Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Sweet Madonna!” exclaimed Ninon at last. “I shall go mad waiting for you!” She leaped at him, propelling him onto his back on the bed, where she straddled him with her knees. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it free from his breeches and pushing it up toward his neck. He laughed and lifted his arms, attempting, in his awkward position, to pull the garment over his head. He had managed to get it halfway off, his face and arms tangled in the folds of fabric, when she attacked again, the sight of his brawny (and vulnerable!) torso too great a temptation. She curled her fingers in the matted hair on his chest, her nails scratching teasingly, then bent down and brushed her lips against his bare flesh until he twitched in agony, struggling against the confining fabric that still held him prisoner.

  “You devil,” he gasped, his voice muffled by the folds of his shirt. “You damned vixen!”

  She giggled, surprised by her own boldness, and moved lower on his body, that she might work on his fly buttons; releasing the last one, she plunged her hand down the front of his breeches and clutched his burning manhood. He let out a howl and tore his shirt in his anxiety to be rid of it. Freed of the garment at last, he lay beneath her gasping, his eyes smoldering with passion—and delight at her unexpected brazenness.

  “Well then, you impudent Amazon,” he panted, “you vanquisher of men—must I tear my breeches as well?”

  She shrugged—noblesse oblige—and moved off him, but the moment he had removed his breeches she was at him again, pushing him onto his back. She leaned over him to kiss him hard upon the mouth, her breasts rubbing against his chest, her tentative tongue reaching out to seek his. When she couldn’t bear the anticipation another moment, she straddled him again, lowering herself onto his hard shaft. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, barely able to breathe for the exquisite sensations that filled her as she moved up and down on him. Then she squealed in surprise; with a sudden wrench he had pushed her from him and flipped her over onto her back. In command now, he plunged into her again and again, his thrusts deep and hard. She felt herself soaring, a dizzying flight to some unknown and exotic sphere where nothing existed save the throbbing within her, the roaring in her ears. She cried out and, with a draining spasm, fell to earth again.

  After a few moments, he laughed softly, his lips against her cheek. “’Tis one thing to win a skirmish or two, my sweet warrior. But I wasn’t about to let you win the whole battle!”

  He was still sleeping when the crowing rooster woke her. She leaned up on one elbow and watched him, the gentle rise and fall of his broad chest, the way a wisp of black hair trailed boyishly across his forehead. His face was sweet, innocent, young. It always seemed to be so: in sleep, with his demons laid to rest, he was another person. He stirred and opened his eyes, gazing at her silently for several minutes. “Ninon,” he murmured at last, reaching up a lazy finger to stroke her cheek. He yawned and blinked, then smiled at her. “What were you thinking of just then?”

  Tenderly she brushed the bit of hair off his forehead. “That I don’t know how old you are. That you look like a lad when you’re sleeping, waiting for your first lover to awaken you with her magic kiss.” She cursed herself the moment the words were spoken. She saw his face age, harden with anger and bitterness, even as she watched. It was as though the sign on her, that read “Ninon,” had changed abruptly to “Woman.”

  “I’m twenty-seven,” he said sharply. “Old enough to know that one woman’s kiss is as good as another’s.” He sat up in bed. “Fetch me a shirt from my trunk. Thanks to your high spirits last night—or was it merely intoxication?—I’ve ruined my best shirt.”

  “I’ll mend it,” she snapped, feeling anger in spite of herself. “There, at least, is something a woman can do that won’t frighten you away! And fetch your own shirt!” She flounced out of bed and retrieved her velvet gown from the floor, tossing it carelessly into her trunk and pulling out her everyday gray gown. Ignoring him, she dressed quickly and swept out to the large sitting room that adjoined the bedchambers of the actors, and where now the maids were busy setting out breakfast.

  Chanteclair was already there, standing at the table, stealing a few kisses from his blond serving wench and nibbling at a crust of meat pie—one hunger being as easily satisfied as another. He greeted Ninon and indicated a chair. When they both were seated, he poured out some wine, warm and spicy and sweetened with honey.

  “To you,” he said, raising his cup.

  She returned his salute, smiling tightly. “To Valentin’s demons.”

  He frowned. “Has he brought you grief?”

  She laughed. “Grief? Good God, no! Had I stayed a moment longer in that room this morning, I should have crowned him with the chamber pot!”

  “If ever you do, I should like to see it.”

  She helped herself to an apple tart. “Have you seen Sébastien this morning?” He nodded. “How is he?”

  “Like a man who wishes he had died last night, I suspect. There is nothing worse than a swollen head after too much wine. Except perhaps a gnawing conscience. He has gone to beg forgiveness of Monsieur le Vicomte.”

  “And Hortense?”

  Chanteclair shook his head. “She spent the night in Reynolds’s room.”

  “And should consider herself fortunate!” Valentin strode up to the table and helped himself to a pigeon wing.

  Chanteclair poured another cup of wine. “Good morning, Val. Wherefore fortunate?”

  “Hortense is a plain woman. Jamie could take any bed he wanted in this château—from milady’s apartement to the cottage of the lowliest milkmaid. Yet he chose Hortense.”

  “Sweet Madonna!” exclaimed Ninon. “Do you consider his attentions benign?”

  “I consider him to be acting in his own best interests—as do we all. And then…I should not be surprised if Hortense…and Toinette, too, for that matter…led him on.”

  “Why should they want to do that?” asked Chanteclair.

  Valentin shrugged. “The excitement of a new lover…the zest of making an old lover jealous…a woman likes these things.”

  “Oh!” Ninon was beside herself. “Why is it women are always the villains? What women have you known to skew your thinking so?”

  “Such righteous anger,” said Valentin, leaning back in his chair. “But what would you say to your Philippe, were he to appear at this very moment and ask you about me?”

  She stood up, her eyes blazing. “I should tell him that I was a fool!” Turning to the table, she picked up a large bowl of porridge and dumped it over his head, storming from the room while Chanteclair collapsed in laughter.

  He sulked for the next several days, unable to let go his stubborn pride. Taking pity on him at last, Ninon apologized and mended his torn shirt—though it was still an uneasy peace that prevailed between them. She wasn’t quite sure whether it had been the incident with the porridge bowl—or her aggressiveness in bed the night before—that had made a stranger of him again, treating her with suspicion, his eyes guarded and full of mistrust. He found reasons to avoid her when they retired; night after night she lay huddled in her corner of the bed, aching for his touch, afraid to drive him further away by reaching out for him.

  By day, she threw herself into the long rehearsals, glad to work until she was exhausted—while Valentin barked at the company even more than usual. And not without reason. Hortense, still sharing Jamie’s bed, was as giddy and scatterbrained as a country maid, and could barely remember her parts. Sébastien, seldom completely sober, tried to sabotage Jamie, playing havoc with his lines, his entrances, his stage business. Jamie was still determinedly cheerful, but since half the company had cause already to dislike or despise him, much of his goodwill was tiresome and wasted. It seemed not to deter him. Indeed, Ninon had begun to think that, despite his cleverness with women, he was not in some ways particularly bright. He seemed unaware of the damage he caused, the animosity of the players. Or perhaps he was merely indifferent.

  By late afternoon the day be
fore their performance, Valentin was moderately satisfied. They had rehearsed in Monsieur de Brinon’s theater, a small but splendidly appointed stage set at one end of a long galerie. Ninon, who was to appear as Bradamante, the warrior maiden, in the tragedy, paraded about in her new costume to the general approval of the company. De Brinon’s armorer had fashioned a shiny tin helmet and breastplate for her, the latter item form-fitting and designed to show the graceful swell of her bosom. Underneath it she wore a pleated tunic that reached just to her knees; her flesh-colored tights accented the shapeliness of her legs.

  “You need another plume or two for your helmet,” commented Valentin.

  “But what a feast for a man’s eyes!” said Reynolds. He smiled blandly and turned to Valentin, but not before Ninon had caught a flicker of lust in his face. “There will scarcely be a gentleman among the spectators who would not go to battle for this Bradamante!”

  Sweet Madonna, thought Ninon, turning about to study Hortense more closely, seeing the pinched features, the downcast eyes. Had that villain Jamie tired of her so soon? She prayed that his sudden interest in her was not the overture to a full-scale assault—Valentin would kill him for such boldness.

  She changed into her gown and strolled out into the park, seeking solitude, feeling alone and lonely, as she often did these days. She found a quiet spot where a bank of chamomile covered a shallow rise, and threw herself down upon the ground to gaze up at the clear sky, streaked now with the pink of twilight. Idly she plucked a bit of the aromatic plant, crushing the leaves between her fingers and inhaling their fragrance. She sighed. How had her life managed to get to this? Her hopes and dreams drifting ever further away, her heart withering, while her body—her damned betraying body!—yearned constantly for the touch of a man she did not even like. She closed her eyes and sighed again. And yet she would die if he continued to avoid her. In some strange way she had come to need the warmth of his flesh, the feel of his body on hers. Only at those moments was the loneliness dispelled.

  She gasped at the sudden pressure of firm lips on her mouth, the weight of a strong body covering hers, arms that circled her where she lay. Then she relaxed to enjoy his kiss, grateful to have him back again. Mon Dieu! This was not Val’s mouth! Her eyes flew open and she wrenched her lips away from his.

  “Damn you, James!” she panted. “Get off me!”

  He laughed and held her writhing body more tightly. “By Saint George, I knew you’d be a tiger!”

  “I’ll tear your eyes out!” she hissed.

  “You’ll try, I hope! There’s nothing I like better than subduing a spirited wench.”

  “And what of Valentin? He’ll kill you!”

  “If you prefer me to him—and you will, my sweet, I promise you—what can he say? You shall tell him you have chosen me!”

  She gasped in astonishment. Seldom had she known such a swaggering rogue. Small wonder he had been indifferent to the grief he brought to Sébastien and Joseph. He wanted their women. He took them, confident that they could not resist him as a lover. “I should choose the devil first. Let me go.”

  “The devil would not do to you what I shall.” He smiled slyly and bent to her ear, whispering obscene suggestions.

  “Oh-h-h!” She wriggled and pushed against him, beginning to feel an edge of panic. He was a good deal stronger even than Valentin, and half a head taller—and they were in a remote part of the park.

  “God’s death,” he said, “but I never saw a prettier pair of legs than yours. Made me want to see what they look like with the fleshings off! I always say a woman’s legs are only good to look at—and to spread wide, of course.”

  “Pox take you,” she cursed. “If I could, these legs would kick your English backside all the way to the Channel!”

  He roared at that, one hand reaching to pull up her skirts. She twisted and turned in desperation, feeling suffocated by his weight, knowing that she couldn’t fight him much longer. She let her body relax beneath him.

  “Do you want to kiss me again?” she asked. “Then do so.”

  He almost looked disappointed with her capitulation. “So quickly?”

  “If you don’t get off me soon, I shall swoon of your weight. I am not Bradamante the warrior maiden. Take what you will.”

  He smiled in pleasure and pressed his lips to hers. She held her mouth and body rigid, open eyes staring at him coldly. He lifted his head, surprised. “But…wherefore…”

  “I give myself to you,” she said mockingly. “But when you’re through, you’ll swear by Heaven above that you have had more pleasure from fondling yourself! And I shall make it known to the entire company that you are the most incompetent lover it was ever my misfortune to endure!”

  He frowned and moved off her, sitting back on his heels. “You wouldn’t!” he growled.

  “If you quit my side this instant, and never bother me more, I shall say nothing. Now begone!”

  Grumbling, he stood up and moved quickly away in the direction of the château. Ninon sighed in relief and sat up, smoothing down her tousled skirts. Thanks be to God he was so easily bluffed. With his size and strength, he could have taken her—willy-nilly—and damn the consequences! If he had had the wit, he would have realized that half the company could not think more ill of him than they already did. She looked up. Just beyond the chamomile bank, half-hidden by a row of trees, Valentin was moving toward her. “Sweet Madonna!” she burst out, jumping up to brush off her skirts. “You might have played the chivalrous knight and pulled the lout off me!”

  His eyes were veiled, filled with the old mistrust, the old hatred. “I thought you were enjoying yourself. You seemed to welcome his kiss. And he must have had cause to think you would receive him willingly.”

  “You blind fool! Didn’t you see how I struggled to get him off me?” She fought back her angry tears.

  He laughed, a mocking smile on his face. “I thought perhaps your efforts were only to dupe me. You’re a good actress. But…if what you say is so…” he frowned, “the rogue goes tomorrow!”

  “No! We need him in the company.”

  “And you need him? Is he more like your Philippe…with his yellow hair and his charming ways? And what was his kiss like? Does he look at you as though you were a woman…not just a whore?”

  “If I thought I was your whore, I would expect to be paid!” she spat.

  “Ah yes! We had an…arrangement! I satisfy myself, and pleasure you while you think of your Philippe.”

  “To the devil with you!” she cursed, swirling away from him.

  “Ninon! Wait!” He grabbed her and pulled her to him, his mouth possessing hers, his hands tight on her shoulders.

  Panting, she pushed him away, still angry at his suspicions, unwilling to be reconciled. It was useless to try to convince him of her innocence. And what did it matter anyway? “You must trust me,” she said, her jaw set in a stubborn line, “even with temptation in my path…or not at all!” She saw his eyes waver, the pain and doubt sweep across his face. “My God,” she said softly. “What hell have you devised for yourself?”

  He closed his eyes, as though he could not bear to have her probing his soul, and pulled her back into his arms, holding her silently, drawing strength from her fragile figure. “Come to me,” he said gruffly.

  He was too proud to beg, too proud to ask her forgiveness. She knew that. She would have to bend. She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling wickedly. “I think it will cost you a crown today!” She smiled and held out her hand, glad to see his answering smile.

  By the time they returned to the sitting room, most of the players had supped and gone their ways. Colombe was with her admirers. Sébastien had retired to his bedchamber and the solitary comforts of a beaker of wine, while Hortense mourned the loss of Jamie and her pride in the cabinet that adjoined. Reconciled at last, Joseph and Toinette were dancing in the grande salle where Marc-Antoine, calling on a little-used talent, was regaling the assembled guests with sleight-of-hand and oth
er tricks and magic. Only Chanteclair lingered at supper, waiting for his blond serving maid to finish her chores. Jamie, downing the last of his wine, rose from the table as Ninon and Valentin entered.

  “We missed you at supper, Val,” he said warmly, looking past Ninon to focus on Sanscoeur.

  “Good evening, James,” said Valentin. “We have been walking in the park.”

  Reynolds looked uneasy, his glance going from one to the other. “Hm. Yes. A fine night for a walk. You’ll excuse me. A charming miss…daughter to the baron…I design to make her acquaintance…and Monsieur de Brinon has promised to introduce us.” He hurried to the door and vanished.

  “James?” said Chanteclair. “Did I hear you call him ‘James’? What has happened to our fine comrade ‘Jamie’?”

  “Plague take him, the lecherous bastard,” growled Valentin.

  “Mon Dieu!” Chanteclair’s eyes flew to Ninon. “You don’t mean…!”

  “If we didn’t need him in the plays, I’d kill him!”

  “Hush!” said Ninon. “There was no harm done to me. Let it be. There was no harm done.”

  “Tell that to the other women,” said Chanteclair bitterly. “And to Joseph and Sébastien! Well, there will be a reckoning.” He looked up to where his amoureux stood beckoning him from the doorway. “But for the nonce…” He hurried to the waiting maid, giving her an exuberant pinch on the bottom before bustling her off to his chamber.

  Ninon and Valentin laughed, then turned their attention to their food. They ate quickly, eyes only for each other, and retired to bed. They made love passionately, swept by wild hungers, and fell asleep at last, exhausted, in each other’s arms.

  They were the first to breakfast in the morning, smiling warmly at each other across the table. Ninon found herself blushing at the intensity of Valentin’s gaze.

  “You must not look at me that way,” she said at last.

  “Why not?”

  “Dieu du ciel! Valentin, the world will think us wicked and immoral!”