Storm Winds

  Philippe reached out and touched her hand. “You’re doing very well, ma chou. Death’s not easy for us to face at any age.”

  Warmth spread through Catherine. Philippe’s comforting clasp gave her feelings of golden serenity.

  “We’re approaching the inn,” Philippe said, leaning back in the seat. “You’ll feel better when you see for yourself that Jean Marc’s wound isn’t serious.”

  Of course she would feel easier to know Jean Marc was getting better. She was very fond of Jean Marc.

  And it was wicked to want the journey to go on and on so that she could remain within the warmth of Philippe’s luminous smile.

  “They’re here.” Juliette stood at the window gazing down at the coach that had just stopped before the door of the inn. She frowned as she saw the footman help a fragile-looking, splendidly gowned girl from the coach. “Or perhaps not.”

  Jean Marc moved haltingly to the window and glanced out to see Philippe take Catherine’s arm and escort her. “Yes, that’s Catherine.” He quickly sat down on the closest chair. “You seem surprised.”

  “She’s not what I expected.” No voluptuous angel but a beautiful, frail child no older than herself. Juliette quickly masked the relief surging through her and turned away from the window to look at Jean Marc. When she had gone into his chamber that morning and seen him fully dressed, it had given her a queer shock. Lean, elegant, powerful, the bandage hidden by the fine linen of his white shirt, he had appeared independent and totally in command. However, now she noticed the paleness of his complexion and the weariness of his posture as he slumped in the chair, and these signs of his weakness brought her another freshet of relief. She hadn’t lost him yet. He would still belong to her for a while longer. “You’ve been up long enough. Lie down and rest.”

  “Presently. Are you not going down to welcome our guests?”

  “They’re your guests, not mine.” She crossed to the easel and picked up her brush. “Monsieur Guilleme will bring them to your chamber.”

  “Juliette …” Jean Marc shook his head with a faint smile. “You can’t hide behind your painting and that gruff tongue forever.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I just don’t wish to—”

  “Jean Marc, what idiocy have you been about?” Philippe Andreas threw open the door and allowed Catherine to precede him into the chamber. “It’s not at all like you to involve yourself in physical combat. You much prefer a battle of wits.”

  “An error I have no intention of repeating,” Jean Marc said dryly. He frowned as he looked at Catherine. “You’re well, Catherine? You look a bit pale.”

  “It’s you who are ill, Jean Marc.” Catherine’s gaze moved from the painting that had immediately captured her attention to her cousin’s face. “I do hope you’ve recovered.”

  “As well as could be expected, I suppose. I’d like to present Mademoiselle Juliette de Clement, who has been both my salvation and my torm—Catherine! Catch her, Philippe!”

  Catherine swayed but remained on her feet, clinging desperately to Philippe’s arm. “I’ll be fine. Perhaps it’s the heat.” Her breath was coming in shallow bursts. “If I could sit down …”

  “Why didn’t you say at once that you weren’t feeling well?” Jean Marc demanded.

  Catherine’s eyes widened in distress as her gaze shifted to Jean Marc. “You’re angry. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I’m sorry—”

  “I’m not angry.” Jean Marc was obviously trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Is your stomach upset?”

  “No. Yes. Perhaps a little.” Catherine seemed barely to get the words past her pale lips. “I’m sorry, Jean Marc.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’ll send for the physician.”

  “Oh, no, I’m sure I’ll be quite recovered in a few moments.” Tears rose to Catherine’s eyes. “I should never—” She stopped and swayed again. “Jean Marc, I think …”

  “It’s her corset.”

  Jean Marc turned at Juliette’s clear voice. “I beg your pardon.”

  She ignored him, scowling at Catherine in disgust. “Why don’t you tell him you can’t breathe?”

  Another blush tinted Catherine’s delicate skin. “Please, I can …” She trailed off miserably.

  “Oh, for the love of God.” Juliette turned to Philippe. “Give me your dagger.”

  “What?”

  “Your dagger,” she repeated as she stretched out her paint-smeared hand. “There’s no time to unlace her. Do you want her flopping like a fish at your feet?”

  “The idea certainly doesn’t appeal to me,” Jean Marc said lightly. “Are you saying her corset’s laced too tightly?”

  She cast him an impatient glance. “Of course, can’t you see she can get little air?”

  Philippe began to chuckle and Catherine’s blush deepened to bright scarlet.

  Jean Marc turned to Catherine. “Is that what—” He stopped as he saw the tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “Sacre bleu. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Miserable, Catherine gazed up at him. “It would have been indelicate. My governess, Claire, says such subjects are never discussed in polite company. I was afraid you’d think—” She broke off as a sob robbed her of the little breath she still possessed.

  “The knife.” Juliette’s fingers wriggled demandingly, and this time Philippe unsheathed his jeweled dress dagger and placed it in her hand.

  Juliette dropped the dagger on the bed and was immediately behind Catherine, unfastening her peach-colored brocade gown. “You know you’re very stupid to let them do this to you? Why did you not fight them?”

  “It was only for a short time.” Catherine gasped. “Claire said every woman should be willing to suffer to look attractive.”

  “Hush,” Juliette said. “Save your breath.” She cast a glance over her shoulder at Jean Marc. “Tell your father this Claire is a fool and should be dismissed. It’s clear the girl’s too gentle to fight for herself.”

  Catherine’s gown was finally unfastened and Juliette started to spread the material to reveal the lacings of the corset.

  Catherine suddenly stiffened and whirled to face them. “No.”

  Juliette scowled. “Stop this foolishness. Do you wish—”

  “Philippe must go away. It’s not proper he should see me in dishabille.”

  Juliette gazed at her in astonishment. “Proper? He’ll see you gasping like a chicken with its neck wrung if you don’t get these lacings undone.”

  Catherine’s jaw set. “It’s not proper.”

  “Go away and come back in fifteen minutes, Philippe,” Jean Marc said quickly.

  Philippe nodded and gave Catherine an understanding smile before leaving the chamber.

  Juliette muttered something beneath her breath that sounded remarkably like an oath as she picked up the dagger from the bed and began to saw through the lacings of the corset. A moment later she had cut through the last lacing and the corset sprang open. “There, that’s over.”

  Catherine drew a deep shuddering breath. “Merci.”

  “Don’t thank me. You should never have been bound in the first place. From now on, when someone tries to bind you, cut yourself free. How old are you?”

  “Three and ten.”

  “I’m four and ten and I haven’t worn a corset since I was seven. It took six months before Marguerite finally gave up trying to lace me into one, but it’s foolish to let them take your breath just because fashion decrees you must.” She turned to Jean Marc and demanded, “Well, will you fight for her?”

  “As well as I can. I travel a great deal and my father is ill.” Jean Marc smiled enigmatically. “Though I see now my cousin definitely needs a champion. Perhaps I can arrange something.”

  “Truly, Claire is usually very kind,” Catherine said, troubled. “I wouldn’t want her to suffer because of my foolishness. I should have told her the lacings were too tight.”

  “She should have seen it.” Juliette started to refa
sten Catherine’s gown and then stopped. “Bon Dieu!”

  “What’s wrong?” Catherine glanced anxiously over her shoulder.

  “The gown won’t fasten now,” Juliette said in disgust. “I can’t even get it closed.”

  “Claire stitched me into it after the corset was fastened.” Catherine sighed resignedly. “Perhaps you’d better try to lace up the corset again.”

  Juliette shook her head. “Monsieur Guilleme’s given you a chamber a few doors from here. We’ll go there and you can rest until the servants can bring your trunks from the carriage.” She pushed Catherine toward the door and glanced at Jean Marc over her shoulder. “Don’t overtire yourself. I have no desire to have two of you gasping for breath.”

  “As you command,” Jean Marc replied sardonically.

  Juliette turned back to Catherine, ignoring his tone. “You still look pale, take deep breaths.”

  In another moment Juliette had whisked Catherine from the chamber.

  “How is she?” A frown of genuine concern clouded Philippe’s classical features as he came back into Jean Marc’s room a few minutes later. “Poor little cabbage. We should have guessed what was troubling her.” His blue eyes were suddenly twinkling. “God knows, we’ve both undone our share of corsets.”

  “I’d say you’ve undone more than your share,” Jean Marc said dryly. “You have no discrimination. Any pair of thighs are fine as long as they welcome you.”

  “Untrue.” Philippe’s grin widened. “The thighs must be shapely and the lady clean and sweet-smelling. Other than that I have no prejudices.” He added simply, “I like them all.”

  And women liked Philippe, Jean Marc thought. Females young and old seemed to sense Philippe’s fascination with their sex and responded generously with both their bodies and their company. “Do you have the legal agreements I asked you to bring from my office in Paris?”

  “They’re still in my cases in the carriage.” Philippe made a face. “Only you would be concerned with business while you lie there with a dagger wound. Are you trying to become the richest man in France?”

  “No.” Jean Marc smiled. “The richest man in all Europe.”

  Philippe chuckled. “You’ll probably do it. As for myself, I’m content to be the poor connection. It gives me more time to enjoy the pleasures of life.” His gaze wandered to the painting on the easel in the corner. “Exceptional, isn’t it? Though I can’t say I like it. I prefer my art pretty and comfortable. Pictures like that have a tendency to make one think. Very fatiguing.”

  Jean Marc shot his nephew an amused glance. “Thinking. An occupation much to be avoided.”

  Philippe nodded placidly. “One must conserve one’s energy for the important things in life.”

  Jean Marc looked at Juliette’s painting. No, the painting wasn’t at all comfortable to view. The picture portrayed several richly dressed ladies, and gentlemen lolling in a forest glade but, other than the pastoral setting, it held none of the lush sentimentality popular with artists favored by the nobility. Strong beams of sunlight poured through the branches of the oak trees. Some leaves were unscathed, others were stark, the illumination revealing skeletal stems beneath the green foliage. When the sunlight reached the painted, powdered faces of the courtiers below the branches, the effect was even harsher. The expressions of those in the shadow were smiling and bland but the faces in the sunlight were stripped of their conventional masks, nakedly revealing pettishness, boredom, even cruelty. Yet, in spite of its brutal revelations, the painting had a certain austere beauty about it. Juliette’s brush had made the sunlight into a living entity that shone pure, undefiled as truth itself.

  “It’s not often you see a woman painting at all, much less doing a painting of this nature,” Philippe said. “She’s … interesting, isn’t she?”

  “But far too young for you,” Jean Marc said quickly, his gaze leaving the painting to return to Philippe’s face.

  “I’m not so corrupt,” Philippe said indignantly. “She has practically no breasts. I, at least, wait until a woman blossoms.”

  Jean Marc chuckled. “Well, this child will no doubt have some sharp thorns when she blossoms.”

  “All the more interesting to pluck. But it’s you who enjoys difficult women. I would never have attempted to tame that little virago you’re keeping in such splendor in Marseilles. Too much effort.”

  Jean Marc smiled reminiscently. “A challenge is never too much effort. Léonie is exceptional.” Jean Marc’s smile faded as he recalled that Philippe had a very good idea why he chose the type of women he did to bed.

  “So is a beauteous wolf but I wouldn’t want to bed her. Don’t you ever choose a woman with less—” He stopped. “I’m looking forward to sampling the favors of the ladies of the court at Versailles.”

  “They have no liking for bourgeoisie like ourselves. You’re better off at Vasaro with your Maisonette des Fleurs than you would be in those noblewomen’s bedchambers. They’d devour you.”

  “Would they? What a blissful prospect,” Philippe murmured. His smile faded and his big white teeth pressed worriedly into his lower lip. “I didn’t know you were aware of my little cottage, Jean Marc. I assure you it’s only a small indulgence and it doesn’t interfere with my running Vasaro.”

  “I know it doesn’t. You’re doing fine work caring for Catherine’s inheritance. If you weren’t, you would have heard from me before.”

  “And why am I hearing from you now?”

  “I want no outraged fathers applying to me for aid for their ravished daughters.”

  “Ravished?” Philippe’s tone was indignant. “I seduce, not rape. No unwilling woman has ever come to Les Fleurs.”

  “Make sure the circumstances remain unchanged, and you’ll have no argument from me.”

  “I wouldn’t cause you distress, Jean Marc.” Philippe gravely met his gaze. “I know how fortunate I am to have this post. I enjoy my life at Vasaro.”

  “And Vasaro evidently enjoys you.” Jean Marc suddenly smiled. “At least the female population of Vasaro does. I simply thought it best we clarify the situation.”

  Philippe’s gaze narrowed on Jean Marc’s face. “Is that why you asked me to leave Vasaro and accompany Catherine here?”

  “I asked you because I knew you would guard Catherine and I find your company stimulating.”

  “And because you wished to issue a warning to keep my pleasures separate from my duties.” Philippe smiled slowly. “So why not accomplish a threefold purpose, eh?”

  “Why not, indeed?”

  “Don’t you ever tire of these convoluted maneuvers to shape the world to suit yourself?”

  “On occasion, but the prize is usually worth the game.”

  “Not to me.” Philippe made a face. “Which is why you’re busy gobbling up all the wealth of Europe while I labor humbly at your command.”

  “At Catherine’s command. Vasaro belongs to her, not to the Andreas family.”

  “Does it? I wasn’t sure you knew the difference.”

  “It’s tradition for our family to guard the heiress of Vasaro.”

  “But you care nothing for tradition,” Philippe said softly. “I wonder what you do care about, Jean Marc.”

  “Shall I tell you?” Jean Marc’s tone was mocking. “I care about the French livre, the British pound, and the Italian florin. I’m also rapidly acquiring a passion for the Russian ruble.”

  “And nothing else?”

  Jean Marc was silent a moment, thinking. “The family. I suppose I care for the well-being of the Andreas family more than I care for anything else.”

  “And your father?”

  Jean Marc kept his expression guarded. “He’s a member of my family, is he not?” He glanced coolly at Philippe. “Don’t expect cloying sentimentality from me, Philippe. I’m not a sentimental man.”

  “Yet, you’re capable of friendship. You call me your friend.”

  Jean Marc shrugged, then winced. He had forgotten momentari
ly that his wound would be long in healing.

  “But, of course, I’m an exceptionally charming fellow.” Philippe continued. “How could you restrain yourself from feeling affection, not to say admiration, respect, amusement, and—”

  “Enough.” Jean Marc raised his hand to stop the flow of words. “I’ll grant you the amusement, at least. Pour all your charm into the task of cajoling Her Majesty and I’ll be content.”

  “I have no intention of exerting myself in such a profitless endeavor. Gentlemen who make cuckolds of royalty often end with their heads on pikes. Tell me, do you think the queen really prefers women to men?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Because I know you well. Undoubtedly you’ve made it your business to discover everything about everyone down to the lowest groom in the stable at that splendid palace. You never go into any venture without a full knowledge of your opponent.”

  “Opponent?” Jean Marc murmured. “Her Majesty is my sovereign and I her loyal servant.”

  Philippe snorted.

  “You don’t believe me? I paid no bribe to learn the secrets of the Queen’s bedchamber. It would have reaped me little benefit. However, I did find she’s written several extremely passionate letters and given very lavish gifts to the Princess de Lambelle, Yolande Polignac, and Celeste de Clement.”

  “De Clement?” Philippe’s eyes widened as his gaze flew back to the painting. “Then that child is—”

  “She’s Celeste de Clement’s daughter. I understand the marquise was the daughter of a wealthy Spanish merchant who became the second wife of an impoverished nobleman. His son and heir was less than well disposed toward the lovely Celeste and her offspring. When his father died, he gave his stepmother a carriage, a wardrobe of fine gowns, and bid her and her child a final adieu.”

  “Do you think the little firebrand is being brought up to her mother’s persuasion?” Philippe asked idly. “I hear Sappho’s daughters delight in—”

  “No!” The violence of Jean Marc’s rejection surprised him as much as it did Philippe. He felt as if Philippe had besmirched something peculiarly his own. He quickly brought his tone under control. “I didn’t say Celeste de Clement has unnatural tastes. She’s been the mistress of several wealthy and generous gentlemen of the court since she arrived there several years ago. I’d judge her passion is for acquisition and not the pleasures of the flesh.”