Chapter 2 #2
A flare of something that tasted like jealousy rushed through Helena’s body, and she started at it. What right did she have to be jealous? This gentleman was a stranger to her, and she had no claim on him. He belonged to this Giselle lady, and she should think no more of him.
Mind resolved, she strode through into the room and smiled briefly at him.
“Well, Pierre, I think it is best if you try to sleep here tonight. I do not think that it is a good idea to attempt the removal of you to my father’s room.”
He smiled at her, and her heart thumped. And then he said, “I am a criminal, you know.”
The heart that had been thumping came to an abrupt stop.
Pierre nodded lazily, though that could have been the aftereffects of the rum. “Mais oui, a criminal of France. I have escaped, petite mademoiselle, and you are hiding me, and for that, I thank you.”
For a moment, Helena thought that she would be unable to find her tongue. Eventually, she said, “I am not hiding you, I am sheltering you.”
At once she felt the foolishness of her words: did it make any difference, really?
And Pierre was smiling at her, and she could not help but notice how it brightened his face and gave it even more strength and beauty. “Nay, mademoiselle Helene, you are my saviour, mon sauveteur. You have my thanks.”
She stared at him, in equal measure repulsed and intrigued. What had he done, this handsome Frenchman who evidently was born of one of the noblest families? What brought him here, fleeing his country – fleeing justice?
And what was she to do with him?
Pierre almost grinned when he saw the reaction on the lovely woman’s face: a mixture of horror, awe, and interest.
Well, so it always was. We simply cannot help it, he thought hazily as he watched the woman attempt to find something to say. We are curious – and the English far more so than the French, naturellement.
“I will…I will let you put on your britches,” were the words that Helena, that was her name, eventually spoke. “Sleep well, monsieur Pierre.”
Her accent was light, and yet the strong English tint flowed through it. Pierre wanted to smile at it, but his body seemed to be moving in slow motion.
“Thank you, mademoiselle, but you have forgotten my drink,” he said, looking at the little table that was empty, save for the end of the fishing wire.
Helena’s beautiful mouth became a taut line. “I have forgotten your drink?”
Pierre nodded, and then stopped quickly as it started to make the room tilt a little to the left, and spin. “Oui, mademoiselle, I must have a drink. Perhaps the rum?”
He had half meant it as a joke, to tell the truth, but when he saw the way that her eyes widened, he said hastily, “Or some tea, or coffee, anything really, for I am – I think the word is, parchet?”
She stared at him for a moment. By God, but she was beautiful: the English rose that he had heard so much about, but had barely believed when those who had travelled to this isle had returned.
The earrings that had dazzling his eyes were shimmering now in the candlelight.
White blonde hair, shimmering in the little light the candle created, soft white skin, pale now due to fear if he were any judge, and that rosebud mouth, pink and pert and just ready for him to –
His whole body flexed, and that was when he realised that his britches were gone – and certain parts of him almost open to the air.
“Mon pantalon!” He cried, glancing down and then glancing back at her, furious. “What have you – you witch, those were fifty francs!”
Pierre stared at her in dismay, and attempted to ignore the way her dripping hair was starting to make her gown damp. He had not noticed that before; but then, who does notice these sorts of details in a mere servant?
“I think I just saved your life,” the woman said coolly.
“If I had left you out there,” and here she paused, glancing at the window for effect which was still being lashed with rain, “then there is every chance you would have drowned come morning, or died of exposure, or infection to your leg. You should be thanking me on bended knee – at least, when you can.”
His stare widened. How dare she speak to him like that: like they were equals, like she had any claim to his better nature! There was a heady mixture of gentleness and fire within her, and he watched the struggle of it in those perfect features until gentleness won out.
“My…my apologies, sir,” she said stiffly, and she moved through a door which he assumed was to a kitchen, and was proved right when she returned with a glass filled with a cloudy golden liquid.
“Here is your drink. I think the rum would go a little to your head, but that is cider, and will perform the twin roles of keeping you from thirst, and take you towards sleep.”
Helene – for that was how he thought of her, he could not help it – kneeled by his head, and gently tilted the glass to his lips, bringing her other hand to his head to raise him up.
Her touch was soft, gentle, caressing. Perhaps he was imagining that last one.
She was very pretty, almost glowing now that he was this close to her.
“I shall place it here,” putting it down on the little table that occupied the middle of the room. “‘Tis but a short distance from you, and if you require it in the night, you should be able to reach it. Now, goodnight.”
Pierre stared at her. So, despite thinking him a criminal, and a French one at that – he was not ignorant of the way the English taught their daughters – she had brought him a drink. Had wished him a goodnight. What did that mean?
Before he was able to open his mouth to say anything, she had gone.
No matter. He was not going anywhere fast, if the ache in his leg was any indication, and he would speak with her in the morning.
Sighing, he stretched out on the sofa and attempted to ignore the twinge in his thigh each time he moved.
He would have plenty of time to explain things in the morning, after all.
When you are Pierre d'épilucon, a nobleman of France, no matter what any revolution said, you learned to bide your time.
And in any case, he would rather have a little more strength the next time that he saw mademoiselle Helene.
She intrigued him as no woman ever had before.
Every other lady of his acquaintance between the age of fifteen and fifty had preened and prattled at the mere sight of him, back home in France.
Pierre smiled ruefully as he slowly removed the ruined britches, and placed the borrowed ones on – rough and poor quality though they were. He had always thought that the simpering and the sighing had been due to his features: his handsome face, his tall strength, the wit of his tongue.
But place him for five minutes with an Englishwoman who knew naught of his name nor his riches, and it was plain that those were the true attractions that he had waved under the noses of so many eligible young ladies.
He sighed, and pulled the blanket that had been placed beside him over his body.
He was no longer cold, but strangely cold and shivering.
The coarseness of the blanket startled him as he drew it up to his face; never before had he suffered through such mean quality.
To think that this time yesterday, he was asleep in his own bed with silk sheets, and not a care in the world.
Well, almost none. He had known his wealth had been considered a crime by French society for a while. He had been foolish not to expect this. but he could explain that in the morning to the gentle and yet fiery mademoiselle Helene. Perhaps there was even more to her than already met the eye.