Free Louisa Rawlings by Promise of Summer Page B

seen on a man’s face before. She averted her eyes, struggling to find words, and was saved only by Lucien.
    He stirred in bed, sat up, and grunted, favoring them with an irritated scowl. “Get to bed, for Satan’s sake. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”
    Topaze snuggled under the blanket, watching idly as Martin stripped off his coat and waistcoat. But when he produced a nightshirt from his portmanteau, she closed her eyes and turned away. Unlike that rogue Lucien, who seemed to favor sleeping in his clothes like a highwayman or a country farmer, Martin clearly was a gentleman. He was entitled to privacy.
    She sighed. The truckle bed was soft and warm. But lonely. Her body missed the intertwined limbs, the human contact to which it had become accustomed. Even when the Givets had owned bedsteads, they’d slept several together, huddled for comfort as well as for thrift and warmth. Now she slept badly, and dreamed of frolicking in the sunshine with the little ones.

Chapter Six
    By the time she’d awakened in the morning, the men had changed into fresh linen and were dressed. While she enjoyed the unexpected luxury of a cup of hot chocolate before a warm fire, Lucien and Martin sought out a secondhand shop, and soon returned with her new wardrobe. The clothes were well made, but plain and somewhat worn: the sort of clothing she might have owned had the Givet family not fallen on hard times. There was a boned bodice and skirt of mouse-colored wool, an untrimmed linen handkerchief that folded across the low neckline, a flannel petticoat, muslin chemise (and a spare to sleep in), plain knitted stockings. For warmth, a long, hooded cloak; for concealment, a full linen cap that hid her hair and tied under the chin with ruffled lappets. The men presented her with the clothing, then—at Martin’s insistence—discreetly retired to the tavern below while she dressed. Though she laced the bodice tightly, it didn’t fit as well as it might have. Martin was disappointed, but Topaze assured him that she found the clothes just to her liking. “And besides,” she said, laughing, “if I continue to eat as well as I’ve begun in your charge, the blasted gown won’t be near big enough, or I’m damned!”
    Martin joined in her laughter, but Lucien frowned. “I doubt if Véronique’s mother would want her daughter to swear. Kindly learn to curb your tongue.”
    They spent the second night of their journey in a small country inn outside of Cognac. It had rained all day; the coach had been cold and damp and crowded. They ate supper quickly, conversed little, retired early. Topaze noted that Lucien again went to bed without bothering to undress, but she was too exhausted from the long day to be concerned about it.
    In the morning the sun was shining. It brightened Topaze’s spirits; she hummed as she poured chocolate for the men and handed them their cups.
    Lucien raised a mocking eyebrow. “Are you always so sunny this early in the morning?”
    She laughed and pointed to Martin, whose handsome face was wreathed in gloom. “If I’m the sun, friend Martin is the dark side of the moon! Aren’t it so? Isn’t it so?”
    Lucien studied his companion. “She’s right, you know. What ails you, Martin? Still filled with doubts about the scheme?”
    “I wish to God we didn’t have to return to La Rochelle. We have the letter of credit. Why must we risk danger?”
    Lucien leaned back in his chair. His saturnine face registered exquisite boredom. “I agree. Lord knows I’d as soon avoid a seaport. Any seaport. But”—he shrugged—“it can’t be helped.”
    “Why should La Rochelle be such a terrible place?” asked Topaze in surprise.
    Lucien’s eyes glittered with deviltry. “’Tis a city of rogues and adventurers, in which no man is honest.” He grinned. “And no woman is virtuous. Does that dismay you, my tender flower?”
    She smiled her unconcern, refusing to be baited by his cynical words. “Only Hell and