He pulled the book from the shelf and began to thumb through the pages. “Here’s one: How Pedro Defeated the Night-Hag.” He had a brief, intense recollection of Csimenae and her vampire clan, and wondered if she still haunted the eastern peaks of the Pyrenees; he had lost all but the most fleeting sense of her since she had disavowed their Blood Bond over five hundred years ago.
“Try it,” said Hero, and leaned toward him as he returned to the stool and made himself comfortable. Before he began to read, she said, “Do you think the roads will be passable next week?”
“It depends on how long this storm lasts, and how much snow it drops. It is possible, but just now, not very promising.” He took her hand without pulling her arm from the protection of the wolf-skin rug. “You need not fret. There is food and firewood enough to last us three months, assuming a little hunting can be done between blizzards. Rogier often goes out for small game when the weather is clear, and Uchtred likes to fish.”
“It is venison today, isn’t it?”
“Yes; unless you would prefer something else,” he said, aware of her discontent. “Order what you like.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s nothing to do with food,” she said. “I haven’t had a letter from my father-in-law since the one in September, and I worry.”
He kissed her hand. “As soon as he can, Rogier will go into Geneva and get the post. No doubt you will have news waiting. You remember how long it took for his winter letter to reach you last year, when the weather was worse.” He prepared to open the book once more, when something struck him: “I will say this for the Graf, much as I deplore his keeping you away from your children, he writes to you every quarter.”
“It is very responsible of him. But I miss them. I haven’t seen them in four years.” She said this last quietly, as if expressing it more loudly would add to her loneliness. “Do you think they are much changed?”
“I think they are growing up, and that must change them,” said Ragoczy as kindly as he could. “But I suspect you would know them anywhere.”
“I hope so,” she said, touching his shoulder before pulling her hand back into the folds of the wolf-skin rug. “Go on. You’ve caught my interest, I confess it. How did Pedro defeat the Night-Hag?”
Ragoczy opened the book and commenced to read: the tale was a dark one, with the Night-Hag pursuing Pedro as he attempted to sleep; she sat on his chest, she rattled bones around his head, she summoned monsters to gibber and howl at him. He tried prayer, but his saints were indifferent to his plight. He summoned the priest, but the exorcism was ineffective. He tried sleeping by day and ploughing his fields by night, but the Night-Hag still bedeviled his attempts at rest. Finally, in desperation, he set fire to his cottage and nearly burned it to the ground, but the Night-Hag would not be routed. At his wits’ end, Pedro begged the local prostitute to help him, and she agreed—for a price—to join with him in doing battle with the Night-Hag. And what a battle it was! The prostitute mounted Pedro’s loins and leaned over his body so that the Night-Hag could find no purchase upon him, then Pedro and the prostitute bounced so heartily that the Night-Hag was dislodged from the bed, and when she keened, the prostitute shrieked more loudly. After a night of harrowing feats, the Night-Hag was beaten; she retreated and never tormented Pedro again. For the first time in months, Pedro slept soundly and awoke without dread. The prostitute continued to visit him, and to earn her pay, but never again would Pedro allow her to be on top of him, for he feared that would tempt the Night-Hag to another attack.
For a minute or so after Ragoczy finished the story, Hero said nothing. Then she gave a shaky laugh and said, “Not precisely a children’s story, is it?” Without waiting for him to respond, she went on, “Still, the Greek legends of long ago are as carnal as this one, and everyone believes they are improving myths.”
“It is a way to explain what is not understood,” said Ragoczy, and set the book aside.
“It is a strange thing to me, that so often folktale explanations are much worse than the actual reasons are.” She sighed. “What is it in us that longs so for large disasters instead of small accidents and happenstance?”
“Importance,” said Ragoczy. “Or so I have come to think—many men would prefer to be the object of malign destiny than one unfortunate enough to have ended up in harm’s way for no more reason than that of inauspicious coincidence. An angry god after you lends you importance that accidents do not.” He thought of the monks on Dhenoussa and the storm that brought him into their hands; his Egyptian steersman had believed that Poseidon had been the source of their ordeal, which was an act of vengeance for slighting his power, but Ragoczy had concluded at the time that contrary winds and high seas were the forces responsible.
She shook her head. “I can’t imagine that anyone would seek to magnify misfortune in such a way,” she said, then went on in a brisker tone, “No, I don’t mean that. I can understand, and I have seen it happen. But losses are hard enough to bear without burdening them with greater significance than they possess for themselves.”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “As you have cause enough to know.”
“I don’t intend to dwell on the past: it is fixed and cannot be changed.” She shook her head twice.
“You may change your understanding of the past,” he suggested gently.
“As you have done?” she suggested remotely. “But I haven’t your centuries to provide perspective.”
“Ah,” he said, a bit ruefully.
She contemplated the middle distance. “The fire in my room is still burning. We will be warm there.”
“Are you sure you want to retire so early in the day? It is barely one o’clock.” He glanced toward the clock. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. It would be unkind to Uchtred not to eat it while it is hot.”
“Surely we will be done in an hour? An hour?” she ventured, rising and moving her wolf-skin rug so it was around her shoulders more securely. “Not that I want to hurry you.”
“It is you who should not be hurried,” he reminded her.
“It is lovely of you to be so thoughtful,” she said, going toward the double doors that would give the nearest access to stairs. “For all you say you benefit from it.”
“I assure you that I do,” Ragoczy said, following her without haste yet with obvious pleasant anticipation.
“Think of how we might make the most out of the time we have together,” she encouraged him as she opened the door and beckoned him to follow her.
He closed the door and called out for Rogier. “We will be upstairs for an hour or so. If you will keep the fires lit in the private dining room and the withdrawing room, I would appreciate it.”
Rogier, who stood in the doorway leading back to the kitchen, said, “Very well, my master.”
“If you have any questions, perhaps they could wait for an hour or so?” Ragoczy suggested.
“An hour or so? Certainly. I doubt there is anything so pressing that it cannot wait until tomorrow, if necessary.”
“Very good,” said Ragoczy, and prepared to follow Hero up the curving stairs toward the narrow gallery above; at a signal from Rogier, he swung his cloak off his shoulders and handed it to his manservant as he began his ascent.
Hero took the corridor on the west side of the gallery, following it along to the large bedchamber at its end. Like the rest of the nineteen-room château, its draperies and curtains were drawn and the metal fire-screen protected the fine Turkish carpet from stray sparks. A single candle protected by a glass chimney stood on the bedside table, providing enough illumination to make the room into a grotto, full of promise and secrets. As she threw the wolf-skin rug onto the foot of the bed, Hero shivered, and swung around to face Ragoczy. “Tell me what you want.”
“I ought to ask that of you,” he said, as he went up to her and took her into his arms. “You should not be cold.” He glanced at the nearest window where the blizzard drummed icy fingers and whimpered.
/> “How could I be?” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Outside is cold. In here, there is heat.”
“Then we must make sure it stays that way.” He touched her hair, loosening the three long ivory pins that held the coronet in place; the single, thick plait swung down her back. Slowly he kissed her forehead and closed eyelids, then put his attention on her shoulders, caressing them through the fabric of her jacket and shirt before unfastening the first of the three military-style frogs that kept it closed. He put a dozen little kisses along her brow and cheek; all the while, he listened to her breathing, to the sound of her pulse, matching his pace to her arousal. He reached over and pulled back the goose-down comforter, revealing the pristine linen sheets. “Where is your robe?”
“Inside the door of my closet,” she whispered.
He gently assisted her to be seated on the bed, gave her a long, soft, searching kiss, then went to fetch her robe. “I would not wish you to be cold,” he said, as he brought the long, heavy, quilted-silk garment to her. “Let me help you with your jacket and your dress.” He unfastened the stud holding her jabot and set it aside.
She held out her arms to the sides, her palms turned up, her eyes slightly averted. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Skillfully, unhurriedly, he eased her out of the jacket, setting it on the dresser between the closet and the bed; next he unfastened the lacing at the back of the high bodice of her round-dress; he worked the shoulders down her arms and was left with the camisole to unbutton. “If you will stand, I’ll remove the dress and shirt now.”
Before she did, she touched his face, still not looking directly at him. She quivered at his touch as he unfastened the buttons. Clad only in her undergarments she accepted her robe without any hesitation, snuggling into its deep folds with every sign of relief. “I don’t want you to be cold,” she said, leaning back onto the exposed sheets. “Come lie next to me. Here. You’ll be warm.”
“I will, but not for fear of cold,” he said, kneeling beside the bed in order to slide the robe open so that he could reach her garters and lower her stockings before removing her kid-skin house-shoes.
“You have the most wonderful touch,” she murmured as his hands moved deliciously over her legs. Although it was cold, she didn’t mind it; his attentions more than made up for the momentary chill.
“And you have the most wonderful skin,” he countered, as he dropped her shoes to the floor, and then finished sliding off her stockings. He bent and kissed the arches of her feet, then moved up onto the bed and resumed his task of loosening her stays, allowing himself to be enveloped in the folds of her robe as he did.
She sighed, contentment and regret in the sound. “I wish I could …” Words faded as she felt his small hands on her breasts. She reached languorously to embrace him, her eyes dreamy, her breathing slow and deep. This was what she needed, she realized, and returned his kisses with her own, feeling her ardor stir and commence to unfurl within her flesh. “Oh, yes. Do that again.”
He complied, taking longer than usual in order to intensify her sensations. When her nipples swelled against his palms, he leaned down and used his lips instead of his fingers to excite her. “Tell me what you like,” he said softly.
“You know what I like,” she said, holding him less tightly in order to give him more access to her body. “Don’t make me choose, just do what you know I like.”
He hesitated a brief moment, then whispered, “If anything displeases you, tell me.”
“You have never displeased me, not in bed.” She ran her fingers through the short, loose waves of his dark hair. “Not once.”
He fingered the top of her hip, tracing the line of her body along her abdomen toward the deep folds between her legs. He parted the delicate tissues and sought out the small, hidden bud that responded to every nuance of passion. Many of the women he had known over the centuries had taken great pleasure in having that knot worked with his tongue, but Hero did not; she preferred what his fingers could do, so he continued to nuzzle her breasts while his hand awakened her desire to a state of rapture. She hovered on the brink of release while he moved to her neck. Now her breath quickened and shivers of ecstasy ran through her; she sank her fingers into his hair. As the first paroxysm surged through her, she let out three soft cries, gathering him close to her and rocking him through the throes of her fulfillment. She continued to enfold him as her excitement waned, as if their embrace would prolong and enhance her gratification.
The bracket-clock sounded the three-quarter hour as they finally rolled apart. Hero looked over at the clock and scowled. “We probably shouldn’t linger. I can smell the venison already.”
He uttered a single chuckle. “The meal will be on the table in another fifteen minutes,” he said as he started to sit up.
She poked him in his side. “You don’t have to get dressed. I depend on you to help me.”
“Certainly,” he said promptly. “You have only to tell me what you require,” he said as he rose to his feet and held out his hand to assist her.
She slipped her hand into his. “I’ll want my Polish velvet walking-dress for this afternoon, the raspberry-colored one, with the standing collar.”
“Very good,” said Ragoczy, opening her closet door and selecting the garment in question; this he laid on the bed, close at hand. “For a chamise?”
“The Italian silk,” she said. “It’s ivory, with lace on the neck-bands.” She held her robe closed while she bent over to retrieve her stockings and shoes. “It’s warmer than what I was wearing this morning.”
“Then by all means,” he said, “choose something that will keep you warm.” He waited while she pulled on her stockings and garters, and stepped into her shoes, then found her corset where he had dropped it; he came back to her, reached under her robe and prepared to lace up the back of the corset. “Will you want to wear an under-shift as well, or is this satisfactory?”
“You do make an admirable ladies’ maid,” said Hero, enjoying the last flicker of her fading tantalization conveyed in his touch. “Not that I expect a ladies’ maid to attend to me so completely.”
He kissed her as he aligned her corset, then began to tighten the lacings, working them carefully so the corset would not bind. “Just as well, given Wendela’s temperament. It pleases me to serve you,” he said with a slow smile before he kissed her, still continuing his efforts on her corset.
When their kiss broke, she was a little breathless. “If only dinner wasn’t ready,” she said with a trace of regret. “Although you have already—”
“Been nourished?” he suggested when she stopped speaking.
“I suppose you could say that,” she told him quietly. “Yes, I want an under-shift. I should have put one on this morning; I wouldn’t have needed the wolf-skin rug if I had.”
“But the wolf-skin rug becomes you,” said Ragoczy gently.
“Do you think so?” She reached out and laid her finger against his lips. “Don’t talk about this, will you?”
“No; I never would.” He finished tying her laces and stepped back. “In which drawer to you keep your under-shifts?”
“The second from the top, on the left.” She closed her robe.
“The one with the blue embroidery, if you please.”
“It will be my pleasure.” He slid the drawer open and removed the under-shift she sought; it was soft, made of fine knitted goat-hair yarn and silken decoration. He held it out to her. “If you want to slip into it?”
She nodded again, and pulled off her robe, flinging it onto the bed before she could change her mind. She tugged the under-shift down from her shoulders and looked for her chamise. “The fire isn’t making much headway,” she said as her teeth chattered.
“I will make sure it is built up for tonight, from the furnace next to the kitchen, not on this hearth.” He handed her the chamise.
“Doesn’t that worry you? Mightn’t the chimney catch fire?” She shivered again, this time from fear.
/> “The flues are constructed along Roman lines, and they do double duty, as chimneys and as comprehensive heaters. They are better ventilated, and have six shielded channels up through the walls that meet at two chimneys on the roof, as the old Roman household holocaust did in the floors, and the hotter-burning hypocausts did in the walls and floors in the baths. These channels are more like a hypocaust than a holocaust.” Over the centuries he had tried many variations on the Roman design when he had the opportunity to adapt his dwellings to his standards. This château had been no exception, being partially ruined when he bought it, and providing him with an opportunity to include Roman engineering as part of his own uses.
“I suppose you got your idea from them?” She reached for her shirt and pulled it on, fastening its eighteen pearl buttons with unseemly haste; she felt something beyond cold now—a loneliness that touched her to the marrow.
“To a large degree, yes. Some I learned from the Russians, more than two hundred years ago.” He offered the body of the gown to her.
Hero pulled the garment over her head, wriggling to get it settled in place. “If you will tend to my laces?”
“Of course,” said Ragoczy, and moved around behind her. “Stand still and I’ll finish this in a minute.”
Hero lifted her heavy plait of hair and said, “Why is fashion so complicated? Not that the Parisians or Romans would call this fashion.”
“It is complicated so that you can show that you can afford a chambermaid or a ’tire woman to dress you. And neither Rome nor Paris has the winters Yvoire does, even in mild years.” He slipped the knots into the back of her gown, then reached for the long, broad-skirted jacket with the standing collar and eased this onto her arms and settled it on her shoulders. “There. I hope I’ve done the task correctly. So long as Wendela is recovering from her putrid lungs, I am willing to do my poor best for you.”
“Your poor best is more than satisfactory,” said Hero and turned to kiss his cheek. “It is inconvenient that she should be ill, and it is most kind of you to offer to treat her.”
Saint-Germain 21: Borne in Blood: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 3
