‘Hm, right,’ Henry answered, ignoring the temptation to respond to Eloise’s sudden formality with a reminder of how she had allowed Gurney to come between her breasts. ‘So, then, the country is up. How do we make past?’
Henry reined in his grey with a sigh. The day had been trying, although less dangerous that he had expected. Guided by the expert local knowledge of the Vicomte d’Arche, they had crossed the plateau of the Touraine by moving between areas of hunting preserve and avoiding the more populous riverside areas to the north and south.
Also, as d’Arche explained in a voice heavy with regret, the majority of the Touranjou nobility had signed a declaration expressing sympathy with the revolutionary ideals of liberty, brotherhood and equality. He was among the few who had refused to join what he saw as a treacherous and cowardly cabal, but it did mean that the area was quieter than it might have been. Indeed, the vicomte maintained that even he would have been spared, had it not been for the inflammatory rhetoric of a lank stranger who had appeared in the district on the very day his Château was attacked.
This was clearly Emile Boillot, who had evidently ridden hard across the Sologne while Henry’s party had been either lost or indulging their lust. Both Henry and Eloise tactfully forbore to point this out to the vicomte.
While d’Arche had proved a useful guide, his presence had otherwise proved an irritation. Not only had he monopolised Eloise’s company and conversation, but he seemed to regard this as his natural right. He also assumed that the maids, Gurney and even to some extent Henry were automatically subject to his orders. After a while, Henry had abandoned the landau and joined Gurney as postillion, sharing a sympathetic glance with the man who to him was as much friend as servant.
At length they had crossed the great Ambois Forest and arrived on the bank of the Loire at an area of crumbling cliff, ragged forest and vineyard, above which stood a Château which bore every sign of desertion.
‘L’Husseau,’ d’Arche explained, pointing up to the Château. ‘Seat of the Borillon family, who, like myself, refused to countenance the concept of equality with base artisans and soil-turners . . .’
‘A good place for the night, perhaps?’ Henry asked before d’Arche could start once more on his favourite theme. ‘The horses could do with rest and fodder and it seems secluded.’
‘Perhaps,’ d’Arche agreed, ‘but let us make an inspection. Man, pull the carriage in among the trees.’
Gurney gave a muttered oath but obeyed, pulling his horse round to draw the landau in among a thick stand of oak and thorn. Henry dismounted and, together with the vicomte, ascended the broad yellow-stone steps that led from the river bank up to the Château.
A narrow courtyard fronted the Château, a structure which Henry now realised was not merely built into the face of the cliff, but to a certain extent actually carved from the cliff. Commenting on what seemed to him a curious practice, he was informed by the vicomte that such construction was commonplace in the Touraine, with everything from the meanest hovels to churches and fine houses carved direct from the rock.
The brief but amicable conversation had the effect of breaking something of a barrier between the two men. They spoke for a moment more, discussing neutral topics until the vicomte went quiet and Henry sensed that something of greater moment was about to be said.
‘Today has not been easy for me,’ the vicomte began as he turned to look out over the Loire. ‘I have lost everything I held dear, save for one.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ Henry replied airily, guessing that the vicomte was about to make an emotional thank you for his life.
‘You are a gentleman, of sorts,’ d’Arche sighed, ignoring Henry’s remark completely, ‘and I must tell someone. I am in love with the demoiselle: desperately, agonisingly in love, in love with a passion you could not begin to understand!’
‘Something of a swift decision, I might think,’ Henry replied after a moment of uncertainty as to a suitable response to a revelation that was not only embarrassingly intimate but somewhat awkward, in the circumstances.
‘Not at all,’ the vicomte replied. ‘Not at all. I fell in love with her at the seat of the Seigneur de Fourchaume. She was radiant, in blue silk, a vision I will never forget . . ’
‘Did you, er . . .?’ Henry enquired, thinking of Eloise’s wanton, if scarcely straightforward, response to his own advances.
‘Did we consummate our love?’ d’Arche finished for him. ‘No, we did not, for she is a delicate, innocent creature – shy and modest. Beneath, there is passion; it could not be otherwise.’
‘I see,’ Henry replied diffidently as it became plain that the vicomte, in fact, hardly knew Eloise at all.
‘Yet you must know something of this, for all your cold English blood?’ d’Arche enquired.
‘A little, perhaps,’ Henry responded.
‘To woo her, I needed time, and solitude,’ the vicomte continued. ‘Alas, it never came.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Henry replied, with feeling. ‘Many’s the fine wench I’d have tupped, given half an hour alone with her.’
D’Arche shot him a sudden, sharp look, but an impatient call from Eloise herself cut off whatever he had intended to say. Henry walked to the balustrade and signalled for the landau to come round to the drive. As he looked down, he saw that Gurney was reprimanding Eloise for having called out and, to his amusement, that her response was more apologetic than haughty.
Little more than a mile distant, in the village of St Martin-le-Beau, Emile Boillot sat in the common room of an inn. A map was spread out before him and a cup of pale wine clasped in his hand while he studied the routes his quarry might have taken. The rescue of the Vicomte d’Arche had added new resolve to his quest, while the failure of his search parties on the Sologne had added a further note of frustration.
Looking at the map, and assuming that the group were intent on making for England without delay, few routes seemed open to them. Their presence in the southern Sologne argued against their making for the ports of Normandy, which meant that they would be hard put to avoid passing through the cities of Tours and Angers. Of the two, Angers was nearer the sea, and seemed the most likely place to head off his quarry.
Briefly, he wondered what had become of Jean Faugres. While a fine ally, the giant’s irascibility was a hindrance, as was his refusal to do anything other than that which he himself decided. Putting the thought aside, he returned to the map, stabbing his finger down on the city of Angers as he decided on his course of action.
Having made a brief exploration of the Château while the landau and horses were being stabled, Henry found Gurney in the courtyard. Leaving the Vicomte d’Arche to join Eloise at the balustrade, he made his way over.
‘I’ve put her well under cover, sir,’ his companion announced as he approached, ‘and sent Natalie and Peggy to gather fodder.’
‘Good,’ Henry replied. ‘The house has been looted to the last pisspot, or else smashed. It’s not likely any’ll come by here tonight.’
‘Still, sir,’ Gurney answered, ‘we’d best sleep in the cellars.’
‘I,’ d’Arche stated coldly from behind them, ‘shall sleep in a bedroom. No d’Arche yet hid from a rabble of peasants.’
‘Well, they’d best learn,’ Gurney retorted.
‘And you had best learn to curb your tongue!’ d’Arche answered.
‘Care to try?’ Gurney growled.
‘By God, I’ll teach you to be insolent!’ d’Arche exclaimed.
‘Donatien, please!’ Eloise interrupted. ‘He understands nothing of noble pride and seeks only to guard us from harm.’
For a moment d’Arche remained silent, his face red and his lips tight. Todd Gurney returned the angry stare with a look of contempt and calmly folded his heavily muscled arms across his chest.
‘So be it.’ D’Arche spoke coldly. ‘For your sake, Demoiselle, I will refrain from giving the insolent lout the thrashing he so richly deserves. Perhaps if you would be so ki
nd as to send your maids to make two bedrooms as comfortable as is possible amidst this wreckage.’
Henry let his breath out slowly, half glad that Eloise had managed to defuse the situation, but half wishing that Gurney had laid the arrogant vicomte out with a few well-placed punches. Harmony of sorts had existed before their rescue of d’Arche, and it was largely the nobleman’s superior airs that had caused this to deteriorate.
‘There seem to be plenty of vineyards in the district,’ he stated in a bluff attempt to rescue what remained of the party’s comradeship. ‘Perhaps there are some bottles in the cellar. This is partridge eye country, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all,’ d’Arche drawled. ‘We are close to the towns of Vouvray and Montlouis. The wine is fine, white and sweet at its best, with scents of apples and honey – a true elixir.’
‘Hm,’ Henry answered. ‘We’ve no more than a half-dozen of the Méursault left; let us make a brief foray to the cellars.’
‘Undoubtedly it will have been looted,’ d’Arche stated.
‘Who can say,’ Henry responded, ‘without at least making a search? Gurney?’
Together, he and Todd Gurney quickly located a route to the cellar, a narrow stairway which spiralled down to a door that bore signs of having been forced, and recently. Henry pushed in, refusing to allow the fact to overcome his optimism.
The cellar was a great room divided by numerous squat arches. Marks on the floor and walls showed where barrels had stood and a litter of broken glass carpeted the place, with a few half-dried puddles of wine lying in depressions. Narrow windows provided light, but at the back – where the building met the cliff – patches of black gloom showed. They crossed towards these, finding them to be tunnels carved from the native rock and, as Henry’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he caught the dull yellow-brown gleam of stacked bottles. He chuckled to himself as he moved forward, then called to Gurney to come and inspect his discovery.
‘Plenty enough there, sir,’ Gurney remarked as he came up with Henry, ‘but I’d give the lot for a peck of good cider or ale.’
‘Wine must suffice,’ Henry replied cheerfully. ‘Now, let us see if we can find something in which to carry it.’
As they pulled bottles from the grime-encrusted stack and transferred them to a broken wooden case, they fell to discussing the Vicomte d’Arche.
‘The fellow’s a burden,’ Henry stated. ‘I say we leave him to go his own way.’
‘I’d not be sorry to see the back of him,’ Gurney agreed, ‘but he knows the country, and that could count.’
‘True enough,’ Henry responded, ‘but there’s another trouble, the nincompoop is smitten with Eloise! Not that he’s come in for more than a dog’s portion, by his own account, yet still.’
‘More than likely that’s true of half the nobs in France, sir,’ Gurney responded. ‘She’s a rum piece and a biter, too, when all’s said.’
‘That she is,’ Henry agreed, ‘and I’ll be damned if I’ll miss out on my share tonight, moon-struck vicomte or none.’
Donatien, Vicomte d’Arche, adjusted the cuffs of his somewhat soiled coat of heavy lavender cloth. The shattered remains of a once beautiful mirror showed his reflection, which remained that of a poised young nobleman, despite his various deprivations. Eloise de la Tour-Romain would be unable to resist him, of that he was certain. After days spent in the company of the coarse Englishman and his yet coarser servant, she would undoubtedly be grateful for his company. Moreover, while the collapse of the ancien régime might have torn his world apart, it also meant that the codes and restraints that might previously have prevented him from applying sufficient duress to overcome her natural maidenly resistance no longer applied.
With his cock stiffening in his breeches, he made a final adjustment to his coat and left the room. A gay greeting answered his knock and increased his confidence of an easy seduction. Within the room, Eloise stood over her bustling maid, watching the girl’s efforts to make a comfortable bed from the torn remains of cushions, curtains and a blanket from the landau. At his entrance, Eloise looked round, expressing exactly the measure of ingenuous surprise he had anticipated. The game, he knew well, would involve her feigned reluctance to his advances, gradually giving way to passion as her feelings overwhelmed her. The sole remaining question was how much force he would have to apply in order to overcome that pretence of unwillingness demanded by her station.
‘Vicomte,’ she greeted him. ‘I had thought you retired.’
‘With the fairest rose in all France so close?’ he answered. ‘Am I made of stone, to resist such temptation?’
‘Yet to enter my room can serve only to increase that temptation,’ she replied, placing a delicate hand to the swell of her breasts and glancing at him from beneath lowered eyelashes.
D’Arche’s pulse began to hammer at her response, which represented a level of flirtation far more open than he had expected. Clearly, the beauty was as eager for his embraces as he for hers.
‘Come,’ he breathed, ‘enough of this. We both know our needs. Send your maid away.’
‘Sir, you mistake me!’ Eloise answered, backing away giggling.
‘Come,’ d’Arche answered in passion, ‘do not be coy! All around us our world is in flames. We few are left who truly appreciate what it means to be French and noble. Come, Eloise, let us console ourselves in each other’s arms! Let us make love with the true fire and passion of our souls!’
‘Sir!’ Eloise giggled, her hand going to her mouth in mock alarm at his passion.
He came forward, reaching out for her bodice as the maid squeaked and scurried to the side. Eloise gave a gasp of shock as her breasts tumbled out of the torn bodice and then she was in his arms, the last shred of her resistance fading as he crushed his lips to hers.
A cough sounded from the direction of the door, d’Arche turning to find Henry Truscott standing in the portal.
Henry watched with a cool smile as the vicomte stood back and Eloise hastily returned her breasts to her bodice.
‘You, sir, are intruding,’ the vicomte said in a cold voice.
‘To the contrary,’ Henry answered. ‘It is you who intrude, and I must ask you to go, immediately.’
‘What?’ d’Arche demanded. ‘By what right?’
‘By the trust placed in me by the Comte Saônois,’ Henry lied. ‘To whom I swore to allow no man to lay hands on his daughter. Now go.’
D’Arche hesitated and Henry raised his chin in an effort to look as noble and determined as was possible. Eloise glanced at him, then at the vicomte, apparently in the throes of a difficult decision. For a moment Henry thought she was going to give him the lie, and then she hung her head and gently bit her lower lip.
‘Very well,’ the vicomte answered at last and, with a stiff bow, left the room.
As the door shut, Henry walked forward, half angry, half inflamed by Eloise’s obvious state of arousal. She gave him a worried look that quickly turned to a nervous smile.
‘Thank you, Henry, for your timely arrival,’ she stammered as he came close. ‘I was in fear of my virtue.’
‘Virtue!’ Henry retorted. ‘You were going to tup, by God! Weren’t you, you little bob-tail?’
‘And if I was?’ Eloise retorted, suddenly changing tack. ‘When you’ve been mounting my maid?’
‘A maid you had seduce me, so don’t play that game!’ Henry snapped. ‘Besides, I haven’t risked my neck in your country of murderous peasants without some reward.’
‘Ha!’ Eloise snorted. ‘You’d not have come at all if you’d not killed a man in a drunken rage! Do you think I don’t know that?’
‘Well, I did come, didn’t I?’ Henry answered. ‘I’ll get you clear yet, as well; you’ll see.’
‘Maybe,’ she snapped back, ‘but if we make England, it’ll be by luck alone. God, why of all the men in the world do I get a drunken, brawling, lecherous, childish ape?’
‘By God, I’ll give you the spanking you deserve!’ Henr
y roared. ‘Here and now!’
‘I feel sure you will, you wicked brute,’ Eloise retorted, ‘and use me most brutally afterwards!’
‘Just as you please,’ Henry answered, his anger fading as he realised that, since the onset of their argument, Eloise had been angling for exactly the response he was now giving.
‘Do it, then, you big, strong man,’ she continued hotly. ‘Show how strong you are. Strip me bare and beat my bottom, then use my cunt while I’m blubbering on the floor!’
Henry darted forward and grabbed her by the arm, throwing her off balance so that she sprawled on the pile of ruined upholstery from which Natalie had been preparing a bed. In an instant, he was on her back and had pinned her down. In the corner of the room, Natalie looked on, her mouth open in surprise and not a little pleasure as Henry began to strip her mistress.
Eloise struggled, kicking her legs and beating her fists on the floor as Henry undid the buttons of her dress one by one. He simply laughed and continued his work, finishing the buttons and then opening her chemise and tugging her upper clothing down so that her breasts popped out to squash against the floor. Moving down, but keeping his weight firmly on top of her, he tugged her dress over her hips to expose the plump swell of her bottom beneath her petticoats. Her breathing was coming deep and hard as he fiddled with her draw-strings and she gave a sigh of resignation as the bulk of her petticoats were pulled down to expose her magnificent bottom.
Chuckling, Henry slapped a plump cheek, then quickly turned to straddle her back once more. Her struggles had reached a crescendo at the moment her bottom was bared, and she now lay almost still, with no more than an occasional feeble kick to make a show of resistance. Henry peeled away her skirts and petticoats, then removed her boots to leave her entirely naked but for her garters and stockings.
‘Bastard!’ she swore breathlessly as he laid his cock between her naked buttocks.
He merely laughed and began to rub his penis in the soft cleft of her bottom as he wondered whether to carry out his threat of spanking her, or simply to mount her from the rear and slip his cock into what he had no doubt would prove a well-lubricated vagina. Her bottom was tempting, a bare, pink peach with the cheeks moving sluggishly in her anticipation of punishment, clenching and then opening to reveal a puff of deep red hair. He put a hand to one cheek and wobbled it, drawing an impassioned sob from Eloise. As he did so, his cock slipped a little deeper into her crease, which then closed to fold the shaft in hot, female flesh.
The Rake Page 18