feeling of his tongue gliding across hers, searching the secret places of her mouth. She felt the breath from his nostrils soft, warm against the skin between her nose and upper lip. It was so intimate, so arousing. Her hips thrust into his as if of their own accord. Desire became so overwhelming, her entire body and mind were focused on one thing only.

As she melted into his arms, Philippe lifted Honneure and set her gently on the bed. He lay down next to her and cupped a breast in his hand. Her head fell back, her eyes closed and her lips parted. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She captured his hand and guided it to the warm, moist place between her legs. The heat of her was intense. She moaned as he stroked her. Then it was his turn to groan as she grabbed his member and explored it with her fingertips.

The knowing had only begun, but its completion would have to wait. Nothing could be between them anymore. Not time nor space, air, moonlight.

Philippe rolled on top of Honneure and entered her, slowly at first. When he felt the resistance he stopped, although it was the hardest thing he had ever done. He caressed her face and kissed her lips, and suddenly she drove against him. His mouth on hers stifled her cry.

The pain was only momentary. Joy and passion surged through her limbs as she wrapped her arms about his neck, her legs about his hips. Then Philippe began to move, and she rocked against him, and the world went away.

Chapter Twenty-One

It was warmer in the barn than outside but not by a great deal. The winter clouds were obstinate and refused to be blown away by the rising wind. They wisped and tattered raggedly, allowing the sun to shine through for a few precious minutes, then melded together again. The wind moved them across the sky but could not scatter them. The temperature fell.

Honneure’s hands were numb, but she forced her fingers to work, pulling the cow’s teat down and releasing it. To her surprise, the art of milking had come to her easily, and it was a good thing.

The boy had appeared. Dawn had not yet arrived, although there was a lightening of the heavy darkness. He had slipped into the barn just as she had finished raking manure into a pile to remove later. His eyes had been wide with fright, and he had not said a word.

“Good morning,” she had said to him in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. He had not replied. “Are you here to show me how to milk? I certainly hope so because I haven’t a clue.”

Still silent, the boy had fetched a stool and a bucket which he had placed near one of the cows. Then he had tugged at her hand.

Honneure had followed the boy and obediently sat on the stool as he had indicated. Then he had crouched beside her, reached up to pat the cow’s flank, and put his small hands on her udder. With what seemed an expert motion, he had coaxed a strong stream of milk into the pail. He had worked rhythmically until the bucket was almost a third full. He had stopped and gazed at her, brows arched.

“Do you want me to try?”

The boy nodded. Honneure had gripped a teat and tried to copy the boy’s motion. Nothing had happened. She had tried again. Nothing. His small, cool hands had covered hers and guided her fingers.

Success. Honneure had compressed her lips with grim satisfaction. They had worked together until the pail had filled over halfway and the udder had gone dry. The boy had stood up and backed away.

“Thank you,” Honneure had said with a smile. “You’re a very good teacher. Will you … ?”

The boy had turned and run, gone before she could blink.

A great sadness had filled Honneure. The boy was mute, she supposed. But what else he had suffered she could only guess. He certainly didn’t seem to want to linger here. She didn’t want to speculate why. She didn’t want to know anything more about Armand than she did already. Hopefully, she would not have to.

The last cow was milked. Honneure straightened and pressed a hand to the small of her back. It ached from the unfamiliar position. Then she rose and carried the heavy bucket to the barn door, where she set it next to the others. She looked outside.

It was impossible to judge the time by the sun. Its light was once again entirely obscured by clouds. The wind had dropped, defeated, and the army of gray marched in a tight, triumphant formation across the sky above her. Had two hours passed since the dawn?

Honneure’s stomach did a somersault.

“I’ll come two hours after the sunrise,” Philippe had whispered as he had hastily pulled on his clothes. She had watched, heart sinking, as he had covered the body, the flesh, she cherished. “I don’t want to surprise him too early in the morning with this. At least let him have his coffee first.”

Philippe had smiled, but she had not been able to smile back. Despite Philippe’s reassurances, though she knew they were meant for one another and must be together forever, she was afraid. As she had told Philippe earlier, Armand was not an easy man.

Philippe had taken her in his arms a final time in the cold, dark hours before dawn. He had kissed her and smoothed the hair from her face.

“Two hours after sunup, Honneure. Until then, I love you.”

Tears had been so thick in her throat that she had not been able to answer. She had touched her fingers to her lips and stretched them to Philippe as he had climbed through the window. For long moments after he had disappeared into the darkness, she had stood shivering in front of the open window.
Come back. Come back, my angel, and take me away with you.

Honneure recalled her silent prayer as she trudged from the barn to the house. Philippe would return, she had no doubt. It was only a matter of time, but what would happen then? Her stomach gave another unpleasant squeeze as she pushed open the door.

“What took you so long?” Armand sat in his chair by the hearth. One gnarled hand was wrapped around a cup of coffee she had prepared earlier.

“I … I milked and fed the cows and mucked the barn.”

“We need eggs. You need to take a bucket of milk and walk to Widow Maurier’s place. She has hens. She’ll trade you for the milk.”

Fear wrapped its icy fingers around Honneure’s heart. “Now? You want me to go now?”

“What else have we got to eat?”

“There’s some bread and cheese. I …”

“Stale.”

“I could toast the bread.” Honneure wrung her hands, hoping her desperation was not as apparent as it felt. “Then I can fetch the eggs, perhaps a chicken to roast for …”

“Have it your way. I’m hungry.” He drained his cup and thrust it across the table toward Honneure.

Wordlessly, she took it and refilled it. She could feel the rapid beating of her heart all the way up in her throat.
Please come, Philippe. Please come now.

She was slicing the last of the loaf when she heard the hoofbeats. She tried not to look, but she couldn’t help it. Honneure turned to the window.

The white mare was achingly familiar. Philippe rode her easily, gracefully. The gate was open, and he loped through it and into the yard. Honneure cast a sidelong glance at Armand.

“What the hell?” Hands braced on the table, he pushed himself stiffly to his feet. “That man is dressed in livery of some sort.” Armand looked sharply at Honneure. “What have you got to do with this?”

She could only shake her head helplessly.

“We’ll see about this.” Armand marched to a sideboard in the sitting area, pulled open a drawer, and extracted a pistol.

Honneure caught her breath.

Armand fixed her once more with his cold gaze. “You’re sure you don’t want to tell me what you know?”

She couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it. She couldn’t take her eyes from the pistol.

“I’ll find out for myself then. And woe be to you if I don’t like what I hear!”

Trembling all over, arms crossed tightly over her breast, Honneure followed Armand with faltering steps to the door. She saw Philippe dismount and walk toward the house. He stopped halfway up the stone-flagged path and held up his hands defensively.

“Don’t shoot, please,” Philippe said quickly. “I’m not here to do anyone any harm.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Armand said. The gun didn’t waver. “State your business.”

Philippe’s gaze slid away from Armand to rest on Honneure. Only for a moment. But the old man did not miss it.

“So it’s that way, is it?” Something that might pass for a humorless smile touched the corners of the old man’s mouth. “You’re here on some errand involving my …
wife
?”

Philippe tensed. This was not an auspicious beginning. “I am here about Honneure, yes. But we can talk civilly, without a pistol between us.”

Armand snorted. “We can’t talk at all. Get back on your horse.”

“Monsieur …”

Armand cocked the pistol. “
Get back on your horse
!”

The cry escaped her lips before she could stop it. Honneure pressed her hands to her mouth. Eyes fixed on the gun, Philippe slowly backed away.

“I may be old, but I’m not stupid,” Armand said in a chill, tight voice. “I never thought a young, pretty woman would leave the palace of Versailles and come to Normandy to marry someone like me just for the joy of living the country life. There had to be more to it than that. And here it is.”

“Monsieur, please listen,” Philippe begged, palms still extended toward Armand. “There’s been a terrible mistake …”

“There certainly has been. And you made it.” Armand raised the weapon until it was pointed directly between Philippe’s eyes.

“Armand, no!” Honneure darted forward and grabbed her husband’s arm. “Stop!”

The old man lowered his arm and looked Honneure in the eye. “You love this man, don’t you?”

“I love him with all my heart,” she whispered.

The old man turned to Philippe. “And you love this woman.”

“She was meant to be my wife.”

“But something went wrong, you say.”

Philippe nodded slowly. He didn’t like the look in the old man’s eye, or the half smile on his thin mouth.

“You’d do anything to have her back, wouldn’t you?”

This time Philippe did not bother to respond. Fear held him absolutely still. An instant later his fear was realized.

Honneure was surprised by how swiftly Armand was able to move. Before she knew what was happening, he had his arm around her neck. His forearm was pressed to her windpipe making it difficult to breathe. With his other hand he lifted the pistol to her head. She felt the cold barrel pushed into her temple.

“I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care,” Armand hissed. “But I know what you want, and I
do
care about that.”

Philippe had never known such terror or such helplessness. The old man was a heartless bastard with little to lose. He had no doubt that the spite and bitterness Armand had spent a lifetime cultivating could come to a head right here and now.

“Don’t shoot her,” Philippe said in a low, soothing tone. “Please … just … don’t … shoot.”

“I won’t. Not if you get on that horse and ride out of here.”

Eyes fixed to the hammer of the cocked pistol, Philippe backed away. He felt as if his heart was being torn from his chest.

“And let me make it perfectly clear what will happen if I ever see you anywhere near here again.”

Philippe drew even with the mare. He reached up onto her withers and gripped the reins.

“I’ll shoot her on the spot. I’ll drop her like a dog. If I have to lose her, at least it won’t be to you.”

Philippe did not doubt a word the old man said. He climbed into the saddle.

Small, animal-like sounds issued from Honneure’s throat. She did not even realize she was making them.

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.

But it was.

She was losing Philippe, descending back into the abyss.

The expression in his gaze, his last glance, would go with her to her grave. She closed her eyes as he turned and rode away.

Armand waited until the rider disappeared down the road and he could no longer hear the sound of hoofbeats. He released his grip on Honneure, and she fell away from him, hands clutching her throat. Her eyes were wide with fright and sorrow.

“You … you
would
kill me, wouldn’t you?” Honneure croaked.

Armand studied her a moment. She wasn’t hard to look at, although that was not why he had wanted a wife. Those days were over. She looked too skinny, but she was sturdy. And she wasn’t afraid to work.

“No. No, I don’t think I would kill you. You’re too valuable to me. But he’s not.” The old man jerked his head in the direction of the road. “So, if you’re thinking to lure him back here and make your escape, think again. It’s
him
I’ll shoot on the spot, like a dog, if he shows his face around here. And don’t think I won’t. Nobody’d blame me for killing some young stud nosing around my wife.”

Armand started toward the house, then stopped and looked back at Honneure. The smile he gave her made her blood run cold.

“You’re mine now. Get used to it. You’re here to stay.”