Lenobia's Vow (House of Night Novellas #2)(14)

“Thank you,” she said, and began working her way across the broad body of the gelding with the brush.

There was only a small, uncomfortable silence and then Martin’s voice carried from the other side of the gelding he was tending. “So, cherie, what story I tell you today? The one about how anything you plant in the black dirt of New France grows taller than these petite chevaux, or about the pearls in the tignons of the beautiful placage and how the women they stroll through the square?”

“Tell me about the women—about the placage,” Lenobia said, and then she listened eagerly as Martin painted pictures in her imagination of gorgeous women who were free enough to choose whom they would love, though not free enough to make their unions legal.

Then next morning when she rushed into the cargo hold she found him already grooming the horses. A hunk of cheese and fragrant hot pork between two thick slices of fresh bread sat on a clean cloth near the barrels of oats. Without glancing at her, Martin said, “Eat, cherie. You don’ pretend around me.”

Perhaps that was the morning it changed for Lenobia and she began to think of it as seeing Martin at dawn rather than visiting the horses at dawn. Or, more precisely, perhaps that was when she began to admit the change to herself.

And once it changed for her, Lenobia began searching for signs from Martin that she was more than just his friend—more than ma cherie, the girl he brought food to and who pestered him for stories of New France. But all she found in his gaze was familiar kindness. All she heard in his voice was patience and humor. Once or twice she thought she caught a glimmer of more, especially when they laughed together and the olive green in his eyes seemed to sparkle with flecks of golden brown, but he always turned away if she met his gaze too long, and he always had a humorous story ready if the silences between them became too great.

Just before the small measure of peace and happiness she’d found shattered and her world exploded, Lenobia finally found the courage to ask the question that would not allow her to sleep. It was as she was brushing off her skirts and whispering to the nearest gelding an affectionate a bientôt that she took a deep breath and said, “Martin, I need to ask you a question.”

“What is it, cherie?” he responded absently while he gathered up the curry brushes and linen rags they’d used to wipe down the geldings.

“You tell me stories of the women like your maman—women of color who become placage and live as wives to white men. But what of men of color being with white women? What of male placage?”

From outside the stall his gaze went to hers and she saw his surprise and then amusement, and she knew he was going to humiliate her by laughing. Then he truly looked into her eyes, and his teasing response turned somber. He shook his head slowly from side to side. His voice sounded weary and his broad shoulders seemed to slump. “No, cherie. There are no male placage. Only way a man of color can be with a white woman is if he leave New France and pass as white.”

“Pass as white?” Lenobia felt breathless at her boldness. “You mean to pretend you are white?”

“Oui, but not me, cherie.” Martin held out his arm. It was long and muscular and, in the postdawn light filtering from the deck above, it looked more bronze than brown. “This skin too brown to pass, and I think I am not one for being any more, or less, than I am. Nah, cherie. I be happy in my own skin.” Their gazes held and Lenobia tried to tell him with a look all that she was beginning to wish—all that she was beginning to want. “I see a storm in those gray eyes of yours, cherie. You leave that storm be. You strong, you. But not strong enough to change the way the world think—the way the world believe.”

Lenobia didn’t reply until she’d opened the little half door and exited the Percherons’ stall. She went to Martin, smoothed her skirt, and then looked up into his eyes. “Even the New World?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Cherie, we do not speak of it, but I know you one of the fille à la casquette. You promised to a great man. That true, cherie?”

“It is true. His name is Thinton de Silegne,” she said. “He is a name with no face—no body—no heart.”

“He a name with land, though, cherie. I know his name and his land. His plantation, the Houmas, is like paradise.”

“It is not paradise I want, Martin. It is only y—”

“No!” He stopped her, pressing a finger against her lips. “You cannot speak it, you. My heart, he is strong, but not strong enough to fight your words.”

Lenobia took his hand from her lips and held it in hers. It felt warm and rough, like there was nothing he couldn’t defeat or defend with that hand. “I only ask that your heart listen.”

“Oh, cherie. My heart, he already heard your words. Your heart, she speak them to me. But that as far as they can go—only this silent talk between us.”

“But … I want more,” she said.

“Oui, mon petite chou, I want more, too. But it cannot be. Cecile, we cannot be.”

That was the first time he’d called her by that name since she’d been coming to him at dawn, and the sound of it took her aback, so much so that she dropped his hand and stepped away from him.

He thinks I am Cecile, the legitimate daughter of a baron. Do I tell him? Would it matter? “I—I should go.” She stumbled over the words, completely overwhelmed by the conflicting layers of her life. Lenobia started toward the large cargo deck exit. Behind her, Martin spoke.