Page 60 of Across Time

I'm loath to compliment anything about this man. "It's beautiful," I say, forcing out the words.

His palm slides over mine. "Your beauty makes all else fade by contrast."

I pull away with another tight smile when suddenly his hand lands on my thigh, his fingers sinking into my flesh through the thin fabric of the dress. I begin to slide away but his free hand has already snaked out to hold my jaw, and just as suddenly his doughy mouth is on mine, thick tongue pushing between my lips, his hand sliding beneath my dress to the juncture of my thighs.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demand. I shove him and he barely moves, just presses harder, doing his level best to get his fingers inside my panties.

"I'm giving you a better option than having it on with your own cousin," he says. "Everyone knows you're fucking Henri."

I jump to my feet, grabbing the crutches. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Anyone with eyes can put together what's happening."

He stands, reaching for me again and I try to step backward but stumble, thrown off balance by the cast, landing on my ass. He leans down and I don't wait for his next move. I grab one of the crutches, which has fallen with me, and swing it straight at his face. I hear the impact, a thwack, and his jaw blossoms into an ugly bright red patch that will undoubtedly be a deep purple within the hour.

He holds a hand to it, dazed and astonished. "Putain," he gasps. "You think you can do better than me?"

"It would be hard to do worse than you," I hiss.

"Fine," he says. "Continue to fuck your cousin instead, American whore." He walks off and leaves me there, lying in the yard with a dirty dress and bleeding hands.

When he's out of sight, the sob that was locked in my throat releases. I'm not even sure why I'm so upset. I wasn't raped. He called me names every woman hears at some point in her life. It's the adrenaline and my absolute helplessness, I think. I'm not in my own time, I'm not in my own country, and I can't even trust my legs to keep me upright when they're supposed to.

All I want in this moment, oddly enough, is Henri. Henri with his smirk and those eyes that are angry as often as they are kind. Henri who does nothing but ridicule my clumsiness and ask how soon I'm leaving. He is all I want in the world right now, and as bizarre as my life has been and continues to be, that's the most puzzling fact of all.

I dry my face on the inside of my dress and brush myself off, limping to the front of the house, feeling a little more shaky and off-kilter than I normally do—and given how off-kilter I've been since breaking my ankle, that's saying something. Henri is waiting beside the car.

I try to smile, but it feels as if my whole body trembles with the effort.

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately.

"Nothing."

He looks me over, head to foot, and I see rage settling over him like a cloak as he takes in the dirty dress, the cut hands. He takes three large strides until he's directly in front of me. “What happened?”

I could lie and tell him I fell, but it's not going to add up, especially once I insist I will never again set foot in this house. “André tried to kiss me," I tell him. "It turns out the crutches make a fine weapon. He won't try it again." I give him a tremulous smile, one he doesn’t return.

"Tell me exactly what happened," he says. His voice is quiet, and lethal. "Everything he did and every word he said."

I limp past him. "It doesn't matter. I dealt with it."

His hand lands on my shoulder to stop me. It's a firm grip, just as André's was, but different somehow. Perhaps simply because I trust Henri. "It does matter. Tell me."

I turn to him. "Fine," I say roughly. I sound angry but it's only so I won't dissolve into tears. "He insisted on sitting in the garden with me to wait for you. Then he kissed me and put his hand up my dress and when I yelled at him he called me an American whore..." There’s more, of course, but it seems like I’ve probably told him enough.

His face is blank for a moment and then morphs into a rage so fierce and absolute it scares me. I wait for the outburst to come but there is nothing. After a moment of stillness, he takes the crutches from me and gently helps me into the car. I'm relieved by his lack of response but surprised by it too.

The ride home is silent, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles pale with the pressure. I stare out the window, arguing with myself about what I didn’t tell him. Yes, it will be awkward to admit there are rumors about us, but maybe he should know, since he’s the one who’ll be left to combat them when I’m gone. He hesitates for a moment after we arrive, as if he wants to say something, but then climbs from the car instead, opening my door and offering me a hand, more careful than normal, and also more restrained.

“There’s something else,” I say, staring at the ground rather than him. “André said everyone in town thinks we’re…together. Sleeping together, I mean.”

“Merde,” he hisses under his breath, an expression of disgust on his face. It’s the disgust that surprises me. I’d have thought after everything he said last night…I flinch now, wondering if I somehow misunderstood him. Based on the way he looks right now, it certainly seems that way.

He turns on his heel and marches into the house, leaving me to follow. Marie is in the kitchen, but he’s heading upstairs without a word. She looks at me. "Are you two fighting again?"

"No," I reply. I can't go through the whole story and it would just worry her if I did. "I don't know what's wrong with him."

We can’t go riding since Marie has decided to stay home, but I’m not sure we’d go anyway. He emerges from his room and tells Marie he’s not staying for dinner because he’s going out to clear some things up. Then he leaves the house without even glancing at me once.