Destiny's Kiss (17 page)

Tossing her scarlet shawl over her shoulders and crossing it over the white kerchiefs tucked into the bodice of her simple gray dress, she stepped out onto the back porch. Philippe had insisted upon adding two porches as soon as the barn was finished. In the spring, they could sit and watch the river.

“Philippe?” she called, watching her frozen breath billow across the yard.

He peered out of the barn and waved. As she rushed into the house, she shivered again. It never had been this cold in France.

Lirienne was spooning food onto two pewter trenchers when the door opened. The flames danced wildly. Smiling at Philippe, who was unwinding a scarf from around his neck, she put his plate beside hers on the table. Someday, she hoped they would have another bench, so they could invite the Suchards to join them for dinner. She poured coffee and handed him a cup.

With a swift smile, he said, “This is just what I need. Something to steam the ice out of my veins. Just like you used—” He pushed past her to the table.

She hesitated. He might draw farther away if she pushed him. Yet she longed for his arms around her. She sat on the chair across from him and tried to eat her breakfast.

When Philippe spoke, she started at the unexpected sound. “It'll probably snow again before nightfall,” he said.

Once more, their conversation was back to the safe topics of the weather and the house. “I've seen more snow here in the past month than in a whole winter in France.”

Picking up his cup of coffee, he grinned. “Occasionally a rare blizzard would dump enough on us so that Lucien and I could play from sunup until our tutor ordered us in at dark.” He chuckled. “How infuriated Maman would be when we dripped water across her rugs!”

“When it was cold, I loved to sit by the hearth and listen to my brother tell the most terrifying tales, and I would pretend to be frightened. We heated stones on the hearth while we listened. When we went to bed, we'd take them with us to keep us warm.”

He lowered his cup to the table. His blue eyes offered a warmth she had not seen in months. “That's the first time I've ever heard you say anything nice about your life on the Fortiers' estate.”

“I did like the years with my family, and working in the kitchen.”

“So it was just that you didn't like working for Charmaine?”

“She was very … exacting.” She had been foolish to introduce a subject which could lead to the woman he still loved.

His finger traced her cheekbone, startling her. “As I recall, you had a bruise here the first time we met. I suspect it matched the shape of Charmaine's hand.”

“She was angry at me.”

“Why?”

Picking up her plate, she carried it to where she washed the dishes. “It's over. I thought you didn't want to talk about my past.”

“That's where your past and mine intersect.”

“I'd rather not recall those horrible days.”

“I never guessed you hated Charmaine so much.”

“Why shouldn't I hate her?” She faced him, clenching her hands. “Do you want to know why she hit me? Because
she
had broken a bottle of perfume. Maybe you enjoyed her abuse, but I didn't.”

Standing, he caught her arm before she could storm away. “Enough!”

“You aren't my master, Philippe de Villeneuve.” She shook his hand off her arm and raised her chin to keep her tears from falling. “You're supposed to be my husband, but maybe you should crawl back to Charmaine, because it's clear you have no interest in our marriage.”

“No interest?
Ma petite folle
—”

“I'm no one's fool any longer.”

“You are my fool.” He swept her up against him. His mouth was over hers before she could draw her next breath. The sweet fire thrilled her as she reached to put her arms around his shoulders.

With a gasp, he released her and stared at his hands as if they had betrayed him. Backing away, he groped for the door.

Lirienne closed her eyes as it slammed. She sat and hid her face in her hands. No tears fell, for the pain was deeper than any that tears might heal.

Snow crunched beneath Lirienne's thin shoes as sunset colored the western sky. She must hurry home. Hours of walking had not helped her find a solution to reaching past the wall Philippe had built to keep her away.

She collected branches for kindling. When a twig broke among the trees, fear washed over her. She glanced over her shoulder and began to rush down the road. She screamed when she bumped into a hard body. Massive arms caught her before she could fall.

As she heard a laugh, she was released. While the kindling fell around her, a stranger dipped his tricorn. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to frighten you.”

She laughed shakily. In the fading sunlight, his hair and bushy beard burned with a ruddy flame. His buckskins were shiny with wear, exactly as she had imagined an American frontiersman's would be. He carried a line of traps over his shoulder.

Realizing that he was waiting for her answer, she said in slow English, “You are forgiven.”

“Are you from French Town?”

“I live in Azilum,” she replied, using the name that had been chosen for the settlement.

“You talk prettily.” When heat rose along her face, he added, “I didn't mean to be insulting, ma'am.”

She picked up the kindling. “I'm not insulted. Just in a—”

“Hurry?” he supplied when she faltered.

“Yes. Hurry.”

He held out his arms. “Then let me help you. It's the least I can do after scaring you.”

“There's no need, Monsieur—Mr.…?”

“Slater. Ennis Slater. Now what kind of neighbor would I be if I didn't help you, Mrs.…?”

“Madame de Villeneuve.”

“Let me give you a ride, Mrs. de Villeneuve.” He motioned along the road to where a wagon was waiting. “French Town—I mean Azilum—isn't out of my way. I live down the river just a short distance.”

“You are very kind, Monsieur Slater.”

“Glad to help.” He took the kindling from her. “And around here, folks call me Ennis, ma'am.”

“Oh, no! I couldn't—”

“Then at least Mr. Slater.”

She nodded as he handed her up into the wagon. After he put her kindling in the back next to his traps, he sat beside her and picked up the reins.

Lirienne had no need to worry about what to say. While he drove, Mr. Slater told her about the latest happenings in the valley. Soon he had her laughing at the story of a farmer who got attacked by his own rooster when he spent the night in the chicken coop to try to keep the foxes away.

When they reached Azilum, she pointed to her house as she tried to ignore her neighbors' incredulity that she was riding with a stranger. She did not quite believe it herself, but she had had no reason not to accept his kind offer.

As the wagon came to a stop, Philippe stepped out onto the porch. He said nothing as Mr. Slater helped her down. No one else watching spoke. Mr. Slater glanced around, perplexed, and she knew she must put an end to this.

“Thank you,” Lirienne said as Mr. Slater placed the branches in her arms.

“My pleasure, Mrs. de Villeneuve.” He grinned as he tipped his cap to her. “I hope to see you again soon.”

Rather faintly, for she was aware of the ice blue gaze cutting into her back, she repeated, “Thank you.” She watched in silence while he nodded to Philippe and climbed back into his wagon to drive away.

“I'll carry that in for you,” Philippe said quietly.

She handed him the kindling. “Thank you.”

His eyebrows rose when she spoke the words in English. How could she be so unthinking? She wanted to explain that her thoughts were so muddled she was not sure which language she spoke. It was better to say nothing as she held the door open while he carried the sticks inside. She peeked around the door as she shut it, to see their neighbors milling about, no doubt gossiping about Madame de Villeneuve and her unexpected escort.

“Who was your friend?” Philippe asked as she pulled off her shawl. He placed the kindling in the woodbox and turned, his face a blank mask.

Anger would be better than this nothing. Did he trust her or not care what she did? She wanted to ask, but said only, “Mr. Slater has a farm near here. He offered me a ride home. I didn't think it would be a problem.”

Picking up one of his books from a shelf by the table, he said, “No, I'm sure you didn't.”

His terse words were like a slap in the face. Swallowing the sob bubbling up in her throat, she went to the hearth to stir up the fire to make their evening meal.

She turned at the calling of her name. “Yes?”

“I want you to remember one thing. I prefer that my wife keeps her trysts far less public.” He looked down at his book.

“Tryst?” She jerked the book out of his hands. “I'm not Charmaine Fortier! I don't speak to you of love while I have my maid hurry to remake the bed so my lover won't know he is only one of several other lovers who shares it.”

“Other lovers?”

Anger freed the truth she had tried so hard to hide. “Didn't you think it odd that Monsieur Jullian should recognize a servant from the Fortiers' kitchen?”

“I assumed he had seen you there.”

“He saw me in Madame Fortier's private chambers.” She paused, then whispered, “When he was there alone with her.”

“If this is true, why didn't you tell me this before?” His hands curled into fists.

“I didn't want you to be hurt because I know you believe she loves you.” Her voice broke. “I know what it's like to want someone to love you.”

Standing, he picked up the book. “I trust you'll apologize for those lies.”

“I'm sorry I ever agreed to marry a man who's so blinded by his harlot's tricks that he can't see her for what she truly is. Nor could you see that I once adored you, Philippe de Villeneuve. I thought you were a gentle and intelligent man. You're nothing but one of Charmaine's lapdogs.”

“Wife, I'm warning you that—”

She laughed coldly. “Nothing you say or do can change what is and what was. I'm sorry for you. You've never had to struggle for anything. Now, when you have a chance to remake your life here, you're throwing away your life while you wait for what might never happen.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“Yes.”

He scowled. “Then you shall see, wife, how wrong you are.”

Thirteen

Lirienne tasted the stew. Closing her eyes, she savored the flavor of venison. They had been eating little but chicken and an occasional rabbit that was caught in one of the traps behind the barn. Although this had a gamy flavor, it brought to mind the luxury of beef, which she had not enjoyed before she married Philippe, but had a few times since.

Wind erupted into the room, forcing bright sunshine and snowflakes in a mad dance ahead of it. Philippe stamped snow from his feet as he came into the house. Slapping flakes from his cloak, he tossed it over one of the pegs he had hammered into the wall by the door the first week they had been here. He dropped heavily onto the bench by the table. Never had he looked so exhausted.

When she handed him a cup of the stew, he grabbed a spoon from the table and wolfed down a bite. The crisscross pattern of scratches on his skin, from hours of shaving planks to make a fence, was brighter with the cold.

He swallowed and gasped, “Venison! Where did you get that?”

“I have made an agreement to trade Mr. Slater bread for milk and occasionally for meat. We have plenty of flour, so I thought it would be a good arrangement”.

“Slater.” He scowled. “Why doesn't his wife cook for him?”

“He's a bachelor.” She did not look at him as she added, “I spoke with him again yesterday when Agathe and I encountered him while we were collecting kindling. He's pleasant and very, very patient with our poor English.”

Philippe placed the cup on the table and stood. “I don't want you having any more to do with him.”

“I owe him two loaves of bread for this venison. I must pay him for this meat and the milk out in the larder. You don't want me to go back on that agreement, do you?”

He gripped her elbows. “No, but—” He pulled her a half step closer.

Her fingers rose to his shoulders as he bent toward her. Craving the caress of his lips, she imagined him sweeping her into his arms and taking her to the bed they should be sharing. When he released her, she opened her eyes to see his back toward her.

Softly she asked, “Philippe?”

He spun to her. Hunger burned in his eyes. She took a step toward him, but he backed away like a frightened child. Why was he avoiding her when he wanted her as much as she wanted him? Yearning to be near him, to taste his breath mingling with hers, she reached out to him. He evaded her hand as if it were infected with a disease more dreadful than yellow fever.

“I've to go back to work,” he mumbled. “Vachel needs—”

“Vachel de Talebot! You're always spending your days slaving for him, so you have to do the work for our farm in the evenings! I know he lent you the money for this land, but working for him wasn't part of that bargain.”

“No more arguing. That's all we've done since the beginning of the new year.”

He was wrong. They had done nothing but argue since they had left Philadelphia. Before that, they had spent their evenings wrapped in each other's arms. “I don't want to argue with you. I want—”

“Take your bread to Slater. Do as you wish, for I shall.” He jammed his large, brimmed hat on his head. “I'll see you at supper.”

Lirienne had become accustomed to the sound of the door slamming as Philippe left in anger, but she could not grow used to the pain. She flinched when a furtive knock sounded. She pasted on a smile. Hurrying to respond, she ushered Agathe in.

Agathe rubbed her hands together and held them out to the fire. Her cheeks were even rosier from the slap of the wind. “What's this I hear about you cooking venison?” she asked as she sat on the bench.