“Enough, please.” Her voice shook. Her body trembled with the same pleasure that had awakened her to the sea woman’s song.
“As you prefer.”
Riding in the cool forest shade, she regained her composure. “Count Lucien, if M. de Lorraine loves men — what does he want with me?”
“M. de Lorraine does not so much love men, or women, as himself and his own interest.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me? Warn me?”
“Perhaps because you didn’t ask.”
“I always asked questions, when I was a child.” She met his transparent grey gaze. “I delighted in asking.”
“You may ask me whatever you like, Mlle de la Croix, and if I know the answer I will tell you.”
Zachi snorted. Undergrowth crackled nearby.
“There she is, our lost Mlle de la Croix!”
Lorraine, Chartres, and Berwick burst out of the forest, whipping their lathered horses. Chartres forced his mount ahead of the others.
“I thought you’d been eaten by a bear!” Chartres cried. He aimed for Marie-Josèphe, but found himself separated from her by Zelis and Count Lucien. His horse tossed its head. Bloody foam flew from the bit.
“Bears are shy,” Marie-Josèphe said. “They’ll never harm you, unless you provoke them. Unlike other predators.”
“The provocation is so delightful,” Chartres said. “I may die of a broken heart.”
Berwick and Lorraine spurred their powerful, exhausted horses up close behind Zachi and Zelis.
“Mind her heels,” Count Lucien said, for Zelis laid her ears flat back in irritation. Lorraine and Berwick forced their stallions to lag a step or two.
“What an animal!” Berwick exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such speed as this bay possesses. Mlle de la Croix, you must sell the creature to me.”
“I must not, sir, as Zachi isn’t mine.”
“Is it the King’s horse? He’ll give it to me, I’m his cousin.”
The relationship was more intricate, but Marie-Josèphe could not remember exactly what it was; it was, as well, complicated by Berwick’s bastardy.
“Berwick,” Chartres said with condescension, “these petit horses all belong to Chrétien.”
Lorraine guffawed. “Who else would they belong to?”
“It may be too small, but it’s marvellously swift. Monarch will cover her. Their issue will win every race —”
“That’s impossible, M. de Berwick,” Count Lucien said. “You may send a mare to my stud in Finisterre, if you covet a foal with some qualities of the desert Arabian.”
“No, no, that won’t do, your stud on my mare? Absurd.”
“Somehow,” Lorraine said, “he would manage.”
“M. de Lorraine, M. de Berwick,” Chartres said severely, “you are in the presence of a lady.”
Marie-Josèphe almost burst out laughing at Chartres’ hypocrisy, but she feared the men would take her for an hysteric. This time, they would not be so far wrong.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” Berwick said offhand, mixing his languages, never taking his attention from Count Lucien. “Chrétien, you must sell me this bay mare!”
“Must I?”
“I’ll give you ten thousand louis!”
“Do you mistake me, sir, for a horse-trader?”
The French aristocracy did not engage in trade. Count Lucien’s voice contained no anger, but from that moment Marie-Josèphe never doubted he was a dangerous man.
“Not at all, not at all!” Berwick strove to retract the insult. “But an arrangement between noblemen, an exchange —”
“I do not part with these horses. They were a gift. Were Zachi to bear a foal from any sire but her own desert breed, her bloodline would never be pure again.”
“Ridiculous!”
“The sheik believed it. I choose to respect his beliefs. I will not part with the mares: I gave my word.”
“Your word!” Berwick exclaimed. “You gave your word to a Mahometan? No Christian need keep such a promise!”
Even Chartres and Lorraine flinched. Marie-Josèphe stared at Berwick in shock.
“No doubt that’s true,” Count Lucien said coldly. “But I am not a Christian.”
Berwick laughed. No one joined in his hilarity. He retreated into an uncomfortable silence.
“Let us return to the hunt.” Count Lucien impelled Zelis forward with sudden urgency.
Marie-Josèphe spoke to Zachi, freeing her to run. The two Arabians galloped together, outdistancing the three stallions that Zachi had raced to exhaustion.
Marie-Josèphe followed Count Lucien through the straggled hunting party. The huntsmen and gun-bearers bowed him past; the courtiers on horseback gave way for His Majesty’s adviser. He approached His Majesty’s caleche, where Mme de Maintenon spoke intently to His Majesty and His Holiness. Her animation enlivened her, as if she were in her favorite place, Saint-Cyr, instructing her beloved students. Monsieur spoke flirtatiously to Yves, who valiantly attended to Mme de Maintenon’s discourse without snubbing Monsieur.
Madame rode behind the King, chatting and laughing with her ladies, who rode in a caleche and wore grand habit.
“Do you ride with Madame,” Count Lucien said. “Chartres cannot misbehave too badly in her sight, or the formidable lady will turn him over her knee, and Lorraine as well.”
Marie-Josèphe wished it were true; she wished Count Lucien would ride beside her back to the chateau.
“Thank you,” she said. “You must attend His Majesty —”
“I must send for M. de Baatz’ salve,” Count Lucien said. “Return to your apartment, rest — I’ll have the salve brought to you.”
“I cannot. The sea woman is alone —”
“Someone else can feed her.”
“— and lonely. If I don’t tend to her, I’ll arouse comment — they’ll think I’m ill!”
“The Fountain of Apollo, then.” He tipped his hat courteously, rode ahead, paused to send a musketeer galloping off toward the chateau, then allowed Zelis to take him briskly to his place at His Majesty’s side.
Marie-Josèphe hoped Count Lucien’s salve would soothe her arm. The purple streaks stretched across her palm.
I mustn’t let anyone else see, she thought as she joined Madame, or they’ll send for Dr. Fagon...