Counterfeit Lady

  “You lived there with your parents?”

  “Grandfather lived in the east wing, and I lived in the main house with my parents. Of course, we kept the west wing for the king’s visits.”

  “Of course,” Clay answered. “What happened to your parents?”

  Silently, tears began to run down her face. Clay held the glass and gave her another sip of sherry.

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  “Grandfather was home from Court. He was away so often. He came home because so many people were unsafe in Paris. My father said we should all go to England until the people calmed down, but my grandfather said that Courtalains had lived in the chateau for centuries, and he was not going to leave it. He said the rabble wouldn’t dare oppose him. We all believed him. He was so big and strong. His voice alone could scare anyone.” She stopped.

  “What happened that day?”

  “Grandfather and I went riding in the park. It was a beautiful spring day. Then we saw smoke through the trees, and my grandfather spurred his horse forward. I followed him. When we broke through the trees, we saw it. My beautiful, beautiful house was going up in flames. I just sat there and stared. I couldn’t believe it. My grandfather led my horse to the stables and lifted me off it. He told me to stay there. I just stood there and stared and stared, watching the fire turn the pink bricks black.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They’d gone to a friend’s house and didn’t plan to get back until late. I didn’t know my mother had torn her gown and they’d returned early.” The sobs became stronger.

  Clay cuddled her close to him. “Tell me. Get it out.”

  “Grandfather came back, running through the garden hedges to the stable. His clothes were dirty with smoke, and under his arm was a little wooden box. He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the stables. He threw all the hay out of a long box and pushed me into it. Then he climbed into it, too. We lay there for only a few minutes before we heard the people shouting. The horses were screaming from the smell of the fire. I wanted to go to them, but my grandfather held me still.”

  She stopped, and Clay gave her more of the sherry.

  “What happened when the mob was gone?”

  “Grandfather opened the hay box, and we got out. It was dark, or it should have been. Our home was blazing, and it was nearly as bright as day. Grandfather pulled me away when I looked back at it. ‘Always look ahead, child, never look back,’ he said. We walked all that night and most of the next day. At sundown, he stopped and opened the box he’d taken from the house. There were papers inside it and an emerald necklace that belonged to my mother.” She sighed, remembering how they’d used the emeralds to help the miller. Then she’d sold the remaining two to buy a partnership in her cousin’s dress shop. “I still didn’t understand what was happening then,” she continued. “I was such a naive, sheltered child. My grandfather said that it was time I grew up and heard the truth. He said that people wanted to kill us because we lived in a beautiful, big house. He said that from now on we must hide who we are. He took the papers and buried them. He said that I must always remember who I am, that the Courtalains are descendants and relatives of kings.”

  “Did you go to the miller’s house then?”

  “Yes,” she said flatly, as if she planned to say nothing more.

  Clay handed her the glass of sherry. He didn’t like getting her drunk, but he knew it was the only way to get her to talk. For a long time, he’d sensed she was hiding something. This afternoon, when he’d asked her about her family, there’d been a quick look of terror across her eyes.

  He stroked her hair back from her forehead, the curls damp with perspiration. She was so small, yet she carried so many things inside her. Today, when she’d gotten so angry at him, he realized how right she was. Since she had arrived, he’d never looked at her without wishing to see Bianca’s blond features. Yet now, when he thought of all the things she’d accomplished since she’d been in America, he knew she wasn’t second-rate to anyone.

  He took the empty sherry glass away from her. “Why did you leave France and the miller’s house? You must have been safe there.”

  “They were very kind.” Her accent was growing thicker. Some of her words seemed to be pronounced more inside her throat than in her mouth. Each syllable came out as if it had been covered in cream. “My grandfather said I should learn a trade and that milling was a good one. The miller said a girl could never understand stones and grain, but Grandfather only laughed at him.”

  She stopped and smiled. “I could run that mill of yours. I could make it pay.”

  “Nicole,” he said in gentle, commanding tones. “Why does the storm bother you? Why did you leave the miller’s house?”

  She stared at the window as the rain began to beat against the glass. Her voice was very quiet. “We had plenty of warning. The miller had come back from town before he’d even sold the grain he had in the wagon. He said there were some troublemakers down from Paris. Many people knew about my grandfather and me. He had been an aristocrat all his life, and he said he was too old to change. What no one understood was that my grandfather did treat everyone equally. He treated the king the same way he treated the stable boy. He said that after Louis XIV died, there’d been no more men born.”

  “The miller came back in a hurry,” Clay urged.

  “He told us to hide, to escape, anything so we’d be safe. He’d grown to love my grandfather. Grandfather laughed at him. A storm came and with it the townspeople. I was in the top attic of the mill, counting feed sacks. I stared out the window, and when the lightning flashed I saw them coming. They carried pitchforks and scythes. Some of them I knew. I had helped them with their grain.”

  Clay felt her body shudder, and he held her closer. “Did your grandfather see them?”

  “He bounded up the stairs to where I was. I told him I would face the angry people with him, that I was a Courtalain also. He said he wanted more Courtalains, and I was the only one left now. He spoke as if he were already dead. He grabbed an empty feed bag and put it over my head. I think I was too stunned to speak. He tied the top of it, then whispered that if I loved him I wouldn’t move. He piled full bags of grain around me. I heard him go down the stairs. Minutes later, the mob entered the mill house. They searched the attic and several times came very close to finding me.”

  Clay kissed her forehead, held it against his cheek. “And your grandfather?” he whispered.

  “I worked myself free when they were gone. I wanted to get out and make sure he was safe. As I looked out the window—” Her body contracted violently, and he wrapped her closer to him.

  “What was outside the window?”

  She jerked away from him, pushing at him. “My grandfather was there. He was there, smiling at me.”

  Clay stared in puzzlement.

  “Don’t you understand? I was in the attic. They’d cut his head off and stuck it on a pike. They’d carried it high over their heads like a trophy. The lightning flashed, and I saw him!”

  “Oh, God,” Clay moaned, and he pulled her back to him even though she fought him. As she began to cry, he held her, rocked her, caressed her hair.

  “They killed the miller, too,” she said after a while. “The miller’s wife said I had to get away, that she could protect me no longer. She sewed three emeralds into my dress and put me on a ship to England. The emeralds and my locket were all that was left of my childhood.”

  “And then you stayed with Bianca and were kidnapped by me.”

  She sniffed. “You make it sound as if all my life were bad. I had a very happy childhood. I lived on a great estate, and I had hundreds of cousins for playmates.”

  He was glad to see she was recovering. He hoped that talking of the tragedy would have some lasting effect. “And how many hearts did you steal? Were they all in love with you?”

  “None of them were. One cousin kissed me but I didn’t like it. I wouldn’t let any of them kiss me again. You’
re the only one—” She stopped and smiled, then ran her finger along his lips. He kissed it, and she held the finger up to look at it. “Stupid, stupid Nicole,” she whispered.

  “Why do you call yourself stupid?”

  “The whole story is quite comical, really. One day, I’m riding in the park. The next, I wake up on a ship bound for America. Then I’m forced to marry a man who says I’m a thief.” She didn’t seem to feel Clay wince. “It would all make an excellent play. Beautiful heroine Bianca is engaged to handsome hero Clayton. But their plans are disrupted by the villainous Nicole. The audience would hang on to their seats until the end of the play, when the course of true love runs straight and Bianca and Clay are reunited.”

  “And what of Nicole?”

  “Ah! A judge gives her some papers that say she never existed, that the time she spent with the hero never was.”

  “Isn’t that what Nicole wants?” he asked quietly.

  She held the finger Clay had kissed to her lips. “Poor, ignorant Nicole has fallen in love with the hero. Isn’t that funny? He’s never even looked at her in their ten-minute marriage, but she’s in love with him. Do you know that he said she was an admirable woman? The poor, dumb thing is standing there, begging, wanting him to offer her passion, and he talks of all the things she can do, rather like buying a mare.”

  “Nicole—” he began.

  She giggled and stretched in his arms. “Did you know that I’m twenty years old? Half my cousins were married by the time they were eighteen. But I was always different. They said I was cold and unfeeling, that no man would ever want me.”

  “They were wrong. The minute you’re free of me, you’ll have a hundred men asking you to marry them.”

  “You’re anxious to get rid of me, aren’t you? You’d rather have your dreams of Bianca than have me, wouldn’t you? I am stupid. Sexless, motherly, virginal Nicole, in love with a man who doesn’t even know she’s alive.”

  She looked up at him. Somewhere there was a sober part of her brain that was listening to what she’d said to him. He was smiling at her. Laughing! Tears came to her eyes again. “Let me go! Leave me alone! Tomorrow you can laugh at me, but not now!” She struggled to get off his lap.

  He held her tightly. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just what you said about being sexless.” He ran his finger across her upper lip. “You really don’t know, do you? I can almost understand why your cousins shied away from you. There’s an intensity about you that’s almost frightening.”

  “Please, let me go,” she whispered.

  “How can any woman as beautiful as you not be sure of her beauty?” She started to speak, but he put his fingers over her lips. “Listen to me. That first night on the ship, when I kissed you—” He smiled in memory. “No woman’s ever kissed me like that. You asked nothing in return, only to give. Later, when I saw you terrified of the dogs, I think I would have walked through boiling oil to get to you. Don’t you understand, can’t you see how your presence affects me? You say I’ve never even looked at you. The truth is I’ve never stopped. Everyone on the plantation is laughing at the weak excuses I make to come to the house every day.”

  “I didn’t know you even knew I was here. Do you really think I’m pretty? I mean, my mouth, and to me a beautiful woman is blonde and blue-eyed.”

  He bent and kissed her, lingeringly, caressingly. He ran his lips along hers, then his tongue and his teeth. He touched the tip of his tongue to each corner of her mouth, then fiercely took her lower lip between his teeth, tasting the firm ripeness of it. “Does that answer your question? Several nights I’ve had to sleep in the fields in order to get some rest. With you in the next room, I’ve never been able to sleep more than a few hours.”

  “Maybe you should have come to my room,” she said huskily. “I don’t think I would have turned you away.”

  “That’s good,” he said as he kissed her ear, then her neck, “because I’m going to make love to you tonight even if it’s a matter of rape.”

  Her arms slid around his neck. “Clay,” she whispered, “I love you.”

  He put his arms under her and stood up, then carried her to the bed. He lit a candle beside the bed. The delicious bayberry scent floated through the room. “I want to see you,” he said, and sat beside her on the bed. The lace bodice of the nightgown was fastened with seventeen tiny, satin-covered buttons. Slowly and carefully, Clay unbuttoned each one. His hands against her breasts made Nicole close her eyes.

  “Did you know that I undressed you the night I took you from the dogs? Leaving you alone in that bed was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “That’s how my dress got torn.”

  He didn’t answer her as he took her arms out of the lace bodice, then lifted her to remove the rest of the gown. He ran his hand down the side of her body, pausing at the curve of her hip. She was small but perfectly proportioned. Her breasts were high and full, her waist tiny, her legs and hips slim. He bent his head and kissed her stomach, rubbed his cheek against it.

  “Clay,” she whispered, her hand in his hair, “I’m frightened.”

  He lifted his head and smiled at her. “The unknown is what’s frightening. Have you ever seen a naked man?”

  “One of my cousins when he was two,” she answered honestly.

  “There’s a big difference,” he said, and he stood to begin unfastening the side buttons of his pants, the only garment he wore.

  She was shy when they dropped to the floor, and she kept her eyes on his face. He stood quietly, and she knew he expected more of her. His chest was tanned from the sun. It was wide and muscled. The deep curve of his muscles played with the candlelight. His waist was very slim, his stomach muscles forming separate ridges. Quickly, her eyes went to his feet, his strong calves, and his heavily muscled thighs. He was a man who spent a great deal of time on a horse, and his thighs showed the result. Her eyes went back to his face, and he still wore a look of waiting.

  She looked downward. What she saw did not frighten her. He was Clayton, the man she loved, and she wasn’t afraid of him. She gave a low, throaty laugh of relief and pleasure. She opened her arms to him. “Come to me,” she whispered.

  Clay smiled at her as he stretched out beside her on the bed.

  “Such a beautiful smile,” she said as she ran a finger along his lips. “Someday, maybe you’ll explain to me why I see it so seldom.”

  “Maybe,” he said impatiently as he caught her mouth under his.

  To Nicole, Clay’s skin was electric. The size and strength of him made her feel small and feminine. As he kissed her neck, she ran her hand over his arm, feeling the dips and curves of it. Suddenly, she realized that he was hers, that his body was hers to explore and taste. She leaned toward him and kissed that smile of his, ran her tongue across those even white teeth she so seldom saw. She placed little nipping bites along his neck, pulled at his earlobe with her teeth. She moved her thigh between his.

  Clay was startled by her actions. Then he laughed inside his throat. “Come here, my little French vixen.” He pulled her close to him and rolled with her across the bed.

  Nicole laughed joyously, delightfully. He held her on top of him, ran his hands through her hair, then up her body to her breasts.

  Suddenly, his expression changed, darkened. “I want you,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Yes.”

  Gently, he laid her on the bed and moved on top of her. The alcohol on an empty stomach, the catharsis of telling someone about her grandfather, all conspired to relax her. All she knew was that she was with the man she loved and wanted. She wasn’t afraid when she first felt Clay enter her. There was a moment of pain, but she forgot it at the thought of being closer to Clay.

  A moment later, her eyes widened in surprise. Always before, when she’d imagined lovemaking, she’d imagined a rather holy pleasure, a feeling of closeness and love. The feeling that was coursing through her veins had nothing to do with love—this was fire!

/>   “Clay,” she whispered, then tilted her head backward and arched her body.

  He went slowly at first, restraining himself, knowing this was her first time. But her reactions inflamed him. He’d guessed that she was a woman who understood passion instinctively, but he had never guessed the depth of her. Her throat was exposed, and he could see the blood pounding there. She clutched at his hips, ran her hands down along his body. She made him feel as if she enjoyed him as much as he did her. The women he’d had in his lifetime usually were demanding or believed they were doing him a favor.

  He fell on top of her as his thrusts became harder and faster. She pulled him closer, closer, wrapping her legs around his waist. When they exploded together, they still clung, their bodies united, their sweat mingled.

  For Nicole, it had been a new, wondrous experience. She’d expected something heavenly and uplifting. The animal passion she’d experienced was so much more than she knew existed. She fell asleep in Clay’s arms.

  Clay would not release her even the slightest distance. For all the times he’d spent in bed with women, he felt that this had been his first. For the first time in years, he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

  When Nicole woke the next morning, it was some minutes before she opened her eyes. She stretched luxuriously, knowing that when she did open them she’d see Clay’s dark-paneled bedroom, the pillow his head had touched. She sensed he was gone, but her happiness was too great to be spoiled.

  When at last she looked about her, she was startled to see the white walls of her own room. Her first thought was that Clay had not wanted her to remain in his bed. She tossed the light quilt aside and told herself that was absurd. More than likely, he was concerned that she should have a choice about someone finding her in his bed or her own.

  She went to the wardrobe and chose a lovely dress of pale blue muslin, the high waist and the skirt trimmed in deep blue satin ribbon. There was a note on top of the dresser. “Breakfast at nine. Clay.” She smiled, and her fingers trembled as she buttoned the dress.