Chapter Four

Zo? washed the breakfast dishes, checked on Rocinante, who was placidly cropping grass, and repacked her bundle. She glanced around the campsite and noticed the folded pile of blankets that Reynard had slept in. She placed them inside the wagon—the sky was clear, but it might rain—and took a final, wistful look around.

Wistful? She took herself to task over the thought. Really, she had no good reason to stay. Yes, she was quite enjoying the carefree life of a vagabond, and Reynard was attractive and good company, but there was no future for her here, no real reason to stay on.

She picked up her bundle and walked into the village. It took longer than she expected, and her feet were sore by the time she arrived, and the blister worse, despite the ointment she’d rubbed on it. There were perhaps twenty whitewashed cottages, built around a square, lined with well-swept cobblestones. A round stone well stood in the center of the square, with a wrought iron frame above holding the winding system. On the hill overlooking the village there stood a small, ancient-looking church.

On the far side of the square she spied a tavern with an iron sign hanging above the door, declaring it to be Le Poisson Rouge. Several tables and benches had been set outside, and a motherly-looking woman bustled about, scrubbing the tables down. Zo? approached her. She turned out to be the tavern keeper’s wife and was full of local information.

“The diligence , mademoiselle? Oh, but you must go to Nantes, the next big town, to catch it. How far? Maybe seven or eight hours if you are walking. A ride?” She pursed her lips, thinking, then gave Zo? a searching look and shook her head. “To be sure, I know several people who will be traveling to Nantes, but I would not recommend them to a pretty young demoiselle traveling alone—you are alone, are you not?”

Zo? nodded.

Again the woman shook her head. “Then no, there is nobody I would recommend. But I will ask around. In any case, you have missed the diligence for this week—it only passes through Nantes on a Thursday around noon, so you have plenty of time to get there.”

So, the decision was made for her, Zo? thought. There was no point moving on just yet. She was safe and comfortable and enjoying Reynard’s company. She would stay another few days.

“You might try the miller’s son,” the woman added on an afterthought. “He takes a load to Nantes every Thursday morning. He’s a good lad, a little simple and slow, but safe and a reliable ride. I’m sure he’d be happy to take you with him.”

Zo? thanked the woman, and, once she’d learned where she could find the miller and his son, asked her advice on purchasing some supplies. If she was going to stay with Reynard for the best part of a week—and he’d stressed she was welcome to—it was only fair that she shared the costs, even if the farmer’s wife was feeding them.

“Alas, mademoiselle, you have missed market day, but if you try that house, and that”—she pointed—“they will sell you good cheese, and that one makes very good sausages. And in the house with the blue half door, open at the top, you will find the baker. As for vegetables or eggs, those you must get from farms. Just ask. Most people here produce what they need to live, and what they don’t produce, they buy at the weekly market, which is finished for this week.”

Again Zo? thanked her, and in gratitude bought a couple of bottles of the local wine from her. Following her directions, she soon found the miller and learned that his son, Jean-Paul, would be happy to take her with him. He left around dawn every Thursday and would get her to Nantes in good time for the diligence .

She left the village feeling satisfied with her discoveries and laden with provisions: a round yellow cheese, several fat, spicy sausages— saucissons secs —a cheese, leek and egg tart and two long, thin loaves of fresh, crusty bread as well as the wine. The bread was still warm and smelled glorious. Unable to resist, she broke off a piece of the crust and ate it.

Truth to tell, she wasn’t at all averse to spending more time with Reynard. He was very good company and he didn’t make her at all uncomfortable. In fact, she found him fascinating, far more interesting and attractive than any of the gentlemen she’d met at the social occasions she’d attended in Paris.

In truth, she was enjoying herself more than she had in ages. Nobody had any expectations of her, and wasn’t that a wonderfully freeing feeling?

She limped along, observing some of the things that Reynard had pointed out to her the day before.

By the time she reached the wagon, she’d eaten almost a quarter of the smaller loaf. There was no sign of Reynard, so after checking that the horse still had water and was not tangled in her tether, she tended her blister, which had burst. It would heal more quickly now.

Then she cut herself several slices of the spicy sausage and some cheese and bread and put the rest away in the wagon. It was a simple lunch but delicious.

What to do next? The fire had died, so she decided to make herself useful and went looking for fallen branches and twigs for fuel. She made a sizable pile, then settled down to read. Thinking of the horse, Rocinante, she selected Don Quixote , which she’d started reading several years before with Lady Scattergood but had never finished.

She found a cozy spot under a tree taking the book, as well as her sketchpad and pencils in case she felt like drawing something. She read for a while, but though her reading had improved hugely in the last few years, under first Lady Scattergood’s mentorship then Lucy’s, some books were still heavy going.

Zo? had come to reading late in life. Her mother read and spoke French, of course, but having arrived in England as an eleven-year-old refugee, alone and unsupported, her education had stopped in favor of scraping a living. And once Zo? came along, there was barely enough money to feed them both, let alone educate her. Maman had done her best to pass on what knowledge she had, but that was all.

Zo? had always adored her mother, but now, having seen where she came from, and thinking about the life Maman had lived once she came to England, she marveled anew at how she had survived, against all the odds. From the age of eleven.

She knew—Maman had told the stories often enough—how she’d first started drawing pictures in chalk on the footpath. Later, when she could afford paper and pencils, she’d drawn portraits. They weren’t very good, Maman said, but people were generous toward a young girl, and eventually her activities drew the attention of a real artist, who hired her as a model. Which had become her main source of income.

Eventually that had led to her meeting and becoming the mistress of Sir Bartleby Studley, Zo?’s father. Who’d abandoned her the minute her pregnancy started to show, the swine.

Then, when Zo? was twelve, Maman died, and Zo? was placed in an orphanage, where the education the girls received was wholly devoted to training them as obedient servants or wives. Reading and writing is quite unnecessary for orphan gels , the matron, Miss Glass, used to say. Silly old bag! It had been her sisters and old Lady Scattergood and now Lucy who had taught her to read and write with relative ease. And to read for enjoyment.

Lost in memories, Zo? found herself gazing blankly at the same page for ages. She set the book aside, reached for her sketchbook and pencil and began idly drawing, faces at first—they were her preference. She drew the tavern keeper’s wife and the baker and then Marie sitting nervously in the diligence coach. Her pencil flew and she went into that dream state she so often did when she was working.

A rustle in the grass nearby startled her out of her reverie. She looked around anxiously—and saw a squirrel foraging for acorns. Smiling at her foolishness, she looked down at her page and found she’d drawn half a dozen sketches of Reynard.

Of Reynard ? What on earth had she been thinking? Granted, he had an interesting face, with those high cheekbones, firm chin, the dark lock of hair that fell over his forehead and those flashing blue eyes—and that smile of his that caused her insides to…She thrust the thought away.

Six drawings of him? Really? It was ridiculous.

Hastily, she turned over the page and did a quick sketch of the squirrel, and then one of Rocinante. She hardly ever drew animals these days—Lucy and Gerald had no pets—but she’d enjoyed drawing them when she’d lived with Lady Scattergood and her herd of little dogs.

The sun was low in the sky when she heard him return at last. He was whistling, obviously in a good mood. Would his mood change when he saw her there? She’d long since returned his book to the shelf and hidden her sketchbook. She wasn’t sure why she was being so secretive—he was just a vagabond. But he was an English vagabond and an artist, and somehow it felt wiser to conceal her true self from him.

There would be too many questions otherwise.

He appeared in the clearing, carrying the canvas bundle slung over his shoulder and a small iron pot in his hand. When he saw her standing uncertainly there, a wide white grin split his tanned face. “So, Mademoiselle Vita, you have elected to stay with Rocinante and me?”

“I hope you don’t mind. I did go to the village, and I asked about the diligence , and the woman said I’d missed it for this week. It passes through Nantes every Thursday. So, if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay a little longer. Do you mind?” For some reason she didn’t tell him about the miller’s son. Why, she wasn’t quite sure.

“Not at all, I’m delighted.” He glanced at the pile of wood beside the fire and said, “I see you’ve been busy. I don’t suppose you’ve cooked the dinner?”

“No, sorry.” Guilt flooded her. Of course she should have cooked something. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know a bit about cooking—they’d been taught the basics at the orphanage, and she’d picked up some fancy techniques when she’d first come to Lady Scattergood’s and spent time in the kitchen helping Cook. But cooking in the open over a campfire—she hadn’t even thought about it. “But I did buy some provisions—cheese, sausage, bread and a cheese-and-vegetable tart. And some wine.”

“Excellent. I hoped you might still be here. The farmer’s wife offered to feed me, but when I said I had to get back, she gave me some cassoulet”—he gestured with the small pot—“which is still warm and smells very tasty. Fetch the dishes, bread and wine and we’ll dine in style tonight. We can save the tart and sausage for tomorrow.”

He built up the fire and hung the cassoulet to warm while he checked on his horse. Zo? fetched the dishes and spread a rug for them to sit on. Every meal was a picnic with Reynard.

“How is your commission going?” she asked as he dished up the cassoulet, which was some kind of bean stew studded with pork, sausage and chicken and fragrant with herbs and garlic. It smelled absolutely delicious.

“Well enough. The pig is enormous.”

She almost dropped her spoon. “The pig ? You’re painting a pig ?”

He said in a mock-outraged voice, “What? You question the right of a pig to have his portrait taken, Mademoiselle Vita? I’m shocked, utterly shocked by your shameful ignorance.” His face was solemn but his eyes were dancing. “I’ll have you know, this pig—by name Le Duc de Gaudet—is no ordinary porker. He’s a champion pig, you understand, the finest pig in the district, sire of champion—and delicious—piglets by the dozen. Sows far and wide line up to be, um, introduced to him. And you question why such a noble creature should have his portrait painted?” He shook his head in deep, sorrowful reproach. She giggled.

In a more ordinary voice, he continued, “Gaudet, the farmer, is immensely proud of his pig, so much so that it was all I could do to persuade him to let me include his wife in the painting. He wanted the portrait to be just himself and his glorious pig.” He gestured with his spoon to the cassoulet. “Madame Gaudet was very grateful for the inclusion. She knows she comes second in importance to her husband’s pig.”

Zo? chuckled. “And the painting is coming along all right?”

He leaned forward and poured some more wine into her mug. “Yes, I’m quite fast. The background is easy—just the house and some trees. And the pig is looking good, if I say so myself. I’m good with animals.”

“And the farmer and his wife?”

He grimaced. “People are more difficult. But I’ll get there. I’ll fill in some more of the background this evening. It’s not so detailed that I’ll need much light.”

After dinner, while Zo? washed the dishes and put everything away, Reynard set up his easel and began to paint. “Could I see what you’re doing?” she asked diffidently.

Some people hated having their unfinished work observed, but he shrugged indifferently and said, “If you like. I have only the pig and the background at the moment. Gaudet and Madame Gaudet are just outlines at present. I’ll do them tomorrow.”

She walked around to look at the painting over his shoulder. The light was fading and he’d hung a lantern from a nearby tree. He was adding to the background, which, as he said, was not very detailed: a blur of greenery behind a whitewashed stone barn. As he’d said, he’d painted only the pig and the background so far—the farmer and his wife were just sketched in lightly.

The pig was good, quite lifelike, and huge, as he’d said. She smiled, recalling the creature’s grand name—the Duke of Gaudet.

As she watched, Reynaud dabbled several shades of paint on parts of the greenery, which gave the previous plain green vegetation fresh depth and texture. Next he feathered faint gray and light brown lines and light daubs of paint on the barn. Under her gaze the plain white surface took on the dips and shadows and rough surface of whitewashed stonework.

“That’ll do for tonight,” he said, and began to clean his brushes and pack them away.

“You’re good,” Zo? said, and he turned his head and grinned at her, a flash of white in the dying light.

“At some things.”

“What made you decide to become a painter?” she asked him later. He’d packed up his things, and they were sitting beside the fire, talking as they finished off the last of the wine.

The fire was burning low. Reynard leaned forward and poked the coals with a stick. Sparks flew, twirling and dancing up into the velvety dark sky.

“I’ve always wanted to paint,” he said. “Ever since I was a boy. I don’t really know why. My father, of course, was appalled.”

“Why?”

He gave her a searching look. “You really want to know?”

“Yes, of course. I’m interested. So why was your father appalled?”

He made a careless gesture. “Oh, proper men don’t waste time on effete and frivolous nonsense like painting—certainly not the men of our family. He tried to thrash it out of me when I was a boy, but the beatings didn’t take. I’m quite stubborn, you see.” He grimaced. “I was the second son, so my disgrace was not as dire as it would have been had I been his firstborn; nevertheless, it was bad enough. So he decided to enlist me in the army—make a proper man of me, you see.”

“And did he?”

“Oh yes. On my sixteenth birthday. He would have sent me to war as a twelve-year-old drummer boy if he could have.”

“Twelve?” She was shocked. “Surely not?”

“Yes, well, we were at war with—” He stopped, suddenly realizing they had been at war with her country. “With, um, Napoleon by then, you see—but my mother kicked up a terrible fuss. So he shoved me into a really strict school, where he hoped I’d have the painting nonsense beaten out of me—they tried, but didn’t succeed—and then on my sixteenth birthday, he had me enlisted and shipped to the war on the Iberian Peninsula.”

“And did that put an end to your artistic aspirations?”

He gave a short dry laugh. “Far from it. Contrary to Papa’s expectations—and mine, for that matter—in between battles I learned to draw and paint. I also saw all kinds of wonderful paintings, far better than anything I’d seen at home—despite so many being looted by Napoleon’s forces, only some of which were returned after the war. But it was an education in itself. And there were other fellows in the army who also painted. So, though I’ve never studied art—not properly—I managed to pick up a few techniques here and there.”

“How fascinating. I would never have thought of painters in the army. I suppose we only ever think of soldiers fighting.”

“Oh, we did our share of that, believe me. But there is a lot of waiting around in war, as well as fighting. And while a good deal of that time we spent foraging—”

“Foraging?” she said, startled.

“Oh yes, army rations were, apart from being endlessly dreary, often in short supply, so we learned to hunt and trap and forage—and cook.” He grinned. “Which is why I was able to serve you that delicious rabbit stew the other evening. Compliments of my army experience.”

“I see.”

“After Waterloo, I decided I didn’t want to settle down. I decided to become a vagabond artist, and so I began my travels.”

She was silent a moment, thinking about those supposed three wives—each in their own house. There must have been some settling down, even for a short while.

“But then my brother, Ralph, died.”

“I’m sorry—” she began, but he didn’t appear to hear her.

“He was my older brother, and so”—he contemplated the glowing coals, and leaned forward and stirred them again, sending a spiral of dancing sparks into the night—“I had to go back to England. My father had a seizure—shock, I suppose—when he heard the news. And rage. I was the one who was supposed to be killed, you see, but instead I went through a dozen battles with only a few scratches here and there while Ralph died of a small cut that was left untended.” He gave her an ironic look. “Real men don’t fuss over little cuts, you see. But it turned septic and he died of it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He sighed. “It was all so stupid and unnecessary. I’d always looked up to him—my big brother, you know—but to die for such a small, stupid thing.” He shook his head. “He was the apple of everyone’s eye—mine, too. He’d been trained from birth for the family business, you see. And then a few days after he heard the news, my father died. My mother had died years before—not long after I’d gone to war—and so everything was left in the hands of my maternal grandmother.”

A long silence stretched, broken only by the gentle hiss and crack of the fire. He stared into the fire, and she gazed at his strong profile, limned by firelight, but otherwise cast in shadows. Even in silhouette, he was a beautiful man.

“So I had no choice but to go home and pick up the reins,” he said eventually, his tone light.

Zo? was silent. He clearly wasn’t home now, so what had he done? And what was the family business? He surely hadn’t left his grandmother to run it. But something in his demeanor made her reluctant to ask.

“Ah well, I’m for bed,” Reynard said, standing and stretching. He held out his hand to help her to rise, and when she placed her hand in his, she once again felt that unsettling frisson. He drew her lightly to her feet and paused, looking down at her, her hands still clasped in his. His thumbs caressed them gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so maudlin. The wine must be stronger than I thought. You must have been bored to tears.”

“I wasn’t bored at all,” she murmured. They were standing so close their bodies were almost touching, but somehow she couldn’t make herself move. She couldn’t see his expression: his face was in shadow. But she could feel his gaze on her, like a warm caress.

For a moment she thought he might be about to kiss her. She waited, unmoving, her face turned up to him, hoping the darkness hid her blush.

But he released her hands and stepped away, apparently unaffected by their brief contact. “I plan to make an early start in the morning. With luck, I’ll get this painting finished by tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening?” she exclaimed.

“Yes. I said I was quick.” He picked up the painting. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave this in the wagon to dry overnight, avoid the dew. It will smell a bit, I’m afraid.”

The smell wouldn’t bother her in the least—she was so used to the smell of oil paints, it was almost like perfume—but the idea that she was turning him out of his bed for a second night bothered her.

“If you like, I will sleep under the wagon tonight,” she offered.

He gave her a shocked look. “But what about all those shrieking, man-eating wild animals?” His eyes gleamed in the firelight.

“Now that I know what that sound is, it won’t bother me at all,” she said with dignity. “Besides, you will be here, and if wild creatures come, I will expect you to help chase them off.”

He laughed. “Brave words, ma belle . Nevertheless, I will continue to sleep under the wagon, and you will bolt the door and keep yourself safe from foxes—animal or human.”

Animal or human? She gave him a narrow look. Did he mean she should protect herself from him? But she didn’t like to ask and start what could prove to be an awkward and possibly embarrassing conversation.

She’d been very aware of the way he’d looked at her from time to time. She’d felt it and felt her body stirring in response. He was clearly attracted to her, and it was mutual, she knew. But it would be foolish to give in to a passing tendre for a vagabond. No matter how attractive she found him.

She thanked him, and once he’d put the painting inside and gathered his bedclothes for the night, she wished him good night and bolted the door.

Reynard arranged his bedding, wrapped himself in blankets and slipped under the wagon. The ground was perfectly dry, the faint scent of the crushed dry grass beneath him fragrant and pleasing. Lord help him if it rained, but farmer Gaudet had assured him the weather for the next few days would be clear.

The nights were getting chilly, though. They were well into autumn, and while the days were sunny and warm—almost hot on some days—the nip of oncoming winter was in the air. It would mark the end of his idyll here.

And it was an idyll. He knew it couldn’t last.

He sighed, thinking about what awaited him. He wasn’t looking forward to going home. But he’d made a promise and would honor it.

In the wagon overhead he could hear Vita moving around. He was glad she’d decided to stay a little longer. He was enjoying her company. Far too much, probably. He’d almost given in to his attraction and kissed her tonight. The way she’d looked up at him with those wide green eyes…

He’d been sorely tempted. But…no.

She was a virtuous girl who had lost her position and her home in defense of her maidenhead, and he was damned if he’d cheapen that by seducing her—much as he ached for her. And he was going back to England soon.

She was planning to go to Paris. No doubt like most young country folk, she had notions of a glamorous life there, the big city paved with gold, that sort of nonsense. He hoped that what awaited her there wasn’t a position in a brothel, which he thought the most likely, especially if she didn’t have a character reference, and given the way she’d left her previous employment, he doubted she had one.

He shifted uncomfortably. The ground was hard tonight.

Nearby a fox screamed. Reynard smiled. He knew how the poor frustrated devil felt.

He woke at dawn, rolled out from under the wagon, feeling a bit stiff—in more ways than one. He got the fire going and put the water on to boil. The first cup of tea of the day was always bliss. While he waited for it to boil, he fetched more water from the stream, had a quick wash, fed Rocinante a handful of oats and gave her coat a quick brush.

He ran a hand over his chin. The bristles were getting thicker: if he wasn’t careful, he’d have a beard. Should he shave? Would she prefer him clean-shaven or scruffy, like now?

He put the question from his mind—no, he wasn’t going there—and decided to stay scruffy.

As though his thoughts had conjured her, the wagon door opened. She stepped down, muttered something about going for a wash and disappeared into the bushes. She appeared a short time later, skin fresh and glowing, hair brushed, trying to conceal a small bundle of wet clothing.

“You can hang those up there,” he said gesturing behind the wagon to a line he’d strung between two trees. She nodded, flushing, and hurried away.

By the time she returned the kettle was boiling and he’d sliced up some bread ready to toast. “Eggs for breakfast?”

Her eyes narrowed. “More eggs? Where did you get these ones?”

From her expression she thought he’d stolen them. He smiled. “The farmer’s wife.”

“Oh. Then yes, please.” She stretched her hands to the warmth of the fire. “What can I do?”

“Toast the bread.” He passed her a toasting fork, really just a bit of bent wire he’d made himself. He liked the feeling of being self-sufficient, which was ridiculous because he knew he wasn’t, not in the least.

She took the fork and threaded some bread on it and held it near the fire. He poured a little boiling water into the teapot, swished it around and emptied it, then added tea leaves.

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re very prodigal with the tea leaves.”

“ Prodigue? Does that mean I’m wasteful?”

She said carefully, “You use a lot of tea for each pot. Tea is very expensive.”

He carefully poured boiling water onto the tea leaves and flashed her a quick grin. “Perhaps, but I like my tea and I like it strong. I presume you want some.” He set a pan over the fire and dropped in a lump of butter.

“Yes, please. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You can say whatever you like, I don’t mind. I’m used to being criticized. The wives never stop,” he said with a wink. “That’s why I like this life. I can live how I want, answering to nobody.” He cracked four eggs into the sizzling butter and stirred them gently. “Is the toast ready?”

In answer, she held out two plates containing several pieces of toast. He scooped out a portion of the eggs onto one. “Say when.”

“That’s plenty, thank you,” she responded. He scooped the rest onto his plate and poured out the tea, adding milk and sugar to hers.

They ate in silence. Finally she put her empty plate down, picked up the mug of tea and sipped. “Oh, that’s lovely,” she said, “a perfect breakfast. And those eggs were delicious, thank you. Will you be working again at the farm today?”

“Yes, would you like to come with me?” She must have been quite bored the day before, but she hadn’t mentioned it. She wasn’t a complainer, this girl.

She brightened. “Could I? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. Now, get ready—I want to leave in ten minutes.”

She grabbed the plates and used the last of the hot water to wash them. She played fair, too, he reflected. He cooked so she cleaned up. It was probably her training as a maid.

Though she didn’t act like most of the maids he knew. She wasn’t at all subservient or meek; in fact, she treated him quite like an equal. Nor did she flirt and play the coquette toward him, which so many women did. He liked that. And she intrigued him. Most women were only too keen to share every single thought they had. She made him work to discover the most basic things.

What did he know about her, after all? She was French, an orphan with no family left. She was clean and neat in her habits—and modest, he thought, recalling her embarrassment at his noticing her washing. She’d been a maidservant, and a virtuous one at that, dismissed for resisting the approaches of her master. And she’d bought food to share and made herself useful around the camp.

She hadn’t complained once—not when he’d left her to her own devices for a whole day, nor at the discomforts of the life he was leading: fetching water from the stream, washing there, cooking simple food over an open fire. It made her a rarity among his female acquaintances.

And yet despite the little he knew of her—or perhaps because of it—he was far too attracted to her for his own peace of mind.

“I’d better introduce you as my cousin,” he said as they set off for the farm.

She gave him a sideways glance. “Why?”

“Gaudet and his wife would be shocked at the idea of us traveling together and not being married. You and I know there is not the slightest impropriety in our arrangement, but country folk are not known for their broad-mindedness.”

She gave him a long, thoughtful look, then nodded.

“Tell me about these three wives of yours,” she said as they walked. “You said, I think, that they all lived in separate houses.”

He laughed. “Lord yes. There would likely be bloodshed if they were all under the one roof. So, you want to know what they’re like?”

He glanced at her, as if considering whether to answer her, then shrugged. “The first one is the oldest, naturally. How to describe her? Hmm.” He thought for a minute then said, “Very bossy. She considers that she rules the roost—that goes for all of us, the other two wives and me. She tries to keep me at home and under her thumb.”

“She’s obviously succeeded there,” she said dryly.

He laughed. “Yes, it’s a constant battle, but she never gives up.”

“You like her, though?”

“Oh yes, difficult as she is, I’m quite fond of her. And she takes charge of things while I’m away.”

“Which makes it easier for you to go away?”

“Correct.”

“What about the other wives?”

“Oh, they never mind if I’m away—they leave it all up to her. Oh, you mean what are they like? Well, wife number two”—he rolled his eyes—“makes endless demands on behalf of herself and her two daughters. Never-ending demands. She’s never satisfied and she makes sure I—and the rest of the world—are fully informed of my deficiencies.”

“I see.” That fact that he referred to “her” daughters, not “our” daughters, was outrageous. Honestly, men were the limit, sometimes. But she was a stranger and in no position to criticize. The relationship between him and his wives was none of her business. Though she was very curious.

“And the third wife? Presumably she’s the youngest.”

“Yes, she’s the one who’s just had a baby—at least I suppose she’s had it by now and that all went well. With two boys already, she was hoping for a girl.”

Zo? gave him a searching sidelong look. It didn’t seem to have occurred to him that things might not have gone to plan with the birth, and he seemed quite indifferent as to the sex of the new child. “You haven’t written to find out?”

“No. I’ll find out eventually.”

The farm came into sight, and Zo? was left with her thoughts as Gaudet came to greet Reynard, and there was an exchange of masculine chat from which she was more or less excluded.

Those wives of his, what a strange and shocking arrangement it was. Presumably, if she acted on her attraction to him, he would carelessly add her to his collection of wives and treat any children she gave birth to with the same callous indifference he showed to the other five.

It was an absolute disgrace and she would never be part of that kind of arrangement. Never!