Louisa Rawlings (15 page)

A candle burned on a small table in the girl’s room. He put her into bed and reached for the coverlet. She turned in her sleep, then frowned, her hand stretching across the empty sheet. Searching. He thought,
Poor little urchin.
Martin was a jolly enough companion, he supposed. But hardly compensation for the loving flock of children she was used to. And as for himself…he’d learned to live again in Guadeloupe; he’d scarcely learned to be kind and patient. The girl must wonder sometimes why she’d agreed to the plan.

He shook off the twinge of conscience. By Lucifer, why should he give a damn? The world was filled with savages who used one another if they could. The little chit—wasn’t she getting something out of the scheme? Money for her family. She wasn’t stupid; she knew the risks. Why should
he
care?

Still asleep, she whimpered softly; one small hand clutched at a pillow. He stared down at her and felt a surge of tenderness. Poor puppy. He knew how it was, to feel lost, forlorn. She must be lonely. Yearning for the closeness of her adopted family. Though she might laugh during the day, at night her sleeping body betrayed her heart, and she reached for the children who weren’t there. On an impulse he took off his shoes and eased in beside her, prodding her gently to make room.
I must be
a
fool
, he thought. Well, only for a few minutes. No more. If it brought her comfort as she slept… He pulled her close and tucked her into the crook of his arm.

She sighed and wriggled closer, resting her head on his chest. She slid her bare leg over his shins, and wrapped her hand around his waist. She’d lost her ribbon; her hair was loose. It rubbed against his chin, silken and warm. He nearly laughed aloud. Was this how the Givet family slept? Entwined like a barrel of eels?

Still, she was warm. He felt the heat of her breath through his shirt. It was such a long time since he’d felt a warm body next to his. Since he’d allowed himself to feel anything. The warmth of a human being, the sense of kinship with mankind. Not that he’d slept alone all these years. But there was no warmth in a whore. Nor in those hot-eyed island wives so eager to cuckold their husbands.

But this funny little waif…she was warm, alive. She made him laugh. She made him angry with her stubborn independence. Sometimes when she defied him, rankled him with her sharp words, he could feel his skin prickling all over. Hot. Stretched taut over his body. The way he felt sometimes when he’d been out in the fields all day, with the tropic sun beating down. She chafed him like that, this queer little creature. Impossible to ignore.

The girl stirred. Her tumbled hair brushed across his cheeks and nostrils. It smelled fragrant. It reminded him of Adriane. That kiss she’d granted him when they’d parted. Filled with promise. He wondered what she was doing at this moment. He hadn’t had time to think of her. Or any woman. Not since the day he’d collared the little chit in the streets of Bordeaux, and the plan had begun to take shape in his head. Now he wondered if Adriane was thinking of him. She came from strong stock. A fine family. She’d make a good wife; their home would be the envy of every planter on the island.

The girl shifted her leg. It rubbed against his thigh. He felt a stirring of desire. A warm fire in his veins. Adriane was far away. And this creature was a woman, lest he forget. And lying half on top of him in a bed. Ripe. Convenient. He put his hand on her head and stroked the scented tresses. Perhaps…

The scar on his face began to itch. He scrubbed at it with stiff fingers. Had he lost his wits? The dream of normality was not for him. Not now. Not yet. Not when he’d suddenly seen the possibility of vengeance. Damn them all. He felt the passion ebb from him. The chit was just an instrument. Nothing more. Best to keep her reasonably content. At least until she was no longer useful. He wasn’t about to complicate things by taking advantage of her. He might frighten her. She was young, after all. And still feared him at times. He could read it in her eyes.

And he needed her to make the scheme work. That was what mattered. He could always find a girl to satisfy his body. But he didn’t want to unsettle
this
one. She was too important. He passed a hand across his eyes. Maybe, when all of this was over, his soul would find a little peace.

The girl shivered in her sleep. It was chilly in the room: the fire had died out. He really should leave her bed, wrap her with the coverlet, and go. But he hated to disturb her. To extricate himself now would be to waken her. Ah, well. Perhaps he’d sleep for a few hours, then return to his own room. Carefully he reached out with his free arm, pulled the coverlet over the two of them, extinguished the candle. He smiled in the darkness: how Martin would laugh to see him now.

But, Lord! the girl’s hair
did
smell of sunshine…

He slept, and dreamed of his childhood. The crow of the rooster in the farmyard wakened him. The household would be stirring soon. Fortunately, the girl, while still lying close, had untwisted her body from his. He eased himself out of bed and slipped into his shoes. He turned back to look at her once more. He’d been so busy these past weeks, so absorbed in his remembrances of Grismoulins, that he hadn’t really looked at her.

It was astonishing what a little care, and good food, could do. She’d filled out—her thin face was now delicately round, and the dainty pointed chin had acquired a dimple. Her skin, that had suffered the ravages of winter and poverty, had been creamed to a healthy pink, and her cheeks glowed with Nature’s rouge. Her honey-blond hair had been washed and combed and cared for; it spilled across the pillow and surrounded her face like a burnished halo. Her chemise hung loosely off one shoulder. He caught a glimpse of one bare breast—a soft swelling, young and firm. He thought,
What a pretty little thing she is.
Véronique would be fortunate—if she still lived—to have grown into such a sweet-faced creature.

He sighed, hearing voices in the farmyard. He could almost wish he’d discerned her charms last night. It might have been pleasant to seduce her. But now, of course, it was too late, with the servants already up and about.

Fool! He had no time to indulge his lusts. He couldn’t afford to be diverted now. Not now! His hatred had consumed him for years. He’d given up all hope of revenge. Then he’d found the girl, and vengeance had blossomed in his heart like a flower, watered by the bitter poison of his memories. Why should he gamble that against a moment’s pleasure?

This chit was just a means to an end. Grismoulins waited. Then the money. Then Adriane. He turned away and tiptoed from the room.

“Is it old, the château?” Topaze yawned. She’d slept badly again last night, though she was growing quite used to it. When she thought of it, the only good night’s sleep she’d had was the night—just a few days ago—when she’d fallen asleep on Martin’s lap. She’d been tempted to wheedle another invitation, but he’d become so distant that she found him almost as difficult to talk with as Lucien. Well, perhaps he was beginning to miss Guadeloupe. He’d spent the last few days at the window, watching the snows melt, his face shadowed, his brown eyes soft and far away. “Is Grismoulins old?” she asked again.

“Parts of it are,” said Lucien. “There’s an old tower and a winding staircase. All that remains of an ancient keep. Here. As I’ve indicated in my drawing. The main buildings, though, were built under Louis the Thirteenth and Richelieu, then fell into disrepair and almost abandoned in the last century. When…when my parents married, the château was restored. You’ll find the interiors quite fashionable, though modest. I’d doubt if Hubert bothered to make many improvements. He always fancied my father’s hotel in Paris; I should think that abode would claim his attention, now that he’s the comte. It’s closer to the gaming tables.” Lucien frowned. “Wait a moment. There’s a secret passage. I just remembered. You go through the long
galerie
to the paneled library. See, here, on the plan of Grismoulins. There’s a bookcase along the wall opposite the windows. Part of it swings open to become a door.”

“What releases the door?”

He rubbed his chin. “Beside the last bookcase—just here—is a strip of paneling carved with scrolls and palmettes and
coquilles
. The third…” He closed his eyes for a moment. “No. The fourth cockleshell from the bottom is the key.”

“You press it?”

“No. It would have been discovered by every servant who dusted or polished. You turn it completely around. Once to the right. Twice to the left. And the door opens.”

“Where does it lead?”

“To the tower. Oh, what a fool!” He slapped at his forehead. “I’ve been trying to think of how we might meet in secret. I’d forgotten. The passage leads as well to a little artificial grotto in the park. A wild place, with tumbled rocks and willow trees and a shallow pond. The whole place quite overgrown. My father preferred the more formal gardens on the estate; he could pretend it was Versailles. I’m sure Hubert is of the same opinion. The yearnings of a country aristocrat.”

“Did Véronique know of the secret passageway?”

“I don’t think so. I remember my mother showed me it, when I was very small. But then my father’s favorite hound was trapped there, and died. After that, it was forbidden. The few servants who knew of it were long gone before Hubert and his family—you and your stepbrother Léonard—came to Grismoulins.” He smirked. “Though I must confess I used it once or twice in later years, after an escapade with a village maiden. But mostly it was forgotten.”

“Then I’m not to tell of it, to prove I’m Véronique.”

‘‘No.

Topaze sighed. “I wish I knew more of Véronique.”

“She was a flirt. Did I tell you that? Just beginning to know her femininity.”

“Do you think she ran away with the footman?”

“I don’t know. But she was a little spoiled. A little petulant. You may find that trait useful.”

Topaze grinned. “I’ll learn to stamp my foot. And flirt. Eh, Martin?”

Martin turned from the window. “I have no doubt you’ll do as you wish. I think I’ll go downstairs and read. You don’t need me here.”

Topaze frowned at his retreating back. His behavior was a mystery. But Lucien was an even deeper mystery, and she might not have a clear opportunity again. She turned to him. “What do I know of Cousin Lucien?”

“Not very much. I was away at school. Sometimes in Paris. Or with my friends. I rode a great deal, so our paths seldom crossed. And of course the eight-year difference in our ages loomed rather larger then. But I played backgammon with you from time to time.” He smiled. “And usually won.”

Damnation. That wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for at all. It told her nothing of the man, brought her no closer to the hidden Lucien she sensed, and longed to touch. “Your hair. Your scar. Did Véronique see you as you are now?”

“No. My hair was raven black. And my face”—he laughed sardonically—“young and innocent. A perfect fool’s face.”

She was determined to find answers. “How did Cousin Lucien feel about
me
? About my family?”

He brushed her aside. “What matter? I…”

“And his own family?” she persisted.

The blue eyes were guarded. “He found the world a pleasant place. Filled with agreeable people. He was young, and undiscerning. A perfect fool, I told you.”

“How did he feel about Grismoulins?”

The question caught him by surprise. He turned quickly, but not before she’d seen the pain on his face. He stared out of the window. “How should he feel? It’s beautiful. The hills are green and rolling, crossed with hedges. It’s isolated. A man can ride for hours, in the glory of the spring, with nothing but his own thoughts for company. The higher hills are bare of trees. And the wind blows. Clean and pure. At times you’d swear you can smell the sea. Just above Grismoulins, on a hill, are the ruins of a stone windmill, though there must have been more than one, once upon a time, to give the château its name.” He laughed softly. “Whatever my turmoil—and young men are filled with turmoil, childish though it may seem in retrospect—a ride through the hills and woods of Grismoulins would restore my soul.”

“You loved it,” she said softly.

He shrugged. “No more than we all grow attached to the place where we were born. Mindless sentiment. Quite meaningless, really. Do you play the harpsichord?”

“No.”

“Pity. Véronique did. Though not very well. I don’t know how you’ll deal with it, if they ask you to play.”

“I’m not completely lost. I’ve been in places where they had a harpsichord. I suppose I could manage to pick out a tune, then plead forgetfulness after that.” She sighed. He’d deliberately turned aside her searching questions. She was almost glad when the little maid called them to dinner. It was so lonely, to be alone with him. It made her want to cry.

As if to punish her for prying, he was unusually sharp at dinner, responding to her simplest questions with curt replies, then smiling and passing a compliment to Madame Le Sage. Martin was no better, glaring at them all from beneath lowered brows. When the meal was finally ended, Topaze lingered in the room to help Madame Le Sage and the maid Henriette clear the table. She was relieved to be quit of both men for a little while, curse their disagreeable souls!

“My!” chirped Madame Le Sage. “How they do sulk like children when they’re crossed! What on earth have you done?”

“I haven’t any idea. Martin’s been moping for days. And only getting worse. He won’t walk with me, he won’t let me cheer him.”