Lion of Languedoc by Margaret Pemberton Page A

different directions.
    Marietta cleared her throat. ‘ How far is it to Chatonnay?’ she asked with forced carelessness.
    â€˜Three miles.’ Léon knew he should be on his way. Twenty minutes and she would be safe within Trélier’s walls. He was mad to think she could be in any further danger.
    Marietta kept her face firmly averted from his. ‘I’m a very skilled lacemaker,’ she said, only her trembling hands belying her apparent calm. ‘If Chatonnay has no lacemakers I would be very useful.’
    â€˜God’s grace,’ Léon said vehemently. ‘I can’t take you to Chatonnay with me!’
    â€˜Why not?’ She swung round to face him.
    â€˜Because I’ve been away six years. What would people say if I returned home with you at my side?’
    â€˜You could tell them how you rescued me.’
    â€˜And have them talk even more? One hint of witchcraft and the village would be in uproar.’
    â€˜Then I’ll never speak of it.’
    â€˜No. It would cause gossip that would be hurtful to Elise.’
    Marietta had no need to ask if Elise was the girl he was to marry. Not only his face but his voice had softened as he said her name.
    â€˜Now God-speed before night falls,’ and to her dismay he raised a hand in farewell and spurred Saracen down the darkening track.
    She remained motionless, staring after him, wondering what sort of woman Elise was that she could hold the love of a man like Léon de Villeneuve for over six years. Years when countless women must have fallen under the spell of his dark eyes and sensuous mouth. At least she had never done so! Apart from that one brief moment when he had kissed her, she had never allowed herself to succumb to his advances.
    It was cold comfort, especially as she remembered all too clearly how he had sprung away from her as if she were a leper when he had awoken to find himself in her arms. Easy to pride herself on retaining her virtue when it had never seriously been in danger.
    In the distance Trélier’s walls looked distinctly inhospitable. Sudden tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them away angrily. Let his precious Elise have him. She did not want him.
    A hundred yards down the track Léon reined in and looked behind him. She hadn’t moved. She sat her horse, every line of her body showing tiredness and dejection. The night air was cold, and even wrapped in his cloak Léon shivered. Marietta would be half frozen before she reached Trélier and then where would she sleep? Cursing volubly, he turned Saracen round and began to ride back towards her.
    Marietta heard the approaching hooves and glanced over her shoulder, fearful of a black-robed Inquisitor or sinister nobleman. Léon’s face was exasperated as he rode up to her, saying curtly: ‘You’ll be safer at Chatonnay than in Trélier,’ and then, ungraciously; ‘Thank God it’s dark and no one will see you!’
    If she had had a shred of pride she would have told him to be on his way, but it was hard to have pride when the night was cold and dark and full of threatening shadows. He wheeled his horse around, setting off towards Chatonnay and Marietta subdued the Riccardi pride and followed.
    She knew that he was furiously angry, both with himself and with her, and she despised herself for her weakness. She should have refused his offer of shelter with the contempt with which it had been offered. But alone on the darkened hilltop she had felt a terror ages old, the terror of an animal being relentlessly hunted. Better the protection of a man who found her an annoyance than no protection at all. And, a small voice whispered unbidden, better still to be able to see him than never to see him again.
    The sandy track curved downwards and in the moonlight Marietta could see the dark shapes of cottages and the spire of a church. It was hard to be sure but Marietta thought that Léon’s shoulders