Page 26 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Mademoiselle Daubin tore her hand away, a moist circle on the back of her hand glinting in the light coming through the window. Gilles grimaced with her, flesh crawling beneath his shirtsleeves. Why would Martel do that to someone he’d never met?
His friend straightened, expression unchanged. “I do hope we meet again when I return,mademoiselle.”
She threw one look at Gilles—he could not decide if she meant her disgust for him or his friend, or perhaps a combination of both—and fled the room. The heels of her shoes clipped sharply against the corridor’s floor.
Martel snickered. “She’ll be back for more of that.” The dangerous smile sent a chill up Gilles’s spine. This wasn’t howhelooked when flirting, was it? His throat tightened and his morning meal threatened to reappear as realization struck. He probably looked exactly the same as that in his games, with the overconfident grin and smoldering stare.
“I should think not,” he blurted. “Have you not heard Émile? She is not a girl easily won.” Not by any man Gilles had met. “What’s more, you know she’s a monarchist.”
“That can easily be changed.” Martel waved a hand as though shooing away a mosquito. “What do women really know of politics and the world?”
Gilles had underestimated her in much the same way, and where had it led him? To consenting to keep secrets for aroyalisteand agreeing that his father was sometimes right.
“Do not lie and tell me you’ve never dreamed of kissing that,” Martel said, readjusting his pack.
Gilles had wanted to touch those full, soft lips with his own since the day he sauntered stupidly into that office and found her hummingSur le Pont d’Avignon. But seeing his friend’s interactions with Mademoiselle Daubin strengthened his resolve to never try again. “She is a human, not an animal,” Gilles said. “The least you can do is speak of her as such.”
Martel’s sneer at his friend’s reprimand only increased the gooseflesh wriggling up Gilles’s arms. “You have high regard for a woman as confused asshe.” He spat the word out as if trying to taunt Gilles’s conviction.
Gilles slipped his watch quickly from his pocket. “Will you not miss your coach? It is nearly half past nine.”
“I look forward to traveling with you as brothers-in-arms one day soon,” Martel said, giving Gilles one last, hard look.
“Yes,bien sûr.” He nodded emphatically, as if that would hasten his friend from thesavonnerie.
“Vivre la France.” Martel stuck out his hand, and Gilles reluctantly grasped it. “Vivre la nation.”
“Vivre la France.” Gilles followed him to the door. Though Martel towered over him by at least three inches, Gilles had no doubt that with his stockier form he could easily sweep his friend from the building. He refrained, but watched Martel descend every stair and waited until the front door to the office section of thesavonneriehad closed before moving from his post. “Bon voyage,” Gilles muttered. He’d never felt so relieved to see his friend leave.
“Good riddance.”
Gilles startled at the voice coming from the corner near his employer’s office. Mademoiselle Daubin moved to stand beside him at the top of the stairs.
“And I thought Émile had terrible friends,” she said. Her lip curled in disgust as she stared at the front door.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe at that. Instead he dug into his pocket and pulled out his clean handkerchief, then held it out to her.
“What is this?” She took the folded square, head tilted to one side.
“To wipe off your hand.”
Her face softened, and he thought he glimpsed a smile playing on one corner of her mouth. She wiped at the back of her hand, though no doubt the saliva had dried by now.
“I’d give you the shirt off my back if you thought it would help wipe away that kiss,” Gilles grumbled, shaking his head. He couldn’t account for this unease. He’d seen Honoré Martel, not to mention Maxence and Émile, act in this same manner on numerous occasions. Every time they went to a café, in fact. Was it seeing her repulsion and Martel’s lust that triggered this strange reaction? Or did he cringe because for once he saw how his own actions might appear? He did not mean to look that way. He didn’t want to.
“Oh, no. I prefer your shirt where it is.” He cast her a sidelong glance, and when their eyes met, she let out a quiet laugh.
A laugh? It lit her face with an enticing glow, smoothing away the stern expression she most often wore. “Why do you find that humorous?” Gilles couldn’t help grinning as well. “I was in earnest.”
“Because the first time we met, you tried to kiss me. And now you are trying to help me remove a kiss.”
He shrugged. “If I am to gain your trust, I must do something. Teasing you and trying to keep your gown from getting dirty have done me nothing so far.”
“And if by some miracle you someday do gain my trust,” she said, the mirth in her voice mellowing, “what will you do with it?”
Gilles pursed his lips. Why did he want to gain her trust so badly? He wanted to prove he wasn’t the monster she, his father, and even his mother had suggested he was. But there was something more to it, something he couldn’t name. A deep, disconcerting something in his core that he fancied leaving alone just now. “I will wear it as a badge of honor to be trusted by a lady as—”
She huffed and waved him off. “And here I thought we had moved past the idle flattery.”
