Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  He sighed. “Listen to me, you stinking little urchin. Martin and I will be sick if we’re forced to smell you for much longer. You did nothing but ripen in that coach for the last four hours. By Lucifer, I thought we’d suffocate. Now get out of those filthy rags.”

  She sniffed at her sleeve. It didn’t seem so bad. The fish smell had faded, and the only odors she could detect were the usual ones: a little sweat, a little sourness from the tanner’s shop, the various smells from the children. Honest smells. What did that devil expect? She had nothing to be ashamed of! “I won’t,” she said. “I’ll wash my face and hands and feet. But I won’t take no bath.”

  He put down his wine and rose to his feet, uncurling himself from the chair like a languid snake. “For the last time. Take off your clothes.” He smiled, an icy grimace that chilled her to the bone. “I’ll not ask again.”

  She backed away from him. The good Lord knew he was cold-blooded enough to do anything! She wasn’t of a mind to challenge him, not over a damned bath! Besides, in some peculiar fashion, she felt she had a duty to him. She was his wife, however false their contract.

  He advanced on her. “Well?”

  “Hold your water, you poxy devil!” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t. But I aren’t got no other clothes besides these. Do you want me to put them on again after my bath?”

  “Good Lord, no. I intend to have them burned.” He turned to the large bed, where his portmanteau had been laid open. “You can wear one of my shirts for tonight. Tomorrow Martin and I will buy you some new clothes.”

  While he rummaged through his clothing, his back to Topaze, she stripped off her outer garments, her stays and petticoat, her shoes and stockings. He turned back just as her hands went to the drawstring of her chemise. She hesitated for a moment. She’d seen lust often enough in a man’s eyes to be on her guard. But Renaudot’s expression never changed. Ah, well. Despite his roguish manner, he was obviously a man of some breeding. While Philibert might find her desirable, she must scarcely be attractive to a man who seemed used to fine living, fine women. Not with her winter-chapped face and hands, her unkempt hair, her underfed body. She shrugged and dropped her chemise to the floor. What did it matter to her?

  Renaudot settled himself into his chair again as she stepped into the tub and sat down He retrieved his wineglass. “Don’t stint on the soap.” He pointed to a large bucket of water that stood beside the tub. “When you’ve done, I’ll rinse you off.”

  In spite of her initial protest, her sense that a whole bath was really only for invalids, she found that the experience was more pleasurable than she would have imagined. The soap was richly perfumed, filling her nostrils with the heady scents of roses and summer clover. She lathered her hands and rubbed them across her arms, her shoulders, the swelling roundness of her breasts. She soaped her hair, leaned her head back to rinse out some of the suds, then repeated the procedure. She scrubbed her feet, her legs, the delicate thatch of hair between her thighs. She scooped up handfuls of water and poured them over her shoulders and back, a gentle cascade that slid down in soft, stroking rivulets. She sighed. Maman would call her wicked for enjoying the sensual delights of the bath, the luxury of her nakedness. Her flesh, her very being, tingled with an unfamiliar sensation—a feeling, she suspected, that went beyond warm water, soap, a cozy fire.

  She looked across the room to where Renaudot sat. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back to rest against the carved frame of the chair. His exposed neck was knotted and muscular, as deeply bronzed as his face. His skin looked sleek and taut, from the firm jawline, across his Adam’s apple, to the triangle of flesh that vanished into the black curls at the open neckline of his shirt. His face was tired and drawn. He seemed isolated, somehow vulnerable, as though his soul were laid as bare as his naked throat. She felt a sharp stab of pity toward him, an odd tenderness—despite the aura of masculine strength that seemed to flow from the man.

  She stirred in her tub. The sight of him only added to the strange hungers, the peculiar sensations that were sweeping her body. She thought, What an addlepated fool you are tonight, Topaze! “I’m finished, Monsieur Renaudot,” she said.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. His glance was indifferent, almost bored. Ambling over to the tub, he picked up the bucket of water. “Stand up.”

  She rose to her feet. Though she’d been unselfconscious before, now—with the soap and water gliding down her body, caressing her breasts, her flanks, her firm buttocks like a gentle hand—she felt painfully, embarrassingly naked before him. She wrapped her arms about herself.

  He grinned his devil’s smile that accented the sharp angles of his high cheekbones. “Belated modesty?” he asked, and dumped the water over her head.

  She sputtered and cursed as he handed her a towel, then fell to muttering under her breath while she dried herself. The villain! Callous and wicked and—she reached for the shirt he handed her, slipped it over her head—and completely oblivious to her as a woman. She had to admit, when she thought about it, that it hurt her pride. She wasn’t a child, after all, and to be ignored…she glared at him as she toweled her hair. “You ought to have turned your back. Treating me like a whore…blast your eyes, it aren’t right for a woman to be naked in front of a man.”

  He laughed sharply. “Is that Madame Givet’s pious virtue I hear?”

  She snorted. “Would your beautiful Adriane be willing to bathe naked in front of a man?”

  The smile hardened on his face. “You will oblige me by not speaking of Mademoiselle de Ronceray.”

  She smirked. “Or does she bathe naked only for you?”

  “You insolent puppy,” he growled. “I told you not to speak of her.”

  She’d never felt more reckless in her life. “Your fair aristocrat?” She laughed. “Is a tumble with an aristocrat more pleasant than with a doxy? Do you hope to ennoble yourself by the doing of it?”

  His eyes narrowed. The scar was a vivid line against his taut cheek. “Someday you’ll go too far,” he said softly.

  She trembled at his look, though her fear was mixed with the odd excitement she’d felt as she bathed. She scarcely understood the feeling; it was frightening and confusing. She only knew that the man was dangerous.

  Perhaps it was just as well that he took no interest in her as a woman.

  As she was using his comb to untangle her honey-blond curls, Martin returned, rubbing his hands against the cold. “Name of God, I’m frozen! I miss the islands.” He stripped off his greatcoat and held his fingers before the fire. “I’ve told them to send up supper.”

  Renaudot poured a glass of wine and handed it to his friend. “And the loan?”

  “After the bankers in La Rochelle and Bordeaux refused us, I was concerned. But now”—he patted his pocket—“a letter of credit, for twenty thousand livres. It’s enough to…” He stopped and looked at Topaze for the first time. “Dieu! What the devil is the girl wearing?”

  “The only thing I’ll allow her to wear. The only thing that doesn’t stink. In the morning, Martin, you and I will play at lady’s maid, and buy her some clothes.”

  “But in the meantime…” Ducellier stared at her bare legs. His cheeks colored.

  “Oh, I’m warm enough, Monsieur Ducellier,” she reassured him. “I aren’t used to a fire.”

  “It isn’t that.” He dragged his eyes away from her legs and smiled shyly. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’ll learn to be a lady soon enough. And my name is Martin.”

  Renaudot grunted. “Yes. I hadn’t considered that. I reckon it’s not too soon for you to begin to think of me on more personal terms, girl. I give you leave to call me Lucien.”

  Topaze smiled tightly, vexed by his overbearing tone. “Until I can think of a more fitting name.”

  He laughed. “A saucy chit, indeed! Véronique seems to have acquired a wicked humor since last we met.”

  “I find it charming,” said Martin, and blushed again.

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nbsp; They supped before the fire. Martin gallantly wrapped a coverlet around Topaze’s bare legs, served her meat, poured her wine. She still couldn’t believe her good fortune: two fine meals in one day! She prayed that the Givets were supping as well tonight.

  While the men chatted about their plantation, the expenses that the bank loan would cover, Topaze applied herself to her food. Roasted pigeon, a hare pie, a rich cheese. Even sweet little oranges, a rare treat. Absorbed in the pleasures of her senses, she ate steadily and silently, aware—after only a very long time—that the men had fallen still and were watching her.

  Lucien cleared his throat. “After a few days, I trust, the novelty of abundant food will have faded, and you can learn to eat and converse at the same time, as gentle folk do. As Véronique would do.”

  She frowned. “I can do it. I was taught. I aren’t no fool, I told you. I was taught proper behavior.”

  Lucien smirked. “And where were you taught?”

  “I had a governess, I think.”

  “Lord! You? You sound and act as though you were raised in the gutter.”

  Damnation, but she hadn’t realized how much she’d changed! “No. It was just easier, being with the Givets, to talk like they did, copy their ways, so I wouldn’t seem different. It’s habit now, I suppose. But I aren’t…I’m not uneducated.”

  “Better and better. Not so coarse as you seem, after all? It will make our task infinitely simpler. By Lucifer, Martin, I knew this was the right girl for the job.”

  Martin put a sympathetic hand on Topaze’s arm. “But how did you come to be so low? Living with the Givets in such misery?”

  “It weren’t…wasn’t so bad, before Monsieur Givet’s ship was lost. There was food on the table, and firewood, and real beds to sleep in. They can’t read nor write, except for what I’ve been teaching the children. But they’re good and honest and God-fearing folk. I might have done worse.”

  “But how did you get to them? You said, this afternoon, that your name was Benoîte. Your father?”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know. Benoîte was my mother’s name. Rachel Benoîte. She was an actress. I don’t know if there was a Monsieur Benoîte.” She shrugged. “I would guess I’m a bastard. Your kind don’t marry actresses.”

  Martin looked uncomfortable, as though it was a personal condemnation. “It doesn’t seem fair,” he muttered.

  “You remember nothing of your father?” asked Lucien.

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I remember men, of course. All the time. And fancy carriage rides, tutors, pretty clothes. She was very beautiful. Men paid handsomely for her favors.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “I’m not sure. We traveled around so much.” She laughed. “By Sainte Marie, I’m not even sure when my birthday was! Maman was always too busy to celebrate. ‘You must be thirteen, by now,’ she’d say. Or whatever my age. And then we’d have a party.” She sighed, the laughter fading from her eyes. “I think I was fourteen when we came to Bordeaux. Maman had a good position, in a nice theater. And then she got sick. The poor thing. It was so slow, so painful for her. The dying. Her admirers vanished, of course. It took every livre she’d saved, those last months. For the doctors, the medicine. While she was breathing her last, the creditors came and stripped the room. They took everything. Her clothes, the bedhangings, the furniture. Everything. Ave Maria, when she was dead they came and took the sous from her eyes! And put her in a pauper’s grave. I wandered the streets for days. I had no food, no money. I went to the theater to find a job. But they said I was too plain. Too young. They sent me away. I begged a few coins. But mostly I was ignored.” She smiled, a gentle wisp of a smile. “The world can be an uncaring place. Do you know that?” She meant it not as a complaint, but merely a statement of fact.

  Lucien’s laugh was sharp and cynical. “You learned that lesson young. All the better. The creature is safest who walks alone.”

  “No.” Her amber eyes were thoughtful. “I walked with God, I think. There came a day when hope failed me. I’d been without food for nearly a week. There seemed no other choice but to take to the streets, sell my body for a crust of bread.”

  Martin groaned and put his hand across his eyes. “How old were you?”

  “By Maman’s haphazard reckoning, fifteen.”

  “And then?” Even Lucien’s voice held an edge of sympathy.

  “The first man I approached was Monsieur Givet. The first man. Wasn’t that God’s blessing? He was horrified that I should be forced into whoring, and took me home at once to his family. And there I’ve been ever since.” She nodded for emphasis at Lucien. “A good girl. A virtuous girl, for all your wicked thoughts. I took an oath on it to the Givets.”

  He grinned. “But a thief.”

  She ignored that. “Alas, the poor family. I don’t think Monsieur Givet will return. The ship has been gone for too long.” She sighed. “You see, I have my own reasons for wanting the Chalotais money.”

  Lucien stood up and stretched. “Then the sooner we transform you into the fair Véronique, the sooner we’ll all have our heart’s desire. Lord, I’m tired. Martin, will you get the candles?” He kicked off his shoes and crawled between the sheets of the large bed. In a moment his deep breathing announced that he was asleep.

  Topaze stared forlornly at Martin. She felt as though she’d been dismissed, like a puppy dog, a creature who was worth no more than a casual nod of his head. For the first time, her courage failed her. Her lip began to tremble. She stood up abruptly and covered the remains of supper with a napkin. “I’ll get the candles,” she said. She moved about the room, extinguishing the candles, leaving one single lighted chamberstick, which she placed on the mantel.

  “Shall I put the truckle bed near to the fire?” asked Martin.

  “Please. After this winter, I think I’ll never be warm enough again.”

  He pushed the little cot nearer the fire, and saw her settled in. “Good night,” he said, tucking the blanket about her shoulders. On an impulse, he knelt beside her. He hesitated, a shy smile on his face, then smoothed back a curl from her forehead. His warm brown eyes were filled with pity. “He doesn’t mean to seem uncaring. I’m sure he was as troubled as I. It was a sad tale.”

  She shook off her dark mood. “I don’t dwell on the past. It’s not my way. I put my faith in God for a better future. That’s all.”

  “Damn it,” he growled. “I should have married you myself.”

  She laughed softly. “No. I’m a saucy chit. And a thief, with no conscience. I’d break your heart.”

  “And Lucien’s heart?”

  She snorted. “I doubt he has a heart to break, that devil!” The pity in his eyes turned to something else. Something tender and gentle and infinitely caring. He searched her face, his soft regard coming to rest on her lips. “I should have married you,” he said with regret.

  She blushed, flustered by a look she’d never seen on a man’s face before. She averted her eyes, struggling to find words, and was saved only by Lucien.

  He stirred in bed, sat up, and grunted, favoring them with an irritated scowl. “Get to bed, for Satan’s sake. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

  Topaze snuggled under the blanket, watching idly as Martin stripped off his coat and waistcoat. But when he produced a nightshirt from his portmanteau, she closed her eyes and turned away. Unlike that rogue Lucien, who seemed to favor sleeping in his clothes like a highwayman or a country farmer, Martin clearly was a gentleman. He was entitled to privacy.

  She sighed. The truckle bed was soft and warm. But lonely. Her body missed the intertwined limbs, the human contact to which it had become accustomed. Even when the Givets had owned bedsteads, they’d slept several together, huddled for comfort as well as for thrift and warmth. Now she slept badly, and dreamed of frolicking in the sunshine with the little ones.

  Chapter Six

  By the time she’d awakened in the morning, the men had changed int
o fresh linen and were dressed. While she enjoyed the unexpected luxury of a cup of hot chocolate before a warm fire, Lucien and Martin sought out a secondhand shop, and soon returned with her new wardrobe. The clothes were well made, but plain and somewhat worn: the sort of clothing she might have owned had the Givet family not fallen on hard times. There was a boned bodice and skirt of mouse-colored wool, an untrimmed linen handkerchief that folded across the low neckline, a flannel petticoat, muslin chemise (and a spare to sleep in), plain knitted stockings. For warmth, a long, hooded cloak; for concealment, a full linen cap that hid her hair and tied under the chin with ruffled lappets. The men presented her with the clothing, then—at Martin’s insistence—discreetly retired to the tavern below while she dressed. Though she laced the bodice tightly, it didn’t fit as well as it might have. Martin was disappointed, but Topaze assured him that she found the clothes just to her liking. “And besides,” she said, laughing, “if I continue to eat as well as I’ve begun in your charge, the blasted gown won’t be near big enough, or I’m damned!”

  Martin joined in her laughter, but Lucien frowned. “I doubt if Véronique’s mother would want her daughter to swear. Kindly learn to curb your tongue.”

  They spent the second night of their journey in a small country inn outside of Cognac. It had rained all day; the coach had been cold and damp and crowded. They ate supper quickly, conversed little, retired early. Topaze noted that Lucien again went to bed without bothering to undress, but she was too exhausted from the long day to be concerned about it.

  In the morning the sun was shining. It brightened Topaze’s spirits; she hummed as she poured chocolate for the men and handed them their cups.

  Lucien raised a mocking eyebrow. “Are you always so sunny this early in the morning?”

  She laughed and pointed to Martin, whose handsome face was wreathed in gloom. “If I’m the sun, friend Martin is the dark side of the moon! Aren’t it so? Isn’t it so?”

  Lucien studied his companion. “She’s right, you know. What ails you, Martin? Still filled with doubts about the scheme?”