Her face ached only a little from the buffet the garde had given her. But she could not sleep. Her thoughts were boorish company tonight and roistered in her head and kept her awake.
She stood and slipped into her sabots and crossed the ten feet that separated her blankets from Guillaume’s. It was not a long way.
He lay on his back with his knees drawn up and his hands clasped behind his head. He had taken off his boots when he returned from circling the hill and assessing hazards of the surrounding fields and sent Adrian to perform that same task. His boots rested, neatly, one leaned against the other, on the edge of the blankets, within reach.
He had taken off his waistcoat and pulled his shirt from the band of his trousers so it was long and loose around him. He had large feet.
She stepped out of her shoes and walked onto the small part of the blanket he was not using to settle beside him. This was intimacy. This was how a wife came to sit with her husband in their garden, in the cool, when it was too hot to be indoors. This was the way of lovers with one another. She knew that, though she had never sat with Jean-Paul, familiar and at ease, when they had been lovers in those brief months between being children and being apart.
She would probably never have a husband and sit with him in some snug garden. The greatest likelihood was that she would be snatched from the road tomorrow and taken to the Tribunal in Paris and condemned. Or she would be recognized and taken at the barrière of Paris. This was her one taste of the particular fruit, intimacy.
LeBreton seemed content to be silent. She could see the outline of his features but not his exact expression. For a while, she sat, considering the night. “I have not spent a lot of time sitting on hills, looking out over the fields,” she said. “It makes me feel small and rather poorly attached to the earth. It is as if one could float away altogether.”
“That’s poetic.”
“I am fanciful sometimes. It may come from collecting old stories from the people in the countryside. I take an interest in such things and write them down. Or it may be because I have spent hours and hours of my life imagining I was somewhere else.”
At Versailles, through all the long months at the King’s Court, she had stood, wearing heavy, beautiful, uncomfortable clothing. Being on display. Being a de Fleurignac. There was no boredom more complete than to stand about being clever all evening. The queen’s ladies said, “Oh, come. Come hear Mademoiselle de Fleurignac’s latest witticism. Come hear her little fable from Normandy.” They said, “So dear, so sweet, her new story.”
LeBreton was still. She could see the white of his shirt rising and falling with his breath. “You lost those stories when the chateau burned.”
“Some of them are copied elsewhere. Many of them.”
Silence. Then he said, “It’s bad to lose what you’ve made. You can’t ever make it again the same way.”
“Not quite the same.”
“I had to walk away, once, and leave everything. My books. Ideas I’d written down. Essays.” He didn’t move, but his stillness changed in quality. “My father burned it all.”
She did not rush to fill the silence up, in case LeBreton might have a use for it.
He said, “It felt like losing blood.”
Wherever he came from, it had not been happy in that house. Perhaps that was where he learned to sink into impenetrable depths inside himself. Learned to study the world so carefully. Learned to see into the souls around him so well that he could select, from all her losses, the one that hurt the most. It was not comfortable to deal with a man who wielded the scalpel of such perception.
On the other hand, he also instructed her in how to remove the eyeballs of her enemies. She thought about Guillaume LeBreton for a while, but could come to no conclusions. She said, “I will take my turn at watching, when Adrian is done.”
“You don’t have to.”
“If I am expected to claw the eyes from my enemies, I can certainly wander about in the dark for a few hours searching for them.”
He sat up. They were very close, when he did that. Almost touching, body to body. He took her hand and threaded his fingers in between hers. They slid together smoothly in this way, the fingers of Marguerite de Fleurignac and Guillaume LeBreton.
She had not known what to expect when they touched so deliberately. The shiver that trickled through her was a surprise. Her body didn’t know quite what to do with it.
“I’ll wake you before dawn,” he said. “You can have the last watch.” He looked at her hand and continued to hold it, the fingers interlaced. “Generally, when women come wandering by in the middle of the night, I know what they want. Not this time.”
“I am not sure, myself.”
In the days of the Old Regime the great ladies of the aristocracy would take a man like this to bed. They would amuse themselves with a man of the people, unrepentantly earthy and strong. He would be a sort of plaything. She had seen gardeners and grooms and the soldiers who guarded the palace of Versailles invited into the boudoirs of the ladies of the court. She had thought it decadent at the time.
Tonight it did not feel decadent, desiring Guillaume LeBreton. Choosing him.
“Thank you for saving Bertille, and Alain, and the children,” she said. “And me. If you had not been with me, I would have walked into the house alone and been taken captive. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go back over and lie down. Try to sleep.” But he didn’t let go of her hand. That knowledge lay between them—that he was holding her with a warm touch, soft as kid leather, hard as the knots of trees.
Men hunted La Flèche up and down the roads of Normandy. Tomorrow, she would walk between the jaws of death.
But that was tomorrow. She had tonight. “You know I am Marguerite de Fleurignac. You have always known.”
“From the first minute,” he said equably.
“You did not mention it.”
“Seemed impolite to contradict you. And you were shy of me. Scared.” He lifted their joined hands and brought her knuckles close to his mouth so that she felt his breath. “You still are. Scared. Go to bed, Mistress Maggie. It’s late and we have a long way to go tomorrow.”
Her fingers tightened into his. She could not see the scar that marked him. In this silver dimness, he might have been a gentleman as easily as a criminal or spy or smuggler—whichever he was. She did not care what he was. The night was heavy with possibility.
“I am not a virgin,” she said.
There was enough light to see him smile. “That’s a coincidence. Neither am I.”
“What you are is a great treasure-house of sarcasm.” She shook her hand free. “Guillaume, you understand what it is to be a de Fleurignac. I am a woman of purpose and family and duty. It is all very tiresome and dreary. Everyone in France has the liberté we all speak about. This is mine. This is my one small part of all that freedom. I belong to myself. I can give myself where I wish.”
“Give yourself. You mean lie with me?”
“Yes.”
His touch passed up the skin of her arm like a bird over water, leaving the shadow of his passage. Then the palm of his hand was warm as sunlight on her cheek. His thumb hovered soft at the curl of her nostril. Came to lie upon her lips. Softly. Softly. Who would know she was so sensitive there? “Why?”
She did not say that she had begun to ache for him at the threshold of her body, between her legs. That he was simple bread to someone who had been hungry for a long time. That he was the shelter of trees to a traveler lost in the freezing rain. That he set her free, for the space of one night. “I become one of my stories when I touch you.”
He was so tall. Even sitting, he made a great shadow against the dim sky. He leaned closer and drew a line around her lips with the side of his thumb, confident and delicate. Strange to think of him knowing the shape of her lips this well.