Sometimes she would find herself gazing at Reynard staring into the fire, lost in thought, and she’d watch the way the firelight gilded his face, the bold nose, the shadows beneath his cheekbones, the mobile, sensitive mouth, the strong throat. A man of light and shadow.
And sometimes he’d catch her watching him and give her a quick, intimate smile, a gleam of white in the darkness, and she’d swallow and look away, her throat suddenly thick and dry.
He was too handsome, too charming for her own good.
She was too strongly attracted to him, and to this life. The idea that she could join him, as he’d suggested, enticedher. They could travel leisurely through the countryside, painting together, sitting by the fire at night, talking and laughing and…dreaming.
But it was just that, she told herself firmly: a dream.
Had she been the Zoë Benoît who’d simply left the orphanage at the age of sixteen and never met Clarissa and Izzy Studley or Lucy or Lady Scattergood or Lady Tarrant—that Zoë might have been able to take up the wandering life of an artist with a handsome, laughing man. But she wasn’t that girl anymore.
Clarissa and Izzy had taken her into their family and their hearts, even before they’d known for sure that they shared a father. Old Lady Scattergood, taking her on trust, had given her a home and had even made her—what had she called it?—oh yes, her “artist in residence.” And Lucy and her husband, Gerald, had brought her to Paris, where for the last two and a bit years Lucy had taught Zoë to speak and act like a lady, and she and Zoë had studied painting together.
So many people who’d offered her so much, and all they wanted of her in return was for her to be able to enter their world as a lady. Maman would have wanted that, too, she knew. No doubt they also expected her to find a husband, someone rich and gentlemanly.
Not a kind, shabby, handsome, charming vagabond who lived in a wagon. No, even knowing he was single and free, for her, it was—hewas—simply not possible.
Even if his kisses swept her away. And featured in her dreams on a nightly basis.
She’d been given so much in the last three years, and none of it was for their benefit. It was all for her, and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t let them down. She loved them.
She lay in bed at night, restless and torn, her thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a whirlpool. She wanted him—and she was sure he wanted her, too, so why didn’t he act? Was he just being honorable?
The nights were getting chillier.
The following day Zoë returned to the LeBlanc farm and worked on the painting. Hamish accompanied her, and much to the disgust of the LeBlancs’ dog, allowed himself to be pampered and spoiled by the LeBlanc children, and even their mother, who produced a bone for him to gnaw on.
The little girl had found a pink ribbon and used it to tie the straggly locks that half hid Hamish’s face into a topknot. He wore it with dignity all day…until they were on their way home and out of sight of the farm, when he sat and vigorously scratched, then walked on, leaving the ribbon in the dust. Zoë picked it up. She didn’t want the little girl to see it lying in the road.
More and more she found herself wishing it were possible to live this life, traveling with Reynard, painting by day, sitting around the fire talking by night. She was enjoying every part of it: meeting the people, the subjects of their paintings, and listening to their stories. They were poor and lived hard lives, and yet they rarely complained. And they’d been so generous toward her and Reynard; they’d been fed—and fed well—almost every night. Since that first day, Zoë hadn’t had to break into her small cache of money hidden in the pouch around her waist.
But it wasn’t just the life she wanted: it was the man. Without Reynard, much of the magic would be gone. He fascinated her. He was intelligent and witty, and his conversation was always far ranging and interesting and often unexpected. It was probably how he managed to get so many commissions: people liked him.
She liked him, too. A little too much. A lot too much.
That kiss…
It had been just that once, and yet she hadn’t been able to get it out of her mind. Afterward he’d acted as if it hadnever happened, and because of that she had decided it was safer to put the kiss right out of her mind. But it was not so easy. At night, lying in his bed, knowing he was lying beneath her outside on the ground, so near and yet so far, she relived it over and over.
It wasn’t as though she’d never been kissed before. She had, a number of times by a number of different men. It was natural to be curious, after all. And though those kisses had mostly been quite pleasant, none of them had moved her the way that Reynard’s had.
Nor had any man’s touch affected her the way his did. Even the slightest brush of his skin against hers, accidental or not, sent a frisson of deep awareness shivering through her.
It was not to be…but the thought occurred to her that she could invite him into the wagon one night. And then…
It was risky. She was a virgin, but she wasn’t innocent. Living where she had in the slums as a child, she’d picked up things. She’d heard how women could prevent a pregnancy. Something about a small sea-sponge soaked in vinegar. But what did you do with it? And where would she get a sea sponge? They were miles from the sea. She wished she’d taken more notice at the time.
One night for love. It was such a strong temptation. And then she’d return to London and enter society as her sisters’ long-lost French cousin. And make an appropriate marriage.
An appropriate marriage.The thought did not appeal. They wouldn’t make her marry, she knew. But she’d always wanted a family—her own family, with children to love. And since visiting Maman’s château and thinking about what had been lost, she wanted a family of her own even more.
The birds outside cheeped and twittered excitedly, welcoming the dawn. Zoë lay in bed, pondering the future. She would finish the LeBlanc portrait today. Without falsemodesty, she knew it was good. They would be happy with it, and that pleased her.
She’d really grown to like them: Madame LeBlanc worked like fury to keep the farm going until her sons were able to take it over, and the two boys, still children in some ways, worked just as hard. Even the little girl worked.
Just a few little touches and the painting would be done. Reynard had lined up several more commissions and was expecting her to paint the people.
But it wasn’t thoughts of the painting that had disturbed her sleep and woken her so early. The time had flown. On Thursday morning the miller’s son would take his wagon to Nantes, and thediligencewould leave at noon.
