“Of course, and any I can find at the manor. I’m sure your interest will help—” She broke off as her gaze fell on the small thatched cottage under the lime trees. “Look, that’s Philippe’s horse!” The chestnut was tied to the tree beside the door of the cottage Michel had called the Maisonette des Fleurs. “He must be inside. Let’s go see him.” She started running down the steep hill toward the cottage. “Come along, Michel, we’ll just wish him a good day.”
“No!” Michel’s voice was sharp, but she paid no attention. Michel was always worried about offending Philippe, but even if he was busy he wouldn’t mind them stopping by for a moment.
“Catherine, no! He won’t like it!”
She knocked and then threw open the door. “Philippe, why didn’t you tell me you were—”
She stopped in shock.
Naked. Philippe was crouching naked on a flower-strewn pallet, his hips moving in a sickeningly familiar manner.
She heard Philippe mutter a curse as he looked up and saw her.
The young woman beneath him cried out, her hips surging upward. Lenore. The woman’s name was Lenore. Catherine had often seen her picking in the fields and thought what pretty brown hair she had. Now Philippe’s hands were wound in Lenore’s hair, his legs around her naked body.
“Philippe,” Catherine whispered.
The tomb!
The thrust of hips. Pain. Shame.
“No!” She turned and bolted from the room.
“Catherine, come back!” Philippe shouted.
She scarcely saw Michel as she ran past him and up the hill. The tears were running unheeded down her cheeks. Philippe. The tomb. No faces.
Not here. Not at Vasaro.
She heard Michel calling her name, but she didn’t stop. Sobs shuddered through her and she could no longer see where she was going.
The tomb!
She was falling.
Pain sliced through her temple!
Michel was screaming.
Or was she the one who was screaming?
Warm liquid trickled down her thighs.
Blood.
Blackness.
SIXTEEN
Green eyes, glittering fiercely.
Catherine knew those eyes, she knew that fierceness, knew the arms holding her.
She stirred and a fiery pain jolted through her head.
“Lie still,” François said, looking down at her.
“You’re angry with me again.”
