said, “Perhaps these ladies will not be so immune to my beautiful eyes.”
She couldn’t stay out here all night with him. She couldn’t.
“Perhaps they could win me a bed inside,” she said.
“After all, I’m a harmless female.”
“To other women, perhaps.”
He set off, but yipping halted him. Coquette was frantic at being abandoned. With a sigh he picked her up and put her in his pocket. Then he strode out into the rain in a lordly manner. But his booted feet sank into slippery mud, so instead of a masterful march, the hooded, dark warrior slogged his way across the yard.
Petra smothered a giggle, but she prayed the women would agree with a request to let her sleep inside.
He arrived at the door and knocked. The door opened a crack, then a little wider. He talked to the woman, and then set off back to the barn. Once he was under shelter, he pushed off his hood and stood dripping. “Triumph for mes beaux yeux . For a price they’ll provide some food and drink, some spare coverlets, and the use of their woodpile.”
“And me?” Petra asked.
“So anxious to flee me. It seems a rough place, but if you want to sleep in there you have Madame Goulart’s agreement.”
Petra hurried to her trunk to take out her bag containing necessities and a spare shift for tomorrow. She turned eagerly toward the house, but then realized a problem. She was wearing sandals. She’d have to cross in bare feet. She bent to unfasten them, but her tormenting escort said, “May I have the honor of carrying you?”
He was straight-faced, but she heard laughter in his voice.
Petra was torn, but being in his arms won over wading through farmyard mud.
“Thank you,” she said, and tried not to stiffen as he lifted her into his arms.
Ludovico carrying her, sweeping her into his arms simply to show off his strength. She protesting but loving it—loving the intimacy, the closeness, feeling fragile in his strong arms….
“Pull my cloak over yours as much as you can. It’s waterproof.”
She started out of memories of folly and did her best, though the wet leather had a slimy texture and wasn’t easy to manage.
He stepped out into the rain. “My sincere apologies for any shortcomings.”
“As a porter, sir, you excel.”
“Reserve your applause until I get you to the door without dropping you. This mud is slime.”
As if on cue his foot slid sideways. Instinctively Petra clutched tighter, then instantly realized her mistake and let go, trying to lean the other way to correct the tilt. That almost tipped them over, and a stupid screech escaped her as she braced to slam down into foul mud.
He staggered two steps in one direction, then another back and stilled, precariously balanced. They looked at one another, and perhaps he, like she, was holding his breath.
But his eyes were bright and then he grinned. “We must dance again sometime,” he said, and moved forward with extreme caution.
Inside Petra, folly sighed, Oh yes.
He was struggling with the mud, but not with her weight. Of course, carrying ladies would be a required talent for a rake. Doubtless they trained in it. And in kissing. Kissing ladies. Fondling ladies—loose ladies draped in silk. Ladies with rouged cheeks and reddened lips, drenched in perfume of musk and roses…
But the coarse wool of her habit must rasp against his hands, and her smells were all her own and there were too many of them. At least he wasn’t fresh himself beneath the damp wool and tangy leather. Surprisingly, the medley of smells was not unpleasant, and could even be sweeter than memory of Ludo’s expensive perfumes….
What if her venture turned out even better than she dreamed? Might she one day attend a ball in England, and there meet Robin Bonchurch, gentleman, both of them smelling sweetly in silken finery? Dancing, stepping lightly to lovely music, eyes locked, teasing, flirting. He flirted as easily as he breathed.
He wasn’t breathing easily now, as he staggered
She couldn’t stay out here all night with him. She couldn’t.
“Perhaps they could win me a bed inside,” she said.
“After all, I’m a harmless female.”
“To other women, perhaps.”
He set off, but yipping halted him. Coquette was frantic at being abandoned. With a sigh he picked her up and put her in his pocket. Then he strode out into the rain in a lordly manner. But his booted feet sank into slippery mud, so instead of a masterful march, the hooded, dark warrior slogged his way across the yard.
Petra smothered a giggle, but she prayed the women would agree with a request to let her sleep inside.
He arrived at the door and knocked. The door opened a crack, then a little wider. He talked to the woman, and then set off back to the barn. Once he was under shelter, he pushed off his hood and stood dripping. “Triumph for mes beaux yeux . For a price they’ll provide some food and drink, some spare coverlets, and the use of their woodpile.”
“And me?” Petra asked.
“So anxious to flee me. It seems a rough place, but if you want to sleep in there you have Madame Goulart’s agreement.”
Petra hurried to her trunk to take out her bag containing necessities and a spare shift for tomorrow. She turned eagerly toward the house, but then realized a problem. She was wearing sandals. She’d have to cross in bare feet. She bent to unfasten them, but her tormenting escort said, “May I have the honor of carrying you?”
He was straight-faced, but she heard laughter in his voice.
Petra was torn, but being in his arms won over wading through farmyard mud.
“Thank you,” she said, and tried not to stiffen as he lifted her into his arms.
Ludovico carrying her, sweeping her into his arms simply to show off his strength. She protesting but loving it—loving the intimacy, the closeness, feeling fragile in his strong arms….
“Pull my cloak over yours as much as you can. It’s waterproof.”
She started out of memories of folly and did her best, though the wet leather had a slimy texture and wasn’t easy to manage.
He stepped out into the rain. “My sincere apologies for any shortcomings.”
“As a porter, sir, you excel.”
“Reserve your applause until I get you to the door without dropping you. This mud is slime.”
As if on cue his foot slid sideways. Instinctively Petra clutched tighter, then instantly realized her mistake and let go, trying to lean the other way to correct the tilt. That almost tipped them over, and a stupid screech escaped her as she braced to slam down into foul mud.
He staggered two steps in one direction, then another back and stilled, precariously balanced. They looked at one another, and perhaps he, like she, was holding his breath.
But his eyes were bright and then he grinned. “We must dance again sometime,” he said, and moved forward with extreme caution.
Inside Petra, folly sighed, Oh yes.
He was struggling with the mud, but not with her weight. Of course, carrying ladies would be a required talent for a rake. Doubtless they trained in it. And in kissing. Kissing ladies. Fondling ladies—loose ladies draped in silk. Ladies with rouged cheeks and reddened lips, drenched in perfume of musk and roses…
But the coarse wool of her habit must rasp against his hands, and her smells were all her own and there were too many of them. At least he wasn’t fresh himself beneath the damp wool and tangy leather. Surprisingly, the medley of smells was not unpleasant, and could even be sweeter than memory of Ludo’s expensive perfumes….
What if her venture turned out even better than she dreamed? Might she one day attend a ball in England, and there meet Robin Bonchurch, gentleman, both of them smelling sweetly in silken finery? Dancing, stepping lightly to lovely music, eyes locked, teasing, flirting. He flirted as easily as he breathed.
He wasn’t breathing easily now, as he staggered
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