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Four
Her hand trembled inhis. Hugh could hardly blame her. He’d known immediately what was happening. His first inclination had been similar to that of many of the other men—fight. The peasants were thin and armed with household tools. He could have overpowered them.
But his thoughts had turned to the Comtesse d’Avignon and his commitment to her sister. He couldn’t fight the peasants and protect her. The other women were married and had husbands to defend them, but she had no one. She’d worn a stunning red gown tonight, and it was simple to spot her in the ballroom. If his eyes were drawn to her, then the assailants’ eyes would be as well. She was very much like the center of the target they’d hit in their game of archery that morning.
He’d taken three long strides and grasped her hand, pulling her out of harm’s way. Now it seemed he was in a similar position, leading her once again away from the danger. She trudged along beside him without complaint, keeping up, though it must have been hard for her at the punishing pace he set. Once they were under the cover of the trees, he turned and looked back at the château. The men and women with torches had reached it, and the flickering firelight seemed to dance around it. Hugh did not want to stay to see it burn. He prayed to God some of the others had escaped. He had not particularly liked any of them, but they didn’t deserve to be bludgeoned or burned to death.
“You needn’t stop because of me. I’m fine,” she said, though she was panting. No doubt her corset was tightly laced and prevented her from taking a deep breath. He made the mistake of glancing at her bodice and his gaze focused on the plump half-moons of her breasts rising and falling from the scarlet material. He immediately looked down and then frowned.
“Your petticoats are too bright. They’ll be a beacon for anyone searching for us.”
She looked down as well, then back up. “Your coat is no better. The silver reflects.”
She was right. “I’ll turn it inside out.” He pulled it off, while she bent and scooped up earth. “What are you doing?”
“Making certain my petticoats aren’t so white.”
She was a smart girl and not so missish she objected to a little dirt. He’d known women who would rather die than suffer a stain on their dresses. He would have still helped her if she’d been such a woman, but she would not have endeared herself to him. He didn’t particularly want to feel warmly toward Angelette, but he’d been drawn to her from the first and it seemed fate—with a little help from Hugh—had thrown them together.
When Hugh had turned both coat and waistcoat inside out so their silver embroidery was muted, he glanced at Angelette. She had mud smeared over her petticoats and was using them, without much success, to try and clean her hands. She looked up at him, and he had to suppress a smile. She had a smear of mud across her cheek, which made her look like a wayward child who had been playing where she oughtn’t.
“That’s much better,” she said, nodding her approval of him. “How do I look?”
“Very well. It’s just—” He gestured to her face.
“I have mud on my face?”
“Your cheek.”
She swiped at the wrong cheek, smudging it with mud.
“No. Now you’ve made it worse.”
She rubbed at the mud she’d added, smearing it further.
He grasped her hand. “Allow me.” Withdrawing his handkerchief, he gently cleaned the mud from one cheek and then the other. She stood very still, her gaze focused on the vicinity of his ear. When he withdrew his hand, her gaze met his.
“Better?”
It was difficult to see, and without thinking, he took her chin between two fingers and angled her head. Her quickly indrawn breath was a stark reminder that he shouldn’t have touched her so intimately. To do so with a handkerchief out of necessity was one thing, but with his bare hand was another.
And yet, he didn’t pull his hand away. Her skin was soft and warm, her chin sharp and pointed—the perfect tip to her heart-shaped face. He had the mad urge to slide his fingers up and over the newly cleaned skin of her cheek and test its softness.
She stiffened and he wondered if she’d read his thoughts, but one look at her eyes told him that was not the reason. Releasing her, he followed her gaze. The château had begun to burn, the flames spiking high into the black night. Screams echoed, but from this distance it was impossible to tell whether they were screams of delight or pain.
He tried to think of something comforting to say, but there was nothing. It was hard not to see the peasants’ point of view. For so long they had suffered unfairly under a rule that favored the wealthy and powerful. Was it not right that they fought for some measure of equality? And yet, as a member of the nobility himself, he could not imagine seeing his ancestral home burned to the ground. He might have been given his title, but with it came great responsibility and the care of land and tenants and everything else that came with running a great estate. He had spent years learning how to manage Daventry Hall and years ensuring that its lands were profitable and his tenants and servants well taken care of. Not every landowner was so responsible, but did one throw out an entire harvest because of a few rotten apples?
