Chapter Five

When they arrived at the farm, Reynard introduced her as his cousin. Monsieur Gaudet nodded indifferently, but Madame Gaudet was a different kettle of fish. Arms akimbo, she took one long look at Zo?, then gave a loud, skeptical sniff.

She didn’t even give Zo? a chance to visit Le Duc de Gaudet in his pen, just bustled her into the kitchen and set her to work, washing dishes, peeling potatoes, podding peas, peeling and slicing apples for a tart, kneading bread, sweeping the floor and doing all manner of household chores, all the while popping out for short breaks to pose for Reynard’s painting. Each time she returned to the kitchen, she inspected Zo?’s work and shot questions at her about Reynard, his family and their so-called relationship.

It was exhausting, but at least Zo? proved relatively competent at the various tasks, thanks to her training in the orphanage and the time she’d spent helping in the kitchen at Lady Scattergood’s. She managed to evade a lot of questions about him by saying she’d grown up in a different part of the country, and hadn’t known him well.

Finally, in desperation, she borrowed Marie’s story about the lecherous son of the house and being dismissed, saying that upon finding Reynard in the district, she’d taken shelter with him and would be returning to the family in Paris as soon as they reached Nantes, where she would catch the diligence .

At that, madame’s attitude changed—Vita was a good girl; it was a disgrace the way those aristos thought they were entitled to whatever took their fancy and thought nothing of ruining a decent girl for a moment’s pleasure.

Zo? thought of the violence done to her family and to Maman’s home and shivered. The resentment might be old, but it was still there.

But when Zo? told her what she’d done to discourage Monsieur Etienne, the woman laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. After that, though she kept Zo? working just as hard, the atmosphere in the kitchen was much more pleasant, and at the end of the day, she sent her home with an apple tart, a large container of soup and a loaf of fresh bread.

Zo? and Reynard walked back to the camp. “Well, that’s done,” he said. “The painting is finished.”

“That was quick,” she said in surprise. “I thought it would have taken much longer.” Her own paintings certainly did.

“Yes, I told you I’m fast. But once it’s dry, I’ll frame it in Monsieur Gaudet’s frame.” His hands were full of the painting—still wet—and all his painting supplies, and Zo?’s were full carrying food from Madame Gaudet. “He has an old painting he doesn’t want, so I’ll frame mine in that one. It’s gold leaf and very ornate, and madame is very proud of it. And Gaudet will like a painting of him and his precious pig much more than the old painting—have you ever seen such an enormous porker?”

“No, never.” In fact she hadn’t often seen a living pig. They weren’t common in the city. She was looking forward to seeing the finished painting. He was carrying it carefully with a protective cloth over it.

“And what did you get up to? I hardly even saw you,” he added.

She described her day of nonstop labor and interrogation and he laughed and laughed. “But you finally convinced her that you weren’t a scarlet woman traveling with a shiftless vagabond?”

“As you see.” She indicated the pile of food she was laden with. “And I earned every pound.”

“Gram,” he corrected her. “It’s all grams and kilograms in France now, don’t forget.”

When they got back to the camp, he took the painting into the wagon for it to dry away from the evening dew, and then set about lighting the fire, seeing to his horse and fetching water. Zo? put the soup from Madame Gaudet into the small pot, hung it over the fire to heat and sliced some of the bread and cheese.

It had only been a few days, but she was getting very used to the outdoor life. And, unexpectedly, she was enjoying every minute of it. In fact, she thought as she stirred the soup in the pot, she could happily live like this, traveling from place to place, painting for a living. Making meals together, sitting around the fire in the evening, talking and telling stories by firelight, while overhead the stars twinkled and the moon shone benignly down.

The faint evening breeze changed direction and suddenly her eyes and lungs were full of smoke. Coughing and rubbing her eyes, she moved to a different position. It wasn’t this life that she was thinking of—she was romanticizing there. They’d been lucky with the weather, but in winter it would be cold and wet and unpleasant. And she was already tired of washing in the chilly water of the stream. Oh, for a hot bath, with some of Clarissa’s bath oils.

She glanced at the tall man vigorously grooming the ancient horse, taking as much care as if Rocinante were a thoroughbred. It wasn’t the carefree outdoor life she was dreaming of; it was life with Reynard.

But that was ridiculous. She hardly knew the man—not even his real name—and he didn’t know hers. He was full of contradictions and mystery, and she would be a fool to throw in her lot with a man who claimed to have three wives and who knew how many children, no matter how charming and apparently chivalrous he seemed.

Besides, she had another life waiting for her in England, and people who loved her, who’d given her so much. She owed it to them to live the life they’d made possible for her. It was the life Maman would want for her, too.

“I’m off to the village,” Reynard said the next morning after breakfast. They’d lingered over scrambled eggs and several cups of tea. “I might be gone awhile. I’m planning to walk into town and see if I can get any more commissions.” He grinned. “Apparently Gaudet has been boasting about getting a portrait of his pig done. With any luck, more people will want one.”

She laughed.

“Will you be all right here on your own?”

“Of course. Besides, I have Rocinante for company.”

“Good. Just watch out for the man-eating foxes, then.” He strolled away.

Zo? was dying to see the finished painting. It had been too dark in the wagon to see it the previous night, so after she’d cleaned up the breakfast things, she climbed into the wagon and brought the painting into the light. And stared, frowning.

The pig was certainly the star of the portrait—it was so vibrant and lifelike that one could almost imagine it stepping out of the picture. But the people…

They were…flat, not quite two-dimensional. Both Madame Gaudet and her husband would be quite disappointed, she was sure, though Gaudet might not care, because the pig was magnificent.

She set up the easel and examined the painting more closely.

What kind of painter could paint a brilliantly lifelike pig and yet fail with people? Oh, you could tell who they were—the features were accurate enough, and the clothing, but somehow, they just didn’t look real.

Reynard had said it was finished.

But it wasn’t.

She glanced at the road he’d disappeared down.

She could fix it. She poured herself some tea from the leftovers in the pot. It was lukewarm and bitter, but she didn’t like to make herself a fresh pot.

She looked at the painting again. The basic appearance of the farmer and his wife, their poses and the shapes of their bodies were fine, but the eyes were…wrong. And so was Madame Gaudet’s expression. And her husband’s mouth. All it would take would be…

No, she couldn’t. It wasn’t right for one artist to interfere with another’s work. Especially not without permission.

But Madame Gaudet had been, beneath her brisk bossiness, kind. And Zo? wanted her to look her best. If Gaudet had been boasting around the village about his portrait, how would madame feel when it looked as though she was of less importance than the pig?

Zo? nibbled a slice of the apple tart and decided. She would do it. And risk Reynard’s wrath. He might not even notice. She would just fix the eyes.

She fetched his paint and brushes and started to paint. She’d only intended to make a couple of tiny adjustments, but one tiny brushstroke was followed by another, then another, and gradually, as Zo?’s brushes flew, Madame Gaudet and her husband came to life: madame with the skeptical expression that seemed so much part of her, but also showing the kindness underneath. And the pride that Gaudet had in his pig shining from his eyes.

It was early afternoon when she finished and stood back to examine the painting. She nodded, satisfied. Yes, it all worked. Now the pig and the people were equally vividly portrayed. The Gaudets would be happy, she was sure.

She cleaned the brushes, put everything away and picked up the painting, ready to put it back in the wagon. She took one last, long look, and slowly the pleasure in her work died.

What had she done? How would Reynard react? Would he be furious? She would be if someone had interfered with one of her paintings unasked. What on earth had she been thinking? She’d been arrogant, thinking she could do better—and she had, but she should never have done it.

Guilt curdled in her stomach. But it was too late to undo what she had done. She would have to take the consequences. Reynard would be back soon.

She waited.

It was late afternoon when Reynard strolled into the campsite, carrying several large, heavy paintings, wrapped carefully in a cloth. It had been a mixed day, and he was glad to be back in his camp.

Vita was waiting for him, standing beside the wagon, wringing her hands. As he approached, she suddenly stiffened, looking past him.

“What is that?” she said in a tense, low voice. “Behind you.”

He glanced behind him and sighed. “It’s a dog.” He set down his burden carefully. It must have followed him. Serve him right for feeding the wretched beast.

“I can see that, but what does it want? It’s huge, and it looks rather fierce.”

“I found it chained up beside a deserted house.”

“A deserted house?”

“Yes, I checked. There was nobody there and it was clear they’d been gone for some days. More. There was dust everywhere and it didn’t look like they planned to return.”

She frowned. “But they’d left the poor dog behind?”

“Yes, chained up, so he couldn’t get away. The poor devil was half-mad with thirst and starvation when I found him—there wasn’t even any water left.” He clicked his fingers, and the dog took several wary steps closer. “You can see where he fought against the chain. I’m afraid I gave him the rabbit I’d intended for our dinner.”

“Oh, I’m glad you did. And you gave him water, of course. And freed him from that horrid chain. I can see where the poor fellow rubbed himself raw. I can’t believe anyone would do such a terrible thing to a poor defenseless creature. Some people don’t deserve to have animals.” She rose slowly and held out her hand to the dog. “Poor old fellow, you’ve had a bad time of it, haven’t you? But you’re with us now, and everything will be all right,” she crooned.

Reynard eyed her, surprised. A few moments earlier she’d been nervous of the dog, who admittedly was a large intimidating-looking creature—a lurcher crossed with something big and menacing-looking, if he wasn’t mistaken—and yet now she was crooning at it like a baby. And calling it a poor defenseless creature. And it was “with us” was it? He liked the sound of that “us.”

He smiled to himself. So Miss Vita, who’d been frightened by the screaming of foxes mating, liked dogs, did she?

The dog gave a tiny, half-hearted wag of its ragged tail and took another few cautious steps toward them. He was big and gray and scruffy with liquid dark eyes. Clearly he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t able to resist the appeal of those eyes.

“I’m surprised he found me,” he said. “After I removed the chain, I fed him the rabbit and gave him water—both of which he gulped down in record time—and he immediately bounded off and disappeared. I thought I’d seen the last of him, but here he is.”

Vita continued her crooning, and he wasn’t at all surprised when the dog came close enough for her to pat him, then flopped down and rolled over to have its stomach scratched.

If she used that seductive tone on him, he’d happily roll over as well, though not to have his stomach scratched.

“This animal is filthy,” she declared. “And he’s crawling with fleas. We can’t keep him like that—we’ll have to bathe him.”

“Will we?” he said, amused.

“Yes, in the stream.” She hesitated and bit her lip. “I only have a tiny piece of soap left. I don’t suppose you have some we could use?”

“I do. I used it to wash the horse.”

Her eyes widened. “You washed the horse?”

He shrugged. “She was filthy when I got her.” And destined for the knackers if he wasn’t mistaken. He had a weakness for lost causes. He went to fetch the soap, and the three of them headed for the stream.

He rolled up his trouser legs, and Vita hitched up her skirt, exposing a slender pair of shapely calves, which he tried not to ogle. Though it was difficult.

She entered the water first and coaxed the dog to come in after her, which he did with cautious reluctance. Reynard followed with the soap and a bucket and set to work. The dog made it clear he was here on sufferance, enduring the lathering with soap only because Miss Vita was crooning softly to him all the while. From time to time, he turned his great shaggy head to Reynard with an expression of deepest reproach, making it clear who he blamed for this latest indignity.

But when it came to rinsing, the dog decided he’d had enough. Shaking wet suds all over them, he broke free of Reynard’s grip and capered madly around in the water splashing and leaping and bouncing off them until they were both equally drenched. And laughing. And presumably free of fleas as well.

“What are you going to name him?” Vita asked as they sat by the fire while the dinner was heating. She’d applied some kind of ointment to the raw sores around the dog’s neck, where the poor beast had fought a losing battle against the chain that had been killing him, and was now gently brushing out the tangles in the dog’s fur.

“Name him? I’m keeping him, then?”

“Of course,” she said, as if there was no question of it.

He considered the dog, who gave him a sleepy smug look, clearly lapping up the girl’s attentions. Half his luck.

“Hamish,” he said.

“Hamish?”

He nodded. “He reminds me of a fellow I went to school with who had just such a lugubrious expression. Hardly ever cracked a smile. Always looked gloomy.”

“He’s not at all gloomy,” she objected. “He’s perfectly sweet.”

Perfectly sweet? The dog was huge, shaggy and grim-looking, the kind of dog you’d go down a dark alley to avoid. Anything less sweet you’d be hard-pressed to come across.

“At least he’s clean.”

“Yes, and I have some very good ointment that my sist— I mean a girl I know made, which will help heal those nasty sores where the chain rubbed him raw.”

Reynard hadn’t missed the slip of the tongue. So there was a sister, was there? And she’d said she was all alone in the world.

“So,” he said, changing the subject, “what did you get up to today?”

She jumped, flinching at his words, and gave him a look that was a curious mix of horror and guilt. “Oh no. I quite forgot. In all the excitement of meeting Hamish, I forgot to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

She bit her lip, almost chewing on it. “I did something today. Something bad.”

“Did you, now?” He hid a smile. No doubt she’d bathed naked in the stream or something of that sort. Nothing could dampen his good mood—actually, the thought of her naked in the stream only added to it, especially since their frolics there with the dog. The way her damp dress had clung to every curve…

Even before he’d rescued the dog, he’d been well pleased with his day’s work. He’d run into Gaudet at the village tavern, where the man was telling anyone who’d listen that he was having his portrait—and that of his prize pig—painted by a famous artist.

Reynard had then explained to Gaudet’s audience his “old for new” arrangement, where they would retain the ornate, gold-leafed frames—for many, the frames were the best part, he knew—and they would exchange their unwanted painting for a painting of whatever subject they desired. Two men had immediately hurried home to fetch their old paintings, and after a cursory glance—and careful not to show his excitement—he’d agreed to accept them.

This trip was proving to be very successful. Miss Vita-from-the-Latin had brought him luck.

His painting would need to be left for a day or two to dry thoroughly before he put it in the frame. He bent to check the soup that was heating and stirred it, saying, “So, are you going to tell me what you did that’s so bad?”

“I did something to your painting.” She swallowed convulsively. “I painted over it.”

He jerked his head up, frowning. “You painted over my painting?”

She nodded.

He swore under his breath. “Where is it?”

“In the wagon.” She was almost in tears, he could see, but dammit, so she should be. If she’d ruined his work…

He hurried to the wagon, grabbed the painting and stepped outside with it to examine the damage in the fading light.

And froze, staring. It most certainly wasn’t the painting he’d left to dry the previous night. It was…amazing. The skin tones—he’d painted them pink, but now they were…flesh, with texture and depth. And how she’d done it, he had no idea, but somehow, the personality of each person was now there, on the canvas: Gaudet with his pride in his pig, and Madame Gaudet with her caution and her kindness. All kinds of tiny details had been added that made it look as though the people, as well as the pig, could step out of the frame and walk away.

“ You did this?” he said eventually.

“Yes. I’m so very sorry.” Her voice was husky. “I only meant to touch up a few small things, but then I…got a bit carried away.”

He stared at her, his little maidservant traveling companion, then back at the painting, then back at her. “You painted over my people?”

Dumbly she nodded, the picture of remorse.

He carefully set the painting down, then swooped on her, picked her up and twirled her around. She clutched at his shoulders. The dog barked, but he took no notice. “It’s brilliant! Utterly brilliant. And you did it?” He still could barely believe it.

When he finally put her down, letting her slide down his body, she gaped up at him. “You don’t mind?”

“Mind? Does it look like I mind?” He stared down at her, amazed at the difference she had made to his painting. He’d always known that portraits of people were his weakness, and she’d just demonstrated why.

She didn’t move, didn’t push him away, just stood there, gazing up at him, flushed, a little doubtful, a little shy, her rosy lips parted. Soft, satiny, inviting lips. Without thought he kissed her. He’d meant it to be just an exuberant buss of a kiss, but after the first brief taste of her, he stopped, stared down at her for a long moment.

In the distance he heard the shriek of a fox. She didn’t react. He bent and brushed his mouth lightly over hers. The barest brush of skin against skin. She didn’t move. Her eyes were in shadow; he could not read her expression.

But she made no move to escape, so he did it again, grazing his mouth over her lips. He could feel her breath. A sweet tremor of heat. A wisp of sensation.

She shivered against him, but still she made no move to step away.

He was only human. So he kissed her again. Properly.

Her mouth softened under his, and her lips parted. She twined her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, returning his kiss with shy eagerness, loosing a ravening hunger deep within him. He pulled her hard against him, deepening the kiss, inflamed by the taste of her, the feeling of her in his arms.

Heat spiraled through him, and he drew her closer, feeling her softness pressing against him, against the hardness of his arousal.

He was brought to a realization of what he was doing when the dog thrust his damp nose in between them and shoved. Heart pounding, Reynard forced himself to release her and step back. Thank goodness for the dog’s intervention. If he hadn’t, they would have ended up taking things too far.

She was an innocent, he reminded himself, a girl who’d sacrificed her secure job in defense of her virtue. Who was he to seduce her on a whim?

Although, was it a whim, or something more? He didn’t like to think about it. It simply wasn’t possible.

Shaken by the strength of his reaction, he turned away and bent over the fire again, piling on twigs to get the flames burning—though there were enough flames burning inside him.

He busied himself tending to the soup, then feeling that he’d finally gained control of himself, he turned to her.

She hadn’t moved, just stood there, her hand resting on the dog’s head—she didn’t even need to bend—gazing at him with an expression he couldn’t read.

“I’ve never been able to paint people,” he said, deciding to be matter-of-fact. “I normally travel with a partner, and he does the people and I do the animals and the backgrounds. But he got married last year, and his bride wasn’t willing to take to a wagon, and he wasn’t willing to leave her, so I thought I’d try to do it all myself. I know it wasn’t very good, but for Gaudet the pig was the thing, and the pig turned out well. But what you did—”

“You really don’t mind?”

“Not in the least.” He grinned. “In fact, I think you should marry me. We’ll make the perfect painting partnership.”

She laughed. “And become your fourth wife? I don’t think so.”

“No, but seriously, I’m delighted with it. You can really see Gaudet and his wife now, and you’ve managed to make them really look like themselves—I mean their personalities show through, not just their appearance. How did you do that?”

“Oh, well…” Blushing, she made a self-deprecatory gesture.

“No, I mean it, there’s not just talent in what you’ve achieved, there is skill and real technique. So how did a maidservant learn to paint like that?”

She wrinkled her nose, looking uncomfortable. He waited. “I’m curious.” He really wanted to know. She’d been an enigma from the start, and now she was even more of a mystery.

The dog suddenly pricked up his ears. Then like a wraith in the night, he disappeared into the scrub surrounding their campsite. She gazed after him, then turned to Reynard with a question in her eyes.

“Shouldn’t we—?” she began.

He shook his head. “If he wants to leave, I won’t make him stay.” He squashed a sense of disappointment at the dog’s abandonment. “Now, you were about to tell me how you learned to paint like that,” he reminded her.

“Oh, yes.” She squirmed a little under his gaze. “Well, I’ve always liked drawing, but of course, I never had a chance to practice it. And even if I could get pencils and paper—let alone paints—orphanages find that kind of thing frivolous, even sinful.”

“So what changed?”

She frowned at him, then sighed and looked away. “In my first position the daughter of the house was getting lessons; the upper classes consider painting—mainly watercolors—a desirable ladylike accomplishment. I was sent to sit with her as a kind of chaperone, even though I was quite young—the artist engaged to teach her was a handsome young man. The young lady had little interest in painting and no skill, but she did like the young man—she was a terrible flirt—and she wanted to prolong the lessons as long as possible. So she got me to do her paintings while she flirted with the tutor. The artist said I was talented, and he taught me a great deal.”

“Fortunate for you,” he said dryly.

“Yes, wasn’t it?”

He served up the soup in silence. He wasn’t sure he believed her story, though it could explain her ability, at least some of it. But the techniques she’d demonstrated in bringing the Gaudets to life were the result of advanced study and skill with oil paints, not merely a few happenstance lessons in painting pretty scenes in watercolors.

The mystery of her deepened. He sipped his soup.

From the edge of the clearing came the sound of crunching bones. A few minutes later he heard splashing, then Hamish stepped into the firelight, his ragged, plumy tail swishing gently. His muzzle was wet and dripping, his expression content.

He went straight to Vita and nuzzled her shoulder with his damp muzzle. She laughed, exclaiming, “Ugh, you’re all wet!” But she happily put aside her soup and scritched around his ears. “You clever boy, you didn’t leave us after all, did you? I was so worried that I’d never see you again.” The moment she stopped, the dog nudged her shoulder again then glanced at Reynard with a smug look.

“At least we know he can feed himself.” At her quizzical look, he explained, “Unless I miss my guess, Hamish has just caught and eaten a rabbit. Didn’t you hear all the crunching and munching earlier?”

“No, I didn’t.” She pulled back and regarded the dog with a severe expression. “I don’t suppose I can blame you,” she told him. “Just don’t let me see you doing it, all right?”

The dog gave her an imperious nudge, and she sighed and resumed her attentions.

The following day was a Sunday, and Reynard had told her to sleep in. “Most people around here will be at church in the morning. I should have asked—do you want to go to church?”

She shook her head. Maman had been a regular churchgoer when she first came to England, and whenever she could, she lit candles for her parents and brother. But when she’d learned, some years later, that they’d been guillotined, she’d lost her faith, she told Zo?.

They’d still gone into a church from time to time to light a candle for their souls or to ask for intervention from one of the saints—Maman was bit vague about that—but though Zo? had been christened, she’d never been confirmed.

Later, after Maman died and Zo? was taken to the orphanage, church attendance had been compulsory, but the church was a different sort, with no friendly saints to turn to, and where, she was told by the matron of the orphanage, lighting a candle for the souls of the dead was a heathenish, popish practice and not to be thought of.

So Zo? had never had much faith to lose. And since Reynard said he’d never had any to lose in the first place, they spent the morning tidying the campsite and doing a bit of washing.

And trying not to think about that kiss.