Healing Grace (25 page)

“Do you know it’s the Fourth of July, Constance?” he said as he stretched out on the bed beside her, crossed his ankles and stuck his arms behind his head. “Most people celebrate. They go on picnics, have parades, races. Tonight there will be a fireworks display at the fairgrounds.”

“I was supposed to go to the races with Harry,” she told him. “He must have forgotten. I didn’t hear him come by.”

“He didn’t forget,” Etienne said. “He stopped last night to bring you soup and apple pie. You just had a piece of it. He also brought you flowers. I put them in a vase and set them on the table in the sitting room.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Are you sorry you missed the races?”

Constance shrugged. “No, not really.”

“Hmm,” he murmured. “Do you want me to bring the flowers in here so you can look at them? They’re purple.”

“Purple?” she said. “No, that’s okay. I can see them later.”

“So, you’re not that thrilled with Harry’s flowers?” He smirked. “I suppose I should ask how you’re feeling?”

“My head is still a little foggy.”

“Well then, it would be better to stay in and rest. Independence Day will come around again.”

“You don’t have to stay with me,” she said. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“Actually, no. I don’t have any plans.”

“What about your family? Won’t they miss you? The children will,” she told him.

“Perhaps, but as I said, the Fourth will come around again. It always does.” As he spoke, he rolled so he was looking at her, and then reached over to take her hand. The pad of his thumb was tenderly circling, sending tingles through her entire arm and beyond, when he went on, “To tell the truth,
chérie
, there’s no place I’d rather be right now than here with you.”

“Why?” Constance was awestruck. Not just because of his tender caresses, but because of the way he stared into her eyes. It was like a snare, and she couldn’t break free. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t tear away. And his fingers moved on, traveling up her arm, following the tingles he’d already created. It was like the bars of the trap, slowly constricting. He moved in, and at the same time somehow floated her closer to him, until his mouth was mere inches from hers and there was no way to escape.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you now, Constance?”

She shook her head, though she didn’t know if he could tell. Soft gentle kisses tickled her lips, her chin, her eyes, and the only thing she could do in return was surrender. Never had she imagined feeling this way. It wasn’t wanting. No, that could never be, but there was no revulsion, or fear, either. The words “hurry up and do what you have to,” trickled through her mind, but they weren’t filled with apprehension. The only explanation she could come up with was her current physical state. The wooziness in her head wasn’t allowing her to think straight.

But then, in the next instant, his presence vanished. She couldn’t feel his kisses, his breath, his warmth. She was alone. Completely alone. Her eyes flew open only to find that he hadn’t left. He was no longer on the bed with her. Now he was standing beside it, waiting for her to put her hand into his outstretched one.

“Time to get up,
chérie
,” he said. “Come on. Stop dilly dallying.
Tout de suite
.”

“What? Why?” Constance hemmed.

“It’s time for me to bathe you.”

* * *

“Arms up,
chérie
,” Etienne said. “You can’t take a bath in your nightie. My eyes are closed. I won’t look.”

That was an outright lie if Constance had ever heard one! But as she also knew, it was pointless to argue, just like it was pointless to tell him to get out of her house and leave her alone. As humiliating as it would be for him to see her naked, she had to remember he already had, more than once. She’d also discovered the domineering goon had this in mind all along. That was apparent by the readied tub. He must have filled it between fruit pickings.

As if he could read her mind, he said, “There’s no reason to be embarrassed. I’ve seen every bit of you. I even know about the three little freckles on your cute little heinie. They’re right here.” He patted her high on her right cheek briefly before gathering her nightgown in preparation for lifting it over her head.

Constance unfolded her arms, although not without belligerently glaring, and held them up. The nightgown came off in a swift but gentle upswing. Once the neckline had slipped over her head and she could see again, she noticed Etienne’s eyes were indeed closed.

“Do you need help getting in?” he asked without opening them.

“No.” As speedily as she could, she stepped into the water and lowered herself. The bliss would have been immediate, but there was no way to enjoy a bath with Etienne standing next to it. “You can go. I won’t drown. I swear.”

He smiled and opened his eyes. “I can’t leave,
chérie
. Perhaps the bump on your head is making you forgetful, but I did tell you I was going to bathe you. All you have to do is lay back and relax. I’ll take care of everything.”

That was what she was afraid of. With soap and washcloth in hand he knelt on the floor. Constance had the profound desire to cover her chest with her arms, especially with him leering so close, but somehow she forced herself to refrain. At least with her stiffly seated, he was more or less behind her.

“How ’bout we start with an arm?” he said.

Constance stuck her arm out.

“Very good,
chérie
. But you don’t want the floor to get wet, do you? We might ruin your pretty carpet. It would be better to keep your lovely limbs
over
the water. Then again, you do have the most gorgeous legs. I won’t mind if you want to—”

“Fine,” Constance cut him off. And she did lean back. “There. Are you happy now?”

He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Very. I can see you so much better this way.”

What followed was far from the detached chore he’d implied it would be. Between his lingering caresses—some of them made without the washcloth—and the endless sultry commentary, Constance found herself breathless more times than she could count. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, or why, when he moved on from certain spots, she wished he’d come right back to them.

He’d washed everywhere, with the exception of her most private place, when he started in on her hair. His fingertips dug in, massaging her scalp, and Constance couldn’t keep her eyes open.

“Does that feel good,
chérie?”
he murmured, then lowering his voice to a whisper, added, “Just wait… what’s coming next will feel even better…”

He was going to insist on washing between her legs, and as Constance well knew, nothing about that would feel good. All too soon, his arm was under her shoulders supporting her while he poured cups of water over her head to rinse the soap. She didn’t want this to end, not only because it was nice, but because she knew what would follow.

When he lowered her to the tub, she kept her eyes closed. His hands were on her again, on her shoulders, her arms, briefly entwining their fingers before letting go under the water. He kept on, crawling along the tub on his knees as his fingertips inched their way down her legs. Like he had when he’d washed them, he lifted her ankle. This time when he started in on her foot, he didn’t just caress it.

She was so startled by the soft imprint of his mouth, her eyes flew open. The man was kissing her toes! Not just kissing them, he was sucking on them, one after the other, and watching her the whole time. His eyes were still locked with hers as he moved to her instep, then her ankle, his mouth rather than hands, establishing the path. But his hands were in the mix too, moving higher and higher, or rather lower and lower, because most of her leg was out of the water.

Constance couldn’t watch anymore. She closed her eyes, wanting more than anything to stop him, to tell him not to. The water splashed as his hands descended. His touch was fleeting, gentle, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Soon he would start poking. Soon he would shove his fingers into her. Soon he would…

“Please, Etienne… please don’t,” she whispered.

“I won’t hurt you,
chérie
.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Does what I’m doing hurt?”

It didn’t, but she couldn’t tell him that. “I don’t like it… I don’t…”

“I know you don’t, but I want you to let me. Let me take you to bed. Let me show you that it doesn’t have to hurt. Let me make love to you,
chérie
…”

“No. Please. Don’t.”

He did let go then, and she thought he would go. She hoped he would go, but then suddenly the water splashed. One of his arms slipped under her back. The other went under her knees. He floated her up and carried her, sopping wet and dripping, through the house. Constance crossed her arms over her chest, closed her eyes and waited for him to lay her on the bed. She could tell by how rapidly he was moving that she’d made him angry. That meant as soon as he could, he would mount her… and pummel.

“Don’t. Please, Etienne…” she said as he lowered her to the soft bedding. “I’m sorry, but please, I beg you… please don’t…”

“Shhh,
chérie
,” he murmured. He didn’t say anything more as he drew the blanket over her, and he remained silent as he crawled in next to her. At some point during the bathing, he’d taken his shirt off, but he was still wearing his under-britches. She felt him move closer, felt his hand on her shoulder, and his body forcing her to roll to her side, away from him. Then his arm came around her ribs. His thighs came against the backs of her. His other hand lifted her hair, moving it from the pillow so he could rest his head as well.

“Don’t, don’t… please…”

“Shhh,
chérie
,” he murmured. “I’m just going to hold you. That’s all. Nothing more. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Constance closed her eyes. It was still daylight. The sun hadn’t yet begun to lower. But if she slept, then Etienne would leave her alone. And despite having slumbered most of the last two days, she was still tired.

She was drifting away, finally finding comfort in Etienne’s warm embrace, when she heard him say, “What kind of monster did this to you?”

Seducing the schoolteacher was turning out to be a daunting undertaking. Etienne had hoped in doing so, he might elicit a confession. Because of what he’d learned from Emily—coupled with a decent measure of his own intuition—he’d carefully planned his overtures to enflame. He’d wanted to make himself irresistible. He’d been sure the provocative bathing would do the trick. But it hadn’t.

He’d never bathed a woman before. Not like that. Of course he hadn’t gone into it without some degree of selfishness. God knew how badly he wanted to look at her, touch her, kiss her, lose himself in her. Even so, he’d believed he could remain detached enough to prevent his own libido from rampaging. He’d failed in that regard, too. Perhaps this was penance for using her in such a spiteful way, but good god, the woman could make him ache.

Regardless, Etienne was not a quitter, and his purpose too dire to worry about blue ball discomforts. So it was with a smile that he went about taking care of the horses, the dog, and preparing another meal for Constance, much lighter fare this time.

Dusk had begun to settle as he brought a tray into the bedroom. Before waking her, he’d lit lamps and opened windows, and he hadn’t been particularly quiet, yet Constance didn’t stir. This, along with her continued groggy state, was further evidence that her bell had been rung pretty badly. Etienne had seen head bumps like hers before. Weeks could pass before she was fit again.

Patience was not one of his virtues, but for the moment, he had plenty. According to the note they’d pieced together, she had until August to carry out her dirty deeds. That meant he had three weeks to glean her confession and learn the names of her accomplices. Three weeks to work on his powers of seduction. Three weeks that he would sleep without being plagued by nightmares.

As he stood there, staring down at her, he thought again of how he’d spent the night through by her side—not just one night, but two nights—without dreaming. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d not awakened in a sweat, heart racing, panting until he could calm himself down, until the images prevailing in his head faded.

“Oh no!” Constance bolted up so suddenly it startled him. “I’m late for school!”

“No,
chérie
,” he said, as he sat on the bed beside her. “It’s evening. Not morning.”

“Oh.” She sank back to the pillows and reached up to her head, an indication of another headache, and covered her eyes with both hands. “How am I going to teach lessons like this?”

“You’re not,” he said, grinning. “You’re going to stay right here until you’re well enough. In the meantime, I’m going to be the schoolteacher.”

Her hands dropped. “You?”

“I am a teacher too, you know,” he said. “And a good one, so I’m told. Sit up. I’ll fix your pillows.”

“Of military history and strategy,” she fired back, while adjusting to her new seat. “Not penmanship and arithmetic.”

“I’ll teach the boys how to flank the girls, and the girls how to evade them.”

“More like how to torment girls,” she murmured.

Etienne’s eyes flashed. “Don’t worry,
chérie
, I do know my math tables. Do you want me to recite them? Two times one is two. Two times two is four. Two times three—”

“Stop!”

“Yes, ma’am. I aim to please. Speaking of which, are you hungry? I brought supper.”

“I see, but thank you, no. I had enough earlier today to last me the rest of the week. I wouldn’t mind some sweet tea though, if there’s any left.”

“You like my tea! I knew it! And yes, there’s plenty. Tomorrow, I’ll brew more.”

“You’ll be at the schoolhouse tomorrow.”

“You didn’t let me finish,
chérie
. I was going to say, I’ll brew more as soon as my teacher duties are done for the day.”

“You were
not
going to say that,” she said. “I don’t think this is such a good idea, not when you can’t remember that tomorrow’s your first day.”

“What’s not a good idea? Me, as the teacher? I assure you, I’ll do a great job. Besides, I already know most of the students.”

“You only know two of them—Daniel and Jules.”

This repartee Etienne so enjoyed continued until darkness fell. During it, to be more comfortable, he moved around the other side of the bed, where he could stretch out. He set the tray between them, so while they bantered they could nibble. Despite Constance’s claim that she couldn’t eat, she did, and this gave him another opportunity to tease her.

They were still so engaged, popping raspberries into their mouths—well, he was popping, while Constance was sedately, though quite enticingly
placing
—when the explosions began.

…POP… POP… POP, POP, POP… POP, POP…

It was fireworks. He’d known he would hear them tonight—it was after all, Independence Day—but no matter how much he told himself they were just fireworks, or how he tried to picture Julien and Jessica and all the children on the widows walk at Grace Manor, where they would be watching the pretty sparkles in the sky, he couldn’t stop other images from invading. To block out the noise, he covered his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut, and it didn’t help.

…POP… POP… POP, POP… POP, POP, POP…

“Etienne, look at me,” she said.

He didn’t even know who she was. But he did know.

Constance.

His heart was racing, his limbs trembling, his head pounding, and yet he obeyed. He opened his eyes, or tried to.

…POP, POP… POP… POP, POP, POP… POP, POP…

“Look at me,” she repeated.

She was touching him, drawing his hands away from his head. Except she had to pry them, because he resisted. He knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t help it.

…POP… POP, POP… POP… POP, POP, POP…

“Je ne peux pas! C’est de ma faute! Je suis désolé… Mon dieu, mon dieu… Je l’ai tué! Je les ai tous tués! C’est de ma faute! Je ne pouvais pas les sauver! C’est de ma faute.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not. You didn’t kill them, Etienne. It’s not your fault.
Ce n’est pas ta faute.
”

Etienne opened his eyes. He was on his side, facing her, just as she was on hers, facing him. The tray that had been between them was gone. Both his hands were clasped in hers, and although he could tell he was crushing her fingers, he couldn’t loosen the grip. Strangely, she didn’t seem to mind.

“Tell me what you see,” she said.

…POP… POP… POP, POP, POP… POP, POP…

He was breathing heavily, but somehow managed to force the words out. “The… faces… all the faces… of the men I ordered to advance. I… killed them…”

…POP, POP… POP… POP… POP…

“Tell me about them.”

And he did, describing them, just as he saw them in his head—the red-headed boy with freckles, the old man with the straggly gray beard and wrinkled blue eyes…

…
POP, POP… POP… POP, POP…

…the robust father, the skinny clergyman, the balding professor…

…
POP… POP, POP…

He remembered every face, every name, every story, and it didn’t matter how many times his voice cracked during the telling.

“They were following orders,” she said. “
You
didn’t kill them.”

…POP… POP, POP, POP… POP, POP…

“But why?” he choked. “Why did they listen to me?”

“Shhh,” she murmured, and apparently he wasn’t holding her hand too tightly for her to break free, because she did. Her fingers gently stroked his face, her thumb brushed against the corner of his eye.

…POP… POP… POP, POP, POP…

“You were following orders, too. It’s not your fault, Etienne. It’s not.”

He couldn’t explain it, but she unleashed something. He’d never spoken to anyone about the visions, not even Sam, but now that he’d begun, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know if it was the tender graze of fingertips, or the whispery words of encouragement, or even if it was the force of translucent, beseeching eyes, but he was swept along in a tide he couldn’t evade. Somehow, someway, as long as she remained with him, the fireworks ringing in his ears no longer had the power to crush him.

Despite his tumultuous state of mind, he did try to remember she was a delicate flower and shouldn’t be subjected to the nasty, gory details. The only way he could justify doing so was by reminding himself she wasn’t as delicate as he wanted to believe, that she was a bloodthirsty enemy who had already committed murder. So he talked about the red running fields, about the severed limbs, and thousands of mangled corpses stiff with death. He rambled about dirty field hospitals, and rows upon rows of men praying to survive.

It hurt to describe these things, so much so that repeatedly he felt garroted. Still he kept on. It was as if he had to, as if a dam inside had burst and he could no longer hold back. The words, like water, spilled out from the depths of his soul.

How much time passed, he wasn’t sure, but somewhere along the line, he became aware that the only sound coming through the windows was the whistling whir of katydids. The fireworks had ended.

He blinked again and again, forcing himself to break out of the trance, to try to reconstruct the dignity he’d long since lost. But he couldn’t look away. He needed to remain connected to her—to Constance—because if he didn’t, the tiny faltering steps he’d taken to finally begin his ascent from Hell would be for naught, and he would tumble right back into the flames. He needed her to… to make him well…

“I’m so sorry. So very sorry, dear Etienne,” she whispered, still drawing him out, still pulling at him. “You were wounded, too. Here… here…”

Her fingertips brushed his skin—his shoulder then his side, where rough-shod balls had pierced his flesh.

“And here…”

Lastly she traced the diagonal line on his torso from chest to hip, tickling him in the process, and that was probably good, because it released some of the unrelenting tension.

“Will you tell me what happened to you?” she asked.

“They’re not battle wounds,” he murmured, blinking again to gain focus. “My wife was… she was angry.”

“Your wife shot you? She did this to you?”

Her luminous eyes widened to such an extent, he had to smile. And he loved that she could do that to him—propel him so easily from darkness to light.

“She did. Part of it, at any rate,” he told her. “Rose fired a musket at me. Then she reloaded and fired again. I was lucky, though. The musket was too heavy for her, so her aim was off.”

“Oh my, Etienne! Oh my! How can you make light of this? Oh!”

“It was a long time ago.” Smirking, he plucked at the scar on his chest and went on, “This came first. I was…
er
… assaulted by a dissecting hook. The kind trappers use.”

“Someone tried to purposely cut you open? Who would do something so barbaric?”

“
Um
… that would be my wife’s… other husband.”

Etienne hadn’t thought Constance’s eyes could get any larger, but they did. Her expression turned so stricken, it was almost impossible to contain his laughter, but somehow he did. That is, he contained it until she blurted, “You’re a bigamist? You practice… polyandry?”

Laughter tumbled out of him, and with it came one prevailing thought—dear god, but he loved her! He loved her extraordinary intellect. He loved her surprising and willful spirit. He loved her compassionate heart. He loved her eyes, her hair, her beautiful body. He loved everything about her…
everything
… and she was his enemy…

That was sobering enough to stifle his guffaws. “I am. I did.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “Okay.”

Her eyes diverted, and God only knew what was going through her mind. She probably wondered whether he and the other husband had engaged in…
er
…

Well, that thought was enough to convince him he’d better tell her the rest of the story. At any rate, he couldn’t let her go on believing he’d done such a stupid thing as marry an already married woman, even though he had, so he began the squalid tale…

His regiment had been deployed to the Dakota territory. Their mission was to protect homesteaders from Indian raiders, but they weren’t always successful, and sometimes they arrived too late. This was the scenario when they came across a burned out cabin. The residents, a half-breed Indian woman with two young children, were nearly frozen from trying to survive the harsh winter climate. Their only shelter was a small teepee she’d managed to piece together using salvageable scraps of wood and cloth from their old home.

The woman’s name was Rose. She told Etienne her husband, a trapper, had been gone for months. He left to collect hides, but he’d never stayed away so long, so Rose believed something unfortunate had happened to him. She believed he was dead.

Etienne had his men cut wood to enlarge and fortify the teepee. They also built a fireplace and split enough logs to last months. The last thing Etienne did before the army moved on, was give Rose money. Apparently, however, Rose didn’t think his generosity was enough.