Feather Castles (15 page)

Fleur's small mouth fell open, the wineglass tipping in her hand so that the contents dripped onto the vast expanse that might have constituted a lap save for the lack of an indentation. “S-spanked…?” she gasped, feebly. “
Claude?
I doubt—I doubt he was ever spanked in his entire life!”

“Very obviously,” agreed Rachel, nodding toward the spilling wine.

Madame glanced down and jumped. “Oh, my! What a silly girl I am!” She set her glass down and dabbed ineffectually at her gown, but abandoned the effort to say anxiously, “Claude knows that you were displeased, I am sure. He will apologize to me, never doubt it. Since my beloved husband passed to his reward—and me left with six little ones, only think!—Claude has been so helpful. I do not know—” her fat hands tugged nervously at her handkerchief, “indeed, I cannot imagine how we should go on—without his aid. He is only tired, I expect, for it is not his usual way.”

“I'll own I have never known him to behave badly,” Rachel acknowledged. “Likely you are right—he is tired. Still, I shall feel obliged to scold him.”

Her scold was not dealt quite as firmly as she planned. Soon after Claude came into the drawing room, Charity said her goodnights, and Agatha was summoned to wheel the girl to the footmen who would carry her up to bed. Only moments later, Madame Fleur caught her nephew's eye, interrupted her own discourse on the beauties of the chateau at this time of year, and said that she must go upstairs and find the diamond brooch her dear nephew had given her, so as to show Miss Strand. She would be gone only for a moment.

The door had no sooner closed behind her than Claude came to Rachel's chair, dropped to one knee before her and, smiling up into her surprised eyes, said, “Have I been very bad? If I was blunt, it was because I'd not until now realized how insufferable a burden I foist upon you.”

Rachel glanced uneasily to the door. “Claude! For heaven's sake! I beg you will get up!”

He sprang lightly to his feet, placed a hand on either arm of her chair and, bending over her, pleaded, “There. Am I forgiven?”

He looked so contrite. Smiling despite herself, she said, “I suppose it was only that I have never seen you be unkind before.”

Something deep in his eyes stirred—she had an odd and very brief impression that she had seen a glow of anger; but he sighed, dropped his head and muttered disconsolately, “Alas. You will quite cast me off. And—” he reached to his inside pocket, “there is no one to whom I may give this.”

A long, flat leather case was placed upon her knees, and a mournful glance slanted at her. There was not a trace of the rage she had thought to glimpse, probably because there had been no rage. She
must
cease yearning for Tristram and inwardly resenting the circumstances that bound her to Claude! He looked the picture of mischief now, watching her with a mixture of trepidation and amusement, like a small boy attempting to charm her from her displeasure. She shut out the voice that whispered, “or
buy
your forgiveness!” and picked up the case. “You have already given me much too—” The words trailed into a gasp. She knew little about pearls, but the lustre of this perfectly matched double strand told its own story. Raising her eyes wonderingly, she breathed, “Oh! They are magnificent!”

“For a magnificent lady,” he smiled, and taking them from her, unfastened the jewelled clasp. “May I?”

Rachel stood, turned, and bowed her head. The pearls slipped about her neck. She felt Claude's warm touch as he fastened the clasp. His hands slid onto her bare shoulders, and tightened. He turned her gently, his eyes admiring. “They are lovely against your skin,” he murmured. “Your so beautiful English skin.” He bent and kissed the necklace and her throat. His lips travelled lower. Rachel began to tremble. He was her betrothed, but—no man had ever touched her so. The dark head was raised. “Do not be afraid, little bird,” he breathed, and swept her into his arms. She made herself lift her face and he kissed her. It was quite unlike Tristram's tenderness. She thought numbly, “He is French—their ways are different…” yet she knew, somehow, that Guy would not have kissed her in that way.

He was crushing her tighter, his words becoming more impassioned between kisses. She could scarcely breathe; she began to feel sick and dizzy. Quite suddenly, he released her. His eyes searched her face, and he turned away abruptly. Again, his head lowered. As though he fought for control, he said a strained, “I am sorry. I forget—you are the unspoiled child—and I am one fool. Only—I love you so much, you see. I hope you will have the patience with me,
chérie.
”

Sudden tears stung her eyes, and a deep pity engulfed her. He had been so kind—so generous, and she could not love him in return. She forced her shaking knees to obey her and stepped closer to touch his sleeve timidly. “Claude, you deserve so much more than—than I can give you. Perhaps we—”

He spun about and cried in horror, “I have offended you! I will not embrace you again—I swear it—until we are wed! Do not reject me—I implore you!”

Touched, she said, “No, no! What manner of woman do you think me? I am grateful—so grateful for your affection, your—many kindnesses. But—” she hung her head, her cheeks burning, and stammered, “I am rather—shy, you see.” And knew that some of the heat in her cheeks was because she remembered Tristram's embrace, and how she had gloried in it, with no shyness at all.

“Of course! My sweet, pure angel! How do you endure me? Now—what is this? Tears? Ah—
ma petite!
Come.”

He drew her into his arms, gently this time, his kisses soft upon her curls. When she looked up, he dried her tearful eyes and smiled, “I am forgiven? You will have patience with this so clumsy French fellow?”

She blinked, took his handkerchief and blew her nose with a lack of affectation that restored the twinkle to his eyes. “I only hope,” she said huskily, “that a very fine French gentleman will have patience—with me.”

*   *   *

Gerard closed the door softly and glanced around the darkened drawing room. Night had brought cooler temperatures, wherefore the indignant kitchen boy had been rousted out of his snug bed so as to light a fire for their guest. The logs were dying now, but by their dim glow Gerard discerned a smoke ring floating upwards from a wing chair beside the hearth. He walked nearer and stood in silence.

“You move like a spirit, Gerard,” Sanguinet observed lazily.

“A friendly spirit, monseigneur.”

Sanguinet laughed. “The devil, more like! Speaking of which—where is Devil Dice, or Shotten, or whatever it is he calls himself today?”

“To the best of my knowledge, he is at Sanguinet Towers, monseigneur. With M'sieu Guy.”

The cigar was lowered. Sanguinet viewed his minion with faint amusement. “You do not care overmuch for my so estimable brother.”

His bland expression unchanged, Gerard said nothing.

“Why?” demanded Sanguinet.

“Because,” Gerard answered smoothly, “I serve you, monseigneur. And M'sieu Parnell.”

Sanguinet considered that for a moment. “You're a clever devil,” he acknowledged. “Show me how clever. When shall we leave for Dinan?”

“It would, dare I so remark, be unwise to hurry the English lady. She is—” the hesitation was minute, “of a haughtiness.”

“True. But haughtiness is so often a mask for fear, my Gerard. And we sail on Thursday. Tomorrow you will ride to Dover and tell my Captain to prepare
La Hautemant.
”

“I bow,” said Gerard, grinning, and did so.

“
Merci.
Oh—and when you have spoken with the Captain, send a man to the Towers, or on to Scotland if Shotten has departed already. He is to return to Dinan as soon as he has done as I instructed. I wish him to advise me on—a certain matter.”

Gerard nodded and, sensing from his master's faint frown that there was more, waited.

After a moment, he prompted, “This matter—it is a threat, perhaps, sir?”

Sanguinet blew another smoke ring and, watching it, murmured, “A small one, if it indeed exists. But, do you know, Gerard, I think we will take with us the little invalid. It would so please my affianced bride—do not you think?”

Gerard's saturnine features were lit by a slow smile.

Chapter 7

A shout of laughter added to the din in the tap of “The Cat and Dragon.” Tristram shifted on the settle beside the recessed hearth and tried to shut out those raucous voices. Five days had passed since he'd ridden away from Strand Hall. Five lonely days, through which he'd wandered uncaringly, having lost all incentive to discover more of his past. Haunted by Rachel's lilting laugh, her beauty, her grace, he was more fiendishly tormented by the sure knowledge that she loved him in return. Day and night he had sought for a solution; often he'd been almost convinced that if he discovered his prospects to be fairly presentable, he should rush back to Strand Hall and fight for his love. But in his heart he knew it was useless. Rachel had accepted the offer of a gentleman who had been very kind to her when she badly needed kindness, who had been instrumental in restoring her loved sister to a semblance of health. And even if she were not so indebted, what right had he to woo her? Whatever his prospects, they could not compare to those of Claude Sanguinet, and to ask her to break her given promise was dishonourable, and could only bring shame and disgrace not upon himself, but on that sweet, pure girl.

She filled his mind to the exclusion of all else. Countless memories plagued him: her fierce valour when she had wielded the whip at Waterloo; her patience and gentleness when she had nursed him; the funny little way she had of peeping curiously up at him when she was not quite sure if he was teasing; her head uptilted as she'd stood at the edge of the cliffs and gazed at the ‘feather castles' with the sunlight full on her lovely face. The most poignant memory—of her yielding body in his arms that last morning in the barn—made him writhe. He jerked upright. There was nothing he could do—save try to forget her. They were doomed to exist separately through the years. He would—

“Go on, Nipper! Land 'im one in the breadbasket!”

“Black 'is ogle fer'un, little'un!”

These bloodthirsty admonitions, accompanied by howls of laughter and the pleadings of the tavernkeeper that “we won't have no violence, gents, if y' please!” penetrated Tristram's introspection. He stood and wandered closer.

The proprietor of “The Cat and Dragon” was not one to waste money on candles, and the interior was dim. There was, however, sufficient light to determine that two men stood facing one another, their obvious hostility encouraged by a crowd eager for entertainment. While not in the least unwilling to be diverted, Tristram frowned when he saw that the opponents were very poorly matched. One—a great brute of a man—fairly towered over the other, who was little more than a boy, small of stature and of such slight build as to have no chance at all against such a foe.

Wringing his hands in apprehension, the tavern-keeper took in Tristram's height and breadth of shoulder, and noting also the disapprobation of the scarred face, appealed for his aid. “They'll proper wreck this establishment, sir, if some fair-minded man don't stop 'em!”

“Oho!” scoffed the large man. “You picked the right one to try it! That there cove, 'e knows all about wot's
fair,
'e do!”

Tristram looked narrowly at the speaker and recognized him for the vulgar lout who had obviously disgusted Rachel on the dock at Dover and who'd later been so insolent in “The Ship” that, had he himself not been weak as a cat, he'd have felt compelled to pull the fellow's nose for him. He had no intention of involving Rachel in this low brawl, however obliquely, and thus ignored the implications and drawled, “I know enough to mislike a bout between two men of vastly different weights, Shotten.”

Both his opinion and his cultured accents had their effect, and the enthusiasm of the crowd lessened. The smaller of the antagonists, however, thanked the newcomer for his concern, but added, “Never confuse quantity with quality, sir. I am perfectly able to pound some civility into this overripe slab of beef!” Having said which, he soared through the air to land with a crash against a table and disappear behind it.

Lowering the fist which had initiated that sudden flight, Shotten leapt forward, tore the table away, and, grabbing the young man by the scruff of a rather worn collar, hauled him to his knees. A shout went up from the onlookers, but hushed as Shotten's muscular fist was restrained by long fingers that, clasping about the wrist below it, seemed with no effort at all to hold back the equally muscular arm.

“You struck while he was turned away,” Tristram pointed out in his deep, quiet voice. “Hardly fair play.”

Shotten wrenched free and offered a profane wish that the soldier would keep his ugly mouth in his pocket. “Ain't none o' your bread and butter,” he snarled.

“I must … second the motion,” panted the slight young man, struggling to his feet, and swaying back and forth as he peered at Tristram. “My brawl, sir. Must … ask…” Here, he sagged so far forward that Tristram was obliged to place a hand against his chest to steady him. “Must…” he repeated, his voice barely audible, “request—”

Shotten grinned, reached out and knocked Tristram's supporting arm clear.

The young man crumpled to the floor but at once commenced a dogged effort to regain his feet. A laugh went up, but the youth's pluck had not escaped the crowd, and there were admiring cries also. The light was brighter here, several of the customers having brought their table candles with them, and thus he was revealed to be older than Tristram had supposed; somewhere in the neighbourhood of three and twenty. His colouring was fair, his light curling hair sadly in need of trimming. Intensely blue eyes were shadowed by fatigue or illness, and his features, very pale, were astonishingly perfect and so delicately carven as to possess an almost girlish beauty. He had succeeded in getting one foot under him when Shotten's boot shoved him backwards once more. “Devil take you … fellow!” he gasped indignantly. “How may I … knock you down if—you will not let me up?”