Tender the Storm (8 page)

Gratitude to the Deity slowly dissipated. Mimi and Fifi indeed! She felt insulted. Her eyes began to snap. The man was a scoundrel! He had almost taken advantage of her! Rogue! Libertine! Villain!

Further reflection tempered her outrage. Honesty compelled her to confess that she had contributed significantly to her near ruin. There was no explaining it but, for a time there, she had not been in her right mind. She'd been curious. She'd wanted to experiment. There was no saying where it all might have ended if the deputy had not breathed another woman's name. She ought to thank him for it.

Scowling unbecomingly, she dragged herself from the bed.

When Rolfe returned to their chamber, the child was fully dressed and sitting demurely at the table, hands neatly folded in her lap. Their eyes brushed and held.

"Did . . . did you sleep well, kitten?" He set down a breakfast tray in front of Zoë.

"No," she said without elaboration, and noted the jug of milk and solitary cup of coffee on the tray.

"No?" He said the word carefully.

"You snore like a horse," she answered sullenly.

He angled
her a
relieved grin. "Do I? No one has ever told me that before. Here, drink your milk."

"I don't like milk," said Zoë, and eyed the cup of steaming coffee with covert longing.

"Nonsense.
It's good for you."

"Why is it good for me?"

"Well . . .
I don't know. Just look at the animal kingdom. All infants drink milk. Did you . . . did you dream last night, kitten?"

"I had a nightmare," said Zoë nastily.

"Oh?" In the act of handing Zoë the jug of fresh milk, Rolfe went very still. His eyelashes swept down. His voice was not quite steady when he asked, "What . . . what did you dream?"

Zoë absorbed Rolfe's extremity in one quick, comprehensive glance. Suddenly, she felt like the
veriest
she-devil, to tease him so. She could not understand such churlish behavior. It was quite out of character for her.
And quite unjustified.

She had suffered no insult, except inadvertently. And to have developed a proprietary interest in the deputy after such a short acquaintance was positively ludicrous. Moreover, he was the innocent party. It was she who had involved them both in an experiment.

Hastening to put him out of his misery, she said, "I dreamed that a nasty-smelling hound was in my bed.
Big, and shaggy, and quite dead."
She said the last word with emphasis.

"A dead dog," repeated Rolfe blankly.

"Dead," averred Zoë, and reached for the jug of milk in Rolfe's hands. He did not resist as she took it from him. "I tried pinching him, but it was no use. I could not budge him."

"Were you . . . afraid?" He seemed to be hanging on her words.

She dismissed the notion with all the wounded dignity of a child who has been mistaken for something younger than her years. "I'm not afraid of dogs!
Especially not dogs in dreams."

"How did you know it was a dream?"

"Because when I kicked him, he disappeared."

The hiss of his breath was barely audible as he slowly exhaled. "Drink your milk," he said, and flashed Zoë one of his rare smiles.

Zoë hated milk with a passion, but when she set her mind to make amends, she did not spare herself. She raised the mug to her lips and forced the oily liquid over her gullet.

In companionable silence, they ate their breakfast which comprised nothing more savory than black bread and honey.

When Zoë had readied herself for the next leg of their journey, the deputy intimated that there was a present waiting for her in the carriage.

She followed him out of the inn with her heart beating rapidly. With the exception of her male relatives, no gentleman had ever been permitted to give her a gift. Sweets, a book, flowers —all these she knew to be perfectly acceptable. She hoped that he had not chosen anything more intimate, else she must refuse him.

Rolfe halted when they came to the carriage. "Close your eyes," he said.

It was absurd, but anticipation and excitement were stealing her breath, as if she had been, in very truth, a young child waiting to open her birthday presents. Smiling shyly, she closed her eyes.

Rolfe reached into the carriage and pulled something from one of the banquettes. "Open your eyes," he said.

Wordlessly, Zoë stared at the object in Rolfe's hands.

"Take it," he said, pushing it into her arms.

"A doll!"
It was the last thing she had expected to see. She had given up dolls when she was ten. Didn't the deputy know that at thirteen or fourteen a girl considered
herself
too grown-up for such trifles?
Evidently not.
"
Th
—
thank
you," she stammered.

The child's confusion gratified Rolfe immensely. He knew enough about children to know that any little girl would count herself fortunate to be the recipient of such a gift. He had come by it in Rouen and had intended it for one of his nieces. Not for a moment did he regret giving it to this child. His nieces were spoiled. They lacked for nothing. One doll more or less would not be missed in their household.

"It's a
china
doll," said Rolfe knowledgeably. He had been given to understand by his young nieces that no other kind counted for anything.

Zoë lifted her eyes and looked about her. The deputy's men were watching the little scene with keen interest.

"A
china
doll!" exclaimed Zoë, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. "I've always wanted a
china
doll." She did a little jig on the spot. "Ooh" she crooned, "and she's a bride!"

She held out the doll for everyone's inspection. At the pretty picture she made, hard masculine eyes softened. Dutiful words of admiration fell from lips which habitually engaged in an uncouth, vulgar converse.

"The coachman shall have to drive very carefully," said Zoë seriously, beginning to warm to her part.
"China
dolls are easily broken." She was talking from sad experience. On her seventh birthday, she had been given such a doll. During the night it had fallen from her bed to the floor and had smashed into
smithereens. She'd been inconsolable as she remembered.

"He'll be careful," said Rolfe, handing Zoë into the carriage. He winked at the coachman and followed her in.

Men grinned at each other as they swung into the saddle. The pleasure of this one child for the familiar things of childhood seemed, in some unspecified way, to imbue the future with a sure foundation for hope.

Inside the coach, Zoë was conscious of the deputy's interest. What could she do? She must continue with the role or stand to be discovered. With feigned absorption, she played with her new toy.

From that moment on, Zoë and her doll became inseparable. At every checkpoint, she held it to the coach window and pointed out objects of various
interest
. When they stopped to break their fast, the doll was fed too. She was lavish in her praise when the doll was good and she scolded furiously when her doll was naughty.

Her charade was not entirely without purpose. The doll became the badge of her tender years. Seeing it, men softened, remembering a younger sister, a daughter, some female child to whom they owed their protection. The doll was a shield. Zoë used it with consummate skill.

Rolfe, more often than not, was reminded of his young nieces. "You never spank your doll, I see," he remarked. He rather liked the soft crooning sounds the child made when she was singing her "baby" to sleep.

It was their second night out of Rouen. They had reached Caen and found lodgings at an inn which was a considerable improvement on the one in
Lisieux
. The sleeping arrangements were also different. Rolfe had bespoken a private parlor with a tiny bedchamber adjoining. The bedchamber was for the child. Rolfe was more than happy to bed down on a pallet in front of the parlor fire.

"I beg your pardon. I wasn't listening," said Zoë, coming to herself. She'd been thinking of the members of her family, wondering where they were and what the future might hold for each of them. She blinked back incipient tears.

"Your doll," said Rolfe. "You never spank her." On many occasions, he had observed his nieces laying into their respective "babies" with excessive zeal. He'd been appalled. His sister-in-law had given him to understand there was no harm in it. They were merely letting off steam.

Zoë pinned him with a fierce glare. "I don't believe in spanking children," she said. They both knew that she was referring to the time when the deputy had spanked her.

Unrepentant, Rolfe grinned. "What's your doll's name?" he asked, adroitly turning the subject.

She had never thought to give the silly doll a name. "Zoë," she said, because it was the only name that came to her on the spur of the moment.

"Zoë?
That's Greek, isn't it?"

"Is it?" He had said her name.
Her real name.
And the sound of it was something wondrous and oddly different from the way anyone had ever said it before.

"Definitely Greek.
It means . . . 'life', if I'm not mistaken. It's a good name. I like it."

Her eyes widened. Frankly curious, she asked,

"What did you do before you were a deputy?"

His expression became shuttered. "This and that," he said, and yawned. "Isn't it time for Zoë's bed?" And he looked pointedly at her doll.

Thoughtfully, Zoë rose to her feet. She really knew very little about the deputy. "Are you married?" she asked, and could not think why she had asked such a thing.

"No. Why do you ask?"

To cover her confusion, she said the first thing that came into her head. "I thought you might have a little girl like me at home." Inwardly, she groaned. With every word she uttered, she made him more aware of the paucity of her years. It was the last thing she wanted.

For a moment, he looked to be struck dumb. Then he laughed and reached out to ruffle her hair. "No, I'm not married. And I don't have a little girl like you at home. I only wish . . ."

"What?" she prompted.

"That I could adopt you.
Well, we shall see."

Rolfe meant it as a compliment. The child's blank stare was unrevealing. A moment later, when she swept from the room with her doll clutched to her bosom, he could have sworn that he had ruffled her feathers. He sank back in his chair and considered the exchange.