Page 43 of The Winter Husband
“A small creature, about the size of an opossum, covered in sharp quills.”
“Like a rodent?” That lovely black brow rose higher. “With spikes?”
“It’ll shoot them at you if it feels threatened.”
“Hah! What a terrible opinion you have of me.”
“It’s a compliment.” At least, he’d meant it that way. “You’re small, but you defend yourself with sharp words.”
She traced a circle on his chest. “Have I really been that unpleasant?”
“Not when your quills are down. Underneath the quills, a porcupine is soft. The meat is sweet to the tongue.”
A new smile played around her mouth. “So you’re calling me apluckedporcupine, is that it?”
“You weren’t shooting any quills last night.”
“Best be careful.” Her eyes danced as she slid a finger down to his navel. “I still may have a few quills left to shoot.”
Her fingers found the sword scar on his lower rib and the longer one across his chest. Curiosity danced across her face as she traced them with a slow finger. Questions quivered in the air between them. Someday, he’d tell her about Flanders. Someday, he might even tell her the real reason he’d chosen to settle on this land.
But right now, he had questions of his own.
“What happened in Paris, Marie?” He grasped her roaming hand and brought it to his lips. “What devil took your innocence?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Paris, July 1670
“Cecile, look!” Marie dropped to her cot in the orphanage dormitory and thrust a note into her best friend’s hand. “He sent me another poem, tucked in a copy ofLa Gazette.”
“Again?” Cecile clicked her tongue. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been caught fetching newspapers from the garden gate.”
“Never mind that.” Marie nudged the hand that held the poem. “Read it, read it aloud to me.”
Cecile bowed her pretty blonde head and unfolded the parchment. Marie closed her eyes as her friend spoke the magical words aloud.
My heart lies within these words.
I will leave them at your gate.
Marry me in Paradise tomorrow, fair lady,
Or my heart will surely break.
Marie opened her eyes into the silence that followed. Cecile had already refolded the parchment and was now pinching the edge.
“Well?” Marie’s cheeks ached from smiling. “What do you think?”
Cecile shrugged. “Your François’s poetry hasn’t improved over the months, alas.”
“He’s a soldier, not a poet, and what does that matter?” She plucked the note back and waved it in the air. “He’s declaring his love. He wants to marry me!”
The first day she’d laid eyes upon her darling François, she’d been shepherding a group of younger orphans through the streets of Paris to visit the king’s menagerie. She’d been thrilled to be released from the convent to aid one of the older nuns as a chaperone. Following a few steps behind the girls through one of the many squares, she’d glimpsed a bold young man standing on a terrace above the door of a tavern.
As she’d passed below his balcony, he’d spoken loud enough for her to hear. “Si belle, si innocente.”
Startled, she’d glanced up past muscular legs, past a billowing white shirt open to a bare chest, and up farther to an inviting smile and pair of dancing black eyes. Bathing in his admiration, she’d laughed, too, but then quickly rushed away to catch up with her charges. It had been only a single, sparkling moment, but the rest of the day had seemed brighter, her heart lighter.
