Mélisande

By Philippa Lodge

Lucas de Granville—pious, respectable, impoverished, lonely—will do nearly anything for the godfather who raised him, even though his godfather doesn’t seem to want to do anything for him. Melisande—mundane, illegitimate, dirt poor, lonely—will do nearly anything to make sure her mother and brother have shelter and food, even though they are critical of her lack of magical talent. When Melisande’s father, a pious comte, sends his godson Lucas to bring her to Versailles and help him train her to be a fine, staunchly religious lady, their attraction is immediate, but so is their distrust. Her eagerness to get as much money as she can as quickly as possible gradually changes into a wish for something higher, better, and holier. Something that Lucas can help her achieve: love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jul 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509215171

Philippa Lodge

Philippa Lodge has been an avid reader since she asked her mother to point out where it said “Ma” in Little House in the Big Woods. She read everything she could get her hands on, with an emphasis on mysteries, until grad school in French Studies, with an emphasis on seventeenth century. After that, she lost her reading mojo. Only through the twin discoveries of Harry Potter and romance has she gotten her groove back. So it seems natural that she has turned to writing paranormal romances, sometimes with suspense. And toss in some French historicals, set in the time of Louis XIV and we pretty much cover everything. If they were set in the Big Woods, she'd have come full circle. She lives in the suburbs of Sacramento, CA with her husband, three children, and a head full of ghosts, werewolves, and courtesans. She edits the bi-monthly newsletter for her local chapter of the Romance Writers of America.

Book preview

Inc.

Did I startle you? I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. Luc stepped from the long shadows cast by the single dim candle in the hall. He bowed slightly. Is there anything I can help you with?

She saw the moment he realized she was in a dressing gown, because his eyes shot up to stare at the wall over her head.

Her cheeks heated in a deep blush. I need to call Blandine for help.

His breath caught on a gasp. His eyes skimmed down to where her fingers dug into the dressing gown before flicking to the side. He cleared his throat. I will help you.

She could feel the pulse pound in her neck and a blush burning her face as his eyes flicked back to meet hers, and then she was falling into the brown of those eyes. Mélisande reached out a hand and touched his. He grasped it and raised it to his lips, placing what should have been a chaste kiss on her fingers.

Chaste, if he hadn’t lingered so long, his breath warming her bare fingers as he brought his gaze up to look into her eyes again.

The heat spread from her face and down into her belly and legs, melting her knees until they wobbled.

Praise for Philippa Lodge

Unique and different…compelling and intriguing …Overall, I loved how Ms. Lodge plots the story and her characters come to life for me. I really felt like I was in King Louis’ court and the French countryside. The twists and turns…make for an awesome read…I can’t wait to read more from Ms. Lodge in the future.

~Harlie’s Books (4.5 Stars)

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Books in the Chateaux and Shadows series

by Philippa Lodge

available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

The Indispensable Wife

The Honorable Officer

The Chevalier

Henri et Marcel

Mélisande

Mélisande

by

Philippa Lodge

Chateaux and Shadows, Book Five

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Mélisande

COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Phyllis Laatsch

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Tea Rose Edition, 2017

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1516-4

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1517-1

Châteaux and Shadows, Book Five

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

I write a lot of awful mothers,

but my own mom is great. Thanks, Mom!

And to my kids,

who (I hope) don’t think I’m an awful mother.

Acknowledgements

Any book takes more than an isolated writer to write and edit and publish. Everyone is a well of past and current experience, memories, and emotions. The experiences that formed this work include those given by my professors at Hiram College, especially the late, great Roland Layton, who taught a class on French history, taught me the word facetious, asked us the color of Napoleon’s white horse (it’s a trick question), and invited us to his home to have dinner. But also, of course, the still alive, but no less great French professor, Madame Liliane Akers, who dragged us French majors through a ten-week Senior Seminar covering most of Molière’s plays. And yes, this one is inspired by Tartuffe (subtitle: ou l’Imposteur, often translated as either Imposter or Hypocrite).

More recently, my help has come from my critique partners, Donna and Diane, who, though they didn’t read this particular book, have helped me immensely over the past seven years. And from Denise, who did read this book while I tried to be of some assistance on her doctoral thesis on an Elizabethan poet I had never heard of. And Molly, Priya, and Jen, who read an early draft.

And my editor, Nan Swanson, who helps me with good humor and gave me a good recommendation for a day job, even though it’s taking away from my writing time.

Chapter One

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in France, there was a witch with no magic.

Mélisande!

The stranger’s shout echoed inside the damp walls of the tiny house she shared with her mother and her younger brother. If it were the house’s owner, who didn’t know they were squatting there, he wouldn’t have known her name. That didn’t mean the voice wasn’t trouble.

Her gut whispered unease. Well, who wouldn’t have a whisper of unease about a strange man shouting one’s name? In one’s home. After being the object of attention of more than one lecherous oaf in the streets. And the target of religious people.

She leaned her stubby straw broom in the corner and peeked up the hall, glad to be shrouded in darkness, grateful for the first time that there was no window except for the tiny, grimy one looking onto the narrow, dark street.

The front door stood open, letting in cold wind, the reek of filth, and weak evening light which left the man as nothing but a silhouette. Even so, Mélisande had another frisson of what her mother would have called premonition but was probably just fear. She was trapped in her house by a large, faceless man with a booming voice. What was not to frisson about?

She drew back into the tiny bedchamber, hoping he hadn’t seen her. The front door scraped and thumped shut, leaving her in complete darkness. She waited, pressed against the wall much like the plaster: crumbling away from the inside. She held her breath and listened.

Maybe he’d left.

A footstep. Of course he hadn’t left; that would be too simple. This was more than her everyday fear: fear the other witches would discover she wasn’t one of them, fear they would starve, fear they would be arrested, fear a man would pull her into a dark room and rape her. Everything could go wrong in a heartbeat.

Footsteps in the front room, where her mother read palms and sold the potions her uncle—her half-brother’s uncle—made. She hoped the yelling man hadn’t tracked anything foul in, as she had just scrubbed those rotting floorboards.

A pause as the man listened. At least there was only one man, and Mélisande had a sharp pair of scissors, which rattled against the tabletop as she picked them up.

Mélisande?

The voice was softer now. Kinder. Lilting. Tempting. The man was going to try to lure her from her hiding place. She hoped he meant her no harm.

A scuff and heavier step as the man tripped on the uneven floor. He halted at the head of the hall, only a few feet from her.

"Ecoutez." He cleared his throat, waiting for her to say she was listening.

Oh, she was listening, but she was hoping he would leave.

He cleared his throat again. She should offer him a tisane of ginger and honey. She shook her head at her rambling thoughts, swishing her hair against the wall.

Right. I was told you were here. Your mother said you would welcome my news. I’m sorry, but… Well, my shouting is unforgiveable. Your brother and mother angered me on purpose, I believe. They said I wouldn’t find you unless you wanted to be found. I suppose it’s true, what with witchcraft…

He paused, listening. Probably expecting her to blast him with a curse. Too bad the worst curse she had ever doled out was when she was ten and made her brother’s nose bleed. Of course, the blood was frm the cup she’d hurled at him at the same time.

Your father wishes to claim you. I’m to take you to Versailles.

****

Once upon a time, there was a French nobleman who didn’t belong anywhere: a younger son with no portion, fostered with his godfather.

Someone gasped softly in the dark room to Lucas de Granville’s left. She really was there. Or someone was, anyway. Some woman.

If it was the right woman, the bastard witch daughter of the Comte d’Yquelon, and she came with him, the count had promised Luc a reward. He needed new breeches and a new hat for Easter and was counting on the supplement to his tiny allowance to buy the fabric.

Of course, the girl would get a larger reward, eventually. If she could be trained and refined and her soul purged of evil, d’Yquelon would give her a large dowry. Luc smiled sourly, sure the woman would be a hag and thoroughly wrapped in satanic rituals. Her mother had been positively deranged and her brother snide and crude.

Three feet from him, a girl slipped out of dark gloom into the slightly lighter gloom, her footsteps silent and her pale bodice picking up just enough light so she appeared to float like a ghost, her face a skull in the shadow. Only by the way she raised her arm did he notice she was holding something—a knife? He staggered back, flinging out his hands to hold her off.

He really hadn’t meant to die in a dirty, smelly back alley of Paris while running an errand for his godfather. He stumbled over the uneven floor again, catching himself on the wall beside the door. She stepped into the feeble light from the oilcloth-covered window, and he caught his breath.

He had seen her in a dream the night before as he tossed and turned and dozed intermittently in the rundown inn on the edge of this slum. Dark hair, pale skin, and irises so light they appeared almost white. In his dream, he had been fascinated and frightened. He shook his head to clear his mind.

She sighed and lowered her hand slightly to reveal a pair of pointed scissors.

Then her chin came up, and she was beautiful in spite of pallor and gauntness. It didn’t stop him being wary of her, though the fear was dissipating.

She was pretty. Beautiful. Regal. From death’s head to beauty? Magic. He crossed himself.

I am Mélisande. Her voice was low and soothing. Another witch’s trick, probably, to lull him. I don’t approve of intruders in my home. She raised her eyebrows imperiously, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling at this bit of bravado. And yet, if my mother invited you here, I suppose you are meant to be a guest.

He was afraid his curled lip betrayed his disgust at the pitiful room and stench of semi-frozen rot and sewage seeping in from the street. At least he hoped the rot and sewage weren’t inside the hovel. He shuddered.

She scowled. What, exactly, did my mother say to you?

Luc shuddered again. He had cornered her mother in a different dark room off an alley, off a small street that led to a dirty little market. She laughed at me and told me about a premonition she had about the Comte d’Yquelon. She said I should pick my friends more carefully.

He hadn’t picked the comte so much as been abandoned in the comte’s household at the age of three. His parents’ money had run out, and all the boys except the heir had been dropped off with their various godparents.

Mélisande’s lips pursed as if she were trying not to laugh at him. What brought about this desire to seek me out?

His son died. Even after six months, Lucas felt the weight of Charles’ death.

Oh. Her face fell. I am sorry to hear it. I wish I had known him.

Was she mourning her half-brother?

When Charles died suddenly from a fever, the count raged about witchcraft and curses. Six months later, the comte recalled Luc from Normandy and told him where to find this bastard daughter, child of the witch who had cursed his son. None of those words had made any sense at all to Lucas, who had known the comte only as a fierce, strictly pious gentleman.

I’ve never seen her. Her mother was a beauty. I told the comtesse she used a spell or potion on me, but, of course, it was just normal lust.

Just normal lust certainly described the feeling growing inside Luc. This girl might be using a spell on him, but he was fairly sure she was tempting enough without it.

He had no other children? She sounded wistful. Not at all lusty.

Just me. He grimaced. I’m not related by blood.

Her eyebrows went up.

He’s my godfather. He raised me. I’m the seventh son of a duke’s seventh son, and there were far too many mouths to feed.

Her face lit up with her smile. Seventh son of a seventh son? And you’re not a warlock?

Luc jerked back and crossed himself to ward off the evil eye.

Sorry. She dropped her head. It’s a rather coveted place in a family of witches, you know. Though I guess if you’re strictly religious…

Luc cleared his throat. He had to bring Mélisande back. He needed the reward the comte promised, if just to have something to tide him over as he looked for employment.

You wish to take me to my father?

She looked around the room, presenting her profile, and he caught his breath at the sight of the huge knot of dark hair, braided, pinned, and tied at her nape. There was probably enough there to hang past her waist when she let it down. If it were styled properly, she could wear it on top of her head in a rich swirl. Her nose was a touch too large. In fact, it was much like the beak the late Charles had inherited from his father. Luc had still to see her in better light to know if her eyes were her father’s pale, icy blue, but he was sure he had the right woman.

It’s the task I was assigned, yes.

You do not wish to accomplish the task? I suppose he’s paying you well. She sounded like she was laughing.

Luc stiffened. I wish to please my godfather, the man who was a father to me, whose son was like my brother.

Yet you don’t particularly wish to take me. It was a statement, not a question. Her lips quirked up wryly.

No, he thought it was a fool’s mission for his godfather to try to civilize her. Luc let his eyes travel around the room, taking in the single, rickety table with two stools; the chimney with a few chunks of charred wood; the damp, crumbling plaster; the uneven, rotting floorboards. He wanted to take Mélisande away from here. He would want to take anyone away from here.

He shrugged. I will be rewarded, but not as much as you. I won’t kidnap you. I won’t drag you bodily to Versailles. You will need to say goodbye to your family. When the comte gives you gold and fine clothing, you will have to decide if you wish to share with your mother or keep it to yourself.

She sighed, her narrowed eyes never leaving his, her face wary. I wish I knew what to do.

The door flew open beside him, and Luc spun to face the threat. As the man moved away from the backlit doorway, Luc saw it was Mélisande’s brother, who had needled and taunted him in the marketplace before leading him to their mother.

Of course she’ll share with us, the young man announced, strolling in, bringing the odor of muck from the street with him.

Lucas coughed, trying to force the stench from his nose and mouth. He wished he had adopted the affectation of carrying a perfumed handkerchief as so many nobles did.

We’ve supported her all these years, and she’s not good for much more than carrying messages and cleaning. Since she refuses to marry or take a rich lover, we’ll look to her father to make our fortune.

Luc clenched his jaw at the mention of a lover, relieved she was not a prostitute. Or her brother said she wasn’t a prostitute, which could be a lie. At least she had one less sin than he expected. He immediately wondered why she wasn’t good for more than carrying messages.

As if answering his thoughts, Mélisande’s mother swept into the hovel, leaving the door wide open.

Well, Mélisande! Your father has finally sought you out. He certainly sent a handsome enough little lord to do it. Are you sure you don’t want me to read your palm, little lord?

Luc pulled himself up straight and stuck his chin out. "My godfather

Reviews for Mélisande

[nevong_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I didn't stop reading until there was no more to read. The writer's portrait of the overwhelming decadence of the rich and royals, as well as the abject destitution and hunger of the poor is clearly painted. And on the steps of humanity, even lower than the poor, clings the heroine, Melisande and her family since they are witches. Despite everything Melisande is not a sobbing, cowering victim. I liked her. Actually, I liked the whole book, though I did wish I could step into the pages with a paddle to swing at a few heads. Very provoking story. The bomb dropped toward the end certainly blindsided me!