No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (35 page)

“What stopped you?” Lily asked, her eyes shining.

“An angel,” he said. “She was so incredibly beautiful … do you know the classic image one has?”

Lily thought. “Yes, I suppose. Perfect features, blond, flowing hair, white robes, huge wings, all of that?”

“All of that and more,” Pascal said, his gaze far away. “The sight of her made my heart ache. But then she said that I couldn’t come any farther. I was terribly disappointed.”

“Of course,” Lily said, fascinated.

“She told me that I had to go back, that I had things yet to do. The last thing I wanted was to wake up in that dreadful water again, but being a good little urchin, I did as I was told.”

“I doubt you were a good little urchin, but if they weren’t going to let you into heaven, what were you going to do?”

Pascal smiled. “Exactly. You are quick to take a point, duchess. Still, she let me stay for a while longer, wrapping me up in her love as if it were bunting, preparing me for the return journey. Then the most extraordinary thing happened.”

“Oh?” Lily said, straight-faced.

“Yes. I looked down—well, not exactly down, but never mind—and there was another angel. But this one was different. He looked like an angel, but somehow I knew he wasn’t.”

“Then what was he if he wasn’t an angel?”

“He was a man,” Pascal said quietly. “He was the bravest, most magnificent man I’d ever seen, and I knew he’d come to bring me out of that godforsaken sea at the risk of his own life.”

“Nicholas?” Lily whispered. “Was it Nicholas?”

“It was. I don’t remember much after that except a sense of timelessness and of moving toward something that was calling me. It hurt having to leave the angel and all that wonderful light, but she promised me I’d be able to go back one day. She knew just how to appeal to an eleven-year-old boy. Bribe him.”

Lily chuckled.

“The next thing I knew,” Pascal said, “I was waking up in a bed, being told by Binkley that I’d drowned and had been rescued by Nicholas—and that Georgia had spent an extraordinary amount of time on the beach trying to resuscitate me. It turned out that I’d been delirious with fever for three days, which to most people would explain everything—I dreamed the entire thing.”

“Nonsense,” Lily said disdainfully. “Oh, Pascal, what a wonderful story. Thank you so much for telling it.”

He gave her a brief smile, then pushed back his chair and stood. Lily immediately forgot the image of the small, scraggly, drowned child in favor of this substantially built and very handsome man, whom she loved to distraction.
Oh, thank you, Nicholas and Georgia. Thank you. And thank you, God and Angel, for not letting him entirely into heaven.

“So, Michel,” Pascal said to the silent priest. “What do you think of that? Grist for the mill?”

Father Chabot slowly shook his head as if coming out of a daze. “I—I don’t know what to say. It is a fascinating account indeed, and one I shall have to mull over carefully. I have never heard such a story before.” He pressed his hands flat on the table before him and stared down at them.

“As I said, I haven’t told it often, and for good reason.” Pascal’s voice gentled and he spoke carefully. “I don’t mean to test your faith in any way, Michel. If anything, I told you this story to reinforce it.”

Father Chabot gave him an odd look. “Your very presence here reinforces my faith, Pascal. The gift God gave you reinforces my faith. Of course, the Holy Diocese would probably be on its knees if it ever heard your story.”

“As I have no intention of telling the Holy Diocese anything that would unduly disturb it,” Pascal said calmly, “there’s nothing to worry about.” He regarded Father Chabot with a thoroughly wicked gleam in his eye.

“Do you know,” Father Chabot said, “I have never come across two such irreverent people as you and your wife. If I were doing my job, I’d read you a stern lecture about not honoring the mysteries of Our Lord. Yet you are the only people I know who see such mysteries and take them for granted—you most especially, Pascal.” He scratched his head again. “Angels, holy light, miracles,” he said with a sigh. “I suppose as you live with this sort of thing every day, it must seem perfectly normal to you.”

“Normal?” Pascal said, raising an eyebrow. “No. I’m not that deluded. But Lily has taught me a great deal about acceptance, and for that I can only be grateful. Lily,” he added, as he rested his hands on her shoulders, “is extraordinary.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Father Chabot said with a smile.

“Nothing gets in her way, Michel, including angels—certainly nothing so humble as a man like myself. I think I could tell her I was the reincarnation of Ramses and she’d fail to be amazed—or impressed.”

Lily looked up at him, a saucy smile curving her mouth. “You’re absolutely right. The only thing I’m interested in is you, Pascal LaMartine. Start playing Ramses with me and there really will be trouble.”

“Do you see?” Pascal asked, but then his smile faded. “Michel. I only want you to understand that as much as God made me different, he made me the same. I’ve struggled for years to find that sameness, and I finally stumbled across it—here in Saint-Simon. The villagers accept me for what they see. You and Lily have no quarrel with what I do. I need nothing more.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s why I don’t care if they think me a duke’s bastard. They could think me the village idiot’s bastard and I wouldn’t care. All I ask is that they see me as a man.”

Father Chabot had no answer.

Pascal waited until they were readying for bed before he broached the subject again. He sat under the sheets, his knees pulled up, watching Lily brush out her hair, giving it her usual thorough strokes, no doubt a regimen drilled into her by Coffey. He wondered if Coffey had been the one to teach her to rinse it in rosemary. But then who else would there have been?

“Come,” he said, growing impatient, holding out his arms.

Lily put down the brush and moved into his embrace.

“Now tell me,” he said, turning her soft body against him, his mouth burrowing into that mass of sweet-smelling, well-brushed hair. “What did you really think of what I told you tonight?”

“I thought,” she said, touching her mouth to the warm flesh of his chest and kissing it, “that your angel was absolutely right. If she hadn’t had the sense to turn you back, you wouldn’t be here right now with me, about to do very wonderful things. Very human things. Very, very magnificent things.”

Pascal gave a low laugh. “Magnificent? I must be improving.”

Lily slanted a look up at him. “Is that Ramses speaking?”

“No,” he said, brushing her full lips with his finger. “Only a poor, ignorant man doing his best to please his wife.” He bent his head to Lily’s mouth and concentrated in earnest.

An hour later, Lily lay sleepy and prostrate in his arms. “There’s something I didn’t tell you,” he murmured against the curve of her ear. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Michel, but you should know.”

She shifted to face him, and her eyes changed from drowsy satisfaction to sharp attention at the expression on his face. “I can’t think what you might have left out,” she said.

“It wasn’t to do with me. It was to do with Nicholas.” Pascal took in a deep breath and released it. “Lily, when I said Nicholas was brave, I didn’t come close to describing what he did for me.”

“What he
did
for you? He risked his life for you! What more is there than that?”

“The man risked not only his life, he also risked his sanity for me—and nearly lost it.” Pascal’s arm tightened around her for a moment, then released her. He sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“What do you mean?” Lily asked, pushing herself up to face him.

“I mean that he’d been in the same situation himself as a child. He’d nearly drowned. He’d lost his parents. He’d been plagued by the experience, dreaming of it over and over again, a vicious nightmare that never left him. Nicholas was terrified of water. Placid lakes were enough to give him the shakes.”

“Oh, dear Lord. But he went in after you?”

“He went in after a number of people,” Pascal said, staring down at the sheet. “But he went back for me at the end, when no one believed there was anyone left to save. He was injured and exhausted and frozen half to death, but he still went back into that water for me.”

Lily bit her lip. “Oh, Pascal.”

He turned his head away. “He brought me in, and he broke as if he were a twig someone had carelessly snapped in two.” Pascal’s voice broke at the same time. “He thought he’d been too late,” he whispered hoarsely.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

Pascal was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again his voice was steadier. “He vanished into himself. His pain was too much, so he simply went away. His body was there, but nothing else. Six weeks it lasted. Six damned weeks of his own private hell. I remember almost every minute of it.”

“And you couldn’t help him?”

“At eleven years of age? I did what I could. I talked to him incessantly. If anything, I probably drove him out of it because he couldn’t bear my infernal chattering anymore. Thank God, Nicholas came out of the experience a whole man.”

Lily thought for a moment. “Is that when it happened, Pascal? Your gift, I mean? Do you think your angel gave it to you? Or maybe you already had it, and it was the reason they sent you back?”

Pascal leaned back against the pillows. “I think it must have started after I came back, something I gradually grew aware of. By the time I was fourteen, I was fully conscious of what it was and exactly how to use it.”

“Like Charlie and the boar?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” he said. “Like Charlie and the boar. And hearing Charlie telling you about that put the fear of God into me, sweetheart. I thought my heart would stop. But you were so blissfully disdainful, I soon realized I had nothing to worry about.” He chuckled.

“I’ve just realized why you won’t eat anything with proper wings,” Lily said with a little smile.

Pascal gazed at her. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Have I ever told you,” he finally said, with a gleam of unholy amusement in his eyes, “that I have a total aversion to mutton?”

Lily stared at him. “What?”

“It’s true,” he said unsteadily. “I suppose it must have something to do with being named after a sacrificial lamb.”

She burst into laughter. “Pascal, what am I going to do with you?”

“Well,” he said, grinning wickedly and reaching for her, “I have a few ideas. For example,” he said, moving her hand under the sheet, “you might take this poor lamb and start right here…”

Lily was happy to oblige.

Pascal’s plan worked beautifully. Lily sat on the stoop, watching the last carriage rattle down the hill. “Look, Bean,” she said to the puppy dozing in the lateafternoon sunshine. “It’s the Comte de Passy. He must have held out until the last possible minute and finally succumbed to panic.” Bean opened one eye and shut it again.

Lily smiled, thinking that Pascal was brilliant, and went back to sorting herbs. Her head snapped up as she heard the carriage turn down their own little road. It could only mean trouble.

Passy had been asking questions yesterday about Pascal, obviously searching for a trick. She prayed for quick wits, then put down the bundle of herbs and slowly rose to her feet as the carriage pulled up in front of the cottage.

Passy descended. “Good evening, madame,” he said. “I believe you are Monsieur LaMartine’s wife?”

“I am,” Lily said carefully, trying not to show her revulsion.

“Is your husband at home?” He held a scented handkerchief over his nose and mouth as he spoke. Lily wondered if he was worried about infection or if it was the possible stench he was protecting himself from.

“He is not, monsieur. He’s tending to the sick in the village.” She looked down at Bean, who was growling ominously, her fur bristling. “Bean, stop that. Lie down!” Bean reluctantly obeyed, but her lip stayed curled. “Forgive my dog. She is protective of me when I am alone.”

Passy gave the dog a look of distaste, then looked Lily up and down. “Should your husband not be up at the chateau tending to the duke?”

“The duke will have to wait, monsieur. There are three in the village near death, including a newborn.”

“You do not appear to be overly concerned that your own brother might have contracted diphtheria.” He watched her closely.

“My brother and I are not on speaking terms,” she said indifferently. “I am surprised he even acknowledged my existence to you. He made it clear to me that I am to be ostracized. In fact, I believe you witnessed my brother ordering me away the night that he returned. Neither his health nor his welfare is any longer my concern.”

Passy nodded. “It is a sad thing, what has become of you.” He looked about him with disgust.

“I know what you must think, but what can I do?” Lily said with a shrug. “I am now nothing more than a common laborer’s wife. I have no rights and must do as I’m told.” Lily hoped she looked downtrodden.

“Yes,” he said. “It is a sad thing indeed, madame. I assume you must have been forced to this marriage?”

“I was, monsieur.” Lily stared at the ground for a moment, then lifted her head and met his piggy eyes. “To be honest, it was my own fault, but I never expected this to happen. I thought Jean-Jacques would come to my aid.”

Passy coughed delicately. “Forgive me, but perhaps you were a little indiscreet to have ended up in such a situation?”

Lily paused. “My husband is a handsome man … I made a bad mistake.” That was true enough.

Passy eyed her with interest. “Ah, well, you are an attractive woman. It is not hard to understand, but to be forced to marry so far beneath you … this is the tragedy.”

Lily wanted to slap his smug face. “Yes, monsieur. My father assumed I would have my fortune to protect me, but my husband is a proud man. He will not touch it.” She sighed heavily.

Passy’s lips thinned. “I met him yesterday. He is proud indeed, too proud for his own good, I think.”

“You understand? Oh, such a relief. So you see why I must live in a hovel like this.” Lily gestured at her beloved cottage, its shutters painted green, flowers growing in the upstairs window box, more flowers by the front door.

Passy shuddered. “I cannot think how distressing it must be for you. Why does your brother not help you? This I cannot understand.”

“He says that I made my bed and now I must lie in it.” Lily turned to the side and pretended to wipe away a tear. “Ah, madame. What a touching story,” Passy said. “I cannot help but feel that your brother is a fool.”

“You are kind to be concerned,” Lily replied, forcing her voice to tremble. “No one from my old life speaks to me anymore. You have no idea what it means to me, your taking the time to stop.”

Passy slowly shook his head, and his jowls swung back and forth with the motion. “I confess I was shocked when I learned of your predicament.”

Lily sank down onto the stoop. “There is nothing to be done, so I am determined to make the best of my situation. I quickly realized that rebelling only made things worse.”

“How dreadful for you.” He shook his head again, and with a sick fascination, Lily watched his jowls swing again.

“Well …” she said coyly, “it is not
all
bad. As I said, my husband is a handsome man.”

Passy smirked, and Lily knew he’d heard that rumor too. “Ah,” he said. “At least you have some comfort. Still, a woman of your refinement married to this man—it is a true shame,” he said. “You know, of course, what they say about your husband?”

Lily silently thanked Father Chabot for having forewarned them. She decided to turn the rumor to advantage. “That he is the old duke’s bastard?” she said indifferently. “Yes, I know. He was never acknowledged, you understand, and for the sake of his mother’s memory, he does not speak of it.”

Passy’s eyes glinted. “They say that your husband and your brother do not get along.”

“Get along? They despise each other, monsieur. My brother despises my husband for what he has brought me to. My husband despises my brother for his irresponsible attitude.” She shrugged. “At least my husband cares about the land and the people. It’s in his blood to care. He watches everything that goes on up at the chateau, every coming and going. It sickens him to see.”

Lily was pleased with that touch. Passy was bound to realize that Pascal was there to stay, ever vigilant—not a good situation for a group of clandestine plotters.

“Yes, I heard them arguing yesterday,” Passy said, passing his tongue over his lips, and Lily really did want to be sick. It made her think of poor, scarred Brother Julien.

“Then you’ll know,” she said tightly, “that Pascal wishes for money to be put into the land and Jean-Jacques wants only to fritter his newfound fortune away on his own pleasures.”

“Yes, it is true that your brother cares nothing for things of a rustic nature.” Passy flicked at a speck of dust on the front of his jacket with his handkerchief, then clapped it back to his face.

“He never has cared,” Lily said disdainfully. “Jean-Jacques thinks only of himself, which is why he ignored my husband’s warning about the diphtheria outbreak yesterday and put all of you at the chateau at risk.” She feigned an expression of concern. “If I might give you a word of advice, monsieur, I should not linger here. My husband is deeply concerned about the contagion.” She frowned. “You must know that half the people of Saint-Simon died in a typhoid epidemic thirty years ago? My husband is afraid that the diphtheria might do the same thing.”

That did it. If Passy hadn’t been convinced before, he was convinced now.

“Yes. Well, I really must be on my way. I hope your brother recovers from his illness. Good evening, madame.”

“Good evening. Thank you for your kind concern—and do take the road to the west, away from the village. It is better to stay clear.”

Passy nodded and quickly climbed back into his carriage. It disappeared in no time at all.

Lily started to laugh. Pascal really was a clever, clever man. And she wasn’t so stupid herself.

The entire village had a good laugh about Pascal’s deception, then quickly settled back to business. The time for harvest was fast approaching and anxious workers watched the skies, looking for any sign of rain that could ruin the crop. Prayers were said and candles lit. The oak
cuves
were readied, the winery scrubbed down, the presses checked and double-checked. The fermenting vats were filled with water to swell the wood. It had been thirty long years since Saint-Simon had had any real harvest, and excitement hummed in the air.

The weather held. The grapes continued to ripen. One hundred days after the vines had first flowered, Pascal stood up from his examination of the fruit.

Eager faces watched him. Fingers made crosses on chests.

Baskets were, at the ready, and great oak casks stood at the end of the rows to receive the crop.

Pascal grinned and raised his arms above his head.
“Vendange!”
he shouted.

The cry went through the fields, passed from vineyard to vineyard, and suddenly there was a frenzy of activity. Men, women, children, people from other villages, they had all turned out, ready to help.

For two long weeks the grapes were picked. Cattle dragged the wagons containing the casks back to the winery, where the grapes were sorted, stemmed, and crushed. Though the days were long, filled with backbreaking work, not one person complained. They were all too happy.

By the end of the last day everyone was exhausted, but not too exhausted to celebrate. An enormous fete had been planned for that night, and everyone who had participated in the
vendange
was invited. Pigs were roasted and long tables set up in the village square. The women had been cooking all day to produce food for a good two hundred people. It was going to be a fine night, Pascal thought, approaching the winery to check on progress before closing it down for the night. He stopped dead in his tracks, taking in the sight before him.

Lily was in one of the troughs, stomping grapes with a group of village women. Her skirts were pulled high above her knees, and her head was thrown back as she laughed with pure delight. She took his breath away. With strands of auburn hair escaping her ribbon and her calves stained purple with juice, Lily looked like a nymph as she danced among the grapes in a scene worthy of Bacchus.

The vision of Lily among the crushed grapes raised the most urgent of needs in him, a need that was straining for release. “Lily!” he called.

She looked up and waved a hand, smiling in a way that threatened to undo him.

“Lily, come here, will you?”
Quickly,
he was thinking.
Now, Lily.

“Just a minute.” She climbed out of the trough and wiped off her legs with a cloth, then lightly ran over to him, shoes and stockings in one hand. “What is it?” she asked. “Trouble?”

“Not trouble,” he said, taking her by the hand. “Just the opposite. Come with me.” He pulled her away, moving fast, heading toward the deserted south-facing vineyard. Lily followed him without question.

When they’d reached the top of the hill he stepped behind her and held her by the shoulders. The setting sun washed the sky with a light violet. Above them the turrets and windows of the chateau caught the last golden rays. Below them stretched row after row of vines, thick with leaf, no longer burdened by fruit, dark, rich green rising from the deep brown earth.

“Look, duchess. All around us. It’s a completed harvest. Done,” he said with deep satisfaction. “We made it happen.” He was so hard that he hurt.

Lily turned to face him and laced her arms around his neck. “You made it happen.”

“God made it happen,” he answered against her mouth as he crushed her against his chest. “I need you, Lily. Here. Now.” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled up her skirts and pushed her underclothes aside, sliding his fingers into her as he took her mouth in a hard kiss.

Lily reached down and pressed her hand against his, urging his fingers to touch her more deeply. “Yes,” she whispered, pushing her hips forward. “Yes, Pascal.”

He groaned and sank to the ground, taking her with him as he opened the flap of his trousers, freeing himself. He didn’t bother with preliminaries but drove into her in powerful thrusts, drawing a gasp from her throat. He took her with primitive urgency and she accepted him as if she were the earth and he her reaper.

“Ah, that’s good,” he said hoarsely, watching her the whole time, thrusting ruthlessly, drawing a frenzied response from her that was as alive and vital and powerful as he felt.

She arched beneath him, grasping him by his buttocks, pulling him to her as she nurtured his need in the deepest well of her body. He sank into her, surrendering to her the last of his strength as she took his seed with warmth and welcome and joy.

Lily’s lips turned up in a satisfied smile, a high flush on her cheeks. “I feel like Demeter,” she murmured. “Mother-goddess of earth. Goodness, Pascal, for a Catholic, you certainly do behave like a heathen.”

“Do you mind?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

“I like being heathen,” she said, wriggling with pleasure as he licked the delicate fold of her ear. “It’s so enriching.”

He tasted her lips once more, lingering in her heat, then rolled to his side as he readjusted his trousers and arranged her skirts over her legs. “It is, isn’t it? God, I needed you, duchess.”

She cupped his face in her hands, running her thumb over his mouth. “I needed you too, just like that, fast and furious. I was having the most disgraceful thoughts about you while I was treading grapes. You just made them all come true.”

He laughed and nipped the pad of her thumb. Then he stood and held out his hand. “Let’s go and have a wonderfully heathen evening. I doubt there will be much restraint in the village tonight.”

He was right,
Lily thought, watching Pascal as he danced with Madame Marchand, whirling the stocky woman around as if she were a young girl. She almost looked like one, all flushed and breathless with pleasure. Lily had already claimed her turn with Alain Lascard, who blushed beet-red but gamely took her on. She’d taken a particular pleasure in that dance.

Pascal was unbearably handsome, with his shirt open at the collar, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, that ungovernable lock of dark hair falling across his forehead, his teeth flashing white against the bronze of his skin. She admired his figure, his broad chest tapering to narrow waist and lean hips, the strength of his thighs apparent through the cloth of his trousers.

She shifted, still tender from Pascal’s assault earlier that evening. A stab of renewed desire shot through her and hot moisture flowed between her thighs. She could hardly wait to get home.