Purr

by Paisley Smith

  Aroused?

  Giselle stared, still feeling the damp pressure on her mouth, still tasting the unquestioning trust in the other woman’s kiss.

  “Come. We must hurry,” Arabella said as she swept past her, through the panel door to the den and into the stool closet.

  The earthy scent of river silt blasted them in the face when the door opened.

  “We’ll have to pry the bench loose,” Arabella whispered, clutching the board and pulling.

  Giselle peered down through the hole in the bench. She gulped at the thought of jumping. “What if we hit the wall on the way down?”

  “It’s a risk we’ll have to take. There’s no other way.”

  “Our clothes. They’ll never dry.” Suddenly, Giselle wasn’t so certain.

  Arabella stopped wrenching the boards loose. She turned to Giselle and cupped her cheek. “If we wish to have a life outside the walls, we have no other choice. We’ll just have to wring them out on the riverbank.”

  Giselle pursed her lips, waffling. Arabella was right. In restraining the komtesse, they’d set an irreversible series of actions in motion.

  Arabella began removing her bodice. “I’ll jump first and then you can toss the clothes down to me. I’m a good swimmer. I’ll try to catch them and keep them as dry as possible.”

  At that, Giselle nodded and began to strip off her own dress—

  Until the door opened, and the light of a single candle illuminated the two conspirators.

  Chapter Seven

  Arabella’s stomach plummeted.

  Holding the candle high, Helga stepped into the doorway, flanked by Gudrun, who stood with feet planted, arms akimbo.

  A million thoughts flashed through Arabella’s mind. Run? Jump now? Give up?

  Hot tears burned her eyes and she blinked furiously.

  “I can explain,” Giselle began.

  “No need,” Helga said, her voice but a whisper. “Come with me.”

  Giselle started to flee but Gudrun caught her arm and held her with humiliating ease.

  “Be still, girl,” Helga scolded. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Kom mit!” Gudrun hissed the command for them to follow.

  As they wound through the labyrinth of hallways, Arabella expected to be waylaid by guards or a fuming komtesse, so when they traveled through a door that led out and into the night, her breath froze in shock.

  Two mounts, laden with bags, stood tied to trees at the edge of the woods. The bigger of the two, a bay, stomped and snorted upon seeing the entourage.

  “Make haste. Do not stop until you can go no farther,” Helga said, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Why are you doing this?” Giselle asked, obviously disbelieving.

  “You are not the first I’ve helped to escape. I know you were brought here under false pretenses. I hope you find vindication.” Helga cupped the nape of Giselle’s neck and kissed her forehead. “Now hurry before we are all found out.”

  Arabella needed no further prompting. She started toward the horses but Giselle stopped and turned back. “How did you know of our plans?”

  “I make it my business to know,” Gudrun said in her thickly accented voice. And then for the first time, the behemoth of a woman cracked a gap-toothed grin. “Go. Back to France with you,” she said good-naturedly as she waved them away.

  Giselle stared, appreciation glistening in her gaze.

  “Come,” Arabella said, reaching for her hand.

  Moisture rimming her eyes, Giselle mounted her horse. She turned her head and whisked the tear away.

  Arabella climbed onto the bay, bunching her skirts as she settled into the saddle designed for a male. She was grateful. It would be easier to cover more ground riding astride.

  But as they took the reins and galloped away, an unsettling feeling niggled Arabella. I know you were brought here under false pretenses. She glanced at her companion.

  False pretenses? What did Helga mean?

  An image of Giselle, gripping the komtesse’s head and rocking relentlessly against her mouth, rose hard in Arabella’s thoughts.

  She knew the kitten’s feelings for the komtesse. And yet, Giselle had tendered her body to the aristocrat with what seemed to be enthusiasm on countless occasions. Had it all been a ruse on Giselle’s part?

  Did she even find pleasure with a woman at all?

  Arabella abruptly felt ill. What if Giselle didn’t care for her? What if all she’d wanted was someone who would help her escape?

  “Which way?” Giselle asked as they raced toward the bridge that crossed the Salzach.

  With a kick of her heels, Arabella urged her mount into the lead. Hoofs pounded as they crossed the bridge and headed into the blanket of night. The journey ahead would be long and arduous. It would not do to confront her doubts now.

  * * * * *

  They rode the rest of the night and on into the next day, until the sun was high in the summer sky. Every muscle in Arabella’s body ached. She could no longer think. Staying awake proved difficult. Twice she’d nearly toppled from the saddle. But as long as Giselle didn’t complain, Arabella resolved to push herself to travel farther.

  When they reached the city wall of Augsburg, Giselle reined her tired horse to a halt and climbed down from the saddle. “Helga provided us with enough coin to get a room.”

  Arabella said a silent prayer for the two women who’d helped them escape.

  Leaning over her mount’s sweat-drenched neck, she peered down the road, which was empty save for a farmer atop a wagon laden with hay. “I don’t think anyone is going to follow us.”

  “Not this far,” Giselle said as she dusted the road dirt off her skirt.

  Arabella dismounted. “We wouldn’t be hard to track. Two young women gallivanting about Bavaria in gowns.”

  Giselle grimaced as she glanced down at her grime-covered dress. “I suppose we should have thought of that before we dressed.”

  Arabella was too tired to even agree. She sighed wearily. “Let’s get a room. I can’t hold my eyes open any longer.”

  The inn they chose wasn’t the nicest lodging available in Augsburg, nor was it the worst. Both women decided they would do better to spend their money for the care of the horses and on suitable traveling attire, and saw to those matters before they shed their grubby garments and climbed into bed together. Arabella suggested they find a group with which to journey. Thus far, they’d been lucky. The roads between villages in this part of the country were long and wooded—and often filled with thieves. It was a good thing Helga’d had the foresight to pack a dagger in one of their bags.

  Giselle’s breathing deepened and became regular almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Arabella, however, was so tired, sleep did not come as easily as she would have hoped. She twisted onto her side and looked at the woman for whom she had so desperately longed.

  Given the circumstances, Arabella had not thought Giselle would be eager to spend their time in bed exploring each other’s bodies, but the distance the veteran kitten maintained proved noticeable.

  * * * * *

  Giselle’s pulse accelerated when familiar landmarks came into view. She was almost home! She wondered how her father would receive her. Would he believe her stepmother’s treachery?

  She glanced at Arabella, who rode beside her. This woman had helped her escape. She’d shown her compassion and love. Giselle had debated riding away once she’d reached familiar territory, but the thought of leaving Arabella alone in a country strange to her seemed traitorous and cruel. Arabella knew no one in France.

  And yet, Giselle couldn’t bear to see her fellow kitten’s face when she explained to her that she wasn’t a Sapphist; that she’d submitted to the komtesse’s tortures to ease her guilt about enjoying the pleasure that followed.

  Now Giselle would be free to marry an aristocrat. Her dreams could come true.

  So why did the prospect of such a future leave her feeling hollow inside?

&nb
sp; Guilt riddled her. Guilt and something else she was scared to define. She’d grown fond of Arabella. Giselle dismissed her initial plans of deserting the girl on the road.

  Her heart hurt at the prospect of separating from Arabella, yet Giselle felt it was something she had to do. How could she enter in a marriage with an aristocrat—a man—with her former female lover in tow? Giselle had no doubt such an act would break the poor girl’s heart. But she had to—no, she wanted to—repay her kindness somehow.

  An hour passed, and with each mile, Giselle’s spirits lifted higher and higher. “This is it,” she said, gripping her reins tightly. “This is it, Arabella! The turn to my father’s estate.”

  With that, she dug her heels in, spurring the horse into a gallop as she and Arabella broke away from their traveling entourage.

  They topped a hill and uncontainable tears of joy slid down Giselle’s cheeks at the sight of her home.

  Arabella gasped. She’d come from a modest aristocratic family, and as such was accustomed to wealth, but this estate was wondrous.

  Nestled in a verdant valley, the stone structure’s wings stretched unending. From here, the outlying buildings were visible. The stable itself was larger than Arabella’s uncle’s home.

  Giselle’s horse raced ahead but Arabella could not risk enjoying the same enthusiasm. Fear welled in her breast. Suppose the inhabitants of that grand estate decided to send them right back from whence they’d come? And would even that fate be worse than Giselle’s inevitable admission that she no longer wished to be lovers?

  Arabella swallowed hard. Night after night spent in inn after inn, Giselle had merely rolled over and gone to sleep. Though Arabella felt the fatigue of their journey as well, she’d had the desire to touch and taste her lover outside the rigorous confines of Katzenhalle.

  It was obvious that Giselle had left her life—her entire life—at Katzenhalle behind.

  Arabella had resigned herself that once she’d seen her friend home, she would leave and make a life somewhere else. Perhaps Paris.

  As she rode into the stone-paved courtyard, Giselle had already dismounted. The heavy wooden doors flung open and a tall gentleman rushed out, his arms outstretched.

  “Giselle, my child!” he called in French.

  Arabella resisted the urge to look away from the intimate scene of father and daughter reuniting. Thoroughly unmanned, tears rained down the fellow’s face. He crushed Giselle in his arms and sobbed. The display of emotion seemed incongruous to Arabella. With his shock of silver hair and strong-lined jaw, this man looked too hard and distinguished to weep so.

  “It was stepmother,” Giselle managed, her voice muffled against her father’s shirt.

  “I know. I know. When I realized, it was too late,” he admitted, cradling Giselle’s face in his big palms. “I threatened her with torture to make her tell me what she’d done with you. She told me you were dead.” He broke down. “She…told…me you were murdered.”

  “No, Papa,” Giselle said. “No. She sent me away to a home for wayward girls. I only just escaped.”

  Arabella slipped out of her saddle and brushed her tired horse’s muzzle. She couldn’t bear to witness this scene any longer. Her heart broke that no one loved her this much.

  * * * * *

  The Comte de Beaufort had insisted Arabella refer to him as Alphonse, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He was kind and grateful, but mostly interested in reuniting with his daughter.

  Giselle had evaded most of his inquiries about where she’d been. Instead, she’d answered that they’d both been held against their will by a woman who’d forced them into servitude. Alphonse’s eyes had turned bleak. It was as if he’d known his beloved child had been forced to commit acts most likely against her will. But Arabella wondered if he really knew the depth of it. Or how willing Giselle had seemed.

  The stepmother had been committed to a convent for her crimes, and even though Arabella had not known Alphonse before, she could tell guilt weighed heavily on him for the bad choice he’d made in a wife.

  After a late supper, Arabella was shown to a sumptuous suite, far grander than the komtesse’s own. She bathed in a slipper tub, donned a perfumed night rail and climbed into a bed laden with soft eiderdown mattresses, the softest, coolest sheets, mounds of thick down-filled pillows and embroidered coverlets.

  She’d been welcomed yet Arabella felt like the consummate outsider. Giselle owed her no kindnesses. Arabella would have helped her escape at any cost without desire for compensation—other than her love.

  Arabella’s heart felt like a heavy stone in her chest. She rolled onto her side and tried not to cry, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d fallen in love with Giselle, with the sexual depravity rampant at Katzenhalle, with the slight freedom to love other women she’d known as a kitten for one day.

  In spite of everything, Arabella would have remained at Katzenhalle, happy with the komtesse’s crumbs, were it not for the promise of Giselle’s love.

  Images of lying tangled in Giselle’s arms, of clandestine kisses and whispered hopes for a future played through Arabella’s thoughts. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she wept into the soft pillow. There was no hope of going back to Salzburg and no future for her here.

  And as wonderful as this place and this chamber she’d been provided were, there was only one thing to do.

  Chapter Eight

  Giselle stared up at the underside of the canopy over her bed.

  Her bed.

  Her home.

  She breathed a sigh. The nightmare was over.

  Stretching her arms up, she extended her toes as well, giving in to the urge to kick her feet with joy. Home, at last!

  Biting her lip, she thought back over her tenure at Katzenhalle, of how she’d welcomed the komtesse’s punishments because they allowed her to enjoy the illicit pleasures that followed.

  There had been no penance before she’d lain with Arabella. Only the sweet coming together of two women for the satisfaction of mutual pleasure. Guilt had not riddled Giselle after that encounter. In fact, the only guilt she suffered now was that she’d misled a woman who had only sought to love her.

  Memories flitted through her brain, of soft curves gleaming in the milky darkness, of soft kisses and softer words. Giselle’s nipples puckered against the fine linen of her night rail. Desire snaked downward and pooled between her legs.

  She wanted Arabella.

  Without manipulation or the means behind some scheme, she wanted Arabella. The realization stunned Giselle.

  She’d been wrong to spurn her, to knowingly turn her back when they’d shared those narrow beds in those mean inns. Surely Arabella had guessed the meaning of Giselle’s blatant indifference.

  Giselle’s lips parted. Guilt flared in her breast and she flung back the covers and climbed out of the high bed, stepping into her slippers as she got up. She had to right things between them. She had to let her lover know her true feelings. Taking up the dimly lit lamp, she stole into the hallway and down to the room where Arabella slept.

  “Arabella, are you awake?” Giselle rapped softly on the door. “Arabella?”

  No answer came from within. Giselle turned the handle and opened the door. Her light shone inside—on an empty bed.

  * * * * *

  The stable boy had not been too happy about being awakened, but he’d sleepily saddled Arabella’s horse and had given her a lantern so that she could see to ride in the pitch darkness, along with directions to the nearest hamlet.

  Arabella didn’t know what she’d do when she arrived. Perhaps she could gain a position as a governess or nanny to earn money until she could decide on a course of action. All she knew for certain was that she could no longer stay under the same roof as Giselle. She blinked, trying to focus in the night. Her eyeballs burned from crying and she knew they must be horribly swollen. She sniffed, trying to will herself to stop weeping.

  This was insane. She should have stayed the night, rested
well and then set about her journey after a proper goodbye. After all, Alphonse had been so welcoming, and she a stranger to him.

  The thought of facing Giselle in the morning had driven Arabella away. She couldn’t stand the idea of being treated as a poor relation, or worse, of standing idly by while Giselle received suitors. Arabella’s heart wrenched and she doubled over in the saddle from the pain. She wiped her face on her sleeve, chiding herself for falling in love, for not seeing that Giselle did not return her affections.

  With every step the horse took on the dirt road, the darkness and silence absorbed Arabella. She plodded along several more minutes before she heard the unmistakable pounding of hooves coming closer and closer. Her pulse skittered. She debated getting off the road, hiding in the shelter of the woods, but the rider was too close and coming on too fast.

  Trembling, she reached for the knife she’d concealed in her boot. And just as she curled her fingers around the hilt, the rider came into view of her lantern, looking like a ghost swirling out of the mist.

  Arabella’s lips parted in shock. “Giselle!”

  Giselle’s horse plunged to a halt right against Arabella’s mount. “Why did you leave?” Giselle asked breathlessly. “I went to your chamber and found you gone.” Her eyes looked wild in the gloom.

  Arabella tore her gaze away lest she burst into tears once more. “I only thought not to trouble you or your father with my presence. I don’t want to be a sore reminder of your imprisonment at Katzenhalle.”

  Giselle dropped out of her saddle. She was dressed in her night rail, a robe and her slippers.

  Arabella slid down from her horse as well.

  “A sore reminder?” Giselle asked.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me any longer,” Arabella said, trying to remain hard. “I know you only sought me as a traveling companion. Nothing more.” It broke her heart to admit the words aloud.

  Giselle stared. “That was true. At least that’s what I told myself.”

  Arabella squeezed her eyes shut against a torrent of fresh tears. This was exactly the conversation she’d sought to avoid. “I’ll be on my way,” she said and reached up to grip the saddle horn.