The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) by Philippa Lodge Page B

and cravat with me and won’t be able to be seen by anyone but my mother until my trunks arrive this evening.”
    “The baronesse should have all my court things with her. I’ll get tidied up and slip right back in. No one will even notice I was gone.”
    She shivered slightly at how little anyone would miss her if she never came back. She felt the urge again to run to Normandy. Maybe she would tell Monsieur Emmanuel to keep riding and take her home. Someone else could have her frocks.
    She sighed and leaned her head against Monsieur Emmanuel’s back, which flipped the other side of her hat up so the sun shone in her eyes. He smelled like sweat and horse again. She remembered how it had felt to have him pull her out of the coach. His arm around her had made her feel safe, and not just because she wouldn’t fall. The sweat and horse smell was not so offensive, after all. She slid her arm around him, her pulse accelerating with the hard muscle she could feel and the way his body flexed as he kept them both steady.
    ****
    Emmanuel stank, and he knew it. Under the midday sun, a drop of sweat trickled down his side, tickling his ribs. Humidity and stink rose from the road and fields and trees. He wanted to remove some layers. Maybe his coat, which while rough, rustic, and not very clean, was all that differentiated him from the peasant who had caused their accident. The heat and humidity made his chest tight.
    Part of his trouble breathing was the strength with which Mademoiselle de Fouet held his waist. She wasn’t holding on too tightly, but he was overly conscious of her arms around his waist and her body pressed against his back, her breasts, specifically, with only a light corset and wispy linen separating her from him. And every now and then she would lean her head against him and sigh.
    He was glad he had his coat on, no matter how hot he got, since his breeches fit uncomfortably. If he didn’t focus on the road and the surroundings and the other men, he would think of lying in a bed with her arms wrapped around him, sighing in contentment.
    He was still angry with her gossip the night before. He could enjoy her touch and still be wary. Though having slept on his anger, he was starting to think he had overreacted. Perhaps away from the court and from his mother and her cabal, Mademoiselle de Fouet would be perfect. He smiled again at her comment about cannon fire. Of course, his mother could be witty, as well. He sighed.
    He called for a halt at the inn a league on from where they had crashed. He told the innkeeper their troubles and gave the name of the peasant who had helped them and who would be coming with their trunks. They’d been lucky in their chance-met acquaintance, the innkeeper said, since he had the strongest ox in the country. Manu didn’t tell him that if they hadn’t met the peasant on the narrow, muddy stretch of road, they wouldn’t have slipped off the edge of it. He should have insisted the peasant back up even further instead of telling the coachman to take the risk. Manu’s gut twisted. He had failed, and his father would be angry.
    Manu paid for stabling, rooms for the guards and coachman who were coming along behind them in the ox cart, and a deposit to the turner and blacksmith for the axle. Mademoiselle de Fouet set her clothing to rights and paid for dinner for everyone while he was busy.
    “Non, Mademoiselle.” He knew he was protesting to the air. “I’ll take care of everything.”
    She sat up straight, regal in her muddied traveling clothes. “You would not have had the coach if you had not had me along. The least I can do is provide dinner.”
    He wasn’t angry that she was along, after all. He wished he had insisted on bringing his own smaller, lighter coach, even though Papa had sent a note asking him to deliver the coach to Versailles. Manu could have had the coachman bring the big coach along later. Manu hoped to be gone before his father arrived at court anyway, though