Destiny's Kiss (15 page)

“But Cornélie has this lovely house to stay in.” Philippe shook his head, then wished he had not. Every motion aggravated the pain behind his eyes. “I cannot ask Lirienne to stay here in that hovel alone.”

“She will be fine. She probably lived in worse. Peasants live like dogs.”

Philippe frowned as he thought of how she had worked to clean their disgusting rooms. One day, she had even found some flowers to put on the table. She had as much pride in their first home as if it had been Château de Villeneuve. And, he reminded himself, the stairs would be a challenge when she grew round with his child.

“No,” he said. “My wife will go with me.”

“And will she go with you as your wife when you reclaim your château?” He leaned forward and smiled. “You know that is not what you want. How many times have you spoken to me of your plans to wed Charmaine Fortier as soon as her husband does everyone a favor and dies?”

“I never mentioned that to you.”

Vachel's face grew pale, then reddened. “I guess I simply assumed—”

Philippe stood. “You simply assumed what everyone else has, including myself.”

“And now your peasant wife stands in the way with her claim on your estate?”

“No, she has no claim on my estate. In the midst of the chaos before we left France, I had no time to change any of the paperwork that would grant Lirienne a claim on anything other than my title. Charmaine remains my heir.” He smiled in spite of his aching head. “I need to get that changed. My child should have no worries about claiming its legacy.”

Vachel again gave a diffident wave. “That can be handled easily. I will have my lawyer speak with you before we leave for the settlement.” He raised his glass. “To the future.”

“To the future.” Picking up his glass, he added, “May it bring us everything we want.”

“Everything.” Vachel chuckled as he tapped his glass against Philippe's.

Philippe swore as his fork dropped to the floor. Cradling his head in his hands, he leaned his elbows on the table. He should bend over to pick it up, but the thought of moving sent his pulse racing. All day, his heart had pounded like a farrier's hammer on an anvil, each beat resonating through his skull.

A church bell rang somewhere. Each clang was a separate agony. He swore under his breath. He should be on his way to see Vachel's lawyer to make sure all his papers were in order for the child to receive what he had offered Charmaine in the hope of her leaving her husband to marry him. Twice already, the appointment had been canceled. He did not want to miss this one. He tried to stand, then slumped back in the chair with a curse.

“Philippe, what's wrong?” The words came through the waves of heat.

Exerting all his strength, he lifted his weighted head. He struggled to focus his eyes. Was it Charmaine standing there? How many lifetimes had it been since he'd held her in that mirrored bed? The scent of her perfume filled his senses, taunting and tormenting.

Desperately he fought to speak her name, but the answer came in a voice which was softer and more delicately husky than Charmaine's.

Lirienne. Gentle, caring Lirienne who was giving him what Charmaine never would. An heir to his title. A child to continue the line that had died one by one until only he was left of the name.

Only he and Lirienne, who had dared to cross the sea with him and was ready to start anew in the wilderness while they waited the chance to return to Château de Villeneuve. There they would …

Charmaine's voice rang through his head. He winced. Yes, he had promised to return to her. He wanted to return to her, but why did she have to intrude each time he thought of fulfilling his promise to Lirienne to see her family settled on his estate? Why did she have to send guilt racing through him whenever he began to imagine sitting in the great hall of the Château with his children playing by the massive hearth and Lirienne by his side?

To your marriage, Philippe! May it bring you what you desire from it
. The memory of Charmaine's sarcastic toast repeated over and over in his head, along with his saying that he could not imagine telling her goodbye.

But Lirienne … He blinked and saw Lirienne standing beside him. She wavered as if her body had become as disconnected as his. Delectable coolness caressed his forehead when her palm pressed against it.

“Philippe?”

He clutched her waist. Only her solid being could keep him from being swept into the chaos of fired pain.

Lirienne swallowed her gasp as his head sagged against her. Heat seared his skin. “Oh, no!” she whispered. For the past week, stories of yellow fever had filled the marketplace. Only when the merchants discovered she was not from the Caribbean had they been willing to sell to her.

She stroked his shoulders and fought her panic. They could not afford a doctor, for all the money he had borrowed was spent on supplies for the journey north in two weeks. He must get well by then. If they spent the winter in Philadelphia, they would starve.

Bending, she whispered, “Philippe, can you stand?”

“Of course!” he replied, but his voice was faint.

He wobbled as he tried to rise. When he gripped her shoulders, she almost collapsed. Swallowing her moan, she helped him regain his balance.

With a weak smile, he muttered, “We did it,
ma petite
. Shall we dance now?”

“I think you're fit only for bed.”

“Fine idea. How—?” He swayed against the wall as she tried to steer him into the bedroom. With a curse, he rubbed his shoulder. “Who struck me,
ma petite
?”

“Just walk,” she ordered through clenched teeth. The twinge that had been bothering her off and on returned to settle in her lower back.

She helped him into the bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed. The anguish cut across her back. She rubbed it as she leaned over him. He mumbled something, but it made no sense.

Again fear spiraled through her. She lifted his feet onto the bed, wishing she could ease his discomfort. She knew he must drink as much as he could while waiting for his temperature to drop. It would, but the danger came if it rose again, for then he would be fighting for his life.

Pulling off his shoes, she drew the blankets over him. His face was too flushed. Her fingers trembled as she untied his queue and freed his ebony hair to flow across the muslin.

“Don't die,” she whispered. Fear gave her the courage to say what had been in her heart for months: “I love you, Philippe.”

She knew he had not heard her when he moaned. Going back into the other room, she got the water bucket and carried it to the bed. She dipped a cloth in the water. When she placed it on his forehead, a soft groan ripped from his lips and into her heart.

The hours passed slowly while she watched over him. Again and again, she checked the pulse in his neck. It was rapid and thready. She prayed for the beat to slow, for that was one of the first signs of healing.

She left him only long enough to heat some of their precious milk over the hearth. She mixed in some arrowroot to thicken it into a broth. Carefully she brought the chipped bowl into the bedroom. Balancing it in one hand, she tried to slip the spoon between his lips.

It would not be an easy battle, but it was one she intended to win. To lose Philippe would mean far more than the disaster of raising their child alone. It would mean the death of her heart, for she had given it to him to beat next to his.

The room was dark except for a spectral glow cast by the flames from the hearth. The whistling wind splattered rain on the roof. A steady drip, drip, drip sounded from a corner, ending in a ceramic click, click, click into a bowl.

Moving stiffly because another spasm clutched her back, hungering for sleep, but afraid to close her burning eyes, Lirienne shuffled toward the bed. She was not sure how long she had been struggling with Philippe's fever alone.

As she put the cloth on his forehead, she whispered, “Fight it, Philippe. Fight it. Please!”

“Charmaine?” he whispered.

She pulled her hand away. She had dared to believe that his pleasure with the impending birth of his heir would convince him to leave Charmaine Fortier in his past.

“Hush. Just rest, Philippe.” She could not jump to conclusions. The fever might have cast him back into the past. When he woke, he would recall his eagerness for her and his plans for their lives together.

His hands groped for hers and pulled them to his lips. “
Ma coeur
,”—he breathed out the words, in pain—“I know we are far apart, but I love you, not her.”

“Philippe, it doesn't matter.” It was a lie. His words cut through her like the sharpest knife.

“It does,” he argued. His eyes opened to meet hers, but she knew he was seeing someone else. “Charmaine, you know I married her only to save my head and my claim on the Château. Once this madness is past, we shall both get divorces. It will be perfect.”

Lirienne pulled her hand out of his. Hiding her face in her hands, she wept. He continued talking to his mistress as if she stood in the room, but his words slowly faded into mumbles.

Putting a hand over her abdomen, she whispered a soft apology to the baby she foolishly had believed Philippe wanted. She realized, with a renewed swell of anguish, that he did want the child. It was not the child who was wrong, but the mother.

Tears ran along her face as she continued to tend to him. She left him only when she thought she heard steps on the stairs. No one was there. No one was coming to help her.

She went back to the bed. Philippe was thrashing about with pain. She heard him mumble bits of names. Madame Fortier's name, his brother's name, others she did not know, as well as her own. They floated, without form, for she could not guess what nightmares haunted his fevered brain. An agony, which seemed far more intense than what his body suffered, racked him as he called to those who could not answer.

When a knock sounded, she could only stare at the door. Maybe it was her imagination again. She listened to a more frantic rap. Only when she heard a man curse and call her name could she force her stiff limbs to move. She winced as a stabbing pain leaped from her back to circle her body.

Holding her breath, she waited for it to subside. Then she reached for the latch. The door squeaked when she pulled it open and looked out at the man on the dusky landing. As always, his long arms dropped from hunched shoulders which seemed too broad for his lanky body, but she noticed only his eyes. They were sunken into his skull.

“Monsieur Goyette!” she whispered. She doubted if she could speak louder. “What are you doing here?”

“Veronique is dead.”

Lirienne stared at his ashen face. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”

As she started to close the door, he put his hand out to halt it. “Madame de Villeneuve, did you understand me?”

“You said that Veronique is dead, didn't you? From yellow fever? Philippe is sick, too.” She leaned her head against the door. A flicker of compassion raced through her, gone almost before she realized it was there. “Is there a time set for the memorial mass?”

“Not yet.”

“Will you please let me know when?”

He gulped and rubbed his eyes which were unabashedly red from tears. “Of course, I'll let you know, Madame de Villeneuve.” He cleared his throat and asked, “Can I send a doctor to you?”

“I have no money to pay—”

“Do not worry about that.”

Blinking back tears, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“I shall return with a doctor as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” she said again. She wanted to throw her arms around him and weep with gratitude, but she could not move.

The echo of his hurried steps climbed back up the stairwell. She started to close the door, then paused. The bucket was empty. She needed to have clean, cool water to fight Philippe's fever.

Picking up the bucket, she saw Philippe's face was not as ruddy as it had been. She touched his cheek. It was cooler. Maybe he was getting better. No thrill of triumph flowed through her. She could not feel anything, only the dull ache in her back.

She left the door unlocked. There was nothing worth stealing in the apartment. Something moved on the dusky staircase. Could it be the doctor already? She blinked, but she saw nothing. Maybe her tired eyes were fooling her.

At each step, her legs threatened to buckle. She leaned against the wall, trying to keep the pail from banging on it. Crossing the landing, she continued down. She did not realize she had reached the bottom until she discovered there were no more steps.

Rain slapped her. She wove into the unlit alley beside the tavern. Mud oozed over the tops of her shoes.

She found the water barrel by bumping into it. Agonizing pain ripped across her shoulders when she tried to lift the full bucket. When the pain scored her abdomen, she released the pail and wrapped her arms around herself. She must be careful not to risk her baby.

As she released a soft breath of relief, the cramp ebbed. She smiled weakly. It had been nothing but strain from lifting the bucket. Reaching into the barrel, she made sure the pail was only about a third full before she picked it up.

She walked back to the street, jumping aside as a speeding carriage splashed mud onto the walkway and her skirt. She tried to shake it off as she slowly climbed the stairs. She paid no attention to the voices from the other rooms. All that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other.

Her breath burned in her chest by the time she was halfway up the next flight. She could not go another step. Setting the bucket on the riser, she cried out in horror as it broke through the step, crashing onto the lower ones. The step beneath her creaked a threat. Grasping the railing, she inched up to the remaining steps. Another board cracked as she put her foot on it, but did not break.

She reeled through the open doorway and closed the door. She took a step toward the table. Pain clawed at her stomach. Pressing her hand over it, she moaned when the ache cut from one side of her abdomen to the other. Her moan became a low sob as the muscles tightened more.