Awaken My Fire (32 page)

The poetry of his words brought silence again, his men smiling as Vincent pushed his chair back from the table and rose. She had grasped the upper rung of the ladder as if for support, trying to look nonchalant, looking panicked instead, then more panicked as he began to stroll toward the ladder.

"I'd not like a dull wife either; I should rather want this woman to be more clever than most, learned of numbers and the languages—to aid rather than hinder me in my many efforts."

"Intelligence and women," Bogo had said. "Now, there's two mutually exclusive terms."

"Quite the contrary," Vincent had said with a warm chuckle as his men laughed. "I have met a woman whose intelligence shines, sparkling like light through crystal with her every deed and word, and while 'tis true, this impressive intelligence sometimes serves her ill, 'tis nonetheless very apparent."

She had swallowed, nervous and alarmed without reason, for all he did was stare, slowly strolling toward her. It was as if he spoke of her. The idea was preposterous, and yet the way he stared ...

"And, of course, her beauty would manifest itself physically."

"Oh, aye, of course," Wilhelm had said.

"This woman who would be my wife would have to be more beautiful than a thousand others—"

"To aid in your well-known difficulty in keeping your marriage vows," Bogo interrupted with a roll of his eyes, and the men laughed again.

"Aye," Vincent agreed with a smile, and his eyes-dear Lord, those eyes—traveled over her, as potent and powerful as his most silken caress. She had completely forgotten her pretense of disinterest, because her interest was as loud as the pounding of her heart. "To keep my eyes from wandering elsewhere. In fact," he said, and then he stood less than a hand's length away, staring up at her with his remarkable eyes. "Her beauty shall send my desire a thousand miles out and more."

"Huh!" Wilhelm laughed. "She must exist only in your imagination!"

"Oh, no." He shook his head, and Roshelle, unable to bear what his manner and words and gaze were saying to her, turned away and therefore missed the wicked light of his barely contained laughter. Instead she wandered blindly into his carefully spun web like a hapless bumblebee.

"For every night this woman walks in my dreams ..."

That made her spin back around on the thin ledge of a ladder rung, clenching her cloth tightly in her hands, her eyes wide, frightened and daring him to say a single word more.

Which he did. "She is tall." His gaze traveled up from the tips of her slippers to the top of her head, as if assessing her fine height. "Made of softness, her waist as thin and narrow as a lad's, but the rest. . ." His eyes fixed on the embarrassingly rapid rise and fall of her bosom as she stared back at him in horror. "Ah, the rest is an answer to a man's desire. The answer to my desire. Her lips are the color of dark red wine, her hair is long and glorious and rich.'' He caught the long rope of her hair in his hand, studied it for a moment, turning it around as he stroked it. "And when it's caught in the firelight or sunlight, it seems ablaze with colors of gold and red."

Horrified, moving in slow motion, she took back her hair, staring, unable to believe he'd make his sentiments public like this. Dear Lord, she had thought, he is falling in love with me! Yes, she had thought that—

"But more than anything," he said, lowering his voice and locking his gaze to hers. "Ttis her eyes that I see in my dreams ..."

The cloth floated slowly down to the floor while her hands came to her hot cheeks, and still his gaze did not waver. He spoke far more boldly even than these words.

"And when I look into those eyes, I feel as if I am pulled into the warm depth of her soul, and a wild and wondrous winged thing it is . . ."

Just as she was about to literally fall into his arms, his brows crossed as if he were considering an amusing curiosity. "Why, milady," he remarked, "the way you're all a-blushing, it is as if you think I am speaking of you!"

For a mercifully long moment, she hadn't understood the exact nature of his trick. Yet the roar of laughter from his men felt like sudden death drop into icy cold water. Then she could not deny it quickly enough, forcefully enough, long enough, and the whole time she stammered away like an incoherent idiot, he only laughed. Laughed himself silly. Indeed, she suddenly realized that the situation was like Satan before the angels: nothing on heaven or earth could make him stop laughing. Not even the threat of his death...

Oh, what a fool she was!

With sudden violence, Roshelle picked up the hoe and swung it into the moist earth, then swung again. He had purposely made her the fool with those honeyed words! He had probably rehearsed it a hundred times! He had probably laughed himself silly every time he thought of reducing her to such speechless, blushing idiocy!

Dear Lord, I am in trouble ...

Tragedy waited in the not-so-distant future. She felt it like the air before a summer lightning storm; she felt it moving toward her. She did not know what to do. A hand went to her forehead to slow the spinning thoughts: the curse and its threat and how to stop him before it was too late.

A loud mule cry sounded in the distance, but so lost was she in unpleasant thoughts, Roshelle did not at first hear. What was wrong with Charles? Each letter from Orleans brought news of the worsening situation. Charles's health continued to deteriorate; each day he became more despondent, fraught with anxieties and unnatural fears. As his kingdom crumbled, so did he. He needed her so badly! She should be with him! She could help him, and if he got strong again, then he surely would be able to rally the knights, initiate the final offensive and push the English from their shores. Now was the time! Henry was consumed with his own domestic crisis, so there would be no help from England. If only she could get to Charles to speak with him, to help him convince his legion of impotent old chancellors…

No, do not think of that—

The mule screamed again and riveted Roshelle's gaze on the castle wall. Seymour, her old mule. Forgetting Charles, the curse, everything, she jumped to her feet and started running. With a lift of her skirts, she flew past her watching woman at the oven house and toward the gathering of fighting knights. Vincent caught sight of her: the pale violet skirts raised above slender calves and billowing behind her with the urgency of her flight, a heart-stopping look of anguish and love on her lovely face, and for one wild moment he imagined she was running to him.

She ran past him.

Roshelle stopped just outside the gates of the castle wall that surrounded the courtyard and looked around. Forty paces away from where the men had begun constructing a new and bigger mill, a mule, her mule, had stopped, refusing to take another step. Men gathered around the beast, beating, kicking, pulling, shouting, but to no avail. A whip manifested at one man's side.

She raced to the spot. The group of men stepped back for the crack of the whip. This was the last haul and both men and mule could quit once done. That is, if they managed to force the dumb ass to pull the cart to the river's edge, where the mill was being built, before they killed it.

"You goddamn stubborn ass! Get!" Bower, the foreman, raised his arm and with all his strength cracked the whip across the creature's back. The mule neighed in a loud cry but otherwise did not yield to the other man pulling the lead.

"Stop!" Roshelle burst through the crowd. "Stop!" She grabbed the reins from a man, turning to the foreman with the whip in his hands, meeting his surprise with determination and a prick of anger. "I do not abide the beating of creatures at Reales. Under no circumstances—"

Bowers looked incredulous; English pragmatism met French idealism—beautiful as it was—with a simple, outraged "You what?"

"You heard me! I do not abide the beating of creatures at Reales. 'Tis bad enough I am forced to watch the ruin of the castle stone by stone, but I will not abide any brutality to the poor creatures forced to do your work. Besides," she said more softly as her hand went to calm the animal. "He does not know better. Whereas God gave man his brain and hands, a lion sharp claws and teeth, the falcon keen eyes and strong wings, He gave the mule his stubbornness. Tis the poor beast's only defense."

The crowd of men stared as if she were stupid, their gazes swiftly searching the surrounding area for someone to step forward and put the lady in her place. Roshelle continued to calm the frightened Seymour; no hands were more gentle. Fear still shifted his small eyes, but he soon leaned against her, nuzzling her hand. "Aye," she said softly, too certain of her principle to be embarrassed by the men. "Stubbornness is nature's way of protecting the poor things from abuse and overwork. The whip only terrorizes them, nothing more."

The mule nudged her as if in complete agreement.

Bower rocked back on his heels, the whip swinging under his arm as he crossed his thick arms across his bare chest. Aye, there be some humor here for sure: the mule and the lady, it sounded like a yarn his wife spun for their five bairn and he'd laugh, he would, if he weren't as tired and hungry and thirsty as the damn arse himself.

"Oh, but of course," he said in a sarcastic pretense of courtesy. "No whips for the poor beast, stubborn, as ye say, through no fault of 'is own. Fine. How, then, does milady imagine"—his tone of voice changed considerably, "we should get the poor misunderstood beast to there—"

A demanding finger pointed to the river.

Watching now from the crowd, Vincent tried to keep his laughter from giving away his presence. It was hard, harder still when Roshelle replied with all patience: "One must always ask for a creature's cooperation.''

"Ah! Of course. Ask him. Daft of me to even put the question. Just ask him!" He turned his smile on the mule, and with sudden showmanship, he bowed. "Please me good and kind, Monsieur Mule," he raised himself from the bow, making the growing crowd laugh. "Would ye please oblige me by walkin' the short distance to the pile there? I be forever in your debt."

The mule did not move.

"I do not think 'tis working, milady."

The men laughed. Roshelle remained undaunted. "Well, of course not. He is a French mule. He does not know your English tongue."

Bower rocked on his heels as laughter erupted all around. "Not a common mule, then? Only knows the courtly French, does he? And all this time I was thinking he was just a dumb, stubborn arse!"

"Oh, no, he is as smart as any. True, I would not say brilliant—"

"Ye wouldn't? Well 'tis a problem, then. Ye see, I am but a common man from Suffolk. His Grace, as good as he be, hath never asked me to join him at court, and so I have never learned your silver tongue. Or Latin. Or Hebrew or Prussian or any other of the hundreds of languages created at Babel. I fear I only know a common man's English.'' His smile was all condescension as he inquired, "But mayhap milady herself could help me out here. Do ye think ye could ask your dear friend"—his hand swept in deference to the creature—"Monsieur Mule, if he would mind very much obliging us?"

The men laughed and Roshelle, knowing of course it would not be any fun if she couldn't, smiled with a curtsy. "Oh, but of course."

With laughter in his eyes, Vincent watched with the others as the girl turned to the mule and in her high musical voice whispered soft French words in the creature's ear. A shiver raced over the mule's strong back. She released her breath in his nostrils, petted and coaxed him. Vincent sighed as not a man stirred, each one as mesmerized as the mule. The words became a pretty song, and with the reins held loosely in her hand, she started forward. The mule obliged with a happy flick of his tail.

Watching the parade at Vincent's side, Wilhelm laughed, too. "That mule is not the only male eager to follow that voice!"

Vincent bit his lip and nodded, his eyes lit with laughter. From the looks on the men's faces, it appeared only too true. With all the boundless charm packaged so alluringly, no man or beast could ever resist. Least of all him. It was not just her beauty or her passion, it was more than anything the girl's heart—the very beat and pulse of her soul.

The emotions she evoked from him felt so strange and novel and wonderful. Love was certainly not new to him, or so he had thought. Bogo was fond of saying, "My Grace falls in love with the same regularity he wears out boots ..." That was true, or had been true, but those loves now felt so different and this love so new.

Yet why did that nightmare of the white tower plague him?

At the end, and to the hearty applause of the men, Roshelle curtsied and Bower bowed. Her blue eyes were laughing until the very moment she met Vincent's gaze across the crowded area. He saw first her confusion, then a sudden flash of fear and alarm and horror.

Then he realized she wasn't staring at him at all.