No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (28 page)

All this time she had stayed loyal to him, thinking of his vineyards, putting him and his happiness before anything else. All this time she had fought against her feelings for Pascal on her brother’s behalf.

She had been blinded to real love by the thin, insubstantial smoke of another, had suffered, and made Pascal suffer too. Lily brushed away the tears that burned at her eyes. God, how she’d made him suffer, not knowing how he felt. And he’d told her—or tried to, that day in the meadow. He was not her enemy.

He was anything but her enemy.

She let Bean in and sank into the chair by the cold hearth, kicking off her shoes and settling down to wait for him. Bean plopped down at her feet, her head on her paws, watching Lily with intelligent eyes, as if she felt Lily’s anxiety and was keeping watch over her until Pascal finally made his way home.

Lily picked up the pair of trousers she’d been mending before the evening surgery. This time Pascal had worn a hole through the knee. She smiled tenderly. He was forever coming home with torn clothes, but she didn’t mind mending them.

She bent her head to the patch. “I’ve become quite good at mending, haven’t I, Bean? In fact, I’ve become good at a number of things, things that high-born ladies would never think to do—scrubbing floors, growing vegetables, scouring pots.” Lily scowled.

“I wonder what Jean-Jacques would make of that,” she said, jabbing her needle up through the patch. “He’d probably be horrified. I wonder what he would say if he found me scouring a pot with my sleeves rolled up and my elbows black with grime?” She lowered her voice, mimicking her brother. “Lily, what in God’s name has become of you? You’re a disgrace!”

She leaned down and rubbed Bean’s nose. “He’s the disgrace, sending me to this falling-down cottage without so much as clean linens and a proper bed. What did he expect to happen?” she said indignantly, sitting back and picking up her sewing again. “Well, I don’t care. Pascal’s proud of me. He doesn’t care how dirty I get—and he likes my hair down my back.” The belligerence faded from her voice.

“Do you know the best thing of all, Bean?” She sighed deeply. “I love him with all my heart, and I need to tell him that, because something happened, and he has to know.”

Bean’s eyebrows moved up and down as Lily talked, her ears perking up at her name, the tempo of her tail changing with Lily’s emotions. The last sentence inspired her to wash Lily’s foot with adoration.

Lily smiled down at her. “I was at a birth tonight, and I saw a miracle happen.”

Bean adored the other foot.

Lily drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “It’s really quite a lot to absorb, the idea that Pascal is—well, that he is what he is.”

She stared down at her hands, long, slim fingers pushing the needle through the fabric, a tracing of blue veins showing through the skin on the back. Perfectly normal. She thought of Pascal’s hands, hands she’d watched so many times as they went about the business of stitching up skin or writing out accounts, or hammering wood or showing her how to prepare an unguent.

They looked perfectly normal too, a nice, masculine shape with those long, square fingers and generous palms and that scattering of soft dark hair across the back. Nice hands. Comfortable hands. It was just that he could make light come out of them. Holy light.

Lily chewed on her lip, thinking. “You know,” she said slowly, “I can understand what Father Chabot said about feeling lonely, Bean. It would be horrible to have people look at you as if you were different, treating you as if you were some sort of saint, to be adored but not touched.”

She poked the needle into the air as if to make a point. “It would be terrible, as if you didn’t have the same right to be human as they did. I’ll be very angry if people start treating Pascal that way here, in the place that he’s chosen to make his home. They should consider themselves lucky to have him.”

She nodded vehemently and poked the needle in the air again, Bean watching in fascination. “I’ll give them a proper piece of my mind, don’t think I won’t. I’ll explain that he’s a perfectly ordinary man with an extraordinary talent and they are very ungrateful to think anything else—even if he really is a fallen angel.”

Lily frowned. That possibility needed to be considered, although she found it very difficult thinking of Pascal as an angel. He certainly didn’t behave like one.

He had a terrible temper, he was grumpy when he was tired, and stubborn beyond belief when he’d made up his mind about something. Angels didn’t roar with laughter or swear fluently or make rude jokes. Angels didn’t frost over and ignore you when they were annoyed. They certainly didn’t set one’s body on fire with lust—she was absolutely positive that one did not have lustful thoughts about angels. Or saints either. And they didn’t have lustful thoughts about you.

“No,” she said firmly, “Pascal really is a perfectly ordinary man, living a normal, productive life, working hard, helping people who need it, laughing and talking and arguing with his perfectly ordinary wife.”

Lily gave a start of surprise as she heard what she’d just said. “I really
am
an ordinary wife, aren’t I, Bean? I really am—I’m just like every other wife in the village, looking after my house and my husband, and do you know what? I
like
it!”

She didn’t have any idea how long she’d felt that way. She must have gradually grown into it, because somewhere along the way she’d become happy. In fact, she
loved
her horrible hovel and her impossible husband and her miserable life.

It was an incredible revelation and it filled her with a sense of peace and warmth.

Her hands stilled and her gaze drifted around the home they’d made for themselves. Herbs hung from the rafters, drying. A bucket stood in the corner, soiled bandages soaking in it as they did nearly every night. Dishes gleamed on their shelf above the sink, neatly stacked, reminding her that they hadn’t yet had dinner.

“Never mind, Bean,” she said, “there’s enough meat left on the joint I cooked last night—we can have it cold with a salad when Pascal comes home.”

That decided, she went back to her perusal of her little house. Volumes of books were piled into the bookcase Pascal had made, most of them botanical or medical texts, although there was a well-thumbed cookbook Pascal had found for her. She’d made good use of that, enthusiastically trying out recipes, some with more success than others, but Pascal was extraordinarily tolerant. It was a good thing he had a sense of humor, too.

In the bookcase were also a Bible and a few other books on religious subjects ranging from Judaism to Buddhism. “Pascal isn’t picky about where he finds God, is he?” she remarked to Bean. “He seems to find God in a variety of places. Monasteries, farmhouses, meadows, and—”

Meadows.
Lily’s gaze jerked to the window. “Of course! What an idiot I am!”

She jumped up, the sewing falling unnoticed to the floor. “Stay, Bean!” she commanded.

Lily flew out the door, not bothering with shoes, running toward Pascal as unerringly as an arrow to its target.

He sat in the thick grass beneath the stars, his knees pulled up, his head resting on his arms. The meadow was silent, only the soft whisper of a breeze cooling the night. A full moon rose over the horizon, and a few birds stirred restlessly in its bright light. He didn’t hear her approach.

She dropped to her knees in front of him. “Pascal?” she said tentatively, touching one of his hands.

His head shot up, and in the moonlight she saw streaks of moisture drying on his cheeks. In that one unguarded moment, she also saw raw, naked pain in his eyes before he shuttered them. Lily wanted to cry for him, understanding his desolation and his fear, and knowing his pride would not allow him to show either to her.

“I told you to go home,” he said, drawing away from her touch. He frowned. “Are Emelie and her baby all right?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “I’ll check on them tomorrow.”

“Emelie is very tired, but I imagine a good night’s sleep will do wonders,” Lily said as casually as she could manage.

“The labor was hard on her. I could strangle Charles Claubert for waiting so long.” Pascal pulled up a stalk of grass and began stripping it with his fingers.

“Men,” she said, “can be idiots.”

That got his attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Just that. The only reason he didn’t call you was because he didn’t want you touching his wife so intimately, as if you’d be in any frame of mind to assault her—or she’d be in any frame of mind to let you.”

Pascal shook his head. “Physicians generally do not assault their patients. Not even I, despite what you’ve accused me of in the past.”

She flinched. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” He threw the shreds of grass away. “Look, Lily, my mood is foul and my patience is short, which is why I’m up here and why you should be at home.”

She sat back on her heels and stared at him, willing him to look at her. “I wanted to be with you.”

“Why?” he asked wearily. “So you could pester me with questions?”

“No. I just wanted to be with you. I’ll pester you with questions tomorrow.”

“No doubt.” He rubbed his neck, looking cold and distant and miserable all at the same time.

She smiled at him, wishing she could wrap her arms around him, but knowing that he’d only pull away at this point. “It was beautiful tonight, seeing a baby born,” she said. “Thank you for taking me along.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure Monsieur Claubert found your presence reassuring, knowing I wouldn’t rape his wife in front of my own.”

“Pascal, will you stop this? Why are you being so difficult?”

“I told you before. I need to be alone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the last thing you need.”

He gave her a long look. “You haven’t the first idea of what I need.”

Lily flushed. This was more difficult than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t going to be a simple matter of telling Pascal that she didn’t mind about his miracles. She had a number of things to make up for, and it was going to require some serious humility on her part—not her strong point.

She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

“Sorry for what?” he replied bitterly. “Sorry that you’re married to me? Or perhaps what you’re really sorry about is the life I’ve forced you to.” He laughed, a harsh, grating sound that made her wince. “Well, I’m sorry too, Lily. Living with someone like me must be embarrassing for someone like you.” He pushed himself to his feet, looking down at her. “I should have let you go your own way from the beginning instead of bringing you to this.”

“Don’t—oh, please don’t,” she cried miserably. “It’s not like that—really it isn’t.”

“Oh?” he said coldly. “Then how is it? Tell me—how is it now that you know your husband is not only a rutting, lowborn cad, but he’s a freak on top of it? You must be disgusted.”

“No! Everything is all right.” She reached up to him, but he grasped her wrists and pushed them sharply down, holding them tightly.

“Is it?” he said roughly. “How can it be?” He released her abruptly.

“Pascal …” she said, trying to find the right words, frightened by his distance and his anger. “I—I’ve said a lot of dreadful things to you, things I often didn’t mean. I was afraid of you, and afraid of myself, and afraid of
feeling.
And I … I was wrong.”

Tears ran down her cheeks. She, Lady Elizabeth Mary Bowes, was on her knees before a man, this man, her husband, and she deserved to be, as he deserved to see her. “Please, forgive me,” she said brokenly. “Please forgive me.” She took the back of his beautifully made hand between both of hers and kissed it.

“Lily, don’t—” he said, his voice shattering on the last word. “For God’s sake, get up. I’m not—oh, Lily,” he groaned. “Not you, not you of all people.” He dropped to his knees and took her hands in his. “Don’t you see, this is exactly what I was afraid of when…” He swallowed hard and shook his head. “I don’t want you to think this of me.

“To think what of you?” she said through her tears.

His jaw clenched as he raised his head and stared up at the sky. “Damn it, I won’t have you seeing me as others do. I won’t have you kneeling before me,” he said tightly, forcing each word out as if it hurt to speak.

Lily wrenched her hands from his grasp as understanding dawned. “Pascal, no. I kneel before you because I owe you that much. I’ve been horrible to you—and you deserved very little of my behavior. I kneel here as your wife, asking for your forgiveness.”

He frowned as he looked down at her, his body suddenly very still. “Why?” he asked softly.

She exhaled, a broken sound that seemed to echo around them. “I love you, Pascal.” It was so hard to say it. Her mouth was dry with the old fear of being rejected and abandoned again. She had loved before, and it had never been enough. But she had to be as honest with him as he’d been with her—she had to show him her heart with the same trust with which he’d shown her his soul.

“Just like that?” he whispered, and still he didn’t move, as if he were waiting … as if he were praying.

Lily whispered too, hoping that her answer might be the one he prayed for. “I’ve loved you for a very long time, but I’ve been too stupid and proud and frightened to admit it.”

He slowly shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I know what you risked tonight when you brought that baby back,” she said. “I saw, Pascal, I saw the incredible light that filled the room, what you did in spirit—reaching right into heaven for that little boy and bringing him back with you.”

A deep shudder ran through his body. “You
saw
all that?”

“Yes.”

Pascal squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Dear
God,
what must you think of me?”

“I think you’re wonderful,” she whispered.

“A proper sideshow,” he said tightly. “Saint Pascal and his Incredible Healing Hands.”

Lily heard the bitterness in his voice, felt his loneliness as he held himself away from her—so close, yet so very, very far away. Deliberately, she leaned forward and rested her forehead on his chest. “No. Pascal, my husband, the man I love so much it frightens me.”

He let out a deep, jerky breath and grasped her shoulders, holding her away from him, examining her face. “Why, Lily? Why now? Is it because of that, because of what I did?”

Lily met his gaze without flinching, giving him her own truth as clearly as she knew how. “Not because of what you did. Because of who you are. I love
you,
Pascal, not your ability, although that’s a part of you.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice so strained the words nearly didn’t come out.

“Of course I’m sure. Do you think I’d risk saying such a thing to you on a whim?” She touched his face with her fingertips, felt the warmth of his skin, the scratch of his beard.
He is so human, so real,
she thought with an aching tightness in her chest.

“Lily—this, this ability I have. It’s
difficult
for people.”

“Some people have no imagination,” she said with a sigh.

“It’s no good making light of it,” Pascal said, folding her hands in his and lowering them from his face, but this time gently. “It has always created a barrier, something that people can’t get beyond.”

“I’m not making light of it. But I don’t feel a barrier. I’m fortunate, because it’s not an invisible mystery to me. A miracle is much easier to accept if you can see it happening, all beautiful and golden, like the sun come down to earth. It gives what you do substance. Do you understand?”

He stared at her warily, his body stiff, as if he were afraid to believe her, afraid that she was merely trying to make him feel better.

“Pascal, don’t you see? It makes perfect sense.”

“Sense?”
he said incredulously, the word ripped from his throat. “Where in God’s name do you find
sense
in any of this?”

“Listen to me, you impossible man. A month ago, right here, you did something to me that changed me, when you took me with you to that place. You left your imprint on me, and you can’t take that imprint away, not ever. You’re a part of who I am now, as much as I’m a part of you.”

He nodded. “That was different.”

“Why? Because it was between you and me, instead of you and God and a baby? You gave me back my life that day as surely as you gave that child back his life tonight. You know you did—you practically told me so at the time, looking smug as could be, I might add.”

The shadow of a smile crossed his face. “Surely not smug?” he said.

“Well … very pleased with yourself.”

“I was very pleased with myself—and with you, too.”

“Then be pleased with me now? I couldn’t go with you where you went tonight, not all the way—I don’t have your gift. But I could see some of it, and feel some of it, just as you taught me. You make heaven real, Pascal.”

He groaned and bowed his dark head as if struggling for control.

Lily took one of his hands and turned it over, kissing the palm. “Why would something that beautiful do anything but bring me even closer to you?” she said softly.

Pascal looked up at her, and she saw the glimmer of moisture on his lashes. “I—I can’t…” he started to say, then stopped, swallowing hard.

“I’m beginning to think you haven’t much faith in me,” she said. “You’re behaving as if
you’re
the skeptic.”

Pascal reached out for her and pulled her against him, holding her tightly. “Lily,” he whispered against her hair. “You are the extraordinary one. I should have realized—but I thought…”

“What? That I would suddenly find you repellent?”

“That, or even worse, that you’d be in awe of me. I couldn’t bear the thought. I didn’t know you had come so far. I didn’t know it was possible.”

Lily smiled against his shirt. “I love you, Pascal. You may be a stubborn wretch,” she added, stroking his back, savoring the feel of hard muscle under her hands, “but at least you’re my wretch.”

“I certainly am that, duchess,” he said quietly.

She leaned back and gave him a caustic look calculated to goad him. “As for awe—if you expect me to treat you any differently than I always have, you’re going to be sadly disappointed. You may have fooled a great many people into thinking you’re some kind of saint, but you haven’t fooled me.”

“Oh?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. And anyway, I thought it through and decided it would be most improper for saints to have carnal desires—which you certainly have.” She smiled wickedly. “That makes you a rogue, which I’ve known all along.”

“Lily …” he said, suddenly looking dangerous.

Lily stroked the corner of his mouth with her finger. “You know, for a rogue you’re awfully slow to take advantage.”

That earned a reluctant grin from him. “Are you asking to be kissed?”

In answer she reached up and pulled his head toward hers, wrapping her arms about his neck, her hungry mouth waiting only for his response. He gave it to her in full measure. His mouth covered hers, his fingers caressing one side of her face and then the other, stroking her skin as his lips stroked her lips, and his mouth opened against hers. He groaned, grasping the back of her neck in his hand, his arm moving around her back, lowering her to the ground, kissing her until she gasped.

He raised his head and looked down at her. “Will that do?” he asked, breathing hard.

“No,” she said. “Be a proper rogue, Pascal. I don’t think I could bear it if you became saintly now.”

Pascal laughed, and once he’d started he couldn’t stop. It cleared the tension from him, grounded him, opened his heart so wide it felt it might burst. He wrapped his arms around Lily, his head resting on her soft breasts, his shoulders shaking with laughter as cleansing as tears.

Lily lay quietly beneath him, embracing him tightly, her mouth on his hair, her hands stroking his back. He felt such love for her and such gratitude and awe. She was truly extraordinary, as comfortable with miracles as she was with duchies, impressed by neither, and certainly not impressed with him.

Thank you, God. Thank you.

He also gave up a quick prayer of thanks to God for throwing Lily practically on top of him. How many women flung themselves off monastery walls for no good reason? Only Lily. God hadn’t been so unkind after all. In fact, He’d been downright beneficent.

“Pascal?” his beneficence said, stroking his hair.

“Hmm?” He lifted himself onto his elbows and looked down at her sweet face, pushing the wisps of hair off her face.

“Will you make love to me?”

Pascal stared at her. “Here? Now?”

She nodded. “It seems right. After all, you made love to me here once before. Didn’t you?”

Pascal’s throat tightened. “Yes,” he said. “I did. And you made love right back. But do you mean like that?” he asked, trying to hide his disappointment. “Is that how you want me?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I want … all of you. I love your heart and your soul too, Pascal, but I want your—” She blushed, her face the delicate color of the inside of a seashell.

“My body?” he finished for her, a devilish gleam in his eyes.