Chapter Seven

His eyes darkened, the flames of the fire reflected in them.

“Reynard,” she whispered. He didn’t move. Nervously she ran her tongue over her dry lips.

He made a sound, low in his throat, and cupped her cheek in his hand. His hand was strong, the skin firm and masculine, and she rubbed her cheek against his palm like a cat. His eyes were burning. She raised her face to him in mute invitation. He muttered something she didn’t catch, but she forgot everything as he drew her close and claimed her mouth with his.

The kiss was sweet and tender at first, a quiet exploration. He pulled back slightly then and looked at her. “You know where this is going, don’t you?”

She nodded, and pressed herself closer.

He resisted for a moment, then smoothed his thumb lightly in a gossamer caress over her lower lip. Her breath hitched. “Are you sure, Vita? Because if we go on like this, it won’t stop at kissing.” Her blood leapt at his words.

“Very sure.” And she was. She’d been thinking about this for days, wanting it, dreaming of it. And now that one brief kiss had made her hungry for more, she didn’t want to wait a minute longer. Her body was tingling, expectant. She stood on tiptoe, pulled his head down and kissed him.

He groaned and pulled her hard against him, then lavished her with tiny kisses: her face, her eyelids, down the line of her jaw. His fingers speared through her curls, tilting her head as, under his guidance, she parted her lips and he deepened the kiss.

Oh, the taste of him…She’d never imagined it could be like this. Hot. Darkly spicy. Dangerously addictive. It raced through her, flickering along her veins like fire. Every part of her was alive, responsive…even as she felt herself melting against him like thick, rich cream, like honey.

The moon drifted behind clouds, one moment basting the world in silver, and the next in darkness. The autumnal scent of drying leaves and damp earth was all around them, spiced with the faint acid tendrils of smoke from the dying fire. A time of change…

He looked down at her, stroking his thumbs along her jawline. She stood still, expectant, gazing back at him, her lovely eyes wide and dark in the dusky evening. And inviting. Her lips were full and moist. He swallowed, looking at them. His body tightened.

In the distance he heard a fox scream. She heard it too and smiled a little, acknowledging their shared understanding, inviting him to share it with her. Ah, but she was special, this woman. A gift.

Her skin was warm, moon-pale and silken to the touch. He lavished light, tender kisses on her at first, wanting to devour her but needing more to take his time, to savor every moment, every gesture. She was an innocent.

She smelled clean and sweet, like fresh-baked bread. Her mouth was warm and satin-soft like dark rose petals. He brushed his mouth over hers and felt her breath hitch. Her lips parted slightly and he deepened the kiss.

She tasted like spiced, wine-dark honey, sweet, slightly sharp, addictive. She reached up and pulled him closer, returning his kisses eagerly, a little clumsily, driving him wild.

Slowly, unable to stop kissing, they moved together toward the caravan.

He opened the door. “After you, my lady.” But before she could climb in, Hamish reappeared and shoved his cold nose in between them.

She laughed, saying, “Not inside, sweetheart,” and for a second he thought she might be talking to him. But the dog flumped gloomily down in front of the steps and laid his head on his paws.

“He’s keeping watch,” she said, and turned back to him. Her eyes darkened and she ran her tongue over her lips. He swallowed. His body, already aroused, tightened. Silently she held out her hand to him and led him, stepping carefully over the sprawled dog, up the steps into the caravan. She’d made it ready, he saw, with everything tidy and the bed neatly turned back. Several candles were lit, throwing out small pools of golden light and dancing shadows.

He was glad she hadn’t decided to do this in the dark. He ached to see her.

She was looking a little uncertain, so he kissed her again, and soon they were lying on the bed, kissing and kissing and kissing. He could never get enough of her, and she was all luscious heat and sweet, intoxicating acceptance. But he wasn’t going to rush this, rush her. Her first time—their first time: it had to be special and it was up to him to make it so.

He pulled back and sat up on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were a little dazed, full of questions.

“Do you need help getting out of that dress?”

She blinked, and then gave a shaky laugh. “No, maids’ dresses are not as complicated as ladies’ ones. Just a drawstring here, and another one there.” She pulled the ties at the neck and waist undone, and the neckline instantly drooped, revealing creamy skin and an enticing shadow of cleavage.

She wriggled off the bed, took a deep breath, pulled the dress off over her head and tossed it aside, leaving herself clad only in a worn, thin and many-patched chemise. The fabric was so thin he could see through it, see the dark V-shaped shadow at the apex of her thighs, and the rosy circles of her areolae. As he watched, her nipples lifted and tightened: small needy points of desire. He reached up and brushed his knuckles slowly across them. She shuddered and sat down suddenly on the bed. “Now you,” she gasped. “Do you need help undressing?”

“No.” He wouldn’t have minded letting her undress him, but he was full and hard and didn’t know how much longer he could wait.

He tossed his coat aside, pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside too. His chest was bare—vagabond artists wore no undershirts—and he was very aware of her gaze running slowly and appreciatively over him. He sat on the edge of the bed, yanked off his boots and socks, then stood and reached for the buttons on the fall of his breeches.

They dropped to the floor. Her eyes widened. He was wearing cotton drawers—this vagabond artist did wear drawers—but they did nothing to disguise his very definite and insistent arousal.

She eyed it curiously. She didn’t seem worried or anxious, which he might have expected from a virgin. But Vita was no ordinary girl.

He sat beside her on the bed, kissed her, slowly and leisurely, then bent and placed his mouth over her breast and, through the threadbare chemise, teased her nipple with his tongue. She gasped and arched and clutched his head to her. “Do that again.”

Smiling, he obliged, until she was gasping and moving restlessly against his mouth. “Lift up,” he said, and pulled off her chemise. He gazed at her for a long moment, devouring her with his eyes. She watched him watching her, her expression a little shy, a little uncertain.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured.

“Now you,” she said, indicating his drawers.

He pulled them off and kicked them aside. It was her turn to gaze at him then, not at all shyly, but curious and fascinated.

“You are beautiful, too,” she said.

He gave a huff of laughter. “Men aren’t beautiful.”

“You are to me.” She put out a hand as if to touch him, then hesitated and glanced at him.

“Touch me however you like,” he said, hoping his control would hold.

She ran a careful finger down the length of him, her eyes widening as his erection grew even more. He gritted his teeth as, with another glance at him for permission, she wrapped her fingers around the length of him and then squeezed very gently.

He moaned. She dropped him like a hot coal.

“It’s all right,” he assured her, his voice a little hoarse. “That was a pleasure moan.”

Zo? gave him a doubtful glance. A pleasure moan? Was there such a thing? Or was he being tactful?

He must have seen her doubt, because the next minute he was pushing her gently back on the bed. “I’ll show you.”

He explored her then, thoroughly, with hands and mouth. He started with her breasts, licking and nibbling and teasing her nipples, which were already hard and aching, with his teeth. Shivers of heat, of indescribable sensations, shuddered through her, and she found herself writhing, at first pleasurably, but soon it was more than pleasure, almost pain, except it wasn’t. She needed…she didn’t know what, but she ached for it.

His hands were everywhere, caressing, arousing. He slipped his fingers between her thighs, and she stiffened. He soothed and stroked, and gradually she relaxed, but the more he stroked, alternately teasing and soothing, the tenser she became, writhing against his hand. The sensations built, first ripples washing through her body, then shudders racking her.

She heard a moan, and it wasn’t from him, but she didn’t care, she just wanted…needed…craved…she didn’t know what.

He moved over her then, and her legs fell apart, trembling with anticipation. With need. She felt him, heavy and blunt at her entrance, and her body clenched with recognition and longing.

“Sorry about this,” he murmured, and before she could collect her scattered wits to ask him what he meant, he entered her with a long, hard thrust.

A sharp pain shot though her and she gasped. He lay, buried within her for a moment. The pain faded to a tiny sting, and she felt her body stretching to accommodate him.

His fingers dropped to where they were joined and resumed their cunning dance, soothing and arousing, and before she knew it her body was closing around him, clenching, tightening.

He began to pull out of her. “No,” she gasped and locked her legs around him, hauling him closer, taking him deeper.

Then he was moving inside her, plunging…thrusting…driving her…to frantic need. Desperation. And ecstasy.

Sensation built and built. She shuddered and thrashed around him. He gave a final, husky groan, and she felt a gush of warmth within her. She trembled on the pinnacle of…something…and then…and then…

She woke slowly, golden shards of sunlight piercing the interior of the caravan. She lay curled on her side, Reynard’s body curved around her, skin against skin, one arm across her waist. Protective. Possessive.

She lay quietly, taking stock of how she felt. Alive, she felt gloriously alive, warm and safe and deliciously relaxed.

Parts of her body ached a little, but they were small aches, she decided, and they made her happy. She’d made love with Reynard, and it had been like nothing she had expected and yet everything she’d unknowingly craved. It had been exciting. A little bit shocking. The raw intimacy of it. And slightly…animal, the way she’d lost all control. As had he, she thought. But then, they were all animals, in a way, weren’t they? And she felt wonderful. Freed in some fashion, she wasn’t sure how.

She lay quietly, enjoying the feeling of the man breathing soft and steady beside her, reliving the night before. This was how she wanted to wake every morning for the rest of her life.

There wasn’t just one bubble of happiness in her chest now, there were dozens. Like champagne, like soap bubbles filled with sunshine. She’d made up her mind: she was staying. She would live with this man, this funny, charming, twisty, kind man, with all his stories.

Her sisters would understand, she told herself. They’d be disappointed, but once they saw how happy he made her, they would understand.

She felt him stirring, and turned in his embrace and watched his eyes open and the light come into them. He smiled, slow, warm, intimate. “Good morning, Vita my sweet. How do you feel?”

“Wonderful.” She kissed him, and would have done more, but he pulled back slightly.

“Not this morning, love. You’re still too tender. Besides—” Her stomach rumbled and he laughed. “There, your stomach spoke for you. Stay there and relax. I’ll make breakfast and bring it to you here.” He kissed her again and then slid out of bed and pulled on his clothes.

She lay back in a dreamy haze of contentment, hearing him move around the camp, getting the fire going, talking to Hamish, feeding Rocinante.

Some time later the door opened and he entered, carrying a plate and a steaming mug. “Here you are, my lady, scrambled eggs on toast and a mug of tea.”

She sat up, tucking the bedclothes around her, feeling a little self-conscious to be naked when he was fully dressed. He fetched his own breakfast and they ate it together, planning the day.

It was a little disconcerting to realize that while her world had changed completely, his seemed to be going on as usual. But she supposed that was what life was like. It couldn’t all be lovemaking. Unfortunately. He had a living to earn. She understood that.

“I have one more old painting to collect,” he said, “then this afternoon I’ll set about removing them from their frames and replacing them with the new paintings. People will be anxious to see them displayed in all their golden glory.” He collected the plates and set them on a narrow bench. “Do you want to come with me?”

She shook her head. “No, I think I’ll stay and have a bath.”

He smiled. “I wish I could provide you with a proper hot bath. Perhaps another time. Meanwhile, the stream is clean and bracing. Do you want me to stay while you bathe?”

“No, it’s all right. Hamish will look after me.”

His smile deepened. “I wasn’t thinking of privacy, but you’re right, it’s too cold to spend time frolicking in a stream. In summer, now”—he bent and gave her a swift kiss—“it’s a pleasure we can look forward to.” He leapt lightly down from the van and disappeared.

She lay there for a while, dreaming in her warm nest of bedclothes, then finally gathered herself and her clothing together—and the sheet that showed a few spots of blood—and headed for the stream. He was right, it was very cold, so she bathed swiftly, using the last of her sister’s lovely soap. Hamish watched, his expression mildly bemused at this unnatural fondness for soap and water.

She washed the sheet, scrubbing out the bloodstains—cold water was good for that, at least—then wrung it out and draped it over the line Reynard had strung behind the caravan, along with her underclothes. Then she waited for Reynard to return.

He returned late in the afternoon, walking into the camp, whistling, his large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He greeted her with a smile and a kiss that left her shivering with desire. She couldn’t wait for tonight.

First he set up a kind of trestle table, then collected some of the paintings he’d stored in the caravan, stacking them on their sides, large paintings in ornate gold-leafed frames.

Then, working methodically, he placed the largest painting face down on the trestle table and removed first the backing, then the painting from its frame. He carefully lifted out the canvas and laid it aside, face up.

Curiously Zo? wandered over to look at it—and gasped.

He glanced at her and gave a quick smile. “What do you think?”

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure what she thought. The painting was old, beautifully painted and undoubtedly valuable. It depicted a sumptuously dressed man with flowing dark locks and a pointed beard. He was reclining comfortably on a chair, partially wrapped in a red velvet cloak. You could almost feel the rich softness of the velvet. Scattered carelessly around him were several small statues, a bust, a globe and various tapestries and paintings—the possessions of a rich, cultured man.

She wasn’t sure, but she thought it might be by Charles Le Brun. She’d seen several of his paintings in her studies with Lucy in the last few years.

How had a painting of this quality ended up in a farmer’s house? And why on earth would a farmer be willing to swap it for a much less skillful painting? Reynard’s work was quite good, but this was by the hand of a master.

Reynard straightened and saw her still staring. He gestured at the painting. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure. Is this the painting you got from your bull farmer?”

“Yes. Isn’t it a beauty?”

She frowned. “It’s magnificent. But I don’t understand. Where did he get it from?”

He shrugged carelessly. “No idea. I didn’t ask. Not my business.”

She said slowly, “I’m not sure, but I think it’s quite valuable.”

He gave her an enigmatic look. “You think so, eh?”

She nodded, gaining confidence in her judgment. “I’m sure of it. So if the farmer didn’t want it, why didn’t he sell it? For actual money?”

Again Reynard made a careless gesture. “Who knows how people’s minds work? Maybe it was too much trouble—presumably he’d need to go to Paris to find a buyer, and that’s a long way to travel. And even if he did, where would a simple country farmer start? The point is, he didn’t want it—said he was sick of looking at some rich old dead aristo showing off his treasures and would rather have a good honest painting of what’s important to him—himself and his bull. So he was happy to swap an old painting for a new one—as long as he kept the frame. Me, I don’t look gift horses in the mouth.”

She gave him a troubled look. “But doesn’t he realize it might be worth a lot of money?”

Reynard shrugged. “It’s not for me to tell him what to do. I offered to swap old paintings for new, and he liked the bargain.”

“But…”

He turned away. “I’m not going to argue about this, Vita. He gave me this painting, and in return I will give him one he much prefers.” He turned to the next ornately framed painting and set about removing the old painting that was in it.

Zo? watched, even more troubled. It was also valuable, she was sure. She didn’t recognize the artist, but again, it portrayed people she was sure could have nothing to do with a rustic farmer: a family group this time, the woman in silks and embroidered satins, laden with jewels, her hair piled high and powdered. Her husband, too, wore satin and lace and an ornate powdered wig. Several beautifully dressed children were posed around them, children she was sure had never lived on a farm in their lives.

“But you can’t do that! These are valuable paintings, I’m certain of it.”

“Value is in the eye of the beholder.” His voice was indifferent.

“That’s nonsense and you know it. You’re cheating them! These people are poor and unsophisticated, and you are taking advantage of their ignorance. They haven’t the least idea of the value of what they’re trading!” She’d seen how poor the local people were, having to work so hard—even the children—just to make ends meet. And yet they’d been so generous to her and Reynard, sharing food with them. And he was depriving them of money she was sure they needed. How could he?

He straightened and said in a harsh voice, “Use your brain, Vita! Where do you think these poor ignorant country folk got paintings like this in the first place?”

She stared at him dumbly. How would she know?

He picked up the next framed painting waiting to be swapped over and began to remove the backing. “This one came from your beloved widow, Madame LeBlanc. Do you know what she said the other day when we made our deal? She told me in no uncertain terms that she wanted it out of the house. It was a wedding gift from her husband’s father, she said, and it had hung in her house until her husband died—apparently he was very proud of it. But she couldn’t bear to look at it, and after the funeral she took it down and put it in the back of a dark cupboard. Do you know why?”

Zo? shook her head, puzzled.

“Because it made her feel guilty, that’s why! Think about it, Vita. It was a gift from her father-in-law. Where would a man like that—a simple ignorant countryman—get a painting of such quality?” He made a wide furious gesture. “Think! What was happening here thirty-odd years ago?”

“Oh my God,” she whispered, realizing. “The Revolution.” Of course. She should have realized it earlier, especially having seen what had happened to her mother’s chateau. But somehow she hadn’t connected the living people she’d met with “the mob” who’d attacked the chateau.

“Yes, the Revolution. These poor ignorant country folk you’re so worried about looted these paintings from the homes of aristocrats. Oh, maybe not all of them, but they would all know from whence these paintings came. That’s why Madame LeBlanc wanted to be rid of it. She felt guilty just looking at it.

“She would have been a child at the time, but she knows what happened, and she has a conscience. So she traded a painting, a looted family portrait that she couldn’t wait to get rid of, in exchange for the one you did of her and her children.” He removed the old painting from its frame and brandished it. “This is the one she traded! A family portrait: mother, father and two children. She’s a good woman, and she didn’t want it in her house, not with those two little children looking out at her from the frame. Can you blame her?”

Zo? glanced at the painting and felt the blood drain from her face. She staggered, suddenly dizzy. Oh God. She knew those faces.

There was her mother as a child, sweet-faced, wide-eyed and a little bored from having to sit still for so long. Clutched in her arms was the doll, Marianne, in blue silk and lace, with her head still intact. And there was Maman’s brother, Philippe, and her parents, Zo?’s own grandparents, who had been guillotined during the revolution.

This, the painting he was brandishing so angrily, was of her family. She had no doubt of it. Maman had painted a similar painting from memory. It was back in London, in her room at Lady Scattergood’s. Maman had talked about watching the painter working. It had inspired her, she’d said.

Feeling sick to her stomach, Zo? gazed at the painting. How stupid was she not to have realized? She’d seen for herself how Maman’s home had been attacked and looted. And this painting was from there. And nice Madame LeBlanc’s father-in-law had been one of the looters. And probably farmer Gaudet. And who knew who else she’d met—and liked!—in this area had paintings stolen from Maman’s home?

Old paintings for new. It had seemed so simple, she hadn’t even questioned it.

Acid roiled in her throat. She stood, frozen, unable to think or speak. The dog must have sensed her distress, for she felt a cold nose nudging her hand and a warm body leaning against her. She fondled his ears, her mind miles away.

There was a long silence. Then Reynard said in a gentler voice, “I’ve shocked you, I see. It didn’t occur to you that these paintings were looted?”

Unable to speak or drag her eyes off the painting, she just shook her head.

He turned the painting around and busied himself removing it from the frame.

“What will you do with them?” she asked when she was able to speak.

“Take them to Paris.” He removed her mother and grandparents from the frame and draped it carefully with the other one he’d removed, a large square of protective fabric between them.

Yes, she saw now how it was that he could make a living. He would sell these in Paris for a great sum.

What he was doing was still wrong, she felt sure, but now that she knew the whole story, the issue was not so clear-cut. He was swindling these people, cheating them out of the money they could get for these valuable paintings.

And yet…they’d stolen—looted!—the paintings in the first place. Part of the mob that had caused a little girl to flee for her life. Committing arson and who knew what other crimes as well.

But that was in the past, more than thirty years ago. It was a war, a revolution; were people still to be held accountable for the horrors of that time? And yet, should they still profit from those horrors today? Should he, who had fought in the army against the forces of Napoleon? Did not these paintings belong to France? If not to the descendants of those who had owned them? Assuming they still lived.

Contradictory thoughts tumbled madly around in her head. She didn’t know what to think, couldn’t think at all. She felt sick to her stomach.

“I’m going to bed,” she said weakly.

He nodded, his expression compassionate. “I’m sorry to have distressed you.”

She waved his apology aside and opened the wagon door. He looked at her, a question in his eyes. She shook her head. No, she would not have him in her bed tonight. He nodded understandingly, his eyes sympathetic. “Life is not so simple, is it, Vita?”

He had no idea how shattered she felt.

“Put these inside, will you?” He handed her the rolled-up paintings and the canvas bag containing more paintings. “I’ll lock them away tomorrow. I don’t want them out in the night air.”

Numbly she held out her hand and received them, including her family, all neatly rolled up ready to be sold to some Parisian dealer. She wanted to scream, she wanted to weep. She ached with it all.

She climbed inside the wagon and shut the door. Then, for the first time in days, she bolted it.

She curled up miserably on the bed, feeling sick, disheartened, bitter.

What a fool she’d been. Reynard was not the man she’d thought he was. Oh, he was charming and handsome and the rest, but more importantly he was a cheat, a swindler. Cheating people out of the true value of their paintings. And who knew what else? She’d believed him about those imaginary three wives, but now she wondered. Had she believed him because she wanted to?

And the local people she’d met here weren’t the nice, friendly, generous people she’d thought they were. They, or their parents, had attacked her mother’s home, sending her fleeing for her life as they destroyed it, looting it, smashing, burning—even guillotining her little doll, no doubt in frustration over not catching Maman.

It was all too distressing to contemplate.

Why had she not seen ? Not even guessed, or wondered?

Because she was a fool, letting herself be dazzled by a good-looking man with a—yes, a seductive line of chat and appealing, engaging ways. And she’d fallen for it.

Had he not decided to remove those paintings from their frames this evening, she might, even now, be in here with him, on this very bed, making love.

The thought made her feel quite sick.

She would not stay another day. She would meet up with the miller’s son at dawn, and by the time Reynard was awake, she’d be on her way to Nantes and the diligence . She would never see Reynard again.

Reynard. Fox. Cunning. A warning she’d been too stupid, too dazzled to see.

She slept very little that night. For most of the evening, she lay on the bed, listening to Reynard move about the camp, talking nonsense in English to the dog. In the past that sort of thing would have made her smile or giggle, would have made her want him more.

Now it simply flayed her.

Aware that she would have to catch the miller’s son at dawn, she barely slept, waking every hour or so, peering cautiously out at the night sky. It was hard to tell what time it was. She had to guess by the angle of the moon. Thank God it wasn’t a cloudy night.

It was still dark when she rose and prepared to creep out of the camp. She’d packed her bundle earlier. She picked it up, then put it down again. Moving very slowly and carefully—he was asleep under the wagon—she removed the painting of her mother’s family from the rolled-up canvases he’d passed her. Thank goodness he hadn’t already locked them away.

She rerolled the other paintings, then rolled up her mother’s painting, wrapped it in a protective cloth, then tied it in string.

Guilt pecked at her. It wasn’t stealing, she told herself. This was her mother’s painting. It was hers by right.

It wasn’t stealing to take from thieves, she reminded herself.

But she still felt uncomfortable about it. Even though she knew she shouldn’t.

She took the remaining sausage from the tin-lined cupboard and tucked it into a fold in the bundle, then opened the door and stepped cautiously down, her bundle in one hand, the rolled painting in the other. The moonlight was faint. The camp was all gray shadows.

Oh lord, Hamish! she thought despairingly as the dog scrambled to his feet and came toward her. She dropped her bundle and held up her hand, whispering, “Sit.”

Blessedly, the dog sat.

Ever since they’d adopted him, he’d slept under the wagon, beside Reynard, lying along his back. She’d thought it was cute before: now it had the potential to be a disaster. If Reynard woke…

“Stay,” she whispered. The dog watched her curiously, his tail gently thumping the dust, but thankfully, he didn’t make a sound. She peered under the wagon to where Reynard slept. He hadn’t moved. She breathed again.

“Stay, Hamish. Stay,” she whispered, gesturing for him to stay—and praying he would, for once, obey.

The dog tilted his head in a silent question.

Zo? picked up her bundle and crept out of the campsite. Once out of sight of it—and hopefully out of hearing—she glanced back. And saw a large, scruffy, beautiful, loyal animal following her. “Oh, Hamish, no,” she murmured, but she’d prepared for this to happen.

He trotted up to her, his tail waving gently like a plume. She gave him a last enthusiastic embrace, finishing with a good scritch around the ears, then bent and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m sorry, darling, but I can’t take you, not on the diligence . I’m sorry. You be good for Reynard, won’t you? He’ll look after you, I know.” It was one thing—the only thing—she now trusted about Reynard, that he would take care of his animals.

She took out the sausage. The dog’s nose twitched. “Here, Hamish, fetch!” She hurled the sausage deep into a dense thicket of bushes. Hamish happily bounded off after it.

Zo? picked up her bundle, and half-blinded by tears, she ran toward the village.