Page 46 of The Winter Husband
She felt like she’d been drinking from a spigot of enchantment and then it abruptly ran dry. She’d been left alone in the room for half a day when she first noticed the change in him. She’d crept downstairs to look for François, only to be warned by one of his friends to stay in the room lest she be recognized and marched back to the orphanage. When François returned hours later, his smile shifted to irritation when she again brought up the subject of finding a priest. Later, he warned her he was running out of lessons to teach her. More and more, he reeled into the room smelling of wine, enticing her to please him without bothering to please her in return. After a week of this strange transformation, she found herself awake in the nights, watching him snore out fumes, searching for the devoted man who’d made so many promises.
Cecile’s misgivings drifted back to her.Are you sure, in the deepest, deepest part of your heart, that this man is honest and good?To think Cecile was on a ship by now with Genny and the other King’s Daughters, several weeks into the Atlantic.
No. She was letting her thoughts run wild only because she was alone too much. She wasn’t accustomed to solitude and indolence. She had too much time to worry and think. One day, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She crept to the top of the stairs to listen to the men laughing and watch the women carrying trays through the room. She saw a woman sitting on a man’s lap. She figured they must already be married, because unlike François, who kept her hidden away, this man dipped a hand into his wife’s bosom for the whole world to see.
Then, amid the noise, she heard François’s rolling laugh.
She flew down the stairs, ignoring the sudden attention as she raced to François’s table, in the same corner where she’d found him that very first night. He sat with his three friends, the remnants of dinner on plates before them. He caught her gaze as she approached. She smiled her brightest smile.
After an odd pause, he smiled back.
“There she is, my little dove.” His eyes were bloodshot and rheumy. “We were just talking about you.”
The heads of the other musketeers swiveled her way. She sensed a shift of heat in the room, a curdling of air. She turned away from their ogling and focused on François, darling François, whose affections she’d somehow lost and now had to find a way to win back.
“Sit, Marie.” François patted his knee, though the shine in his eyes had sharpened. “Come get to know my friends better.”
She didn’t care about his friends, but she did want to be closer to François. So she slid onto his lap. François seized her. He yanked her back against his chest so hard she was forced to face his amused friends, her chest thrust out.
“François,” she whispered, wincing as his fingers dug deep. “You’re hurting me.”
“Am I?” François planted his chin on her shoulder. “A forgotten lesson, then. Someone else will have to teach you that.”
Her heart stopped cold.
“These are the sweetest tits you’ll find from here to Rouen, boys.” François released one of her arms to slide his hand across her bodice. “Her nipples are small and tight, sweet like wild strawberries.”
Her mind went white-blank. He’d drunk himself into madness, her François. She struggled in his grip as his three friends watched with gleaming eyes.
“She likes when you roll her nipples.” François bobbed his thigh, making her bounce in a suggestive way. “She likes everything, this one.”
“François.” She tried to surge up, but he jerked her back to his lap. “Stop it.”
“Ah, Marie. Those are words I’ve never heard you speak.”
Ugly amusement rippled around the table. François’s grip felt like claws. Why was he doing this to her? Why would he talk like this when he’d promised to marry her? A tremor shook through her, rattling her confidence.
“Did I forget to tell you, Marie? You’re going to make me a fortune, playing the virgin. But alas, that trick won’t work with my dear friends, who have other lessons to teach you.” He pressed his lips against her ear. “Tell me, who among these fine soldiers would you like to take first into your sweet little body?”
Beyond the buzzing of her ears, she heard the men bartering for her. She turned her face away from the musketeers, from the table, from these strange things happening. What she saw made her eyes scald. That woman on the man’s lap was not a wife. That man was not her husband. The couple climbing the stairs weren’t in search of a priest. Ceci had been right to have misgivings.
François didn’t love her. He never intended to marry her.
He’d been training her to be his whore.
She groped the table, seeking purchase, and instead felt the hilt of a knife under her hand. She seized it and then dug an elbow into François’s ribs. Shoving off his lap, she turned and swung the weapon wide, watching his friends’ leers dim at the flash of steel.
François shot up from his chair. She swung the knife in a swift and wider arc, felt the drag on the tip as the blade sliced through a layer of his musketeer’s coat. François shoved his hand through the vent she’d made, outrage spreading over his face. She didn’t wait to see more. She bolted for the door. Her boots pounded on the cobblestones as she fled down the street. Once around a corner, she heard the tavern door burst open and François’ shouting commands. She veered down another narrow lane, then made a sharp left down another. Soldiers’ boots scuffled on the cobblestones as they passed the corner and kept going. Deep in the maze of the city, she propelled herself forward, weaving from alley to street, losing herself in the labyrinth of the neighborhood, tears dripping from her face.
When sense came back to her, she headed to the one safe place she knew. Lungs burning, she flung herself against the gates of the Salpêtrière, still gripping the knife in her hand.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
What devil took your innocence?
Had Lucas swung a hammer, Marie could not be more stunned. How could he be so sure she wasn’t a virgin? Could a man tell so easily? On that foolish day when she’d given herself to François, she’d felt nothing more than a twinge of pain. François hadn’t even paused in his pleasure. The barrier seemed such a fleeting thing. Had she given her secret away somehow, by rolling in bed with Lucas like the wanton François had taught her to be?
Her heart squeezed. She knew no other way. Showing pleasure felt as natural as laughing, as weeping, as breathing. But what did she really know about what was natural, or right, or expected, between a man and woman who had any respect or affection for each other, like those who’d taken vows?
