stiffly than before. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Then put it on,” she ordered. “I have been a married woman. I have seen a man in a nightshirt before. You won’t shock me.”
The humor of the situation suddenly struck him. He was sounding as if he was a virgin, he thought. His mouth quirked into a smile. Very well, he thought, if he wasn’t going to scandalize her in his nightshirt he would be very much more comfortable than he would be sleeping in his clothes.
“All right,” he said. He lifted his portmanteau onto the bed, extracted a nightshirt and turned his back. “I won’t turn around until you tell me I can,” he said.
“Good.” He heard her walking toward the wardrobe. Silence fell as he removed his clothing and slid the nightshirt over his head. The bedroom was cold and he moved quickly. It was about three minutes before he heard her say, “All right. You can look now.”
He turned around and she was wearing a long white flannel gown with a collar and buttons. Her hair was still fixed into a coronet around her small head. “You can have the bed. I’ll fit in the trundle bed much better than you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of taking your bed,” he said with surprise. “No gentleman would consign a lady to a cot while he slept in comfort.”
“You may be a gentleman, but I’m not a lady,” Gabrielle said. “I’m a practical woman who works for her living. And it’s ridiculous to fold you up on that bed when I shall be perfectly comfortable there.”
As if to prove her point, she went over to the trundle and sat down. Then she reached up and began to remove the pins from her braids. “Go ahead,” she said. “Get into bed. It’s cold in this room and your legs are bare.”
He was slightly scandalized. There was no other way to put it. Leo was far from being a virgin, but he was a little off balance with this girl who coped so matter-offactly with their intimacy.
“What about the dog?” he asked.
“She always sleeps on the bed. She won’t bother you. You have plenty of room.”
Slowly he pulled the covers back from the bed and got in. He watched in silence as she unbraided her hair and let it fall loose around her shoulders and down her back. Then she took a ribbon and tied it at the nape of her neck.
She caught him looking at her. “Good night, Leo,” she said pointedly.
“Good night…Gabrielle,” he replied.
She nodded with satisfaction. “That is the first time you have said my name. It’s not so bad, is it? Will you blow the candle out?”
He blew the candle out and listened to the small sounds she made as she pulled the covers up around her and settled herself to sleep.
Well, he thought, the important thing is to get the gold to Wellington. If I have to put up with a snip of a girl ordering me around I suppose I can endure it.
The bulk of Colette was warm against his chilly feet. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Gabrielle woke in the middle of the night, something that was unusual for her. For a moment she was disoriented, finding herself in a strange bed. Then she remembered that she was in the trundle bed and she also remembered who was sharing the room with her.
Leo. It suited him, she thought, a big golden lion of a man. And his eyes—never had she seen that shade of aquamarine. There was an aloof look in those eyes, however. She knew he was not happy to be joining a circus.
Perhaps he is the younger son of some great lord, she thought. Perhaps that is why he sought to make the army his career.
She lay quietly and listened. The room was silent. If she listened very carefully she could hear Leo breathing.
He doesn’t snore. That’s nice. André used to snore and I would have to push him to turn him over.
Her thoughts turned to her dead husband and sadness overcame her. He had been so full of energy, André. It wasn’t fair that life had been taken from him at such a young age.
Two years ago he was alive. Two years ago we shared a room together, and now I share it with this stranger, this cold Englishman who thinks he is better than the rest of us.
How he had looked when she told him to turn his back and undress! She swallowed a giggle. The circus will take the starch out of him, she thought. I’ll see to that.
Five
When Gabrielle arose the following morning Leo heard her and sat up in bed. It was still dark.
“We need to be on the road early,” she said. She lit a candle. “I want to be in Amiens by late afternoon. Turn your back so I can get dressed. Then I will get out of your way.”
He obliged and listened to the sounds she made as she got into her clothes. Then she said, “All right.”
He turned to look at her and found her clad in high boots, a brown divided skirt and a white, long-sleeved shirt. “Come downstairs when you are ready and Emma will prepare you breakfast,” she said.
He watched her small, straight, slender back disappear out the door, followed by her dog, then he got up and opened the package of clothing they had bought yesterday. He took out a coarse cotton shirt and regarded it with distaste. It pulled on over the head and had a tie at the neck. He put the shirt on and then his breeches. The shirt was loose and billowed out of his tight breeches.
I must look a sight, he thought ruefully. If Fitz and the others could see me now, how they would laugh.
He pulled on his boots and went down to the kitchen to see what was for breakfast.
Emma was in the kitchen with her dogs when he entered. “Good morning, Leo,” she said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, I did,” he replied courteously.
Six dogs looked at him, but none came to sniff him. They remained where they were, curled up on an old quilt under the window.
Emma got up from her chair and went to the counter. “There is coffee and bread and butter,” she said.
He was used to an English breakfast, with eggs and meat, and the proffered bread seemed rather paltry. But, “That will be fine” was all he said, and let her pour him his coffee and add milk in the French way. Then he took his plate and went to the table.
“Where is everyone else?” he asked as he took a long drink of the coffee.
“Getting the wagons ready,” she replied.
“There looked to be quite a few wagons in the field,” he remarked. “How many are in the caravan?”
“Let me think.” She frowned slightly. “I have a wagon, the Robichons have two wagons, and the Martins—they are the tightrope dancers—have one. The Maroni brothers—they are the tumblers—have one, and Sully, our clown, shares a wagon with Paul Gronow, our juggler. Luc Balzac has a wagon. Then there is the bandwagon. That makes eight, I believe.
