Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “How long your fingers are!”

  “What?” André shot a surprised look at her.

  “Your hand. Next to mine. Look.” She held up her palm to his, her fingers seeming all the more delicate and fragile against his strong hand. “Such nice hands. Hardly a soldier’s hands!” She turned his palm down and ran one soft finger along the bronzed knuckles, tracing the line of the bones down to his wrist, then traveling up again to his tapered fingers. “Guy’s hands were ugly. He had a callus—just there—from all his cramped writing…” She rubbed the smooth edge of his finger, then looked up into his face. It was a face in torment, the eyes filled with pain and guilt…and desire. A small pulse throbbed on his temple in counterpoint to his heaving chest.

  “André…”

  He swallowed hard and jumped to his feet, his voice husky in his throat. “Jean-Auguste will be wondering what is keeping us. Come.”

  Hiding her disappointment, she held out her hands to him. Reluctant, fearful of the lure, he helped her quickly to her feet, then dropped her fingers as though her touch burned like fire. He turned in the direction of the lake.

  “Wait,” she said. “Please”—brushing the pine needles from her skirt and her hair—“I cannot…” she said softly, and presented her back to be groomed. His hands swept across her shoulders, dislodging the sprigs; of a sudden they gripped her arms so tightly that she thought she would swoon, feeling the pressure of his fingertips through her chemise. She looked back over her shoulder, trying to turn in his arms, to collect the kiss she had been aching for, scheming for, since the first moment she had seen him.

  His eyes were dark with agony, panic lurking in their depths. With a strangled oath, he released her shoulders and groped for her hand. “Come! It grows late!” And pulled her, half running, out of the woods and into the safety of the clearing.

  Jean-Auguste was still sitting where they had left him on the small patch of grass; at their precipitous appearance he looked up, startled.

  “I must see to my horse,” André growled, “his shoe…he seemed to limp…” With an angry scowl to hide his agitation, he was gone.

  Lysette took a deep breath and turned away, avoiding Narbaux’s eyes. Her brain whirled with doubt and frustration. Why had André fled at the last moment? Was he blind to the love she felt for him? And then to be marooned here—alone—with Jean-Auguste! She stole a furtive glance in his direction and flinched at the look in his cool gray eyes. His unwavering gaze burned into her, filled with condemnation and disgust. She stirred uneasily, then jutted her chin out in defiance.

  “He cares for me!”

  “Indeed?” One eyebrow lifted sardonically. “Did he tell you so?”

  Hateful man! “Was he not ready to duel with Ussé on my behalf?”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Must you always think like a child? André is an honorable man, very chivalrous toward women. It is his nature. He defended Marielle’s honor more than once, and not only because she happens to be his wife. Perhaps because he was a bit of a rakehell himself in his single days…” He shrugged. “He does not like lechers. And more to the point, he does not like Ussé!”

  Hands on hips, she planted herself in front of him, dainty mouth twisted in scorn. “And would you not have fought for my honor?”

  He leaned back, his hands on the grass behind him, and sighed deeply, a man at the edge of his patience. “I would have forbidden you to do anything so foolish as to go off into the woods alone with Ussé!”

  She smiled sarcastically. “I went off into the woods with André—perhaps you should have forbidden that!”

  “I should certainly have warned him—judging by the look on his face!”

  She beamed in smug triumph and hugged herself contentedly, her eyes straying to the pine grove. “If you but knew…!”

  His face darkened, a small muscle working in his strong jaw. “I have no doubt you tried him sorely!”

  “Pooh!”

  “André is a man, after all…many months from home and the soft companionship of a woman…any woman!”

  “Oh!” she shrieked in fury and swung her hand against his face, flesh striking flesh with a sharp snap, like the crack of a whip. He rocked sideways for a moment, only his steadying hands preventing him from toppling, his face registering merely mild surprise, though his cheek glowed as brightly as his hair. His coolness infuriated her still further and she aimed a kick at his chest; deftly he grabbed her ankle and pulled, upsetting her balance. She sat down hard in a flurry of petticoats, jolted for the moment into inactivity.

  “Cease,” he said mildly. “I have no wish to do battle with you!”

  She glared at him, all her frustration with André, all her unsatisfied passion, all her doubts (was it only release from his hungers that André saw in her?) centered in hatred for Narbaux. He saw everything, he spoiled everything, his eyes stripping away her artifice until she felt naked, the very gentleness of his nature a kind of accusation. She longed to see him beaten, defeated, humbled; struggling to her knees she attacked him yet again, pummeling him about the shoulders, digging her nails into his neck, gouging and clawing, her anger fueled by her own feelings of helplessness. Like a man warding off a troublesome gnat, he raised his arms and tried to brush her away, grimacing in annoyance.

  “Lysette! Nom de Dieu! Will you cease?”

  For answer, she lunged once again, this time succeeding in bowling him onto his back; she was upon him at once, slim fingers tangled in his red hair. Viciously she tugged at his curls, glad to hear him yelp (no wig, this!); it was too much, for all his even-tempered tolerance. He rolled over with her, his weight pinning her to the grass, while she bucked and squealed and struggled, her hands slapping fiercely at his cheeks. He managed at length to grab one flailing hand and then the other, forcing her wrists down to the ground and holding them there while he caught his breath.

  “You have prodigal hands, ma petite,” he gasped, his face red from her assault. “Take care lest I employ my own hand in such a way that you will walk—and gladly!—until we get to Vilmorin!” His voice was still mild, but the coldness in his gray eyes made her blood run to ice and she gulped, stilling her frenzied activity at last. There was a shout of laughter from above them. Turning her head, Lysette saw André grinning down, his face radiating—what? (satisfaction? relief?) to see them thus. She was aware, suddenly, of Jean-Auguste’s body pressing firmly upon hers, thighs, hips, breasts in intimate proximity.

  André laughed. “Aha, my bachelor friend! I wondered when your natural inclination would assert itself! And perhaps, after all, that is where a woman belongs, especially one as charming and lovely as Lysette! But you might seek the privacy of the pine grove—I fear the men will be returning soon from their swim!” With a sly apology for having disturbed them, he vanished in the direction of the lake.

  Lysette flamed bright crimson, embarrassed and humiliated by André’s words, his easy assumption of a romantic encounter. Bitterly she began to weep, great tears of shame welling up in her violet eyes and coursing down her temples. Narbaux arose slowly, his face filled with compassion for her genuine distress; what had begun as a romp had ended by hurting her. She did not resist when he put his hands about her shoulders and helped her up; once on her feet, however, she brushed him aside and turned away, sobbing broken-heartedly, her forehead pressed against the trunk of a tree. He let her weep for a while, understanding the anger, and frustration, and shame that spilled out with her tears. At length he handed her a linen handkerchief that he pulled from his pocket.

  “Lysette, listen to me,” he said gently. “André is not for you! He and Marielle…they love one another! Leave them in peace!”

  She sniffled and blew her nose, then turned to him, stubborn mouth set in a petulant line. “If they are so much in love, what harm can I do?”

  He smiled indulgently and cupped her delicate chin in one strong hand. With his forefinger he wiped away the last of her tears. “André is a man of flesh—no stronger
nor weaker than any other—he is not fashioned of stone! You are a lovely woman, warm and desirable—I’ll wager you might tempt the devil himself! You can only make mischief if you persist in this folly, and hurt Marielle and André. And yourself in the bargain.”

  She shook her head impatiently, dislodging his gentle hand. “Have you taken it upon yourself to protect André, like some doddering old duenna?” she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

  He sighed in exasperation. “They are my friends! They have been so for many years! Shall I stand by—and do nothing—while you amuse yourself? I know not why you married the Marquis de Ferrand—I can scarcely believe you had aught but the most selfish reasons—but André and Marielle married for love, and love is a precious and fragile blossom. I will not see it crushed by a willful child who knows nothing of the heart’s ways, but fancies herself smitten by a pair of blue eyes!”

  “Pah!” she said scornfully, stung by his words. “And to think that André imagines that I…that you…” She gestured with disgust toward the patch of grass upon which they had lain together. How she despised him and his hateful words!

  His cool eyes raked her body, traveling from her toes to the top of her head, a slow, unhurried appraisal that peeled away petticoat and stockings, skirt and chemise, and came at last to rest upon her face. “I scarcely think you would be worth the effort,” he said with indifference.

  Furious, she raised her hand to strike him, then stopped, remembering his threat, and seeing the ominous way his gray eyes had suddenly narrowed. She scoured her brain for some spiteful words to hurl at him, but her own fury prevented her from thinking clearly; only the arrival of the men in the clearing saved her tattered pride.

  She woke as the first rays of the sun came streaming through the pine boughs. She had been dreaming of André, of lying in his arms, his warm blue eyes adoring her, the sweetness of his mouth on hers. No! It was not fair—to lose the dream! She closed her eyes again, shutting out the intruding day, and tried to drift back again into sleep, into André’s arms. It was no use. Sleep, and the dream, eluded her; she contented herself with conjuring up her own image of him, placing him in her mind’s eye (just so) and herself at his side. She knew if she opened her eyes she would see him in reality, sleeping just within her line of vision where she lay (for since Ussé he had insisted she stay near to him at night), but she preferred her imagination. She could relive again and again the moment when he had held her in his arms, hands tight on her shoulders, desire smoldering in his eyes. How ridiculous Narbaux had been, to suggest that André’s passion had sprung only from his basest needs; she had only to remember that moment to know how close André had come to declaring his love for her! It was just Jean-Auguste’s way of being irksome!

  Narbaux. How he plagued her! She had watched him uneasily all evening long, uncertain of his mood: would he have beaten her? She had no wish to be whipped like a child, nor ever had been. Her father had forbidden her nursemaids or tutors to touch her, though most children were raised by the rod as a matter of course, and Guy was not inclined to exercise his husbandly prerogative, avoiding as best he could anything that would turn her sullen or difficult. But Narbaux…? Upon reflection, she decided that he was only trying to frighten her, he was really too gentle and easy tempered deliberately to hurt a woman. It was André who could sink into black moods, or lash out at his men when they disobeyed his commands, while his voice rumbled and thundered; but except for an occasional edge of impatience and a cutting word or two, Narbaux was calm and placid. With a start, Lysette realized that never had she seen him truly angry, though she had provoked him often enough. Surely his softness was a kind of weakness, and she was a fool not to turn it to her account. She had reacted to him badly at every turn, unable to deal with him, resorting to physical assaults to hide her frustration. Never before had she had to strike a man’s face to hurt him; one baleful glance, one violet spark from her eyes, had been enough to bring pain to the strongest man.

  Was it his eyes? Cool, detached, searing her soul. Mayhap she only imagined that they plumbed the depths of her being; if she were wise, she might avoid his glance and bend herself more diligently to captivating his heart. And why not? She did not care a fig for him, but her pride had been hurt by his insults. Not worth a man’s effort, indeed! She might love André, want him, long for him and, yes, scheme for him; but she would bewitch Narbaux if she could, for the pleasure of humiliating him!

  A soft noise disturbed her reverie. She opened her eyes in time to see André, in shirtsleeves, and bootless, disappear down the path that led to the lake. Cautiously, she looked about her; no one else seemed to be stirring. She rose slowly to her feet, slipping out of her own shoes and wrapping her skirts about her to keep them from catching on the bushes. She made her way slowly down the path, in no hurry to overtake him; she did not want to be discovered until they were well out of sight and sound of the clearing.

  The lake was small and irregular, with thickets crowding to the shoreline, steep banks carpeted in moss and fragrant grasses. Just ahead of Lysette, the path veered to the left; directly in front of her a large weeping willow tree jutted out into the lake, forming a kind of dogleg that angled sharply away to the right. From where she stood, Lysette could just see André’s upper body above the line of bushes near the shore; as she watched, he gathered up the fabric of his shirt and slipped it over his head. She felt her heart catch. His shoulders and back were as bronzed as his face, and his chest had a mat of fine gold, sun-bleached like the hair on his head, that glinted in the early morning light. His shoulders were extraordinarily broad, strong muscles firm beneath flesh whose smoothness was marred only by small hollows and indentations, the scars of old battles. Lysette felt her knees go weak, he was so beautiful. She craned her neck and stood on tiptoe, wishing she might see more of him, shameless in her voyeurism. He disappeared from view; there was a soft splash and he reappeared in the lake, strong arms cutting the glassy water with sure strokes. Heart pounding, she pushed through the underbrush to the right of the path, heedless of the branches that caught her clothing. Here the edge of the lake lapped up gently against large stones, creating a foamy backwater as it washed ceaselessly back and forth. She was hidden from André’s view by the willow tree; he could not see her—nor her trembling—as she shed her clothes and waded out into the foam. She was a good swimmer, thanks to her brothers’ teaching, but she had already determined to struggle in the water as she reached André; her eyes scanned the shoreline, seeking a small clearing where she might ask him to carry her. She had never felt more excited—nor more wicked—in all her life. Swimming slowly, she reached the willow tree, then swung wide around it into the spot where she knew André must be.

  The first thing she saw was Narbaux’s orange hair.

  “Good morrow, Lysette!” he called cheerfully. “André, look! We are to have company!”

  Lysette sputtered in shocked surprise, forgetting for the moment to keep herself afloat. Damn Jean-Auguste! He had not been here when first André came to the lake, she could swear to it! Had he followed her? Had he watched her with the same lascivious eyes as she had watched André? She felt herself burning with shame; in her agitation she swallowed a large mouthful of water and began to cough and choke violently. Instantly the two men began to swim toward her, their faces dark with concern. Mon Dieu, but this was intolerable! To be naked in the lake with one man was romantic, lovely; with two it was ludicrous!

  “No, no! Please, Messieurs!” she gasped. “It is not seemly! Stay where you are. I am quite fine.” She smiled brightly at them both, reminding herself of her morning’s resolve: she would simply not allow Jean-Auguste to upset her. After all, his coming to the lake might be perfectly innocent—far more innocent than her reasons, she thought wryly.

  “You must forgive me, gentlemen, for disturbing the privacy of your swim,” she said demurely. “I had thought to swim alone so early in the day!”

  “Why then, Madame, you shall have your wish
! Come, Jean-Auguste!” Exchanging wicked grins, the two men swam for the shore and made as if to stand up in the shallows.

  “Mon Dieu! For shame!” Lysette blushed scarlet and held up her hand before her eyes; the sudden roar of their laughter obliged her to look in their direction: they were still modestly enrobed by the waters of the lake. “Oh! Wicked, horrible men, to tease me so!” She pouted beguilingly and turned away, making small circles in the deep water to keep herself afloat.

  “André, mon ami, we have been properly chastised! A true gentleman would escort the lady from the water first!” So saying, Narbaux began to swim rapidly in Lysette’s direction, while André grinned and Lysette shrieked, warning them both to keep their distance. As Jean-Auguste approached, she slapped at the water with the heel of her hand, splashing his face and slowing his advance; still he did not stop. With a desperate squeal, she turned and fled, skimming through the water with all the strength she could muster. Once or twice his hand nearly caught a dainty foot threshing the water, which served to propel her forward in even greater haste; at length, laughing and gasping, she appealed to André for succor. Reaching Narbaux’s side, André lunged, and soon the two men were grunting and wrestling, each trying to submerge the other, while Lysette backed off to a more discreet distance. Jean-Auguste, already winded from chasing Lysette, was forced at last to yield; panting, his face split by a tired grin, he saluted André and made slowly for the shore.

  “Wait!” André called, seeing the look of consternation on Lysette’s face. “There must be a way to protect Madame’s delicate sensibilities! Perhaps, Lysette, ma petite, you had better leave first! Your things…they are around the bend?”

  She nodded, mute once again before the warmth of his smile, the clarity of his deep blue eyes. Reluctantly she turned about and paddled toward the willow tree; then she stopped, uncertain as to whether, in their lighthearted mood, she could trust them. “But you must not look—or watch me!” she warned, and flashed a winsome smile toward Jean-Auguste, resting in the shallows. “Either of you!” She was gratified to see his pleased response. Oho! she thought, my red-haired friend, I shall do you in with charm—just wait and see!