The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [122]
He frowned. No, it wasn’t, but it had been what he’d said.
“I wish you to arrange yourself. I am hungry. It is time for luncheon.” He left her then, going into his own bedchamber, closing the adjoining door behind him. She sat there, staring after him.
“Merde,” she said.
CHAPTER
21
DOUGLAS CAME AWAKE suddenly. He didn’t know what had awakened him, but one instant he was deep in a dream, in a heavy skirmish near Pena, the French drawing closer and closer to his flank, and the next, he was staring into the darkness, breathing fast. He shook his head and automatically turned to reach for Alexandra.
His hand landed on smooth sheets. Foolishly, he ran his hands over her pillow and on the blankets bunched up at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t there. She was gone. He felt panic surge, raw and painful in his belly. Dear God, Georges Cadoudal had taken her.
No, that was absurd. Georges couldn’t have gotten into the house, up here into the bedchamber, and taken her, all without waking him. No, it was impossible.
Douglas was still wrapping the belt around his dark blue velvet dressing gown when he walked quickly downstairs, his feet bare and soundless on the heavy carpet. Where the devil could she have gone?
He quietly looked into the two salons, the breakfast room, the huge formal dining room. He paused in the wide entrance hall, frowning. Then, he walked quickly back toward the library. He stopped, seeing the flicker of light coming from beneath the door.
Very quietly, he turned the knob and looked in.
Alexandra was sitting at his desk, a candle at her left elbow, an open book in front of her. She was concentrating fiercely, her forehead furrowed.
He was on the point of charging in and demanding what the devil she was doing when he heard her say quite clearly, “So that is what merde means. Well, well, it is certainly bad enough and Douglas was right. It would relieve a person’s spleen splendidly and very quickly.” She said the word several times, then added aloud, “Of course it won’t do much good in the long run. Come on, my girl, let’s get to it.”
He had a difficult time to keep the laughter in his throat, but he managed, for now she had begun repeating aloud in poor but understandable French, “I won’t go. Je ne vais pas. He won’t go. Il ne va pas. They won’t go. Ils ne vont pas.”
He stared. What the devil?
She was trying to teach herself French. All because she wanted to help him if she could.
Douglas simply stood there, staring at his wife, slowly shaking his head, grappling with what he saw and what was happening to him. Something deep and sweet began to fill him, something he hadn’t felt before in his life, something new and wondrous and rich, something he’d never expected simply because he hadn’t realized there was something to be felt and he hadn’t known . . . hadn’t known that he was lacking.
He continued to stare at her. She was sitting there in her white nightgown with its collar to her chin, her dark red hair in a braid that fell over her right shoulder. She was using her hands as she repeated the words in French. The candlelight flickered over her face, making her eyes luminous, breaking shadows on her cheeks and hair. She continued speaking, repeating endlessly the same phrases, over and over.
He could understand the French. If he really tried.
“I am helping him. Je l’aide. Ah, what is this?” She fell silent, then said very softly, “I love him. Je l’aime. I love Douglas. J’aime Douglas. I love my husband. J’aime mon mari.”
He stood there, letting the feelings expand and overflow in him, and then he smiled, a gentle smile that he could feel inside himself, and even that smile warmed him, made him feel incredibly lucky and that smile of his was his acceptance of her, of what she was to him and of what he knew he would always feel for her, his wife.
Very quietly he closed the door and walked thoughtfully back upstairs. He lay awake, reveling in