"Would you like to try, mademoiselle?"
Sophie startled, glancing at Thomas from her vantage point at the head of Bess, the massive brown cow her hosts relied upon for their daily dairy necessities. Thomas was sitting on a low stool to the side of the animal as he steadily filled a wooden pail with milk. This had become her ritual over the past two mornings - rising early to take a stroll around the cottage before stopping to visit the animals in the adjacent outbuilding. Since no one was to know of her presence, it made sense to get some fresh air and exercise when there was less chance of anyone seeing her and asking any undesirable questions. Also, after too much time spent sitting down over the preceding days, Sophie relished the freedom to move about as she pleased. Thus far, on her morning excursions into the animal shelter, she'd found Thomas there at the tail end of his chores. Since he did not seem to mind the company, she'd lingered and observed as he brushed down the horses, collected the chicken eggs and milked the cow.
"Oh no," Sophie replied, with a mild shudder. "I am fairly certain my talents lie elsewhere." He gave a faint shrug before resuming his task, using both hands to milk the cow in a firm and steady rhythm.
Silence fell between them once more. Sensing that somehow her response had disappointed him, Sophie paused. Was he, too, testing her? Thomas' general demeanor was austere and reserved, and while his coolness might have made her wary under different circumstances, his obvious care for Helene and his wife, Marthe, set her at ease. While she imagined he was a man whose outward facade hid much of his true self, he did not frighten her - though she was certain he could be frightening if circumstance allowed.
She wondered why he'd made such an odd request of her. Surely he was aware that a woman raised as she'd been would never be expected to perform so humble a task? Then again, she was a fraud, Sophie thought with a pang of shame. She truly had no right to consider herself above anyone else in either rank or situation. These people had been good to her, kind really, when they had no need to be. She was not one to them, and yet Helene and Marthe had done nothing but make her feel welcome. The least she could do was show a willingness to try something new.
Glancing outside, Sophie noted that the sun was slowly rising, the yellowish light of dawn sweeping in through the open doorway and casting away some of the early morning shadows. Around them, the chickens clucked contentedly, lazily poking at the corn Thomas had dropped into their coop not long before.
Frowning, Sophie ran a soft hand over the brown hide between Bess's ears. Tilting her head to the side, she peeped past Thomas' bent head to where his hands disappeared beneath the cow's udders. It looked pink and fleshy and… Her thoughts trailed off, her nose wrinkling. Would he think poorly of her if she didn't do this? And why did she even care that some man she hardly knew might view her as nothing more than a pampered princess? She sighed, her shoulders drooping slightly. He would most likely tell Fabien everything when he eventually returned and Sophie would die before she allowed anyone, Thomas included, to lay any claims of incivility at her feet.
"Perhaps I ought to try," she blurted impulsively, making sure to hold Thomas' grey gaze when his head swung her way.
"Are you certain?" he asked, a bushy brow raised.
She could milk a cow. How hard could it be? She nodded firmly. "I am."
Immediately he stopped, then swiped an arm across his forehead before standing. He stepped back, gesturing for Sophie to take the seat he'd just vacated. Wiping her suddenly damp palms down the front of her gown, Sophie shrugged off her cloak and placed it carefully beside Thomas' coat on a nearby bale of hay before nervously moving into position. Beside her, the older man reached for the lantern and held it aloft, brightening Sophie's field of vision.
"A bit closer, mademoiselle," he said, his tone guff, but not unkind.
Sophie shuffled forward, reaching behind her yellow wool skirt to pull the stool closer. She was now almost right up against Bess, the milk pail cradled between her knees, the smell of fresh straw and musty earth assailing her senses. Thomas knelt beside her and demonstrated what to do with his hand, asking her to mimic his actions. Suppressing the tide of squeamishness that enveloped her, Sophie did as instructed. Wrapping her hand around the fleshy teat she was surprised by the fine layer of fur that tickled her fingers.
Biting her lip, her brows drawn in concentration, her hand lightly contracted. Nothing happened. She squeezed a bit harder and still no milk emerged. Shifting in her seat, she glanced at Thomas askance, feeling painfully inadequate. He'd made it look so easy. Before her, Bess shuffled sideways and Sophie let go immediately, spooked.
With an unexpected smile that softened his wiry features, Thomas swept a hand over Bess's rump to soothe her before he repositioned Sophie's fingers, placing it directly on the underside of the cow's teat. He nodded. "Try again, mademoiselle. Be gentle, but firm."
Taking a deep breath, Sophie followed his instructions, squealing when a stream of milk splashed into the pail between her feet.
"I did it!" she exclaimed in delight, while Thomas merely grunted, but a peek at his face told her he was satisfied.
While her skills were clearly inferior to his, Sophie felt inordinately pleased at his approval. After a few minutes, her arms started tiring and Thomas took over again, quickly filling the pail to the brim. Task complete, he led Bess out of the animal enclosure, allowing the cow to roam free.
Sophie was herself not yet ready to head back inside. "I think I might enjoy a stroll along the cliffs. I shall not be too long."
He nodded, then added, "Stay close," before proceeding towards the cottage with the milk pail in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other. His coat was slung over his shoulder. Taking one final look at a contented Bess, Sophie walked along the grassy hilltop toward the sound of the sea. The sun had fully risen by now and while they were fairly isolated from Town, there was always the chance that a passing neighbour might see her, so she ensured she remained alert and did not venture down to the beach.
Reaching a spot that overlooked the ocean, Sophie took a deep breath and closed her eyes, allowing her senses the freedom it craved. She loved the salt laden smell in the air, the sound of the cawing birds soaring above, the feel of the wind swishing her hair about her shoulders. Being outside felt wonderful. Somehow it pacified her roiling emotions and dulled the edge of anger that burned in her gut. She'd thought that time would lessen her feelings of abandonment, of betrayal, but indeed it had not. If anything, it had intensified, leaving her to wonder how she was likely to react when next she encountered Fabien. Would she articulate her sentiments only for him to dismiss her as he so often did? Dared she hope that he might explain himself? As the thought entered her mind she scoffed. Fabien did not explain himself to anyone, least of all her.
Unbidden, her mind cast back to three mornings before when she'd awoken with a pounding ache to her temples accompanied by the sting of mortification. It was with great humiliation that she recalled her drunken fumblings, how she'd touched Fabien's face and marveled at his gentleness. She'd hid in her room for ages, ignoring her pangs of hunger as she paced, unsure of how she'd confront him when Marthe had eventually arrived and informed her of Fabien's desertion. He'd left her feelings in disarray.
She opened her eyes and stared down at the thrashing ocean below, mesmerised as it foamed and frothed, beating relentlessly against the cliffside. It was only here, alone, that she was able to admit that she felt more than anger and disappointment at Fabien's departure, she was hurt. In truth, she had no reason to be. She knew he cared nothing for her, and yet, over the course of their journey to this place, she had allowed herself to foolishly believe that perhaps, in some tiny corner of his wretched soul, he might hold her in some esteem. His abrupt exodus had cured her of that foolhardy notion. It was becoming glaringly apparent that if she wished to survive their liaison unscathed, she needed to harden her heart. She needed to stop hoping for any form of cordiality and accept that the nature of their affiliation was purely mercenary. She was to do his bidding and in return he would feed, clothe and shelter her. That was all. The realisation caused her shoulders to droop along with a disheartening pang in her belly.
"Not a sight I ever grow weary of."
Turning, Sophie saw Helene slowly traversing the grassy knoll towards her. The older woman was dressed warmly in a dark brown gown with a thick cloak around her shoulders to stave off the slight breeze. Sophie has been so lost in thought that she'd not heard the other woman's approach. She needed to be more careful.
"It is beautiful," Sophie agreed.
"I hear you've made an effort to replace Thomas as our resident milk maid," Helene teased as she reached Sophie's side.
Sophie blushed. "He told you."
"Do not let his gruff exterior fool you. He was mightily impressed that you tried," Helene assured her. They stared out at the ocean for a moment, both enthralled by the rolling, undulating motion of the greenish-blue water.
Sophie had so many questions for Helene, but she was unsure of how to pose them since she did not want to appear intrusive. The only thing she'd managed to glean was that Helene, whilst possibly a commoner, was most certainly not a servant. Her accent and general bearing spoke not of sophistication precisely, but she certainly possessed a poise and grace that did not hint at being manufactured. Which made her association with Fabien all the more intriguing.
"I am curious," Helene said, interrupting Sophie's musing. Some of the grey curls that had escaped Helene's lace cap were swaying in the breeze. "How did you and Fabien meet?"
"I assumed he might have told you my tale of woe," she replied with a self-deprecating laugh.
Helene shook her head. "I would hear it from you, if you were inclined to tell me."
Sophie saw no reason to lie. Besides, Fabien would not have left her here if he did not trust these people. So hiding her past served no true purpose. "My mother was a traitor to the crown and unbeknownst to me, she'd schemed our way into the palace and pretended to be of noble birth in the hopes that I might catch the king's eye." Her voice shook ever so slightly as she said the words, their meaning still weighing heavily upon her. "If I were his mistress, she might have greater access to him and…" Her words trailed off, unable to finish the awful sentiment. She exhaled in a quick puff. "After Fabien uncovered her deceit, she was executed and I was left destitute. I was offered a position that I had very little choice but to accept: leave or become a spy."
Helene peered at her. "I confess, that is not quite what I was expecting."
"It is the truth."
"And life as a spy? Is it to your liking?"
"I am hardly competent," she confided softly. "Though my feelings on the matter are somewhat ambiguous - I find my role daunting and isolating, and yet exhilarating and fascinating all at once."
Helene nodded in understanding. "Fabien must be an excellent teacher."
"Hardly," Sophie scoffed. "He is callous and surly and utterly impossible to please!"
Helene gave her a knowing look. "That I can believe. However, you do not seem particularly frightened of him."
"He is terrifying," she conceded. "But I refuse to cower. He will never respect me if I do."
"Is that important to you then, earning his respect?" she asked, a peculiar note in her voice.
"You must think me daft," she replied, her cheeks warming.
"Not at all, my dear. On the contrary, I find your tenacity worthy of praise." Her words boosted Sophie's confidence. "I take it you are alone at court?"
"Quite alone."
"Do you miss your mother?"
Sophie pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Her feelings for Beatrice were complicated. "Sometimes," she admitted slowly, her throat tightening. "She was my only family, all that I had in this world. Without her, I feel….forsaken."
Sophie could feel Helene's studying her, but she could not meet her stare. She felt foolish for having been so candid. "Have you no friends? Companions close to your own age?"
"Only one," she confessed, thinking of Claudine. "But most women at court view one another as rivals, so true friendship is but a fleeting fancy."
Helene made a sound of agreement. "What of suitors?"
Even as she shook her head, the image of Fabien as he had been three nights before came to mind, his dark intensity riveted on her as she explored to her heart's content. Reflexively, her free hand curled into a fist, remembering the scratchy texture of his hair roughtened cheeks against her sensitive fingertips. Her cheeks grew warm. Fabien was no suitor.
"Men are such fools," Helene mused, unaware of Sophie's wayward thoughts.
"Despite my limited knowledge of the male persuasion, I do believe you are correct."
Helene chuckled, the lines bracketing her mouth deepening. Sophie laughed along with her; it felt good. Quietly, Helene added, "You are not quite what I expected."
Sophie glanced at the older woman. "I am almost afraid to ask what that means."
Helene patted her hand in a motherly manner. "I mean no offense, my dear. You must understand that Fabien has…" Helene's words trailed off, as though she were pondering the wisdom of continuing. "He has never brought anyone here. So to have him leave a young woman in my care with barely any explanation has left an old woman to speculate."
Helene's words should not have thrilled Sophie as much as it did, but her traitorous heart would not heed the warning. Pale blue orbs glanced her way and continued, "At first, I assumed you were his lover." Sophie blanched, but Helene forged ahead undeterred, "However, that notion was soon dispelled when I noticed the unease between you. Not quite the language of lovers. I was exceedingly bewildered as to how someone as seemingly innocent as you would have found herself beholden to my nephew."
Sophie's head snapped around, her jaw dropping, her embarrassment at Helene's words momentarily forgotten. "Nephew ?"
Helene shook her head. "Of course he did not tell you."
"I was not aware that Fabien had any family. When he mentioned that his parents were deceased, I just assumed there was no one else."
Helene turned to Sophie in surprise. "He spoke to you about Etienne and Colette?"
Etienne and Colette. Fabien's parents. Somehow knowing their names made them more real to Sophie. Made their son appear more...human. "Only that they had both died tragically, leaving him abandoned as a child."
A flash of pain seared across Helene's face. "It is pointless lamenting the mistakes of my past, but there are times when I wonder how different Fabien's life would have been had I been braver."
Sophie was stunned. "I do not understand."
Helene froze, realising she'd said too much. This time her smile did not reach her eyes. "Not to worry. An old woman's ramblings."
"But—"
"Come. I grow weary. Let us return." Her words were firm.
"Of course," Sophie replied automatically, guiding the older woman back towards the cottage. After a moment Helene squeezed Sophie's hand, her tone gentler. "Some tales are not mine to tell." With those words, they went back inside.
For the rest of the day, Sophie dwelled upon Helene's revelations, unable to stop thinking about what they might mean. Fabien had an aunt! A woman who, by all accounts, loved her nephew dearly. So how on earth had he ended up an orphan? Though Sophie wished to ask, she sensed that Helene was done talking about the past and had most likely never intended to reveal as much as she had. Fabien would be furious if he knew of his aunt's loose lips, of this Sophie was certain.
By early evening the weather took a turn, the skies darkening and threatening rain once more. After Marthe made quick work of removing the laundry from the wash lines, they sat together before the hearth. Marthe was folding the freshly cleaned sheets and stacking them neatly while Sophie and Helene slowly sipped their tea. The women kept up a steady stream of conversation, Sophie mainly responding to Marthe's innumerable questions about life at court.
She sighed. "It must be really grand, living in so spectacular a place."
It had been grand once, Sophie thought. Before her life had fallen apart and she'd been thrust upon the path of no return. "Versailles is at present but a shadow of what it will one day become. His Majesty has great plans for the chateau."
"I do wish I could see it, at least once."
Considering Marthe's station in life, the only way she'd ever see Versailles was as a servant. And Sophie believed she'd live a far better life as far from the royal court as possible.
"Dazzling as it is, Marthe, it is also cramped and smelly. I assure you, there is nothing glamorous about that."
"Come now, mademoiselle, there must be something you like," she insisted.
Sophie thought for a moment. "Well, the gardens are glorious. So are the water features. They defy imagination."
"Be honest," the plump blonde whispered, almost conspiratorially, "is His Majesty truly handsome?"
Helene snorted and Sophie smiled. "He is. Utterly handsome."
"You have met him?" she asked, clearly intrigued.
"We have been introduced. He was kind and very charming," Sophie admitted. Sensing Marthe enjoyed a good bit of gossip, Sophie indulged her. "Though, the king is not the most handsome man at court."
Marthe glanced at her expectantly while Helene stopped her mending mid-stitch. "Well, do not keep us in suspense now that you have us both so enthralled," she quipped and Sophie's lips twitched.
"That honour belongs to Chevalier de Lorraine. He is by far the most perfect specimen of manhood." Sophie omitted the fact that she'd once believed him to be her cousin and that she personally thought him to be a vile and manipulative creature.
"Is he very elegant?" Marthe asked.
Sophie nodded. "He loves clothing and fashion and if not for His Majesty, most everyone would be looking to Chevalier to set the latest trends at court."
Thomas stomped inside, his arms laden with dry wood. Kneeling at the hearth, he added more logs to the fire and stacked the remainder off to the side.
"Rumours suggest that Versailles is filled with all kinds of debauchery and sin." Marthe remarked, folding another sheet.
"Life at court is like living inside a vast gilded cage. There is everything you could possibly need - food and drink, all manner of entertainment, beautiful women, striking men, an elegant royal family. But there is a sinister underbelly of lies, greed, deceit and yes, sin and debauchery. Everyone jostling for power, seeking ways in which to climb the social ladder, happily trampling anyone in their path. All that glitters is not gold," she finished, her words greeted by silence. The expressions on the faces of her hosts ranged from fascinated to horrified to...pity.
"Well," Marthe finally said, "I suppose I am content to remain a country bumpkin."
"You had better be. If you were to seek work at the royal palace I guarantee you'd be working far harder there than you are now," Thomas quipped and Marthe playfully threw a clothespin at him.
"Any more cheeky remarks from you and you shall make your bed amongst the horses this evening," Marthe threatened, and they all laughed, breaking the tension.
The sound of approaching hooves had them sobering. Thomas was first to the window, his nose nearly pressed to the glass. "I think Monsieur Marchal is returned."
His words caused Sophie's heart to jolt in her chest. She'd wanted him to come back and now that he was here, she was unsure of what to say. She was still upset, but she was also desperate to know if he'd uncovered anything of interest at the Duc de Cassel's residence. Then there was her earlier conversation with Helene and all the questions she had, but knew not how to seek answers.
Despite her uncertainty, she hurried to the window too, wedging herself between Marthe and Thomas. Squinting into the dark, she recognised Fabien's shape instantly. What was puzzling was the way he was hunched over… "He's been injured," she whispered, her body already turning towards the front door.
They exited just as Fabien's horse ground to a halt outside. He was slumped forward atop of his steed, the animal's sudden inertia pitching him sideways. Thomas advanced and caught him, toppling over under Fabien's substantial weight.
Fabien groaned as he hit the ground, but remained otherwise motionless. Thomas rolled onto his knees while Sophie sank down and touched Fabien's face. His brow was fevered, his temples covered in sweat. Her hands roamed over his body, flitting under the folds of his dark cloak until her fingers encountered a damp, sticky patch around his left ribcage. "He's bleeding!"
Without warning he grasped her arm and pulled her down towards him until his lips grazed her ear. She quivered as his breath wafted over her. "Hide. Y-you must h-hide."
She squinted into the darkness. "Someone is coming?" No response was forthcoming. He'd sunk back into oblivion.
Helene responded first. "Sophie, we must get you both inside. Quickly!" She turned to Thomas. "Loose the horse and make sure there is no trail leading directly here. We may not have much time."
Everyone sprung into action. Thomas grabbed the horse's reins and sprinted off in the direction Fabien had come from while Sophie and Marthe each grasped one of Fabien's arms, half carrying-half dragging him across the threshold.
"He must have been unconscious for some time," Marthe huffed.
"How do you know?" Sophie grunted, heaving Fabien forward.
"He would not be here otherwise," she said with conviction.
Of course not. Despite his outward indifference, Fabien would not carry danger to their door. Which meant his horse had led him home. She felt a sharp pang at that thought, that even though he'd been alone and vulnerable, he'd not been friendless.
Once inside, Sophie sagged to the ground, winded, as Marthe and Helene rushed to pull the dining table away from the window. Sophie watched in awe as they jerked the faded red carpet aside to reveal a wooden trap door. A hole had been cut into the stone floor. She glanced down at Fabien, alarmed at the dull, sickly pallor of his skin. "For a man who is supposed to be well versed in stealth, you have a remarkable penchant for incurring injury," Sophie scolded softly.
His eyelids flickered, then opened, the pain reflected back at her stark and visible. "Always s-so insolent," he remarked through gritted teeth.
"Always so stubborn," she retorted, hurriedly untying the chords of his cloak from around his neck in the hopes that it would make breathing easier. Then gently, she lifted his head and cradled it in her lap as she pushed his hair off his forehead. He was too pale. Too weak. His eyes shut again, his chest barely rising and falling. She had so many questions, but now was not the time to ask them. A lump rising in her throat, she wrenched her attention from him and focussed on Helene and Marthe as they tugged on the ring to open the trap door. Outside, they could hear the cacophony of advancing hoofbeats.
"Hurry!" Helene exclaimed.
All three women helped to move Fabien toward the dark hole in the floor, his momentary consciousness aiding their journey. Awkwardly, but with determination, Sophie manoeuvred him down into the shallow hole below. There was not much room, barely enough for them to fit abreast. Fabien was lying on his uninjured side, with Sophie curled up behind him, her front to his back. Without a word she nodded at Marthe overhead.
"Remain silent," the servant hissed, throwing Fabien's cloak over them before the door was sealed overhead. All Sophie could hear was the dull scrape of the furniture as it was moved back into place. Below, it was pitch black, the air dank and stale. She shook, the heavy cloak doing nothing to stave off the chill from the stone floor beneath them as it quickly seeped into her bones.
Instinctively, she pushed closer to Fabien. She could feel the solid wall of his back pressed to her breasts and the strength of his thighs against hers. Overhead came the sound of deep, muffled voices followed by the thud of heavy footfalls and her skin prickled with fear. Whoever was after Fabien had entered the house. For the first time Sophie was thankful that he'd left no personal belongings behind before his departure to Calais. Her meagre possessions would not raise suspicion and could in essence be easily explained away. After all, there were two women who lived under this roof.
She felt Fabien shudder, and her arm instinctively circled around him, welcoming the heat radiating from his body. She pressed the palm of her hand overtop his coat as tightly as she dared, comforted by the faint thump of his heartbeat. His breaths puffed out in shallow pants, echoing loudly in their confined space. Moving even closer, Sophie leaned her cheek adjacent to his, her mouth close to his ear. "Shhhh," she crooned soothingly, his hair tickling her nose. "It will be alright." She wasn't at all certain that it would be, but she felt compelled to speak the words, as though uttering them would indeed make it exactly so.
She startled when Fabien's gloved hand covered hers, holding it tightly to his chest. His touch was weighty, substantial, reassuring - and slowly, somehow, her fear receded. And in that moment she realised that he was consoling her, offering her respite from her unease. The realisation made her want to cry, her eyes burning with unshed tears. This man, this stubborn, fearless man who claimed to have no feelings or emotions, was trying to comfort her. At once, all her insecurities flooded back - the sting of his rejection, the confusing complexity of her own feelings for him and her genuine terror that he would not survive this. For once she was not thinking of his abandonment, but rather of her own plight should he not recover. How was it possible that after so short an acquaintance, she had come to rely so wholly on the man now lying beside her? Without him, what would become of her?
With a shuddering breath, she stroked her thumb back and forth against his as she prayed, her heart thumping painfully every time she felt Fabien tremble in her arms.
What felt like an eternity later, it must surely have been at least an hour, perhaps two, Sophie heard the scraping of furniture from above. Slowly, a yellowish shaft of light filtered into their hiding space as the trap door widened. Squinting into the glare, she felt relief when she recognised Thomas'.
"Oh thank God," she murmured, glancing at Fabien. His skin was ashen, his breathing so low she might have wondered if he were still alive had he not been clutching her hand so faithfully.
"Come," Thomas said, reaching down towards her.
Reluctantly peeling her torso from Fabien's back, she instantly missed his warmth as she was lifted effortlessly to the surface. Beside Thomas was Helene and Marthe, both wearing identical masks of worry. "Are they gone?"
"Yes. I think we managed to fool them," replied Helene.
"Who were they?"
"Two men clearly after Fabien."
"They did not harm any of you?" she asked swiftly, assessing their persons.
Both women shook their heads. "It helps to appear old and senile at times. They did not seem to think us suspicious, although we must remain alert. They could return at any moment."
Sophie nodded, but her interest was now focussed on Thomas as he climbed down into the hole and lifted Fabien to his feet. It took all four of them and a lot of grunting, heaving and shoving, before they managed to wrestle him out of the hole, down the short passage and into the bed Sophie had vacated just that morning. A few burning candles had been placed beside the bed and the fire in the grate burned brightly, their shadows dancing on the walls.
She barely had a moment to catch her breath before Thomas was tugging at Fabien's clothing to assess the extent of his wounds. She stepped closer to the bed, staring down at his unconscious face, then towards the blood stained area close to his lower ribs. She flinched as the angry red wound became visible, the bullet hole swollen and distended. Sophie gaped, alarmed, as Thomas prepared to shove a finger into Fabien's abdomen.
"No!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands across Fabien's wound as everyone's regard swung her way.
She licked her lips, anxious. "I-I am acquainted with His Majesty's physician. She insists that hands and implements must be thoroughly cleaned before tending the injured to avoid infection."
Thomas raised a brow, skeptically. "A woman physician?" He shook his head at Sophie's glare. "Monsieur Marchal already bears signs of fever. His body is already polluted—"
"Please," she implored. "It cannot hurt, surely?"
Thomas glanced at Helene but she was scrutinising Sophie. Eventually, she nodded. Sophie huffed a sigh of relief. "We need boiling water, or at least as hot as we can get it. We should all wash our hands and separately, any medical tools," she added encouragingly.
"I will procure the water, there is some already hot in the kitchen," Thomas said, making to leave.
Helene turned to Marthe. "Return with clean towels as well as fresh linens that we can use as bindings."
As the pair hurried out of the room, Helene lit some more candles, the cosy interior brightening even further. Feeling useless, Sophie stepped closer to the bed and looked down at Fabien, her heart squeezing. She'd never seen him like this before - so vulnerable, so exposed. It was completely at odds with the strength he exuded ordinarily, the undeniable power he wielded without even trying.
Helene joined her side. "He is strong," was all she said, though whether to herself or to Sophie was unclear. On instinct, she grasped Helene's hand, and squeezed. Moments later Thomas and Marthe reentered the room, the former carrying a steaming basin of hot water with an accompanying pitcher and the latter with a heap of clean linens and towels.
Carefully, Thomas and Helene removed Fabien's doublet. It was a trial because he was so large and heavy, but between them they managed it. Encouraging to Sophie was hearing his occasional moans, a sign that he was conscious enough to feel pain. Next they tackled his vest and shirt and once removed, Sophie got her first proper introduction at a man's naked chest. It was broad and covered with a spattering of dark hair. Her colour high, her gaze raked over the hard planes of his abdomen, the muscles defined and the skin taut. He was beautiful. Her admiration turned to horror when she saw the gash on the side of his body. It was jagged and raw; angry.
Remembering the bar of scented soap she had in her saddlebag, Sophie collected it and held it out to Thomas. He should go first. With reluctance he accepted the bar and washed his hands. Next was Marthe, Helene and then Sophie.
Then the more gruesome part commenced. Sophie flinched as Thomas carefully inserted his index finger into the bloody round hole. Fabien moaned and Sophie reached for his hand, clasping it tightly in hers. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she realised the action was ludicrous. A man like Fabien did not require hand-holding, but Sophie did not care. She needed irrefutable proof that this bold and robust force of nature was alive, that he would remain alive.
"I can feel the lead ball from a musket. It's lodged inside. I must remove it." Quickly he reached for the folded leather bag at the foot of the bed. Sophie had not noticed it before. He flapped it open, surprising her at the array of medical implements laid bare. She swallowed, but acted quickly. Releasing Fabien's hand, she grabbed the clean basin off the dresser beside the bed, dumping the contents of the brown bag into it. Then she poured the pitcher of steaming hot water over it. She was aware of being examined but she couldn't care. She trusted Claudine and if the physician believed this would help prevent further injury, then she believed it too.
After a few minutes, she nodded at Thomas. The women had to help him hold Fabien down as he began digging into his side, Fabien's grunts of pain piercing the stillness. Collapsing into unconsciousness again, they all breathed a sigh of relief when the offending piece of lead was eased from the wound and dumped into the water bowl. Already Marthe was mashing a pungent smelling paste of various herbs together that she smeared across his wound. Once done, Thomas helped her bind it tightly. Almost at once Fabien was wracked with tremors, so they removed his boots and piled a mountain of quilts atop him.
"He needs rest," Thomas said. Sophie nodded as he gathered the remnants of their bloodied efforts.
As he reached the door, she called to him and whispered, "Thank you." He paused, his features softening infinitesimally before he inclined his head towards her, then left the room. Marthe was next, collecting Fabien's soiled clothing from the floor, then quietly stepping outside.
Exhausted, but filled with a restless energy she could not understand, Sophie sank down into the chair beside the bed, staring down at Fabien's countenance. Even in repose, his brows were furrowed as though he was recalling a series of unpleasant events. The man did entirely too much thinking, Sophie mused, the vast majority of his ruminations probably centering around the ways in which he could torture and maim the king's enemies. The thought made Sophie smile, her fingers unconsciously reaching out to smooth the lines between his eyes. Beneath her touch, his brow relaxed, the tension unexpectedly leaving his face. The sight of his unguarded features made Sophie's heart clench, the threat of tears once again rushing to the fore. She did not know why she was suddenly so overcome with emotion for this man. Perhaps because their futures were so intricately entwined, his success hers, his failures, hers too. Or perhaps because she did know why, but giving credence to the notion was terrifying. Yet even as she clung to the vestiges of denial, her heart whispered the truth.
"You care for him," Helene said softly.
Sophie jerked, for a moment having forgotten she was not alone. Glancing up, her eyes caught Helene's across the expanse of the bed, the older woman seeing so much that Sophie wished to hide. She glanced away. "He is my employer. That is all."
After a protracted pause, Helene said, "I will sit with you."
Sophie nodded, relieved that Fabien's aunt chose not to pry. She did not want to speak of her feelings to anyone, particularly when she could hardly make sense of them herself. And so for the next few hours, the two women tended to their patients' needs. They took turns wringing out a damp cloth and mopping his brow, face and neck. Apart from the occasional shudder, he didn't utter a word, remaining unconscious, his mind lost to fever. Throughout the night Fabien's temperature continued to rise, his skin growing hotter and dripping with sweat. Afraid, Sophie remained by his side, continuing her ritual baptism long after she'd convinced Helene to get some rest. Even though Thomas occasionally returned to stoke the fire, he did not disturb her vigil, and Sophie was grateful. She did not wish to make polite conversation.
Sitting in the faded upholstered chair beside the bed, she gazed unseeing into the fire, her body weary, and her mind slowly catching up. Her yellow gown was wrinkled and stained, small damp patches of water visible on her skirts from the constant wringing of wet towels. She vaguely wondered what the rest of her resembled, but in truth, she did not have the energy to care. The events of the day were taking its toll and while she hated her weakness, it was growing harder to remain alert. The room was warm, the fire casting a languid glow and bathing the bed, and the man inside it, in shades of ochre-tinged light. The occasional crackle and pop in the grate was mildly hypnotic and Sophie leaned towards the bed, pillowing her head upon her folded arms, her head rotated towards Fabien. Unable to stop herself, she succumbed to her fatigue, the imprint of Fabien's visage the last thing she saw before she was lost to oblivion.
It was not long thereafter when Sophie jerked awake, her arms cramping and her back stiff from lying hunched over. She realised what had disturbed her immediately. Fabien's head was thrashing from side to side, low murmurs erupting from his chest. Forgetting her discomfort, she jumped up and leaned over him, her hands touching his cheeks. He was still boiling hot. Removing the warm cloth from his forehead, she dropped it into a shallow pale of water beside the bed before using it to wipe the sweat from his face, neck and shoulders. Pulling back the layers of quilts she bathed his torso next, running the wet cloth across his pectorals and the flat pinkish discs of his nipples, then down his flat, muscular stomach and back up again. He shivered beneath her ministrations, so Sophie wet the cloth again and repeated the action, closely watching the damp trails she made as the water-logged fabric dragged across his skin.
He truly was beautiful, she thought, transfixed by a droplet of moisture as it rolled down his defined abdomen and settled into a muscular groove. She could feel her cheeks flushing, knowing it was wrong to stare, but also knowing she'd never have another opportunity to admire him so freely without fear of being caught.
"Sophie," Fabien moaned. Eyes flying upward, her gaze collided with his as his hands reached for her. One arm grasped her around her waist, drawing her firmly against him while the other slid up her back to tangle into the hair at the base of her skull. She gasped at the strength of his hold, her heart thundering wildly as her spine bowed into him, her body yearning to make contact with his. Her arms rested on his bare chest, the blistering heat of his skin scorching her palms, the wet cloth forgotten. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the tantalising hair of his chest and the rapid beating of his own heart. Breathing harshly, she noted how close they were, how near his lips were to hers. His proximity addled her mind, her insides turning molten, like a wildfire smouldering through a forest and singeing everything in its wake. She could smell him, his rich earthy scent like an aphrodisiac, and all she could think of was burrowing closer until she somehow melted into him. He felt solid and warm and right.
"Fabien," she whispered, trying to centre his regard on her, "you must rest." His eyes were glassy, their fever induced haze unfocused and slightly feral; the sight made her belly erupt in a kaleidoscope of butterflies. He appeared incautious and defenseless, a little out of control - so at odds with his prevailing disposition of discipline and rigid regulation. But she was not afraid. She knew he would not hurt her, at least not physically. Trying to suppress her irresistible attraction to him, she reiterated, "You must rest."
As her breath fanned across his lips, his eyes closed for a moment, as though relishing the feel of her, before they popped back open, a twinkling of clarity pulsing in their dark depths. His attention locked on her lips, heat spiralling through her at the intensity of his scrutiny. Their breaths mingled, the air around them growing thick with wanting. She'd never felt this alert before, so aware of every part of her body that touched him, so mindful of every pore and nerve ending, of every tingling sensation coursing through her slight frame.
"Sophie," he murmured again, the tip of his nose brushing hers, the tenderness of the gesture making her breath hitch. Opening her mouth to speak, her words were lost and her thoughts were scattered as his lips crashed upward against hers.
