The Honorable Officer (21 page)

Jean-Louis said a word he would never say around women.

“Come in and make the report to Dom, and we will decide what to do next,” said Jean-Louis.

“Merci,
notre frère
, for inviting us in from the cold,” said Henri sarcastically.

Jean-Louis clapped him on the shoulder and did the same for Emmanuel. “Merci,
mes frères
.”

“It is nothing,
mon frère
,” said Henri, smirking.

Feeling a slight stinging in his eyes—he was not going to cry, was he?—Jean-Louis could not let it go, and he said, “No, it is everything.”

Henri’s face became serious, and he squeezed Jean-Louis’ arm for a moment before going into the house. Emmanuel was obviously embarrassed by the exchange, and Jean-Louis patted him on the shoulder again, marveling at how his youngest brother was nearly as tall as he was.

Chapter Eleven

“Take the lace from my waistcoat, Fourbier. The ribbons from the sleeves of the coat. Hélène will appreciate them more than I do.”

Fourbier didn’t bother to sigh dramatically. He chose instead to ignore the colonel, who had burst into the bedchamber to demand his maps and then paced as Fourbier set down the bodice he was taking in and embellishing for Madame de Cantière to fetch the maps from the small coffer.

It was only by chance that Fourbier was in the colonel’s room at all, since up until then he had done his sewing in the nursery. He shouldn’t have been sewing on a Sunday, and doing so still caused him a great deal of guilt. Even though he no longer followed his father’s strict Calvinism, he still thought he should take the day off.

But he was seeking employment for his idle hands.

He was hiding.

After the first panicked hour on horseback the day before, riding had settled into a sort of low-grade terror, much like the feeling he had once an assault was well underway on a battlefield. How did anyone enjoy bouncing around high off the ground? Why had he agreed? Why had he not mentioned he didn’t like horses and had never ridden one?

He knew why he had gone: Henri de Cantière. He wanted to impress the colonel’s handsome brother. His inadequacy on a horse had drawn the ire and impatience of Emmanuel, the snotty little boy, because they had taken two hours to make what could have been an hour’s ride. Henri rode next to Fourbier, giving him advice on his hands and his seat and laughing with his eyes, but not out loud, each time Fourbier almost fell off.

Once at the colonel’s property, Henri steadied him as he swung down, holding him upright when his legs went out under him. In spite of the pain, something else inside Fourbier had burned even brighter at the feel of the strong arm pulling him against a muscular chest.

“You aren’t going to swoon, are you?” Henri murmured, and Fourbier had very nearly done just that.

Henri had taken the lead in questioning the captured arsonist, being large, intimidating, and cool-headed. Fourbier tried to copy his negligent sprawl, but every muscle in his legs and back was seizing up, so he had to walk around. Once in the colonel’s house, Fourbier swallowed his pride and begged for a liniment from Madame Grenier, the housekeeper. She had hardly smirked at all, which, considering their rivalry, surprised him. She smiled when he kissed her cheek after she came back with the little pot. Perhaps she had needed a way to care for him instead of taking orders from him.

The ride back in the morning, after the arsonist had escaped, had been beyond torture—his sore muscles kept cramping, and the other men pushed on much faster than the day before. Emmanuel whined to be allowed to race ahead. Henri’s jaw was tight and his words few.

Fourbier was glad to have some of the liniment left when they arrived at the Dumouton estate.

After the colonel strode out, clutching the maps, Fourbier sat delicately on the edge of a chair and picked up the bodice. He couldn’t even sit cross-legged, tailor-fashion, without great discomfort.

Not five minutes later, someone tapped at the door. Fourbier called out, “Enter!” thinking it was a maid or a footman.

Henri de Cantière slipped inside and closed the door softly.

Every nerve in Fourbier’s body went on alert. He shot to his feet, staring down at the bodice unseeingly.

Henri cleared his throat. “Are you well, Monsieur Fourbier?”

Fourbier nodded. “Quite, thank you, Monsieur de Cantière. Trying to catch up on…tasks.” He waved his needle, feeling silly.

“Are you sore? I hope you didn’t do yourself any harm.” Henri’s shoes appeared in Fourbier’s vision.

“Nothing permanent. I am pleased to have a day of rest, to be honest.” His chuckle sounded like a wheeze.

The silence was long and heavy. Fourbier rolled the needle between his fingers.

Henri cleared his throat again. “I’m pleased to hear it, Monsieur Fourbier.” He walked away.

Fourbier lifted his head to watch the man’s back the few steps to the door. “Just Fourbier.”

Henri paused, his hand on the latch. He didn’t turn back. “Pardon?”

“Just Fourbier. I took just one name when I abandoned my old one. It is both first and last.”

Henri glanced back over his shoulder, and Fourbier looked down at his work, feeling a blush rise.

“Is that what your family and friends call you, then?”

His stomach clenched. “I have no family or friends.” Except the colonel, who saw him as a tool when he didn’t see him as a burden.

Henri narrowed his eyes. “You should call me Henri.”

Fourbier nodded, his neck stiff.
It’s what I’ve been calling you in my head
, he thought.
Presumptuous
.

Henri pulled the latch, and the door began to open. Fourbier lifted his head and admired the wide shoulders, not wanting Henri to go but not knowing what to say to make him stay.

“You could call me Marcel,” he blurted out. No one called him Marcel anymore. He missed his sister and mother with a desperation that struck like a dagger.

Henri turned back. Fourbier met the man’s hazel eyes, which considered him gravely for several breathless seconds. Henri nodded perfunctorily and turned to the open door, then back again to Fourbier. “I forgot to say, Marcel: my sister sent me up to fetch you. She doesn’t think Jean-Louis can plan a journey to Paris without you.”

Henri smiled just slightly, and Fourbier’s heart eased.

“I will be right down. Please tell the colonel and the comtesse…Henri.”

When Henri’s smile broadened, Marcel barely held back tears.

****

After making plans for their trip to la Brosse and then to Paris, Jean-Louis spent Sunday pacing, sometimes around the house, checking in with servants, guards, and grooms, who were on high alert, sometimes up and down the stairs, stopping in to see Ondine and Hélène wherever they went.

Hélène, pale and embarrassed, had muttered the night before that her menses had started. He had invited her to share his bed anyway, but she opted to sleep with Ondine, who had been agitated all day.

He did not know if he would have been able to keep his hands off Hélène’s lush breasts if she had been in his bed. Relieving his aching erection alone would have felt like cheating.

After dinner, Jean-Louis retired to Dom’s library to write some letters. He walked in on Aurore, seated on a hard, little chair, leaning her elbows on her knees, pale-faced and panting.

“
Mon dieu!
” Jean-Louis’ heart accelerated in panic. “What is it? Are you all right? Is it the baby?”

He carried her to the short chaise longue and laid her on her side. When he rose, saying, “I shall get Dominique for you,” she clutched at his hand and told him no.

“But if you are…if he…” stammered Jean-Louis.

“It is only a bad twinge,” said Aurore, swallowing convulsively, her face still pale and her brown eyes huge and filled with tears.

“You will not travel with us tomorrow,” said Jean-Louis.

“I will,” she said. “It is only a twinge. Everything is fine. The baby is moving even now, see?”

She held Jean-Louis’ hand to her belly, and he snatched it away, shocked by the intimacy of the gesture.

“Have you never touched a pregnant belly, Jean-Louis?” she asked, a teasing light returning to her eyes.

“I was away for most of Amandine’s pregnancy, and she would not have wanted me to, anyway. Ondine was born while I was in Perpignan.”

“And the boy?” asked Aurore. “Wasn’t he born just a few months after you came north to help us?”

Jean-Louis stood abruptly and walked to the window. His stomach churned as he contemplated what to say. “We argued.”

Aurore was silent for a moment, then gasped. He turned back, expecting her to be doubled over in pain again. She wasn’t. She instead stared at him with wide eyes. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing down the anger and shame.

“You should have said something,” Aurore said, taking a lacy handkerchief from her pocket and dabbing at her eyes.

More than asking for help, more than feeling weak, Jean-Louis hated pity. He turned back to the window.

“Was it Ménine’s baby?” Aurore asked.

Jean-Louis feared his heart would break right in his chest. He cleared his throat. “She
thought
it was.”

“Oh,” sighed Aurore. She sniffed and spoke more bitterly. “To think I was kind to her when our paths crossed. If I had known…”

There was a long silence. Jean-Louis was trying to not think of his late wife’s ugly laugh when she told him she was going to claim the baby died and have it spirited away so Jean-Louis could not claim it. Then she pretended contemplation as she said no, perhaps she would have the child raised alongside Ondine. Surely Hélène would be happy to have two babies to waste her life on.

Hélène. Just her name eased his heart.

He turned back to Aurore, who was still dabbing her eyes. “So it is three of the five de Cantière children who have been unhappy in love.”

Aurore looked up at him, startled. She narrowed her eyes and counted silently on her fingers.

“I still wish I had hit Dominique at least once for how he treated you. I was close to calling him out when…” He stopped himself. He was not going to tell his sister of seeing her husband leading a rather notorious lady off to bed.

Aurore sighed. “I am glad you didn’t. He did come back to me, after all.”

Jean-Louis snorted slightly, not really able to laugh. “I would have ended in prison or worse.”

She smiled, her eyes dancing though still watery with tears. “Or he would have killed you.”

“No, he knew what he was doing was wrong. And I am much better with swords.”

She smiled, and he smiled fondly back. “I am glad you did not call him out, but you should have run Ménine through.”

“So bloodthirsty, my pretty little wife,” said Dominique from the doorway.

Jean-Louis turned to see him grinning. He hadn’t heard much of their conversation.

He noticed Aurore’s wet eyes, pallor, and that she was half-reclining, because his face went cold. “Aurore, are you all right?” Dom strode to her side and dropped to one knee next to the chaise.

“Only a twinge.” She caressed his cheek. “Jean-Louis is overprotective.”

“She was doubled over in pain. She is only now regaining her color,” said Jean-Louis.

Dominique looked panicked. “There are still four months. We should go to… No, we must not travel. Is there a midwife in the village? A surgeon in Poitiers?”

Aurore raised her other hand and set it on her husband’s other cheek. “We shall return to Paris tomorrow with everyone else.”

“No, you will stay here,” said Jean-Louis. “I hate to divide the guards between us, but I will not risk you and your baby.”

“Dom should go with you,” said Aurore.

“I will not leave you, Aurore,” said Dominique. “I am sorry, Jean-Louis, but either you stay for a few days until we know Aurore is well, or you go without me. I also hate to split the guards, but Aurore will not travel until a midwife sees her. Even then, we will travel by slow stages.”

“And we will move on, draw the threat away,” said Jean-Louis. “We need to get to Paris and discover who is behind this. I need to get back to the army.” He had spent weeks now trying to ignore the gathering doom of his supposed desertion.

“Travel hard and fast, then,” said Dom, his eyes still on his wife. “With fewer guards and everyone healthy, it will be best. The roads are nearly dry, though there is no guarantee it won’t rain or snow.”

Jean-Louis watched Dom and Aurore as they touched each other gently, reassuring and seeking reassurance. He was glad he had never called Dom out. He felt his eyes tear up again and had the urge to find Hélène. He slipped out of the library and quietly shut the door, only to turn and nearly run into her in the hall. She stepped back, blushing deeply and dropping her eyeglass to the end of its ribbon.

Overwhelmed with desire, Jean-Louis stepped forward and kissed his wife’s still-open mouth, pulling her against his body, which begged for her attention. He pressed her against the wall, flattening her skirts against her as he held her in place with his hips. She clung to his neck and gave a little noise of surprise before she relaxed and moved her tongue tentatively against his.

He pressed his erection insistently against her, then remembered her menses and stepped back abruptly.

She lost her balance and clung more tightly to his neck. “Did I hurt you?” He eased himself away from her, letting his coat hang along his front.

She looked angry for a moment, he thought, then looked sad. “No.” She brushed her hands down the front of her dress, molding the fabric more closely to her legs.

He very nearly told her how much he wanted her, but his first wife had used his desire to try to destroy him. Every bit of desire disappeared at the thought of Amandine.

Jean-Louis bowed sharply to his new wife and strode away.

“Jean-Louis,” she called after him, her voice so soft he could pretend he hadn’t heard.

He went and found his brothers and his aide-de-camp to tell them of the change in plans. Only when deep in conference with Fourbier and his coachman and groom did he realize he hadn’t thought to tell Hélène not to go into the library.

****