by DeVa Gantt
“Are you ready?” John asked when he was finished.
Her mouth was so dry she was unable to reply. Though the animal was not as large as Phantom, it was imposing. “It’s so high,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the saddle that was level with her anxious gaze.
“Yes, it is,” he conceded, his regard assuasive when she faced him, “but it’s quite easy to mount.”
“I’ve never ridden before,” she pointed out again, trembling. “I have no idea how to get up there.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” he reasoned devilishly.
She glared at him, finding no humor in her present predicament.
He ignored her disdainful air. “Don’t worry, my Charm, I’ll not allow your first ride to end in failure.”
She caught sight of George’s snigger. “I don’t intend to be patronized! If that is your game, then you may prey upon some other woman!”
“But Miss Ryan, you do me a great injustice,” he protested mildly. “I am merely attempting to assist you in a new undertaking. Allow me to demonstrate.” He did so, offering step by step instructions as he swung up and into the saddle. “Easy enough,” he concluded. “Do you understand?”
She nodded, even though she knew her struggles were just beginning.
Then he was off the horse and standing beside her again. “Well?” he queried brightly, entertained by her apprehension, his audacity maddening.
“All right!” she snapped, tearing her eyes from his mocking face. Without hesitation, she took hold of the dark mane and the rim of the saddle. To her amazement, the horse did not move.
“Very good,” he observed, “but you need to place your foot in the stirrup.”
“I know that!” she shot back. But as she lifted her leg, her undergarments were exposed, and in her haste to veil them, she missed the iron. She tried again, releasing the mane to steady it, and still her contorted efforts proved futile. She burned in shame, aware the men were exchanging smirks behind her back.
“Miss Ryan,” John reproved, arresting yet another pathetic attempt. “I am past the age of lusting after your petticoats. If you worried less about your underskirts and more about getting into that saddle, you’d have already mounted!”
“Stop taunting me! If it weren’t for your rude jests, I’d be able to do this.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really! Besides, it is not proper for me to ride a horse this way. No wonder I’m finding it difficult. A lady should ride sidesaddle!”
“There you are mistaken, Mademoiselle,” he contradicted with a laugh, amused by her numerous excuses to avoid the inevitable. “In Paris or London ladies ride sidesaddle, but here on Charmantes, women straddle their mounts…” His words trailed off as his thoughts turned ribald, his eyes going to George. “You’re less likely to fall off that way. Besides, this position is quite natural, and worlds more comfortable, especially to the inexperienced horsewoman.”
George chuckled softly.
“I’ll take no assurances from you,” Charmaine rejoined.
“Do you doubt my riding experience?” he queried in pretended offense. “I’ve been proficient in the art for quite some time now, and some—those who’ve had the pleasure, that is—have congratulated me on my skill.”
She eyed him speculatively, unable to fathom George’s mirth. Obviously, the man was speaking in riddles, and only George understood what he really meant. Wishing only to place the entire ordeal behind her, she gestured to the stirrup. “It is far too high. Could you at least lower it for me?”
“Why, my Charm, I’m afraid that wouldn’t do at all.”
George roared with laughter and John joined in, all at her expense.
Miserable, she stepped away from the horse, reliving the incident with “Fang,” a thick lump lodged in her throat. She was about to flee when Yvette returned lugging a picnic basket, protesting her governess had yet to mount up.
“I’m sorry, Charmaine,” John apologized, taking in her forlorn face. It was clear how very innocent she was, and he suffered a pang of contrition. “We’re not laughing at you. The stirrups have to be high so you can pull yourself up and into the saddle.”
His vulgar mien was gone, leaving Charmaine confused.
“I offer my shoulder. Lean on me while you put your foot into the stirrup, and you’ll be atop the mare in no time.”
She couldn’t object; he was already crouching next to her. She rested her right arm tentatively across his back. Oddly secure, her foot found the iron.
“Grab the saddle and mane,” he directed. “That’s it. Now, pull up.”
She barely left the ground, her attention riveted on the warm hands that encompassed her waist.
“Try again,” he coaxed before she lost courage.
This time, she pushed off, and somewhere between earth and saddle, John’s strong arms propelled her upward. When she exhaled, she was astride the mare, looking down at him. Though she focused on his smiling face, her mind lingered on her waist where his hands had branded her.
In the next moment, a wave of paranoia seized her—her familiar surroundings turned perilous from the lofty perch, and she clutched the horse’s mane desperately, letting go only when John pulled the reins over the mare’s head and handed them to her. She hardly noticed his familiarity when he shortened the stirrups and took hold of each ankle to test the length. To her horror, he turned away, tending to his own mount.
Instantly, the horse shifted. “Where are you going?” she cried.
“One moment,” he assured her.
“You can’t leave me here! I’ve no idea how to control this animal!”
As if on cue, the mare ambled toward the grassy knoll where the ponies grazed. “She’s moving!”
“Let her go,” John replied, as he hitched the surcingle about the small picnic basket and fastened it to Phantom’s saddle, “she just wants to graze.”
As predicted, the mare stopped when she reached the ponies, and her head plummeted to the lawn. Petrified, Charmaine held on to the reins for dear life, certain she was going to slide down the horse’s neck, breathing easier only after some minutes had elapsed and she remained in place.
John untied Phantom and swung up into the saddle. The horse snorted loudly and shook his head, fighting the bit and the iron hand that held him in check.
“Are you more at ease now?” John asked as he drew even with her, eyeing the leather straps entwined in her white-knuckled fingers.
“Yes,” she replied, pushing the inconsequential inquiry aside.
“Do you still plan on having Pierre ride with you?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I think we should leave him with Rose.”
John’s brow furrowed and his eyes grew stormy.
“I’m concerned for his safety,” she added. “That beast is so fierce.”
His visage softened, then the anger was gone altogether. “Mademoiselle, for all those who would love to see me land on my backside, he has yet to throw me. Pierre will be fine. Besides, you wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would you?” His eyes traveled to the patiently waiting boy, whose face was alight with anticipation.
Charmaine knew she had been manipulated, emotion pitted against common sense. She could also tell John’s mind was made up.
“This day belongs as much to him as it does to his sisters. Do you think we could leave him behind in tears and then hope to enjoy the afternoon ourselves?”
“I suppose not,” she conceded. “But sometimes things are beyond our control and—”
“Charmaine, must I give my solemn word? Pierre is the last child who will come to harm because of me.” Dismissing further protest, he nudged the stallion toward George, and the boy was placed in front of him.
As John prodded Phantom into motion, Pierre squealed with glee. Now, she was glad they had not left him behind. He would have been miserable cloistered in the house all day.
Yvette balked at her elder brother’s
riding instructions. “I mounted all by myself didn’t I?”
So, once again, John drew up alongside Charmaine and gave her a brief demonstration on how to prod the horse and use the reins. It seemed too simple to work. He cautioned her to loosen up on the straps, warning that clutching them too tightly wouldn’t prevent her from falling off, but could provoke the animal into throwing her. “The mare doesn’t need to be broken. That has already been done for you,” he finished, chuckling at her renewed anxiety.
Yvette tugged on her reins and Spook abandoned his grazing for the cobblestone drive. Jeannette quickly followed suit. Their unquestionable ability left Charmaine shaken, and she breathed deeply when John nodded to her.
“Your turn,” he said.
In imitation of the twins, she steered her horse in the same direction, awed when the beast complied. They were on their way, bidding George goodbye and clopping through the iron fencing to the dirt road. Charmaine’s tension faded with the rhythm of the animal beneath her. As long as the route remained straight, the mare walked steadily along, obediently following the ponies.
Frederic remained on the veranda, haunted by fragmented memories. You’re never home to spend time with them…I’d much prefer to have a horse…It wouldn’t have to be in a box, Papa…You could have him hidden in the stables with a big blue ribbon around his neck…John loves them…He’ll see they are cared for…The colt thinks we’re his masters, maybe he could be mine…Colette wrote to me…to supply the children with the love and affection they’d never get from you…Pierre is the last child who will come to harm because of me…
The riders were long out of sight when Frederic turned back into the nursery. He was alone and had only himself to blame. With a plaintive sigh, he looked down at the basket. The kittens were once again sleeping.
Kittens…Yvette had begged for a horse on her last birthday, and he had decided to give her a stray kitten instead. Why did he think such a gift would please her? He knew what she longed for. But had he listened? John, on the other hand, had been home less than six weeks and already knew her deepest desires. His son was fulfilling Colette’s dying request.
Then there was Pierre. He was too young to lament what he could never receive from his sire—what his childhood and the circumstances surrounding his birth would deny him. But it wouldn’t be long before he, too, was turning nine and, like his sister, would grow disenchanted and unhappy.
Nine…was it possible Yvette and Jeannette were already nine? Frederic stared across time. Nine years ago today, his prayers had been mercifully answered; his young wife had survived the difficult labor and birth of twins.
Twenty-nine years ago tomorrow, he had not been so blessed, and he trembled with the memory. Images of that bleak night, just past midnight, assaulted him as if it were yesterday, and his chest tightened with the overwhelming loss of that first delivery.
“John,” Elizabeth had moaned, suffering another violent contraction. “If it’s a boy, Frederic, name him John.” They were her dying words.
Colette’s labor had mirrored Elizabeth’s, and though he’d always been stalwart, Frederic had been terrified the night the twins were born, certain he was going to lose his second wife as surely as he had lost his first twenty years earlier.
But God had been merciful, and Colette was spared. Why? Had the Good Lord heard his petition in those last few hours before midnight? Was Colette’s recovery a result of the vow he had made to the Almighty and to himself? He realized, if nothing else, it had propelled him to this point, scripting the present and marking the lives of his children in the most disastrous way. He sat down hard on Yvette’s bed and rubbed his throbbing brow. Would he allow the past to dictate the future? Dear God, he murmured, what am I to do?
“Do you like the ride, Pierre?”
John’s voice interrupted the thud of hooves in the dust.
“Yes!” the boy giggled. “I like this big horse!” He craned his neck back to regard his saddlemate and exclaimed, “You’re upside down!”
“No, I’m not, you are.”
Pierre looked down at himself thoughtfully. “No, I’m not!” he disagreed, eventually noticing Charmaine. “I like this ride, Mainie!”
“I can tell,” she replied with a smile.
John smiled as well. “Have you put aside your misgivings?” he asked.
“Most, but not all. I’m becoming used to her movements. However, I’m not looking forward to getting down.”
“Don’t worry. It is much easier than mounting.”
Their short conversation lapsed into silence, and Charmaine began to enjoy the scenery around her. She directed her gaze away from John, taking in the foliage and wild birds, turning back to him only when her neck began to ache. She found him studying her thoughtfully and braved his unnerving regard. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Wrong?” he queried with arched brow. “Why should anything be wrong?”
“The manner in which you are staring at me leads me to assume the worst. Perhaps I’ve grown a wart on the end of my nose?”
“A wart? No, my Charm, your nose is just fine…perfectly shaped.” His gaze came to rest there.
“What then?” she pressed.
“Am I not permitted to admire your accomplishment? I do not mean to ogle you, Miss Ryan. It’s just, I never thought to see you sit a horse so well. Quite an accomplishment for a beginner.”
“Compliments are of no use,” she remarked, certain he mocked her.
But his next words were quick and sure, leaving her befuddled. “No compliment intended, merely an observation that answers a score of questions.”
“Such as?”
“Why you were employed as the children’s governess.”
“Surely you are not suggesting riding a horse has led to my present occupation? But then, the workings of your mind never cease to amaze me.”
His lips broke into a rakish grin. “I’m glad to hear that, no matter what else I might be, I haven’t been a bore.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” she rejoined.
“I wasn’t aware you had asked one.”
“What exactly is the connection you’ve made between my employment as the children’s governess and my achievement upon this animal?”
“Oh, that question. Well now, I was contemplating your ability to conquer a new endeavor, in this case, riding the mare. That particular facet of your character led me to understand how you gained the position you now hold. Even in fear, you pressed on. I commend you on your determination.”
“You mock me, sir,” Charmaine replied sheepishly.
“No, Miss Ryan, I do not mock you. That was a compliment. You play a very important role in the children’s lives.”
“You’ve just now realized that?”
“No. In fact, it was the reason I doubted your capabilities at first.”
“At first?” she asked in great surprise. “And you don’t now?”
“No, not anymore, not since I gave you a chance—watched you with them.”
She was too astounded to speak.
“You enjoy your job, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. I love the children.”
“Do you?”
Though his words were not unkind, they rattled Charmaine. “Yes!” she averred. “Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe you,” he answered resolutely. “I just wanted to hear you say it again, to reassure me perhaps.”
“Reassure you? Certainly that’s a curious remark?”
“Why should it be curious, considering the state of their lives? My father is a recluse, their mother is dead, and their stepmother hates them. They need somebody to love them.”
He grew pensive, his gaze traveling to the edge of the forest. She preferred the silence to his disturbing statements. Their odd discourse had taken its toll. She was certain of only one thing: she’d never in a million years understand him.
John Duvoisin. The man was an enigma, and more often than not,
a thorn in her side. Life on the island, in the house, hadn’t gotten back to normal since his arrival. Granted, the great storms that had shaken the manor that first week were all but gone, and yet, his presence affected everyone.
Thoughts of his departure, one that had grown less likely with each passing day, came unwittingly to her lips. “When are you planning to leave?”
John’s attention was snared, his expression sharp, then devilish. “I’ll bet you can’t wait until that day arrives, can you?”
“I—I didn’t mean for it to sound that way,” she gushed.
“Forgive me if I refuse to believe you this time. No,” he laughed, “I’ll wager you meant every word.”
“I just wanted to know—”
“Know what? When you can expect things to get back to normal on Charmantes? When you and my brother can recommence your love affair?”
“It’s not a love affair!” she objected fiercely.
“No? I suppose I just imagined the passionate scene I walked in on that night. The question is, how much further has it all gone?”
Charmaine turned away in heightening embarrassment.
“Your red face would lead me to believe the worst. However, my growing faith in you would not.” He paused a moment as if in deep thought. “I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll offer you a word of warning concerning my brother.”
“Don’t bother!”
“Oh, but I feel it is my obligation.”
“Your obligation?” she queried incredulously. “Since when have you become so noble? Or do you think by maligning your brother, you’ll promote yourself?”
“I’m the first to admit I’m beyond redemption, Miss Ryan.” He chortled anew. “Now, don’t lead me off track. We were speaking of Paul and all the trouble—”
“And I told you, I’ve no interest in what you have to say.”
“Interest,” he repeated. “A perfect word, for it’s at the heart of my very next point. You should be interested to know, Paul has but one interest in you.”