Leonie was spared the horror of that, owing her total concentration on Roger. Just as Marot released him, his hands had fallen limply. For one instant Leonie thought she had been too late, but then she heard the breath rattle into his abused throat and knelt beside him. Fifi approached, circling Marot’s now-still corpse, growling and then whimpering and curvetting her body, tail half between her legs, half wagging, hoping this time to be recognized. So many people, who in the past had always petted her and fed her, had driven her away with kicks and blows, that Fifi had feared to approach even this most beloved scent.
Roger was breathing in deep, painful gasps, which reassured Leonie enough to permit her to turn her head from him to the dog. “Hush, Fifi,” she whispered, “hush. Come here.”
The whimpering stilled. Fifi knew what “hush” meant. Trembling, crouching close to the ground, the spaniel approached and achieved heaven. A gentle hand patted her head, gathered her close. Fifi, silent as she had been ordered, vibrated with joy.
Holding the little bitch close, with Roger beginning to stir, Leonie was suddenly, senselessly happy. An enormous burden seemed to have lifted from her soul. She could have laughed aloud for joy. She had not forgotten that her family was all gone, but Marot, he who had destroyed them, was dead also—a debt paid in full! Without realizing she was doing it, Leonie closed the ledger that recorded her bitterness and hate. She was well aware that her troubles were not over, that hunger and cold and danger were still to be endured, but with Roger beside her, and a big pot of gold at the end the rainbow, she was no longer afraid.
“Run. Hide.”
The cracked whisper drew Leonie’s eyes to Roger. Sense had returned to him and he was trying to lift himself away from her so that she could escape to safety.
“There is no one to run from,” Leonie assured him softly, helping him to sit up. “He only cried out twice, and that was a long time ago. If others were with him and had heard, they would have come already, but there has not been a sound.” She looked down, released the little dog. “Who hides, Fifi? Who hides?”
That was a familiar command. Leonie and François had often played a form of hide and seek with the little dog, one holding her while the other hid. She would then search out the concealed one. Later the game had been expanded to warn Leonie of unwelcome visitors. In the year or two preceding the disruption of her life, Leonie had been plagued by suitors who were not to her taste, and Fifi had been taught to warn Leonie when one of them was about. Delighted at the renewal of a familiar task, Fifi darted away.
Roger opened his mouth to protest, to ask where the attacker had gone and why he had not finished killing him, but only a croak came out. Upright now, he had seen the dark form only a foot away. Leonie drew her eyes from the shadows where Fifi had disappeared and saw where Roger was looking.
“Who?” he got out over the pain of his bruised larynx.
“Marot,” Leonie replied. “That was Marot, the man who…” Her voice wavered but then grew firm. “Who raped me in front of my father. I killed him.”
Roger croaked again, which was about all he would have been able to do even if he had not nearly been choked to death. He did not know which shocked him more, what had been done to Leonie or what she had been able to do. Nor did he know whether he was appalled by the relative calm of her voice or proud of it. Roger knew women of every type—really stupid, helpless, fluttering creatures who became paralyzed with fear when asked to do the simplest things without the support of their menfolk; women who pretended helplessness to trap men but whose minds were as hard and cruel as a steel trap; fine woman with brains and strength and courage, like his stepmother and Lady Alice—but all those women had been lapped in luxury and care. Roger had never dreamed a woman could endure terror, physical deprivation, the loss of all those she loved and leaned on and still remain sane—not to mention calm and capable of reacting as Leonie did.
He stared at her and she looked back quietly, then questioningly as she recognized his astonished bewilderment. “What is it?” she asked.
“Are—are you all right?” Roger croaked.
“Yes. Oh yes,” Leonie began, and then she realized there was more to Roger’s questions than a need for reassurance that she had not been physically hurt. “Oh, yes,” she repeated. “It’s all over now. I will still miss Mama and Papa and François, but they can rest in peace. And now I am free to go to England and build a new life.”
Painfully, Roger got to his feet. His knees were still wobbly, and Leonie pulled his arm over her shoulder. From the side of the house, a black-and-white streak sprang forward, growling.
“No!” Leonie commanded, “Here, Fifi. Come here.” The dog obeyed. “This is Roger,” she said. “Friend, Fifi. Roger, friend.” To Roger she said, “It is my little dog. I do not know how she survived, but she is here. She bit Marot so he had to let me go.”
The bitch had stopped stock-still at Leonie’s command, the growls dying away. Roger knelt shakily on one knee and extended a hand slowly. Fifi sniffed the fingers, found a strange male odor—not the scent that had made the goddess cry out with fear—and mixed with the male scent, that of the beloved. Then tentatively, the tail lifted a little, gave a timid, halfhearted wag. Roger reached gently upward, softly caressed the head, stroked the long ears. Up came the tail, wagging furiously as the body twisted sideways. Fifi wanted to love everyone. Far more than hunger and cold, she had suffered from loneliness, from the loss of objects on which to lavish her boundless affection.
Roger gave her another pat, slightly rougher, and whispered, “Good girl. Good Fifi.”
Even through the roughness his bruised larynx gave to his voice, Leonie could hear the distaste with which Roger pronounced the name, and she laughed softly and explained how poor Fifi had come to be called something so ridiculous. Had Roger been able to speak, he would have indignantly pointed out the uses of the King Charles spaniel, a breed with which he was quite familiar, but the pain in his throat warned him that he had better save his efforts for something more practical. Their luck had been phenomenal so far. They had better not push it further.
Originally he had hoped to be able to get his horse and carriage and leave immediately after laying Henry to rest, but that was not possible. He doubted he would have the strength to move the debris with which he had loaded his carriage or to drag it out of the stable. He was barely able to keep to his feet. Besides, they needed time to look in the strong room and hide Marot’s body. If they could have left at once, they could have let it lie where it was. If they had to remain, it would be most unwise to betray the fact that someone had killed Marot on the château grounds.
Roger could have wept with weariness and weakness and pain. His hands were blistered raw and his shoulders ached from wielding pick and shovel. His throat was on fire and he was bruised from the fight with Marot. Hunger gnawed at him and drained his energy. There was nothing he wanted so much as to lie down for a while, but he did not dare stop and rest for fear he would be unable to continue at all. He stared at Marot helplessly, trying to gather the energy to lift the body to his shoulders so that he could conceal it.
“What is wrong?” Leonie asked anxiously. She could not see the expression on Roger’s face because the moon had set and it was too dark, but she could sense his tension.
“Have to hide him,” Roger mumbled and staggered forward a step.
“You cannot carry him yourself,” Leonie said. Roger shrugged angrily. “Wait,” she urged. “I can bring a plank or a wheel from the stable and we can carry him between us on that.”
Before Roger could insist that he would manage on his own out of pure shame and stubbornness, Leonie had darted away into the stable. There she paused momentarily, surprised by the increased dark because she had forgotten that the moon had set. In the stillness she heard the stamp and shuffle of a stalled horse. Uttering only a tiny squeak of delight and laughter at herself—after all, how would Marot have come to the château if not on a horse—she ran into t
he aisle between the horse stalls. In another minute she was out, leading the animal.
Roger’s relief at not needing to carry Marot was so great that his aches and pains diminished and a good part of his energy returned. The problem of what to do with Marot was completely solved. He could ride the horse down the back lane to the road, tie the corpse to the saddle, head the horse back toward Saulieu and give it a good whack. Even if the animal did not return all the way to the town where its stable was, which it might well do, it would go far enough from the château to eliminate all suspicion that Marot had met his death there. Roger did not try to explain all this to Leonie, merely signaled her to hold the horse while he hefted Marot onto it and then mounted himself.
“Hide,” he urged as he turned the horse to the back lane.
Leonie nodded and smiled. Fifi, standing right by her ankle, wagged her tail furiously. Her world was coming right. The bad scent was being taken away. Roger, seeing the wildly agitated tail because its white patches picked up what little light there was, suddenly felt much easier about leaving Leonie alone. The little dog could do virtually nothing to protect her mistress but she could warn her of danger, and Roger did not push away the feeling of comfort.
It took nearly half an hour to walk the horse to the back gate, which made it a very long walk back to the château. Roger simply could not make it without resting for a while, and he was so tired that he fell asleep. That turned out to be most fortunate. The sun rose before he reached his goal and showed him an orchard, its trees laden with fruit. Most of it was not ripe, but some apples more precocious than their fellows lay on the ground. All the delight and pleasurable excitement Roger had felt at the beginning of this venture returned in a rush. It was like a sign that “Someone” was on their side. Chuckling with relief, Roger climbed the low wall, grabbed a ripe apple, and ate it. Then he loaded his pockets with more ripe fruit while he ate another and still another. Feeling like a completely new man, he climbed back over the wall and set out boldly for the château.
The blood from Henry’s wound had long ago dried to indeterminate brown smears. His coat and breeches were torn and filthy, as were his once elegant boots. Those might give him away if anyone knew enough about boots in this rural and unsophisticated area to judge their quality, but that did not worry Roger. If he met anyone, he would be a vagabond. Ruefully he rubbed a hand over his three-day beard and grinned. He might be questioned as a suspicious character, but certainly not one who could be involved in Saulieu’s troubles. And if the questioning grew too forceful… He patted the pistols that lay over the apples in his pockets.
Roger was almost disappointed when no one stopped him. The château was as desolate and deserted as when they had first arrived. Roger did not know of the men who had spent the night in the gatehouse, but even they were gone. They had wakened in the dawn and hurried back to their assigned posts at back and front doors. There they had waited, hungry and thirsty, for their replacements to come or for orders to return. As the sun rose higher, so had their rage and resentment when no relief had come. Finally, fury overmatched fear of Marot. About fifteen minutes before Roger reached the house, they had left it to return to Saulieu and complain of the treatment they had received.
Completely unopposed, Roger made his way to the cellar. Before he even reached the cask, Leonie had rushed out to grab him and sob with relief.
“You were gone so long,” she gasped. “I feel as if I’ve been waiting forever, Roger! What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” Roger assured her, patting her consolingly and explaining what had delayed him. “Here,” he added with a broad smile, “have an apple. Have half a dozen apples. The house and grounds are empty—and I am full.” Then he frowned. “Did you know that? You shouldn’t have rushed out like that. What if I had been someone else?”
“Had to be you,” Leonie mumbled around her mouthful of apple, while Roger bit off pieces of another to feed to the little dog. “Fifi was wagging her tail. She wouldn’t do that for a stranger. Oh, what a lovely breakfast!”
“She’s a friendly little thing,” Roger said doubtfully, “Are you sure she wouldn’t just be glad to see anyone at all?”
“Not Fifi. Oh, she’s friendly enough, but we couldn’t have her cavorting around with the laborers or running into their houses. She has been trained not to approach anyone or permit anyone to approach her, until she is introduced and told ‘friend’. Are you sure the house is empty?”
“No,” Roger answered, tensing. I didn’t search it or even go to the front. It just felt empty. Have you a reason to think someone is hiding?”
“I’m not sure. Some time ago, Fifi got up and listened. I was sure you were coming then, that’s why I was so worried, and she acted nervous and restless until just a little while ago. But no one came down here.”
Roger gnawed his lips for a second. He wanted to be away from this place. Apples were wonderful, but they both needed more substantial food, and Leonie—the cellar was dim, but now that he was not completely distracted by other more urgent needs he could see that she was dressed in filthy rags—needed clothing. Still, if Fifi sensed a presence, her instincts were far more reliable than Roger’s own. It was stupid to take chances. Besides, Roger realized, although he felt much better he really could use a couple of hours’ sleep.
Leonie was quite agreeable. She had not been doing anything physical while Roger rid them of Marot’s body, but she had been too worried and frightened to sleep or really benefit much from the inactivity. In fact, they both fell asleep almost as soon as they lay down, showing clearly that Roger’s decision to wait had been wise. Nor was either troubled by a renewal of the sexual tension that had tortured them earlier. They both had been more tired than they realized.
In the late afternoon Roger wakened with an urgent need to relieve his bowels and bladder. Cursing softly, he extricated himself from the portion of the hanging Leonie had thrown over him and opened the cask. Fifi sat up brightly. The dog showed no sign of wariness now, so Roger stepped out. Perkily, tail waving high, Fifi came with him and darted up the stairs without hesitation. Roger was not quite so incautious. In spite of Leonie’s faith in the little bitch and the evidence of his own eyes about her caution in approaching them, he knew that dogs had infinite, if sometime mistaken, faith in their human companions. Fifi’s confidence might merely reflect her expectation that he would protect her from any danger that threatened.
He was somewhat reassured by the way Fifi paused at the top of the steps to sniff before she trotted out into the corridor, and his confidence was increased when he found that, indeed, the house was empty. A “Who comes, Fifi? Who comes?” sent the dog scampering around the house to return with tail waving—the sign that all was clear, Leonie had told Roger. A scuttling run, tail between legs, was the signal for Leonie to hide because someone was coming. It was safe, Roger hoped, and he went out to the jakes. Even if Fifi was wrong, there was not much danger for him. It was natural for a vagabond to seek shelter in a derelict house. That excuse would still be valid.
No excuse was necessary. House and grounds were empty, except for themselves. Roger made his way through the debris in the stable and extracted his traveling bag from the carriage. Then with a sigh of pleasure he blocked the drain in the scullery sink, pumped it full of water, washed himself free of the accumulated filth of days, and finally shaved. He would have preferred hot water and a shorter beard, but feeling clean and decent was worth the chill and scraping. Clothes were another and more serious problem. He had a shirt, but in full daylight the marks on his coat were, to his eyes, too unmistakably bloodstains. He was just about to sponge the coat when Fifi leaped to her feet. The pistol Roger had taken from his coat pocket was leveled before he saw the dog’s wildly wagging tail.
From the doorway came Leonie’s low laugh. “Oh, Roger, no!”
“No what?”
“There is not a person who would take you for anything except an English gentleman.” Leonie reproved him w
ith laughing eyes.
Roger could feel the color flood into his face. With the words came recognition of what he had done. He had combed his hair, put on a cravat, in general done what he could to his appearance to make him acceptable to a gentlewoman. Although he had not allowed the idea to come into his mind, he was really getting himself ready to court a woman.
“I will be much more the thing when I have cleared the carriage and harnessed the horse,” Roger said repressively, but his blush had betrayed him and Leonie only laughed.
“You had better at least take off the cravat,” she said, and then relenting, “but I am very glad to see you dressed. I had no idea how handsome you are.”
For reply, Roger ripped off the cravat and stalked out of the house to the stable. He did not remain angry long, being fair-minded enough to see that what he had done was funny. Moreover, there was nothing in Leonie’s manner to indicate that she had realized he had been trying to impress her and was laughing at him. She seemed to think he had merely been absentminded and acted by habit. As he pulled broken planks and old rotten straw off and away from the carriage, Roger remembered that Leonie had complimented his looks.
It had been a long time, a very long time, since Roger had considered how his appearance would affect a woman. He had been a reasonably confident youth, but Solange had ripped that confidence to shreds after their marriage. The fact that many women had praised him since then had not changed Roger’s bitterness. Those women had been paid. Some real whores, others established mistresses, but all living on his purse at the mercy of his goodwill. Roger had not for a moment taken anything they said seriously. What could they say when starvation was the way of honesty?
The English Heiress (Heiress, Book One) Page 15
