His eyes opened and he looked up at her. “What?”
“Your body pleases me. You’re very beautiful, you know.” She moved closer, her gaze on the corded muscles of his belly pulled taut by his supine position. “I’ve often thought I’d like to paint a nude male. Men are so much more beautiful than women. The lines are cleaner.” Her hands were running over the springy thatch on his chest, savoring the soft tickle on her palms. “But a woman never has the opportunity to study musculature. Michelangelo and da Vinci studied the dead to examine the way a man is made—” Her palm rested on his stomach and she felt the muscles contract and ripple beneath her palm. “Oh, that felt very interesting. Can you do it again?”
He was laughing softly, and her gaze flew back to his face. The mirror had vanished again and his expression was alive with humor and mischief. “I assure you it felt very interesting to me too. And yes, I’d say with your cooperation I could give you any needed response. Now, if you’d just move your hand a little farther down …
He was boldly aroused again, and she felt a thrill of heat even as she tried to look at the phenomena with a calm objectivity. How had it happened again so soon? Her hand curved around him and she felt him jerk beneath her touch. “That response is quite glorious, isn’t it?” She squeezed gently and heard him gasp. “Will you let me paint you without clothing?”
“I think not. I don’t believe I’d be fond of seeing my masculine attributes in a gallery.” He pushed her gently back down on the bed and moved over her. “But I’ll be delighted to provide you with a demonstration.”
“You’re very quiet. What are you thinking about?” Jean Marc idly unwound one springy ringlet at Juliette’s temple and then released it. Immediately, the ringlet wound itself back into its original curl. The curl was as stubborn and true to its nature as Juliette herself, he thought in amusement. “If you’re lying there planning on how next to approach me on the subject of posing without clothing, you needn’t waste your time. I’m not going to do it, Juliette.”
Juliette shook her head and the curly wisps brushed softly across his naked shoulder. “I wasn’t thinking of the painting.” She fell silent again and it was another moment before she asked, “Do you have children, Jean Marc?”
He stiffened. “No.”
“How can you be certain?” She raised herself on one elbow to look down at him. “I imagine you’ve had a good many mistresses.”
“I’m certain.”
“But how?”
“I have made quite sure I’ve left no bastards. A child gives a woman certain powers over a man.”
She nodded gravely. “And I know you’d never permit that. It would interfere with your silly game. But how can you be sure?”
He drew an exasperated breath. “I used a preventive machine made of sheep’s bladder.”
“What is that? It sounds quite disgusting.”
“It’s not at all.… Why are you asking these questions?”
“Because it occurred to me I could have conceived your child. One does not indulge in this sort of pleasure without the risk of a child, n’est-ce pas?”
Passionate possessiveness surged through him, stunning and bewildering him with its intensity. His hand moved down to gently rub back and forth across Juliette’s belly. “I suppose there’s a possibility.”
“Why did you not use this … this … machine with me?”
“I wasn’t prepared. I warned you not to come on this journey.”
“But you said you were not surprised. So why did you not protect me … and yourself?”
She was right. Why hadn’t he done it? It was not like him to be careless and yet the thought had not even occurred to him. His hand moved slowly across her belly again, and once more he felt possessiveness ripple through him. “Perhaps I decided it was time I had a child.” He added dryly, “As you’re so fond of telling me, I’m over thirty and no longer in my first youth.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “You want a child by me?”
“I didn’t say that, but it’s not impossible. I hadn’t thought about it until this moment. You do have certain qualities I admire.”
She shook her head. “It would not suit me at all to have a babe.” Her brow wrinkled in thought. “It’s strange that I didn’t consider the possibility before of having a child. I think I must have wanted you to do this to me very much to have ignored the danger.”
“It’s an act that has a way of banishing good sense.” He moved down on the bed and laid his cheek on her abdomen. He slowly brushed it back and forth, savoring the smoothness of her flesh before lifting his head to look at her. “But you wanted it no more than I did.”
“Having a child without being wed wouldn’t destroy me as it would have Catherine, but it isn’t a good thing. A woman may have lovers as long as she’s discreet. A child would have to be hidden away.” She met his gaze soberly. “I would love my child. I couldn’t hide him away in some village with strangers as if I were ashamed of him.”
“Do you think I’d abandon my child or his mother?” Jean Marc asked harshly. “I’d make it safe for—sacre bleu, why are we discussing this? It is quite unlikely that you would conceive these first few times with me.”
She lay back and her fingers tangled in his hair. “It’s done now and too late to worry, but once we reach Spain and leave the Bonne Chance we mustn’t do this again, Jean Marc. It was quite splendid, but it would not be fair to beget a child.”
“Nonsense, didn’t it occur to you I could just as easily prevent getting you with child as I did the women who—”
“But I could not trust you,” she said haltingly. “You said yourself you might want my child. I must guard myself from the harm you might do me. No more, Jean Marc.”
“No?” The intensity of his response to her rejection startled him. He should have known she would react in this fashion. All her life she had been forced to trust herself alone for protection. Still, in some outlandish way he felt as if the child they had spoken of was already a reality and she was stealing both it and herself from him. His hand slid down her stomach to cup her womanhood, his thumb finding, pressing, rotating the sensitive nub.
She gasped and a shudder of pleasure quivered through her.
He moved over her and entered her with one deep thrust. “Then I must obviously take advantage of our time together now, ma petite.”
Dupree leaned back against the brick wall of the house across the road from the Marquise de Clement’s casa and smiled with satisfaction. It was an adequate but not a grand house, and since the marquise was not a woman who would stint herself if she had the funds to indulge her fancies, the woman must not have sold the Wind Dancer.
The small stone casa stood high above Andorra on one of the twisting streets overlooking the town on one side and a rock-strewn ravine on the other. Scarlet bougainvillea splashed over the whitewashed walls of the house and ivy climbed the high stone walls surrounding both the house and the enclosed courtyard. The house had no near neighbors and the location was isolated enough to provide him with the privacy he would need in which to do his work. The woman had only the one female servant and a cook who would be easy enough to frighten away when the time came.
Of course, there were still problems to overcome. He had made extensive inquiries since he had arrived in Andorra a few days before, and though the marquise had the reputation of being aloof and contemptuous of her bourgeois neighbors, she was spreading her shapely legs for one Colonel Miguel de Gandoria, who paid her almost nightly visits. An officer in the Spanish Army could prove very awkward to his plans, Dupree thought. He had encountered considerable difficulty with the local policia, who didn’t appreciate either his nationality or his position in the French government. Extreme care would have to be taken to avoid landing in a Spanish prison after he’d accomplished his mission.
Oh, well, he had plenty of time to concoct a ploy in which to draw the Spanish colonel away from Andorra for the few days he needed to wrest the Wi
nd Dancer from Celeste de Clement. He smiled as he savored that pleasant prospect in store for him. Marat had been very annoyed at the bitch’s perfidy, and his orders had been both explicit and entirely satisfactory to Dupree. Yes, he must have at least three days with the enchanting marquise to make her realize she could not trifle with his employer without suffering the full consequences.
He straightened away from the wall, frowning as he flicked a trace of dust from his gray brocade coat and started back down the winding street toward the inn where he’d taken rooms. Andorra was proving a fiendishly uncivilized and inconvenient town, he thought peevishly. It was dusty, the wine was atrocious, and the steepness of the cobblestoned streets caught at the high heels of his silver-buckled shoes. If he had to endure this annoyance longer than he’d planned, he would see that the marquise suffered for it
EIGHTEEN
François slowly opened his eyes and focused on Catherine sitting across the length of the salon.
Catherine tensed, straightening in her chair. “How do you feel?”
François raised himself gingerly on one elbow on the brocade-cushioned sofa and lifted a hand to his forehead. “As if I’d been bludgeoned.” His words were slurred. “Merde, my head’s exploding.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine tomorrow.” She rose to her feet. “I’ve had a chamber prepared for you. Let me help you up the stairs.”
“I believe you’ve helped me quite enough.” François swung his feet to the floor and struggled to a sitting position. “It was the wine. I didn’t expect the wine.” His gaze met hers. “And I didn’t expect you. It was very clever of Jean Marc to use you.”
“He didn’t use me. I knew nothing about it.” Her lips tightened. “You were a guest in my house and he had no right to do this to you.”
François studied her a moment. “Mother of God, I believe you really didn’t know.”
“Of course I didn’t.” She added quickly, “But that doesn’t mean I believe Jean Marc to be totally in the wrong in trying to rid himself of you if you were spying on him. You should not—”
“Neither do I.”
“What?”
“I don’t blame him for trying to get rid of me. I would have done the same. In truth, all during the journey from Paris I expected him to make an attempt.” He grimaced, and rubbed his temple again. “I only wish he’d chosen a way that wouldn’t have given me this hellish headache.”
“He told me it was a choice between a blow on the head or the wine,” she said slowly. “You’re not angry with him?”
“Why should I be? As I said, I’d have done the same thing in his place.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It’s after three in the morning. That means Andreas is well out to sea.”
She nodded. “He left immediately after you fell asleep.”
“And Juliette?”
“I found a note in her chamber saying she was going with him.” She added hastily, “But I’m sure she didn’t know of his plan to drug you.”
“Perhaps not.” He smiled. “But I wager she wouldn’t be nearly as upset as you are that he decided on this method or place.”
“Perhaps not.” A smile suddenly lit her face. “But she’d no doubt lean more toward the blow on the head. She has little subtlety.” Her smile faded. “What are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “What can I do? Jean Marc has obviously won. By the time I journeyed to Spain, he would have found the Wind Dancer and hidden it away. And, if I confront him, he would say I must be quite mad and that he was in Spain on business. After all, I have no proof he went after the Wind Dancer. Though I see you don’t deny it.”
“Nor do I affirm it.”
“I’m not trying to coerce you into betraying him. I respect loyalty.” He cautiously got to his feet and stood upright but swaying. “And now I believe I’ll let you show me to that chamber you mentioned. I’m still so groggy I can think only of sleep.”
“Let me help you.” She picked up a silver candelabrum from the table beside her and moved quickly toward him. She handed him the candelabrum and placed his arm around her shoulder and her arm around his waist. “Lean on me. I’m quite strong.”
He stiffened and then looked down at her in amusement. “I see you are.”
She was helping him toward the door of the salon. “If you’re not going to go after them, what will you do?”
“Return to Paris.”
“You’re not leaning on me. That’s most foolish. We have all those stairs and you’ll never be able to make it by yourself.”
“I’m sorry.” He allowed her a bit of his weight as they crossed the foyer and started up the staircase. “I’m not accustomed to leaning.”
“That’s quite evident. You’re very wary, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He took two more steps. “You smell of lilacs.”
“It’s a new perfume Monsieur Augustine’s creating. Michel says it needs more cinnamon.”
“Does it? I didn’t notice.”
They had reached the landing and Catherine helped him down the hall. “Will Danton be angry with you?”
“He won’t be pleased, but he’d rather Jean Marc have the Wind Dancer than Marat have it. At least the balance of power will remain the same.”
They stopped at the second door down the corridor and Catherine reached for the porcelain knob. “You must sleep all day and, if you’re not better, I’ll send for a physician from Grasse.”
“I’m not ill. I have a bad head, that’s all.”
“This injury was done you at Vasaro. I won’t let you leave here ill.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “Will you need the candles?”
“No.” He handed her the candelabrum. “Go to bed. You look exhausted.”
“I can’t go to bed. It will be dawn soon. The pickers will be going to the fields.”
He frowned. “You’re tired. You should rest.”
“I won’t work in the fields today. I’ll go to all the different fields and oversee the work.” She shook her head wearily. “There’s so much to do and I still don’t know enough.”
“Isn’t that Philippe’s responsibility? Let him do it.”
“I sent Philippe away to visit his family.”
“Really?” His gaze narrowed on her face. “Now, I wonder why you did that?”
“Because I wished to.” She turned away and then whirled back to face him. “You’re sure you need no more help?”
One corner of his lips lifted in a half smile. “I’m sure. You’ve done your duty as the lady of Vasaro.”
Her hand tightened on the candelabrum. His green eyes shimmered in the flickering light of the candles, and she felt again the odd tension that had afflicted her before. “If you need me, call out. I’ll leave my door ajar.”
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind.” He stepped into the bedchamber. “And, if anything could keep me from sleep in my present state, that knowledge will.”
She frowned at him in puzzlement. “But sleep will be good for your headache.”
“Never mind. My tongue is as clumsy as my thinking tonight. I’ll see you when I wake. Bonne nuit.”
“Bonne nuit.“ The frown remained on Catherine’s face as she moved toward her own chamber down the hall. François Etchelet was a complex man. He had been more than a little cryptic, but she was too weary for puzzles.
She entered her room and set the candelabrum on the table by the door before wandering over to stand in front of the open window. The darkness was already lightening, and as she had told François, it was no use trying to sleep. Soon she would change from her silk gown to her worn woolen one and go to the fields. She sat down on the window seat and leaned back against the wall of the alcove.
Journeys. Juliette and Jean Marc were out there somewhere in the darkness sailing toward Spain. Philippe had probably halted at an inn for the night on his way to Marseilles. Tomorrow François would return to Paris. She did not envy them their journeys. She wanted only to stay at Vasaro, where s
he belonged, and tend the earth and watch the constant struggle for birth and renewal Michel had shown her.
She looked at the desk across the room where the journal Juliette had given her lay. She knew Juliette had wanted to set her free, but the method was one she couldn’t accept yet. Vasaro had healed the gaping wound but the scar tissue was still too sensitive to trust. Still, she had promised Juliette she would use the journal and she could not break her word.
Catherine suddenly rose to her feet and moved toward the desk. She had an hour or two before she had to go to the fields. She sat down at the desk and opened the journal. She would ignore those first pages and start the journal on the first day she had arrived at Vasaro, the time her life had really begun.
She paused, looking blindly down at the page and remembering how Philippe had smiled at her on that day. She had thought he was as beautiful as the flowers, but that had not turned out to be the case. His beauty bloomed only on the surface, and there was no substance beneath it to take root. If she could be fooled by Philippe for so many years, how could she trust her judgment?
She was baffled by François’s behavior tonight. He should have been angrier. Why had he decided to go meekly back to Paris in defeat? He was a strong, determined man and it wasn’t reasonable he should give up so easily.
Catherine shook her head as she dipped her pen in the inkwell again. Why was she worrying about Etchelet’s reasons? She should be grateful he wasn’t pursuing Jean Marc, and she was certainly happy he was leaving Vasaro and returning to Paris. She had no time to try to fathom why he did not react in the way she had thought he would or to worry about her own reactions to him.
Flowers were much easier to understand than people.
François mounted his horse and sent him galloping out of the stable yard toward the golden field of broom, where he could see Catherine’s familiar figure standing near the flower cart.
Christ, it was nearly noon and she must have gotten no rest since early yesterday morning. As he approached she turned to look at him and he could see the lines of weariness beside her mouth, the dark circles beneath her eyes. Her gray-blue woolen gown was darkened with sweat, and the contrast between this woman and the silk-clad lady of Vasaro was nearly unbelievable to him. Yet they both possessed strength and dignity and a beauty that sent a surge of pure lust through him. Lust and a frustration that led him to pull up the horse before her and say roughly, “Go back to the house and lie down.”
The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds Page 75
