by Unknown
"Your name, brat?" he demanded, going over to the bath, running a hand through the water to test its temperature.
"Danielle."
"Do not imagine, Mademoiselle Danielle, that I shall be satisfied with that," he warned softly, turning back to the still figure. "But for now, I intend to proceed as I began. Are you going to take off those filthy britches, or am I?"
The look of horror flashing across the drawn face, hanging in the liquid pools of her eyes, convinced him of one thing. Whatever else she might be, this girl/waif was no wanton.
Deliberately he turned his back, crossed the sun-filled chamber to a small rosewood table by the mullioned casement, poured a glass of sherry from the decanter and, as deliberately, hooked a chair to face the window and sat, gazing with unwarranted interest at the street scene below.
Danielle looked at the averted back for no more than an instant before st ripping off her remaining garments and sliding into the hot water with a sigh of contentment that was not lost on her companion.
"Don't forget to wash your hair while you are about it," he remarked coolly. "What's left of it, anyway. I've a fancy to see what color it ts under all that dirt."
Silence reigned for a very long time, disturbed only by the occasional splash of water and the soft murmur as the earl refilled his glass. The afternoon sun left the room and Danielle wrestled with the problem of how she was to get out of the bath while retaining what little modesty remained to her.
"Milord," she said eventually. The only response was a slight stiffening of those broad shoulders, but confident that she had his attention she continued. "Since you have torn my shirt I am in something of a puzzle as to how I should clothe myself. The water is becoming a little chilly, you see," she added in apologetic explanation.
"Those clothes of yours are fit only for the furnace" came the rumbled reply.
"In that case, milord, what do you suggest? Perhaps you wish me to remain naked for your pleasure?"
The insolently dulcet tones brought the hairs on his spine to prickly rigidity.
"Mon enfant, I most fervently suggest you watch your tongue. Unless, of course, you've a mind to add
to your bruises." Rising swiftly, Linton strode with the hard-padded pace of a caged tiger across the room to the large cherrywood armoire. He selected a soft lawn shirt with lace edging to sleeves and neck and tossed it beside the tub. The small figure shrank beneath the scummy water as his eyes ran lazily over her.
"If you do not wish to come out as dirty as you went in, I also suggest that you get out now." He turned back to the window and with considerable relief Danielle hauled herself out of the disgustingly dirty water. It seemed that her savior/captor, whilst not averse to making certain physical threats appropriate to the treatment of a recalcitrant child, was not interested in molesting her as a woman. The realization, though
it brought relief, also paradoxically brought a sense of pique that surprised and annoyed her. She had played the boy for so long now it was ridiculous that she should be offended by this refusal to acknowledge what she had once been taught to accept were not inconsiderable charms.
She dried herself hastily, casting anxious glances at the averted back. She hadn't been this clean for months—a quick dip in a horse trough or a rough, freezing scrub under a backyard pump had heen the best she could manage and she now inhaled deeply of the soapy clean fragrance of her warm dry limbs. The lawn shirt caressed her body with its unfamiliar soft fineness and her fingers fumbled with the delicate pearl buttons in her haste to cover herself before the figure at the window turned around. What had the landlord called him? . . . Ah, Milord Linton, that was it. An English name, surely? But his French was impeccable.
"Are you dressed?" the cool voice questioned.
"I would hardly describe it as such," Danielle snapped, conscious of the expanse of bare leg revealed beneath the shirt. She had been brought up to believe that the merest glimpse of an ankle denoted the height of immodesty—although why this should be so when one's decolletage left little of the bosom to the imagination had always been a puzzle.
The earl got up and strode toward her. "Your want of conduct, my ungrateful vagabond, is deplorable."
* * *
Danielle backed away hastily from the soft, almost gentle voice, but a hand caught the damp mop of
curls and long fingers twined themselves firmly, forcing her to remain still. Her chin was taken between long fingers of his other hand and tipped remorselessly upward so that she could not evade the intent, frowning scrutiny of blue black eyes under well-shaped brows. Having no choice, she returned the look boldly, noting in her turn the wide, intelligent forehead beneath unpowdered black hair, firm curved lips, uncompromising jawline, and slim, aristocratic nose. It was a handsome face, albeit carrying a hint of cynicism about the mouth and eyes, a slightly bored, world-weary air.
The earl was examining a small, heart-shaped face dominated by a pair of enormous liquid brown eyes. The little nose was impudent in the extreme and the delicate jaw, whose fragility he could feel beneath his fingers, carried an arrogant determination matched by the set of what was undoubtedly an adorable little mouth. The layers of dirt appeared to have done no damage to the ivory complexion, which flushed becomingly under his studied concentration.
"Are you quite satisfied, milord?" Danny attempted to pull her chin away, knowing she was playing with fire but unable to bear the scrutiny any longer.
Fortunately, His Lordship chose to ignore the sarcasm although his frown deepened and the fingers tightened on her chin.
"No, I'm not satisfied," he declared slowly. "Your features are very familiar, but I cannot for the moment place them. However, you shall help me on that score very soon." Abruptly the fingers left her jaw and hair and Danielle turned away hastily to hide a tremulous lip. He could not force her to declare her identity, to tell the story that she had buried deep in the recesses of her mind almost as effectively as she had buried the gently bred aristocrat under the layers of dirt. Or could he? For the first time she felt a twinge of doubt as to her ability to pursue the path she had set for herself after that night of horror. Could she have seen the earl's face at this moment, she might have felt slightly reassured. Watching the effort of this indomitable waif to keep her shoulders squared and back straight, Linton fell prey to a series of most unusual emotions—compassion, an overpowering desire to know the whole, and, most surprising of all, a need to help. How to rid her of the obstinate refusal to accept his help and to trust him was the puzzle.
"Danielle, I suggest you remove yourself to the darkest corner of the chamber while the room is set to rights again and our dinner is brought in." He made his voice deliberately brisk and was rewarded by her sudden whirl as she turned in surprise toward him. "You see," he added apologetically, "you bear no resemblance to the urchin I dragged in here. In fact, only a blind man would fail to recognize you for
what you are in that garb."
A deep flush suffused the pale countenance but, without comment, the small figure moved to the far side of the bed, seating herself on the low chair at its head, partially hidden by the brocade canopies of the tester. Linton gave a brief nod of satisfaction and tugged the bellpull.
His summons brought an army of servers into the room. The paraphernalia of the urchin's bath were removed swiftly as was the sad pile of discarded clothing with the brisk injunction to consign them to the furnace. The evening had become cool and a taper was placed to the fire laid ready in the hearth behind the round oak table now spread with snowy linen, heavy silver utensils, delicate china, and thick crystal.
Danielle remained in her corner throughout the bustle, her nostrils assailed by the savory aroma of hot food, her stomach cleaving to her backbone, the constant, gnawing rat of hunger now exploding into real pain under the miraculous possibility of imminent satisfaction. Her mouth ran with saliva and she swallowed convulsively, furious at her body's weak treachery. The door closed firmly behind the last servant, th
e last polite, "Bon appetit, milord," and the earl took his place at the table raising an inquiring eyebrow at the shadowy figure by the bed.
"You are served, mon enfant."
He watched the figure move slowly toward the table and regretted with deep sincerity what he was about to do.
"Before you eat, Danielle, I wish for some answers." A razor-sharp blade slid thinly through the oyster-stuffed capon, exuding a steamy aroma to entice even a well-fed stomach. The slight figure halted, turned, and sat resolutely on the bed.
"Je n'aipas faim. I am not hungry," Danielle stated with a tiny shrug, forcing back the tears of desperate disappointment.
"What a pity," the earl murmured, taking a bite of his capon, which rapidly became ashes on his tongue. He had been moderately hungry, but now all appetite vanished. But if he was to win his objective the charade must be played through. Silence reigned, disturbed only by the sounds of one-half of the pair eating with apparent gusto.
"It seems, My Lord Linton, that you intend to keep me captive, seminaked and starved."
His head shot up in surprise. Danielle had spoken in perfect, barely accented English.
"No, I do not intend to starve you, infant," he replied in the same language and cut a large hunk of the baguette, poured water into a crystal goblet, and carried both to the bed. He put them down beside the rigid figure and returned to the table.
Danielle broke off a small piece of the bread, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, heedless of the flaky crust crumbs showering on the coverlet. This morning she had risked a beating for a crust of day-old bread half the size of this oven-warm chunk, but now could think only of the other offerings on the table. She took a slow sip of the ice-cold water and looked longingly through luxuriant sable eyelashes at the wine bottle from which the earl was helping himself in a totally cavalier, heartless fashion.
"Why don't we start with your age?" Lint on sliced a piece of succulent breast, laying it carefully on the empty platter across from his, not looking at her as he did so.
Her age for a piece of capon—it didn't seem an unreasonable exchange. Whilst she continued to hesitate
a spoonful of stuffing joined the meat.
"Then your full name," the voice continued softly. A spoonful of fresh baby peas sat beside the stuffing, followed by a mound of light, golden sauteed potatoes. The soft tinkle of ruby red wine filling a crystal goblet proved the last straw.
"Seventeen," Danielle murmured.
"Will you join me, mademoiselle?" The Earl of Linton rose politely, came around the table, pulled out the carved wooden chair, pushing it in as his urchin sat before the first plate of real food she had been offered in eight weeks.
"Eat slowly," he cautioned. "Your belly is not used to riches and I've no wish to spend the night holding your head over a bowl."
He need not have worried, he reflected, watching her as he twirled the slender stem of his wineglass between restless fingers. She was no more a glutton than she was a wanton. But he knew rather more about what she wasn't than about what she was, he remembered suddenly. It was time for further information.
"I hope you intend to play honorably, mademoiselle," he said softly. "You owe me your name, I think."
Danielle paused in her intent pursuit of green peas with the three-pronged fork. She had three choices:
the lie direct, a careful half truth, or the truth.
"Only the full truth will suffice, mon enfant."
Her startled gasp at his uncanny reading of her thoughts was hopelessly revealing and, for a second, a
pair of haunted brown eyes met curiously softened, curiously reassuring blue-black orbs.
"I am Danielle de St. Varennes," she stated with flat resignation. This man would not countenance a half story and would have the rest out of her now as easily as a tidal wave could sweep through a fragile dam.
A sudden fluke blaze of a green log in the hearth caught the tip of her mangled curls illuminating a pinkish tinge to the wheat-colored crop. The earl sighed as the elusive memory fell into place.
"You are Louise Rockford's daughter." It was a statement answered by a small nod and a soft,
"Ma mere."
"You are, therefore, Danielle de St. Varennes, the granddaughter of Antoine, Due de St. Varennes."
Again a simple, inexorable statement, but this time the response surprised him.
"Was," His diminutive companion whispered, eyes bent resolutely to the plate in front of her. In spite of her concentration she was now eating nothing. He refilled her glass.
"Was?" The question hung in the air, dropped its oppressive umbrella over the two figures.
"He is dead."
"As I remember, Louise married the oldest son," the voice gently probed. "That makes you, mon enfant, the daughter of the Due de St. Varennes."
"Mon pere est mort."
The earl sipped his wine thoughtfully. So the duke was dead. The story had only just begun, of that he was sure, but the child needed time before she would be able or willing to tell the rest. The quick blink of hot tears had not gone unnoticed. But why, in the name of all that was good, was this daughter of one of the oldest and noblest families in France scratching a starvation existence in the back alleys of Paris?
"You learned your English from your mother?" He reached for the apple tart, cutting the crisp crust, slicing through the artistically arranged apple pieces under their glaze of raspberry jam. When had this child last seen a dessert, let alone eaten one? A small head shook a definite negative as he offered her a piece.
"Perhaps later, when you have unburdened yourself." He felt the most absurd urge to take the waif onto his lap, to cradle and comfort her until the full desolation of her secret had been revealed. Wisely he refrained. Whatever Danielle de St. Varennes had experienced it came under the panoply of adulthood and could not be wished away by nurseryland comfortings. Neither could the story be forced. The Earl
of Linton was at a standstill when suddenly the soft voice began to speak.
"Use English, child," he interrupted with conscious briskness. "It will help to distance the reality."
A small accepting nod and the hesitant voice launched into a tale of black horror presaging the greater horror to come.
Chapter 2
"I was raised in Languedoc, on my grandfather's estates. You know, of course, the way these 'affaires' are conducted?" A quick underlash glance ensured her of her audience's comprehension. "The tithes and taxes that the serfs must pay are at the discretion of their seigneur. He also has the right to use their land as and when La Chasse dictates. Mon grandpere. . . my grandfather . . . used his seigneural rights indiscriminately as did my father and my uncles. They also exercised their droit de seigneur over those virgins who interested them and also over those matrons who . . . who . . . challenged them. Or perhaps
it was their husbands who challenged them?" The small chin now rested on the heel of a palm, elbow-propped on the table. The eyes held a dreamy, faraway look and the soft educated voice was almost a monotone, enlivened occasionally by a satirical note quite out of keeping with this fresh-faced innocent. The earl sat still and quiet, waiting for the revelation. So far he had heard nothing unusual.
"My sex was a disappointment to grandpere, and to my father. My uncles somehow could not manage to ... to ... persuade any sufficiently aristocratic family that they were fit husbands for their daughters. They bred many bastards on the estate, male ones at that, but they could hardly be recognized as the legitimate heirs to the dukedom." For an instant this afternoon's imp flashed across the intent face.
"You are perhaps shocked, milord, at my free speech?"
"No, brat, I am not. Pray continue." The earl's lips twitched despite his bone-deep knowledge that this seemingly light-hearted speech was but a preamble to a vast hellish chasm.
"I am .. . was . . . the only grandchild. Philippe would, of course, inherit after Lucien, mon pere." A small shrug accompanied the statement. "You are aware how these mat
ters are arranged. My role was, of course, the well-dowered marriage into the carefully chosen family." The bitter note of disillusionment crept apace into the soft-spoken monotone and the Earl of Linton reflected that such arrangements were sufficiently customary amongst his class as to make the brat's obvious contempt most unusual. But then, of course, she was Louise Rockford's daughter. He abstained from comment.
"Maman decided that I had a mind which should be educated beyond the usual requirements of a brood mare."
At that the earl inhaled sharply.
"Have I shocked you now, milord?"
"Just a little. But I must remember that you are Louise Rockford's daughter." He spoke aloud his earlier thought.
"You knew Maman?" The eager question and the sudden brightening of the eyes spoke volumes.
"A little, she is rather older than I," he said circumspectly. It seemed hardly appropriate to disclose that eighteen years ago Louise Rockford as a twenty-one-year-old disillusioned wife had initiated him at the age of sixteen into the joys and mysteries of love.