Chapter 19
Nineteen
Salt
Ten days for a honeymoon didn’t feel like nearly enough.
A ride to the Camargue took a day and a half anyway, and they’d needed every bit of it when Dorotèa reminded Oste she didn’t have experience riding, not beyond backyard laps on the local greys that their gaggle succeeded in borrowing from child-loving gardians passing through.
It surprised him to find that out; he realized he’d unconsciously assumed she had experience with every skill adjacent to being a gallivanting chevalier.
Once he got over the ridiculous notion, he delighted in the chance to be able to show her something.
Eflamm could have his turn with the horses after.
Oste’s time in the saddle put him right at ease.
His days at his family cottage were better for all the evenings he’d swung a leg over their neighbor’s horses and rode around the city’s outskirts.
There was a time when he’d even fancied himself a real horseman and professed he would become a gardian, but that dream faded to a hobby when he discovered the greater thrill of saving a life.
They took the two mares for their little trip, and Oste, atop the sharper of the two, spent much of the way riding in circles around Dorotèa and showing off. That behavior again made her call him a bravado and an arse.
No, ten days wasn’t enough at all.
They’d ridden through the marshes as far as Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, right on the sea; flamingos and bulls had made good company on the way there and hadn’t judged when, inevitably, they’d stopped for breaks and ravished each other while the horses drank and cooled.
He’d first suggested Arles for a trip, but when Oste had added softly, down at his feet, that his mother had met his father at the nearby seaside town, Dorotèa had suggested they go there instead.
He’d been too afraid to mention it to most people; a connection to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer and the rumors surrounding his heritage would have all but confirmed it to anyone who paid attention.
But Dorotèa hadn’t judged his mother, hadn’t judged him, and he relished a rare opportunity to finally practice his pride without a looming threat in his company.
They let the water lap over their bare feet on the sand.
Oste might have watched the distant waves come and break, but he spent his time watching Dorotèa’s quiet tranquility more often.
Her curls whipped around her head as the sea breeze and mistral both made a mockery of any neatness her light travel dress and braid might have held.
When she caught him staring, she smiled.
“My mother was in this spot when my father saw her for the first time,” said Oste.
“He thought she was some goddess from the sea. She’d come to wash where our Sainte-Sara landed with her boat.
Our people pass through here often enough, but she was something of an exception in staying after he wore her down and put a ring on her. ”
“It’s hard to imagine your father as a romantic.”
“That’s the thing. He was so clueless it pained her, but she started to find his courtship failures charming. Poor woman survived so many lectures about wolf mating behaviors and badger dens.”
Dorotèa burst into laughter. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“What? What did I do?”
“You have no idea—” she wheezed, “—how often you bring up sanitation policy.”
“That’s pertinent information!” Oste exclaimed. He splashed over to her, then leaned down and scooped up seawater. He sent it flying into her dress. “Madame ‘it’s been five minutes since I last mentioned swords’.”
“My hair!” Dorotèa covered her face and squealed. After she let her hands fall, she jogged over to some pieces of driftwood and scooped up one of the longer sticks. “Though, now that you’ve reminded me, it’s been a while.”
She tucked her hand into the crook of her back and jabbed the stick Oste’s way.
He jumped backwards with a snort, and, without a thought accompanying his movements, darted off to pick up one from the shore.
When Dorotèa came at him again, he parried her driftwood with a flourish and went on the attack.
His wife, frozen, took the wood to her thigh and looked wholly delighted about the exchange that doubtless would leave a bruise.
It was then that he realized what he’d gone and done.
The memories stored by his muscles and mind had animated him through that which he’d thought he’d never do again.
It was all of ten seconds—he’d reacted, and acted.
Everything old was new, now. His green eyes scanned his hand and driftwood in disbelief.
“En garde?” Dorotèa called to him, which stirred him from his thoughts.
Oste stayed quiet while another few waves lapped the shore, but then shrugged. “Go easy on me!”
He’d never forget how sweetly she laughed. It carried across the sea breeze and made a song with the roar of the wake. All at once, Oste understood how his father had his life changed by this shore, and thought he saw what he did; this woman, his woman, was a sea goddess in her own right.
Their spar was a dance. They made a game of it, and played. She gave, he took. She took, he gave. Every lunge through the shallows and the sands was a reminder; he would find her again and again, with no distance too great for them to meet.
Dorotèa hardly needed to hold back, for her unbridled merriment at the fun of it all made her form sloppy, and her analysis of him was no doubt interrupted by her giggles. He laughed right along with her, hot-cheeked and light on his feet despite the vigor of earlier activities.
They clashed together with their sticks, and Dorotèa flashed a wry smile. “Balac would be furious about this.”
Oste pressed her backwards and rushed to score a hit. A quick whirl of her wrist saw it parried. “Oh?”
“He’s missing the first session of his aerobic therapy.”
“My sweet,” Oste laughed, “if we’re discussing all matters of aerobics, this is hardly our first session.”
“Oste!”
He brought his driftwood down on her side, and it was the final blow it could tolerate; the upper half finally split and went pinwheeling through the air until it landed in the sea.
Dorotèa fell into another fit of laughter and dropped her stick.
Oste let the other half of his fall, then spun on his heel and tugged her into an embrace, wet and sandy and full of too many joys to count.
His right arm was sore, but it was a good sore.
A sore that told him he’d pushed it and would be stronger for next time.
It occurred to him that he wanted that: a next time.
He finally knew the face behind the mask, the identity of that figure who had filled his days with delight.
That she’d been responsible for those on top of her affections as a loyal friend felt impossible to process.
All along, she’d been there for him. All along, she’d been responsible for the best parts of his life.
Dorotèa swayed in his arms. “I realized we’re going to have to wash up before we do anything else, and I’m feeling very put out by it.”
“I’m afraid I must agree.”
“Tsk. The valet at the mas was looking at you some kind of way, you know. I think he’d like to join us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She kept smiling. “I know you’ve done it. Your friend Laurens said—”
“Dorotèa.”
“No, no, I don’t mind it!” she retorted, then craned her neck to look behind her and meet his eyes. They were wide and bright. “I told you I was curious. I am. And if there’s something a nice fellow could do for you that I can’t—”
Oste tightened his arm around her. “Come, now. I’m well-pleased.”
“I’m only saying that I don’t mind if you want to do some other kinds of pleasure.
I’d try it. I mean, I’d want rules. I’d have to be included, of course, and we’d have to be smart about it.
Privacy, discretion. We ought to at least care about our reputations a little bit.
I’d not want the Inquisition knocking.” Dorotèa reached behind her and stroked Oste’s cheek.
“I’m open to trying things that you like. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
“All I had to do was bed you to turn you into a monster,” he rumbled into her ear, then kissed the side of her head. “But come to think of it, I think you already were one.”
Dorotèa turned around and draped her arms over his shoulders. He touched his forehead to hers and she spoke, voice low: “I’m your monster.”
Ten days was criminal.
The seven that had passed thus far felt like it had only been one or two.
There was simply too much to do; they could hardly say they’d settled into their home yet, and had barely made a dent on working on the landscaping and arranging the interior after returning from the sea.
The stable boy Oste hired to help with chores, Vidault, helped where he could, but making the place theirs over the course of a few days was always doomed to be an impossible task when they kept being interrupted by the excitement of the other’s presence; the weeds around the fountain stood unplucked on account of their task of memorizing every inch of each other, and every decibel in their laughs.
And it was difficult to focus on furniture layouts when both of them were more interested in the structure of the classes for women Dorotèa wanted to teach.
It would be too suspicious for them to gather women at their mas, they knew, which turned into an excuse to go riding to find the choicest clearings with the plushest grass.
They laid in bed on the morning of their seventh day, comfortable in each other’s arms. Dorotèa didn’t miss how frequently he pulled her in and kept her close.
She felt like a precious thing, some treasure he was trying to protect, or a childhood relic he felt too much attachment with to ever let go of.
She quite liked it, being so possessed by him, though she was less pleased by how often she woke up from overheating.
When she’d untangle herself, Oste would swiftly tug her back.
Dorotèa would then sigh, resigned, and tell herself there were worse fates than being smothered by a beautiful man.
She traced the line of his jaw with her finger as the morning light poured in. He watched her, green eyes dripping with intent. In their tranquility, it started to feel like everything, forevermore, would be alright.
Then came the pounding at the door.
It wasn’t a probing knock. These were heavy fists coming down hard on the wood. Bang, bang, bang, and with each one Dorotèa’s heart quickened. She let her finger fall and propped herself up. Oste did the same and rubbed his bleary eyes.
“Are you serious?” he grumbled, his voice still gravelly from sleep.
Bang! Bang!
“Could we have summoned a lost tax collector?” Dorotèa drawled sarcastically.
Oste shot her a look. His brow was taut and severe. This made her stiffen from under the covers.
Bang!
“Docteur Lézin!” a man’s voice came from outside. Like the fists, it carried, low and booming. “I represent the viguerie!”
That made them both flinch. Oste’s face darkened, and he looked to be waking up quickly. Dorotèa swallowed, then turned to look at him. “Do you recognize who that is?”
He shook his head. “The Palais has little reason to contact me during leave—that was made clear. Only the most dire city-wide emergencies, or…”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Oste quieted. His face lost more color. Dorotèa shivered, then jumped up in a jolt of fright when he about threw himself out of the bed and dragged himself to the wardrobe to toss on hose and a shirt. Dorotèa pushed stiffly to her feet, but didn’t look for a chemise just yet.
“Oste? What is it?”
“The girls,” he breathed. “I said they could come for me about the girls.”
Dorotèa blanched. Considering the force behind the knocks, she assumed there was nothing good waiting on the other side.
The cold, still faces of Marie and Frances consumed her vision, and it was some time before she could shake herself free from the horror and start to dress herself.
Oste was already tearing down the stairs.
She heard the door rattle when he threw it open.
Please don't be that. Please, please don't be that.
The constable didn’t knock again, but his words came like one last bang!
“Another girl, Docteur! The worst one yet!”