Lion of Languedoc by Margaret Pemberton Page A

towards the mare, intending to saddle it. ‘The cart,’ Marietta said briefly, ‘and both the mules.’
    The stable boy stared.
    â€˜Oh for goodness’ sake be quick about it,’ Marietta said exasperatedly, ‘ or it will be noon before I leave!’
    The stable boy debated whether it was worth risking a thick ear by letting his hand linger on her waist on the pretext of helping her into the cart, and was cheated of the chance as she sprang on to the rough wood seat unaided and grasped the reins. He stared fascinated at well-shaped bare feet. No lady would travel thus, and yet the de Villeneuves treated her as an equal and she certainly had high ideas of herself. There was as much chance of tumbling her in the straw like Cécile or Lili as tumbling Madame de Villeneuve herself.
    Intrigued, he watched as the shabby cart trundled out through the courtyard and across the drawbridge. Barefoot or not, Marietta held herself like a queen. He wondered if the Comte had enjoyed the pleasures so firmly denied himself and grinned lasciviously. There could be no other reason for her being at Chatonnay. Hell and the Devil, but he wished he’d been born a man with money! The sight of Marietta’s high rounded breasts had put all thought of work out of his head.
    He threw the saddle he was cleaning to one side and crept round to the kitchen door. With a bit of luck Cécile would be able to slip away from Mathilde’s suspicious eyes and sneak into the back of the stables with him. She was short and dumpy, but it was dark in the stables and a man had to use his imagination. When the Comte had had his fill of the Riccardi wench she wouldn’t be quite so high and mighty, and could very well be glad of his attentions.
    Living in hope, he whistled softly through the open back door and was rewarded by seeing Cécile’s plain face light up as she gave a quick look round to ensure no one was watching, and then hurried towards him.
    Montpellier was hot and crowded, and it took Marietta the best part of the morning to haggle for the goats she wanted. The stupid animals had no desire to jump into the cart voluntarily, and only with much help and ribaldry from the local stallholders did she manage to herd the protesting goats into the wooden cart. Even then her troubles were not over. The animals smelt abominably and nosed their way over her shoulder and beneath her arm as she urged the mules through the narrow streets and out on to the dusty road to Chatonnay.
    If she’d had any sense she would have stayed with Ninette Brissac and asked Armand to bring the wretched animals himself, she thought savagely as an ungrateful animal gave her a nip on the arm.
    It was past midday, and the light was clear with a luminosity that Marietta had never seen anywhere else but in Languedoc. The sun-scorched track wound through olive groves and fig trees, and Marietta raised her face to the sun and tried to ignore the reek and clamour of the goats. From behind her came the thundering of hooves and the crack of a whip and she turned her head to see an outrider and a team of beautifully matched greys with scarlet plumes drawing an impressive carriage. Hastily she urged the mules out of the way to let the splendid equipage pass.
    It didn’t. Instead it halted and the outrider, magnificent in black velvet with falls of lace at throat and cuff and knee-high boots of gleaming black leather reined in and said furiously, ‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’
    Marietta gritted her teeth, pushed an inquisitive goat away from her neck and said: ‘Providing Chatonnay with goats for milk, which is something you should have done long ago!’
    Léon’s face was white with anger. ‘ Hell’s light, aren’t there men enough to ferry goats without you making a public spectacle of yourself?’
    From the windows of the coach two occupants watched, one in amusement, the other in