Louisa Rawlings (38 page)

Denis de Rocher grinned. “A kiss from Véronique as the prize.”

Topaze smiled coyly at Lucien. “Are you agreed, cousin?” She wondered why he’d suggested the race in the first place. His rented horse was no match for the fine animals the others were riding.

His expression was blank, indifferent. “Of course.”

Damn him! He didn’t seem a bit jealous, or concerned that he’d lose the race!
“Two
kisses,” she said, her mouth set in a pout.

He laughed. “Better and better. Will you give the signal?”

It was agreed that she should stand at the halfway point of the course, the better to see the finish. She dropped her handkerchief and watched the horses race toward her. Lucien’s horse was a great deal slower than the others; indeed, if she didn’t know his propensity for winning, she would almost have thought that he was holding back.

By the Holy Virgin, what was he doing? As his horse neared, Lucien tugged on the reins. The horse swerved, Lucien leaned down and swept Topaze onto his arm, then turned his animal toward the woods. “Let me go!” she cried. He laughed. She clung to his neck for dear life as they sped among the trees. Her little tricorne blew away.

Deep in the woods they stopped. He lowered her gently to the ground and dismounted beside her. She straightened her tousled hair. “Are you mad? I thought you’d kill me!” A lie, of course. She’d enjoyed the adventure, and he knew it!
She could see it in his eyes. “What about the race?” she said.

“Devil take the race.” He gathered her in his aims. “I never planned to finish it. I only suggested it so I could get you alone for a few minutes. I haven’t held you in my arms for such a long time.” His eyes were warm on her face, filled with a tenderness she’d never seen before.

“Oh, Lucien,” she whispered. “You funny, silly Lucien.” He grinned and took her mouth with his. His kiss was soft at first, moving against her lips in a gentle caress. But as his kiss deepened, he held her close to him, molding her pliant body against his. She trembled. She was drowning in the wonder of his sweet mouth, the brush of his tongue against the edge of her lips, the strong arms that possessed her, enveloped her.

She was breathless when he released her. “Lucien…” If only he’d ask her now, she knew she’d melt. She’d share his bed, his life. Anything.

Instead, he stepped back and pointed to the tangle of trees. “Here come the Gemini.” He leaped into his saddle and laughed. “Do you think it would be too villainous to make for the finish line, while the two of them are clucking over you?” He kicked his horse and raced out of the woods, just as Carle-André and Denis galloped to her rescue. They were vexed by the cunning of her cousin, who had clearly intended to win by fair means or foul. In the end (for safety’s sake), Topaze declared the whole contest null and void: If she’d had to kiss Lucien in front of the two men, they would have guessed her feelings at once.

The days grew warm and sweet, perfumed with flowers. Topaze couldn’t remember a June so magical. Denis and Carle-André were devoted suitors, and Lucien seemed to have cast off his harsh manner to woo her with tenderness. “Oh, I’m tired,” she said one afternoon, when they’d been playing at shuttlecocks. She threw down her racquet and smiled at them all. “I must look a sight.”

“You’re beautiful, as always,” said Denis, and Carle-André hastened to add a compliment of his own.

Lucien said nothing. He smiled, took his handkerchief, and dabbed at Topaze’s moist brow. His touch was caring, filled with gentleness.

“
Morbleu!
What’s that?” Carle-André pointed to a neatly trimmed hedge. Around the corner of it could be seen a conical shape, all of fur. As they looked, it disappeared, to reappear at the other side of the hedge. Carle-André winked at Denis. When the cone had vanished once again, the two men rushed to either side of the hedge, closed in, and emerged carrying a struggling Léonard. The fur cone proved to be a hat, a crudely stitched piece that drooped over one of his sad eyes. “Look what we’ve found,” said Carle-André. “Your stepbrother.” They dropped Léonard to the grass, laughing loudly at his comical appearance.

“Stop it,” said Topaze, as Léonard lumbered to his feet, fighting back tears. “What are you doing, brother?” she said gently.

He looked at the mocking faces. “I’ve been reading a book. From England. I’m R-R-Robinson Crusoe.”

Lucien stepped forward and straightened his hat. “And a fine book it is, cousin. I remember reading it myself.”

Topaze frowned. Carle-André and Denis were still snickering. How could they be so unkind? “Let’s play with him.”

“Oh, really, my dear, don’t be ridiculous.” Carle-André made a face.

She sat down on the lawn and began to take off her shoes and stockings. “No. We’re all going to be ‘Friday’ for his ‘Robinson Crusoe’. If you refuse, Carle-André, I won’t speak to you for the rest of the day.”

“I adore you, my sweet, but I don’t intend to play the fool. Not even for you. Good day.” He nodded curtly and made for the stables.

“Well, I’ll play,” said Denis, though he looked decidedly uncomfortable about the whole thing. Only Lucien entered into the spirit of the game. Barefooted, he led them through the flowerbeds, leaving footprints in the soft soil, in the manner of the book. He was the first to kneel at Léonard’s command, obeying his master, Crusoe. And when Léonard wanted to climb a mountain and look out over the ocean, Lucien overturned a large bench for the purpose, while Topaze devised a spyglass from the broad leaf of a tree.

Lucien frowned at the bench. “We’ll never fit. There are too many Fridays.”

Topaze giggled. “You can be Thursday.”

“No.” His eyes glinted wickedly. “I shall be a pirate who attacks Crusoe’s island.”

Denis blushed. “Oh, I say, this is getting too foolish for me.” He climbed off the bench and retrieved his shoes and stockings.

Léonard, however, was delighted with the new game. He abandoned his fur hat and closed one eye, pretending he had a pirate’s patch. He and Lucien dueled furiously, attacking each other with the stems of tall flowers from the garden. Topaze was their prize, the fair damsel. She wailed and shrieked as they tossed her from hand to hand. At last, laughing uproariously, they collapsed in a heap together, all tumbled arms and legs in the middle of the lawn.

Lucien unwrapped Léonard’s arm from his ankles and smiled warmly. “How is it I never knew until now what a fine fellow you are, Cousin Léonard?”

Topaze sat up and gazed at him. His eyes crinkled with laughter, his smile was sweet and filled with joy, far from the world-weary smirk he usually allowed himself.
Dear Virgin
, she thought.
I do love him. Let him read it in my eyes now. For I’ll never want him more than I do at this moment.

The clock on the library mantel chimed twelve. By the light of the glowing moon that shone in at the window, Topaze found the release to the passage. It was a warm night, but she shivered beneath her flowing dressing gown. Her heart fluttered in her breast, filled with anticipation. She’d found the note on her pillow. “Midnight. The grotto. Come to me.”
Yes. Oh,
yes, she thought.
Dearest Lucien.

She lit a lantern at the bottom of the circular staircase and made her way through the tunnel, pushed open the heavy door beyond the entrance to the tower, and moved through the passage until she’d reached the grotto. The door was open. She extinguished her lantern, went through, and looked about her.

The moon was full, shimmering off the small pond, the drooping willows, the rolling lawn. The velvet shadows were alive with the glow of twinkling fireflies, and the chirp of crickets made the night echo with soft music. The linden trees had begun to bloom; their perfume scented the air with heady fragrance. For a moment she thought she was alone in this magical land. And then she heard a soft murmur behind her. “Sweet angel.” She turned and melted into Lucien’s arms. He kissed her, then led her to a moonlit spot between the willows, where a dark cloak had been spread. He’d clearly planned this with care—the cloak was strewn with rose petals, and a bottle of wine and two goblets awaited.

“How lovely.” She thought she’d cry for the joy of it.

He pulled her down beside him on the cloak. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, Lucien, you know I do. But I don’t understand. I…”

He laughed softly. “You wanted to be wooed,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“But you never were so dear before.”

He sounded almost apologetic. “Well, perhaps I saw you for the first time through the eyes of those…damned fops of yours.”

She giggled. “Who were not very good at playing games.”

“No.”

“I was surprised that
you
played so easily with Léonard. You must have had a jolly childhood.”

“No. I was a quiet child. I think I’ve told you that before.” He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her on her cheeks, her soft earlobes, her willing mouth. “You’re the inspiration, my angel. It doesn’t seem foolish, when you’re leading the merriment.”

“I like it when you laugh. I always did.”

“I like it when you make me laugh.” He bent to her lips again. “You delightful creature, I like everything about you.” He kissed her fervently, while his hands stroked her willing body through her garments. He undid the fastenings of her dressing gown and nightdress, and kissed the pulsing softness of her throat.

She trembled at his caresses, his kisses, his loving words. The magic of this scented night. “Oh, Lucien,” she whispered, “isn’t it a wondrous eve?”

“It’s enchanted, as you are. I saw a fairy ring, just over there. It must have been put there for this magical night alone. For you, my fairy princess.”

She smiled. “Well then, shall I seal the spell over you by dancing in the fairy ring?” At his nod, she stood up and cast her garments to the ground. She looked about for the fairy ring. The circle of toadstools shone clean and white under the moon. She moved within their boundaries and danced a slow, undulating dance. The grass was night-cool against her bare feet. The moonlight was fairy dust, glinting on her pale flesh, warming her with its silvery fire.

Lucien groaned. “No more. You have me fast, sweet princess. Come back to me.” He held out his arms. She lay beside him and smiled up at his face, so stark, so beautiful in the moonlight. He picked up a handful of rose petals and sprinkled them on her breast; they touched her like soft, cool fingers. But his lips, that followed the petals to her bosom, were hot and impassioned. She writhed beneath their loving assault, desire blooming in her like an exotic flower.

He stood up, stripped off his clothes, and returned to her side. He gathered her into his arms. His body was hard, his arms pressing her close to the length of him. She ran her hands over the taut muscles of his shoulders, glorying in his strength, that sense of leashed power in him that made her tremble, frightened her with its thrill of danger, made her bend to him in exquisite surrender. “Take me now, Lucien,” she whispered.

He hesitated, then parted her willing thighs with his hands and entered her. He moved in a slow rhythm, the gentle rocking of his hips stirring her senses, firing her blood. She closed her eyes to the blinding moonlight and abandoned herself to his sweet lovemaking. As she moaned in pleasure, his gentle rhythm became a pulsing thrust, until her senses were lifted to a joy beyond joy, and she cried out and clung to him, lest he vanish like the moonlight in the dawn.

When at last their bodies had stilled, she opened her eyes and looked at the heavens. The face in the moon smiled at her.

She giggled. “We never drank the wine.”

He rested his head on her bosom. “I’m intoxicated with you. I could stay here all night. But I fear the dew will give us both a chill.”

“I do miss sleeping with you.”

He laughed softly. “I’m not sure I miss
you
. Do you still roam all over the bed?”

“I suppose so.”

“Ah, well. Come on.” He stood up and helped her to her feet. They dressed in silence, stopping to smile at each other in the moonlight, or share a tender kiss. They made their way back through the tunnel hand in hand. But when they’d gone through the first door and stood beneath the stairs leading to the tower, Lucien stopped. “I haven’t been here since I returned openly to Grismoulins. I wonder if my ‘bed’ is still where I left it. It’s a long time before dawn. We could sleep together for a few hours, and still be back in the château before anyone stirs.”

“Oh, Lucien, could we? But how can we be sure to wake in time?”

He laughed dryly. “I’m a light sleeper, in case you forgot. I’ll hear the first cockcrow.”

A light sleeper. She shivered and touched her neck, remembering the night in La Rochelle when he’d tried to choke her. But that was long ago. “Let’s look for your bed,” she said.

In the moonlit tower they lay down together. Lucien’s arms were around Topaze; her head rested on his chest. It felt so good. “I’ll never like sleeping alone,” she said, and closed her eyes.

She awoke to the sound of Lucien’s laughter. She lay sprawled across his chest, her hand over his face, her knee bent at his groin. “Lord,” he chuckled, disengaging his body with difficulty, “I’ll never know how you manage it.”

She yawned and sat up. “Well, I slept wonderfully.” She looked around the tower room. The moon had set, but a pale gray light filled the small space. “What time is it?”