Love's First Light (10 page)
“What are you doing?” Scarlett’s voice was filled with shock as she gazed about the room.
He shook his head and looked down, not knowing how to explain his life as he now lived it. “It’s an experiment.”
He looked up to see her reaction to his odd words, afraid she might laugh or run away.
She had her back to the flames. He only just noticed that she stood in her nightgown, a dark cloak, and thick-soled shoes—like that first early morning they met. Her stomach protruded through the cloak, a streak of white against the dark folds. She must have seen his appraisal for she looked down at herself, then looked back at him and in a voice that sounded hesitant and brave at the same time stated, “I should like to see an experiment.”
She held tight to the cloak as she took a few steps toward his makeshift work table. “What will you discover?”
It wasn’t a question. It was an expectation that his discovery would happen at any moment. Such faith in him caused him to take a long look at her and reach for her hand.
It didn’t matter anymore that they were strangers, that any who came upon them now would consider them dressed as husband and wife. It didn’t matter that they had only met a short time ago. It didn’t matter that she was pregnant with a dead husband’s child and he was a runaway aristocrat with no future, no hope for anything aside from these experiments.
The only thing that Christophé was sure of, now that he’d found her, was that he never wanted to let her go.
Chapter Eight
Their heads bent over the crystal prism, so close his forehead almost brushed hers. A combination of fear and exhilaration rose in Scarlett’s chest. What was she doing? Letting a man take hold of her mind and heart so sudden and sure, like the last time. With Daniel. Had she learned nothing?
She forced her attention from the man to his experiment. Christophé held a candle high in the air, directing Scarlett to hold the prism up, just so, to isolate the candlelight. The light coming from the long, rectangular window interfered with their attempts to catch a single ray.
As she gazed at the window, she saw the pure, true light from the sun creeping into the room and lighting Christophé’s tired eyes and unshaven cheeks. Suddenly she shrieked with an idea.
Christophé turned toward her, clearly alarmed, but she rushed over to him. “What if we designed a curtain, something to block the light coming in?” She pointed toward the window. “Then cut a tiny hole, so that only one beam comes through. What if we held the prism up to that?”
He looked at her, delighted and astonished. “Can you sew?”
“Yes, but I haven’t any thread.”
Christophé turned away from her, picked up his long, dark cloak. “This is all I have.”
She bit her lower lip. If she were home it would be easy to find an old sheet or blanket to use. All she had was what she was wearing. Wait! Her cloak! It lay where she tossed it, across the back of a chair. She rushed to it, held it next to Christophé’s cloak and smiled. “This should be enough. Though I must have something to sew with. Do you have a needle and thread?”
He shook his head, then paused. “Wait here.” Before she knew what he had in mind, he had disappeared into some other part of the castle. While she waited, she spread the two cloaks onto the floor, side by side. Hers was shorter by several inches so instead she arranged them end to end. The window was long and narrow. It just might work.
She turned as he came into the room, the glinting silver prize pinched between his thumb and finger. “I never throw anything away.”
She held out her hand for it. “Now. What shall we do for thread?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He looked momentarily crestfallen. It made her heart ache to see that look. She looked down . . . and smiled. She lifted the hem of her nightgown and saw the long, white thread holding the hem together. “Do you have a knife?”
He brought her a small knife from the work table, wiping it on his breeches as he walked toward her. She tried not to look at his bare torso as he leaned down to hand it to her. She’d been trying not to notice his shoulders and ribs and back and chest with its light scattering of dark hair, this whole night. He was thin, but muscular and strong in a wiry way. He’d not thought their whole time together to find his shirt.
Oddly enough, that fact didn’t disturb her. And she didn’t think twice about sitting on the floor and lifting her hem high enough to see over the mound of her babe . . . that is until he stared at her bare, curled legs.
Heat surged into her face. “Turn away, if you please.”
He did as asked, but seemed somewhat perplexed by the request. She bent over the tiny stitches, cutting into the thread. Slowly, with painstaking care, she pulled the thread loose from the fabric. It was strong and came free in one long strand.
Christophé looked back at her over his shoulder and grinned. “Are you sure you don’t need help? You shouldn’t be sitting on that hard floor, you know.”
“Oh,
now
you are concerned for my well being.” She grinned back at him, flicked down her hem, and held out the long thread. “Come and help me up.”
now
you are concerned for my well being.” She grinned back at him, flicked down her hem, and held out the long thread. “Come and help me up.”
He held out his hand and hauled her into his arms. Her stomach was so large between them that no other part of her touched him. “Are you tired?” Sincerity and sudden worry lit the blue depths of his eyes, turning them as dark as molten silver. “You seem so able. I . . . I forget. You should sit down and rest.”
Scarlett pursed her lips together, delight filling her. Once he came out of his intense distraction, he could be quite intuitive and caring. “Now you want to coddle me?” Her gaze held his—and something inside her shifted. This was what marriage was. This sudden longing in her heart to make his passion her own. This feeling that he would watch over her and care for her, that he would leave his world behind if need be, for her. The connection was overwhelming.
Her next words were soft with new conviction and wonder. “I can’t rest now, we have light beams to catch.”
Christophé stood in front of her looking like a still, frozen painting of a man come alive, like Adam after God breathed into him, when he stood for the first time looking at his Maker and the world He had created for him. Christophé looked at her—and into her—like no man ever had. She didn’t pull away when his gentle hands took hold of her shoulders, his touch feather light as if afraid she might break or disappear.
“Scarlett.” His hands moved down her arms, a simple caress that left her feeling light-headed. “You will not want me to say it, but I’m glad you are free.”
“Free?”
“To love again.”
Yes . . .
Oh, how she wanted to say it. But the minute she let herself think, guilt overwhelmed her, burying her beneath its cursed weight. She should have felt this way for Daniel.
Oh, how she wanted to say it. But the minute she let herself think, guilt overwhelmed her, burying her beneath its cursed weight. She should have felt this way for Daniel.
He leaned close, and again, she didn’t withdraw. She caught her breath as his lips touched hers and held there for a long moment. Neither moved as their breath intermingled and their lips barely brushed.
Then Scarlett’s sorrow escaped, whispering against his mouth. “Not quite free yet.”
HER WORDS HELD such sadness, such grief . . .
Christophé pulled back. He was frightening her. It was just that he had never felt this way before! She brought him bread when he needed it. She brought him thread when he needed that. She showed up in the middle of the night when he thought he might drown in the darkness. She showed him light, the pinhole of discovery, the source of which he’d sought for years.
His whole being longed to take her rounded, sweet body into his arms. He wanted everything she thought or ever imagined to be in his safekeeping. He wanted her trust.
But he freed her and backed away, putting the distance she needed between them.
She held his gaze for a moment, then turned back to her sewing. “There.” She said a few minutes later, holding out the heavy folds of the cloaks sewn together into a dark curtain. “Can you hang it?”
Christophé was sure he would find a way. There was an old ladder he’d found in the castle many days ago. “I will be right back.”
As he went into the room where he slept, he looked around at the piles of miscellaneous things he’d found in the castle. Upon arriving, he’d risked life and limb scouring the place for anything worth keeping. He’d found this ladder among the rubble, along with some other tools, things that the thieves of long ago had missed or thought worthless. He’d stacked them into piles in the two rooms he designated for his sleeping quarters and laboratory. It was a hodgepodge of items. Weren’t there some iron nails too?
Digging in an old wooden pail, he found the nails. They were large and heavy. A hammer or sledge was not among his treasures, so he picked up a large stone, one of many that lay all over the floor of the crumbling edifice, and made his way back to the laboratory.
Scarlett was sitting on a chair, the cloaks draped over her lap, her eyes closed. She looked to have drifted off to sleep, her head leaning against the back of the chair. Christophé crept over and slid the cloak from her slack fingers. He paused for a moment to take in her creamy skin, the dark waving hair that framed her face. He found himself bending toward her, studying her red, red lips—a color that couldn’t be matched or mixed with pigment and oil to dash across a canvas. And then, there were the dark shadows of her eyelashes against her high cheekbones. His hand went out to the babe, an involuntary reaction. “You will be my family.”
He pulled back, embarrassed that again he had given his innermost thoughts voice. When would he learn discretion? When would he learn the cool manners of his brother, Louis, the tact that should be the bulwark of the remaining St. Laurent? He could only stand and stare, the cloak and nails and stone grasped in his hands, as he marveled at this woman.
Move, fool, before she wakes and you frighten her yet again.
As quietly as he could he positioned the ladder. He gathered the stone and nails into his hands and climbed the great height. He banged the nail with short thwacks, hoping not to wake her as he impaled the dark cloth through the nails into holes that were already in the stone wall. Someone had hung curtains over this window before. Thanks be to God.
With one side up, and a glance at the sleeping woman, he moved the ladder to the other side of the window.
Another few, short whacks of the stone and he had the other side up and in place. The cloaks hung together perfectly. A perfect fit.
Christophé stood back and admired their handiwork. The room was back to the dim light and shadows of the guttering candles. With a glance toward Scarlett, he blew out each candle in the room. Next he poked at the dying embers of the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney, until there was only the dull red glow of ash.
Now for the hole. It was her idea. He was loathe to do it alone. Christophé went over to her and stared for a long moment at her loveliness. He whispered her name, leaning in to touch her rounded cheek.
Instead of turning away as he expected, she reached for him in her sleep, grasping hold of his arm.
“Daniel.” She said the name as though she’d been dreaming of him.
He reared back, his heart torn, the pain so sudden, like a sword thrust, that it shocked him.
Her eyes fluttered open. He stared down at her until he saw the realization of what she’d done in her eyes.
Those huge eyes filled with regret. “I’m sorry.”
Christophé knew he didn’t have any right to an apology. She was a widow. A pregnant widow. Why wouldn’t she love the husband lost to her? If anyone could understand that, he should. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I was only trying to wake you.” He smiled what he hoped was a gentle smile. “Come and see what we’ve done.”
Scarlett turned in her chair and then rose with a delighted cry. “You’ve done it!”
“Well. Not yet.”
He led her over to the window, then went back and took up a sharp knife. With the point he lifted the bottom part of the curtain and held it out. With one hand on the outside and one on the inside he reached up and poked the knife through, turning it and twisting it into a neat hole. A tiny shaft of light filtered into the room. “Get the prism.”
Scarlett went to the table for the triangular cut glass. She came back and held it out to him.
Christophé let the curtain fall back toward the window. He took his time, found the beam of dawn’s light, and traced it through the air with one finger. Then he took a few steps away.
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