Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  “Of course. I can even have my ‘besotted suitors’ take me to les Herbiers. I’m sure I can think up a suitable excuse for wanting to visit the village.”

  “I’m sure you can. A creature with your talent for trickery.” He nodded stiffly. “Shouldn’t you be getting back? Your suitors will be waiting for you.”

  “Of course. I’ll leave you a signal after I’ve met Farigoule again.”

  “Will you have another strawberry?” Topaze reached toward the basket and smiled down at Denis de Rocher.

  He lay on the grassy hillside, his arms cradling his head. He looked up at her. An unhappy crease appeared between his eyes. “I ask for words of love. You smile at Carle-André, you devil, and give me strawberries.”

  She brushed a butterfly away from the brim of her straw hat, and pouted. “If I’d thought that our picnic would become a field of combat, I should never have suggested it.”

  “Have you no pity, cruel woman? You adorable assassin?”

  “Assassin?” She plucked a handful of grass and dropped it on his face. “Ungrateful wretch! Haven’t I let you kiss me?”

  Frowning, he brushed aside the grass. “But you never say the words I want to hear. Though you know how much I love you. And you smile at Carle-André.”

  “Carle-André is charming.”

  “And not nearly as much in love with you as I am,” he muttered sulkily.

  There was a shout from down the hill. Topaze stood up and shaded her eyes. Below them, Carle-André waved. Topaze looked at Denis. “I think the carriage must be waiting.”

  Rocher got to his knees and began replacing their picnic in its basket. “I should never have come. I should have let you go alone with Carle-André, since you seem to prefer him.”

  She laughed. “Such a disagreeable suitor. I never said I preferred him.” She spread her arms wide, taking in the top of the Mountain of the Larks and its magnificent view over the bocage with its hedges, its rolling stretches of greenery. “Oh, Denis,” she exulted, “how can you puff and fume on such a glorious day?”

  He stood up and took her hand in his. His eyes were warm and sincere. “I do love you,” he said. He bent and kissed her gently.

  “God’s blood!” Montalembert’s voice was filled with outrage. “I provide the carriage, I provide the food for this picnic, and you steal a kiss the moment I go to fetch our coach?”

  Topaze giggled and skipped down the hill to meet him as he climbed to them. “Then you deserve a kiss as well,” she said, lifting her head to his. “But only one.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her, while Rocher grumbled. “Sweet enchantress,” said Carle-André, and sighed. “Well, then. You’ve had your picnic. You’ve visited your Mont-des-Alouettes. Now what shall we do?”

  “I haven’t been to les Herbiers since my return.”

  “Les Herbiers? Dieu! What is there to see, to do in that speck of a village?”

  “I remember one or two charming shops.”

  “Whatever your heart desires,” said Denis, “it will be yours. For your birthday next week. I should like to be there to help you celebrate.”

  “I told you, Denis, it’s a solemn occasion. Only the family will be there. Though Fleur has promised a small soirée a day or so afterwards.”

  “In the meanwhile,” said Carle-André, taking her hand and pulling her down the hill to where his carriage waited, “on to les Herbiers.”

  The narrow streets of les Herbiers were filled with sheep, the newborn lambs gamboling among their dams. Montalembert was forced to have his coachman stop the carriage. The three of them climbed down and made their way along the street on foot.

  “Oh, isn’t he a darling!” Topaze knelt to stroke a frisky lamb, and smiled up at one of the peasants who was shepherding the flock.

  He scowled and kicked at the dust of the road with the tip of his sabot. “I suppose,” he said at last.

  “Jean!” Another peasant hurried over and tugged at the sleeve of the first man’s smock. He whispered in his ear, then turned to Topaze with a toothless grin. Deliberately he took one calloused hand and clutched at his groin.

  “Damn you!” Rocher leaped forward, his hand to his sword.

  “Denis! Don’t!” she cried.

  “He meant it for an insult. I’ll not have it!”

  The peasant smiled and cringed, tugging politely at his cap. “Why should I want to insult Mademoiselle de Chalotais? Her that’s been away for such a long time.”

  “Yes,” agreed the shepherd. “Pure as snow for all them years. Aren’t it so?” He snickered.

  Topaze drew in a sharp breath. They knew her. And clearly believed the vile rumors. What was it Lucien had once told her? The Vendée peasant was suspicious, hostile, provincial in every way. The aristocrats might overlook Véronique’s sins; the peasants, never.

  She rose to her feet, chin held high. “I pray that le bon Dieu at least welcomes a weary pilgrim. It will be enough.” She nodded to the men. “Good day to you.”

  They stammered and blushed, and stepped aside to let her pass.

  “You should have let me deal with them,” muttered Denis, as they continued down the street.

  “The common dogs,” added Carle-André. “I should have kicked them into the ditch. To suggest that you were a woman who…” He scowled, and left the words unsaid. Topaze tactfully refrained from reminding him that he himself had suggested the very same thing the night of the ball.

  “No more fretting,” said Topaze, as they reached a cluster of small shops. “You promised to buy me a birthday trifle,” she reminded Denis.

  “It will be my joy, sweet one. I…”

  “My dear! Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle de Chalotais, is it you?”

  Topaze looked up in pretended surprise. Several tables and chairs had been set up in front of the wine shop; at one of the tables sat Farigoule. He waved at her and smiled cheerily. “Monsieur,” she said, “do I know you? Wait a moment. On the coach. Monsieur…Farigoule, is it not?”

  He stood up and bounded toward them. His paunch quivered beneath its fine velvets and embroidery. “The very same, mademoiselle. What are you doing here?”

  She smiled. “Visiting. And you?”

  He laid a fleshy finger alongside his large nose. “Business,” he said, and winked.

  “Yes, I remember now. Land, I think you said? Oh!” Belatedly she noticed her two companions. “Let me present Monsieur Farigoule to you. He was a most interesting fellow traveler on part of my journey home. A banker, from…Nantes? Is it not so, monsieur?”

  “The same. Permit me.” Farigoule hooked a finger into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a small card, which he handed to Rocher.

  Montalembert peered over Denis’s shoulder. “Etienne Farigoule,” he read. “Why, I think I’ve heard of you, monsieur.”

  Farigoule’s eyes sparkled. “Only good things, I trust, monsieur. Monsieur…?”

  “Forgive me, monsieur.” Carle-André bowed with a flourish, then presented himself and Denis to Farigoule. Topaze was delighted at the banker’s reception. Carle-André could be an ally if the Chalotais needed to be persuaded of Farigoule’s virtues. They chatted for a few minutes, then Monsieur Farigoule took his leave. He had concluded his business in the region, he said, and was returning to Nantes. He begged the three young people to remember him if they should ever find themselves in Nantes. He would welcome them most warmly.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Carle-André, “I might write to you. I recall now that a friend of mine, a Monsieur d’Incy, once did very well with an investment you recommended.”

  Farigoule bowed. “If ever I can be of service, messieurs, I am yours. My dear.” He kissed Topaze on the hand, bowed again and went off down the street.

  Topaze smiled. With but a week to go until Véronique’s birthday, it seemed as though their scheme couldn’t fail.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “And how is Monsieur Farigoule?” Lucien pulled down a settee from a stac
k of benches and chairs, righted it, and brushed the dust from its velvet cushion. “Sit.”

  Topaze seated herself. They were in one of the little rooms of the tower. “My bedroom,” Lucien had laughingly called it, pointing to the mattress on the floor. She had just returned from her stay with Carle-André. “Monsieur Farigoule is well,” she said. She giggled. “Though he couldn’t very well send his greetings to you, under the circumstances.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, sitting beside her. “And how are your suitors?”

  “Charming as always. Did you find a woman in Parthenay?”

  He reached out with his finger and stroked the softness of her cheek. “I didn’t go. I didn’t want to.”

  She trembled. “Lucien…”

  His finger traced the line of her jawbone, then slid down to the bodice of her gown. He slipped one finger beneath her chemise and found the sensitive nipple. “Do you think you can persuade the Chalotais to allow your investment with Farigoule?”

  “Oh, Lucien, don’t,” she gasped.

  His finger scratched at her breast, sending sparks of feeling shooting through her. “Don’t what?” he asked. His free hand went around her waist. “Will the Chalotais accept our friend the banker?”

  The thump of her heart was like the pounding of the ocean against stone quays. A pulsing, surging, that made her feel helpless. “Carle-André,” she began. Ave Maria, how her voice quivered! She tried again. “Carle-André has a friend who invested with Farigoule. Successfully, I think.”

  He bent to her mouth. “Shall we then”—he kissed her softly—“have a testimonial”—another kiss—“from one of your suitors? Better and better.” The tantalizing finger was joined by its fellows. His firm hand cupped around her breast, kneading the soft orb. The arm about her waist held her in strong possession.

  She felt smothered by her own breath. Weakened by an unbearable tension within her. An ache, a yearning pain at the very core of her being. “Lucien, I must go,” she choked.

  “Yes.” He kissed her cheek, then glided his lips across the velvet flesh to her ear. He blew softly.

  She groaned. Her body was on fire from his hands, his mouth.

  “Touch me,” he whispered.

  She hesitated, then put her hand on his groin. She could feel the burning hardness of him even through the cloth of his breeches. It gave her a strange sense of exaltation. He wants me, she thought. Curse you, Adriane de Ronceray. He wants me, if only for this moment. She curled her fingers around his hard shaft. Her triumph was his gasp of pleasure.

  He took his hand from her bodice and scooped her into his arms. He laid her across the mattress on the floor, and pushed her skirts up to her waist. He kissed her knees, then her sensitive thighs. His teeth nipped gently at the tender flesh, so she writhed and cried out his name. He laughed softly. “Surrender, wench,” he said. “You’re about to be boarded by a pirate.”

  “Pirate or devil,” she gasped, “I want you, damn it, and you know it.”

  “Don’t swear,” he murmured, but there was no anger in his voice. Only a longing for release that matched her own. He fumbled with his breeches, poised himself above her, plunged hard. He slipped his hands under her buttocks, raising her hips to meet each wild thrust. And he was wild. Wild and savage and quick. Though she moaned in pleasure, her senses tingling with each fierce stroke, it seemed to Topaze that he was sated long before her joy had peaked.

  He sighed and rolled back on the mattress. Topaze turned to look at him. His eyes were closed. His face was drained of passion. And tension. He was at peace.

  She felt her disappointment, like a hard rock in the middle of her chest. Where was her triumph after all? Had he wanted her? Or just a woman? She was a fool for hoping. He would never see beyond his own world. She sighed. What does it matter? she thought. And ignored the small voice that whispered in her brain, It does matter. She hated Adriane de Ronceray.

  Her heart twisted in pain. But, oh, sweet Virgin, I do love him! She reached over with a languid hand and stroked his forehead, then touched the line of his scar. “How did you come to be a pirate?” she asked.

  He turned to look at her. His blue eyes were strangely vulnerable. “I thought you’d heard the whole story by now.”

  “But not what happened after you left Grismoulins with…with your mother.”

  His mouth curved in a wry smile. “Still the prying chit?”

  “Didn’t you have any friends you could turn to?”

  “You don’t understand. The life of a country aristocrat is isolated, filled with self-interest, petty indulgence, and very little more. It was my life too. I liked to be alone, and what few friends I had were the wrong kind. We were bound to one another by privilege, superiority, wealth. They were gambling friends. Drinking friends. Nothing more. Why should they give a damn what happened? ‘Lucien de Chalotais is gone, you know.’ ‘Really? Pity. Pour me another glass of wine.’” The mimicry in his voice was sharp and devoid of humor. “That’s all it meant to them. I should have been the same, had it happened to one of my fellows. From time to time I’d told myself it would be different when I was master of Grismoulins. I’d make something more of my life.” He laughed sardonically. “You see, I did.”

  “No one to care? The villagers. There are half a dozen towns close by. Would not one…?”

  “Lord! Will you never cease to expect more of people than they’re capable of? I’m only surprised that the villagers didn’t stone us out of the region. We were heathen. Heretics. You can’t know how narrow country people can be. They’re born into ignorance. Raised in ignorance. The Church is all that sustains their mean lives. And we had become strangers to that Church. To the rules of their lives.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. She’d seen how the villagers in les Herbiers had looked at her. The fallen Véronique. They’d whispered and pointed. And when Carle-André’s coach had left that afternoon, several children had picked up clods of earth and thrown them at the carriage. “Then where did you go?”

  He rubbed his arm across his mouth. “My mother was ill. The strain of…what had happened had weakened her heart. We went to Nantes. I hoped to get a ship to take us far away from France. But it was too much for her. She needed rest, care, medicine. She’d managed to make off with a few of her jewels when we left Grismoulins. I took them to a jeweler to sell. I narrowly escaped arrest.”

  “By Saint Jude, why?”

  “To begin, we were Huguenots, subject to arbitrary arrest. And besides, my father claimed the jewels were stolen, and sent the police after us.”

  She struggled against her tears. Was there no end to his pain? “Dieu,” she whispered.

  His voice was passionless. “But I was needy. My mother was dying, and I had no money to care for her.” He laughed, a dry bark. “You see, my little urchin, we have more in common than you think. I learned of a man who wasn’t too particular about what he bought. I sold him the jewels—for a pittance, but I had no choice—and began to enquire about passage to the New World. Eventually I was led to Monsieur Farigoule. My mother had died by that time. Of a broken heart.” He arose from the mattress; he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. He straightened his clothing and walked to a window. He leaned his arm against the frame and stared out at the day. “I’d planned to work in Nantes,” he said at last. “To earn my passage. But circumstances wouldn’t have it. It happened that several of the jewels I sold turned out to be paste.” He turned and smiled. His eyes were cold. “No doubt some profligate Chalotais had made the substitution years before. I knew for a certainty that my life wasn’t worth a pin if I stayed in Nantes. Monsieur Farigoule was very understanding. He allowed me to ship out on one of his smuggling vessels.”

  “To England.”

  “Yes. I speak English passably. I fell in with the smugglers, one Peg Leg Johnson, by name. I signaled the ships, hauled in the contraband. And between times caroused like a madman. But the English began to notice me. A foreigner, after all. I shipped out
with old Peg Leg on his next voyage.” He shrugged. “How was I to know that he’d decided to turn pirate? But it seemed as good a life as any. Eventually I found myself on Captain Trescot’s ship. ‘Longknife’ Trescot, they called him.”

  “Oh, Lucien, but such a life.”

  “By Satan’s beard, don’t look at me with pity in your eyes,” he growled. “I was a dead man. What did I care? I lived for only one thing. To be rich enough to return to France, right the wrong that had been done to us. Restore my name in the courts.” He smiled at her with a look that chilled her heart. “And kill my father,” he said softly.

  “Lucien, no.”

  “But you see, God even robbed me of that. In Guadeloupe, I learned that he’d died.” He laughed. “Fitting, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s true what they say. God only smiles upon the True Faith. Not on some fool who had the misfortune to be born to a Huguenot mother.”

  She gulped. “For how many years? With the pirates.”

  “Nearly two.” His eyes were far away. “The boldest of the bold. The most reckless. And savage.” He shuddered.

  “Did you call yourself Lucien Renaudot from the first? When you became a pirate?”

  “No. I had a nickname, like all the rest.” He smiled in mockery. “I called myself Lucien le Bâtard.”

  The Bastard. She began to weep. “Lucien…”

  “Don’t waste your tears.” He stared down at her where she lay. “Lord, I haven’t unburdened myself for a long time. It must be the weakness of the moment.” His eyes strayed to her raised skirts, her naked hips. “I expend my vital essence and lose my manliness.”

  It was as if a door had slammed in her face. She stood up and straightened her skirts. “Perhaps you should avoid the one if you fear the other,” she snapped. “Unless it’s important, don’t ask to see me for the next few days. I’ll be far too busy preparing for my birthday!”