Louisa Rawlings

Home > Other > Louisa Rawlings > Page 11
Louisa Rawlings Page 11

by Promise of Summer


  “And Trescot swore to kill Lucien.”

  “Yes. We made for the nearest island, and from there to Guadeloupe. Lucien would have taken his money and gone his way. But he’d saved my life. I felt I owed him a debt of gratitude. With my father’s permission, I invited him to be a partner in the plantation. I never regretted that choice. He seldom spoke of his past, but I could sense that his life of piracy had sickened his soul. And even before I learned of his birth and station, I knew he was a man of rare intelligence. And honor. A man whose friendship I prize.”

  “And Captain Trescot?”

  “I don’t know what happened to him. But the islands are close together. With many natural harbors. Easy enough for a man to slip ashore, if he were so minded. That first year I know that Trescot’s threat haunted Lucien, though he tried to put it out of his mind. He slept lightly. Woke startled. You saw it yourself in La Rochelle. I thought his fears had faded. But the voyage over revived all his old nightmares.” Martin shuddered. “I never saw such a band of cutthroats as were on that ship. Wild, desperate men, living a hellish life…”

  Topaze gulped back her tears. “How did he get to it?” she whispered. “What could drive a man to a life like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a mocking laugh from the doorway. They looked up, startled. Lucien leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed against his chest. He clucked his tongue in reproach. “By Satan’s beard, Martin, did you tell the chit that old story?”

  Topaze moved to him and put a sympathetic hand on his arm. Her eyes were warm, glinting with the tears that refused to be checked. “Why? In the name of pity, why choose such a life?”

  For a moment, she thought she’d touched him. A fleeting shadow seemed to pass over his countenance; a small muscle quivered in the corner of his eye. Then he shrugged, brushed off her hand, and swaggered into the room. “It seemed like an amusing thing to do at the time. Have you memorized all the names of the servants yet? I’d suggest you go to your room until suppertime, and apply yourself to your lessons.”

  Supper was a strange affair. Martin, always uncomfortable with small talk, was even more quiet than usual. Topaze suspected that his story had brought back unpleasant memories. But Lucien had never been more charming, flattering Madame Le Sage, complimenting her on the fineness of her table, making her giggle like a maiden with humorous sallies and clever little witticisms.

  Her brain still burning from the frightful story Martin had told, Topaze found it difficult to reconcile the man of the story—savage, ruthless, yet ultimately heroic—with the smiling man who played the court gallant with such insouciance, and discussed the merits of puddings as though there were no more important concerns in his head. Who is he? she thought in anguish. What is he?

  She went to bed early, leaving the men to sit and talk together in Martin’s room, their armchairs pulled up to the hearth.

  But sleep would not come. Despite her exertions in the snow, she tossed—wide-eyed and restless—upon her large bed. Her brain whirled with confused thoughts, strange whispers of discontent that hovered just beyond her reach. She rose from the bed. She could hear the low murmur of the men’s voices from Martin’s room. Perhaps she’d fetch the chart of Grismoulins, study it in bed for a while until she was sleepy. She lit a candle on the night table, then padded—barefoot and clad only in her long chemise—into the passageway. The men’s voices were louder. They seemed to be talking of their plantation. The likelihood of a good crop. The hope of a fair summer. She pushed open the door.

  Martin turned. “Name of God,” he said, laughing, “what are you doing up?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Isn’t your bed comfortable? Aunt Louise…”

  “The bed is fine.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She wrinkled her brow in distress. “I don’t know. It never seems warm enough.”

  Lucien snorted. “After that frosty room you shared with the Givets?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just…the bed is so…lonely! We always slept together. It never seems comfortable here. It never seems right.”

  Lucien’s mouth twisted in derision. “Lonely? By Lucifer, don’t look at me. I may be your husband on paper, but I can’t be troubled to crawl into bed with you to prove it.”

  “Damn you, Lucien,” growled Martin. “Don’t be a bastard. You don’t have to talk to Topaze that way.”

  Topaze refused to be daunted. She favored Lucien with a contemptuous glance. “I wouldn’t want to compromise your innocence, husband. I wasn’t suggesting any such arrangement. You asked why I was restless. I told you. Perhaps you should buy me a pup.” Her amber eyes flashed. “It would serve just as well as you.”

  Martin smiled as Lucien looked uncomfortable. “Well said. And well deserved, my friend. If it will help, Topaze, come and sit on my lap until you get sleepy.”

  He meant it only to be kind, she was sure. Still, it was a chance to twit Lucien once again. “I’m not sure my husband won’t be jealous, monsieur,” she said solemnly. “But I’ll chance it. I know he’d not bother to defend my honor. I’m not sure he’d bother to defend his own…unless there was a fat purse waiting.”

  Lucien smiled, a tight grimace. “You do like the edge of danger,” he said softly. “By all means, sit on Martin’s lap. I’ll try not to feel envy.”

  Tucking her chemise demurely about her legs, Topaze curled up on Martin’s lap and leaned her head against his chest. It was comforting, with his arms warmly enfolding her, his steady heartbeat murmuring beneath her ear. The men had resumed their conversation; the drone of their voices further lulled her. She sighed once, closed her eyes, and slept.

  Chapter Nine

  A log crackled in the fireplace. The clock on the mantel chimed. Lucien sighed. “Time for bed.”

  Martin moved gently, shifting the sleeping Topaze on his lap. “The story, Lucien. That day…I… We never talk of it.”

  “No need, my friend.”

  “But you saved my honor that day. And my life.”

  “And you saved mine. I looked into your honest face that day and saw what I had been. And was no more. It was like waking from a monstrous dream. But for you, how low might I have sunk?” He sighed again. “To bed. Is the girl still asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you carry her to her room?”

  Martin grimaced. “My leg has gone numb. I fear it will collapse under me if I stand up.”

  “Let me take her.” Lucien rose from his chair and slid his arms under the girl’s sleeping form. She twitched once as he straightened, then settled against his shirt. A slip of a girl. Light as a feather. “Good night, Martin,” he said.

  A candle burned on a small table in the girl’s room. He put her into bed and reached for the coverlet. She turned in her sleep, then frowned, her hand stretching across the empty sheet. Searching. He thought, Poor little urchin. Martin was a jolly enough companion, he supposed. But hardly compensation for the loving flock of children she was used to. And as for himself…he’d learned to live again in Guadeloupe; he’d scarcely learned to be kind and patient. The girl must wonder sometimes why she’d agreed to the plan.

  He shook off the twinge of conscience. By Lucifer, why should he give a damn? The world was filled with savages who used one another if they could. The little chit—wasn’t she getting something out of the scheme? Money for her family. She wasn’t stupid; she knew the risks. Why should he care?

  Still asleep, she whimpered softly; one small hand clutched at a pillow. He stared down at her and felt a surge of tenderness. Poor puppy. He knew how it was, to feel lost, forlorn. She must be lonely. Yearning for the closeness of her adopted family. Though she might laugh during the day, at night her sleeping body betrayed her heart, and she reached for the children who weren’t there. On an impulse he took off his shoes and eased in beside her, prodding her gently to make room. I must be a fool, he thought. Well, only for a few minutes. No more. If it br
ought her comfort as she slept… He pulled her close and tucked her into the crook of his arm.

  She sighed and wriggled closer, resting her head on his chest. She slid her bare leg over his shins, and wrapped her hand around his waist. She’d lost her ribbon; her hair was loose. It rubbed against his chin, silken and warm. He nearly laughed aloud. Was this how the Givet family slept? Entwined like a barrel of eels?

  Still, she was warm. He felt the heat of her breath through his shirt. It was such a long time since he’d felt a warm body next to his. Since he’d allowed himself to feel anything. The warmth of a human being, the sense of kinship with mankind. Not that he’d slept alone all these years. But there was no warmth in a whore. Nor in those hot-eyed island wives so eager to cuckold their husbands.

  But this funny little waif…she was warm, alive. She made him laugh. She made him angry with her stubborn independence. Sometimes when she defied him, rankled him with her sharp words, he could feel his skin prickling all over. Hot. Stretched taut over his body. The way he felt sometimes when he’d been out in the fields all day, with the tropic sun beating down. She chafed him like that, this queer little creature. Impossible to ignore.

  The girl stirred. Her tumbled hair brushed across his cheeks and nostrils. It smelled fragrant. It reminded him of Adriane. That kiss she’d granted him when they’d parted. Filled with promise. He wondered what she was doing at this moment. He hadn’t had time to think of her. Or any woman. Not since the day he’d collared the little chit in the streets of Bordeaux, and the plan had begun to take shape in his head. Now he wondered if Adriane was thinking of him. She came from strong stock. A fine family. She’d make a good wife; their home would be the envy of every planter on the island.

  The girl shifted her leg. It rubbed against his thigh. He felt a stirring of desire. A warm fire in his veins. Adriane was far away. And this creature was a woman, lest he forget. And lying half on top of him in a bed. Ripe. Convenient. He put his hand on her head and stroked the scented tresses. Perhaps…

  The scar on his face began to itch. He scrubbed at it with stiff fingers. Had he lost his wits? The dream of normality was not for him. Not now. Not yet. Not when he’d suddenly seen the possibility of vengeance. Damn them all. He felt the passion ebb from him. The chit was just an instrument. Nothing more. Best to keep her reasonably content. At least until she was no longer useful. He wasn’t about to complicate things by taking advantage of her. He might frighten her. She was young, after all. And still feared him at times. He could read it in her eyes.

  And he needed her to make the scheme work. That was what mattered. He could always find a girl to satisfy his body. But he didn’t want to unsettle this one. She was too important. He passed a hand across his eyes. Maybe, when all of this was over, his soul would find a little peace.

  The girl shivered in her sleep. It was chilly in the room: the fire had died out. He really should leave her bed, wrap her with the coverlet, and go. But he hated to disturb her. To extricate himself now would be to waken her. Ah, well. Perhaps he’d sleep for a few hours, then return to his own room. Carefully he reached out with his free arm, pulled the coverlet over the two of them, extinguished the candle. He smiled in the darkness: how Martin would laugh to see him now.

  But, Lord! the girl’s hair did smell of sunshine…

  He slept, and dreamed of his childhood. The crow of the rooster in the farmyard wakened him. The household would be stirring soon. Fortunately, the girl, while still lying close, had untwisted her body from his. He eased himself out of bed and slipped into his shoes. He turned back to look at her once more. He’d been so busy these past weeks, so absorbed in his remembrances of Grismoulins, that he hadn’t really looked at her.

  It was astonishing what a little care, and good food, could do. She’d filled out—her thin face was now delicately round, and the dainty pointed chin had acquired a dimple. Her skin, that had suffered the ravages of winter and poverty, had been creamed to a healthy pink, and her cheeks glowed with Nature’s rouge. Her honey-blond hair had been washed and combed and cared for; it spilled across the pillow and surrounded her face like a burnished halo. Her chemise hung loosely off one shoulder. He caught a glimpse of one bare breast—a soft swelling, young and firm. He thought, What a pretty little thing she is. Véronique would be fortunate—if she still lived—to have grown into such a sweet-faced creature.

  He sighed, hearing voices in the farmyard. He could almost wish he’d discerned her charms last night. It might have been pleasant to seduce her. But now, of course, it was too late, with the servants already up and about.

  Fool! He had no time to indulge his lusts. He couldn’t afford to be diverted now. Not now! His hatred had consumed him for years. He’d given up all hope of revenge. Then he’d found the girl, and vengeance had blossomed in his heart like a flower, watered by the bitter poison of his memories. Why should he gamble that against a moment’s pleasure?

  This chit was just a means to an end. Grismoulins waited. Then the money. Then Adriane. He turned away and tiptoed from the room.

  “Is it old, the château?” Topaze yawned. She’d slept badly again last night, though she was growing quite used to it. When she thought of it, the only good night’s sleep she’d had was the night—just a few days ago—when she’d fallen asleep on Martin’s lap. She’d been tempted to wheedle another invitation, but he’d become so distant that she found him almost as difficult to talk with as Lucien. Well, perhaps he was beginning to miss Guadeloupe. He’d spent the last few days at the window, watching the snows melt, his face shadowed, his brown eyes soft and far away. “Is Grismoulins old?” she asked again.

  “Parts of it are,” said Lucien. “There’s an old tower and a winding staircase. All that remains of an ancient keep. Here. As I’ve indicated in my drawing. The main buildings, though, were built under Louis the Thirteenth and Richelieu, then fell into disrepair and almost abandoned in the last century. When…when my parents married, the château was restored. You’ll find the interiors quite fashionable, though modest. I’d doubt if Hubert bothered to make many improvements. He always fancied my father’s hotel in Paris; I should think that abode would claim his attention, now that he’s the comte. It’s closer to the gaming tables.” Lucien frowned. “Wait a moment. There’s a secret passage. I just remembered. You go through the long galerie to the paneled library. See, here, on the plan of Grismoulins. There’s a bookcase along the wall opposite the windows. Part of it swings open to become a door.”

  “What releases the door?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Beside the last bookcase—just here—is a strip of paneling carved with scrolls and palmettes and coquilles. The third…” He closed his eyes for a moment. “No. The fourth cockleshell from the bottom is the key.”

  “You press it?”

  “No. It would have been discovered by every servant who dusted or polished. You turn it completely around. Once to the right. Twice to the left. And the door opens.”

  “Where does it lead?”

  “To the tower. Oh, what a fool!” He slapped at his forehead. “I’ve been trying to think of how we might meet in secret. I’d forgotten. The passage leads as well to a little artificial grotto in the park. A wild place, with tumbled rocks and willow trees and a shallow pond. The whole place quite overgrown. My father preferred the more formal gardens on the estate; he could pretend it was Versailles. I’m sure Hubert is of the same opinion. The yearnings of a country aristocrat.”

  “Did Véronique know of the secret passageway?”

  “I don’t think so. I remember my mother showed me it, when I was very small. But then my father’s favorite hound was trapped there, and died. After that, it was forbidden. The few servants who knew of it were long gone before Hubert and his family—you and your stepbrother Léonard—came to Grismoulins.” He smirked. “Though I must confess I used it once or twice in later years, after an escapade with a village maiden. But mostly it was forgotten.”

  “Then I’m not
to tell of it, to prove I’m Véronique.”

  ‘‘No.

  Topaze sighed. “I wish I knew more of Véronique.”

  “She was a flirt. Did I tell you that? Just beginning to know her femininity.”

  “Do you think she ran away with the footman?”

  “I don’t know. But she was a little spoiled. A little petulant. You may find that trait useful.”

  Topaze grinned. “I’ll learn to stamp my foot. And flirt. Eh, Martin?”

  Martin turned from the window. “I have no doubt you’ll do as you wish. I think I’ll go downstairs and read. You don’t need me here.”

  Topaze frowned at his retreating back. His behavior was a mystery. But Lucien was an even deeper mystery, and she might not have a clear opportunity again. She turned to him. “What do I know of Cousin Lucien?”

  “Not very much. I was away at school. Sometimes in Paris. Or with my friends. I rode a great deal, so our paths seldom crossed. And of course the eight-year difference in our ages loomed rather larger then. But I played backgammon with you from time to time.” He smiled. “And usually won.”

  Damnation. That wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for at all. It told her nothing of the man, brought her no closer to the hidden Lucien she sensed, and longed to touch. “Your hair. Your scar. Did Véronique see you as you are now?”

  “No. My hair was raven black. And my face”—he laughed sardonically—“young and innocent. A perfect fool’s face.”

  She was determined to find answers. “How did Cousin Lucien feel about me? About my family?”

  He brushed her aside. “What matter? I…”

  “And his own family?” she persisted.

  The blue eyes were guarded. “He found the world a pleasant place. Filled with agreeable people. He was young, and undiscerning. A perfect fool, I told you.”

  “How did he feel about Grismoulins?”

  The question caught him by surprise. He turned quickly, but not before she’d seen the pain on his face. He stared out of the window. “How should he feel? It’s beautiful. The hills are green and rolling, crossed with hedges. It’s isolated. A man can ride for hours, in the glory of the spring, with nothing but his own thoughts for company. The higher hills are bare of trees. And the wind blows. Clean and pure. At times you’d swear you can smell the sea. Just above Grismoulins, on a hill, are the ruins of a stone windmill, though there must have been more than one, once upon a time, to give the château its name.” He laughed softly. “Whatever my turmoil—and young men are filled with turmoil, childish though it may seem in retrospect—a ride through the hills and woods of Grismoulins would restore my soul.”

 

‹ Prev