The English Heiress (17 page)

Before Roger could insist that he would manage on his own out of pure shame and stubbornness, Leonie had darted away into the stable. There she paused momentarily, surprised by the increased dark because she had forgotten that the moon had set. In the stillness she heard the stamp and shuffle of a stalled horse. Uttering only a tiny squeak of delight and laughter at herself—after all, how would Marot have come to the château if not on a horse—she ran into the aisle between the horse stalls. In another minute she was out, leading the animal.

Roger’s relief at not needing to carry Marot was so great that his aches and pains diminished and a good part of his energy returned. The problem of what to do with Marot was completely solved. He could ride the horse down the back lane to the road, tie the corpse to the saddle, head the horse back toward Saulieu and give it a good whack. Even if the animal did not return all the way to the town where its stable was, which it might well do, it would go far enough from the château to eliminate all suspicion that Marot had met his death there. Roger did not try to explain all this to Leonie, merely signaled her to hold the horse while he hefted Marot onto it and then mounted himself.

“Hide,” he urged as he turned the horse to the back lane.

Leonie nodded and smiled. Fifi, standing right by her ankle, wagged her tail furiously. Her world was coming right. The bad scent was being taken away. Roger, seeing the wildly agitated tail because its white patches picked up what little light there was, suddenly felt much easier about leaving Leonie alone. The little dog could do virtually nothing to protect her mistress but she could warn her of danger, and Roger did not push away the feeling of comfort.

It took nearly half an hour to walk the horse to the back gate, which made it a very long walk back to the château. Roger simply could not make it without resting for a while, and he was so tired that he fell asleep. That turned out to be most fortunate. The sun rose before he reached his goal and showed him an orchard, its trees laden with fruit. Most of it was not ripe, but some apples more precocious than their fellows lay on the ground. All the delight and pleasurable excitement Roger had felt at the beginning of this venture returned in a rush. It was like a sign that “Someone” was on their side. Chuckling with relief, Roger climbed the low wall, grabbed a ripe apple, and ate it. Then he loaded his pockets with more ripe fruit while he ate another and still another. Feeling like a completely new man, he climbed back over the wall and set out boldly for the château.

The blood from Henry’s wound had long ago dried to indeterminate brown smears. His coat and breeches were torn and filthy, as were his once elegant boots. Those might give him away if anyone knew enough about boots in this rural and unsophisticated area to judge their quality, but that did not worry Roger. If he met anyone, he would be a vagabond. Ruefully he rubbed a hand over his three-day beard and grinned. He might be questioned as a suspicious character, but certainly not one who could be involved in Saulieu’s troubles. And if the questioning grew too forceful… He patted the pistols that lay over the apples in his pockets.

Roger was almost disappointed when no one stopped him. The château was as desolate and deserted as when they had first arrived. Roger did not know of the men who had spent the night in the gatehouse, but even they were gone. They had wakened in the dawn and hurried back to their assigned posts at back and front doors. There they had waited, hungry and thirsty, for their replacements to come or for orders to return. As the sun rose higher, so had their rage and resentment when no relief had come. Finally, fury overmatched fear of Marot. About fifteen minutes before Roger reached the house, they had left it to return to Saulieu and complain of the treatment they had received.

Completely unopposed, Roger made his way to the cellar. Before he even reached the cask, Leonie had rushed out to grab him and sob with relief.

“You were gone so long,” she gasped. “I feel as if I’ve been waiting forever, Roger! What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Roger assured her, patting her consolingly and explaining what had delayed him. “Here,” he added with a broad smile, “have an apple. Have half a dozen apples. The house and grounds are empty—and I am full.” Then he frowned. “Did you know that? You shouldn’t have rushed out like that. What if I had been someone else?”

“Had to be you,” Leonie mumbled around her mouthful of apple, while Roger bit off pieces of another to feed to the little dog. “Fifi was wagging her tail. She wouldn’t do that for a stranger. Oh, what a lovely breakfast!”

“She’s a friendly little thing,” Roger said doubtfully, “Are you sure she wouldn’t just be glad to see anyone at all?”

“Not Fifi. Oh, she’s friendly enough, but we couldn’t have her cavorting around with the laborers or running into their houses. She has been trained not to approach anyone or permit anyone to approach her, until she is introduced and told ‘friend’. Are you sure the house is empty?”

“No,” Roger answered, tensing. I didn’t search it or even go to the front. It just felt empty. Have you a reason to think someone is hiding?”

“I’m not sure. Some time ago, Fifi got up and listened. I was sure you were coming then, that’s why I was so worried, and she acted nervous and restless until just a little while ago. But no one came down here.”

Roger gnawed his lips for a second. He wanted to be away from this place. Apples were wonderful, but they both needed more substantial food, and Leonie—the cellar was dim, but now that he was not completely distracted by other more urgent needs he could see that she was dressed in filthy rags—needed clothing. Still, if Fifi sensed a presence, her instincts were far more reliable than Roger’s own. It was stupid to take chances. Besides, Roger realized, although he felt much better he really could use a couple of hours’ sleep.

Leonie was quite agreeable. She had not been doing anything physical while Roger rid them of Marot’s body, but she had been too worried and frightened to sleep or really benefit much from the inactivity. In fact, they both fell asleep almost as soon as they lay down, showing clearly that Roger’s decision to wait had been wise. Nor was either troubled by a renewal of the sexual tension that had tortured them earlier. They both had been more tired than they realized.

In the late afternoon Roger wakened with an urgent need to relieve his bowels and bladder. Cursing softly, he extricated himself from the portion of the hanging Leonie had thrown over him and opened the cask. Fifi sat up brightly. The dog showed no sign of wariness now, so Roger stepped out. Perkily, tail waving high, Fifi came with him and darted up the stairs without hesitation. Roger was not quite so incautious. In spite of Leonie’s faith in the little bitch and the evidence of his own eyes about her caution in approaching them, he knew that dogs had infinite, if sometime mistaken, faith in their human companions. Fifi’s confidence might merely reflect her expectation that he would protect her from any danger that threatened.

He was somewhat reassured by the way Fifi paused at the top of the steps to sniff before she trotted out into the corridor, and his confidence was increased when he found that, indeed, the house was empty. A “Who comes, Fifi? Who comes?” sent the dog scampering around the house to return with tail waving—the sign that all was clear, Leonie had told Roger. A scuttling run, tail between legs, was the signal for Leonie to hide because someone was coming. It was safe, Roger hoped, and he went out to the jakes. Even if Fifi was wrong, there was not much danger for him. It was natural for a vagabond to seek shelter in a derelict house. That excuse would still be valid.

No excuse was necessary. House and grounds were empty, except for themselves. Roger made his way through the debris in the stable and extracted his traveling bag from the carriage. Then with a sigh of pleasure he blocked the drain in the scullery sink, pumped it full of water, washed himself free of the accumulated filth of days, and finally shaved. He would have preferred hot water and a shorter beard, but feeling clean and decent was worth the chill and scraping. Clothes were another and more serious problem. He had a shirt, but in full daylight the marks on his coat were, to his eyes, too unmistakably bloodstains. He was just about to sponge the coat when Fifi leaped to her feet. The pistol Roger had taken from his coat pocket was leveled before he saw the dog’s wildly wagging tail.

From the doorway came Leonie’s low laugh. “Oh, Roger, no!”

“No what?”

“There is not a person who would take you for anything except an English gentleman.” Leonie reproved him with laughing eyes.

Roger could feel the color flood into his face. With the words came recognition of what he had done. He had combed his hair, put on a cravat, in general done what he could to his appearance to make him acceptable to a gentlewoman. Although he had not allowed the idea to come into his mind, he was really getting himself ready to court a woman.

“I will be much more the thing when I have cleared the carriage and harnessed the horse,” Roger said repressively, but his blush had betrayed him and Leonie only laughed.

“You had better at least take off the cravat,” she said, and then relenting, “but I am very glad to see you dressed. I had no idea how handsome you are.”

For reply, Roger ripped off the cravat and stalked out of the house to the stable. He did not remain angry long, being fair-minded enough to see that what he had done was funny. Moreover, there was nothing in Leonie’s manner to indicate that she had realized he had been trying to impress her and was laughing at him. She seemed to think he had merely been absentminded and acted by habit. As he pulled broken planks and old rotten straw off and away from the carriage, Roger remembered that Leonie had complimented his looks.

It had been a long time, a very long time, since Roger had considered how his appearance would affect a woman. He had been a reasonably confident youth, but Solange had ripped that confidence to shreds after their marriage. The fact that many women had praised him since then had not changed Roger’s bitterness. Those women had been paid. Some real whores, others established mistresses, but all living on his purse at the mercy of his goodwill. Roger had not for a moment taken anything they said seriously. What could they say when starvation was the way of honesty?

The remark Leonie had made was quite different, or was there an ulterior motive there? It was true that Leonie might feel beholden to him. Roger did not think that she should, because he had mixed himself into this business quite voluntarily and certainly without any request from her or her father. Nonetheless, why should she comment on his being handsome unless she really did think he was? There was no need for her to say anything at all, or at least anything more than You look nice or some similar noncommittal remark.

By the time Roger had the carriage cleared, he was again dusty and mussed but in an excellent mood. As a precaution he left the carriage at the door of the stable, he did not think it wise to stand it out in the yard, and turned to go for the house. Midway to the maze, he stopped. He would as likely lose himself in the maze as not. Leonie would have to get the horse. At the door of the kitchen, however, he stopped again, all thought of the horse flying out of his head. Leonie had been cleaning his coat and looked up at his step. She had, however, cleaned herself first, and the result was far more startling than Roger’s transformation.

“Beautiful!” Roger breathed before he thought. “You are so very beautiful.” And then, as he remembered what her experience of men had been and that she might consider his appreciation a threat, he added, “I beg your pardon,” stiffly.

There was no fear in the warm chuckle that came from Leonie. “It is not polite to take back a compliment by apologizing for it.”

“That was not what I meant at all,” Roger snapped, striding forward and then stopping abruptly when he realized he had intended to take her in his arms.

He cleared his throat, telling himself sternly that the girl was not beautiful, that every one of his mistresses had been far prettier. Leonie’s skin, not pale by nature, had been bleached to sallowness by long incarceration. Her face was pinched by semistarvation so that the features were too large for it—a wide, mobile mouth, a straight, strong nose, and big eyes of a color that would have been hazel except that they lacked any touch of green. The hair was magnificent. Even Roger’s attempt to discipline his unruly emotions by looking for every fault could discover nothing to criticize in that honey-gold mane, just fluffing and curling after its recent washing. But it was not the hair that wrenched his heart and, even in these unromantic surroundings, sent a wave of warmth through his loins. There was something in the face, completely unrelated to its features, that made it surpassingly beautiful to him.

“We had better see about that strong room,” Roger said abruptly. “I have the carriage cleared. As soon as you get the horse and I hitch it, we will be ready to leave.”

Truthfully, Roger did not really believe there was anything in the strong room. He doubted it was a secret from the servants. Even if Henry had been careful in his use of it, previous owners may not have been equally cautious, and servants were often almost as hereditary as property itself. That is, servants often married other servants in the household and their children became servants in turn. Mostly, long-term servants were honest in large matters, although they might take a little food or candles or worn clothing for themselves or their families. Some were even devoted, especially those who had been with a family for many years. In such a case the strong room might have been emptied to “save” its contents for the master.