The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds by Iris Johansen
Juliette felt a hot flush rush to her cheeks. “I only wondered. I need no description.”
“Description? I wasn’t speaking of words.”
Juliette pulled her gaze away. “You’re teasing me again.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.” She added white to the blue of the sky in the painting, hunting desperately for a change of subject. “If my presence is so boring, perhaps I should let Marguerite tend to your needs.”
“You would not be so cruel. How can you stand having that gloomy-faced harridan about? She stalks around the inn like a crow scratching for worms. Does the woman never smile?”
His tone was teasing again and Juliette breathed a sigh of relief. “She smiles at my mother. She was my mother’s nurse since the day she was born and loves her very much. Most of the time I see very little of her when we’re at the palace.” Juliette kept her gaze carefully averted. “Marguerite doesn’t like being here, but the queen thought I should have a woman in attendance while I saw to your needs, so she sent Marguerite back to the inn to serve as my chaperone.”
“Quite proper. However, totally unnecessary. You’re scarce more than a child.”
Juliette didn’t argue with him though she couldn’t remember a time when she had thought of herself as a child—and it was not as a child that he had looked at her a few moments before. “The queen believes in being discreet.”
Jean Marc raised his eyebrows.
“She does,” Juliette insisted. “You mustn’t believe what those horrible pamphleteers write about her. She’s kind and a good mother and—”
“Foolishly extravagant and self-indulgent.”
“She doesn’t understand about money.”
“Then she had better learn. The country’s on the edge of bankruptcy and she still plays at being a shepherdess in her fairy-tale garden at Versailles.”
“She gave to the relief of the hungry from her own allowance.” Juliette put her brush down and turned to face him. “You don’t know her. She gave me paints and a tutor. She’s kind, I tell you.”
“We’ll not argue about it.” Jean Marc’s gaze narrowed on her flushed face. “I have a feeling if I say anything more about Her Sublime Majesty, you may take a dagger to my other shoulder.”
“You’ll see for yourself when you go to Versailles,” Juliette said earnestly. “She’s not what she is portrayed to be.”
“Perhaps not to you.” Jean Marc raised his hand as she opened her lips to protest. “As you say, I’ll judge when I’m admitted to the queen’s august presence.”
Juliette frowned at him, not satisfied. “She doesn’t understand. She’s as a butterfly who always has lived in a garden filled with flowers. You wouldn’t expect a butterfly to understand why—”
“I wouldn’t expect a butterfly to be queen of the greatest country in Europe,” Jean Marc said mildly.
“Yet you have no hesitation about asking a boon of that butterfly just as all the rest of the world does. What do you wish from her? A patent of nobility? A great estate?”
“The Wind Dancer.”
She gazed at him in astonishment. “She will never give it to you. Not the Wind Dancer.”
“We shall see.” He changed the subject. “But your threat to inflict your Marguerite on me will not come to pass. I’ve sent word to Paris for my cousin, Catherine Vasaro, to be brought here tomorrow. Perhaps she’ll be more sympathetic to the ennui of a poor wounded man.”
Juliette became still. “Your cousin?”
He nodded. “A distant cousin and my father’s ward. My nephew, Philippe, escorted her from my home in Marseilles to Paris, and I received word yesterday they had arrived.” He smiled teasingly. “Catherine’s everything that’s gentle and kind. Not at all like you.”
Juliette suddenly had a vision of a woman as tall and voluptuous as the tavern maid with a radiant halo suspended above her lovely head. The thought ignited within her the bewildering pain of envy. Why should it matter to her if this Catherine was as virtuous as a saint? She carefully hid any hint of her pain as she raised her chin. “Then I’ll leave you to your gentle Catherine and return to Versailles at once.”
“I think not. You said you wouldn’t desert me until I was ready to leave the inn. Catherine is of such a delicate nature, I doubt she’ll prove of much value.” He added softly, “Surely, you wouldn’t leave me when I still need you?”
He was looking at her with that rare, brilliant smile she had found herself watching and waiting for in the last few days. She felt her resistance melting away and quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. “No, I would not leave you … if you truly needed me.”
“I do. Now come here and play faro with me.”
She hesitated, feeling the same half-sad, halfpossessive regret she had known at the thought of giving up Louis Charles after his illness. Jean Marc, too, had belonged to her alone for so many days, and now she must let him go. It wasn’t fair that—What was she thinking? She should be glad she wouldn’t have to bear the intimacy of his company. She was accustomed to being alone. She could paint uninterrupted.
Still, it would do no harm to indulge Jean Marc with a little extra attention on this last evening, when he would be completely her own … responsibility. She moved briskly toward the bed. “I’ll play a game or two with you before supper.” She sat down on the chair beside his bed and reached for the deck of cards on the table. “You must understand it’s not because you ask it, but only because I’m weary of painting and wish to play.”
His dark, watchful gaze searched her face before a curiously gentle smile touched his lips. “I do understand, ma petite. I assure you that your motives are completely clear to me.”
Holy Mother of God, she couldn’t breathe!
Catherine Vasaro leaned back on the cushions of the coach and tried to keep from panting. Why had she been so foolish? She should have protested, but she had wanted to appear as womanly and beautiful as the ladies Philippe usually admired. Now she couldn’t—
“Why are you looking so troubled, Catherine?” Philippe Andreas asked gently. “Jean Marc’s message said he was in no danger and well on the mend.”
Oh, dear, how wicked she had been to indulge in vanity when she should have been thinking only of Jean Marc. She tried to smile. “I know he will be fine. Jean Marc is so … invulnerable. I cannot imagine him allowing anything to hurt him.”
Philippe’s eyes twinkled. “Is that why you tiptoe around him with eyes as big as china plates?”
“He does make me feel nervous.” She rushed on. “Not that he isn’t extremely solicitous of me. No one could be more kind.”
“Not even my humble self? You cut me to the quick, Mademoiselle Catherine.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that you—” She stopped when he threw back his head and laughed. He had been teasing her and she had not had the sense to realize it, she thought in disgust. No wonder he treated her only with indulgent amusement when she behaved like a gaping idiot whenever he appeared in view. But how could she help it when he was as handsome as one of the ancient gods in one of Cousin Denis’s books? However, Philippe was no unapproachable deity; his classic features were generally lit with an easy smile and his blue eyes with good humor.
Always fashionably dressed, he looked particularly elegant today, she thought. The sea-blue silk cutaway coat and gold brocade vest he wore flattered his tall, manly figure. The black satin trousers lovingly followed the line of his thighs ending below the knee to display white silk stockings that admirably showed off his muscular calves.
“Shall I get your fan from the valise? You look a trifle pale.”
She sat up straighter. “I’m just distracted. I’m concerned about Jean Marc’s wound.…” God would most certainly punish her for that falsehood, she thought gloomily.
Philippe nodded. “It hasn’t been an easy time for you. First the long journey from Marseilles and then to hear of Jean Marc’s wound immediately upon your arrival.”
“Y
“No?”
“He’s dying, Philippe. They think I don’t know, but Cousin Denis is dying.” She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Isn’t he?”
“Nonsense. He has many—” Philippe broke off and nodded. “Yes, Jean Marc says he hasn’t long to live.”
“Cousin Denis has always been so kind to me,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “I wanted to stay with him until the end, but he seemed not to want me there. So I feigned ignorance when he told me I was to go away to school. Sometimes it’s difficult to know what’s best to do, isn’t it, Philippe?”
Philippe reached out and touched her hand. “You’re doing very well, ma chou. Death’s not easy for us to face at any age.”
Warmth spread through Catherine. Philippe’s comforting clasp gave her feelings of golden serenity.
“We’re approaching the inn,” Philippe said, leaning back in the seat. “You’ll feel better when you see for yourself that Jean Marc’s wound isn’t serious.”
Of course she would feel easier to know Jean Marc was getting better. She was very fond of Jean Marc.
And it was wicked to want the journey to go on and on so that she could remain within the warmth of Philippe’s luminous smile.
“They’re here.” Juliette stood at the window gazing down at the coach that had just stopped before the door of the inn. She frowned as she saw the footman help a fragile-looking, splendidly gowned girl from the coach. “Or perhaps not.”
Jean Marc moved haltingly to the window and glanced out to see Philippe take Catherine’s arm and escort her. “Yes, that’s Catherine.” He quickly sat down on the closest chair. “You seem surprised.”
“She’s not what I expected.” No voluptuous angel but a beautiful, frail child no older than herself. Juliette quickly masked the relief surging through her and turned away from the window to look at Jean Marc. When she had gone into his chamber that morning and seen him fully dressed, it had given her a queer shock. Lean, elegant, powerful, the bandage hidden by the fine linen of his white shirt, he had appeared independent and totally in command. However, now she noticed the paleness of his complexion and the weariness of his posture as he slumped in the chair, and these signs of his weakness brought her another freshet of relief. She hadn’t lost him yet. He would still belong to her for a while longer. “You’ve been up long enough. Lie down and rest.”
“Presently. Are you not going down to welcome our guests?”
“They’re your guests, not mine.” She crossed to the easel and picked up her brush. “Monsieur Guilleme will bring them to your chamber.”
“Juliette …” Jean Marc shook his head with a faint smile. “You can’t hide behind your painting and that gruff tongue forever.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I just don’t wish to—”
“Jean Marc, what idiocy have you been about?” Philippe Andreas threw open the door and allowed Catherine to precede him into the chamber. “It’s not at all like you to involve yourself in physical combat. You much prefer a battle of wits.”
“An error I have no intention of repeating,” Jean Marc said dryly. He frowned as he looked at Catherine. “You’re well, Catherine? You look a bit pale.”
“It’s you who are ill, Jean Marc.” Catherine’s gaze moved from the painting that had immediately captured her attention to her cousin’s face. “I do hope you’ve recovered.”
“As well as could be expected, I suppose. I’d like to present Mademoiselle Juliette de Clement, who has been both my salvation and my torm—Catherine! Catch her, Philippe!”
Catherine swayed but remained on her feet, clinging desperately to Philippe’s arm. “I’ll be fine. Perhaps it’s the heat.” Her breath was coming in shallow bursts. “If I could sit down …”
“Why didn’t you say at once that you weren’t feeling well?” Jean Marc demanded.
Catherine’s eyes widened in distress as her gaze shifted to Jean Marc. “You’re angry. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I’m sorry—”
“I’m not angry.” Jean Marc was obviously trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Is your stomach upset?”
“No. Yes. Perhaps a little.” Catherine seemed barely to get the words past her pale lips. “I’m sorry, Jean Marc.”
“It’s not your fault. I’ll send for the physician.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure I’ll be quite recovered in a few moments.” Tears rose to Catherine’s eyes. “I should never—” She stopped and swayed again. “Jean Marc, I think …”
“It’s her corset.”
Jean Marc turned at Juliette’s clear voice. “I beg your pardon.”
She ignored him, scowling at Catherine in disgust. “Why don’t you tell him you can’t breathe?”
Another blush tinted Catherine’s delicate skin. “Please, I can …” She trailed off miserably.
“Oh, for the love of God.” Juliette turned to Philippe. “Give me your dagger.”
“What?”
“Your dagger,” she repeated as she stretched out her paint-smeared hand. “There’s no time to unlace her. Do you want her flopping like a fish at your feet?”
“The idea certainly doesn’t appeal to me,” Jean Marc said lightly. “Are you saying her corset’s laced too tightly?”
She cast him an impatient glance. “Of course, can’t you see she can get little air?”
Philippe began to chuckle and Catherine’s blush deepened to bright scarlet.
Jean Marc turned to Catherine. “Is that what—” He stopped as he saw the tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “Sacre bleu. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Miserable, Catherine gazed up at him. “It would have been indelicate. My governess, Claire, says such subjects are never discussed in polite company. I was afraid you’d think—” She broke off as a sob robbed her of the little breath she still possessed.
“The knife.” Juliette’s fingers wriggled demandingly, and this time Philippe unsheathed his jeweled dress dagger and placed it in her hand.
Juliette dropped the dagger on the bed and was immediately behind Catherine, unfastening her peach-colored brocade gown. “You know you’re very stupid to let them do this to you? Why did you not fight them?”
“It was only for a short time.” Catherine gasped. “Claire said every woman should be willing to suffer to look attractive.”
“Hush,” Juliette said. “Save your breath.” She cast a glance over her shoulder at Jean Marc. “Tell your father this Claire is a fool and should be dismissed. It’s clear the girl’s too gentle to fight for herself.”
Catherine’s gown was finally unfastened and Juliette started to spread the material to reveal the lacings of the corset.
Catherine suddenly stiffened and whirled to face them. “No.”
Juliette scowled. “Stop this foolishness. Do you wish—”
“Philippe must go away. It’s not proper he should see me in dishabille.”
Juliette gazed at her in astonishment. “Proper? He’ll see you gasping like a chicken with its neck wrung if you don’t get these lacings undone.”
Catherine’s jaw set. “It’s not proper.”
“Go away and come back in fifteen minutes, Philippe,” Jean Marc said quickly.
Philippe nodded and gave Catherine an understanding smile before leaving the chamber.
Juliette muttered something beneath her breath that sounded remarkably like an oath as she picked up the dagger from the bed and began to saw through the lacings of the corset. A moment later she had cut through the last lacing and the corset sprang open. “There, that’s over.”
Catherine drew a deep shuddering breath. “Merci.”
“Don’t thank me. You should never have been bound in the first place. From now on, when someone tries to bind you, cut yourself free. How old are you?”
“Three and ten.”
“I’m four
“As well as I can. I travel a great deal and my father is ill.” Jean Marc smiled enigmatically. “Though I see now my cousin definitely needs a champion. Perhaps I can arrange something.”
“Truly, Claire is usually very kind,” Catherine said, troubled. “I wouldn’t want her to suffer because of my foolishness. I should have told her the lacings were too tight.”
“She should have seen it.” Juliette started to refasten Catherine’s gown and then stopped. “Bon Dieu!”
“What’s wrong?” Catherine glanced anxiously over her shoulder.
“The gown won’t fasten now,” Juliette said in disgust. “I can’t even get it closed.”
“Claire stitched me into it after the corset was fastened.” Catherine sighed resignedly. “Perhaps you’d better try to lace up the corset again.”
Juliette shook her head. “Monsieur Guilleme’s given you a chamber a few doors from here. We’ll go there and you can rest until the servants can bring your trunks from the carriage.” She pushed Catherine toward the door and glanced at Jean Marc over her shoulder. “Don’t overtire yourself. I have no desire to have two of you gasping for breath.”
“As you command,” Jean Marc replied sardonically.
Juliette turned back to Catherine, ignoring his tone. “You still look pale, take deep breaths.”
In another moment Juliette had whisked Catherine from the chamber.
“How is she?” A frown of genuine concern clouded Philippe’s classical features as he came back into Jean Marc’s room a few minutes later. “Poor little cabbage. We should have guessed what was troubling her.” His blue eyes were suddenly twinkling. “God knows, we’ve both undone our share of corsets.”
“I’d say you’ve undone more than your share,” Jean Marc said dryly. “You have no discrimination. Any pair of thighs are fine as long as they welcome you.”