Dancing the Maypole Read Online Free PDF Page A

trying to engender
pity by pretending to faint. Against his judgement his arms reached
out to catch her, but a boy wearing a miniature straw hat leapt
forward and grabbed her before she hit the floor. The fact the boy
happened to find smelling salts hanging around her neck made it
seem even more like a performance. “Do you expect me to applaud
this p-p-pathetic charade? Out!” What was he saying? He felt
imprisoned in a tower. He was peering down through a barred window
at his adored mistress who’d travelled far to see him, but his
heartless jailer had turned her away.
    The boy stood
up and tilted back his head revealing an enraged miniature
Frenchman. “Franchement, tu es une grande vache stupide! We are de
Bourbons…et toi?” The small beautiful face withered with scorn as
the final word addressed in the familiar punctuated his
contempt.
    Being called a
big stupid cow in acidic French on top of the morning’s insults
caused an avalanche of bile into Peter’s heart. Thanks to his
children, loneliness stretched into the horizon. No sane woman
would want him unless she was illiterate and too deaf to hear
whispers of his unsuitability. He’d spend the rest of his life
fending off women like the wanton Delilah or giant women in search
of a tall man. “I d-don’t c-care who you are. Leave and t-take the
maypole with you.” The part of him peering down from the tower
watched in horror as he was denied any hope of holding her.
    “If you weren’t
such an idiot, I’d call you out.”
    “Louis!” Her
purported brother bent over the woman sobbing into the carpet. “I
want to die…”
    “Die later,
when we’ve left this big cow behind. You should have married that
short German prince while you had the chance.”
    “I can’t
breathe…je suis malade…”
    “You’ll be sick
in gaol if we don’t escape this big idiot. He thinks we’ve come to
steal his Sheffield plate. I’ve never been so insulted.” With great
effort, he pulled her to her feet and turned her towards the door.
Leaning heavily on her brother’s shoulder, she covered her face
with her free arm and blindly stumbled as he helped her out of the
room. “Breathe and don’t look back. You don’t want that big vache
to see you weep. He’ll think you wanted to be his wife.”
    At their
present shuffle, it would be twenty minutes before the pair reached
the front door. Peter had to get the woman out of his house, out of
sight, and out of reach. His emotional barometer was falling fast.
The woman’s nearness was making him feel light headed. The shape of
her bent shoulders recalled the repeating nightmare where his dream
lover walked away without looking back. Enraged by conflicting
emotions, he heaved the lady over his shoulder like a sack of
flour. Exultant at her nearness, his trembling legs threatened to
run for the staircase and up to his chamber.
    Strangled sobs
ceased as the woman went limp, her arms lightly flailing against
his backside as he carried her past gawping servants. Holding her
long, shapely legs firmly against his chest, he ordered the footman
to open the door. Stepping outside he stopped in surprise. On his
way into the house, in his blind rage he’d somehow missed his
visitor’s entourage. A coachman, two dismounted outriders, two
liveried footmen, a groom and a ladies’ maid seated inside the
carriage; all stared in horror at the shapely derrière perched on
his shoulder. One of the outriders crossed himself and muttered a
prayer in French to Saint Barbara. The heaviness of Peter’s stomach
insisted it wasn’t the outrider who needed to fear a sudden death.
The insensible woman draped over her shoulder might have a father
or uncle who’d view her unorthodox exit as a personal insult worthy
of a duel.
    What had he
done? What was he doing? Peter’s legs twitched as he nearly turned
and carried the insensible woman back inside, but the maid leapt
from the carriage and rushed to her mistress, beckoning the footmen
to help