Fyrea's Cauldron. William Maltese
hung with animal trophies brought back from the far corners of the world. Anyway, Marie could secretly hope no similarly fanged live beasts were presently making their present homes in the jungle around the Château
“You’ll have your pick of any girl from the village,” Charles continued. “Or, if you’d rather not go through the tiresome bother of training one of the locals, I can have someone, already trained, sent in from Villeneuve. Either way....”
He trailed off in mid-sentence; apparently, he realized Marie still felt the aftereffects of her boat trip and car drive.
“There’s plenty of time for all of that,” he said after a moment. “For now, we’ll have Madeleine show you your rooms.”
He put his arm around Marie: the first time he had touched her since she had shrugged him off earlier. This time, she left his arm where it was.
Would you prefer I have Karena prepare a cold plate and a little white wine for you to have upstairs?” Charles suggested. “I assume you’re too tired to go through the rigmarole of formal dining your first night, here.”
“I’m going to be much more presentable tomorrow,” she promised.
“Of course you are,” he said, leaning to give her an affectionate peck on one cheek. Simultaneously, he motioned for the young servant girl who had been waiting on the sidelines to show Marie Camaux up the grand in-house staircase to her rooms.
* * * * * * *
The bath relaxed her. Her glance in the full-length mirror assured her that she was visibly none the worse for wear. Obviously, youth was resilient; although, at twenty-six, Marie realized she was no longer a child. Still, her breast remained firm, her waist thin, and her legs long and shapely.
She selected a ruffled pink negligee, far sexier than one she would have chosen if she’d made the selection prior to her lengthy soak in the tub. She was even able to devour, with considerable gusto, the two cold chicken sandwiches that arrived with a carafe of cool white wine.
She was tempted to ask Madeleine about the hostile little old lady, but she didn’t, probably because Marie was reluctant to confess not knowing the answer already.
By the time she had swallowed the last tasty morsel, she had revived sufficiently to contemplate going in search of her husband. She had a bit of apologizing to do, not because she had failed to respond like a seasoned traveler, but because she had let her imagination begin all sorts of fanciful flights. Why had she found it so strange a man was different, in his natural habitat than in foreign surrounds? After all, there was little similarity between England and Saint-Georges, although possibly the Château would have been more at home in France.
However, Madeleine, apparently assuming Marie would be going directly to bed, turned back the blankets, revealing clean white sheets. The vision proved so inviting, Marie surrendered all plans for anything save the comforts of the large supporting mattress.
She was no sooner in bed than she was asleep, waking some time later to darkness within which Charles sat the edge of the bed next to her.
“Charles?” she asked, extending a hand; he took her fingers and gave them a comforting squeeze.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, his voice a whisper.
“Are you coming to bed?” Marie asked, suppressing a yawn. The bed continued to be seductively comfortable, retaining the warmth from her body. She was quickly being enticed back into complete lethargy.
“I just stopped in to check on you before going to my rooms,” he said.
Marie was struck by the sudden realization that she had been assigned a suite separate from that of her husband. Although, why it had taken her this long to figure that out was beyond her. It should have been obvious from the absence of male toiletries in the bathroom, and the absence of male clothing in the closets (quite aside from the decidedly feminine décor of the rooms), that Charles stayed elsewhere. Marie didn’t know if she liked the arrangement of not. She had always imagined a man and wife sharing the same bedroom—certainly the same bed, especially before the newness of matrimony wore off. For all intents and purposes, their marriage hadn’t yet technically progressed beyond its honeymoon stage.
“Come to bed. Here,” she invited, patting the bed clothes directly beside her.
“We need you rested for tomorrow, don’t we?” he said, his smile evident even in the dimness. He leaned over and placed a tender but erotic kiss against her slightly parted lips. Rather than appease her swelling passions, his kiss merely added to them.
“Please, Charles,” she said, taking her husband’s arm as he obviously began his move to leave her. “Come to bed.”
“What would your husband say?” he asked, gently disengaging her fingers from his large left bicep and continuing to his feet.
“My husband?” Marie asked, genuinely confused. She was positive she’d misheard. “Charles, you’re my husband.”
“Oh, but you’re mistaken,” he said, moving through the shadows to the door, gone before Marie was fully cognizant of his having left her.
For a brief moment, she thought she had been dreaming and still was. After all, the conversation of which she’d just been a part couldn’t possibly have taken place; it was too bizarre? Obviously, it had been nothing more than a figment of her exhausted mind and body.
Yet, she wasn’t asleep. She was sure Charles had been there on the bed but moments before.
She threw back her covers and came out from underneath them. She found her slippers and worked her feet into them before coming to a standing position. She reached for her robe which as thrown over the back of a nearby chair.
She followed Charles’ route, opening the door to the sitting room.
The old woman was waiting for her in the darkness, blocking the path that would have allowed Marie access to the hallway. The sight of the gnome-like shadow within deeper shadows brought Marie to a sudden startled stop, a small gasp of shocked surprise escaping her lips.
“What are you doing here?” Marie asked, using her right hand to pull her robe tightly shut across her neck. “What do you want?”
“Why did you bring him back, you little fool!” the old woman asked, disgust evident in her voice. “You’ve brought disaster on us all!”
“I want to see my husband,” Marie said, indignant that her voice should come out sounding like that of a chastised child asking for her father.
“He doesn’t want to see you,” the old woman said, not moving from her position. “Go back to bed!”
Marie tuned, went back into the bedroom, and drew the door sharply closed behind her. She was breathing hard. She could hear herself panting, the rhythmic expansions contracting her chest. She could hear the throbbing beat of blood in her ears.
What right did that old woman have to be in Marie’s rooms, bossing Marie around? Marie was mistress of Château Camaux! She didn’t know by what authority the old crow got off telling her what to do.
In a sudden flush of anger, at having been cowed by someone half her size, she once again opened the door to the sitting room. If she wanted to see her husband, then she would see him! If anyone tried to stand in her way, then that person could very well be expected to get shoved to one side.
The sitting room was empty. The spot once occupied by the old woman now held only a patch of moonlight which had managed to enter through a small breach in the drawn curtains.
Marie quickly crossed to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall.
The corridor was empty and silent. The whole house seemed mysteriously empty and silent.
Marie got a blood-chilling shiver that left her feeling icy. She stepped back into the sitting room and shut the door behind her. She quickly surveyed her surroundings, thinking, perhaps, the old woman was still