Conor's Way (53 page)

"What?"

"Mara means bitter. But I thought perhaps it
might be Mariana."

"I beg your pardon?" Trying to follow his
meaning was making her dizzy.

"'I am aweary, aweary,'"

She stared at him, wondering if he was a bit
touched in the head.

"Don't you know your Tennyson?" he asked.

"Oh, poetry."

He laughed, a sound that was warm and rich
and deep, filling her tiny room. "You say that as if it's your
daily dose of cod liver oil." With another bow, he said, "It's been
a pleasure, Mara Mariana, but I must be off. Opportunities await,
and I have work to do." He turned away and looked around. "I had a
reason for coming down here," he muttered, raking a hand through
his hair and tousling it further. "What was it?" He paused, then
snapped his fingers. "Ah! I remember."

He pointed to the open doorway and the wooden
crate she had tripped over. "My gears."

She watched him walk out to the landing and
lift the box. He gave her a nod of farewell through the
doorway.

"The men must have forgotten to bring this
up," he said with another of those odd smiles. "Better have that
lock fixed," he advised and then disappeared, carrying his box of
gears and whistling an aimless melody.

She wondered if perhaps he was a little
mad.

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Prelude to Heaven

Chapter Two

Tess opened her eyes to find herself in a
strange room. She blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the
sunlight washing over her. Her head ached, and her body felt
battered and weary. She moved one hand to her rounded stomach,
reassuring herself that the baby was all right, as her gaze
traveled around the room, taking in unfamiliar furnishings and
whitewashed walls, coming finally to the window on her left.

A man stood there, looking out the window,
his profile to her. He was drawing in a sketchbook that rested in
the crook of his right arm. His shirt of white linen was torn and
smeared with paint, and his dark trousers were tucked into black
boots badly in need of polishing. His thick, ebony hair was
unfashionably long and caught back in a queue.

Startled by the sight of him, she sat
straight up in the bed, letting out a gasp at the sharp pain in her
head.

The man turned at the sound, and Tess
suddenly realized she was clad in only a man’s nightshirt. She
couldn't remember changing her clothes, and she felt her face grow
hot as she pulled the sheets up to her neck and wondered
frantically what had happened to her clothes.

The man didn't seem to notice her
discomfiture. He merely raised one black eyebrow at the sight of
her awake and watching him. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle.”

Tess didn't reply. She scooted back against
the pillows in alarm, and it took a moment for his words to sink
in. When they did, she glanced down at her ringless hand then back
at him. Was he insulting her by calling her mademoiselle, when she
was obviously pregnant? But there was no hint of mockery in his
face or his voice. “Who are you?” she whispered in English.

“I am Alexandre Dumond,” he answered her in
the same language. “And you?”

Dumond? The name was familiar. She glanced at
the sketchbook in his hand and the paint all over his shirt. Could
he be Dumond, the French painter? Dumond's works were well known,
even in London. “The artist?”

He gave her a small bow.
“
Précisément
.”

She stared at him, vague recollections of
whispered London gossip coming to mind. Dumond had once received an
invitation from the Prince Regent to submit his works to the Royal
Academy and had actually refused. It was rumored that he lived
alone, an eccentric recluse hiding from the world at his villa in
France. She took another quick glance around. The rumors seemed to
be true.

His deep voice interrupted Tess's thoughts.
“How do you feel?”

She tightened her grip on the sheets and did
not answer, suspicious and wary. She watched him drop the
sketchbook and charcoal on the table beside him, then stride toward
her. He was a tall man and powerfully built. She pressed her back
to the carved headboard behind her, willing herself not to show the
fear she felt at his approach.

But when he stopped beside the bed and
reached out his hand, Tess could not prevent a jolt of panic. She
slapped his hand away. “Don't touch me!”

A puzzled frown drew his dark brows together,
and he sat down on the edge of the bed, ignoring her protests. He
reached out again, catching her wrists before she could strike out
at him again. Tess tried desperately to pull away, hating his
superior strength, but all he did was hold her wrists with one hand
as he gently pressed the other to her forehead.

“The fever has broken,” he said, letting his
hand drop and releasing her wrists. “I'm relieved.”

Tess fell back, exhausted from her brief
struggle. She licked her dry lips, wishing her head didn't ache and
she could think clearly, wishing he would move away from her side.
“Where am I? How did I get here?”

“I carried you, of course. You were in no
condition to walk, mademoiselle. I found you in my garden.”

“I didn't mean to trespass. I didn't think
anyone lived here.”

His lips tightened slightly. “That is
understandable, I suppose.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

“Four?” Tess drew a deep breath. “I don't
remember anything beyond being in the garden. I dreamed—” She
stopped. She didn't want to remember her dreams.

“You have caused me a great deal of worry,
mademoiselle. You have had a fever I feared was mortal. You were
delirious.”

She stiffened. “What did I say?”

“Nothing that made sense.”

She watched him turn to the table beside the
bed and ladle water from a pail into a cup. He held the cup out to
her, but when she didn't move to take it from him, he pressed it to
her lips. “Drink it,” he ordered.

Her whole body tensed, and she closed her
eyes. The memory was there before she could stop it. Nigel,
yanking her hair back and pressing a glass of hated port against
her lips. “Drink it, Countess. Drink it. I know you love a glass of
port.” She could still feel the sticky red liquid running down her
chin, staining her dress.

“Drink the water,
chérie
,” a different
voice murmured, snapping her back to the present. Her eyes opened,
and she found herself staring into his. They were black eyes, not
blue, reminding her that this was not Nigel. She swallowed as he
tilted the water into her mouth.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as he set aside
the half-empty cup and rose. “I'll bring you some soup.”

Tess did not relax until Alexandre Dumond had
left the room, resting her aching head against the headboard and
reminding herself that Nigel was dead. She’d killed him, the man
she had once loved, and she supposed she should feel guilt over
that act, but she didn't. She’d had three months to come to terms
with that. All she felt now was fear, and the need to overcome it
and survive.

When Dumond brought the soup, he sat down on
the edge of the bed and spooned the broth into her mouth. She felt
suffocated by his closeness and she hated being so weak that she
could not feed herself. She kept her gaze fixed on his hand as it
moved toward her and away, prepared by the past few years to expect
anything—be it a touch, a slap or a blow. But Dumond went about his
task without touching her at all, and after a while, Tess relaxed a
bit, weariness and hunger overcoming fear. When he had given her
the last spoonful in the bowl, she dared to look directly into his
face.

He was studying her, and when she met his
thoughtful gaze, she studied him in return. His eyes were truly
black, so black the pupils disappeared, and surrounded by thick,
sooty lashes. His face was lean and brown, with tiny creases carved
from the sun and time and something more. There were stories
written on that face, hidden in those eyes. Tess found herself
unable to look away.

Abruptly he stood up and the strange spell
was broken. He retrieved his sketchbook from the table by the
window and walked to the door. He paused in the doorway, glancing
over his shoulder at her, and said in a quiet voice, “Sleep now,
mon enfant
.” Then he left the room, closing the door behind
him.

She did sleep, deep and dreamless, waking
only briefly to take more soup or water, then drifting off again.
But when she woke to the sound of a cock crow two mornings later,
she felt no sharp pain of headache and no rush of dizziness as she
sat up in the bed.

She glanced down at the swell of her abdomen
under the sheets and gently rubbed it with her hand, wishing the
baby would turn or kick, but she felt no flutters of movement, and
she could only hope her illness had done the child no harm.

To prevent herself from dwelling on that
possibility, Tess reached for the ladle and poured herself a cup of
water. Her mouth felt as if it were full of cotton. When she ran a
hand through her hair, it felt sticky. She grimaced, knowing she
must look as disheveled as she felt.

She wondered about her mysterious host. She
had seen no one but him, and she wondered if anyone else even lived
here. If he did indeed live alone, Tess thought, glancing down at
the nightshirt she wore, then it must have been he who had—

The door opened and Dumond entered the room,
carrying a bowl and spoon. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle. You
appear to be feeling better.”

This man must have seen her without her
clothes. With that realization, Tess pulled the nightshirt together
at her throat, and as he came toward her, she eyed him warily. When
he sat down on the edge of the bed, she tightened her grip on the
nightshirt, working not to show any hint of either embarrassment or
alarm as she thought of how he must have stripped her out of her
clothes.

“You were soaking wet, mademoiselle,” Dumond
said as if reading her mind. “And very ill. Here,” he added,
thrusting the bowl toward her. “Eat.”

When she took the bowl, he rose and departed
without another word.

She had finished eating by the time he
returned. He carried a washbasin in one hand, and a pair of women’s
shoes in the other. Draped over his arm were towels, a dress and
several undergarments. He set the basin on the table by the window,
then laid the clothes and towels at the foot of the bed. As he left
the room again, he paused in the doorway to look at her over his
shoulder at her. “Your clothes are in tatters and not fit to wear,”
he said, and a small smile touched the corners of his mouth. “These
will perhaps fit you better,
n'est-ce pas
? But, should you
wish for your old clothes when you continue your journey, I have
washed them for you.”

Tess watched the door close behind him.
Continue her journey? He sounded as if he wanted her to leave as
quickly as possible. She should, of course, but crossing France on
foot had been harrowing and exhausting. During her three months of
traveling, she'd slept in clean inns, then in dirty inns, and
finally, when she'd run out of money for lodgings, she’d slept in
ditches. She'd accepted rides in wagons until one farmer discovered
that she wasn't a man and tried to rape her. From then on, she had
walked, walked until her feet blistered, and she couldn't take
another step. She'd bought food when she could afford it, then
stolen it when she couldn't. Now, she was at the southern coast of
France with almost no money left. Continue her journey? Where could
she go?

Tess very much feared the answer was nowhere.
To avoid dwelling on that fact, she rose and examined the clothes
he had brought her. They were fine, the clothes of a wealthy woman,
but several years out of fashion. Though clean, they smelled musty,
with a faint tinge of lemon verbena. She wondered who they belonged
to.

She used the water in the basin, bathing as
well as she could, then pulled on the linen chemise, petticoat, and
silk stockings. The high-waisted dress of blue muslin accommodated
her pregnancy easily but was much too long. Not for the first time,
Tess wished she were taller, and she knew she would have to be
careful not to trip.

Her bedchamber was large, but simply
furnished, with walls of whitewashed stone, carved oak
furnishings, and a few rugs of hand-knotted wool rugs. There were
two doors leading out of the room. One, she discovered, led into a
corridor, and the other opened into a much smaller room, a dressing
room. It was empty, save for a few white shirts and black trousers
hanging on hooks. This was apparently Monsieur Dumond's room.

Closing the door, she rested her hand on her
rounded stomach and returned her attention to her problem, for it
had to be faced. What was she going to do next? She was five months
into her pregnancy, and for the baby's sake, she doubted she could
go much farther. She could only hope she had run far enough to hide
from the authorities.

She thought again of Alexandre Dumond. Would
he her stay here until her baby came? He seemed kind enough, for he
had taken her in and cared for her, but now that she was well
again, he probably wanted her gone, especially if he were the
recluse he was rumored to be. And even if he let her stay here,
would he expect some kind of payment in exchange? Or worse, was he
a man like Nigel? She shuddered, remembering how she had once
thought Nigel to be kind.

Suddenly, without warning, the baby moved. It
was only a tiny flutter, but it was enough to remind her that it
didn't matter if Monsieur Dumond were kind. As long as he didn't
beat her, she knew her best option was to remain here, if he would
allow it. “I won't let anything happen to you, my baby,” she
promised, cradling her belly protectively with her hand. “I swear
it.”