“I’m all right,” she hastened to assure him. “Go on.”
He resumed his task. “Move your toes, if you can,” he said, and when she complied, he nodded, satisfied. “No, it’s not broken,” he confirmed, and eased her foot to the floor. “But it is swollen. Wait here.”
He took up a pail from its hook on the wall, and departed outside. When he returned a few minutes later, the bucket was full, and when he set it on the floor in front of her, she eased her swollen foot into the cold water with a groan of relief. “Ahh. That feels good.”
“Excellent.” He knelt again by her chair and reached for her other foot. Tess tensed at the contact, but not from pain. Her stomach dipped with a nervous flutter that was not fear as his fingers traced lightly over her skin. A melting heat began in her midsection and spread outward through the rest of her body, and she didn’t know whether to snatch her foot away from his touch or leaning back and savor it, but before she could decide, he spoke again.
“No injuries there,” he said, but it was an unnecessary remark, for at this moment, she felt anything but pain. When he eased her foot into the water, it felt unbelievably good, and yet, she also couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed when he let her go. Never in a thousand years would she have dreamed to feel disappointed because a man didn’t touch her.
Life, Tess thought, was full of surprises.
Chapter Nine
“But I want to move the rook. Shouldn't I take your knight now, while I have the chance?”
Alexandre shook his head. He pointed to one of the pieces on the chessboard between them. “If you do, you leave your queen unprotected.”
“I didn't see that.” Tess frowned down at the board, her thick, chestnut brows drawn together in concentration.
It was her first chess lesson and she wasn't doing too badly. He'd checkmate her in about three moves, but she'd managed to last quite a while. He watched her reach out toward the board and hesitate, her hand poised over her remaining bishop. She bit her lip and glanced at him. He smiled. “Don't keep looking to me for help. If I continue telling you what to do, you won't learn.”
“Beast.” She stuck out her tongue at him and moved the bishop.
Without hesitation, he reached out and moved a pawn two spaces forward.
He studied her in the lamplight as she contemplated her next move. Her hair was still too short to put up, and the loose tendrils that curled around her face and brushed her neck glowed in the lamplight like copper. One, caught by the evening breeze that came through the open window of the library, floated across her eyes and she pushed it back absently as she concentrated on the board between them. Her chair sat at an angle to the chess table with her feet propped up on a padded footstool. He'd bound her swollen ankle with a poultice of crushed comfrey leaves that had reduced the swelling, but she wouldn't be able to walk on it for several days.
She'd frightened him all out of countenance when she'd taken that tumble this afternoon. She could have been badly hurt, and that fact forced him to acknowledge that he couldn’t go wandering off and leave her on her own. What if she'd taken that fall somewhere else and he hadn't been there? What if she'd had a miscarriage? His mouth went dry at the thought, and he reached for the glass of wine at his side.
He had to stay close by. He couldn't let anything happen to her.
Setting down his glass, he returned his attention to her face. The month she'd been in his home had brought about subtle changes. She had gained some weight, he was glad to note. And so was the babe, for her abdomen was noticeably larger, rounder. The planes of her face were still sharp and thin, but they were softening. Her skin was still pale, but it was the creamy tint of any redhead, not the sick gray pallor he'd first seen. Most important, there was no tinge of fear in her eyes, and her bow-shaped lips now curved often into a smile. As a man, Alexandre had appreciated all along that she was a beautiful woman. But he was also beginning to appreciate it as an artist. And that made one fact inevitable. He had to paint her.
“Alexandre?”
He started. “Hmm? What?”
“It's your move.”
He glanced down at the board and moved his bishop. “Checkmate.”
Resting her elbow on the table, she cupped her chin in her hand and sighed. “I knew I should've taken that knight when I had the chance.”
He laughed. “If you had, I'd have checkmated you two moves ago.”
She smiled at the sound of his laughter. “Let's play again.”
“Are you sure you want to? You've had a difficult day and should probably rest.”
“The way I'm playing,” she told him ruefully, “the game won't take very long.”
“You're doing quite well for a beginner,” he assured her as they began moving the pieces back to their original positions. “How is your ankle?”
Glancing to the side, she wiggled her toes experimentally above the white linen binding. “The pain is nearly gone. What did you put on it?”
“Comfrey leaves. It works well for sprains. A poultice of it reduces the swelling.”
“Really? Could you show me how to make them?”
“Are you planning to sprain your other ankle?” he teased.
She laughed. “No, no. Once was enough, I assure you. But...” She paused, then added, “It's only that I'm...well, my ankles are swelling anyway. The heat and the baby and everything...”
Her voice trailed off, and she seemed embarrassed, making him appreciate for the first time that when she was embarrassed, her flushed cheeks revealed a light dusting of freckles. “I'll show you how to make them tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” She cocked her head, looking at him. “How do you know so much about medicinal herbs?”
“Babette.” He smiled, remembering. “Two years ago, I became very ill. Some sort of fever. I thought I was going to die. I had no idea how to take care of it. When I recovered, I went to see Babette and asked her to teach me about herbs, so that if I ever became ill again, I would know what to do.”
“But who is this Babette?”
“She was the local witch, of course. She's dead now.”
“And she was a witch?”
“That's what they say, but really, she was just an old woman who knew a great deal about a lot of things. She had gypsy blood, I believe. As a boy, I was terrified of her.”
Tess nodded with understanding. “We had a woman like that in Ainswick, the village where I grew up. Her name was Mildred Spence. People thought if she muttered something about your cat and looked at you in a strange way, the cat would die. Things like that. Every village probably has an old woman like Mildred.” She laughed. “My father used to become so frustrated by the superstitions. He was the vicar in Ainswick, you see. Sadly, people seem to be much more impressed by the words of a Mildred Spence than those of a vicar.”
He scarcely heard. He was contemplating how he could capture on canvas the glow that lit her eyes when she laughed. Odd how he hadn’t really thought of painting her until now. Perhaps that was because he hadn't thought she'd be staying long enough for it.
He was lost in thought, and it took a few moments for him to realize this was the first time she'd ever confided anything about herself or her past. “Your father was a vicar? Did he teach you Greek?”
She stared at him across the table. “Yes. How did you know?”
“That night when you fell asleep in the library, you had been reading Aristotle. In Greek.”
She fingered a chess piece, smiling. “My father had a passionate interest in the Greek philosophers. He didn't see any reason why I shouldn't be able to understand and appreciate their writings, so he taught me to read and write Greek. He wanted the best for me, always.”
She shifted in her chair and set down the chess piece, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Gesturing toward the board, she asked, “Shall we start our game?”
He took the hint and asked no more questions, but he wondered what a vicar's reaction would be to a pregnant, unwed daug
hter. He wondered very much.
***
Nigel turned his gaze away from the window of his hotel suite, a window that gave a marvelous view of the Seine, and he glared at Martin Trevalyn. “She couldn't have simply disappeared. There has to be some trace of her.”
Martin gave a cough. “Quite so, my lord,” he agreed. “Common sense dictates that she has continued moving south.”
Nigel immediately appreciated the point. “Her funds must be low, so she’s likely to be traveling on foot and would desire a warmer climate.”
Martin consulted the map on the table. “Spain? Italy? The Southern French coast?”
Nigel shook his head impatiently. “There is no point in speculating. We need a better indication of where she is headed. Trevalyn, I want your sources to begin inquiring at the inns along the road from Paris to Lyon. If we can confirm she has been sighted, we can proceed in that direction.”
“Yes, sir.” Martin folded the map and put it in his leather case. He pushed up the spectacles that were sliding down the bridge of his nose and glanced at the earl, who was once again staring out the window. He was emboldened to add, “It may not be easy to find someone who has seen her,” he warned. “Lady Aubry is making a great effort to hide. She does not want to be found.”
Nigel turned, his handsome face hard and uncompromising. “What Lady Aubry wants is hardly your concern, Trevalyn. She is my wife and her place is at my side. I want her found.”
“As you say, sir.” Martin bowed stiffly and left the earl to contemplate the beauty of Paris' Left Bank.
***
“This is silly,” Tess told Alexandre as he carried her through the knee-high grass of the meadow. She had one arm curled about his neck while she clutched the picnic basket and straw hat in her lap with her free hand. “I think my ankle is healed. It doesn't hurt when I put weight on it.”
“It's only been three days,” Alexandre reminded her. “I don't want you walking on it for at least another day.”
Tess didn't argue. She rather liked being carried about by Alexandre. She felt so fat and awkward these days, and it was gratifying that he didn’t seem to have much trouble carting her around. And she could rest her cheek so comfortably in the dent of his shoulder and enjoy the scent of him—lavender and linseed and something more—to her heart's content. Yes, she liked this very much.
He set her down in the midst of wildflowers and gold-green grass, then took the basket from her lap and plunked the straw hat on her head.
“Why did you bring me out here?” she asked, reaching over to peek under the cloth that covered the basket.
“I thought your idea of a picnic was a good one. Don't move. I'll be right back.” She watched him as he returned to the château, suspecting there was more to this than a picnic.
She was proved right a few minutes later, for when he returned, he brought with him a chair from the kitchen, his sketchbook and his leather pouch of charcoal pencils. “A picnic, hmm?” she teased as he approached. “You want to work. You only brought me along to make sure I wouldn't get into trouble.”
He set down the chair and dropped his sketchbook and pencils to the ground, then lifted her onto the chair. “If I did, could you blame me? Who knows what you might think of next? I might come home to find you had stolen some poor farmer's lamb so he couldn't butcher it for his dinner.”
She made a face at him. “It's past lambing season.”
He shot her an amused glance in return, tucked a pencil behind his ear, and picked up his sketchbook.
Tess glanced around, noting the crumbling stones of a Roman ruin at the edge of the meadow. “What are you going to sketch? The ruins?”
He shifted a bit to the left and glanced at the sun. “Non,” he answered, returning his attention to her. “I am composing a preliminary sketch for a painting. I intend to paint you.”
“Me?” Dismayed, she frowned at him. “Oh, no! You can't!”
He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Why not?”
“I don't want you to paint me.” She made a self-conscious gesture to her abdomen. “I'm too fat for a painting.”
He abruptly dropped the sketchbook and came toward her. Bending down, he grasped her chin and lifted it. “You're not fat,” he told her, scowling. “You're pregnant.”
“Well, yes,” she said, laughing a little, “that is rather what I meant.” Bewildered by the fierceness of his expression, she felt impelled to point it out. “You’re looking terribly belligerent all of a sudden.”
His hand slid away. “You're not fat,” he repeated and settled himself on the ground a few feet away, his sketch book on his lap.
“I know, but I feel fat and terribly awkward. You'd feel that way, too,” she added wryly, “if you waddled like a duck.”
Glancing over at her, his frown vanished. A reluctant smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “I suppose I would.”
He pulled his pencil from behind his ear, but he didn’t start drawing. Instead, he simply looked at her.
After a few moments, Tess began to find the scrutiny disconcerting. She wriggled in her chair.
“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked.
“No, it’s just that...well, you’re staring at me.”
His smile widened. “Is there a way to draw a woman without staring at her?” he asked, shifting the sketch book to the crook of his arm and ducking as she threw a tuft of grass at him.
But he didn’t tease her any further. Instead, he began to draw, and Tess settled back in her chair, trying not to seem as uncomfortable with this as she felt. To distract herself, she studied their surroundings, and she could see why he’d chosen this particular location.
The meadow was a riot of color—blue cornflowers, red poppies, white meadowsweet, and rippling golden grass. Behind her, the three remaining columns of the temple rose like spires toward the blue sky above. The forest of chestnut, cork, and pine that surrounded the meadow as if hiding it from the world like a special secret.
“It's very pretty here,” she commented.
“This is the Meadow of the Fairies. It’s always been considered a magical place.” He paused and gestured to the ruins behind her with his pencil. “Even the Romans thought so. People say that sometimes the fairies come here and sit on the petals of the flowers.”
She laughed. “The fairies?”
“Don't laugh. They say if you see the fairies in the flowers, you have found happiness and good fortune. But if you laugh at them and don't believe in them, they will bring you sorrow.”
“Have you ever seen the fairies?”
“Yes,” he said softly and looked away. “I saw them once.”
He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he resumed sketching.
Tess watched him for a moment. “Why do you want to paint me?”
He didn't look up. “Why shouldn't I paint you?”
That was no answer. “I suppose there is no reason why you shouldn't. I simply wondered why you would want to.”
“I don't do many portraits now. I don't often have a subject.” He paused, then added without looking at her, “But a woman très jolie is too tempting an opportunity to pass by.”
“Pretty? You think I'm pretty?”
He continued to sketch. “Very pretty. Now stop fishing for compliments, mademoiselle, and sit still, s'il vous plait.”
She gave a sigh of mock aggravation, but inside, she felt the warm glow of summer sunshine. He thought she was pretty. Tess smiled, hugging that thought to herself.
After a few more minutes, she bent to take a peek in the basket. “May we eat while you work?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Non,” he said without pausing in his task. “Wait. I am nearly finished with this.”
“Already?” she asked in surprise.
“This is only a preliminary sketch. I will probably need to do several of these before I begin the portrait.” He sketched for several more minutes, then laid one last stroke to the paper, gave a satisfied nod, and closed the bo
ok, tossing aside his pencil.
“May I see it?” she asked.
Alexandre opened the book again to the proper place and handed it to her. She studied the page thoughtfully. It was only a sketch of her face. He hadn't drawn the entire scene. It was rough, but her likeness was very clear.
“May I look through the rest of this?” When he nodded, she flipped to the first page and began looking at his other sketches as he uncorked the wine and unpacked their picnic. Most of the sketches were landscapes of the surrounding countryside, each with something unusual as the focal point. There was one of a rocky hillside where a lone olive tree grew, its twisted branches rising toward the sky in the shape of a praying woman. Another of a peninsula jutting out into the sea, its abandoned, crumbling lighthouse standing like the profile of an old sailor. A rocky wall between two fields where the shadows on the stones formed the delicate shape of a girl's face. She would never have seen in these ordinary things the shapes and forms Alexandre did. “You truly have a gift,” she said as she set aside the sketch book.
“Merci.” He leaned forward, holding out a plate laden with chicken, cheese, bread, and fruit. After she had taken it, he prepared another for himself, then he uncorked a bottle of wine. Watching him as he poured some of the wine into a glass, she was struck by a sudden thought.
“Why aren't there any sketches of the winery?” she asked.
His hand stilled. Slowly, with great care, he set the bottle aside. “The winery is closed, mademoiselle,” he told her. “There is nothing to sketch there.” He paused. “Not anymore.”
He said nothing more, and their picnic was finished in silence.
Chapter Ten
Tess's ankle was completely healed by the following day, but during the days that followed, she found her role as housekeeper impossible to maintain. Alexandre simply would not let her. If she washed clothes, he insisted upon taking over the vigorous scrubbing and relegated her to the easier task of hanging the clothes on the line. If she dusted the bookshelves, he was there to dust the top ones so she would not have to climb the ladder. If she wanted to muck out Betsy's stall, she would reach the stable only to find that Alexandre had already done it for her. When he felt inclined to go off on one of his solitary walks, he never left without telling her where he was going and how long he would be gone, and he was never gone for long.
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