The men set up camp, stacking logs for a fire to be built when darkness came, and clearing some of the dense underbrush. Lysette, with Ussé at her elbow, sat down on a large rock and began to fan herself with her glove, feeling hot and dry. Ussé beckoned to one of his men, who vanished into the trees and appeared a moment later with a fine linen handkerchief dripping from the stream.
“Madame.” He wrung out the handkerchief and proffered it to Lysette, who took it gratefully and dabbed at her lips and temples and neck, holding its refreshing coolness against her bare cleavage, and smiling her thanks at him. His smoldering glance followed the movements of her hand, his one good eye traveling over her face and bodice with the softness of a caress. It was very nice to have him look at her in that fashion, and she shivered in pleasure. Besides, André seemed mildly annoyed, as though he were jealous. He must care for her!
They ate supper quickly, while Lysette swore to herself that she would never again look at dried beef and goat cheese and ale when this journey was over. As darkness fell and the fire was lit, the foot soldiers found patches of moss or soft boughs and were soon fast asleep; André and Jean-Auguste joined Lysette and Ussé and several of the junior officers around the fire. They began to discuss the riots at Angoumois while Ussé clucked his tongue in sympathy and Lysette sat, eyes downcast, looking for all the world as though every horror they recounted had happened to her personally. But when the topic turned from Soligne to the general political situation to the war and the siege at Dôle, Lysette yawned in boredom, and made as though to rise.
“Wait.” Ussé nodded to his lieutenant. “I have some very agreeable wine that I found in Clermont. Perhaps you will join me.” He passed round a large leather flask that his man had given him, first pouring out a bit into a cup that had appeared from nowhere and handing it to Lysette. The wine was good, the first they had had for more than a week. It eased the weariness of the long day, and they drank freely, released from the cares of the march. The conversation drifted and faltered, as questions were asked, hung in the silence, and then were forgotten. They will all soon be quite drunk, thought Lysette in annoyance.
André frowned and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to capture a thought that had nagged at him all evening. He turned to Ussé, his voice somewhat less crisp and clear than usual. “Were you not with the army in Flanders?”
“Aaah! Why should I stay?” Ussé’s voice, too, had lost some of its steadiness. “Richelieu did not send me nearly enough money to pay my troops, and the Spaniards kept pouring in from the Netherlands! There was not a fortress that held! Why should I play the fool? I gave one eye for the King at La Rochelle in ’28—I did not care to give another at Corbie!”
“Corbie?” Narbaux sat up in alarm and shot a sharp look at André. “What has happened at Corbie?”
Ussé shrugged. “Their commander surrendered to the Spaniards after barely a week.”
André shook his head, trying to clear it of the wine. “But if Corbie is in enemy hands, Paris will be threatened!”
“No,” said Ussé. “When I left Paris, Louis had already rallied the citizens and they were volunteering in droves to retake Corbie. And Richelieu managed to find the money to pay them!” he added bitterly. “Besides, when we left Corbie, we saw to it that there was not a bakery or a flour mill left standing on the road to Paris. The Spaniards will find it hard to advance if there is no bread for their troops!”
Du Crillon lifted the leather flask in disgust. “And did you also relieve some poor wine merchant in Clermont of his stock?”
Ussé laughed shortly. “The fortunes of war, mon ami!”
André growled a curse under his breath, his eyes like burning coals. The air crackled with tension as the two men glared at one another. Narbaux sent Crillon a warning glance.
With a silvery laugh, Lysette jumped up suddenly. “Messieurs,” she chided, “I fear me you have all had too much to drink! Else why would you quarrel about something that has happened days ago and far away? Shall we do battle here in this wood…and in the middle of the night? Come, come!” She held out her hand to André, taking the flask from his grasp. “It would be better if this were filled with clear water! Monsieur le Comte,” she said, smiling at Ussé, “will you accompany me to the stream?”
“Willingly, ma belle!” He tucked his hand under her elbow and guided her to the small path that led to the water, while, behind them, André uncurled his fists and Jean-Auguste exhaled in relief.
The path was narrow and dark, and several times Ussé swayed against Lysette, shoulder and hip brushing for a split second, whether from the confining trail or the amount of wine he had consumed, she could not tell. They reached the stream and she knelt to fill the flask; turning, she held up one hand for him to help her up. But when she was on her feet, he stood in the pathway, his solid bulk looming large before her, and would not let her pass. At first she misunderstood, thinking only that he was waiting for her, but as she tried to brush past him his thick arms went about her in a bear-like grip and his mouth pressed down upon hers. She struggled furiously, feeling suffocated against that massive chest, held so close to his body that however much she tried to move her head she could not escape his hungry lips. She was too angry to be afraid, and the evidence of his passion, his body hard against her, only enraged her further. But his masculine weakness was her strength. With all her might she drove her knee into that part of him that was most vulnerable, and watched in satisfaction as he doubled in agony before her. Then she ran for the safety of the firelight, quite forgetting the water pouch. With a snarl that was half a moan, Ussé pulled himself to his feet and pounded after her, his face contorted in pain.
André and Jean-Auguste looked up in surprise as Lysette broke into the clearing, her breath coming in hard gasps; they could hardly misunderstand when Ussé limped into the firelight a moment later, his eye glaring balefully. André reached for his sword, but one of the young lieutenants stepped quickly in front of him and Narbaux put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Madame de Ferrand is right, mon ami. We have all drunk too much wine! I fear we shall all have aching heads by morning, and some, perhaps”—he nodded at the still suffering Ussé—“will know pain more cruel!” Lysette giggled and Narbaux doffed an imaginary hat in her direction.
Crillon took a deep breath. “I think it wise,” he said to Ussé, “that you and your men leave at dawn tomorrow. And you, Madame,” he added, scowling at Lysette, “I want you near to me this night. I cannot guarantee your safety to your brother if you put your own virtue in jeopardy!”
Meekly, she hung her head, placing her blanket across the fire from him, as he directed, her eyes filled with contrition. But her heart sang within her as she settled down for the night. He did care! Had he not been ready to fight Ussé on her behalf? Was he not there, just beyond the smoldering logs, his strong face achingly handsome in the firelight? Smiling contentedly, she closed her eyes and slept.
In the morning, Ussé and his men were gone. The story of Lysette’s defense had made its way through the camp, and the young officers gathered around her, full of admiration, exchanging ribald jests at Ussé’s expense. Lysette positively glowed with all the attention, her triumph all the sweeter because Narbaux had just come into the clearing from the path that led to the stream. She could not resist the opportunity to flaunt her admirers, allowing them to kiss her hand and then dismissing them with an airy wave of her fingers. She flounced over to Narbaux and smiled sweetly at him.
“Good morning, Monsieur le Vicomte!”
He grinned crookedly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Here!” he said. “I thought perhaps you would like to keep this.” In his hand was Ussé’s forgotten wine pouch.
Lysette wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Why should I want such an ugly thing?”
“As a token…to remember Monsieur le Comte d’Ussé!”
“Mon Dieu! Whatever for?”
His gray eyes studied her coolly, and there was
seriousness behind the lighthearted words. “I once knew a man who loved to hunt. And every stag who gave up his life gave up his antlers as well, to be mounted and displayed. The man had one long gallery in his hunting lodge—filled from end to end with his trophies.” His eyes took in the young officers busily saddling their horses, then swept back to bore into hers. “How many trophies have you a mind to collect on this journey?”
Stung by his sarcasm, she almost struck him across the face, then thought better of it, remembering that he always managed to best her when she lost her temper. Instead, she let her violet eyes go soft and hazy; reaching up a gentle finger she stroked him lightly on his upper lip.
“But then I think my trophy room already has…one red mustache!” And smiled victoriously as his face crimsoned and he fled.
Chapter Five
Lysette’s hand plucked savagely at the large oak leaf she held, tearing shreds from its edges and rolling them into damp balls between her fingers. Corbie! They were talking of the fall of Corbie again, as they had since the night Ussé had spent with them. Always Corbie…until she thought she must scream with boredom!
André shook his head. “I cannot understand it. To capitulate within a week! It must have been a cowardly surrender!”
Narbaux hunched forward on the grass, his knees drawn up to his chest. “And the road to Paris…wide open! God knows what is happening…no matter what Ussé said about a mobilization!”
Crillon jumped up and paced the small clearing. From the lake far below the sounds of laughter and shouting drifted up to break the stillness. “To be here, unable to do aught…to know nothing…” He kicked at a small rock in frustration, sending it clattering against the trunk of a tree.
“Well,” said Jean-Auguste philosophically, “we shall know soon enough when we reach Vilmorin. If the news is bad, Madame la Marquise can stay with Marielle, n’est-ce pas? I shall go home to Chimère to see how many men I can conscript for a new force. And you?”
“I do not see how Vilmorin can spare another man!” André waved his arm toward the sounds from the lake. “And how can I ask them to serve for yet one more campaign?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The village of Vouvray…perhaps…”
“But it is nearly September! The grape harvest…every man in the Vouvray region will be in the vineyards…” Narbaux plucked morosely at a blade of grass.
Lysette smiled a tight smile, her fingers still worrying the leaf. How tiring it was, all this talk of war. For days they had thought of nothing else, both of them, and had ignored her to the point where she would almost have welcomed a fight with Narbaux rather than his indifference. And perhaps there was something more. She had not forgotten how he blushed when she jibed him about his mustache. She had meant it only as a cruel taunt, but…had he shaved it off to please her? Well, she would never find out as long as they continued to speak of the war and Spain! They had stopped at the lake to refresh themselves and the horses after a long hot day; André and Jean-Auguste had offered to keep her company in this sun-dappled clearing while the rest of the men bathed below. She might as well have the oak tree for company! Jumping to her feet, she plucked another large leaf and began to fan herself vigorously.
“Monsieur…André!”—she had days ago slid into the habit of calling him familiarly by his name—“it is so very warm here! I am minded to shed my clothes and join the men in the cool lake if I cannot find some relief from this heat!” Violet eyes gazed helplessly at André.
“Ah, Madame,” he said, suddenly contrite. “I beg pardon of you. But…” his blue eyes danced merrily, “…do not join my men, else we shall never reach Vilmorin!”
She smiled archly, then allowed a small unhappy frown to crease her brow. “It looks so cool in that stand of pine. I would walk alone, but…” She sighed, sad eyes cast down. “Well, mayhap I will be safe enough. I cannot ask you both to walk with me. The men would return and wonder where we had gone! No matter!” She squared her shoulders bravely and turned her steps toward the small pine grove.
“You cannot go alone,” said André gallantly. “Let us leave Narbaux here to stand guard. I weary of the cares of war. There will be no more talk of Corbie today! Come!” Without a backward glance at Jean-Auguste, Lysette skipped off through the trees behind André. It was indeed cooler here in the woods. She breathed a sigh of pleasure and relief, and swept the curls back from her forehead. Though she wore her hair up in the back, twisted in a thick coil, her face was framed by small tendrils and ringlets, in the current fashion, and they had begun to cling damply to her skin. She pushed them back, patting and smoothing, fingers dancing lightly on the curls, while André watched intently, fascinated by the small feminine movements.
“We shall reach Vilmorin soon…André?”
“Three or four days at most, Madame de Ferrand.”
“Lysette. You must call me Lysette! ‘Madame de Ferrand’ puts me in mind of an old harridan…and surely you do not think me old!”
He laughed indulgently. “Hardly old…Lysette.”
“Nor yet too young?”
“No. Charming and lovely, and quite the right age.” His eyes were warm and admiring; she felt her heart thump in her chest. “Will you be glad to get home to your brother?”
She shrugged, her face thoughtful. “I do not know. It was my home once, but with my brother’s wife now mistress, I fear me I shall feel the intruder. Well, I shall be glad at least never again to eat goat cheese and dried meat!”
“It is a soldier’s diet, but hardly suited to a fair maiden!”
She dimpled prettily. He was full of compliments today! She contrived to let her mouth droop, pink lips set in a pout that was far more captivating than woeful. “I have seen several orchards as we passed…a sweet pear would be most welcome.”
“We have seen no villages or farmhouses, else I might be minded to give a few sous for a basket or two.”
“Why must we pay? You are the King’s soldier. Surely he will reimburse the people for his own army!”
André shook his head at her naïveté. “The Royal Treasury can hardly be concerned with every farmer’s claim! What is the poor man to do if no one pays him for his plundered orchard?”
“Pooh! Who cares? Comte d’Ussé took the wine he wanted, did he not? And your own men looted in Soligne! Why should I not have a pear if I want it?”
André frowned, and when he spoke his voice rumbled in his chest. “Had I caught a single man of mine looting, I would have had him flogged on the spot! You speak like a child! You have not seen what war can do to a village, stripped and ravaged—it is far uglier than what happened at Soligne! I vow I shall not willingly be a part of it!”
Stupid. Stupid Lysette. To have made him so angry…and for what? Mon Dieu! She could feel pity for the farmers too, but after all, what harm was there in taking a few pieces of fruit? When she was a child did not her brothers sometimes creep into a neighbor’s tree to fetch her an apple or two? And no one ever seemed to mind! She bit her lip and turned away. Best to talk of something else. She sat down on a fragrant bed of pine needles, sniffed their heady scent appreciatively, then stretched out full length upon her back, cradling her head in her upraised arms. “I suppose you will be happy to see Vilmorin again.”
His expression softened, a gentle smile replacing his scowl. He sat down beside her and rubbed his chin absently, lost in thought. “Always,” he said, more to himself than to her. “It is a place of rolling hills and vineyards, very special!”
“We have vineyards in Angoumois!”
“Ah! But not like Vouvray! Because of the caves!”
“Caves?”
“Yes. All along the Loire, from Tours to Blois, but especially in Vouvray. Vilmorin is less than two leagues from Vouvray—our caves are near as numerous as theirs.”
“But what on earth are the caves used for?”
“To keep the wine. To live in!”
“Surely Vilmorin is not a cave!”
He laughed aloud at
that, his eyes smiling down on her where she lay. “No. Vilmorin is a very beautiful château. It was built by my great-grandfather, who entertained the Court on many occasions. There are far more rooms in it than Marielle and I shall ever fill. Though when the children are playing in the long gallery, Vilmorin does not seem large enough! I have been tempted more than once to seek refuge in the caves.”
“But where are the caves? I do not understand.”
“Look,” he said, smoothing away a patch of pine needles. Lysette sat up and leaned close to him, while he traced a line in the soft earth with one outstretched finger. “Here is the river Loire. Here is Vilmorin, set on a slight rise above the river. Now here, behind Vilmorin, are the bluffs. They are quite steep in places, but the land above the cliffs is fairly level. That is where the vineyards are. In the cliffs themselves are the caves. Some of the vignerons live there, in the caves, although most of the men who work my vineyards have quarters at Vilmorin.”
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