Honour Be Damned (22 page)

Markham was embarrassed now, and quite overcome. Their relationship, though short, had not been easy. And what about the man doing the deed? Germain was gauche, rather than malicious, prone to error through enthusiasm not stupidity. Determined to shine because of that burden that he, Markham, knew so well. To think ill of the man was the act of a base creature, and he was not going to be that.

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’

T
he faint glimmer from the well house caught his eye when he was about halfway across the courtyard. Like the stables that contained his sleeping men a cloth had been hung to contain the light, but the material was thin and ill fitting, which left a bright border round the edge, and the barely discernible shadow of a moving body inside.

He was drawn towards it like a moth to a flame, tiptoeing without realising it. He peered through the gap at the edge, and was gifted with the sight of Ghislane Moulins, stripped to the waist, standing over the rim of the well wearing only her shift, bathing and singing softly to herself.

There was a delicious thrill in watching her unobserved as she raised one hand high to rub the wet cloth over the downy hair of her armpit. The breast he could see was shaped like something off an ancient Greek statue, perfectly formed, firm underneath and smooth on top, though instead of being white it was a warm honey colour, with the aureole of her nipple a dark enticing red. Her young waist was tight, with not an ounce of extra flesh, each rib below her slowly moving hand clear and defined, even in shadow. With the light behind her, her shift was almost see through, and the shape of her thighs and legs were silhouetted, and looked every bit as enticing as what was naked.

The stab of guilt at watching her like this was no more than that, easily submerged under the delight of a healthy man
watching
a more than beguiling woman. The temptation to throw back the cloth and just walk in was almost unbearable. But he couldn’t do it, on the good grounds that if he did she must suspect he’d been there for some time.

The argument in his mind, spoken, would have taken a day. In his imagination it was but a second. She was attached to Aramon by duty, desired by de Puy, yet had made it plain to him that she found him attractive. He examined that for traces of his own vanity, as well as hints of the temptress on her part. It was no great
feat to put them to one side. All George Markham’s considerable experience with women told him he was right; that Ghislane Moulins was his for the asking, and that despite her youth, she was no stranger to the delights of love-making.

She finished her wash, but instead of taking up the damp dress that was hanging over a broken shutter, she merely wrapped herself in a long shawl and stood over the well, looking down as if trying to see the water below. Now that she was covered, walking in was easy. There was a simple rule that had served George Markham well all his adult life. In any seduction that would eventually prove mutually satisfying, someone had to make the first move. It had been his great gift never to stand upon his dignity on such occasions, accepting that if the humiliation of rejection followed his advances, then that was a price worth paying for the numerous successes he enjoyed. He unshaded his lantern, so that the full light showed, then firmly pulled back the sheet.

‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle,’ he cried, feeling, as he declaimed the words, like the worst kind of ham actor. ‘But I saw the light and came to investigate.’

The sheet had dropped behind him, and the small room, with her long candle and his lantern was full of light. Now it was up to her. She could show outrage and demand he leave her in peace, claim the right of privacy and allude to the idea that he was no new arrival. If she did he would go, not through fear but through a desire to show respect to her right to choose. Too many men, to Markham’s thinking, failed in this very moment, advancing too fast as though all the privilege to make decisions were theirs.

‘I was hot, Lieutenant Markham, and I could not get to sleep.’

A bit formal, but promising. Time to be bold. He moved forward to the opposite side of the well, feeling the heat of his hands drain into the cool stones.

‘I must confess to you I saw the light a good two minutes ago.’

There was no shock in her voice. ‘You have been standing outside watching me?’

‘I must confess, I have.’

‘You confess more than Monsignor Aramon.’

‘Would that I had cause.’

Their eyes were locked, and he could see the small hint of movement at the corners of her lips, the hint of humour that was a positive plus. You could never seduce a woman, if you couldn’t make her laugh.

‘I think, monsieur, that you are a stranger to shame.’

He moved again, not far, but enough to indicate that the circumference of the well was not absolute.

‘Sure, Ghislane, I’m Irish, and God save us, we don’t know the meaning of the word.’

That made her laugh, her head going back to reveal that beautiful throat, the action pushing those nipples against the shawl. It was at times like these that Markham marvelled at the acuteness of his observation. If he’d had a half an ounce of that on the battlefield, he would be the most successful general in the world.

‘Then you admired what you saw.’

No objection to the use of her Christian name. Another important point negotiated. Now it was his turn to laugh, that mixed with words that had to be both flattering and
self-deprecating
.

‘Admired, is it? Why only the stone of this round wall here keeps hidden just how much I admired you. Sure, Ghislane, I’m not certain the rocks, even tied as they are to my mortar, will have the strength to withstand the pressure.’

‘There is a bucket of cold water here, Lieutenant.’

‘George!’

She dropped her head then, as though that was too much. But she also blushed, which gave the lie to that.

‘This bucket of water. Perhaps you could use it. I’m told it is the perfect remedy for too much ardour.’

‘Cooling that is the last thing I want to do.’

She bit her lower lip, a bad sign, and he knew why. Ghislane Moulins was tempted, the blood coursing through her veins just as fast as it was racing though his. The risk she ran was something only she could calculate, and only she could overcome. He had no idea the nature of Aramon’s hold over her, and what the consequences would be if having succumbed to his advances, she were then found out.

He was leaving before dawn, attempting to do something that might cost him his life. It would be easy to say that if any man had a right to comfort it was he. Nothing would persuade him to plead that case with Ghislane, and that had little to do with subterfuge. He wanted to take her, but not by pleading. If she consented, it would be because she wanted to, not for some specious reason to do with his notion of self-sacrifice.

He moved slightly, just enough to pressure her into a decision, and was both gratified and stimulated by the way, without raising her head, both her arms dropped to her side, letting the shawl fall open, and revealing both of her beautiful breasts. He covered the three paces between them, and had his hands on the flesh of her back, before her head had time to fully come up and meet his eyes.

The real intimacy of lovemaking, especially when it is successful, happens after the event. Talk changes from the guarded, upright and tense, to the languid, horizontal and revealing. Markham, lying on the remains of her clothes and his uniform, found out more about Ghislane in the five minutes after he’d pleasured her, than he had in the previous week. He felt the same as she did, drained. But the words she’d said, just after they climaxed, were to him the real badge of honour achieved.

‘No one has ever done that for me before.’

Post-coital languor is no good for personal defences. It is hard to find a subtle and untruthful answer to give to someone who has just surprised you by the depth of your own, newly discovered sensations. Markham asked questions in the same state of both mind and body. She could have lied to him about why she was here and he would never have noticed.

‘I am the bargain.’

‘In what way?’

‘Monsignor Aramon gets the treasures that were once housed at the cathedral of Avignon. Le Comte de Puy gets me, though not as his concubine, but as his wife.’

‘Is there a treasure.’

‘Oh yes, though not to the value that the Monsignor would have you believe. Certainly there is plate, precious objects and jewels. But they could be old bones to him.’

Markham was thinking of those boxes, and how much Aramon could get in them. ‘But valuable?’

‘To a man involved in a desperate search for influence, they are very valuable.’

‘He resides in Rome now?’

‘Yes.’

He hardly needed to be told of the politics and intrigue that surrounded the Holy See. Rome had always been held, even by the faithful, to be nothing more than a cesspit. Into that had come Aramon, a man of influence in the Avignon he had been forced to
leave, a nobody amongst the cardinals and other senior clerics that inhabited St Peter’s. He needed to draw attention to himself. What better way than to return the stolen treasure of a papal fiefdom to the rightful owner.

‘He will be taken into the bosom of the man who has the power to elevate him.’

‘And you too are tradable commodity?’

She wasn’t offended by that, but replied in a very matter of fact way.

‘I am an orphan. Though educated to be accomplished I have no money and no position, nor do I have the aptitude to be a nun.’

Markham ran his hand over her belly, the flat and hard surface of a young woman who’d never had to think of her shape, and had certainly never borne children. But she was not a virgin. But then neither was she really adept at the art of lovemaking. The idea of teaching her was something he found quite appealing.

‘If you were a nun, Ghislane, I would be after taking holy orders tomorrow.’

It was, considering the proximity of Aramon, a tactless remark, something he knew as soon as he’d said it. But although she noticed too, she made a joke of it.

‘I’ve had enough of holy orders this last year in Rome.’

‘I cannot imagine the Monsignor as a considerate lover.’

‘He considers only himself. Luckily, since we arrived in Corsica, I have been spared his more intimate attentions.’

‘And de Puy?’

There was an element of sadness in her reply. ‘He does nothing but look, Markham.’

‘Yet married bliss beckons.’

‘He is no beast, nor is he the type to excite a woman. He has estates in this area that were abandoned in ’91, and some hope that he may regain them. If a king returns to the French throne, he can look forward to advancement. The Comte worships me, and I am just good enough in my pedigree to make me acceptable.’

‘You have a pedigree.’

‘I was raised in the Nunnery of Santa Hildegard de Brescia. They are a special order, with a special place for children. Only the unbidden offspring of the best and richest families can gain entry to such an institution.’

‘No written evidence of your pedigree then?’

Her finger slipped between his lips. ‘Does that disappoint you, Markham?’

‘Never in life, girl. If you want to have fun with a horse, a dog, or a woman, choose a mongrel.’

‘And in the case of a man?’

‘The same. And in my circumstances, the pedigree is perfect. I’m a bastard caught between two nationalities and two religions.’

‘Even more of a mongrel than me.’

Markham rolled on top of her, looking down into the deep pools of those large brown eyes. ‘And proud of it!’

They should have extinguished the lanterns. But passion drives out common sense, and they made love without thinking that, if Markham had been attracted to the light, so might others. The swish of the sheet being violently pulled back was enough to have both lovers pulling away from each other, seeking in vain to cover their nakedness. Aramon stood there, his bulk and black cassock filling the doorway, a deep frown on his face.

Ghislane was up, kneeling, looking at the ground, the shawl doing a poor job of covering her. Markham realised that he two was in a submissive pose, and deliberately stood up and slipped into his breeches. The Monsignor walked across to the girl, and touched her hair. Markham, expecting some kind of violence, stepped forward to protect her, only to run into his other hand. How much had Aramon seen? Had he stood outside and watched them the way he’d had watched Ghislane. Would a lie help?

‘It was all my doing, Monsignor, I forced myself on her. Mademoiselle Moulins is entirely innocent.’

‘Come, child,’ the priest said, in a surprisingly gentle voice. ‘Clothe yourself.’

‘Forgive me,’ she murmured, in a meek voice.

That tone of abject resignation surprised Markham even more. She had seemed so spirited just a few minutes ago. Yet he had to consider what he had concluded before, that if they were caught he would not pay anything like the price she would pay. This cleric had a hold on her future, and he had no idea how high his costs would be to her, a penniless orphan.

‘It may be, in years to come, you will need memories like this to sustain you.’ Aramon looked up at Markham, his eyes hardening. ‘You on the other hand will, no doubt, forget about this the next time you indulge.’

He wanted to say no, to plead that he would remember every
detail of this night’s encounter; her skin, her smell and the delicious pain. But he could not do so, without further
compromising
Ghislane. Aramon took her under the arm and helped her up, gently arranging the shawl so it served a better purpose, taking up her clothing and leading her out into the night. There was a way with him that the marine officer had never observed before, a tenderness of manner that seemed so out of character. It was almost as if he was the lover, and not George Markham.

Guilt at being caught
in
flagrante
was multiplied by his realisation that he had neglected his duties. He should have kept in touch with his sentries, to ensure that they were awake and alive. As soon as he was dressed he grabbed his lantern, rearranging the shading, and went out through the doorway and hurriedly crossed the courtyard. The steps to the parapet were taken two at a time, which at least gave Yelland, if he was asleep, the chance to properly wake before he arrived. He found the youngster leaning over the wall, musket at the ready, massacring his marching tune with his incompetent attempt to whistle.