Le Chevalier

by Mary Jean Adams

  She set it back down and drew her hand away. Despite its lightness, as an instrument of death, she couldn’t equate it to the man she knew. She knew he was a chevalier, a knight, but up until now, she had always thought of him as a refined gentleman. Of course, even the knights of old had a duty to do. She wondered if he had ever killed anyone.

  She trailed the tips of her fingers along the aged leather but resisted the urge to pull the sword out and examine it closer. She didn’t think herself quite ready to see that side of him.

  She twisted around to inspect the rest of the room, and her eyes were drawn to the portrait of Christiana. Even as the woman gazed at her lover, the flicker of light from the fireplace below imbued the painting with lifelike shadows. At that moment, she would not have been surprised if Christiana turned her head to look down at her.

  Studying the woman’s face, Alex smiled at her fanciful thoughts. She didn’t know much about art, but she supposed the artist must have had great skill to create a painting so lifelike it seemed to move.

  Tilting her head, she let her whimsy lead her, imagining what Christiana thought about the intruder in her lover’s bedchamber. To her surprise, a sense of curiosity overwhelmed her. Perhaps Christiana had it in her nature to be curious much the same way Alex did.

  “What did you do to win him, I wonder?” she whispered.

  Of course, she already knew the answer to her question. Christiana had to be the most beautiful woman Alex had ever seen and probably from a noble family as well. Her gown looked to be made of brocade silk. A golden, embroidered fleur-de-lis pattern lined the front panel of her petticoat and her snow-white muff looked to be made of ermine.

  Depending on one’s tastes, she might be considered even more beautiful than Angelina. While Angelina had a dark, exotic beauty, Christiana’s blonde beauty had the purity of an angel.

  Alex sighed. How could a woman like her ever compare to that?

  Alex studied herself in the gilt floor mirror in the corner of Mont Trignon’s bedroom and laughed. She wore a man’s suit cobbled together from clothing left behind over the years at the tavern. Her auburn hair lay plastered to her scalp, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. Indeed, how could she ever compare?

  Resigning herself to her own shortcomings, she kicked off her shoes and scrunched her toes into the thick carpets covering the polished oak floors of the bedroom. Freed from the two most confining restrictions, her ill-fitting wig and pointed shoes, her headache eased a bit more. She shed the rest of her garments one by one, leaving them to pool where they fell.

  Naked and shivering, she eyed the closed door. He hadn’t locked it, but she didn’t have a key either. Still, she didn’t think she would see him or the Montgomery servants the rest of the night. Just to be safe, however, she grabbed a towel from the stand and carried it with her to the tub.

  Dipping a toe, she tested the water. The welcome warmth seeped into her sore foot.

  Alex settled herself into the tub with a soft splash, holding the towel aloft in one hand. Once seated, she spread the towel, as wide as one of her bed sheets, over the tub so it formed a protective barrier yet remained dry. Only her head and bare shoulders remained visible.

  Alex sank down, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the back of the brass tub, so long and deep even her bent knees didn’t stick above the surface of the water. As the tension in her neck melted away, she forgave Nell’s brother for making so much noise if it meant she could enjoy this moment of uninterrupted bliss.

  Alex’s eyes flew open when the door latch released with a click. Even though the towel concealed her nakedness, she ducked down, bringing the tip of her nose level with its edge.

  “Bon, you are still bathing,” Mont Trignon said, entering the room as though on a mission. “I came to help you with your hair.”

  “My hair?” Alex asked, noting the way his flowed over his shoulders freed from the leather tie he usually wore.

  Dark furrows left behind by a comb ran through his golden hair and small strands stuck to his neck.

  He had on a pair of men’s slippers, but at least a portion of his naked calves showed before his legs disappeared beneath rich silk. Of course, his nakedness could not compare to hers. Not even her brother had seen her in the bath since she had passed the age of ten. She ducked down further.

  “Cigar smoke has a way of penetrating every strand, even if you wear a wig. If you do not remove it completely, you will never be able to sleep,” he said, showing no awareness of her discomfort or the complete impropriety of his presence. “Plus, you will make my sheets smell.”

  Alex withdrew a dripping hand from beneath the towel, lifted an auburn lock, and held it to her face. Her nose burned as she inhaled. She had assumed the sickly odor of smoke hanging in the air came from the clothes piled in a heap on the floor, but the scent from her hair made her gag.

  “I can do this myself,” she said.

  Ignoring her comment, Mont Trignon approached the tub, an oak bucket filled with water and a small pail in hand. He smiled when his gaze reached her towel but said nothing.

  Alex pulled the towel closer to her neck as he settled himself behind her head.

  “Do not worry. I will not peek.”

  Her shoulders shuddered with exhilaration at the suggestion.

  “I’m not worried,” she said, looking up at the portrait.

  Why would he find her enticing when the beautiful Christiana looked down on them from her exalted place above the mantel?

  Thankfully, Christiana gazed to the side. Alex didn’t think she could bear the woman’s looking at her.

  Perhaps a trick of the firelight, the corner of the lovely woman’s lips turned up. Alex scowled at her. Did Christiana take delight in her discomfort?

  She stiffened as Mont Trignon pulled the remaining pins from her hair and spread her long locks over the edge of the tub. His fingertips brushed the exposed skin of her shoulders, and she shivered at the unfamiliar yet thrilling feel of male hands against her softer feminine skin.

  “I am going to need some of your water,” he said. “I could only carry enough for a rinse. I will look away while you fill this.” He handed the pail to Alex.

  Alex craned her neck to be sure he had looked away as promised then peeled back her towel and ducked the pail into the water. Pulling her towel back, she held the pail aloft so Mont Trignon could reach it.

  He poured an even stream of water over her hair, careful to wet all of the strands. After a slight pause and a short pop, the air filled with the pungent aroma of sage as he rubbed his hands together. Then he entwined his strong fingers in her wet hair, kneading her scalp.

  The tingling started at the roots of her hair, traveled down to the tips of each finger, down her legs and all the way into her toes. She closed her eyes and gave into the sensation as it robbed the strength from her limbs. When he pushed her forward, she let herself be manipulated. He rewarded her by working the back of her neck. After a moment, he leaned her back against the edge of the tub again.

  Then he raised the oak bucket and poured another stream of warm water over her hair.

  “There, that should remove the smell,” he said. “You might want to replace your towel though.”

  Alex sat up straight and grasped the soaked towel about her. At some point during his ministrations, it had slipped and lain floating in the tub, skimming the edge of her left breast. Just before she snatched the towel to her, she glimpsed one pink and puckered nipple peaking above the water. From his vantage point behind her head, he had to have seen it too.

  “Here,” he said, bringing her a fresh towel. He held it out to her but turned his head away and shut his eyes. Clearly, he expected her to rise with him still in the room. Surprising herself with her brazenness, she did.

  She wrapped the towel about herself as she stepped out of the tub. It reached past her knees, giving her a sense of comfort even though her bare feet and ankles remained exposed.

  “Marie’s wardrob
e does not extend to nightdress,” he said, turning back to her with a shrug.

  “I’m much relieved,” Alex quipped, tucking the edges of the towel about her.

  Mont Trignon smiled at her jest, but not the easy-going smile with which she had become so familiar. His lips curled up at the corners, but at the same time, they were set in a hard line in his square jaw. His hazel eyes had turned to the dark green of the Pennsylvanian forests.

  Alex shivered despite the warmth of the room and covered one naked foot with the other as though it preserved at least some of her modesty.

  “You may wear one of my shirts,” he said. His voice sounded constricted.

  Moving to his dresser, he opened a drawer, pulled out a clean linen shirt, and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking it with one hand while she held the towel closed with the other.

  He mumbled something unintelligible in French that sounded like an oath before turning and leaving her alone in his room again.

  Alex glanced at Christiana. The woman’s hint of a smile had disappeared, and Alex thought she detected a wistful look in her eyes.

  “Are you disappointed in me?” she asked. “Surely, you don’t expect to share him with another woman, do you?”

  Alex half anticipated a response, but Christiana remained silent.

  She let the towel fall to the floor and pulled Mont Trignon’s shirt over her head. The hem fell past her knees.

  “Of course, perhaps you are more realistic than I,” she said, surveying herself in the mirror.

  The shirt covered her, but the fabric had a filmier quality than the course cotton and linens she usually wore. The glow from the fire accentuated the shadows of her curves and hinted at more hidden beneath the soft material. The fabric caressed her breasts, and her nipples puckered until they jutted against their snow-white veil.

  The shiver of decadent pleasure running from the tips of her breasts to the pit of her belly emboldened her.

  “You know you cannot have him while he is here in America. Yet, you are equally sure he will return to you in France.”

  It struck her as odd to be talking to a portrait of a woman she had never known, yet somehow comforting, as if she and Christiana were bound to each other through their mutual love of the same man. Of course, Christiana had already laid claim to him, while Alex based her relationship with Mont Trignon on a tenuous friendship at best.

  She picked up the comb from his dresser and raked it through her hair. “What would you have me do, Christiana? I don’t have your charms to recommend me.” Alex paused mid-stroke and smiled. “Of course, I am in his bedroom in the middle of the night, whereas you are somewhere in France. Tonight, I think, the advantage is mine.”

  Laughter erupted from her. Could she be so bold as to seduce the chevalier?

  She drank the rest of her tea, savoring the fresh taste even though it had grown cold. She poured a little more from the pot and drank it, swishing it around in her mouth a bit to remove the stale taste of the cigar and worse.

  The door opened, and Mont Trignon paused just inside. His gaze traveled over her and lingered on her white calves and bare feet. Alex made no move to cover herself this time.

  “Did I hear you speaking to somebody?” he asked, striding over to her and taking the comb from her hand.

  “No, of course not,” she said.

  She couldn’t let him know she had been talking to the portrait of his lover. He would think her mad. He might think even worse of her if he knew the details of their conversation.

  She let him lead her to a footstool in front of the fireplace. He stood behind her and began working the rest of the tangles from her hair as it dried from the heat of the blaze.

  Alex sighed as she lifted her chin to give him fuller access.

  “Does it feel good when I comb your hair?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, in a breathy voice, closing her eyes. Her body had grown limp, and his hands in her hair robbed her of the energy to say more.

  “You have beautiful hair,” he said, letting one of the drying locks slide through his fingers. “I believe it was one of the reasons I noticed you the night of the Lancasters’ ball. Even with that plain chignon knotted at the nape of your neck and your horrible dress, you could not hide your real beauty.”

  Beauty? He thought her beautiful?

  Alex opened her eyes and looked up to find him gazing down at her. Before she knew it, he swung around her and sunk to his knees, his back to the fireplace. He cradled her cheeks in his hands and searched her face, opening his mouth a couple of times as though to speak. Each time, he closed his lips when no words came out.

  With a pained sigh, he lowered his lips to hers. Alex did not hesitate before raising her hand to his face and running her fingertips along the sharp edge of his whiskers. He smelled of the same sage potion he had used in her hair. His lips tasted of the mint from the tea.

  He pulled away too soon but leaned his forehead against hers, and eyes closed, he sighed again.

  Why wouldn’t he speak? Alex searched for something to say, anything to get him talking and give her insight into what troubled him.

  “Is this where we further our relationship?” she asked.

  The question held an unspoken invitation, but she didn’t care.

  He choked on his laughter. “Non, chérie, it is not the right time.”

  He rose, turned his back to her, and stared into the fire.

  Deprived of his enveloping warmth, a cold draft washed over her from the dark recesses of the room.

  Alex’s chest constricted, his rejection making it difficult for her to breathe. She knew she should feel humiliated, but the flames of desire making her ache with the need to touch him left no room for anything else. She wanted to reach out and lay her hand on the velvet covering his broad shoulders. She imagined her fingers closing around the supple fabric and pulling him to her. She imagined tugging the coat from his shoulders.

  Perhaps in the morning she would think differently. She vowed not to think until then.

  He turned to look at her, his hazel eyes darkening to pools of black as his gaze raked her from her bare, shapely calves to the hair dampening the front of her shirt until it lay plastered against her breasts.

  She studied his face, not knowing what to say. What did a woman say to a man when she wanted him to make love to her? Christiana, what would you have me say?

  With a pained sigh, he walked to the side of his bed and pulled back the thick burgundy and gold quilt.

  “Time for bed, chérie,” he said, his tired smile the only evidence of the late hour.

  “Where will you sleep?” she asked, burying her disappointment as she crawled in and he tucked the covers under her chin.

  “My study,” he replied. “Nell has provided me with some extra pillows and blankets.”

  “You could stay with me,” she said, the words tumbling from her lips before she could stop them.

  He searched her face for a moment and then said, “Better an uncomfortable night on the chaise longue in my study than an even more uncomfortable night next to you.”

  There could be no mistaking the rejection this time, and its sharp stab pierced her heart.

  “Good night, ma bichette.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  As he straightened, Alex turned away, so he would not see the tears stinging her eyes.

  Sleep refused to come for a long while, so she studied the portrait of Christiana illuminated by the dying light of the fire. The golden glow emphasized the longing in the woman’s eyes as she gazed at her unseen lover.

  “I know just how you feel, Christiana,” Alex said. “But I don’t think you need to worry. It seems he is still yours.”

  Sometime in the middle of the night, Alex stirred and drifted in and out of a pleasant dream. She dreamt Mont Trignon had returned to his bed, climbed in beside her and nestled against her back. The fire had all but burned out, but the heat from his body along the
length of her made her warm and cozy. His arm encircled her waist, his thumb stroking the underside of her breast beneath the linen shirt she wore.

  In the hazy recesses of her mind, she recalled someone once saying you could never know you were dreaming whilst in a dream. With a sleepy smile, she decided she had proven that one wrong.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sunlight streaming through gaps in the thick curtains jolted Alex awake. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes while guessing at the time. If it were afore noon, Molly would be at the tavern, getting things ready for the day. Even if it were later, it wouldn’t hurt her to sleep in every once in a while.

  She yawned and stretched, expecting to be sore from lack of sleep and the vivid dreams haunting her during the night, but in truth, she had never felt better. Her head no longer throbbed, and as her gnawing stomach reminded her, her appetite had returned.

  She smiled and glanced at the other side of the bed, half-anticipating rumpled bedclothes and an indentation left by Mont Trignon’s body, but the fluffed pillows and smoothed sheets indicated it had been just a dream, after all.

  She looked up at the portrait of Christiana. While still a masterful painting of a beautiful woman, it looked two-dimensional in contrast to the spirited form she had imagined last night.

  Alex laughed at her foolishness. To be talking to the portrait of Mont Trignon’s lover and imagining the lady spoke back through her expressive and beautiful face went beyond reason.

  She sighed and swung her bare feet out of bed. Sitting on the edge of the feather mattress, she brought her fingertips to her lips, remembering the honeyed taste of his kiss. Last night had been madness.

  Relief filled her when she recalled his distant response to her offer to spend the night with him. Thankfully, she hadn’t found the courage to press him. His kiss had ignited her senses and made her say shameless things, but from his cold response, she gathered the kiss hadn’t meant as much to him as it had to her. Thanks to his lack of interest, morning had dawned with her dignity intact, more or less.

  She reached for the dressing gown lying over the back of a chair and wrapped the sash about her waist. She had just knotted it when Mont Trignon strode in bearing a tray.