No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (31 page)

“I don’t know what gives you that idea,” Pascal said dryly. “When it comes to medical matters she listens to me, but only because I know more than she does. The rest of the time—listen to me?” He laughed. “Only if I’m very lucky.”

Charles nodded. “You are fond of your wife.”

“Oh, yes. Extremely fond. But we’d better get back to work. This entire slope needs weeding and trimming.” He went back to examining the rows, checking for healthy growth.

He felt Charles’s eyes on his back as he moved away, eyes that were not entirely sure of him.

So it went for the rest of the morning. Pascal moved along the vines, watching, instructing, pruning and tying. Everywhere he went it was the same. Watchful eyes, lowered voices, the inevitable signs of the cross as he passed along. He could only thank God that Lily hadn’t had the same reaction; he didn’t know what he would have done if she had.

He was speaking with Pierre Marchand, who was behaving in a painfully reserved fashion, when he heard Lily’s voice, and his head jerked up in surprise. Lily came to the vineyards only if it was something important, and yet she had nothing more than a blanket over one arm, a basket on the other, and a smile on her face.

“Bonjour, messieurs.”
she said as she strolled down the row toward him, hips swaying provocatively, briefly stopping to chat with one person or another along the way. She looked beautiful, her hair caught back in a ribbon, her dress simple, and save for her naturally regal bearing and the sculpted structure of her bones, she might have been any laborer’s wife. She certainly didn’t look like a duke’s daughter—nor was she behaving like one.

“Lily,” he said as she came up to him. “What is it?”

To his amazement she reached up and kissed him on the mouth in front of Pierre and the entire work force. “Do I need a reason to visit my husband?” she asked, swinging the basket in front of him. “I brought you a meal. You missed breakfast, and I thought you might be hungry. When I stopped in to see Madame Claubert, she pressed some of her famous
saucisson
on me.” She spoke clearly, her voice carrying to listening ears.

“Come along, Pascal, you work too hard. It’s a beautiful day and we’re going to have a picnic. You don’t mind, do you, monsieur?” she said to Pierre with a charming smile. “I won’t keep him very long.”

Pierre shook his head, as blinded by Lily’s sensuality as all the other men who were staring at her.

Pascal suspected it had something to do with a collective masculine sense of a beautiful woman exuding an unconscious sexuality—or was it unconscious? He gave Lily an assessing look. “A picnic?” he asked suspiciously, speaking in English. “You’ve never brought me a picnic before, What are you up to?”

“Sheer brilliance,” she replied in the same language. “Watch.” She took him by the hand and switched back to French. “Excuse us, Monsieur Marchand. Do give my regards to your wife. Your children are now recovered?”

He nodded, his eyes round. “Yes, thank you, madame.”

“I am happy to hear it. Chicken pox is such a trying thing.” She pulled Pascal away, down to the shade of a walnut tree growing on the edge of the vineyard, in clear sight of the fields. She spread out the blanket and started putting out the various things in the basket.

“What are you doing?” he asked with a laugh in his voice.

“Feeding my husband,” she said cheerfully. “You do need occasional feeding, you realize—especially after vigorous exercise.” She slanted a very feminine glance up at him.

Pascal dropped down on his haunches. “As God is my witness, I haven’t a clue what you’re doing, but I have half a mind to take you here and now, the way you’re behaving.”

“Exactly,” she said with a grin, putting a hand on his chest and pushing him so that he overbalanced and had no choice but to sit abruptly.

“What?
You can’t be that far gone? My God, I thought this morning would last you a few hours at least.” His eyes lit up in amusement. “We have half the male population of Saint-Simon watching us with avid curiosity.”

“I know,” she said, cutting a piece of
saucisson,
“and what they are seeing is a besotted wife attending to her most satisfactory husband.” She stroked her fingers through his hair. “You are a most satisfactory husband.” She put the sausage to his lips.

“I’m happy to hear it,” he said, obediently taking the piece into his mouth and chewing it. “But why must the village of Saint-Simon be made aware of the fact?”

Lily uncorked the bottle of wine. “Because,” she said, pouring it into two glasses, “Madame Claubert seemed to be under the impression this morning that when you and I go to bed at night, I sleep adoringly at your feet—Mary Magdalene to your Christ.”

Pascal snorted. “She’s badly wrong on all three counts.”

“I didn’t bother to tell her that there was no resemblance, since I didn’t think she’d believe me. So instead I implied that you were—well, that you were…” Lily trailed off.

“Yes?” he asked, suddenly wary. “That I was what?”

Lily fed him another piece of sausage. “A lusty devil,” she said mischievously, “having your way with me day and night and every chance in between.”

Pascal nearly choked on the
saucisson.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she continued blithely. “I thought it would counteract this other silliness.”

“I’m not sure I understand your strategy,” he said, recovering his voice. “It doesn’t change what happened.”

“Oh, yes it does. There’s some use in having been brought up by zealots—I understand the Catholic mentality very well.”

“And I don’t?”

“No, you’re much too liberal in your thinking, and I don’t think you care in the least about dogma. My strategy is really quite simple, Pascal. Madame Claubert has convinced herself that you’re a holy man. She said as much.”

Pascal mutely shook his head, then cast a glance up at the fields. “Her husband didn’t waste any time spreading the word either. You’d have thought I was walking on water instead of terra firma when I went out today.”

“That’s exactly what I expected, and that’s why I had to think of something that would convince people you were not the least bit holy. So I came up with the perfect thing.” Lily put up her hand and counted off on her fingers. “First, holy men have no interest in earthly matters. You’re up to your elbows in earth. Second, holy men may have the ear of God—but they’re all priests or martyrs. You are neither. Third, no serious holy man would actually enjoy consorting with his wife, and you do. Constantly,” she added with a little smile. “Given all that, it only follows that you’re a man just like everyone else, overflowing with carnal desire.”

Pascal gazed at her with fascination. “You actually
told
Emelie all that?”

“Not in those exact words, but by the time I was finished, she was most impressed with your virility.” She stroked his thigh with the tip of her finger.

“I see. Well, I’m sure you thoroughly distracted Madame Claubert at my expense, but it still doesn’t explain away last night.”

“Of course it does. God would never give a worldly, lustful sort of man like you the ability to work miracles, would he?” Her finger moved a little higher.

Pascal quickly covered her hand with his own. “Stop right there, Lily, or I really will take you here and now and more than prove your point to the men of Saint-Simon.” He folded her fingers through his and rested his back against the tree, regarding her thoughtfully. “That’s exactly what you intended, isn’t it? Having ensured that Madame Claubert will spread the word of my extraordinary physical prowess among the women, you thought you’d come out here and take care of the men’s opinion.”

“Precisely,” Lily said, looking very pleased with his acuity. “As for the miracle, Emelie begins to doubt what she saw—I told her she was delirious at the time. Also, I expounded on your medical training.”

“What about the next time something like this happens, Lily? What then?”

“I shouldn’t worry about that,” she said, a smile hovering on her lips. “After what I told madame, people are just as likely to stare at your groin as they are at your hands.”

Pascal burst into laughter. “I ought to strangle you, you know. I really ought to.”

Lily shrugged nonchalantly. “Which would you rather? Saint or stallion?”

“Oh—oh, stallion, by all means,” he said, laughing even harder.

“Then that’s settled,” Lily said, grinning. “I didn’t lie to madame, you know.” She gave him a piece of bread and cheese and bent her attention to cutting some for herself.

He watched her, one arm resting on his knee, thinking that she bore no resemblance to the hellfire child he’d met all those months ago. This Lily was enough to bring him to his knees with desire and love and immense gratitude that she was his. He was more fortunate than he’d ever thought possible.

She glanced up at him. “What?”

“I was counting my blessings,” he replied softly, “and being thankful for my wife.”

“Oh … Pascal,” she said, her voice catching. “I do love you.” She leaned toward him, curving one hand around his neck, and kissed him fully, this time with no thought to who might be watching.

Pascal kissed her right back with even less of a care.

Monsieur Jamard climbed up to the south vineyard to bring a message from his granddaughter to her husband. He then stopped to speak to his great-nephew Pierre Marchand, whom he found leaning on a hoe, watching his employer and his wife down below with a great deal of interest.

“Eh, look at that, uncle,” Pierre said, straightening as he approached and shaking his hand. He pointed down the hill. “Now that’s a sight for you: LaMartine kissing the duke’s sister under the walnut tree. Maybe he’s not such a saint as Charles made out. By the way she looks at him, I’ll bet he makes her moan in bed.” Pierre gave a hearty laugh. “Uncle?” he said, puzzled, looking at the old man, who had gripped him by the shoulder.

“The duke,” Monsieur Jamard whispered.

“What about him? He’s up there playing in his castle as usual, while the rest of us slave for him.”

“No—no,” Monsieur Jamard whispered. “The old duke. I was there that day. I saw them together, kissing, just there, just like that … I
knew
there was something familiar about him! Didn’t I say so from the first?”

Monsieur Jamard’s hands had started to shake, and Pierre patted his shoulder. “Calm down, old man. What are you going on about, eh?”

Monsieur Jamard looked around the vineyard, bursting with grapes. “The legend, Pierre—the legend, boy!”

Pierre nodded his head in the direction of the chateau. “The duke’s descendant is back and the land is beginning to thrive, just as it said, even if the nephew is a wastrel. We all decided that a good month ago. So what are you getting yourself worked up over?”

“Not that descendant, you young fool,” Jamard said impatiently. He pointed at Pascal.
“That
one!”

Pierre looked at his great-uncle as if he’d finally gone senile. “Now, now, uncle,” he said soothingly. “Are you imagining things? The old duke’s been dead thirty years.”

Christian Jamard looked at his great-nephew with acute disgust. “Expect me for dinner tonight. You and I are going to have a long talk about Monsieur Pascal LaMartine.”

“Henri LaMartine,” Pierre Marchand said again to his great-uncle, tapping his fingers against his full, contented belly. “You are quite sure this was the name of the
regisseur
at the chateau in the old duke’s day?”

Christian Jamard nodded slowly. “Yes, I am certain of it. LaMartine left when the duke died, of course. But I have been puzzled about it for months now. The name seemed a coincidence at the time—this Pascal LaMartine said his people were from Paris. Why should he have reason to lie? But two LaMartines,
regisseurs
to the chateau?”

“Well, it is a common name,” Pierre said reasonably. “You did say he looks nothing like Henri LaMartine.”

“Exactly my point!” Monsieur Jamard said irritably. “I told you, he has a look of the old duke. Slight, it is true, but it is there. It would explain many things.” He shook his head. “Why must you be so hardheaded, Pierre? Just like your father, you are, God rest his soul. If he were alive today, he would tell you the same thing I am telling you. He would remember well enough.”

“I don’t know, uncle,” Pierre said, scratching his thick brown thatch of hair. “This idea of yours seems very farfetched to me. A surname and a slight resemblance—what is that to base anything on?”

Monsieur Jamard struggled to his feet and went over to the window, pointing up at the hills. “You seem to be forgetting the business of the vines, Pierre. What about the vines?”

Pierre shrugged. “Monsieur LaMartine knows his work. You told me so yourself at the beginning, and I have seen it to be true.”

Christian Jamard shook his head again and turned back to the window. “You think this is all coincidence, boy? What is wrong with you?”

“There’s not a thing wrong with me,” Pierre said, raising his voice. “I am not the one with these crazy ideas. I listen to Monsieur LaMartine, I do as I am told, and the vines come back. What is the surprise in that? If you ask me, I think bringing back dead infants is more interesting. What is that, eh?”

Pierre’s wife turned from washing the dishes. “I’m not so sure about that. I sat with Emelie this afternoon, and she had a different story to tell. According to her, Monsieur LaMartine is no saint.” She grinned and tapped the side of her nose as if she were keeping a particularly delectable secret.

“If you’re referring to his behavior with his wife, I’ve seen it for myself.” Pierre sucked on his teeth.

“Insatiable is what I hear,” Marie said happily, going back to the dishes. “Poor madame.”

“Poor madame, indeed. I don’t think she minds at all.”

“He’s insatiable,” Marie repeated. “Emelie had it from madame’s own lips. He wears her out, but she loves him, so what is she to do? It’s no wonder we saw nothing of her when they first arrived, wed only a week. It took a whole month before she could walk well enough to leave the house, that’s what I think.” She nodded wisely.

Pierre raised both his eyebrows, and Monsieur Jamard turned around with interest. Birth, death, sex, and scandal—they were the mainstay of village life and thoroughly pored over on a regular basis with no regard to anyone’s sensibilities.