****
Three days later, Catherine jerked awake when Emmanuel’s flailing arm crashed into her. He was breathing heavily as he shoved to a sitting position, gasping.
“What’s wrong? Are you ill again?” Catherine scrambled out from under the blanket and stumbled. “I’ll call for help. Where’s the basin?” He had vomited several times two nights before, when the fever burned its hottest.
“Don’t need the basin,” he grunted.
She turned up the lantern by the window and brought it to the bed. He was still breathing heavily, but instead of shivering and burying himself in blankets, he was shoving them down, his face wet with sweat.
She wiped his face with a towel and set the back of her hand against his forehead. “The fever has broken.” She sat on the edge of the bed, weak with relief. “It’s gone.”
He took the towel from her and fanned himself with it. He sighed deeply as he unstuck his thin nightshirt from his torso to bring in cool air. “I feel well. But weak.” He frowned.
“Let me fetch a footman to help you. Or your brother, Henri.”
He smiled. “I don’t want you to go.”
She wrinkled her nose at the smell of him. “You need to bathe. We need a maid to bring clean sheets.”
He smoothed his hand over her thinly-clad leg.
She realized her own nightshirt was damp with his sweat and shivered. “We both need to bathe. Can you stand?”
She spread a towel on the floor by the washbasin, set a chair on it, and supported him across the room, where he peeled off his nightshirt, leaving him only in thin drawers. The shadows cast by the tiny lantern brought his muscles and his bandage into stark relief.
He rinsed and toweled himself briskly, then turned to her. “Now your turn.”
She hesitated only a moment, until his smile turned seductive. He lifted her nightshirt over her head, leaving her naked. His smile fell away, and she wanted to cover herself, but he pulled her onto his lap, her breasts rubbing against his cool, damp chest, his arousal pressing against her hip.
His eyes were heavy and intense, seducing her with just a look and his presence. “Let me help,” he whispered in her ear. The cool, wet cloth dragged gently across her back, a few drops of water dripping down and over her buttocks.
He was very thorough when he cleaned her breasts and between her legs.
She was just as thorough when she removed his drawers.
They came together on top of his blankets with soft groans and whispered endearments.
Afterwards, they cleaned each other again and dressed in clean nightshirts. Catherine removed the sweaty sheets and replaced them with clean ones—it was not for nothing that she had learned to care for herself. Exhausted, they slept.
Epilogue
Two Months Later
Emmanuel sent a rider ahead, a warning to his fiancée—and mother and father—that he was approaching with his string of horses. He had left Jacques in Poitou in charge of the rest, the pregnant broodmares and the foals too young to move. He would have to return to Poitou in the spring to bring them up, but the twenty horses he and his men were riding and leading represented the bulk of his breeding stock. The four foals in carts represented next year’s income.
They were going to need the money to fix the house and stables on Catherine’s property in Normandy. She had savings, but Manu was loath to spend it, as it would be years before he turned enough profit to feed them. He sighed. He was bringing himself and some horses into their marriage. Catherine, though her fortune was by no means huge, was bringing both land and gold. His father had joked about providing a dowry and had indicated his old, ugly gelding, the bay that looked all wrong but was the best horse he had for distances. Manu had smiled along, but even after several weeks in his father’s company he was never sure when the baron was joking.
His father also promised financial help, but hadn’t yet settled on how much he could afford to take from Cédric’s inheritance. Since Cédric would now inherit the Poitou land and all the other la Brosse holdings, the waffling bothered Manu. But then he took a deep breath; land so far from Normandy would never suit him or Catherine.
When he left his fiancée in his father’s care at la Brosse, the baronesse had been the happiest he’d ever seen her. She still seemed unused to smiling, but there was a softness to her, a légèreté, he had never before witnessed.
Of course, his own lightness had achieved giddy heights. Catherine had slept next to him through the worst of the fever. They had made love on the narrow cot the night his fever broke. She’d sighed afterward that she hadn’t meant to do anything irreversible before they said their vows, but she had climbed into his bed again the next night…and the next.
They had traveled to her Normandy property—staying in inns along the way, him sneaking into her room in the night—to give the noble who rented her land advance warning they would reclaim the property over the winter.
The land was not only ideal for grazing but close to the sea. Catherine cried when she stood on the rocky cliff after so many years. Manu had never seen the sea before and hadn’t wanted to leave either.
But then…three weeks without her.
He had sent warning to his trainers and grooms to ready the horses, and Jean-Louis sent word their father would be assuming control of the Poitou holdings again. The baron sent his land steward with an assistant to check the harvest and discuss what to put on the land after five years of horses. Cédric’s two oldest sons, seventeen-year-old Charles and fifteen-year-old Paul, traveled down with Manu and his men, as the baron wished them to learn the area and the property. It had taken longer than Manu liked to sort through which men wished to go with him, who wanted to stay in Poitou and bring up the remainder of his broodmares and young foals, and who would be left behind permanently.
Three weeks without Catherine.
He said goodbye to the widow he had carried on an affair with in Poitou, though he strongly suspected she had found someone else while he was gone. He gathered his clothing and books from the house, but since he had never filled it up, it didn’t make him sad to leave it behind. The housekeeper and some of the servants who would stay on the land had become his friends, it was true, but they were more used to caring for an empty house than an occupied one, after years of semi-neglect.
Three weeks. Three and a half weeks. Twenty-four days without Catherine.
But he was now approaching his father’s lands.
A groom rode up to him at the head of the string, where he was barely restraining himself from galloping. “Allez, Monsieur. Hurry home.”
Manu stared at him for several seconds, before twisting in the saddle and untying the lead mare’s rope. He watched as the groom secured the rope to his own saddle, muttered, “Merci,” and took off at an angle across country, letting Vainqueur canter a little before pulling him back to a trot. The poor stallion had been walking and trotting for ten days with only a break on Sunday.
But now he was past Cédric’s house, and his father’s house was visible at the end of the lane.
“Catherine, Catherine, Catherine,” beat the rhythm of Vainqueur’s canter and of Emmanuel’s heart.
****
Anne, the baronesse’s maid, had tried to reduce the severity of her questioning by accusing the witch who had helped her of selling poison to courtiers and their servants. Witchcraft wasn’t illegal, but poisoning, of course, was.
The messenger who brought the news that morning had also brought Catherine’s mother’s brooch and her otherwise empty purse. The money she’d had when Anne took the purse was gone. Catherine wondered where it had all gone in the few hours between the theft and the maid’s arrest. The amount was tiny by court standards, but huge for a maid.
Catherine touched the smooth opalescent oval of her brooch with one finger before savoring the cold ridges and bumps of the ornate design in the silver surrounding it. She turned it over to read her mother’s name engraved on the back. She sighed and pi
cked up her comb to try to get her new, fashionable curls to behave. One last try before Manu gets here. Her heart beat faster, and she smiled at herself in the tiny mirror.
Someone pounded on the door, making Catherine jump. This was no gentle tap of a servant. “Mademoiselle? He’s been spotted.” The baron’s voice.
Catherine dropped her comb.
She was out the door of her room and rushing past de la Brosse, down the stairs, and out the big front door. She paused at the top of the stairs and looked down the lane. No one. Something moved in the sheep pasture to the west. There was a huge bay stallion coming toward her at a slow canter, Emmanuel standing in the stirrups, flowing with the horse’s stride. He slowed Vainqueur to a walk and opened the gate—the horse was tired or he would have jumped the low fence.
Manu waved his hat—he had seen her.
Her heart beat as fast as Vainqueur’s hooves.
They came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, and Manu grinned as he swung down. He ran up the short staircase two at a time and pulled her against him wordlessly, wrapping his strong arms around her, then sliding a hand up to cradle the back of her head as she pushed her forehead against his strong shoulder. He stank of horse and sweat and dust: the sweetest smells in the world, and ones which brought tears to her eyes. Her arms around his waist, she ran her hands over the back of his dirty coat and squeezed.
“I have a feeling, my Catherine, we shall become as embarrassing as my sister and Dominique.” His voice was soft and rushed through her veins like fire.
She pulled away far enough to look up into his face. “How so?”
He kissed her deeply, questing in her mouth with his tongue, which tasted of onions and ale. Her body reacted instantly, wanting his touch, not caring who saw them. She thought of the time she had spent on her coiffure as Manu’s fingers ran up her scalp, dislodging the combs. Then she thought of nothing but him.
Someone cleared his throat behind her, but Manu kept kissing her as he slowly turned them both around to give his father his back.
The baron laughed, and soon Catherine and Manu had to pull apart to laugh, too.
Here’s a sample of the next book in the series:
Henri et Marcel
by
Philippa Lodge
Châteaux and Shadows, Book Four
Chapter One
Paris, France, 1678
Monsieur Fourbier, known in his youth as Marcel LaTrappe, rapped smartly at the accountant’s office door.
“Entrez!” called the man inside.
Marcel swung the door open and jolted to a halt.
Henri de Cantière, the accountant at the furniture manufactory where Marcel worked his artistic magic, Marcel’s friend, lover, and confidant, sat up perfectly straight in his chair, his jaw clenched, his skin pale. He shivered once before getting himself under control.
Marcel narrowed his eyes. “Are you all right?”
Henri raised his eyebrows and tipped his head back to look down his nose at him. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
Marcel pressed his lips together. Surely Henri knew that Marcel knew something was wrong. It felt like a slap when he lied. For the moment, Marcel dropped the matter, though he pursed his lips. “Jean-Louis wants you to sit in on my conversation with the baron’s majordomo.”
Henri scowled fiercely. “Mon dieu. Why? He is selecting purples for his aunt’s tea room. This is your part of the business.”
Henri’s fashion was sober, utilitarian black and brown. Marcel was always designing brightly colored waistcoats for him to create a bit of contrast, but had never tried to put him in purple. Even if Henri liked purple, which he didn’t, it would make his skin appear sallow. And yet he didn’t need to sneer at purple, did he? Another slap.
“The colonel is conscious of the baron’s budget, even if the majordomo isn’t.” Marcel still called Henri’s brother by his military title, having been his aide-de-camp many years before. He had never got out of the habit because he didn’t feel as though he were close enough to call him Jean-Louis. He was debauching the colonel’s brother, after all.
Henri often found it amusing. Today, though, he remained unnaturally still. “You could show him less expensive fabrics.”
Marcel recoiled in mock horror. “It is my job to create the perfect room. It is your job to stop me.”
Henri smiled thinly. He gripped the ornamented pocket flap of his coat with his left hand and stood. He used his right hand to pick up the account book he kept for the baron, one of their best customers.
As he tucked it under his left arm, Marcel came around the desk and placed a hand on Henri’s chest. “What is wrong with your arm?”
Henri frowned. “An odd twinge. It is nothing.”
Odd twinge was more than he had confessed to over the last few days. Marcel glared at him, but the sound of footsteps in the hall made him step back and smooth his expression. “To work, then.”
Henri gestured for him to precede him. Marcel narrowed his eyes in warning. They would talk about this later.
****
Three hours later, the baron’s majordomo and housekeeper finally left the showroom, having dithered and dickered and exclaimed over velvet, brocade, embroidery, every possible shade of wood, and an endless parade of purple purple purple for the baron’s mother.
Pain gripped Henri’s shoulder and neck and shot arrows into his skull. He had calculated and recalculated the cost as the details changed and Marcel waxed enthusiastic, adding musket balls to the arrows.
I might vomit.
Jean-Louis had slipped into the meeting long enough to gratify the majordomo and housekeeper’s pride at speaking to the famous colonel. He bowed himself out to attend to other business. Henri envied him his ability to delegate. Though Jean-Louis claimed to be overseeing his children’s patrimony, it was his face, his leadership, and his connections which had dragged the furniture manufactory out of looming bankruptcy ten years before. Everything had nearly been lost, including Jean-Louis’ wife Hélène and his daughter Ondine, when a former partner tried to blackmail, coerce, and murder his way into sole ownership.
Henri’s accounting skills had found pilfered money, some of which had been regained after a long lawsuit. His strictness with prices and expenditures made them profitable. Without Marcel, though, they would be trying to sell furniture fit for army camps and hovels, not graceful, intricate, colorful furniture to rival the royal furnishers’ best efforts.
Marcel directed two workers in gathering up the bolts of fabric and carrying out a huge, nearly completed desk to be inlaid with bronze. Henri bent over his scribbled notes as if he were verifying the figures and instead squeezed the twitching muscles of his left bicep.
Jean-Louis spoke behind him. “How was it?”
He set his hand on Henri’s left shoulder. Henri’s vision went fuzzy, and he jerked away with a grunt. His panting was the only noise in the room except for a buzz of his ears.
Jean-Louis’s blue coat appeared in the corner of his eye, followed by his brother’s narrowed blue eyes. “What happened?”
Henri sat up, clutching his left arm to his belly. “What happened when?”
Jean-Louis glowered down his nose. “What happened at Versailles? Our brother, Manu, was injured. You rode out with him to retrieve Mademoiselle de Fouet. Three days later, you came home, saying Manu was over his fever. I don’t remember hearing of any accidents, and yet you are injured.”
Henri shook his head. “Nothing happened. My shoulder hurts, but it is nothing.” He was a good liar, but his hands trembled, and he felt cold sweat prickling his face. He was pretty sure he was pale.
Jean-Louis stared at him for a while longer, his face stiff, waiting for Henri to confess to something. Henri stared back at him until Jean-Louis shook his head and turned away. He paused in the doorway. “Take the rest of the afternoon off. Go home and rest.”
Henri shook his head and winced as it sent a shock through his arm.
“I
’ll send Fourbier home soon, too. You’ve both earned your salaries today. Besides, with Hélène’s confinement imminent, I’ll be leaving everything to the two of you soon.” Jean-Louis nodded politely and strode toward the workshop.
On his return to his office, Henri leaned gingerly back in his soft chair, sharp pains radiating from his neck as he tipped his head back. For a moment, his neck froze, and he considered calling out for help, but with his one working hand, he managed to ease his head forward. He was only thirty-four and shouldn’t feel like he was a hundred.
****
Marcel was not given to violence, though he carried a dagger in his boot. In fact, he had been vastly relieved when, in the army, he had talked a capitaine into hiring him as his aide-de-camp, taking him away from patrols and battles. Even in a war zone, Marcel had been mostly peaceful as he managed the household. He was quite good at managing a household.
He was also given to waving his arms as he rhapsodized about color and form. He selected cloth not only for the furniture manufactory but for his adopted family’s clothing.
To his chagrin, most of Henri’s family wasn’t very interested in la mode and la couleur. The exception was Ondine, who was just thirteen and always had something to say about her mother’s gowns and her father’s justaucorps. If she had been a boy and not destined to marry a noble, he would have hired her as his assistant in the factory. He smiled at the bolt of pale pink satin in his hands and thought of the girl’s pink cheeks. Perhaps he would pay for a length of this fabric and stitch Ondine a pillow. He would try out a new flower pattern he was thinking of putting on seat cushions.
Marcel was a peaceful man, but honestly, his lover was going to drive him to violence. Since Henri had returned from Versailles three days before, he’d been more grumpy than usual. Marcel had awoken each night to Henri tossing and turning or getting up to wander through the house. When Marcel caressed him, Henri flinched. When Marcel asked what was wrong, Henri snapped. Odd twinge. My shoulder hurts, but it is nothing.
The meeting with the baron’s majordomo had distracted them both for a time, Henri no crankier than usual about figuring costs for new furniture and recovering the baron’s mother’s existing chairs. They would pack the samples into a carriage the next day to present them to the dowager and get final approval. Someday, the baron would order from them for his own home. Or better: for his Versailles apartments. But for now, he was outfitting all the ladies of his family one by one. What Marcel really wanted was to make dresses for ladies.
The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) Page 22