The Return of the Prodigal (8 page)

L
ISETTE LAY VERY STILL
, her back to the door, holding her breath as Rian stumbled about in the near darkness.

She could imagine he was having trouble loosing the buttons on his borrowed buckskin trousers, as her
papa
might be nearly Rian’s height, but he was so very thin that even Rian’s slender frame was putting a strain on those buttons.

There was a bootjack nailed to the floor in the corner of the room, and she’d placed one of the small candles on the table just beside it, hoping he’d see the thing, use it. But he was a man, and men didn’t often look beyond the ends of their noses when it came to finding ways to help themselves.

“Lisette? You’re in bed? But it’s just gone nine. I need help with my boots.”

She sighed quietly. Like now.

“Lisette, are you awake?”

“No, I’m asleep. I’m even snoring. Go away, Rian Becket. Leave a sore and sorry woman in peace.”

“Still tender, are you?” he asked, his voice close to the bed. Her side of the bed. The side she planned to cling to, even if that meant digging her fingertips into the mattress and holding on for dear life. She had to think, and she couldn’t allow herself to be muddled by Rian’s lovemaking. Not tonight.

“If I had a pistol I would shoot that horse. His hindquarters were no more than a bag of bones that dug into me with every slow, clumsy step he took.”

“
She
wasn’t the finest mount I’ve ever sat, no. And I’ll admit, she’s perhaps a bit swaybacked. But she was also biddable, and uncomplaining. Unlike some I could mention.”

Lisette sat up in the bed, wincing only slightly, as the hot tub had helped more than she would admit to him. “And now you compare me unfavorably with a horse? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I would never say such a thing, Lisette. You’re a wonder, truly. And, to prove the thing, I’ll ask you now to please help me off with my boots, knowing full well you would never refuse a wounded man. You’re too good, too caring, too kind. I could go on, and will—at length—if you don’t help me.”

She threw back the covers and slid her feet down to the bare floor, for this was another small inn, and carpets seemed beyond it. “I begin to believe, Rian Becket, that I liked you better when you were fevered and morose. Happy, you become tiresome.”

He hoisted himself up on the bed and held out one booted foot to her. “Quickly, Lisette, if you would, so that you can either dive back beneath the covers or get dressed. The innkeeper is sending up a tub for me.”

Lisette felt her eyes growing wide in her head. “A tub? You’re…you’re going to bathe? Now?
Here?
”

“It’s either that or I sleep in the stables with our swayback mare. I smell of horse, Lisette, or haven’t you noticed?”

She walked up close to him, sniffed. “You will still smell like horse, as I have only clean linen for you, not clean trousers and shirts. So you may as well not bother.”

“You brought a night rail for yourself, clean clothes—I’ll assume—for yourself, but nothing for me?”

“I brought you clean linen. I said so. But the portmanteau holds only so much, so I had to make decisions. I decided I needed a clean gown more than you required a clean shirt. So you would be wise to be careful not to dribble your dinner on it. Now, lift your foot again and let us get this over with quickly.”

She grabbed his outstretched leg with both hands and began tugging on the close-fitting leather, nearly toppling to the floor when it finally broke loose.

“And now the other one.”

Rian stuck his left leg out in front of him. “I don’t like this any more than you do, Lisette. When I get home, I’m going to ask Court if he can think up some sort of contraption that allows me to at least pull my boots on by myself.”

The second boot let go and Lisette stumbled backward, only catching herself by grabbing onto the side of the mantel. “Court? And who is this Court?”

“One of my brothers. Courtland. He’s always coming up with new ways to do things. The man can wax poetic over pulleys and fulcrums and the like. He’s exceedingly boring.”

“Only because you do not understand pulleys and fulcrums,” Lisette pointed out, picking up the other boot and placing the pair in the corner. They really were very fine boots, and she should probably have more respect for them. “You’d rather sit beneath a shady tree and scribble about where all the ladies’ smiles have gone. I find it difficult to believe you are a soldier.”

He stood on the floor now in his stockinged feet, attempting to open the buttons on his trousers. “I
was
a soldier, Lisette. No more Bonaparte, no more war—no more left arm. I can’t even deal with my own boots, or these damnable buttons. And every time I can’t do the simplest things for myself it reminds me that I’m good only for sitting beneath that shady tree, scribbling. Christ!” he exclaimed as one of the buttons popped free completely and rolled beneath the bed.

“Oh, Rian, I’m so sorry,” Lisette said, wishing she was not such a beast, torturing him so. “I’ll get it.”

“No, Lisette, don’t—Oh, hell.”

She was already on her hands and knees, reaching beneath the bed, but she couldn’t feel the button. What she feared feeling was a mouse, or worse. But Rian needed his button, didn’t he? So she went down on her stomach, her rear end still in the air, and crawled halfway under the tester bed. “Where are you, button? Come to Lisette, little button.”

From above her, Rian said, “Ah, if I knew this view would be my reward, I should have ripped off
all
the buttons.”

“Again he attempts to be amusing,” Lisette grumbled, dropping fully onto her belly, sweeping her right arm ahead of her, her fingers at last closing over the errant button. “Aha! I’ve got you. Now to beg for needle and thread, and we will put you back where you belong,” she told the button as she pushed herself backward until she was clear of the bed and could stand up once more. She looked down at her once white night rail.
“Merde!”

“I seem to remember you saying you were very good at finding dirt. I believe you. Shall we complain to the innkeeper?” Rian asked, picking grimy dust-balls from the front of her gown. “Whose hair do you suppose this is, anyway?”

Lisette was appalled. “I don’t want to know! Shame on whoever is in charge of keeping this room clean for guests. Is there anything in my hair, Rian? Please say there is nothing in my hair.”

“If you’d stop dancing about, beating at yourself, I might be able to see, and answer you. The night rail has to go, Lisette. God only knows what has been living in that dust.”

“But, then, what will I sleep—oh! Stop laughing at me! And hang your stupid button!” She launched the button toward the corner. “You should eat a very, very large breakfast, Rian Becket. A full belly might help hold up your trousers.”

“Lisette, stop,” he told her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong with you, hmm? You’re as skittish as a young colt. Are you regretting what we’re doing? Do you want to go back to the
Comte
?”

“Are you
mad
? No, I do not want to go back to the
Comte
. But why am I with you? I don’t even know where we are, Rian Becket. We should have done as I planned. Instead, we have damp sheets and stringy muttons, and…and strange hairs and filth all over me. And all you want is to bed me. Don’t you?”

He smiled as he ran his gaze down her and back up again. “Not at the moment, no, I don’t think I do.”

She had to fight to keep her temper up, keep from smiling. “Oh! Better to be alone, fleeing the
Comte
, than to have to deal with you, laughing at me. Ah, and now a knock on the door. Will I have no peace tonight? Who is there?”

“My bath, I’d presume.”

“And there is where you are wrong, Rian Becket.
My
bath,” Lisette said, running over to the corner to retrieve his boots for him. “Here. Go. And don’t come back. Not tonight. Tonight I do not want to see you.”

“Tonight, Lisette, you are not in charge. Now get yourself beneath the covers,” Rian ordered her as he walked to the door, and Lisette hastily obeyed him, much as it pained her, for he was bound to open the door no matter what she said, allowing the whole world and its wife to see her standing here, barefoot, covered in unnamable fuzzy things.

Two half-grown boys carried in the tub she had bathed in earlier, followed by a progression of girls and boys in varying sizes—all of the blond-haired children looking to be those of the innkeeper, who must have been a very busy man for many years, although not half so busy as his poor wife.

They carried with them pails of steaming water and a few pitiful excuses for towels. When they had all gone, Rian closed the door, with him on entirely the wrong side of it.

“You first, Lisette,” he told her, unbuttoning his shirt more deftly now that he’d been practicing. “I’m too filthy for you to follow me into the water.”

“No, thank you,” she told him as she threw back the covers she’d been holding away from her night rail, hoping not to ruin the sheets as well. “I will be fine with washing my face and hands and brushing my hair. I was upset, but I am calmer now, see? And, if you wait until I am back in bed before you climb into the tub, I will even find your button for you once more.”

“All right, agreed. Although I will ask, Lisette. Why so suddenly missish?”

“I don’t know,” she told him as she grabbed up the gown she had worn since leaving her home of one year. And then, much to her dismay and disgust, she burst into tears.

“Lisette,” Rian said, taking the gown from her and tossing it onto the bed before pulling her close against him. “Sweetheart, what’s the matter?”

She couldn’t answer him. Because she was crying too hard. Because she had no answer for him. Because she didn’t know why she was crying.

So she just held on to him, her forehead pressed against his chest, and allowed him to rub at her back, and whisper all sorts of nonsense, and make her wish she could tell him the truth.

“Thank…er, thank you,” she said quickly, feeling panic well up in her as she pushed herself out of his arms. Tell him the truth? She couldn’t do that. She wasn’t even sure what truth was, what anything was. Her life was either a lie, or it was a truth she was increasingly uncomfortable with, increasingly unsure this life was better than the one she had left behind at the convent.

“You’re quite welcome,” Rian said, shaking his head in obvious confusion. “What did I do that requires thanks?”

Lisette wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her night rail, then swiped the material under her nose, because she had not cried gracefully, like the heroines in the novels the wives had brought with them to the convent. “Is it wrong, Rian Becket, to be afraid of leaving what you know, even if you may no longer think this place may have been a good place to be, only to go somewhere else that you don’t know, and may not be happy to stay in, either?”

Rian opened his mouth, held it open for a moment and then closed it again, shook his head. “I have no idea what half of that means,” he finally said, smiling. “Are you talking about the
Comte
, the manor house and your position there, Lisette, or France itself?”

Lisette shrugged, picking up the gown once more and stepping behind the small screen in the corner of the room. At least he’d given her a way to answer him. “All three, I would suppose, but mostly, I would think leaving France frightens me. I’ve known nothing but France, for all of my life. Is England truly a nation of boring, plodding shopkeepers? Is your food so execrable as I’ve heard it said? Does the sun really not shine there?”

“I suppose I’ll let you judge that for yourself, once we get there. But don’t be afraid, Lisette. My family will make you feel very much at your ease.”

She remembered the pair of
gads
sewn into the hem of her other gown along with the coins it would take for her to return to her
papa.
Those two horrible fangs told her one thing for certain—Rian Becket’s family would
not
make her very much at her ease if they knew why she’d brought him home to them.

She stepped out from behind the screen, buttoning the last few front buttons of her gown. “And you see? I know nothing of England, I know nothing of your family. I think I’m frightened. Because I don’t cry, Rian Becket. I haven’t cried in many, many years, not until I met you. It serves no purpose.”

“I don’t know, Lisette. Crying seems to be serving some purpose now. You’ve got me worried half out of my mind. Perhaps you do want to stay here, in France. It is, as you said, the only home you’ve ever known.”

She had dug herself a hole, hadn’t she? And now Rian Becket was helping her dig it deeper. “No, no I don’t want to stay here. I have been French all my life. It is time I was English. I’m done being silly and missish, I promise. It was just that horse, and how I am so tired, fearful of being caught. And…and I worry about you. You’re behaving so…so differently.”

“Meaning, I would imagine, that you are more used to leading me than being led by me?”

Lisette nodded, because that was true enough. Whatever potions Loringa had mixed to keep him compliant were all back at the manor house, and leaving them there may have been a mistake. She’d thought the laudanum enough, but he steadfastly refused to drink more of it. Yet his strange fever had not seemed to bother him today, and his mind was becoming more and more depressingly clear.

Loringa, Lisette had decided earlier, had healed Rian Becket and kept him sick, both at the same time. And this was the woman her
papa
kept with him, treasured, relied upon. Did that terrible woman who called herself good also control her
papa
? Was she right to continue on to England, or should she turn back, confront Loringa, demand that she be removed from the household?

Why was she, God help her, so willing to believe her
papa
might not be all that she had dreamed of seeing in a
papa
, but a man whose life and trials had turned him so vengeful that he had lost his way?