PLANS FOR A FUTURE
Leona sat tensely on the wooden seat below her, trying to focus her attention on the view beyond the window.
“...and I think it will be a mild winter.”
“Yes, good! Most beneficial for the grapes. Your vineyards will flourish, Lord Comte.”
Uncle's voice filled the small intimate solar where they dined. Leona focused on his words and tried to ignore the man who sat opposite her. She failed.
The Comte of Cleremont was there again. He had visited fairly suddenly that morning, stating his intention to remain in the area awhile. Her uncle had agreed at once to offer him lodging, and he was installed in the guest suite on the second floor.
At least my chambers are not close to his.
Leona, occupying the room that had once housed her grandfather as a young man – before he’d moved into the principal bedchamber, as the count of Annecy – had a spectacular view over the hillside and was far enough away from the guest quarters, facing south.
There is no risk of bumping into him unexpectedly there.
That had been her worst fear. For some reason she could not discern, the thought of being anywhere alone with the Comte made her fearful.
I don't know what I expect he would do to me.
Just being opposite him at dinner was almost enough, she admitted. Having to look up and catch those blank, stony eyes on her made her shiver.
“...Leona, niece? You agree too?”
Leona turned dreamily to her uncle, who sat on her right, unaware he'd been speaking. “Sorry, Uncle,” she said lightly. “I didn't quite catch that.”
“You were dreaming, mayhap, of our ball?” Uncle said fondly.
“Yes, mayhap I was, Uncle,” she said in what was meant to be a lighthearted tone. It came out flatter than Leona had hoped. “I will have to ask that you repeat yourself. What was it you asked?”
“Oh, nothing important,” her uncle said easily. “Just wondering if you would prefer a Spanish saddle for the ride? The ones we have here seem a little cumbersome.”
“Oh?” Leona found herself drawn into the conversation despite her wish to be somewhere else. “A Spanish saddle sounds intriguing.”
“Indeed they are!” her uncle smiled. “Made from the best leather from Cordoba! My friend here said they are worth their weight in gold. Which I think is somewhat of an overstatement, for, though they are lightly built, I would still hesitate to part with so much gold as they weigh. On a saddle, at least!” he chuckled warmly.
“I'm sure,” Leona said, dabbing her lips with a linen square. They were dining on a first course of fennel soup, a delicate flavor that appealed to her. If she were in more conducive company, she would have been enjoying herself enormously. She missed the days when she’d dined alone up here with her uncle, discussing everything from politics to farming, from fashions and carriages to cheese.
“Well, then,” her uncle laughed. “I would be pleased if our friend could loan you one! He says he has a side-saddle ordered from Monsieur Laguerre, and I for one am eager to witness it.”
We do not want to accept things from that man.
Leona surprised herself at her fervency. She absolutely did not want a gift from him. For gifts from that man are not given without expectation. He would want something in return.
She shuddered. She knew he was angling for her hand in marriage – her uncle had not exactly been anything other than open about it. He had said it would be very advantageous for him.
The Comte is our nearest neighbor, he had said. He owns farmlands in the valley that I would pay a King's ransom to add to our holdings.
Leona had begun to understand. A widow could inherit property. If she were to wed the Comte, then it would mean that, upon his demise, the land he owned would pass to her. In addition, her position, if she died without issue or with only daughters to inherit, would give the house of Annecy some claim on the place. Tentative, but more than before.
Uncle, for all his easy manner, is quite conniving.
It was not a trait that ever entered his day-to-day discussions: he was generous, friendly and equitable. She would never accuse him of being underhanded in everyday life. However, inheritance and the politics of land ownership was clearly an arena in which his cunning mind was uppermost.
“A ride before luncheon would be diverting,” she said, moving away from discussing gifts.
“I wish to ride to the forests,” Lord Ferrand said quickly. “If my lady would deign to ride so far accompanying me?”
“A pleasing prospect, Lord Comte,” Leona managed tightly.
“Well, then,” her uncle said, sounding tense himself. “Let's agree to that then. Tomorrow at ten of the clock, mayhap?”
“A capital notion.”
Leona nodded her own wordless agreement, and reached for the goblet of cordial that stood at the right of her dish.
As she lifted it to her lips, the Comte lifted his. “A toast to our lady Leona,” he said softly. “A pleasing prospect.”
The way he said that, his gaze on her, wandering from her mouth to the low-cut bodice of her gray gown and back made her skin creep.
His gaze lingered on her breasts, and then moved back up to her face. He smiled and set the glass down. “Most pleasing.”
She raised her glass and then abruptly lowered it again. Her stomach churned. She felt awful. She threw a glance at her uncle, feeling desperate for escape. “May I be excused?”
Her uncle frowned, looking somewhat bewildered himself. “Of course, niece.”
“Thank you.”
Leona stood and pushed in her chair, then walked briskly to the door, her shoes quiet on the wooden boards of the floor. Out in the hallway, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.
I must be calm. I will relax. He cannot harm me.
She drew in a shaky breath.
I am safe. I am...
“My lady?”
She twisted round, horror giving speed to her motions, as her mind almost refused to recognize the voice.
He followed me!
Indignation vied for a moment with terror. Terror won.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, curtseying as elegantly as she could manage when she felt dizzy with shock.
“I shall not,” he said. He put out a hand, leaning against the wall, his arm blocking her exit to the stairs. She stared up at him. Her face was inches from his, eyes staring into hers intently. “Why do you rush away so?”
Leona whirled round and headed in the other direction. He simply blocked her with his left arm, removing his right. “My lord,” she said in a horrified whisper.
“Will you talk now?” he asked.
Effectively, she was trapped. Leona glared at him, heart pounding with desperation. “Let me pass.”
“Only if you tell me if you wish for what I wish for?”
“And what is that?” Leona asked, fighting for calm. She hated the idea of his presence before her. She could smell the spikenard with which he scented his linen, a sharp, complex scent. She could see the tiny veins in his eye, the fineness of his hair. He was perhaps ten years her senior – a favorable difference in age for a match, or so anyone would tell her. He was a noble, landed and titled. Wealthy beyond what she would have imagined, if even Uncle desired access to his lands.
Yet he repels me.
“I wish for time with you,” he breathed.
Leona looked round desperately, not sure how to answer that. She could not tell the truth, for that would have embarrassed her uncle. Moreover, she could not bring herself to tell him otherwise – that she longed for his presence as he, seemingly, did for hers.
“That is...kind, milord.”
He laughed. “No, it is not. It's most selfish.”
This time, as she tried to move aside, he leaned forward. His body pressed against hers. His mouth fell on her lips.
Leona made a small noise of shock, and then of revulsion as his damp mouth seared over hers, his lips pressed against hers, tongue pushing against her teeth. “Stop, milord!”
She wrenched her head to the side, and when he moved to try and repeat it, she slapped him.
The sound was the only noise in the corridor as the impact died away. He covered the cheek with his hand, concealing the reddening impression of her palm. His eyes narrowed.
Leona looked into his eyes, breath rapid with terror. It had been impulse. She hadn't thought to slap him, had not intended it.
“My...my lord,” she said, looking down at her hands. She was free now, she realized slowly. She stepped to the side, about to race away.
He twisted her toward him, his hand crushing her arm. “When we are wed,” he hissed, “and we will be, make no error,” he paused, “you will pay for this.”
Leona blinked at him. He would threaten violence toward her? How dare he! “You, sir, forget yourself,” she hissed. “You are a guest here! As am I.”
She wrenched sideways, twisting her arm to attempt to break his iron-hard grasp. He released her. He was drawing in rasping breaths, as if he had run far, though neither moved.
“You have impugned me,” he said in that dangerous, velvet voice. “I don't forget.”
“Nor do I,” Leona said softly.
She had no idea where this defiance was coming from, only that, on one hand, she wished it would stop. She could not afford to anger this man, who had power and privilege on his side. She was a newcomer here and, much as she trusted and loved her uncle, he would have limited possibility of helping her if she made this man an enemy. Which she had done.
He was staring at her, black eyes tight slits, about to say something further.
She turned briskly and headed for the stairs.
“My lady! You...”
“Convey my apologies to my uncle, please,” she called. “I am indisposed.”
Not looking to see if he did as she had asked, Leona walked, stiff-backed and furiously, up the stairs. She reached her bedchamber door and went in, leaning against it even after she had dropped the bolt into place.
Now that she was here, she felt the effect of terror. Her whole body trembling, she felt cold, and tired, heart beating.
“I insulted him,” she whispered to herself. “Struck him. He hates me.”
For she had no doubt in her mind that the way he had glared at her showed hate. And she also had no doubt in her mind that he meant his word. He would make her pay.
When we are married, she recalled, shaking. She leaned back and closed her eyes, then opened them. She felt stiff with resolve.
“I will not.”
She would not marry that man for anything. She loved her uncle – she realized that hastily – but not for him, and not for anyone, would she bind herself to him.
And I am not free to be married off as anyone pleases. I am already engaged.
She would wed Conn. She had always known that. He had never asked her: there was no need. He was her betrothed.
And I will ensure that myself.
No one could stop her. No one could make her stay. She would make her own way. She would escape.
Looking around the fine room with its soft rug and fine linen and lacy bed canopy, she felt a stab of regret. It was a gilded prison, light and fine. Nevertheless, it was a prison.
I will not be housed here in waiting for that man.
Still shivering, she reached for the gowns that Allie had laid aside for her, ready-pressed. She drew back the lid of her clothes chest, the one that had traveled with her here. She slid the gowns in alongside five old ones and three new ones, and shut the cask.
I might have to leave them all here, she thought ruefully. But I will escape. I'll take my silver necklace. That would be good for trade, if she could find a blacksmith and persuade him to break it into links for her to use in trading.
She made some quick selections. The gown she wore. The cloak. Her riding boots. The necklace and her hairbrush. Her purse.
Everything else will stay.
She gathered all her belongings and put them to one side, beside the door.
I can run to Aix-sur-la-Lise. That was where Montaigne managed a fortress. If she could reach the place, then she'd be safe.
Making plans, Leona sat down on the bed, thoughts whirling.
My only regret, besides Allie, is Uncle. Allie was settling into the household, it seemed, and it was possible she would be happy to stay. She had confided that the head footman was just the sort she liked, and Leona hoped their relationship had matured in these weeks. At least Allie would be safe.
Leona could write a little, her mother having taught her rudimentary reading and writing as a child. She knew her letters, but had little idea how to spell most words, worse in French.
I could leave Uncle a note, explaining my whereabouts.
It was a difficult undertaking and, she realized, a perilous one. If she left a note for Uncle, who knew if he would keep it to himself, or show his house guests?
Where would she go, in any case? How could she escape?
No, she thought sadly. She could not go. Not yet. She should stay a while and bide her time, make more plans to get from here to Aix. The steward might know of some means to get there – he himself likely traveled it all the time. In addition, it was unthinkable for her to travel unaccompanied. She would have to wait until she could slip away with a band of travelers from here.
“He cannot remain here too much longer,” Leona told herself, meaning the Comte. He would have to return to his own lands at some point.
Whatever he does, I will not be alone with him again. And I will escape.
Before they made her marry him.
There was no other future for her.