No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (20 page)

They ate in silence, Lily keeping her eyes fixed on her plate. Her stomach felt hollow, but not with hunger, despite her eager anticipation of the treat. All she could think of was the large and very masculine body in front of her, the powerful musculature that lay beneath his clothes.

“All right,” he said, wiping his mouth when he’d finished and examining her speculatively. “What is it? You’ve been behaving in a very odd fashion since I appeared unexpectedly.”

“I—I’m not used to having company during the day.” She stood and began to gather the dishes.

“I know, and I’m sorry for that. But until the vineyards are under control, I won’t have much time to spend here.” He reached over to take the dishes from her.

“No! I mean, it’s really not necessary.”

“Oh? And why is that? Are you telling me that you’d prefer me not to help you?”

Lily fidgeted. “No, I’d just rather have you do other things around the house. I know nothing about carpentry or masonry or that sort of thing.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, but that doesn’t explain why you’re behaving as if you have a guilty secret. For the life of me, I can’t think what it is, unless you really do have one of the farmer’s sons hidden away somewhere.” He regarded her curiously.

Lily blushed crimson. “I certainly do not! I would
never
do such a thing!”

“Why, because it would be adultery, or because the poor man would be merely a farmer’s son?”

Lily exploded. “What do you think of me?” she said furiously. “I’ve done nothing but clean and wash and weed and—and wait on you hand and foot, and all with no choice in the matter.” The anger and resentment that she’d been building up for weeks came pouring out in a single furious rush.

“First you try to ravish me, then you take me away from everything I’ve ever known, drop me among strangers, force me to live like an—an animal, and all because you’re too proud to accept my dowry. Now, on top of that, you accuse me of being an adulteress? How dare you!”

“I was only joking. And I have to confess, I’m surprised by this tantrum you’re having. I thought you’d given up the habit.”

“I am not having a tantrum,” she said, struggling for control. “I am justifiably angry. You seem to think it’s fine for you to go off all day and most of the night and do whatever you please, while I am supposed to stay here and do your chores for you.”

“I expect you to carry your weight,” he said levelly, but his color was as high as hers.

“Oh, and I do, every last ounce of it, and don’t you dare accuse me of shirking!”

“I didn’t—” he started to say, but she cut him off.

“Well, now that I’m a gardener’s wife, a farmer’s son might be suitable company—certainly better company than none at all—and how do I know you’re not bedding some farmer’s buxom daughter? It would be in character, wouldn’t it? I’m sure you’ve been having a fine time out in the fields late at night. No wonder you like to sleep outside—vines must be truly appealing when viewed from ground level.”

Pascal’s eyes snapped in sudden anger. “That’s absurd, and you know it. I’m sorry if you’ve been lonely, but I’ve been busy trying to rescue your precious brother’s vineyards. And why, Elizabeth? Because you damn well asked!”

“I’ve never asked a thing of you. Nothing except to give my own money to my brother, and that one thing you refused.”

“I may have refused you that, but I brought you here, didn’t I?” he replied tightly, his jaw clenching.

“You brought me here because you wanted a job and probably couldn’t find one anywhere else.” She was about to poke him on his chest with her finger, but thought better of it. “Then you further humiliated me by dragging me to this hovel and forcing me to be your personal slave.”

“My personal slave?” he said, glaring down at her. “Are you out of your mind? What in the name of God do you expect, that I come home after working all day and do your chores as well? You live here too and you can damn well contribute—and you can damn well stop complaining about it, because it’s not going to change.”

Lily glared back at him. “Well, I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re truly satisfied, because I’m miserable. I hate this, and I hate you for bringing me to it. Even my own brother was too embarrassed to visit me here before he left, knowing what I have come to.”

Pascal, who had been about to take her head off, was stopped short by this unbelievable incongruity, stopped short by Lily herself. She looked like an avenging angel, her eyes blazing, her hair falling about her shoulders, the sun lighting it from behind like a fiery halo. But there was something different about this Lily.

He’d been so distracted with the vineyards over the last three weeks that he hadn’t paid attention to the changes in her, other than that she’d stopped her constant needling. Yet here she was, her face lightly touched with sun beneath die angry pink of her cheeks, a delicate scattering of freckles across her nose.

Her body had a new ease to it, as if daily work had relaxed her rigid posture, and her muscles were becoming sleek and well conditioned. This Lily was human, touchable—far too touchable, he thought with disbelief, feeling his groin tighten with unexpected arousal.

He tore his gaze away from her and stared at the ground.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyebrow.

“What?”
Her hands dropped from her slim waist in complete surprise.

“I said, I’m sorry.” He looked up at her. “You’re right, you are justified in your anger, but it has never been my intention to make you feel demeaned or insulted.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Well, I don’t.”

“I wish you would,” he said softly. “It would mean a great deal to me if you learned to believe me—and not just about this.”

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “I think you have a bad case of sunstroke.”

“Yes, that must be it. In which case I’m going back to mending the shutters so that you won’t have to listen to any more of my madness. Do you know, duchess, you’re actually becoming a nice person. I think I rather like you. Or do you think the sun really has affected my brain?”

He turned and disappeared back around the corner.

Lily stared after him, wondering if it wasn’t she who had been struck by the sun.

“More chicken?” Lily asked later that night, about to get up from the table.

“No, thank you,” he said, only half hearing her, his mind on her lips. So full, so soft. So very, very rosy. And so eminently kissable. He idly toyed with his folk. He was not accustomed to dwelling on women’s lips, but there was something about Lily’s that captured the imagination—for too much so, for he’d been thinking about them all afternoon and evening.

“Are you sure?”

“Hmm?” And then there was Lily’s throat, all that smooth, soft skin just asking to be caressed—first with the tips of his fingers, and then…

“Pascal, where have you gone?”

To bed with you.
“I’m sorry. My mind was wandering. You have the rest of the chicken.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, sitting back down.

“You?” Pascal said, looking at her flushed cheeks—the very color of desire. He quickly looked away and pushed his knife and fork together neatly, as if that might restore order to his senses. Feeling a little more under control, he risked a glance at her, genuinely concerned about her high color. “You’re not feeling ill, are you? You’d tell me if you were, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Not that you’d know anything about it if I were, but as it happens I’m merely hot and tired from working in the sun all day.”

Pascal gave her a skeptical look, then rose from his chair and approached her, putting the back of his hand against the juncture of her throat and ear in as professional a manner as he could manage. Still, he couldn’t help savoring the softness of her skin and the silky wisps of hair brushing his knuckles.

Lily jerked away as if she’d been burned. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her hand covering the delicate patch of skin that he’d touched.

“I was attempting to see if perhaps you’d had too much sun after all, in which case you might have a fever,” he replied evenly, a minor miracle, given that his heart threatened to choke him.

“Well, I haven’t, have I, and the next time you can take me at my word and keep your hands to yourself.”

“I beg your most humble pardon, duchess, but I was only seeing to your blasted welfare.”

“Oh,” she said sarcastically. “Again? Well, we both know where that leads, don’t we?”

“Elizabeth!” he roared, pushed to the end of his rope. “That’s enough! How much of this do you think I can take?”

“How much of what? I’m not responsible for your sins, and it isn’t my problem that you don’t like being reminded of them.”

“You are the most impossible woman God ever put on this earth,” he said, ready to tear his hair out—and hers, while he was at it. “
When
are you finally going to get it through your head that I never intended you any harm?”

“Oh? Is that why you force me out into the sun all day to do your washing and weed your stupid garden? You’re worried about your back breaking. Did you ever give any thought to mine?”

“Actually, I think the sunshine has done you some good, and your back looks fine to me. I haven’t noticed you hobbling about, or moaning and groaning, until now.”

“That’s because you’re never home, and when you are, you never notice anything anyway.”

Pascal took two steps toward her, a very strong desire to throttle her sweeping through him. “Sometimes I cannot believe you’re red. You can be a living nightmare!”

“Do you think you’re my idea of a pleasant dream?” Lily retorted, desperately wishing he was short and fat and his face covered with disgusting warts, for it was difficult to keep her concentration with that solid wall of masculinity towering over her, those beautiful dark eyes flashing into hers. “In fact,” she said less certainly, “the only time I
can
escape you is in my sleep.”

“And you were just complaining that I’m never home,” he said tightly. “Make up your mind, Elizabeth.”

“You really are a wretch, you know.”

“So you keep telling me, and dear God, but you tempt me into behaving like one.”

“Tempt you?” she said with disbelief. “It’s second nature to you.”

He shook his head, staring down at the floor. “Does nothing I say or do make any impression on you?”

“Everything you say and do makes an impression on me. What I don’t understand is why you think that impression should be favorable. You may have fooled many a woman in your time, but I am not so stupid or naive to be taken in by your—your masculine charms.”

“My—my
what?”
He stared at her as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “My masculine
charms?”

“As I said, and you can keep them to yourself.” Lily, seeing that she’d hit some sort of mark, although she wasn’t quite sure what it was, smiled smugly. “I’m going to bed now,” she announced.

“Already?” His eyes slanted down at her, measuring, assessing. “Are these masculine charms of mine scaring you away?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. “I’m tired.”
And terrified,
she added to herself. In that moment he looked thoroughly dangerous.

“Good night, then, Elizabeth,” he said smoothly. “I’ll be outside should you need anything.”

She nodded without meeting his eyes and fled upstairs.

Pascal raked both hands through his hair in frustration, damped down the fire, and spent the night tossing and turning beneath the stars.

It had been a hell of a way to spend his thirtieth birthday.

Over the next fortnight Pascal almost began to thank God for the unceasing work that forced him to spend long hours in the vineyards and away from Lily. Though it had initially seemed that Lily was softening, she now resembled a hedgehog that had rolled itself into a ball, spines fully extended.

He could say little to her without getting a sharp rebuff—either that or she was impossibly distant. He couldn’t get anywhere near her, no matter what strategy he employed. And yet there was something different about her. This was not the obnoxious behavior of the girl he had married but something else. It was as if she were afraid of something, but of what? She seemed to have settled into her new life, although she still refused to leave the immediate vicinity of the cottage. But that would come with time—no doubt when her brother returned.

Her prickly behavior had started the day he’d brought her the picnic as a surprise. Yet he’d said and done nothing he could think of to upset her, save for his stupid joke about the farmer’s son—but she’d been rattled before that, rattled when he arrived unexpectedly.

He’d been over and over it, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Lily hadn’t been up to some mischief, perhaps something to do with her brother, although he couldn’t think what. He wished to God that it didn’t matter to him, but it did. For some insane reason it did. Lily did. And he wanted to matter to her.

As if that weren’t enough to trouble him, there was the other matter. He realized that he had been shut away from women for a very long time, but he hadn’t been bothered by that. Then again, he had never lived in such close quarters with a woman, other than those in his family—not the same thing at all. Lily was … Lily. She was with him day and night, an integral part of his life, and their quarters were so small that there was no escaping her.

He couldn’t seem to control his baser nature, the one that made his eyes stray to the soft breasts that strained against her dress in the flickering light of the fire as she sat sewing of an evening. Images of Lily invaded his dreams at night, waking him stiff with desire, his mind full of rosy lips, soft caressing arms, even softer thighs, yielding, opening to him, taking him into her. Woman. The ultimate mystery.

Although it hadn’t been necessary to watch for frost for some time now, he nevertheless made a habit of sleeping outside at night, for he felt exactly like the lustful beast she had accused him of being, and he didn’t dare risk giving in to foolish impulse. He wished he could take back his vow that he wouldn’t take her to bed, the vow that condemned him to the living hell of never-ending, unsated desire.

Still, even if he could take those words back, it would make little difference, since Lily definitely did not want him. Oddly enough, it hurt.

He finished trimming the row of vines and straightened, his back sore from bending over for so long. What was he going to do come winter? Sleep with the cows?

“Eh, LaMartine! What are you looking so pained over?”

Startled, Pascal looked up. Pierre Marchand grinned at him, his cap pushed back on his head, his red, round, goodnatured face as streaked with sweat and dirt as his shabby clothes.

“Lost, were you, monsieur? Come, forget your troubles and share some bread and wine with us. It doesn’t do for a man to go hungry.” He slapped Pascal’s shoulder with one beefy hand. “Why do you never bring a meal along, eh? Your wife does not like to feed you? Look what Claubert’s wife put in his pail as a fond memento.” He waved a skinny
saucisson
in the air, to the delight and guffaws of his fellow workers.

Pascal grinned. “Thank you. I am sure Madame Claubert has a fine touch with a
saucisson.”

That remark earned great howls from the men.

“Ah, maybe, but you should see what my wife can do with a nice fat sausage,” Marchand said, his belly shaking with laughter as he poured out a glass of wine and passed it over to Pascal. “She’s a genius! I’m a genius!”

“You may be a genius,” said young Alain Lascard, who had just finished his own meal and pushed himself to his feet, “but Claubert’s wife is eight months gone with child, which says much for the spice of a
saucisson.”

“Bah,” Pierre said. “What do you know about it, Alain? You’re all of sixteen—a baby! You probably haven’t even had your first woman.”

Alain blushed to the roots of his hair, and Pascal felt instant sympathy. “I shouldn’t pay the slightest attention to this lot, Alain. They’re envious of your youth and stamina. Go on, back to unloading the barrels.” He scrubbed Alain’s dark hair with one hand and gave him a companionable push on the shoulder toward the road, then accepted his glass.

“It’s no wonder the grapes are coming along so nicely,” he said to the men. “You’re feeding them more manure than I could ever have hoped to procure.”

“Ah,
merde
!” Claubert said crudely. “There’s nothing like it.”

Fresh waves of laughter rolled over the vineyards. Pascal settled down among the men and fell into their chat, easily absorbing the bawdiness, grateful for the acceptance and camaraderie, and most grateful of all for the distraction from his own restless thoughts.

Lily practically burst when the mail came that day, for as well as the usual slew of letters for the wretch from various people and places, there was a letter for her from Jean-Jacques. She opened it with fumbling fingers and read so quickly that she could barely take in the words—but she instantly grasped the essentials. He was coming home. He’d managed to get his money, far more money than he’d expected, and he was feeling pleased with the world.

Lily smiled and hugged the letter to her chest. Jean-Jacques, she suspected, was pleased with the world not only because he had managed his money but also because he’d been in Paris and had seen a number of his friends. She knew how much his friends meant to him. Jean-Jacques loved people and they loved him back. But then he was lovable, unlike herself.

She had always had sharp edges to her character and a tongue that far too readily spoke what was on her mind, whereas Jean-Jacques was easygoing and affable. She was happy enough on her own, whereas Jean-Jacques needed equally affable people around him, or he was miserable. Oh, how her poor brother had suffered during those long years at Sutherby, for he had been born to bask in deserved admiration. She didn’t need or expect anyone’s admiration, so Sutherby had not been quite so dreadful for her. Anyway, she despised false praise, for she knew it was only given to gain a private end.

Lily sighed as she pulled off her apron and put Bean safely away in the barn. The wretch had also received a letter from Jean-Jacques, and she knew he would want it immediately. He’d been concerned that he had heard nothing in the five weeks that her brother had been gone. He would eat his words when he saw that Jean-Jacques had succeeded so brilliantly.

A moment’s hesitation stopped her. Did she really want to take the chance of finding Pascal without his shirt once again and be plunged into that miasma of misguided desire? She thought about it and then decided that it would make little difference.

Desire had been plaguing her ever since it had first struck, as if a candle had been lit and would not be extinguished. She could only pray that this particular candle would shortly burn itself out—it was a most uncomfortable and embarrassing thing to live with. She hated the way his touch burned at her skin and started her heart pounding. He was her sworn enemy, and yet her bones turned to water when he smiled down at her. She woke in the night craving his touch, betrayed by her own body. She was a true disgrace.

The only solution was to keep well out of his way. Still, she couldn’t resist taking him Jean-Jacques’s letter. Even though they stayed well off the subject, she knew his opinion of her brother was not what it should be. Well, this would put him straight once and for all.

Pascal had said he would be working on the southern slopes of the vineyard that day, and Lily noticed with surprise that the climb was far easier than it had been three months ago when she had marched into the village to fetch the priest, seeking his opinion about the crop.

Men were spread out in the fields with pitchforks, working something into the soil from large buckets. It smelled like the same disgusting stuff Pascal had dug into their own garden. She wrinkled her nose in memory of that less-than-auspicious day and its accompanying odors.

A few of the men tipped their caps as she went by and she nodded. She imagined she looked so different now from her first visit to Saint-Simon that they were unlikely to recognize her. She scarcely recognized herself on the rare occasions that she bothered to look in her little vanity mirror.

She spotted Pascal instantly—his height distinguished him from the others. He was engaged in conversation, or, more succinctly, he was saying something that the other man seemed to find vastly amusing.

No doubt he’d been telling his companion about yesterday’s episode with the mouse, as if she could have helped screaming when it had fallen through a hole in the ceiling and onto her head, where it had entangled itself in her hair. To add insult to injury, he had gently removed the creature and placed it outside. The wretch had laughed just as hard then as his companion was laughing now.

Pascal glanced over and saw her, then said something quickly that she couldn’t hear and detached himself. He walked toward her, clearly surprised, a smile still on his face, his hair windblown and his shirt mercifully undone only partway down his chest.

“Elizabeth. What brings you out this way? I don’t suppose you’ve brought me lunch, have you?” His eyes were filled with bright amusement.

“I’ve brought you something much better than a lunch,” she said and thrust out the letter. “Here. It’s from Jean-Jacques. Go on, open it.”

He shot her a look of curiosity, then took it from her and unsealed it, reading the contents. His expression changed from anxiety to amazement. “Good
God,”
he said, shoving his hand through his hair. “But why? Why on earth would he have borrowed such an enormous sum when I told him we only needed…” And then he stopped. “Well, not for me to wonder. This is the most remarkable news.”

“It is, isn’t it? But didn’t I tell you? Oh, Pascal, I am so pleased.”

“I am equally pleased,” he said, grasping her hands between his. “Best of all, I think we might have a harvest to make it all worthwhile. Look at this vine. Do you see the color? It’s not yet what it should be, but it is coming back.”

Lily examined the leaf. “Are those grapes?” she asked, pointing to a tiny green cluster.

“Those are indeed grapes, or the beginnings of them, anyway. If the rain continues to hold off, they’re going to do well enough. We have to continue to put nutrients into the soil and keep guarding against diseases, but I have hope that we’ll succeed.”

Lily beamed. “Jean-Jacques will be so happy.”

Pascal nodded. “I am sure he will be, and so will the merchants who have given us the necessary materials on nothing more than a promise that they’ll be paid. Let us also not forget how pleased the villagers will be when their pockets and their bellies are full.”

“But haven’t you been paying them?”

“Yes, but not very much, as you can’t pay people on promises. Jean-Jacques left nothing for their wages, so I had some money transferred from England.”

“You said you wouldn’t touch it.” Lily looked at him in bewilderment.

“I haven’t. Not yours, anyway. I had some money of my own put away from various jobs I’ve done over the years. It’s not much, but it’s enough to pay the wages until Jean-Jacques returns with the necessary funds. When he does, I can repay myself, and we’ll have more to eat.”

“How splendid,” Lily said happily.

Pascal laughed, then took her face between both his hands and kissed her cheek. “Have you really been that hungry? Accept my apologies for starving you.”

Lily almost fell over in shock. Her cheek burned where his warm lips had touched, and her heart hammered against her rib cage like something desperate to escape.

“What—what did you do that for?” she asked shakily.

“Why not? It’s a beautiful day, you came up here to give me a letter that could have waited, and you look adorable when you blush. Reasons enough?”

Bemused, she nodded. “I—people don’t usually kiss me. And I am
not
adorable.”

“You are when you’re standing in the middle of a vineyard with your eyes aglow and your cheeks rosy and your hair tumbling down your back. You look positively approachable.”

Lily was about to make a retort to that absurd statement when a warning cry rang out.

“Alain! Fait attention!”

Pascal instantly turned and Lily turned in the same moment. What she saw stopped her heart. Below them on the road a horse attached to a wagon had gone berserk. Alain lay on his back, having fallen in his haste to get out of the way, and the horse was out of control, snorting and wildly pawing, pushing the huge wagon backward.

Pascal didn’t waste an instant—he was already halfway to the road. But he wasn’t fast enough to stop the wagon. It continued to roll backward, and Alain wasn’t fast enough either.

It all happened in a split second. Alain scrambled desperately to push himself away as one back wheel caught him on his midriff and kept revolving, dragging him along with it. His mouth opened in a terrible scream and his hands flailed outward, his fingers clutching desperately at the ground as if he might somehow be able to pull himself free. But the wheel continued to roll over him, relentlessly twisting at his flesh. He screamed one last time, a sound of horrible agony as the wheel finally rolled off him.

Alain’s hands flew to his stomach, catching at loops of something gray and glistening. Lily thought she was going to be sick as she realized that the loops were his intestines and he was literally trying to keep them from spilling onto the ground. In that last dreadful instant the wheel had split his abdomen wide open.

Pascal didn’t stop to see to the injured boy. He ran directly to the horse’s head, pulling down on the harness and putting his hand over the panicked beast’s rolling eyes, murmuring to it. The animal shivered but calmed, and the wagon came, to a stop, the front wheel halting only a foot from where Alain lay. Pascal gave the harness to one of the men who had run up.