Louisa Rawlings (27 page)

There was a loud crunching sound, followed by a howl of pain from César. Rouge’s eyes flew open to see his cherub’s face ruined by a bloody mass in the middle of it—where once his nose had been. At the same time that he fell back, releasing her hands, she felt her legs freed. Pierre, his face purple with rage, had lifted Jean into the air. Storming to the open window, he tossed the boy into the dirt, casting him out with all the force of his fury. Jean cried out, screaming that his arm was broken.
 

Pierre turned back to César, who had begun to blubber, his hands at his smashed nose. “Now, you whelp, you filthy spawn of hell,” said Pierre through clenched teeth, “unless you want your jawbone to go the way of your nose, you’ll get your swinish backside out of here as fast as you can!” He took a menacing step toward the boy. César fled.
 

Rouge struggled to her feet and crossed to the window, watching in relief—and a certain amount of unexpected pity—as the two boys ran toward the road, Jean sobbing as he clutched his broken arm, César leaving a trail of blood behind him. She turned thankfully to Pierre. To her surprise his brow was beetled in anger.
 

“Dammit, woman,” he growled, massaging his bruised knuckles, “henceforth you throw the bolt on that door when I’m not around!”
 

She scowled back. Curse him! As though it were her fault! “
You
were the one who thought the wretch was benign! I’ll be on my guard the next time.” She took a deep breath. She wasn’t about to show him how frightened she’d been! Not when he was behaving as though it were her due to be treated that way. “
Mon Dieu
,” she said coolly, “but the villains interrupted my cooking.” She turned back to the grain bin and the abandoned cheese. She reached to pick it up. Her trembling hand betrayed her.
 

“Sweet Jesu.” Pierre clasped her elbow in his strong grip and swung her back to face him. His green eyes searched her face. “Now, curse me for a blind fool,” he murmured. “The most jaded courtesan in all of France would not be as indifferent as you pretend. Not after an assault like that. Did they harm you?”
 

“No,” she whispered, fighting to keep her chin from quivering. And then her control vanished and she collapsed against him, letting the tears flow.
 

His strong arms went around her and pulled her close. “I didn’t mean to speak sharply to you. I was cursing myself for leaving you alone and unprotected.” He held her more tightly. “When I think of what might have happened…God! Fabert only had one load to go to Selommes. That’s why I came back so soon. But if I hadn’t…”
 

She clung to him, sobbing, and wept her tears. Tears of shame and horror. Of gratitude. After a little, her crying subsided, but she stayed locked in his embrace, aware of the warmth of his arms, the sweetness of being sheltered and protected.
 

Suddenly he laughed. At the same moment, Rouge felt the cat rub up against her ankles. “By my faith,” said Pierre, releasing her from the circle of his arms, “I think Jerusalem is jealous!”
 

She dabbed at her tear-stained face. “Jealous? Of what?”
 

He laughed again and scooped up the cat. “True. She has naught to be jealous of.
She
has shared my bed for years!”
 

Rouge giggled in spite of herself, the terrors of the past half hour beginning to fade. “Faugh! I wonder you don’t go to the roof, like a puffed-up weathercock, and crow your conquests to the whole province!”
 

He smiled at her words, but his eyes were serious and filled with warm concern. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your spirit. Now, you said something about your interrupted cooking. If you’ll go and work your magic in that stew pot, I’ll see if I can find us a good jug of wine to go with supper. And if there’s still a bit of milk left, perhaps I’ll make up a warming posset later. Just the thing to restore you.”
 

Supper was as good as she’d hoped it would be: the
potage à la Jacobine
,
a salad of spring greens, dried fruit accompanied by a robust wine. Pierre smacked his lips and declared that the king himself could not have had a
potage
cooked any finer. While Rouge rinsed their few dishes, Pierre built up the fire and pulled his armchair in close. He insisted that Rouge sit there to do her sewing; he even set an extra candle at her elbow for a work light. He lit his pipe and puffed in contentment, standing at the mantel and watching with some interest as Rouge trimmed her chemise with the length of lace. They said nothing. There seemed no need for words, here together in the snug cottage, with the golden glow of the candles keeping the night at bay beyond the windows. The smoke from Pierre’s pipe curled in fragrant wisps above their heads, and several times he stopped to blow smoke rings, much to Rouge’s delight and amusement.
 

At length he set down his pipe. “Would you like that posset now?”
 

“Mmm.” She nodded in pleasure. Then she remembered his cooking. “But I can do it.”
 

He grinned, reading her thoughts. “I can make a fair posset, I promise you.”
 

While she worked on her stitching, he assembled the posset’s ingredients in front of the fire and pulled out the utensils he’d need. He beat several eggs until they were frothy, and added a goodly portion of white wine with cinnamon and a pinch of nutmeg. Then he set the mixture to warming over the fire, stirring it several times as it thickened. Next he heated up some milk into which he had mixed a quantity of sugar. Watching it carefully, he waited until it had come to a full boil, then he poured it from a good height into the spiced wine and eggs. He removed the posset from the fire and covered the pot for a few minutes to let it settle while he fetched two pewter mugs.
 

Rouge snipped a thread with her teeth and put aside her chemise for a moment. “That smells delicious!”
 

Pierre ladled out the hot drink. Rouge was pleased to see that he even remembered to sprinkle a bit of sugar on the top before handing her a mug. “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to take the posset from him. She sipped carefully, smiled, and pronounced herself more than satisfied. “With a little care, you might make a passable cook after all!”
 

He laughed and sat down on the stool to enjoy his own drink. He reached over and touched her hand. “I’ve meant to ask,” he said. “That ring. I noticed it again just now. It’s very old.”
 

“Yes. It belonged to a great-uncle, I think.”
 

“Why then, it must be very dear.”
 

“No. Not really. It’s my mother’s family crest, the Desportes, but I have
her
ring at home in Sans-Souci.” She shrugged. She’d never thought of it much before. “I never knew my great-uncle. I suppose I only wear the ring out of habit.”
 

“And no other jewels.”
 

She started to speak, prepared to tell the lie she had told Arsène; but something in Pierre’s direct gaze prevented her. “No. No other jewels. I have none.”
 

“Well, it’s scarcely my business.” He smiled. “Would you like me to read to you while you finish your sewing?”
 

“That would be a sweet diversion. I leave the choice of books up to you.”
 

He set down his mug and crossed to the shelf of books. “La Fontaine, I think. A few lighthearted fables on a merry May Eve.”
 

“Alas! May Eve,” she said, half serious. “If it weren’t for me, you might be frolicking with the villagers in the woods at the sound of the midnight bells, seeking your pleasures where you may!”
 

“God save me! Too many May revels end before a priest in a nine-month, willy-nilly! I enjoy my solitude too much to be an unwilling bridegroom. I’ll leave such revelry to the young lads and maids.”
 

Rouge sighed. “Not poor Angélique, I fear.”
 

“No. The baron will see to it that she’s safely locked in her room for the night. And Barnabé will languish alone, of that we may be sure.” He took another swallow of his drink, then opened the book. “Ah, well. To La Fontaine.”
 

He read the fables with great relish: “The Fox and the Stork,” “The Wolf and the Lamb,” “The Hare and the Frogs.” He played each role, sometimes speaking in a low rumble, sometimes in a high squeak, until Rouge could scarcely see her needlework for the tears of laughter in her eyes. At the last he read “The Grasshopper and the Ant,” then closed the book and smiled wryly at Rouge, who had just knotted the final thread on her sewing and put it away. “For all your court ways, you’re not a grasshopper,” he said, “wasting your days in song while others toil.”
 

“No,” she said with a touch of sadness in her voice. “But my father is.”
 

“And why not? The carefree aristocrat, taking his ease… Why not, if it suits him?”
 

“While all around him the world crumbles!” she said sharply. She was surprised at her sudden anger; she had always forgiven Tintin’s weaknesses.
 

Pierre raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Can your life be such a burden at Sans-Souci?”
 

She held out her mug for more of the posset, then drank it slowly as she stared at the phantoms in the fire. “Sans-Souci nestles in the midst of sweet green hills and rolling vineyards. I spent the years of my happy childhood there, playing beneath its oak trees, singing with the birds, filling the rooms with flowers at my mother’s behest. My father’s family is old; the château has been there for many years. And whenever my father was home, the old stones rang with laughter and gaiety.” She sighed, shaking off the dear memories. “But the roof leaks, the chimneys smoke, and the wind whistles through the passageways in the dead of winter. And that is my burden because…” (forgive me, Tintin, she thought) “the grasshopper will not deal with it.”
 

He poured himself the last of the posset. “Why then, I suppose you do need a good marriage.”
 

“Indeed. If Arsène will still talk to me after the trouble I’ve been to him!”
 

He smiled, but the coolness in his eyes chilled the cozy room. “I have no doubt that the moment you return to court all your many admirers will be at your feet as before.”
 

“Do you begrudge me?”
 

He laughed. “I? Woman, what you do with your life is naught to me. In another week or so you’ll be gone, and these days will be but a memory to both of us. So then”—he leaned forward and clinked his mug against hers—“let us drink to pleasant memories, and stories to tell neighborhood children in our dotage!”
 

“Willingly,” she said, returning his smile of friendship. “To memories.”
 

They went to bed in good humor, warmed by the posset and their comradeship and the shared laughter. Pierre blew out the candles and settled himself on his pallet; Rouge, snug in his bed, made a space for Jerusalem, who had become her nightly bedmate.
 

“Good night,” she said softly, and closed her eyes. She felt relaxed and mellow. The bed was comfortable, her belly was full, the cat was purring in the crook of her knees. The scent of the lilacs filled the room, enveloping her in their heady perfume. It was just what she’d hoped for when she’d decided to stay—a sweet, bucolic holiday, a respite from her cares and worries. And Pierre was a good companion, a protective friend; it was very pleasant, after Tintin’s irresponsibility, to have someone look after
her
for a change.
 

Yes. Everything was wonderful. Save for one inconsequential detail. One small flaw in paradise. She turned quietly in her bed, burying her face in the pillow. She muffled the hot tears that flowed, stifled the misery that bubbled up in her breast.
 

One inconsequential detail: she was hopelessly in love with him.
 

Chapter Seven

“By all the saints, Pierre, could you not have loaded the wagon before you put on your coat? I cleaned it, and shook it, and brushed it…and now look at you!” In the process of tying Pierre’s neckerchief about her head (her steinkirk being torn beyond repair, thanks to the lout César), Rouge stopped and frowned, hands on her hips.
 

Pierre raised one eyebrow in amusement. “Are you becoming a shrew, woman? I’m a miller. I load my sacks of flour to sell them in the village. I’ll be selling flour and buying grain all the day. Let my coat proclaim my trade. It will save me crying my wares aloud.”
 

“Faugh! I can no more see you shouting, ‘Flour! Buy my flour!’ than I can see you bending your knee to any man, even King Louis himself! Nonetheless”—she stood on tiptoe and began to brush the wide shoulders of his plain coat—“since every eye will be turned to us the moment we enter Selommes, you might as well be presentable at the start.”
 

He grinned down at her, his green eyes twinkling. “And why should we be the object of such concern?”
 

She danced away from him and surveyed herself in the small mirror, fluffing out the few silver-blond curls that were not caught up in the neckerchief. She felt silly and giddy and wonderfully lighthearted. “Not ‘we.’ Me! Why should they look at
you
, name of God? They’ll look at me, of course. The villagers who have already been here—the ones you say I’ve bewitched—will be sighing in anticipation of a glance or two. The others will be looking to see if Pierre’s ‘cousin’ is as charming as they say.” She smiled wickedly at him. “And the women will be jealous and wondering if I’ve stolen you away from them!”