Her pleasure vanished under a shocking torrent of panic. Frantically she realized that she wasn’t ready for this invasion, that she wanted him gone! She wanted to scream and pummel him with her fists, drive him away from her.
But she couldn’t. Not Simon, not after all his kindness and patience.
The quickest route to escape was to marshal the erotic and acting skills she’d perfected in the harem. She was a master of false responses, of making a man feel that he was the greatest lover in the history of mankind. She writhed and moaned and used internal muscles to bring Simon to a swift conclusion.
His shuddering groan reverberated through him and she felt the tension flowing from his rigid body. After a long, paralyzed moment, he rolled to his side, freeing her. She brushed her nightgown down to her knees, desperately relieved.
But when his ragged breathing was back to normal, he rested his hand on her midriff and said quietly, “We’ve been honest with each other until now, ma chérie. Don’t change that and lie with your body because you want to please me. Or escape me.”
She froze, afraid to speak, afraid of his anger.
Uncannily perceptive, he said, “I’m not angry with you. We went too far, too fast, and you weren’t ready for full intercourse. Then you were deeply upset and reacted in the best way you knew to escape from the situation. Am I right?”
She licked her dry lips before replying. “Yes. I’m sorry. Sorry! It was going so well until it wasn’t!” She wanted to weep but managed to control herself. “You understand more than I do.”
He grimaced. “I should have understood sooner and spared you such a bad experience. But I’m interested in the fact that you didn’t seem to find intercourse physically painful as you’d feared it would be because of the injuries you suffered. Was there pain that I didn’t recognize?”
She caught her breath, startled. There had been none of the agony she’d experienced in her last months in the harem. “You’re right! My body must have been quietly healing. I hadn’t believed that was possible.”
“But it’s very good news,” Simon said softly.
She shuddered as she remembered the damage inflicted on her by Gürkan. “I’m grateful for the healing, but horribly sorry that I fell off an emotional cliff and took you with me.”
“The falling was quite splendid,” he said wryly. “It was crashing at the bottom that was the problem. But I would rate tonight as progress even though we must now retreat some distance. Would you agree?”
She remembered the pleasure she’d felt before panic had kicked in. “We most certainly have made progress!” With a catch in her voice, she rolled against him and wrapped her arm tightly around his waist. “Oh, Simon, mon trésor! Thank you so much for your patience. Your kindness and your wisdom.”
He laughed a little. “I’m not sure I’m anyone’s treasure, but I’m pleased if you think so.” His voice softened to a whisper. “And I thank you for your courage and honesty, ma belle. We are traveling a far more turbulent road than what we expected when we agreed to wed, but isn’t it also a rewarding road?”
She realized there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. Dealing with her fears couldn’t be easy for him even though he was doing a magnificent job of it. “Our way forward is indeed turbulent and rewarding.” She laughed suddenly. “I have hopes that when we reach the end of this road, we will be boringly normal!”
Chapter 20
The journey from Brussels to the priory outside Namur passed without incident, which Simon suspected was a disappointment to Jackson. Being trusted as a guard had been a boost to his self-confidence.
The priory of Our Lady of Mercy was smaller than Argenté Abbey, but it was pleasantly placed on a hill west of Namur. Well-kept fields surrounded the walled precinct, and robed monks were starting the spring planting.
The gate guard admitted them readily enough, but they had a long wait in a chilly reception room before the prior emerged to greet them and learn their business. After a terse greeting from the obviously busy cleric, Simon introduced himself and Suzanne and explained their mission before showing the sketches of Lucas.
The prior looked at the pictures and frowned. “I’ll have the infirmarer summoned. He might be able to help you. Now if you’ll excuse me, Madame and Monsieur Duval, my duties call.” On the way out of the reception room, he ordered a young servant to bring the infirmarer, then disappeared.
“Apparently Kirkland’s helpful influence doesn’t extend this far,” Suzanne commented.
That surprised a chuckle from Simon. “Even Kirkland has limits.” His brief levity faded. “I wonder if sending for the infirmarer means that Lucas has been ill here. Or perhaps . . . died and is buried here.”
“Or maybe he’s the infirmarer,” Suzanne said calmly. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
He knew she was right, but it was impossible not to worry. The chance that Lucas was alive was too tantalizing a hope to release. And if he was alive, there was reason to worry about him.
The short, plump, elderly infirmarer walked with a cane and he certainly wasn’t Lucas, but he greeted them affably when he entered the reception room. “Good day, Monsieur and Madame Duval. I’m Frère Pascal. How may I help you?” His observant gaze moved from Simon to Suzanne. “Are either of you unwell? I’m not a physician, but I have herbal remedies that may be of aid.”
“We’re well, but we’re seeking information about my long lost cousin and your prior thought you might be able to help us.” Simon produced his pictures. “A possible Franciscan friar who looks very like him was seen in Brussels last year. Do you recognize this man?”
Pascal settled creakily on a wooden bench under the window and studied the pictures. “Why, I believe this is Frère Jude!” His gaze lingered on the image of the young Lucas. “He was a fashionable lad! Is that a naval uniform?”
“Yes, his ship was lost in battle and Lucas has been presumed dead for years.” Frère Pascal’s interested gaze led Simon to add wistfully, “If Frère Jude is Lucas, it’s a mystery why he would allow his family to believe him dead, so perhaps this isn’t my cousin.”
“That I cannot say, but Frère Jude is certainly the image of your cousin.” The monk studied the pictures again. “Though not so happy looking.”
“The years tend to weigh us down more heavily as we grow older,” Suzanne observed. “Has Frère Jude been a patient of yours here at the priory?”
“Not a patient at all,” Frère Pascal said reassuringly. “The lad is a bonesetter and he visits the priory every few months to offer his skills to anyone in need of them.”
“A bonesetter!” Simon exclaimed. “That’s . . . unexpected.”
“Perhaps, but he’s very good.” Frère Pascal patted his gnarled oak cane. “I’d be bedridden if not for his skills. I give thanks to God and Frère Jude that I can get around as well as I do.”
Simon supposed that anything Lucas set out to do, he’d do well. But his being a bonesetter was still surprising. Most practitioners learned the trade as apprentices to skilled bonesetters. Often the skills were passed down through families for generations. “You say that Frère Jude visits regularly. Do you know where he is now?”
Frère Pascal shook his head. “He travels around the whole of his Franciscan province, going wherever he feels he might be needed. It’s fair to say that he’ll probably be here within the next three or four months, but as to exactly when, or where he is now . . .” The monk shrugged philosophically. “Only God in his wisdom knows for sure.”
“Do you know other places he visits regularly?” Simon asked.
“He has occasionally mentioned places he has worked, but it’s not a regular schedule. He doesn’t always stay in religious communities. He’s equally likely to travel to a remote village and stay with locals until his work is done.”
“Frère Jude sounds like a true servant of God,” Suzanne said quietly.
“Oh, he is, he surely his. He has gifted, healing hands.” Pascal smiled a lit
tle bashfully. “I have felt blessed by them when he has treated me.”
“Lucas was always kind and compassionate.” Which was true, but could the cousin Simon had thought he’d known so well have been a born healer? “I do wish I could find Frère Jude to discover whether they are one and the same man!”
“I can make a list of places he’s been known to visit,” Pascal offered. “Though I don’t know if it would be a great deal of help.”
“That would be a start.” Simon reached inside his coat and produced a piece of folded blank paper and a short pencil. “Would it be useful if I sketched a simple map of southern Belgium and northern France?”
The monk blinked in surprise. “It might, though I’m not familiar with some of these places. They are only names to me.”
“It’s worth trying,” Suzanne said.
The reception room contained a small table as well as a bench and several plain wooden chairs. Simon sat down and did a swift sketch of the area, filling most of the piece of paper with the outlines of the country before adding in Brussels and the larger towns and a swath of northern France.
Seeing Suzanne’s raised brows, he said, “I was an exploring officer, you know. Maps were a large part of my work.”
She smiled. “You’re a man of parts, mon chéri.”
After half an hour’s discussion with Frère Pascal, Simon had a map of possibilities. He didn’t know if they would be useful, but at least he felt that he was doing something.
Before taking their leave of Frère Pascal, Simon asked about inns between Namur and Charleroi. The monk gave the name of one that wasn’t far, and promised to give Frère Jude a message from Simon if the bonesetter friar appeared at the priory.
When they were back in their carriage and heading south, Suzanne said, “Progress is being made.”
“I hope so. But I could spend a great deal of time chasing around this part of the world without success.” Simon sighed. “It occurs to me that if Frère Jude really is Lucas and he hears that I’m looking for him, he might choose to avoid me for the same reasons that he has never communicated with his family.”
“You might be right. There is no way to be sure,” Suzanne said. “But you have a plan of action now, and the area Frère Jude travels through is not enormous. It’s worth investing several months in the search.” She smiled a little. “At the least, we’ll see a selection of peaceful farms and fields and eat many fine country meals.”
He laughed and took her hand. “You’re right, milady. Now we’ll find that inn and dine on good country cooking, and we can start speculating about what we’ll find at Château Chambron.”
“It will be my turn to be nervous,” Suzanne said wryly. “But my quest is simpler than yours, I think.”
“What do you expect to find at the château?” he asked.
“I don’t really know.” She frowned. “I assume people are living there. Perhaps a powerful Bonapartist official has appropriated it. The property is beautiful and valuable.”
“What would you like to find?”
Her answer was slow in coming. “I would hope the occupants are people who will love the place and be happy there. Happier than I was.”
“Would you have a claim on the property since you’re the widow of who might have been the last legitimate owner?”
“Jean-Louis was not a man to explain legal issues to a mere female,” she said dryly. “But my guess is that the property would go to the nearest surviving male relative, along with the title. Quite possibly you.”
“I sincerely hope not! I have enough responsibilities in England.” He squeezed her hand. “But at least curiosity will be satisfied by tomorrow night.”
She smiled back at him. “Yes, and I’ll be able to relegate the château to the distant and unlamented past.”
Simon hoped that was the case. But the past could be a Pandora’s box, with unexpected complications like this hunt for his cousin, who may or may not be alive.
Never mind. Tonight, a good dinner and a good night’s sleep with his warm and winsome wife awaited him.
* * *
Suzanne was pleased with both the country inn dinner and a quiet night sleeping in Simon’s arms. She hoped that in a few days she would recover from the panic she’d felt the night before. Soon, she hoped, she’d be ready to try again.
The next day’s journey was about thirty miles, the same length as the day before. She held tightly to Simon’s hand as Maurice drove them along an unkempt road leading into Château Chambron. “We’re barely in France, I see. I never realized how close the estate is to the border with Belgium. Jean-Louis was very focused on Paris and on being French. He considered French-speaking Belgians to be second-class Frenchmen. I’m not sure if he ever visited Brussels.”
“Did he own any other properties besides the château?”
“There was a rather grand house in Paris, but I believe that was rented. Long gone now, I’m sure.”
She gazed out at the drive that led up to the château. It was lined with tall elms that met above the track like a forest tunnel. “This drive was better kept when I lived here. I suspect that the estate has seen better days.”
A herd of small deer bolted across the road and disappeared into the woods on the other side. She remembered those deer. From the size of the herd, they had prospered.
The carriage emerged from the tree-lined entrance road and for the first time she saw the château. She gasped with shock. “Dear God!”
The once magnificent palace was a burned-out wreck, the roof collapsed and the stone blackened with rain-washed soot. “I wonder what happened here?” Simon asked calmly, his clasp comforting on her icy fingers. “And when it happened. Not too recently, I think.”
The splendid formal gardens in front of the château were wildly overgrown. She’d loved the château’s many gardens; they’d been her favorite part of the estate. Her mouth dry, she said, “The left wing wasn’t too badly damaged. Someone could live there.”
“Perhaps.” Maurice pulled the carriage to a halt in the semicircular drive in front of the ruined front entrance. Simon climbed out, flipping down the step and helping Suzanne down. She took his arm and they walked along the overgrown path that led toward the left wing.
The heavy door that opened into the wing suddenly swung open and a young man stepped out, a rifle in his hands. His clothing was ragged and his furious eyes were wild. “Leave immediately if you value your lives!”
They stopped and Simon moved his hand to Suzanne’s waist so he could shove her out of the way if this madman decided to shoot. “We have no desire to hurt you,” he said mildly. “May I ask who you are?”
“I’m Philippe Duval, the Comte de Chambron,” the young man snarled. “This place is mine, and trespassers will be shot!”
Chapter 21
Suzanne caught her breath, stunned, as the hard metallic snap of firearms being cocked sounded behind her. Jackson and Maurice were training their guns on the young man, and Maurice barked, “Stand down!”
For a terrifying moment, violence thickened the air, ready to erupt into blood. Then a thin young woman darted out the door. Her pale blond hair fell over her shoulders and her gaze was frantic. “No, Philippe!”
She lunged at the rifle and dragged the barrel down, sunlight glinting on her wedding band. His weapon fired and the sting of black powder filled the air, but the bullet lodged harmlessly in the ground.
“I’m sorry, my love, I can do no more,” Philippe said in a raw whisper as he sagged against his wife, on the verge of collapse.
Ordering her heart to slow down, Suzanne studied the young man’s face. He appeared ill and half crazed, but his dark hair and chiseled features proclaimed that he might well be blood kin to Simon and Jean-Louis.
Deciding that the women should take over, Suzanne said in her most soothing voice, “There is no reason for violence, Monsieur le Comte. We are mere visitors and likely relatives of yours.”
The young man’s hand jerked
on the rifle, though he didn’t seem to have the strength to lift it. “You won’t have Château Chambron!”
“We don’t want it.” Suzanne made a calming hand gesture toward Simon and the men on the carriage and walked toward Philippe and the young woman. “I am Suzanne, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Philippe looked baffled but automatically clasped her proffered hand. His own hand was burning hot, and this close Suzanne could see the signs of a dangerous fever. Speaking to the young woman, she said, “You are Madame le Comtesse de Chambron?”
“I don’t know.” She brushed her hair back wearily. Her face was lovely but gaunt, and her clothing was just short of rags. “Perhaps. I am Marie Duval.” Her French had a touch of German inflection.
“Your husband is unwell. Surely he should be lying down? I swear that neither of you are in any danger from us.”
“I protect what is mine!” Philippe said in a barely audible rasp, weaving in his tracks.
“Marie and I will help you inside where you can get some rest,” Suzanne said firmly. “You must preserve your strength in case a real enemy approaches.” Quietly she removed the rifle from his slack grip and handed it to Simon.
“Yes,” he said dazedly. “Yes, I must be strong.”
With Suzanne on one side and Marie on the other, Philippe allowed himself to be guided back into the damaged remnants of the palace.
Suzanne remembered this west wing reception room as gracious and well furnished, but she wouldn’t have recognized this wrecked entryway as the same place. The grand furniture, paintings, and carpets were long gone, and the only furnishings were a couple of battered chairs and a table that might have been salvaged from the servants’ quarters.
A wide, crude pallet had been laid out by the fireplace, which contained only ashes from a fire that must have kept the young couple from freezing during the chilly spring nights. With the fire burned out, the room was cold and darkly clammy.
Marie was awkward as she helped Suzanne lay her husband on the pallet. Suzanne winced when the stretch of the other woman’s worn gown revealed that she was well into pregnancy. These poor children! Marie couldn’t be much more than eighteen or nineteen, and her husband was only a couple of years older.
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