On My Lady's Honor (All for one, and one for all) (33 page)

What more could there be to marriage than that anyway?
Sophie thought as she rubbed herself dry on a coarse towel, the bare floorboards sending shivers of cold into the soles of her feet.
 
She was sure she could not feel more intensely without dying of it.

She tossed the damp towel at Lamotte and crept under the covers.
 
She had no nightclothes, nor any clean linen for the morrow, but she would worry about that when the time came.
 
Right now, all she wanted to do was sleep.

By the time Lamotte had dried himself and crept in beside her, she was three-quarters asleep.
 
She snuggled up to his warm body and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

She awoke to the sound of the dawn chorus, her husband’s warm torso next to her.
 
Her husband was abed with her, and as naked as the day he was born.
 
She shivered.
 
Come to that, so was she.

His body burned against hers wherever it touched her.
 
She turned over to escape the touch of his body against hers and lay still for a while, pretending to be dozing.
 
The memory of the previous night made her feel sick to her stomach.
 
How could she have forgotten herself so far as to behave like a perfect wanton in his arms?

He mumbled a sleepy good morning to her and reached out to take her back into his embrace.
 
She could not face his touch again.
 
Not so soon as this.
 
She sat up, threw off the covers, and swung her legs over the side of the bed, almost falling out in her hurry to escape him.
 
She could not deal with him just yet – her sense of shame was too great still.
 
She would simply pretend to be in such a hurry to be moving again that she had no time to exchange early morning pleasantries with him.

She felt so vulnerable in the chill of the morning air with no clothes to cover her nakedness – as if she were laying not only her body but also her spirit bare to his searching gaze.
 
She knew he was watching her every move.
 
She could feel his eyes on her naked backside as she bent over to retrieve her clothes.
 

How she hated to put her travel-stained clothes on to her clean body.
 
She held up her soiled linen with distaste, examining it critically in the dim light from the casement window.
 
It looked worse this morning than it had the previous eve, but she had no choice other than to wear it or go without.
 
She was tempted for a moment to go without, but she knew the leather of her breeches on her bare skin would chafe her unbearably.
 
She shut her eyes to the sad state of her linen and struggled into it.
 
Still damp from yesterday’s rain, it stuck to her body with a cold, clammy feel.

Lamotte called at her to come back to bed, but she ignored him.
 
With a grouch and a grumble, he got out of bed and started to dress himself in clean linen taken from his saddlebags.
 

She averted his eyes from his naked body as he rose from their bed.
 
She would not watch the play of his muscles under his skin as he wandered around the chamber, taking an
 
inordinately long time to find his clothes.
 
She would not watch him dress.
 
He was a distraction at a time when she could not afford to be distracted.

She would not look at him at all, or talk to him either, unless she had to, she decided, for the rest of the journey to England.
 
She may be married to him, but she did not have to have aught to do with him, if she did not choose to.
 

This morning she wanted to forget the very fact of his existence.

They were on the road in short order.
 
She refused to sit down for breakfast, but grabbed a hunk of cold meat wrapped in bread to eat on her way.
 
Lamotte cast a look of longing at the bowls of steaming hot rabbit stew that the maid offered to them to break their fast, but he followed her suit without a word.

“Are you going to ignore me all day?” Lamotte inquired after some minutes of riding, when she had replied to his inconsequential chatter with a mere nod or shake of her head.
 
She was too intent on schooling herself into not answering him to concentrate properly on what he was saying.
 
“Are you upset at something, or are you just sulking?”

She could not open her mouth to talk to him without blushing for her behavior the previous evening.
 
Still, he was not going get away with accusing her of sulking.
 
“I was not ignoring you.
 
I was thinking.”

“You should leave thinking to the King’s ministers.
 
They can think up enough crackpot ideas for all the rest of France together.”

“I was not thinking up crackpot schemes.
 
I was merely…”
 
Her voice trailed off into silence.
 
She could not tell him what she was thinking about.

“Thinking?” he added helpfully.

“Exactly.”

“Can I ask what you are thinking so hard about that you haven’t heard a word I have said all morning?”

She was thinking about how she could possibly survive for the rest of the journey to England, being in her husband’s company and sharing a chamber with him at night.
 
How could she remain true to herself?
 
How could she deny him, when her own body tried to make a traitor out of her?
 
How could she tell him she was thinking the touch of his hands on her body, and the gorgeous heaven of coming apart in his arms?
 
“Nothing in particular.”

“You think about nothing very hard.”

She shrugged her shoulders and was silent.

After looking at her expectantly for an answer but receiving none, he rode on a few paces ahead and left her alone with her thoughts.

They were not comfortable ones.

She would have to exercise a far greater degree of self-control, Sophie decided.
 
She would not think about the touch of Lamotte’s hands on her body, or the feeling of his lips brushing hers.
 
She would not think about that glorious moment when it seemed that she was flying and would never come down to Earth again.
 
She would especially not think about how she could make Lamotte catch the same glimpse of Heaven that she had experienced.
 
She would concentrate on her goal – to get to England – and distance herself from anything that would interfere with her plans.

Lamotte was the temptation she had to resist.
 
The Devil had put him in her way to distract her from her purpose.
 
She would be strong and true, and not allow herself to be distracted.

She looked sideways at him from under her lashes.
 
He had been framed for distractions.
 
His sight of his large, capable hands on the reins of his mare made her spine tingle with anticipation.
 
She knew what the planes of his back look like without their covering of linen and leather.
 
She knew how the hairs grew in tight, golden curls on this chest and thighs.
 
She knew how good he could make her feel.

She knew, and she must forget.

She forced herself to think of Henrietta, doomed to a cold dungeon and moldy bread.
 
Henrietta must be saved – and by her alone.
 
Philippe of Orleans had put all his trust in her and she must not fail him.
 
Despite all the temptations thrown in her path, she was determined not to forget the purpose of her mission.

The ride dragged on interminably.
 
Torn between desire and duty, Sophie wrestled all day in her mind, determined to get the better of her desire.
 
Long before nightfall, the effort had exhausted her.

She was thankful to stop at last at a humble tavern that boasted only one chamber for guests.

She washed briefly in a jug of cold water, and climbed into the narrow bed with her soiled shirt and stockings still on.
 
She dared not divest all her clothing again, as she had the previous night.
 
She would not be so foolhardy as to run headlong into temptation, but would rather seek rather to avoid it.

She lay on her back as far over on the edge of the bed as she could, clenched her fists into tight balls of determination, and stared at the ceiling.
 
Tonight she would wrestle with the Devil and she would win.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lamotte take a look at her stiff posture and shrug his shoulders.
 
Without a word, he blew out the candle and climbed in next to her.
 
She tensed her body, waiting for him to reach out to her, but he stayed scrupulously on his side of the bed.
 
“Good night.”
 
His voice, velvety and warm in the blackness, caressed her senses.

Sophie clenched her fists tighter together.
 
She would not let herself be lulled into a false sense of security only to be surprised by an sudden attack from behind.
 
“Good night.”

His breathing soon deepened into the patterns of sleep, while her brain still tossed around in confusion.
 
Did he desire her no longer?
 
Why was he making no effort to touch her, to coax her into his arms again?
 
Did he not care that she had determined to resist him?
 
She had been prepared for a battle to resist temptation, and the temptation was never even offered to her.
 
She could not feel victorious over such a non-event.
 
Instead, she felt deflated, unfulfilled – almost insulted – by his lack of interest.

He started to snore lightly and she wanted to scream at him for being able to sleep when she could not.
 
She turned over on to her side, her leg accidentally brushing his as she did so.

Startled, she jerked it away as if he had burned her with his touch.
 
Her heart was still thudding with the sudden fright she had given herself when she heard another, more sinister thudding of soft shoes outside her chamber, and the muted creak of her door slowly and quietly being opened.

The flickering of a rush taper caught her eye, and the acrid smell of the smoke it gave off caught at the back of her throat.

She leaped out of bed in a flash, grabbed the dagger from its hiding place in her stocking where she had stashed in to ward off another kind of danger altogether, and shouted a warning to Lamotte.

Her eyes, accustomed to the darkness, made out a couple of stealthy figures creeping into their chamber.
 
Damn it all.
 
Did the King have an unending supply of assassins to send after her?

She leaped at the foremost of the intruders, striking him a glancing blow on the shoulder with her dagger.
 
He gave a cry of pain and struck back at her weakly and wildly, evidently not expecting to meet with any resistance.

In that same instant Lamotte was beside her, his naked body large beside her, his sword flashing in the light of the rush taper.

Foiled in their attempt to take them by surprise, their attackers quickly turned tail, snuffed their lights, and fled into the darkness.

Sophie stood in the doorway, looking out into the blackness, searching for any sign of them.
 
She was panting with the aftereffects of shock and fear.
 
“Shall we go after them?”

 
“It could be an ambush.
 
They could well try to trap us in the dark.”

“Who do you think they were?”

He shut the door and secured it with a wooden chair shoved up against the handle.
 
“I doubt they were looking simply to rob us.
 
Ordinary robbers would normally give a pair of soldiers a wide berth.”

She’d known it all along.
 
“The King’s men, then?”

“I fear so.”

She scrunched her face up to aid her memory, but it did not help.
 
“I did not see their faces.
 
I would not recognize them again were I to bump into them.”

“Nor I.
 
We shall have to keep a far closer watch for the rest of the journey.”
 
He pulled on his breeches, threw his jacket on and sat down on the edge of the bed.
 
“Go back to sleep for now.
 
I shall keep watch tonight.”