“I am still curious, ma petite. Why have you never married?”
She slapped some colder water on his stomach as she rinsed off the final bit of lather, and he winced. “Can’t a woman just decide that marriage does not suit her, as you have?”
“Ah, but as a man I can satisfy my natural urges outside of marriage. A young unmarried woman cannot without becoming notorious or”—he leaned over and patted her flat stomach with one damp, but clean, hand—“or pregnant, with child, however you English say it. I believe you prefer our word, enceinte.”
“A lady has no natural urges!” May said, meeting his gaze.
“She does not?” he asked. They were close, for she had found a fleck of soap she had not cleaned from the V at the base of his neck, and she dipped her cloth in water and patted at it.
“Of course not.”
He put his hand around her neck and pulled her gently to him, then, and touched his lips to hers.
Chapter Five
Her head whirled at the touch of soft lips surrounded by bristly beard. He held her gently, but curiously she found her bones and muscles incapable of making the sharp movement that would take her away from this kiss. She had closed her eyes and all that was left was sensation: the taste of burgundy on his lips, the smell of soap that drifted from his warm skin, the feel of that skin against her bare hands, hands that clung to his chest and sensitive fingers that threaded through the damp hair there and felt the steady thumping of his heart.
She was lost in pure sensation and the memory of that early morning ride into London, after he had come to rescue her. She had ridden in front of him, across the front of his saddle, between his muscular thighs. Weary from her experience she had fallen asleep against his chest, cradled in his arms. It was the safest she had ever felt in her life. And now she felt that same odd inner peace.
His kiss deepened and she felt his tongue probe the sealed join of their lips. She had no idea what he wanted, but it seemed natural to open her mouth just a little. Her body jolted with a wave of shock when his tongue slipped into her mouth and started taking advantage of her in a most shameful way. Her body felt heavy and weary and she sank against him. His arms surrounded her, but she felt him stiffen slightly.
His wound! She tore herself from him and sat, blinking, in the dim light of the folly. His lips were twisted in a lazy grin, though there was a faint hint of pain shadowing his tawny eyes.
“And do you still think that young ladies have no natural urges, little one?”
Odious man! He was taunting her. Her face flaming, she turned from him and started packing away the ointment and gauze, and retrieving the food she had brought. “Of course not. I mean . . .” She realized her answer could mean she did still think that way or that she didn’t. “You caught me off balance, that is all.” She turned, meat pie in hand. “And of course I know you mean nothing by it. It was just . . . just an experiment. I felt nothing, of course.” She laid the meat pie beside him on a clean cloth and got out the hunk of cheese and a knife, the apples and the small loaf of fresh-baked bread.
“Of course,” he said, amusement in his voice.
She knew if she looked at him, his lips would be turned up in a smile. He was impossible! Even wounded he thought nothing of wielding his abilities to make a woman weak. And she had been weak. If she did not tell him the truth, she would be honest with herself. The shock when he dipped into her mouth had been followed by a delicious languor, a floating sensation that had softened her will to reject him. But she must not think like that! It could mean something that she was not prepared to accept.
Etienne hungrily tore into the bread and cheese and consumed the meat pie. May took the pail and emptied the soapy water, then got a bucket of fresh stream water for Etienne if he got thirsty when she was gone. Cassie was contentedly grazing in an open area of the clearing, but Théron was nowhere to be found. Humming a little tune, she tore some of the vines away from one window to let some natural light into the dank interior.
Back inside the folly, May looked around and frowned. Now that there was more light she could see that it was a mess! Her natural instincts toward tidiness were offended. There was an old red velvet settee in the corner, on the side of the folly that had no windows, but it had been chewed by animals and was covered in mouse droppings and dead leaves that had blown in through the open windows through the years. A small table at one end of the settee was littered with remnants of burned-down candles that had also been chewed.
She strolled over and picked up a piece of cloth on the floor. A petticoat? It was dirty and stained after years of sitting in the folly, but it was a delicate garment, not some maid’s petticoat. It was trimmed in the finest Brussels lace, like the kind her mother insisted on buying.
Her mother! She had often disappeared for hours, in May’s youth, with one of her invariably male houseguests. She said they were out walking, but always warned May not to follow on pain of having her pony taken away from her. But later, May would always find new things in the folly left by the “wood fairies”: candles, dishes, food, clothing, both men’s and women’s. And she remembered overhearing a maid grumbling once about having to go down to “that place in the woods” to retrieve some article of clothing the mistress had left there.
With the knowledge of adulthood she could now imagine what her mother was doing with her male guests in the secluded little folly in the woods, but her mind shied away from that knowledge. She thought she had come to terms with and accepted her mother’s frailty, but a deep well of anger still bubbled to the surface when she thought of the neglect she had suffered. Until Beaty, her beloved governess, had been hired, Mrs. Connors, then a fresh-faced newly married under-cook, had been the most mother she had ever known. Maisie van Hoffen was too busy enjoying the fruits of marrying an old man who then had the good sense to leave her a wealthy widow.
As May grew older and understood more it was a relief to go off to the Maxwell School for Young Ladies of Quality. Miss Parsons, the headmistress, was rigid and upright, and she gave the young May, bewildered by recent events in her life, something wholesome to cling to. She missed Beaty though. Her governess was more like a sister to her than just an instructor, but one dreadful day she discovered that her friend and teacher was just as frail of morals as her mother.
May hastily turned away from that memory as from something unclean. She looked up and found Etienne had finished his repast and was watching her. She glanced down at her hands and realized that she had picked up the petticoat and had shredded it into long strips.
“How long do you think to stay here?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Until they find me and kill me or until I am better, whichever comes first. Unless you wish me to leave.”
“Etienne!” She felt her heart clench at his words, and a sick feeling threaded through her. She dropped the shredded petticoat and knelt by his side. “Who is ‘they’? And why do they want to kill you?”
He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. “It is much better if you do not know, little one.”
“Augh! I wish you would not call me that! I am not five, I am three and twenty, a woman.” She sat back on her booted heels.
His look was long and lingering, from beneath his dark, thick lashes. “But do you know that? Do you really know you are a woman and not a little girl?”
She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. If she understood him right, he was impugning her womanhood simply because she denied experiencing base lust. “I am a woman, but I am also a lady.”
“That does not mean you must live without passion little o . . . my lady.”
“Just May,” she said absently. Passion, Miss Parsons told her, using careful words so not to shock, was something women of the lower classes felt, not ladies. A lady was refined, cool, and lacking any knowledge of the earthier emotions. Passion was a low, dirty feeling; just look at her mother, an unrestrainedly passionate woman, loose, wild, with the morals of an alley cat. Miss Parso
ns rightly taught her that such hot-blooded behavior was to be avoided at all costs.
But then May remembered something told her by Lady Emily. No one could deny that Emily was a true lady down to her toes. But she claimed that sexual intercourse—lovemaking, as she preferred to call it—with a man you loved was beautiful. In fact, she had called it sacred, of all things. The most profane of all activities sacred?
But May would rather have died on the spot than mention Emily Delafont’s name before Etienne. He had wanted Emily, wanted her badly, in his bed. She had been separated from her husband at that moment, and had appeared to consider taking the passionate Frenchman as a lover. May would never mention her name to Etienne. She did not want to see the longing in his eyes, the pain of her rejection, and possibly, though he denied it, his love for the woman.
“How wrong you are,” she said, rising. “How very wrong. A lady neither feels nor displays passion. All men are subject to it—it is their way—but among women only whores and trollops feel such a thing, which is why men of the ton feel obliged to take mistresses and consort with chambermaids.”
He had a half smile on his face, but his brows were drawn down as if he were frowning. “If that is so, then why is it that many of the women these men bed are ladies of the ton, unhappy wives and lonely widows?”
“Those women are not looking for passion, but merely for companionship.”
He stared at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. “And you believe this?”
“I do! I know it to be true!”
“That is . . . what is that expressive English word? Fustian! That is utmost fustian. Ladies feel passion just as much as women of the lower classes. I think you are confusing passion with something else.”
“I am not,” she said loudly, planting her fists on her hips. “I know what I am talking about. Maybe you have just never met a true lady!”
He gave a shout of laughter and then groaned, holding his side.
May watched him with concern. Then she shook her head and strode outside. She brought in the roll of blankets and made him a pallet with quick, nervous hands. “I have to go. I will leave you the food left over and the bucket of water to drink from or wash with, whatever you need. I will return tomorrow at dawn.” Her voice became hesitant. “Will you be all right until then, Etienne?”
He gazed up at her with his warm dark eyes. He picked up the half-empty bottle of burgundy and waved it around. “I will be fine and warm, little . . . Lady May. I have this to warm me. She is not as good as a full-bodied woman, but it will have to do for now, until I can summon the strength to crawl into the bed of another unladylike widow!”
“You are quite incorrigible!” She stood and turned on her boot heel and stalked away.
She was out of the folly when she heard his voice drift out to her, with laughter in its warm tones. “Shaving implements! Bring me a razor and strop, little one!”
Chapter Six
Late in the night with the empty bottle of burgundy discarded beside him and his pistol again securely tucked in his waistband, Etienne thought back to the kiss.
Her first, perhaps? She had been unresisting, but . . . he searched for the precise thought, the exact analogy. She was like a tightly budded rose refusing to bloom even when bathed in the soft summer sun, for fear of what would follow, blooming, only to be shattered by the bold wind or destroyed by a storm. She had tasted sweet and smelled delicious, but her lips were a tight seal and she was absolutely still. Finally she had opened to him, but her hesitation made him pull back.
Would the bud stay so tightly furled, velvet petals pulled close around the rich red heart? Would she become desiccated as she aged like certain spinsters he had seen, wizening and drying like the heads of the little apple dolls his ancient nurse had used to make? Or would someone take the time and care to pull back every soft petal to find her woman’s heart?
He rather thought he had made a start. She was not cold, that little one, no matter what she thought. Once he had teased her into opening to him, letting him surge into her mouth, he had felt her body tremble even though she still held quiet in his arms. And when he had released her, her color was high, the bloom on her cheeks a rose shade of exquisite hue.
A good husband would go a long way toward curing the little one’s fright of men and fear of her own passionate feelings. The promiscuity of the mother had created in the daughter a horror of sensuality, he rather thought. Quel dommage!
Etienne squirmed down on the bed of soft blankets May had brought him, and breathed in the delicious scent of lavender that clung to them from their storage place. She had a good heart, a compassionate heart, did Lady May. And a delectably rounded bottom, he remembered, feeling a pulse of warmth ignite his body.
Ah, but he must not let himself think that way about her. It would be enough if he helped her realize that there was nothing wrong with a woman feeling passion. That would be his quest to pay back, in an odd way, that which she gave him, as if one could repay one who had given life, as she had.
For he did not mislead himself. His very blood was beginning to be poisoned, and he surely would have died if she had not come to his rescue. Even now his groin throbbed, and he had to hope they had been in time with the cleansing and ointment. He had been in many barns and many stables along the Kent coast and around Dover in the months he had been running from his pursuers. Not always had he been able to find a warm widow to bed down with. It was fortunate that now, on the point of death, he had found May’s land, her folly.
He curled up on his side as he listened to the night noises around him, the sound of insects and small night animals moving through the brush. Just days ago he had been living in the home of a very sweet woman and had begun to feel secure. Now he was living like a fugitive again. God had a way of humbling a man who took too much for granted, but He had given him a reprieve by leading him to Lark House folly.
He sent up a prayer to le bon Dieu that Théron would not stray too far. He did not fear someone taking him. Pity the man who tried to take his stallion, for the horse was not so much Etienne’s possession as his companion by choice. No one could hold that magnificent animal if he chose to not be taken. His worst fear was that Théron would be noticed, and that he would inadvertently lead searchers to Etienne’s hiding spot. If the bastards found him now, they would do him in.
His eyes grew heavy with sleep encouraged by the last of the bottle of burgundy. As he drifted into slumber he remembered to give up a prayer of thanks for the little one, for her compassion and her courage. A smile curved his lips and he fell asleep with the memory of her lips pressed to his own.
• • •
May ascended the long curved staircase toward her bedchamber in the same state of distraction that had made her a poor companion to Dodo all evening. She had lost badly at piquet, a game at which she excelled, and had more than once needed to ask the older woman to repeat something she had said. She explained away her distraction by saying she was tired from the unaccustomed exertion of riding all day. Dodo had nodded, but her eyes were thoughtful and so May had excused herself and was on her way to bed. She wanted to be up and gone by first light.
She had not been able to rid herself of the memory of Etienne’s kiss. Hannah undressed her, brushed out her long hair and tucked her into bed, but May did not say a word other than “Good night.” Alone, at last, the full force of the memory washed over her.
His beard had been scratchy and he had not bathed for days, so the full musky scent of the man had hit her. And yet rather than finding it revolting it had excited her. She had breathed in the scent of Etienne, breathed in his essence, it almost seemed to her, as he had taken her lips in a possessive kiss.
And then he had touched her with his tongue, pushing through her sealed lips with one swift, demanding stroke that had shocked her to the core and yet thrilled her deeply. She was suddenly aware of every inch of his body that touched hers.
In the darkness she shivered and turned over, burrow
ing under the covers, the cool linen of her sheets becoming warm from her flaming cheeks. Did she most long for morning or fear it? She wanted to see him again, but that was only out of concern for his well-being, was it not? She wanted to know if he was sleeping well, or if he tossed and turned like she did.
She had not had so much trouble sleeping for years. Not since the trouble with Beaty.
Beaty was Miss Beatrice Moreland, her governess from the time May was seven or eight until she was fourteen. Beaty couldn’t have been more than twenty-one when she first came to Lark House, but she stood in the stead of the mother Maisie van Hoffen could never be to her little girl. Beaty was warm and affectionate, good-natured and intelligent.
The governess had changed May’s life with her loving guidance. They had spent mornings in the schoolroom, but afternoons they would ride and talk, read, visit, sew . . . even gossip. Everywhere they went, they went with linked arms and happy expressions.
Until that fateful day, the day May discovered that her beloved governess was also a woman more like May’s mother than she ever could have believed. Even now, nine or so years later, the feeling of betrayal lingered.
After that day May had, at her own request, gone away to school. It was easier than facing Beaty with the new knowledge of her friend and governess. It had taken months before she could think of Beatrice without a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, though she had never stopped missing her. Gradually though, in time, Miss Parsons, the headmistress at the Maxwell School, had helped her grow out of her “inappropriate attachment”—as Miss Parsons termed it—to her former teacher.
Miss Parsons was strict, and commanded a sternly moral school. It had given May, confused and frightened by her governess’s actions, a wholesome influence and a set of moral principles to cling to, something neither her mother nor her governess had spent too much time on, she realized now. She had pulled May from her depression and set her on the road to maturity guided by moral rectitude, not moral lassitude.
The Rogue's Folly Page 5
