Mathieu slid closer to her on the bench. She had decided to accept his proposal in the morning, but he was already behaving as though the answer had been given. As the actors appeared onstage, their faces heavily painted with white paste, Mathieu squeezed her roughly against him and kissed her neck with fevered lips. She stared straight ahead, concentrating on the play, listening to the verses that the players recited, their resonant voices booming out over the length of the galerie. She did not want to make a scene by pushing Mathieu away, and, after all, what did it matter? She might as well get used to his attentions.
The play was rather good, and well presented, a trifling piece about unrequited love and broken hearts. Since it was a tragicomedy, it would all come right in the end, as the audience well knew; but the path to happiness was strewn with some suffering and many impassioned speeches. Well written, Ninon thought idly, and the verses were facile. She did not particularly care for the leading lady. The women, of course, wore no white makeup, but Ninon thought it might have improved the leading lady’s sour expression if they had managed at least to paint on a smile! And she was dressed in an extremely unattractive gown. Very highwaisted, in a style that had not been worn for twenty years. It made her seem large and lumpish.
Ninon stirred uncomfortably. Mathieu withdrew his heavy arm from her shoulders and stretched. Thanks be to God the play was coming to an end; she could flee his possessive grasp, his hot mouth, and seek her room. She looked up. Philippe was watching her, his eyes boring into her with an expression that made her tremble. She turned away, determinedly concentrating on the players. He tried to catch her eye again, but she avoided his glance, feeling a thrill of fear and excitement clutch at her heart. The leading man had begun a long speech, declaring his love. Ninon closed her eyes. She would listen to the play. She would not look at Philippe.
“My heart, a singing lark, by Cupid’s dart transfixed,
Now flutters in love’s cage, its songs of freedom stilled.
A willing captive bound by bright eyes and soft lips,
It beats in silent thrall, ’twixt tender pain and joy.”
Ninon nearly gasped aloud, moved and frightened by the rightness of the speech for this very moment. She opened her eyes and shot a wild glance at Philippe. He too had understood the couplets, and now he stared at her, his eyes burning, as though the words had been spoken by his heart to hers.
The play was over. The guests had begun to file into the grande salle for supper. Frantically Ninon pushed Mathieu away from her as the servants prepared to take up their duties once again. Philippe was still watching her, ravishing her with his eyes. She could not think. She could not reason. She could only flee—down the long stairs, into the dark night, the safety of the wooded park.
But she had not escaped him. As she stopped to catch her breath, he was there, his arms holding her fast, his mouth seeking hers. “Please, Philippe,” she panted, “let me go.”
He frowned and glared at her, as he tried to slow his racing breath. “Tell me you don’t want me to hold you, to kiss you!” he growled at last. “Tell me!”
How could she fight against her destiny? She sighed and melted into his arms, surrendering her lips, her heart. His kiss was sweet and wonderful—she felt warmed and protected by his love. It was the end of her search. Her dreams had come true.
He took her by the hand and led her through the moonlit night to the summerhouse, pulling her inside and enveloping her in his embrace. This time the hands that held her were not so gentle, and his kiss bruised her mouth. She felt the first stirrings of uneasiness; backing out of his arms, she was dismayed to see that his face, in the light that streamed through the door, was tense with desire, his soft eyes black and glittering. No. No! This was not how it was supposed to be! Her fantasies had always ended with tender kisses, and nothing more.
“Philippe, please. No…please…” she began softly.
“Name of God, Ninon! I have waited so long. I must have you!” He pulled her back into his arms, his lips grinding on hers, his tongue invading her mouth, his roving hands roughly stroking her back and kneading her buttocks as though he would overcome her resistance by the force of his passion.
“Sweet Madonna…no!” she gasped, pushing him away with all her might. It was too soon. Their love was still too fragile for such unbridled lust. She wanted to be loved by her Prince Charming, not taken like a common whore by a hot-eyed animal.
He stared at a patch of moonlight on the rush-strewn floor, his mouth set in a petulant line. “You said you loved me. Was it a lie?”
“No. Ah Dieu, no!”
“Yet you refuse me.”
“Philippe…I…”
“You let Couteau touch you tonight,” he growled angrily. “Do you love him as well, that he may claim you before all the world? Caress you? Kiss you?”
“Stop…please…” she choked.
“Do you know how I am suffering?” He reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, placing her open palm against the swollen bulge at his groin. “There! And only you, only you, my sweet Ninon, can restore me.”
She pulled her hand away, the touch, the hardness of him bringing an edge of panic to her voice. “I cannot. Please, Philippe. I cannot. Forgive me.”
He stared at her for a long time, seeing her tremble, remembering the frightened child she had been, the frightened child she could become again if he was clumsy in his wooing. “No. Forgive me,” he said softly. “I shall scarcely force you against your will.” He took her face in both his hands and smiled down at her. “Only let me kiss you for a little.” He kissed her mouth tentatively, his lips closed, his gentle fingers stroking her cheeks, her soft earlobes, until he felt her begin to relax against him. “Why do you hide your beautiful hair?” He removed her cap and pulled out her hairpins, running his fingers through the loose curls, breathing the sweet fragrance of her tresses. “My sweet Ninon…pretty little bird…how dear you are to me. I thought I should die when he touched you.”
“Oh, Philippe,” she whispered. “I could not bear his mouth.”
“Let my kisses cleanse your sweet flesh.” He allowed his lips to stray from her face to her neck, and from there to the rounded swell of her bosom above the lace of her chemise. When she made no move to break away, he undid the first few hooks of her bodice and folded back the fabric, caressing her heaving breast through her thin chemise. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, little moans of pleasure coming from her parted lips. Emboldened, he released the last hooks of her bodice and slid the garment off her shoulders to the floor. Before she could protest, he had put his arms around her and kissed her, his mouth softly ravishing hers until he knew she had relaxed her guard once more. Swiftly, with practiced hands, he unfastened the hooks of her skirt and petticoat and pushed them down over her hips. Her eyes flew open and she stared down at herself, clad now only in her brief chemise, which barely reached to her knees.
“Philippe!” she cried in alarm.
“No. Let me look at you, Ninon. Sweet, beautiful Ninon.” His voice was caressing and commanding at the same time. “Show me your body, my beautiful love. Take off your chemise. For me, my love.”
I must be mad, she thought, her shaking fingers plucking at the drawstring of her chemise. But how could she refuse him, when he melted her heart with his loving words?
He knelt before her naked body, his eyes worshipful, like a man at a holy shrine. Reaching up, he encircled her hips with his hands and pulled her down to her knees in front of him. “My little bird,” he whispered. “How you fill my heart and my dreams. I think I have always loved you, all unknowing. From the moment I first kissed you at the inn. Do you remember?”
She smiled and put her arms around his neck. “I have never forgotten.” She kissed him softly, letting her senses reel out of control, feeling his hands on her naked flesh, his heart beating close to her bosom. She was not quite aware how it happened, but suddenly she was on her back, stretched out on her discarded petticoat an
d skirt, and he was on top of her, his hands libertine in their haste, his mouth hot and hard on hers.
“Ninon…sweet love…” he panted, the words tumbling out of him, “dearest Ninon…I shall not hurt you…I promise…I shall not hurt you…” He spread her legs beneath him, then knelt between her inviting thighs, fumbling impatiently among the ribbons at the fly buttons of his breeches.
She began to tremble, torn between longing and dismay. Sweet Madonna! She had not meant for this to happen. He had said he would not force her. And he had not. Then why did she feel helpless, powerless, as though she had just lost a battle?
“Ho! Monsieur le Comte! Monsieur de Froissart!”
About to release his burning manhood from its beribboned prison, Philippe cursed and leaned back on his heels. “Damn! Henriette has set her dogs to look for me! The bitch!” He jumped to his feet, straightening his tousled garments, refastening his breeches. “If I stay here, they will find us both. Ninon, forgive me. Sweet Ninon. One more kiss.” He knelt to her and found her mouth. Then he was gone.
Holy Mother, she thought. Look at me. Spread wide like a naked strumpet—on a straw-covered floor—sighing with thwarted passion because my lover lacked but a second to pierce my maidenhead and leave me bleeding, while he fled to his wife. It was so ugly, so sordid. Not at all like her dreams.
With a sob, she rolled over on her side and wept.
Ninon hurried down the marble staircase and into the morning sunshine. It was a warm day; she had put only a sleeveless jerkin over her linen chemise. It would suffice. She crossed the stableyard, passing the troupe of actors busy packing to leave, piling their large open wagon with rolls of scenery and stage furniture, musical instruments and boxes of costumes.
If she went out through the frontispiece—the decorative main gate—of Marival, she could walk in the sunshine undisturbed while she collected her thoughts. Philippe might seek her in the gardens and the wooded park at the rear of the château; he would not think to look for her beyond the walls.
She had set the boys at their lessons, then hesitated about going to breakfast. Mathieu would be in the common room waiting for her answer. And she could not stay in the château. She knew Philippe wished to see her as well; Agathe had already told her so. He would not confront her while she was with the children, of course, but—after last night—she was not ready to face him.
Not that she hadn’t reached a decision. She had tossed and turned all night, hearing the unwelcome voice of reason. Best to remain a virgin, best not to start an affair that could bring her nothing save grief. What kind of love could they share? She had scant hope for marriage—Henriette would never give him up. It would be like last night, always hiding, seeking out dark corners and stolen moments. Better not to start.
“Adèle, have you seen Mademoiselle Guillemot this morning?”
Ninon gasped. It was Philippe’s voice at a side door. She would never reach the frontispiece without being seen. Swiftly she ducked into a stable, cool and shadowy after the sunny courtyard. There were three stone rooms, connected by arched open doorways, unused at the moment while the roof was being repaired. The stone floor was strewn with large piles of straw and hay, and rusting tools hung from the rafters. Ninon hurried to the middle room and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply to stop the pounding of her heart.
“Ninon! Why do you run away from me this morning?” Philippe stood in the first doorway and smiled at her, his eyes warm with desire. “And after last night…? Come and kiss me, my sweet.”
She trembled. “No. Last night was…the finish. No more.”
“You cannot mean that.” He came close to her, holding out his arms. “My sweet little bird, who is so dear to me. And you love me, n’est-ce pas?” She nodded. “Say it. Say ‘I love you, Philippe.’”
“I love you, Philippe,” she whispered. It was a cry of agony, torn from her heart.
“Then lie with me here. Now. Open for me, little bird. Give me your sweetness.”
“Dieu du ciel! Not here.”
“Then meet me tonight. In the same place. The summerhouse in the park.”
“No!” she cried, clinging desperately to the last shred of reason and common sense, lest his sweet words sweep them away. “I shall marry Couteau.”
“I’ll kill him before I let him touch you. You are mine! You belong to me!”
She felt a surge of hope at the strength of his love. The Church granted annulments somewhat readily, and certainly to a wealthy nobleman. Perhaps…“And what of Henriette?” she asked softly.
“What does Henriette have to do with my love for you?” He reached out to her, folding her in his embrace. His voice dropped to a soft caress. “Dear little bird, fluttering in my arms. I shall not let you fly away.”
“Ah Dieu! Why do you torment me, Philippe?”
“I long to hold your soft body again—to see your velvet skin glowing in the moonlight. Let me feel you trembling beneath me again. Please, Ninon. I shall die of love.”
“No…ah, no…” she panted, feeling her resolve weakening.
“I shall kiss every inch of your sweet body tonight,” he murmured. “Tonight, my dearest. At ten.”
“No…please…”
He kissed her gently. “At ten.” Smiling softly like a man who knows he has won, he left her alone.
She wrung her hands, staring up at the dusty rafters. “Sweet Madonna, what shall I do?” she cried aloud to the impersonal walls.
She heard a low laugh, sardonic and ugly. A devil’s laugh. She whirled about in stunned surprise. In the doorway to the far room was a man, leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded across his bare chest. He held a towel in one hand, and his broad shoulders were still wet; she guessed he had been washing up in the next room. For a moment she almost thought he was the devil, appearing so suddenly to startle her. Perhaps that was why her heart was racing, and her stomach was tingling in a peculiar way.
And surely he looked like a devil. Straight black hair, swept back from his forehead and falling just to his shoulders, glittering eyes as black as his hair, a handsome mouth twisted in a mocking grin. No cloven hoof, but there was a deep cleft in his chin that made him appear all the more satanic. His tall body was thin-hipped and hard, the broad expanse of his chest covered with a thick mat of black hair that tapered over his stomach and vanished into a point at the top of his low-slung breeches, like an insolent arrow pointing to the source of his power.
Ninon felt her blood boil. How dare the man eavesdrop on her and Philippe, then flaunt himself before her? She had not seen him before at Marival—a retainer who had come with one of the guests, no doubt. Curse the man! She would see to it that Philippe had him severely reprimanded.
He laughed again, a low rumble in his throat, and nodded politely at her, though the gesture seemed more derisive than humble. “Your pardon…Ninon…isn’t it? But you certainly don’t look like a fool! I recognized Monsieur le Comte’s voice, but my curiosity was piqued. I had to see the idiot who would listen to such words, let alone play the whore for a man like that.”
She gasped in shock, her jaw dropping open, too astonished at the man’s effrontery to say a word.
He threw down his towel and swaggered over to her, his eyes raking her from top to bottom until she quivered, feeling stripped of her chemise by that insulting glance. “For a body like that, a man would say anything!”
This time she found her voice. “Hold your tongue,” she said indignantly, “or I shall see to it that your master thrashes you!”
He shrugged off the threat. “Mon Dieu,” he sneered, “are you so hungry for love that you believe him? That you give him your body time and again?” His face darkened, the black eyes glittering with contempt. “I have seen sluts in my time, but never a one so wide-eyed and foolish.”
Sweet Madonna, she thought, why was she standing here listening to this half-naked savage? “Get out of my way.”
He swept an imaginary hat off his head and bowed low.
“Of course…Ninon. Sweet, lovely Ninon. Little bird. Let me kiss you. Let me feel you trembling beneath me. Were those not his words?” His voice was sharp with mockery. “But that was scarcely what he meant, I think. Shall I tell you the words that I heard, while he beguiled you with his flattery? Gullible Ninon, let me put my hard prickle inside you, when I will, as I will—and call it Love!”
It was too much for her to swallow her anger, as was her wont; to pretend that his vicious words had not hurt her. With a shriek she leaped for him and slapped him hard across the face. His eyes narrowed angrily. His hand lashed out, the open palm catching her across her cheek so that she staggered back a step. She gasped in surprise, her fingers cradling her stinging face. “Say what you will,” she breathed at last, “but Monsieur le Comte would never strike a woman!”
Again the mocking bow. “True enough. But I, mademoiselle, would not bed one woman while I was married to another!”
“He does not love her—nor she him,” she said defensively. “What you call ‘flattery’ are words of love to me. He does me honor by holding my heart in such esteem!”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Honor?”
Why did the man disquiet her so, make her shiver with uneasiness, his black eyes boring into her soul? “How can you know? A man like you…I can scarce imagine that love has ever touched you!”
He blanched at that, his face turning so pale that the marks of her fingers glowed red upon his cheek. His nostrils flared in helpless fury, and a small muscle worked in his jaw. Ninon glared in triumph and turned, making for the door. In two strides he reached her and swung her around with rough hands, one arm going about her waist, the other encircling her shoulders. He pulled her hard against his chest and bent to her mouth, his lips hot on hers, pressing, insistent. She struggled against him for a moment, fighting desperately against his powerful grip, then surrendered and closed her eyes, feeling herself drained of will, her head spinning, her heart beating frantically in her bosom. Savagely his tongue plundered her mouth, until she quivered and felt as though her legs would give way beneath her. She had never been so overwhelmed by a kiss before; when at last he released her, she swayed back against his arm, her fingers pressed to her mouth, blue eyes wide with shock.
Dreams So Fleeting Page 7
