Destiny's Kiss (21 page)

“How long have you been ill?” she asked.

He sneezed. “A few days.”

“When did you last eat?”

He started to shrug, then moaned.

“Let me make you something.”

Lirienne did not wait for an answer. Shoving the clothes out of the way so she could open the door, she went back out into the kitchen. She put on the kettle to boil and sliced the bread. In the larder, she found some leftover soup. She heated that. The whole time, she heard groans from the other room. She smiled. Maman always said, the bigger the man, the more he needed someone to take care of him when he was sick.

Carrying the food into the bedroom, she set it on the deep windowsill. “Mr. Slater, can you sit up to eat?”

“I'll try.” He moaned again, but pushed himself up to sit.

“Mr. Slater!” she gasped when the blanket fell back to reveal his bare chest.

“Over there.” He gestured with one hand toward the dirty clothes as he held his head with the other.

Cold air swirled into the room. No wonder he was sick if his house was this chilly.

Handing him a cup of tea, she said, “This should make you feel much better.”

His only answer was another groan.

She pushed the door closed as she bent to find a shirt among the mess on the floor. She tried not to breathe deeply when she discovered how the clothes stank. She wondered if he had done any laundry since the weather turned cold. Pulling out a shirt, she carried it back to the bed. When he gave her a helpless puppy expression through his watery eyes, she motioned for him to hold out his arm. Trying not to laugh at this hapless man, she stretched to slip his arms into his shirt.

The door crashed against the wall.

Lirienne whirled as more cold air surged into the room. In shock, she stared at Philippe. He seized her arm and jerked her toward him.

“No!” she shrieked when she saw the pistol in his other hand. “What are you doing? Are you out of your mind, Philippe?”

He ignored her as he frowned at Mr. Slater. “I'm tired of you sniffing around my wife's skirts, Slater!” He raised the pistol.

“Philippe, don't.” She put her hand on his arm. “Don't do in anger something stupid which you'll come to regret later.”

He scowled at her, his face as cold as the barn before dawn. “I won't have you sharing his bed.”

“I'm not sharing his bed.” She paused as Mr. Slater sneezed twice. “Philippe, he's sick. I haven't done anything but get him something to eat.”

“I saw you. I heard him—”

“I was helping him put his shirt on. On, Philippe! What you heard must have been his groans from his aching head.” She put her hand on his arm, lowering the gun. “I thought you trusted me.”

“There has been so much talk. Vachel—”

“Why didn't you ask me?” Trying to extinguish her own fury, she could not as her voice rose. “I'm not Charmaine Fortier! I don't marry a man and immediately forget my vows to be faithful to him.”

“Listen to her, de Villeneuve,” called Mr. Slater. Pushing his legs out from under the blanket, he buttoned his shirt over his breeches. “I don't know who this Charmaine you mentioned is, but I can tell you that Mrs. de Villeneuve is doing more to get me out of bed than into it.” He coughed. Leaning his hand on the footboard, he frowned. “I've heard talk that Mrs. de Villeneuve is a countess or a duchess or something. That doesn't surprise me, because she's always a lady when she brings bread up here with Miss Suchard. She's always kind, and wears a smile and cares enough about a man who's not much more than a stranger to make him something to eat when he's ailing.”

“Then I owe you an apology, Slater,” Philippe said.

“I think the person you owe an apology to is your wife.”

“That is not for here.” He held out his arm. When Lirienne lifted her trembling fingers to it, he led her out into the kitchen. She did not look back.

When she saw a wagon in front of the farmhouse, she recognized it. It belonged to Vachel de Talebot. Had he sent Philippe here?

Before she could ask, he handed her into the wagon and climbed in beside her. He slapped the reins on the horse, turning them toward Azilum. He said nothing until they stopped in front of their house.

She looked across the common. She was not surprised to see Monsieur de Talebot sitting on his porch. Although she could not see his face well enough, she guessed he was smiling.

“How can Monsieur de Talebot be your friend and do this to you?” she asked as Philippe closed the door behind them. “He made you look like a fool. If I had not stopped you, you might have killed Mr. Slater. Then you would have been hanged.”

He frowned. “He honestly believes what is being said about you.”

“What is being said about me by whom? Agathe and Yves know the truth. Madame Davignon does. The bachelors in the cottage next to the Grande Maison do. Mr. Jacobs does. They can't be telling these lies. Then who is?” She fisted her hands on her waist. “I'll tell you who. Vachel de Talebot.”

He rubbed his forehead. “He has no reason to lie to me.”

“Nor do I. Philippe, I have loved you—and only you—for years.”

“Years?” Confusion drew the lines back into his forehead. “How can that be?”

“Maybe it was not
you
I loved so much as the man who was tender and loving and filled my dreams with childish fantasies. That was the man I thought I had married.”

“You barely knew me when we wed.”

“I knew you better than you think.” She drew off her bonnet and set it on the table. “From the night you first kissed me, my heart has belonged only to you.”

“But that was only months ago, not years.”

“No.” She sat, staring at the fire that brought to mind the flickering of lanterns. “'Twas in a lovely garden filled with spring flowers and music from an orchestra. That night was as close as this Cinderella will ever come to attending a royal ball.”

“I still don't understand.”

“One magical night, the spring before the Bastille fell, I sneaked into the garden to watch a ball in Madame Fortier's gazebo because I was lured by the music. I knew I could be punished horribly for daring to contaminate the evening with my lowly presence.” She closed her eyes and breathed, “And the punishment was far worse than I could have imagined!”

“You were whipped for listening to the music?”

She shook her head. “Not whipped, although Madame Fortier would have ordered that if she'd discovered I was there. I was discovered by a man who tried to rape me.”

His eyes narrowed. “What beast would do that to a young girl?”

“I don't know, because I never saw his face, and I never heard his drunken voice again.” Her own voice softened as she added, “In that moonlight, I was rescued by a rogue who offered me his domino if I would come out of my hiding place amid the rosebushes. Little did I know that when he stole a kiss, he stole my heart as well.”

“And that rogue was me?”

She could not help smiling. “Yes, Philippe. Do you remember?”

“No.” He regarded her with a baffled expression. “You'd think I would, as I have had the chance to play the hero so seldom.” He clasped her hands. “Does that explain why you fit in my arms as if you had been there before, even that first time I held you?”

She drew her hands away. “But all that's changed. I don't believe in fairy tales now. They only entice us to live in the hope of what is impossible. No prince rescues a kitchen lass.”

“But I did.”

“No, you didn't. You only used me in the hope of saving your life and your heritage while you got your vengeance.” Going to the hearth, she faced him with her chin high. “I wanted to love you, Philippe. I would have given you anything if you would have loved me in return, but that hope was as worthless as a fairy tale.”

“
Ma petite—
”

“No, it is too late.” The words refused to be held within her. “You must realize that. There is no return to the France you loved and I endured. That life is as dead as our king. Dreams don't come true.”

He opened his mouth, but his answer was drowned out as the door came open.

Yves ran into the house, holding out stained pages. “Mail! From France!” He threw his arm around Philippe's shoulders. “Come along. Everyone is meeting in the Grande Maison to enjoy the news.”

“Go,” Lirienne said as Philippe glanced back at her.

Walking to the door, she put her hands on the frame and watched them rush along the muddy street. Had Philippe believed her when she had said she did not love him? When had lying become so easy?

Sixteen

Philippe sat at the back corner of the large main room of the Grande Maison. From here, he could look out the window and see the front porch of his cottage. Smoke rose from the hearth where Lirienne might be cooking his supper even now. If this meeting dragged on too long, she would tend to the horses and keep his supper warm. He could depend on her to take care of everything.

His hands clenched into fists. He did not want to depend on her. He wanted to make love with her. How many months had dragged past since he had leaned her back in that musty bed on the top floor of that insect-infested building by the Philadelphia waterfront and had seen her smile as they let passion meld them together? If only … No, he could not change what had been. How many times had Lirienne chided him for holding onto the past? Maybe it was because he knew how bleak his future was.

Eventually, he could return to France, but Lirienne would not want to go with him. His mouth tightened into a scowl. As he dredged far into his memory, he
did
remember the masquerade she had been talking about when Yves came with the news of mail reaching Azilum. It had been a glorious night, one of the last before the peasants tore down the façade to reveal the rot beneath it.

He laughed lowly at his own thoughts. When had
he
become a revolutionary?

Ignoring the voices around him, he searched his memory more deeply for that elusive moment. He did recall leaving the gathering. Charmaine had told him to meet her in the shadows. He had not found her before … His eyes widened in amazement as he remembered the slender silhouette that had danced with unfettered abandon to the music spilling out into the gardens. The tattered dress had given the young girl the appearance of a garden fairy whose clothes were made of flower petals. Something about her innocent delight in the music had held his gaze, urging him to pause. She had disappeared behind a bush. Then … the sound of a frightened cry flung itself out of his memory.

He scowled as he put a face on the man who had attacked her. Looking across the room, he saw Vachel de Talebot deep in conversation with two other men. His friend had been wildly drunk that night and had made a fool of himself trying to seduce Charmaine in front of all the guests. When she dismissed him, furious that he was so ill-mannered, he must have chanced upon Lirienne. The next time Philippe had seen Vachel, his friend had been sound asleep on one of the benches.

Was this why Vachel was so eager to see him divorce Lirienne? Was he fearful that she would denounce him? He shook his head. Vachel probably remembered nothing of that night. It had been a night like so many others of drinking and flirtations and seductions. He had forgotten himself, only remembering because a single aspect had been different.

Lirienne.

Memories tumbled out as he recalled her astonishment when he offered his domino and how she had been so frightened of being found where she should not be. Then he had tasted her soft lips in a kiss that was meant only to tease her. Instead, he had been the one taunted by its guileless passion. It had been weeks before he had been able to push from his mind thoughts of that single kiss amid the many he had enjoyed and quickly forgotten that night.

“What do you think of this news?”

At Yves's voice, Philippe tore himself from the past. “What news?”

“How could you not hear?”

“I was thinking of …” He could not explain without revealing how his wife slept alone when he ached for her against him in the night.

Yves shook his head. “It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.”

He frowned when he saw Yves's eyes had been stripped to a dull resignation. “What's wrong?”

“The queen is dead.”

He bit off a curse as he stared at the men clustered in the corners of the room that should have been Marie Antoinette's reception area. All of the men wore expressions of disbelief and horror. And why not? Everything they had worked to build here, the very reason the town was named Azilum, was gone.

“Guillotined?” he asked.

Yves nodded.

“When?”

“According to the letter, Davignon received from his sister, the queen was guillotined last October. October sixteenth, to be exact.”

His shoulders slumped. “Even before we arrived here, she was dead. Our grand dream of building this asylum for our queen was over before it started. Azilum is a mockery.”

“Not for us,” Yves said quietly, so his voice did not reach the other men. “This has been a true asylum for Agathe and me. We were able to flee from the oppression of the—”

“Go ahead and say it.” Philippe stood and put his hand on Yves's round shoulder. “The oppression of the nobility.”

“I didn't mean to suggest that you were oppressive.”

“You need only ask Lirienne.” He tried to smile, but he could not. “She's told me more than once that I can't be the grand lord of the manor here.”

Davignon came to stand by them, his dark eyes bleak. “What will we do now?”

“What can we do?” Philippe asked. Taking a deep breath, he answered his own question. “We stay and build our settlement here until we can return to France. There are others in Philadelphia who intend to join us this summer. Certainly more will be coming from France, from England, from Santo Domingo.”