Storm Winds

  “Then we shall not tell them. Are you not warmer with me here?”

  “Yes, much warmer.”

  “Good.” His shivering had almost stopped, she noticed with relief. “I’ll hold you until you go to sleep.” She reached up and gently stroked his hair as she did Louis Charles’s. A few minutes later she said impatiently, “You’re not at ease. I can feel you hard as a stone against me.”

  “How extraordinary. Perhaps I’m not accustomed to females slipping into my bed only in order to ‘ease’ me.”

  “As you say, the situation is extraordinary.” Juliette levered herself up on one elbow and gazed sternly down at him. “You must not think of me as a female. It’s not good for you.”

  His lips twitched. “I’ll endeavor to dismiss your gender from my mind. I’ll think of you as a thick woolen blanket or a hot, warming brick.”

  She nodded and again lay down beside him. “That’s right.”

  “Or a smelly sheepskin rug.”

  “I do not think I smell.” She frowned. “Do I?”

  “Or a horse lathered from a long run.”

  “Do you have the fever again?”

  “No, I was merely carrying the image to greater lengths. I feel much more comfortable with you now.”

  “You laugh at the most peculiar things.”

  “You’re a most peculiar fem—sheepskin rug.”

  “You are feverish.”

  “Perhaps.”

  But his brow felt only slightly warm to the touch, and the shaking of his body had stopped almost entirely.

  “Go to sleep,” she whispered. “I’m here. All is well.”

  A few moments later she felt him relax, his breathing deepen.

  At last he had fallen into a deep slumber.

  THREE

  You’ve painted long enough. Come here and play a hand of faro with me.”

  Juliette didn’t look at Jean Marc as she added more yellow to the green of the trees in the painting on the easel before her. “What?”

  “Play cards with me.”

  She cast a glance over her shoulder at Jean Marc lying on the bed across the room. “I’m busy.”

  “You’ve been busy for four hours,” Jean Marc said dryly. “And will probably be at that easel for another four if I don’t assert my rights.”

  “What rights?”

  “The rights of a bored, irritable patient who is being neglected in favor of your precious paints and canvas.”

  “In a moment.”

  She was aware of his gaze on the middle of her back as she resumed painting.

  “Tell me what it’s like,” he said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Painting. I watched your face as you worked. Your expression was extraordinary.”

  Juliette was jarred out of her absorption into uneasiness. He had been lying in that bed watching her for hours every day and never before made comment. Her art was a private, intensely personal passion, and realizing he had been studying her emotions as she worked made her feel oddly naked. “Painting is … pleasant.”

  He laughed softly. “I hardly think that’s the correct term. You looked as exultant as a saint ascending the steps to heaven.”

  She didn’t look at him. “That’s blasphemy. I’m sure you know nothing of how a saint would feel.”

  “But you do?” He coaxed, “Tell me.”

  She was silent a moment. She had never tried to put her feelings about her work into words, but suddenly she realized she wanted him to know. “It’s as if I were swathed in moonlight and sunlight … drinking a rainbow and becoming intoxicated on all the hues in the world. Sometimes it goes well and the feeling’s so exquisite it hurts.” She kept her gaze on the painting so she wouldn’t know if he was laughing at her. “And sometimes I can do nothing right and that hurts too.”

  “It sounds like an exceedingly painful pastime. But it’s worth it to you?”

  She nodded jerkily. “Oh, yes, it’s worth it.”

  “Something beautiful?” he asked softly.

  She finally glanced at him and found no sign of amusement in his intent regard. She nodded again. “A struggle to achieve something beautiful.”

  A brilliant smile lit his lean, dark face, and she gazed at him in fascination. Jean Marc’s thick black hair was rumpled, his white linen shirt open nearly to the waist to reveal the bandage and a glimpse of the triangle of dark hair thatching his chest. Yet, in spite of his disarray, he still managed to exude an air of elegance. Dear heaven, how she wanted to paint the man. She had persistently asked him to permit her to sketch him ever since he had started to mend and he had just as persistently refused her.

  “Well, I feel it my duty to rescue you from this painful pleasure,” he said. “Come and play faro with me.”

  “Shortly, I wish to finish this lit—”

  “Now.”

  “You’re fortunate that I play with you at all. You’ve grown very spoiled in recent days. But then, I think you were already spoiled before you became ill.”

  “Spoiled?” Jean Marc levered himself upright against the headboard. “I’m not the queen’s favorite. How could a poor bourgeois man of business become spoiled?”

  “I’m not the queen’s favorite either. She’s kind to me but it’s my mother who has her affection,” Juliette said. “And Monsieur Guilleme says there are few noblemen in France who are as rich as you are.”

  “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

  “Why not? You will tell me nothing of yourself. You’re like the glass in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. You reflect but reveal nothing of yourself.”

  “And it’s your duty as an artist to uncover my hidden soul?”

  “You’re laughing at me again.” She turned back to the painting. “But it’s quite true. I’ve already learned some things about you.”

  “Indeed?” His smile faded. “I’d be curious as to the nature of your discoveries.”

  “You’re spoiled.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “You hate anyone to see you weak and helpless.”

  “Is that extraordinary?”

  “No, I feel much the same. And you’re not nearly as hard as you appear.”

  “You said that once before.” His lips twisted. “I assure you it’s not a safe assumption to make about me.”

  She shook her head. “You asked Monsieur Guilleme yesterday about the plight of the peasants in the area and gave him a purse of gold to distribute among those in need.”

  He shrugged. “Some of those poor clods attacking the carriage were walking skeletons. It was little wonder they let themselves be whipped into a frenzy.”

  She continued to enumerate. “And you bear pain much better than boredom.”

  “Now, that truth I will own. Come and play cards with me.”

  His smile was coaxing, banishing all hardness and lighting his face with rare beauty. Juliette dragged her gaze from his face and back to her canvas. “Why should I play with you when I could be painting?”

  “Because I wish it, and you’re all that’s gentle and obliging.”

  “I’m not oblig—” She stopped as she saw the wicked arch of his black brow. “The physician said you could get up for a little while tomorrow. Soon you’ll be able to do without me entirely.”

  “And you’ll go back to Versailles?”

  She nodded vigorously. “And I shall be very glad to see the last of you. You laugh at me. You take me away from my work. You make me amuse you as if I were—”

  “It was your decision to stay,” he reminded her. “I told you I’d be a bad patient.”

  “And you told God’s truth.”

  “I regret you’ve suffered so grievously at my hands. I’m sure every minute has been an interminable strain.”

  The devil knew very well it had been no such thing, Juliette thought with exasperation. It was not fair Jean Marc should be able to understand her with such ease when she was able to see only a little beyond the hard, glittering su
rface he displayed to the world. He knew she enjoyed both the sharp-edged banter and the comforting silences. Being with him stimulated and excited her in some strange fashion. She never knew how he would treat her. At times he teased her as if she were a small child; at other times he seemed to forget the difference in age between them and talked to her as if she were a woman grown. She looked forward to his company in the same way she looked forward to immersing herself in her painting, knowing she would be swept away but still eager to yield to the force. Now he was treating her with an annoying indulgent amusement, and she had a sudden desire to shock him. “I haven’t finished telling all I know of you.” She paused and then said in a rush, “I believe you’ve fornicated with that tavern maid who serves our meals.”

  His smile vanished. “Germaine?”

  “Is that her name? The one with breasts like Juno.”

  Jean Marc was silent for a moment. “Women of quality don’t speak of fornication, Juliette, and certainly not to gentlemen.”

  “I know.” Her hand was shaking slightly as she added white to her brush. “But I do speak of it. Have you?”

  “Why do you think I have?”

  “She stares at you as if she’d like to eat you.”

  “Look at me, Juliette.”

  “I’m too busy.”

  “Look at me.”

  Juliette glanced over her shoulder and inhaled sharply as she saw the expression on his face.

  “No,” he enunciated softly and with great precision. “You don’t want to wander down that path. Not unless you wish to learn exactly what I did with Germaine.”

  Juliette felt a hot flush rush to her cheeks. “I only wondered. I need no description.”

  “Description? I wasn’t speaking of words.”

  Juliette pulled her gaze away. “You’re teasing me again.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.” She added white to the blue of the sky in the painting, hunting desperately for a change of subject. “If my presence is so boring, perhaps I should let Marguerite tend to your needs.”

  “You would not be so cruel. How can you stand having that gloomy-faced harridan about? She stalks around the inn like a crow scratching for worms. Does the woman never smile?”

  His tone was teasing again and Juliette breathed a sigh of relief. “She smiles at my mother. She was my mother’s nurse since the day she was born and loves her very much. Most of the time I see very little of her when we’re at the palace.” Juliette kept her gaze carefully averted. “Marguerite doesn’t like being here, but the queen thought I should have a woman in attendance while I saw to your needs, so she sent Marguerite back to the inn to serve as my chaperone.”

  “Quite proper. However, totally unnecessary. You’re scarce more than a child.”

  Juliette didn’t argue with him though she couldn’t remember a time when she had thought of herself as a child—and it was not as a child that he had looked at her a few moments before. “The queen believes in being discreet.”

  Jean Marc raised his eyebrows.

  “She does,” Juliette insisted. “You mustn’t believe what those horrible pamphleteers write about her. She’s kind and a good mother and—”

  “Foolishly extravagant and self-indulgent.”

  “She doesn’t understand about money.”

  “Then she had better learn. The country’s on the edge of bankruptcy and she still plays at being a shepherdess in her fairy-tale garden at Versailles.”

  “She gave to the relief of the hungry from her own allowance.” Juliette put her brush down and turned to face him. “You don’t know her. She gave me paints and a tutor. She’s kind, I tell you.”

  “We’ll not argue about it.” Jean Marc’s gaze narrowed on her flushed face. “I have a feeling if I say anything more about Her Sublime Majesty, you may take a dagger to my other shoulder.”

  “You’ll see for yourself when you go to Versailles,” Juliette said earnestly. “She’s not what she is portrayed to be.”

  “Perhaps not to you.” Jean Marc raised his hand as she opened her lips to protest. “As you say, I’ll judge when I’m admitted to the queen’s august presence.”

  Juliette frowned at him, not satisfied. “She doesn’t understand. She’s as a butterfly who always has lived in a garden filled with flowers. You wouldn’t expect a butterfly to understand why—”

  “I wouldn’t expect a butterfly to be queen of the greatest country in Europe,” Jean Marc said mildly.

  “Yet you have no hesitation about asking a boon of that butterfly just as all the rest of the world does. What do you wish from her? A patent of nobility? A great estate?”

  “The Wind Dancer.”

  She gazed at him in astonishment. “She will never give it to you. Not the Wind Dancer.”

  “We shall see.” He changed the subject. “But your threat to inflict your Marguerite on me will not come to pass. I’ve sent word to Paris for my cousin, Catherine Vasaro, to be brought here tomorrow. Perhaps she’ll be more sympathetic to the ennui of a poor wounded man.”

  Juliette became still. “Your cousin?”

  He nodded. “A distant cousin and my father’s ward. My nephew, Philippe, escorted her from my home in Marseilles to Paris, and I received word yesterday they had arrived.” He smiled teasingly. “Catherine’s everything that’s gentle and kind. Not at all like you.”

  Juliette suddenly had a vision of a woman as tall and voluptuous as the tavern maid with a radiant halo suspended above her lovely head. The thought ignited within her the bewildering pain of envy. Why should it matter to her if this Catherine was as virtuous as a saint? She carefully hid any hint of her pain as she raised her chin. “Then I’ll leave you to your gentle Catherine and return to Versailles at once.”

  “I think not. You said you wouldn’t desert me until I was ready to leave the inn. Catherine is of such a delicate nature, I doubt she’ll prove of much value.” He added softly, “Surely, you wouldn’t leave me when I still need you?”

  He was looking at her with that rare, brilliant smile she had found herself watching and waiting for in the last few days. She felt her resistance melting away and quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. “No, I would not leave you … if you truly needed me.”

  “I do. Now come here and play faro with me.”

  She hesitated, feeling the same half-sad, half-possessive regret she had known at the thought of giving up Louis Charles after his illness. Jean Marc, too, had belonged to her alone for so many days, and now she must let him go. It wasn’t fair that—What was she thinking? She should be glad she wouldn’t have to bear the intimacy of his company. She was accustomed to being alone. She could paint uninterrupted.

  Still, it would do no harm to indulge Jean Marc with a little extra attention on this last evening, when he would be completely her own … responsibility. She moved briskly toward the bed. “I’ll play a game or two with you before supper.” She sat down on the chair beside his bed and reached for the deck of cards on the table. “You must understand it’s not because you ask it, but only because I’m weary of painting and wish to play.”

  His dark, watchful gaze searched her face before a curiously gentle smile touched his lips. “I do understand, ma petite. I assure you that your motives are completely clear to me.”

  Holy Mother of God, she couldn’t breathe!

  Catherine Vasaro leaned back on the cushions of the coach and tried to keep from panting. Why had she been so foolish? She should have protested, but she had wanted to appear as womanly and beautiful as the ladies Philippe usually admired. Now she couldn’t—

  “Why are you looking so troubled, Catherine?” Philippe Andreas asked gently. “Jean Marc’s message said he was in no danger and well on the mend.”

  Oh, dear, how wicked she had been to indulge in vanity when she should have been thinking only of Jean Marc. She tried to smile. “I know he will be fine. Jean Marc is so … invulnerable. I cannot imagine him allowing anything to hurt him.”
br />   Philippe’s eyes twinkled. “Is that why you tiptoe around him with eyes as big as china plates?”

  “He does make me feel nervous.” She rushed on. “Not that he isn’t extremely solicitous of me. No one could be more kind.”

  “Not even my humble self? You cut me to the quick, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that you—” She stopped when he threw back his head and laughed. He had been teasing her and she had not had the sense to realize it, she thought in disgust. No wonder he treated her only with indulgent amusement when she behaved like a gaping idiot whenever he appeared in view. But how could she help it when he was as handsome as one of the ancient gods in one of Cousin Denis’s books? However, Philippe was no unapproachable deity; his classic features were generally lit with an easy smile and his blue eyes with good humor.

  Always fashionably dressed, he looked particularly elegant today, she thought. The sea-blue silk cutaway coat and gold brocade vest he wore flattered his tall, manly figure. The black satin trousers lovingly followed the line of his thighs ending below the knee to display white silk stockings that admirably showed off his muscular calves.

  “Shall I get your fan from the valise? You look a trifle pale.”

  She sat up straighter. “I’m just distracted. I’m concerned about Jean Marc’s wound.…” God would most certainly punish her for that falsehood, she thought gloomily.

  Philippe nodded. “It hasn’t been an easy time for you. First the long journey from Marseilles and then to hear of Jean Marc’s wound immediately upon your arrival.”

  “Yes.” Catherine was silent for a moment, staring blindly out the window. “And I didn’t want to leave Cousin Denis at this time.”

  “No?”

  “He’s dying, Philippe. They think I don’t know, but Cousin Denis is dying.” She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Isn’t he?”

  “Nonsense. He has many—” Philippe broke off and nodded. “Yes, Jean Marc says he hasn’t long to live.”

  “Cousin Denis has always been so kind to me,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “I wanted to stay with him until the end, but he seemed not to want me there. So I feigned ignorance when he told me I was to go away to school. Sometimes it’s difficult to know what’s best to do, isn’t it, Philippe?”