Triumph in Arms (8 page)

“Pray God he never does,” she said with a small shake of her head. “Still, I refuse to allow that you, who met my brother only yesterday, know more of what he requires than I.”

“But you will concede that we are both male, so must have similar impulses.”

An intriguing shade of wild rose appeared on her cheekbones before she spoke. “I can hardly argue with that.”

“We will move farther from the house for his lessons, if that will serve.”

“You may do as you like. I’m sure you will, regardless.” Her voice carried a distinct edge, and she looked away as she replied, as if she could not bear the sight of him.

Christien watched her a long moment, noting the tightness at the corners of her mouth and firm clasp of her hands in front of her. His gaze wandered to the luscious, peachlike curve of her cheek, the tender, blue-veined valley between her breasts that was exposed by the rounded neckline of her gown. He swallowed, clearing his throat and collecting his thoughts before he could frame the question in his mind.

“Is something wrong?” he asked after a second. “Or, perhaps I should say, something more?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m not sure I believe that. If you’ve changed your mind…”

“It isn’t that.”

“But there is something. Come, out with it. I can’t fight what I can’t see.”

The look she gave him was scathing. “Nor can you help being male or going about your so very male business at all hours.”

“Ah,” he said, studying the accusation in the blue depths of her eyes. “You know I left the house last night.”

“I saw you go.”

“And you think the worst.”

“It’s usually correct, in my experience.”

“But you have no experience with me. If I tell you I couldn’t sleep after my long evening nap and the excitement that interrupted it, that I went into town to pack the remainder of my things and arrange my affairs in order to be more settled here, would you believe me?”

She stared at him with doubt in her eyes, and who could blame her? His explanation might be true in part, but left out much. That it couldn’t be helped did not make it easier to stand behind the lie of omission.

“You’re quite right,” she said abruptly, “I don’t know you at all.” Turning from him, she leaned her back against the trunk of the great oak that spread its protective umbrella overhead. “It’s wrong to judge you based on other men. I’ve been meaning to tell you…to say that I regret screaming at you like a fishwife on the night we met. You had done nothing
to deserve it, and everything to earn my eternal gratitude. It’s just that I was so…so shaken and terrified for Marguerite that I hardly knew what I was saying.”

“You were also embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention. You’ve had, I think, more of such public notice than is comfortable.” His attempt to pass it off was sincere enough; her gratitude was not what he wanted. Even as he spoke, moving after her to lean a shoulder against the tree trunk next to her, he was aware she had not said she believed his story of where he had been.

“You can have no idea,” she said with a sigh.

“Now it will begin again with our wedding.”

“Yes.”

“People will look elsewhere for entertainment once the novelty of it palls. Speaking of the wedding…”

“Yes, I suppose we must speak of it.”

Her reluctance was hardly flattering, but he had little right to complain. “Have you a date in mind?”

“I expect it had better be soon,” she said, the unhappiness in her face deepening. She sent him a look that barely met his eyes before flitting away again. “Because of the gossip, I mean to say. There will be all manner of speculation and counting on fingers if you remain in the house too long before the wedding.”

“A serious consideration,” he said, his voice at its most grave.

“Indeed.” She sent him a brief glance. “You are laughing about it.”

She was quick, his future wife, and more sensitive
to his moods than expected. “No, no, only thinking that a small gaffe such as our living under the same roof pales before the rest.”

“So it does.” She lifted a hand to rub between her eyes with her fingertips, as if a headache had begun to throb there.

“I would do nothing to cause further embarrassment for you,” he said softly as he reached to take her hand, holding it between his, “but only what may make this easier.”

“Short of going away and never coming back, I suppose.”

His smile took on an ironic curve. “Yes, short of that. I am grateful, you know, for your agreement to my odd proposal.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across the backs of her fingers. Smooth and silken, they carried the scent of roses. And they trembled a little in his before she tugged them free. “Don’t,” she said, her voice carrying a husky note. “There’s no need to play the gallant.”

“What if I’m not playing?” He hardly knew what he was saying, only that he must spout something to keep her with him.

“Flirtation is also not a requirement. The arrangement between us is financial in nature, nothing more. Pretending otherwise will not help.”

“As you wish, though your brother feels you deserve to be courted.”

“Paul is still young enough to be a romantic.”

“You, on the other hand, at the great age of—what, two- or three-and-twenty?—are not. It seems a shame.”

“I should think you would prefer it under the circumstances.” Her voice, though sharp, held the barest hint of a question.

“A politely distant marriage will not suit me. I thought I made that clear.” His parents had enjoyed a rapport that spread love and laughter to every corner of their lives. The memories of it had kept him warm at night in the years when he’d first left the swamp. He’d always assumed his would be the same. By keeping that image before him, he could at least sound like a prospective groom.

“As to that, we must wait and see.” A flush stained her skin and she swallowed as she looked away, a movement perfectly clear in the elegant line of her throat. She went on at once. “We will be married in the chapel here at River’s Edge, if you have no objection. The wedding should be small, with only close family and friends present. Father Damien will of course preside.”

“Perfection.”

“You have someone who will stand with you?”

“I will arrange it.”

Her nod of acceptance was brief. “I see no need for a
corbeille de noce,
as that implies a normal betrothal and is an unnecessary expense besides. As for—”

“My prerogative, I believe.” His voice had a distinct edge. She apparently thought he lacked romantic spirit, as well, or else was without funds to supply the usual basket of gifts for the bride from her groom. It irritated him either way, putting him on his mettle.

She gave him a quick glance. “As you please. I was only trying to make this as simple as possible.”

“It’s simple enough as it stands. Don’t stint on anything that will make it better for you and your family, not on my account.”

“No, no, I won’t,” she said, her gaze meditative.

He met her eyes for an instant, seeing his dark shape reflected there like an image caught in a pool of rainwater, blurred and insubstantial. It did nothing to help his feelings. “There is the matter of the wedding journey afterward,” he said finally.

“Unnecessary. I have no particular relatives I care to visit.”

“But you made the usual jaunt up and down the river with Pingre, I suppose, presenting him to your distant family members, being presented to his?” His voice was calm, a matter for self-congratulation.

“Of course. It was expected.”

“Regardless, you have none that you would wish to become better acquainted with me.”

A startled expression appeared on her face. “It isn’t that, truly. I just…” She stopped, drew a breath that lifted her breasts against the fine lawn of her day gown. “What I mean to say is, not one of them offered their support when Theodore died and the whispers of murder began. I see no reason to pay them any particular honor now.”

If it was a falsehood, it was a good one. The tightness in Christien’s chest eased a fraction. “We could stay a few days in town.”

“Fever has been reported in New Orleans. I could not expose Marguerite to it, even if we wanted to risk it. And if you are going to say that she could remain
here, I prefer not to leave her. Nor would I want to take the chance of our bringing disease with us on our return.”

“No honeymoon sojourn, then,” he said, inclining his head in token of his agreement. “But what of the wedding supper and customary three days of seclusion following it?”

Color rose in her face and her lashes came down to conceal her expression. “A great inconvenience, I know, but people will expect no less. To ignore them might cause as much talk as the wedding.”

“I didn’t intend to ignore them,” he said, his voice deep and a shade gruff.

“No? It drives most men quite mad, being unable to leave the bedchamber, having nothing to do except—”

“I’m sure we can find something to fill the time.”

“Except sleep, I meant to say…”

“Sleeping,” he said, the words like raw silk tearing, “was not in my mind.”

R
eine was seated on the upper gallery with a pile of linen in her lap and needle and thread in her hand when her father walked out onto the canvas flooring. He glanced in her direction, but did not speak until she had threaded her needle and begun to set stitches along a ripped seam.

“What’s that you’re mending?”

“A shirt,” she said shortly, her gaze on what she was doing.

“I don’t recall an accident of that nature,” he said with a lifted brow.

“It isn’t yours.”

He rocked on his heels with his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets, straining it across the rounded shape of his belly. “Feeling testy this morning, are you? It’s this marriage, I suppose.”

She looked up with an ironic lift of one brow. He had the grace to flush and look away.

“Yes, well. I’m truly sorry,
chère.
I didn’t think, didn’t quite realize how it would turn out, or I’d never have agreed to it.”

“It really was Monsieur Lenoir who suggested it?” She did not look up from the flash of her needle in and out of the fabric. The backs of her fingers seemed to bear the imprint of his mouth still. His lips had been so firm and smooth, so very warm. She could not prevent herself from imagining how they would feel on her mouth. She pricked herself a little as she pulled her needle through the linen, but it was not enough to draw blood.

“Didn’t I tell you so?” her father replied.

“Yes, but it would make more sense the other way around. You’re quite sure you didn’t put the idea into his head?”

“Now, why would I do that?”

“Why would you not?” she asked with a severe look in his direction. “Such a union relieves you of your debt, makes it unnecessary for you to move
Maman
to another household and disposes of a daughter whom you feel should have another husband instead of pining for the one who died. You come out of it very well as far as I can see.” What she did not say, but thought privately, was that if it had come about in that manner, then Christien was as caught in this coil as she was.

“That wasn’t the way of it,” her father said with a slow movement of his grizzled head. “Lenoir seemed set on having you, said everything possible to gain my permission to address you. It was clear he’d had a great deal of time to marshal his arguments.”

“Why do you say that?” She formed a series of stitches with extra attention, trying to appear only vaguely interested.

“He came right to the point for one thing, not that it signifies in the least,” her father answered with a dismissive wave of one hand. “The thing is, I didn’t realize you would be so against it. If you really can’t stomach the arrangement, we will call it off.”

“Call it off?” She dropped her hands into her lap, her fingers clenching her needle. “Is that possible?”

“Nothing easier. I’ll just inform Lenoir it’s not in the cards. He’s a sensible man. I’m sure he’ll bow out with no great to-do. Though, I must say he seemed reluctant when I offered to let him off the hook two days ago.”

“You did that.”

His gaze upon her was chiding. “I am not an ogre,
chère.
”

“No,” she said with a misty smile, “you are the best of fathers. But what about River’s Edge?”

“I never liked the place above half, to tell the truth, only accepted it because your mother was attached to it. It might be as well if you leave here, anyway, leave all the bad memories behind, start over somewhere else.”

“Where people don’t know us, you mean.” There was a certain seduction in the idea, she had to admit.

“Natchez, maybe. I hear it’s booming, and I’ve friends there. Or Havana, a tropical port. Bound to be opportunities there. Paris, even. What would you say to Paris?”

Reine smiled a little at the enthusiasm in his voice. Her father had always been one for big plans. Still, she shook her head as she took up her sewing again, allowing
her fingers to go about the task with little direction from her conscious thoughts.
“Maman
wouldn’t like it, you know she wouldn’t.”

“No, I suppose not.” Her father sighed, settling back onto his heels.

“She would hate leaving everything behind, would likely make herself frantic over the strangeness of a new place. And it isn’t as if I have any real objection to Christien—Monsieur Lenoir. He’s been a complete gentleman in this business.”

“He rates high in Paul’s book.”

“Anyone with a swordsman’s skill would,” she pointed out in a dry tone. “Still, Christien put himself to the trouble of earning his good will. Not many men would have.” Unspoken between them was the knowledge that Theodore had not bothered. A brother-in-law had been a nuisance to him. He’d behaved as if the two of them were in competition, and was jealous of any affection she displayed toward Paul. They had descended to fisticuffs more than once.

“Then you are resigned.”

“That’s as good a way as any of putting it, I suppose.”

“I must admit to relief,” her father said, rubbing a finger alongside his nose with a rueful air. “Lenoir is pleasant enough, but he can poker up in a frightful way. I’d not relish taking something from him that he really wanted.”

“But if it’s all a question of indebtedness…”

“Doesn’t mean the marriage doesn’t suit him,” her father said with a judicious air. “Matter of fact, I think he may have taken a fancy to you,
chère.
”

“You’re wrong, surely.”

“You don’t think it possible?”

“I’m no great beauty, and have done nothing to attract him.” She hesitated, then went on. “He rode into town late last night.”

Her father sent her a quick glance, then looked away again. “It doesn’t mean he’s dissatisfied, only that he requires other…pleasures.”

He meant the kind of pleasure not to be found at River’s Edge until after the wedding. Reine pressed her lips tightly together for an instant before she spoke. “I would like to think such outings will come to an end. Afterward, I mean.”

“I’m sure Lenoir will be an ideal husband once the knot is tied. And it’s a wife’s part to see that he’s content at home.”

Her gaze narrowed a fraction. “Are you saying it was my fault Theodore preferred the beds of other women?”

“Never, only that he was young and had never known the bridle. He’d have surely settled down in time.”

“Possibly,” she said, though she was far from convinced. Her father did not know all the hurtful things Theodore had said, especially before flinging himself off to town on that last evening at Bonne Espèrance. Even during the three days when a bride and groom were traditionally shut up together, when they were supposed to be learning to be comfortable with each other, to grow used to the intimacies of marriage and overcome the embarrassment of them, he had slipped
out, leaving her alone. She had cried into her pillow, too ashamed to allow anyone to hear. Things had never been the same between them.

“Besides, Lenoir is not your usual idle gentleman,” her father went on. “He may have other obligations about which we know nothing. Why, he may be instructing a client who prefers private lessons after salon hours.”

“I suppose.” After an instant, she added, “Do you know anything of his finances? I mean, he doesn’t seem to be especially well off.”

Her father walked to lean on the post next to her chair. “Why would you say that?”

“Only look at his linen.” She held up the shirt she was mending. The light behind it showed fabric that was nearly transparent. “Quite threadbare, you see, and the sleeve almost torn from the armhole. Do you think he would mind a new shirt as a wedding gift?” She was doing her best to come to grips with the idea that Christien might be as dependent on the blessings of River’s Edge as the rest of them.

“I think anything you did for him would meet with favor, yet I am all amazement. One could be forgiven for thinking you’ve added your newly betrothed bridegroom to the list of those you look after.”

“I wouldn’t want him to be embarrassed in front of our wedding guests. Besides, it’s only a shirt.”

“And a pair of knitted stockings to wear with his boots will be next, I suppose. Oh, yes, and possibly a cravat. What after that, unmentionables?”

“Papa!”

“Forgive me, I couldn’t resist when you are being so domestic. Still, I’m puzzled over how you intend to judge the size of this shirt you will make.”

“I shall use this one as a pattern, of course.”

Her father’s gaze took on a humorous slant. “And I was making a private bet over who would win out should you decide to take the gentleman’s measure.”

“It might be better to have it,” she said, ignoring his double entendre as she frowned at the shirt she held. “Only think of the waste of time and linen if this shirt has shrunk in the wash or the sleeve gave way because he is larger in size than when it was made?”

“He could be wider in shoulder, perhaps,” her father said, “but nowhere else. The man hasn’t a superfluous inch.” He sighed, patting his small paunch. “But if you are to do the job, you’d better hurry. I saw Alonzo in the kitchen heating shaving water just now. Another quarter hour and your groom will be riding over the plantation. I never saw such a man for getting out into the morning dew.” He twinkled at her as he pushed from the post where he rested. “You’ve had your breakfast, I suppose. I’ll leave you to go in search of mine.”

She gave a distracted answer as he strolled into the house. Her papa was indulging his droll humor in advising her to seek Christien out for measuring. He had no thought at all that she would actually do it. She wasn’t sure she dared, yet the idea of working from an accurate pattern grew in her mind with all the hardihood of an oak seedling. If the replacement shirt did not fit Christien, there would be no time to alter it.

It wasn’t as if she had never undertaken such a task before. She measured Paul and her father for nightshirts on occasion, though their other linen was made in town. Accurate guides for cutting the fabric made all the difference in the world.

She did want her future husband to be well turned out for the wedding. If the guests assumed she had accepted his proposal because of his fine, crisp linen as well as his wickedly handsome face and strong physique, she wouldn’t mind. It would be better than pity for being forced to exchange the duties of a wife for the well-being of her family. When viewed that way, it seemed the garment she would make should fit with absolute perfection.

She was not one to allow second thoughts to sap her resolve. Ten minutes after her father left her, she finished mending the shirt, picked up her sewing basket with its cotton tape for measuring and went in search of Christien.

At the door of his chamber, she paused with her sewing basket in the crook of her arm and lifted her hand to knock. What if he was still abed? What if he were unclothed? What if he refused to be measured? Her father was right. Her groom was formidable when displeased, with a black scowl and a will of iron.

She wasn’t afraid of him, was she? To stand quaking at the mere thought of his frown was no way to begin a marriage. She rapped on the door.

A deep voice called for her to enter. She did not hesitate, but turned the knob and swept into the room.

Christien stood with a razor in his hand, stooping
a little due to his great height as he peered into the oval shaving mirror that sat atop the bureau. Shirtless and barefoot, he was covered only by fawn pantaloons from which dangled the looped braces that normally held them up. Alerted by her light footfalls, or perhaps by her abrupt stillness, he swung toward the door.

“Good day to you,
monsieur,
” Reine said as she jerked into forward motion. She kept her voice even in spite of the wave of heat that mounted to her forehead. How ridiculous to be affected by the sight of a pair of wide shoulders ridged with muscle and the sculpted column of his back as it swept down to his waist. She had seen unclothed men before, from her late husband to slaves injured in the field and brought to the infirmary.

“Madame,”
he said with a lifted brow. “I thought…that is, I expected Alonzo with more hot water.”

“He will be along shortly. Meanwhile, I have a small task to perform.”

He eyed the sewing basket under her arm. “I don’t believe I’m in need of stitching.”

“I should hope not. But pray go on with your task. I will wait.” She moved to the half-tester bed and placed her basket on the high mattress. The sheets were rumpled and the pillow still held the indentation of his head, but she refused to picture him in the bed. No, she would not.

He watched her for an instant before reaching for a towel, wiping it over the scattered trails of lather still on his face. “If you will allow me to dress, I’ll come to you wherever you choose.”

With great resolution, she turned to face him. “I would rather you didn’t.”

“Madame?”

“Didn’t dress,” she amplified, resting her gaze for an unguarded instant upon his wide chest, its flat planes gilded with morning light through the windows, glinting with water droplets. No furring of hair concealed its impressive musculature, a phenomenon she had noted before in the drawings of woodland natives. Her fingers tingled with the need to trail them over that smooth, hard surface, and she wondered in a paralyzing flash of desire just what it would be like to lick away the water with her tongue or to press her bare breasts against it.

“I am at your service, of course,” he with a smile lighting his eyes, “but it might be useful to know what brought on this sudden…desire.”

Confusion clouded her mind. She directed her gaze past his shoulder while heat simmered inside her. “A shirt. I only wish to measure you for a shirt. Nothing more.”

“A shirt.” His voice turned wry.

She wondered briefly if he was disappointed that she required nothing else of him. The idea that he willingly would have answered her desire was seductive beyond reason. She swallowed before forcing a reply from her throat. “It’s the custom for the bride to make a gift for the groom. A shirt seems appropriate.”

“Does it now?” His features were unreadable as he studied her. “Why would that be?”

“You need one. Why else?”