The Forbidden Rose

Three

SHE KNEW HOW TO STAY STILL. THAT WAS THE FIRST important thing Doyle learned about her. She had a controlled patience that made her just about invisible. Most people couldn’t pass two minutes without fidgeting.

The woman stood in the shadow under the stable loft, outlined against the window, watching the courtyard. Breaths slipped in and out of her body like ghosts. Her face was turned away from him. She wore country clothes, like an upper servant or a farm wife. Dark blue skirt. White apron. A plain linen fichu tied around her shoulders. She had clogs on her feet. Her hair was pulled back from her face and braided in a thick tail that hung down her back, tied at the bottom with a scrap of bright red cloth. Her arms crossed her chest, one over the other, hugging tight and protective.

The smear of mud on her skirt and the scratches on her arms said she’d been hiding in the woods, living rough. She’d be one of the household—a lady’s maid or seamstress or the wife of the steward.

The stable window she’d picked had a wide, unobstructed view of the chateau and the avenue between the coach house and the back lane. By chance or planning, she’d picked a first-rate lookout post.

Even as he thought that, her hand went to the back of her neck. She could feel when eyes were on her, a skill that wasn’t as common as mice in a closet.

She turned. Saw him. The instant stretched tight.

He’d put himself between her and the back door. She hadn’t thought of keeping two lines of retreat. One for your enemy to block off. One so you can run like hell.

Skirt and apron whirled. She exploded into flight, down the stalls, long braid trailed out behind her. He caught her halfway to the door. Wrapped his arms around her and held on.

She twisted and tried to rake her nails at his face. When he caught her wrists, she curled like an eel and bit the hand that held her, digging her teeth deep.

Well, that hurt. “I’m not going to—” A sabot hit his shin. “God’s . . . tortoises. Will you hold still? I’m trying not to damage you.” He shifted his grip and she broke a hand free and pulled out a knife.

Enough. He kicked her legs out from under her. The knife bounced away. He flopped her down on her back into the piled straw.

That was the end of it, to all intents and purposes, except she was going to keep fighting for a while.

She was light for her size and panicked and dead ignorant of fighting. He’d make short work of a man her size. This girl had no chance at all. She kneed him in the belly, missing the vital goods by a margin narrower than he liked. That seemed to be sheer luck. None of the men in her life had taught her how to do damage to the male of the species. That was a pity because she was approaching this business of hurting him with lots of enthusiasm.

He didn’t blame her for trying. He’d do the same himself. He climbed on top and held her down. “Biting everything in sight don’t do you any noticeable good, and it’s annoying the hell out of me.”

The ending was abrupt. She gave up, all at once, all over. She lay under him, looking up. They were wrapped together like lovers. But this wasn’t even the distant cousin of lovemaking.

I am scaring her to death.

Then she got a good look at the scar on his cheek and stopped breathing.

That scar was a work of art, seven inches of grotesque, running from his eyebrow to his chin. The major geographic feature of his face. It made him look fairly depraved.

“This face of mine’s always been a great trial. I’m lucky I don’t have to look at it.” He stayed as he was, still and heavy, on top of her.

Her eyes were the color of coffee pouring from the pot—intensely brown, translucent. She was pale under the sunburn, and scratched and dirty. Her muscles, hard with fear, vibrated in his hands where he had her pinned down.

“Let me go.” Her throat clenched and unclenched.

The fichu kerchief around her neck had got itself pulled loose. Her breasts were nudging out of her bodice. And . . . he had his hand on one of them. When did that happen? God. He jerked away fast and took hold of her shoulder instead. That was neutral ground up there. “Sorry. Don’t mean anything by that. An accident.”

Fine pair of breasts she had. White as split almonds. Round as peaches. The nipples peeked out, since the fichu wasn’t doing its job. A pair of dark little roses, pulled up into buds. Tasty looking. And if he got any closer he could put his mouth down and lick them.

That’s going to reassure her—you slavering at her tits.

He levered himself up some, so he wasn’t crushing her. “I wanted to know who’s spying on me. That’s all. I’m not going to hurt you. See. I’m letting you go. What you do is, you don’t hit me. You might hold off on that biting, too.”

He watched a bit of rational thought come tiptoeing into her mind. Watched her turn his words over, considering them from all sides. She unfroze, muscle by muscle.

He shifted back farther. “I didn’t expect to find anyone. In the village, they say it’s deserted. What are you doing here?”

“That is not letting me go.” She looked at the scar on his face and away, quickly. “If you are going to not hurt me, you may do it at a greater distance. You are very heavy.”

He could get to like this woman.

He rolled to the side and got up to his knees. He didn’t need to keep hold of her. He could snag her if she tried to run.

“That is somewhat better.” Her voice shook. “Nonetheless, I would prefer more space between us. The space of an entire stable perhaps.”

Oh yes, he could like her very much. “Sit up and talk to me. Who are you? Why were you spying on me?”

She pushed herself upward and began tucking her fichu in at her neckline, covering up. “I was not spying. I was avoiding you. There is a significant difference.”

Her accent was the Paris of coffeehouses and boulevards and salons. No trace of the Normandy patois. This wasn’t a fancy lady’s maid or the bailiff’s wife. He’d netted himself the daughter of the house. De Fleurignac’s daughter.

“You’re being cautious.” She was going to lead him to her father. All he had to do was hold on to her.

Maybe what he was thinking showed. Her eyes skittered away from him. “I am wary of strangers lately.”

“And I don’t look particularly benign.” He ran his thumbnail down the scar on his cheek. His masterpiece of a scar. He’d be a nightmare to a woman, alone, in a deserted stable. “Not pretty, is it?”

Fear shifted behind her eyes. That would be one more affront to this woman’s dignity, that she couldn’t keep herself from being afraid of him.

“It is not pretty.” This time, she looked steadily at his face. “But also not a countenance to stop the hens from laying. One sees worse in any village. You need not feel slighted because you lack beauty. I hid from you before I saw your face.”

“That’s putting me in my place.” He leaned back on his heels. “I don’t look like much, but I’m respectable, back at home.”

“When you are at home, perhaps you do not chase women and fling them to the ground like so many sacks of meal.” She pulled her knees up and twitched at her skirt to cover her ankles. A graceful, lovely little gesture. The muddy dress could have been silk brocade at Versailles. “At home, perhaps, you introduce yourself before you assault women.”

“I don’t assault women at all, generally speaking. I’m Guillaume LeBreton, once of Brittany, living in Paris now. I’m not the one sneaking around, spying and biting all and sundry, now am I? Who are you?”

She drew a deep breath. Everybody drew in a deep breath before they started telling lies. “I am Margaret Duncan, dame de compagnie to Mademoiselle de Fleurignac.”

“You’re English, then.”

“Scots.”

If she was Scots, he was Robert the Bruce. “You’re a long way from home, Maggie Duncan.”

“On the contrary. France is my home. My family lives in Arles. My father is a colonel of infantry.”

France was full of the red-headed grandchildren of men who’d followed the Stuart king into exile. A good many of them were in the French army. But that wide and witchy mouth didn’t come from Scotland. She was pure French.

She looked to the window of the stable and beyond, to the shell of the chateau. “Mademoiselle escaped. I was left behind to hold this delightful conversation with you.”

Just a dish full of cleverness, this Maggie.