[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
sponged the blood away with a cloth dipped in a mixture of alcohol
and water. Then she began wrapping the arm with a clean bandage.
You re a good nurse. He sat on a dressing stool as she fiddled
with the knot. His bare skin was as smooth and pale as ivory, his ath-
lete s body lithely muscled, like a cat s. Absently, she studied the way
his dark hair curled low on his neck.
André s room, which doubled as bedroom and studio, was sunny
and two or three times as big as her own. Claire s eyes wandered
from the easel where the painting of the Cuna woman was still dry-
ing, to the open shelves stocked with paints and unused canvases, to
the dozens of brushes standing on end in pottery jars. André s fin-
ished paintings, perhaps a hundred of them, cluttered the corners
and walls. A brilliant sunset over Lim n Bay. A rusting piece of
machinery, abandoned in the jungle. A street girl, leaning sad-eyed
against a windowsill.
79
Elizabeth Lane
André, they re good, she said. They re so good. Take them back
to Paris. You don t need Philippe!
Sadly he shook his head. That s where you re wrong. I want to
paint. Not just dabble at it on Sunday afternoons in the park. I want to
paint! Like Leonardo! Rembrandt! Renoir! So I leave Philippe and go
back to Paris He extended his open hand and clenched it slowly
into a closed fist. Not another sou! That s Philippe! He lifted his
shoulders and dropped them, making the sunlight dance on his mar-
ble skin. Don t misunderstand me, Claire. I m not afraid of work. But
if I have to work in order to live, I ll have only the leftovers to give to
my painting. That s not enough.
I could talk to Philippe, she volunteered. Maybe . . .
André stood up impatiently and paced over to the big, rumpled bed
that stood in one corner of the room. You could try, but it wouldn t
help. I know. Even Angélique tried His mouth twisted into a
quick grimace. You mean well, Claire, and I thank you for that. But
I m resigned to living here as Philippe s pet rabbit for a little longer at
least. When the time comes He spun on his heel and glared
stormily out the window at the darkening sky. When the time comes,
even Philippe won t be able to stop me!
He stood with his broad back to her, arms folded across his chest.
Without her willing it, her eyes followed the curving bands of muscle
that ran along both sides of his spine, to where they disappeared
beneath the waistband of his white, linen trousers. With a liquid
movement, he turned and sat down on the edge of the bed. His eyes
were amber. Don t move! he commanded.
Standing beside the dressing stool, Claire wet her lips with her
tongue. Something was pounding on the inside of her ears. André rose
to his feet and glided toward her. Perfect, he murmured. Almost.
Reaching out with his hand, he lifted her trembling chin, tilting her
face up toward his. Don t be frightened, little bird, he whispered.
Don t fly away . . . there! He stepped back, beaming mysteriously.
Now, don t move! Swinging toward a nearby table, he seized a pad
of paper and a stick of charcoal and sat back down on the bed, bal-
ancing the pad on one knee.
I just had to catch you like that, he said. The light on your hair,
your hands against your waist . . . With a few quick strokes, he set
up the outlines of his sketch.
80
Drums of Darkness
Claire s heart slid back into its proper place. For that moment when
his long fingers had lifted her chin, she had actually thought that
André was going to kiss her. And with the earth still fresh on Paul s
grave! Suddenly she felt very tired, very much at the mercy of her cir-
cumstances. She wanted to break and run, to hide in the warm cocoon
of Paul s love that had been there for her all these years. But she was
alone. She was a widow now. And the comfort of a man s arms could
only be bought at the price of excruciating shame.
André concentrated on his work, saying little. From time to time he
allowed her to rest and to see the progress of the sketch. The likeness
was perfect. More than perfect. Were her eyes really so alive? Her neck
so long and so gracefully bent?
Outside, the sky blackened and erupted into a boiling tempest that
set the palm fronds to flying like feathers in the wind and turned the
yard below into a dancing sea of raindrops. The rain pounded the roof
and the windows with a symphony of hammer blows. As André got
up to fasten the windows, there was a faint shout from outside.
Philippe s home, he said with a frown. He went to the wardrobe and
pulled out a clean shirt to cover the evidence of his bandaged arm. As
he fastened the final button, the front door slammed shut below.
André winked at Claire. If you d rather not have my brother catch
you in a gentleman s bedroom
Oh ! Her hand went to her mouth and André laughed out
loud. You re right! she murmured, edging toward the door.
Well, then, hasta luego, as they say down here. See you at dinner,
Claire. He seemed cheerfully determined to see her out and she went
willingly. The thought of Philippe s finding them together in André s
room was, to say the least, an uncomfortable one, although she was
not sure why.
The yellow chintz bedroom welcomed her. She leaned against the
closed door and studied her reflection in the oval mirror above the
dresser. Her checks were flushed, her hair whipped into becoming
tendrils that wreathed her face with softness. She looked like André s
sketch. Pretty, she thought guiltily. She had no right to look pretty
when Paul was dead. In more primitive societies, widows rolled in the
ashes. They cut off their hair and gouged their cheeks with their nails.
Claire sighed. For the first time, she could see that such barbarities
served a good purpose.
81
Elizabeth Lane
Angélique s clothes were laid across the back of a chair. Claire
brushed through them absently, stopping to finger a pale pink voile
edged with tiny tucks. Airy, floating dresses, made for a fairy
princess. She would feel strange in them, she thought, like a little girl
playing dress-up.
Paul had deplored the practice of wearing black for mourning. He d
said so many times, with the smug detachment that the young and
healthy have toward the idea of their own deaths. He would never
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]