The Dandelion Seed by Lena Kennedy Page B

so pale, she felt quite sorry for him. As she thought over the events of the evening, a strange sound reached her ears. It sounded like a tiny cry for help, perhaps from an animal in distress. Almost immediately she thought of the kitten. Had Merlin come down in the night to steal yet another kitten? The thought horrified her but she was too terrified to move. Then again she heard it. It was a deep sob, something or someone was crying. Her soft heart had to know. Creeping from the bed, she opened her door silently. Her bedroom was at the top of a small flight of stairs and down below was a long corridor which ran alongside the guest chambers. As she stepped noiselessly down into the corridor she saw that the door to one of the guest rooms was open and through it emerged a slim figure walking, his hands stretched out in front of him. As he moved, violent sobs convulsed him. Even in the dim light, Marcelle caught a glimpse of the auburn hair. The young man was walking towards the blind end of the passage. When he reached it, he seemed to wake up, for now he was beating his fists on the wall.
    Without a word, Marcelle ran silently up to him and gently turned him to face her. ‘Come sir,’ she said. ‘This way. You have been walking in your sleep, I think.’
    The man clutched at her convulsively. ‘Franci!’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew you would come.’ His words ended in a mutter.
    Marcelle guided the man along the passage to his chamber and tried to coax him through the door. But he held on to her tight, his tears streaming down her bare arm. ‘This way, sir, just a few more steps.’ She piloted him along, humouring him as a nurse would a child. He went quietly holding tightly to her arm and every now and then pressed his burning lips to her bare flesh, now exposed since the bedgown had slipped down from her shoulders.
    ‘Franci, my love,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t leave me ever, not ever again.’ He said these words over and over again.
    Marcelle got him to the bed, but he would not go any further. Instead he knelt on the floor beside the bed and pulled her down with him. Marcelle felt overwhelmed with pity for this young boy; she felt strange flickerings of emotion as he held on to her. She opened her mouth to speak but he covered it quickly with his hand. ‘Hush, my darling, they will hear you and kill you as they are going to me.’ He pulled her closer, covering her with kisses, and Marcelle relaxed as they lay down on a rug of sheepskin beside the bed. Her gown came apart and he pressed his body against her, pouring words of love in her ear. The hot sensuous blood of the Stuarts consumed his body and Marcelle had no chance, not even for a protest. What was happening was wonderful; she could not resist. After a while she began to return his love with equal passion until they tired. Then they curled up and slept close together like two young puppies on a rug.
    The crowing of the red rooster awoke Marcelle in the early hours as it did every morning. But this morning it was different. She had had a strange dream, and what was wrong with her arm? She could not lift it. Turning her head sleepily, she saw to her amazement, a young man’s head with a wealth of red hair resting on her arm. Suddenly she was horrified. It was no dream; it was all true! She had forsaken her virginity for a strange young man. She shuddered and her eyes looked down at her bare white limbs stretched out before her. ‘Oh, Holy Mother,’ she whispered. ‘Dear Virgin, don’t let it be true.’ She pulled out her arm from under his head and reached for her bedgown.
    The young man stirred in his sleep. ‘Don’t go, Franci,’ he whispered.
    Tears trickled down Marcelle’s cheeks as she bent over him and gently pressed her lips to his brow. Taking the rug from the bed, she covered him up and went silently from the room.
    In her own chamber, she had just finished dressing when Annabelle rapped on her door. ‘Come on, sleepyhead,’ she called.