The sunlight had all but disappeared behind the westwork of the church, and still they found it impossible to part.
Sibylla sat on the rug, André’s head in her lap, playing with his black curls. They had partaken of the contents of the basket and kissed each other endlessly. André had not tried to urge Sibylla any further, and for that she was grateful. She would gladly have surrendered to him because the wine had made her cheerful and relaxed. But at the same time, she was anxious. Whenever Benjamin had shared her bed, the process had been so pedestrian, even painful. What if the same thing happened with André? That would destroy everything between them. But instead, André had inquired in great detail about her life, how she had grown up. She told him how secure and sheltered her life in London had been.
“I had a good life and yet I was never satisfied. I never understood why my younger brother had all sorts of freedom while all I ever heard was what a young lady could and could not do. I wanted to travel the world and see and touch for myself all the things I only knew from books. That’s why I encouraged Benjamin to take the position in Morocco and insisted that I be allowed to come with him. One day, I will be able to say that I lived in a world straight out of One Thousand and One Nights. That is something not even many men can claim.”
“You could write a book about it—the true and extraordinary adventures of an English merchant’s wife in Morocco,” André suggested with a smile.
She tousled his hair. “Don’t you make fun of me!”
“I am quite serious!”
“So you think I could write something like Lady Montagu, whose husband was ambassador to the Ottoman court in the last century?” Sibylla asked, thrilled at the notion.
“I am not familiar with Madame Montagu’s writing, but bien s?r, why not? You have seen and experienced a lot . . .”
He kissed each of her fingertips. She leaned over and, with her lips, caressed his hairline, temples, ears, and neck. He groaned, pulled her to him with both arms, and hungrily pressed his mouth on her soft, warm lips. When he finally released her, he shook his head and smiled as though surprised.
“I still remember marveling at how you stood before the sultan in Marrakesh and had the courage to return his gaze. I would never have thought that we would one day be this close.”
Sibylla sat up and smoothed her hair. The intensity of his kisses and her own hunger for them had her completely befuddled. Her doubts returned.
“The governor’s favorite concubine was standing next to me on the rooftop when you were shooting on the beach. She immediately knew that you meant something to me. Was it imprudent of us to meet here?”
He sighed. A small dark shadow fell over their carefree afternoon. “True, in the eyes of society and the church, what we are doing is wrong. But I, for one, would like to proclaim before the whole world that you are mine.” And now he could no longer restrain himself from asking, “Do you love your husband?”
Sibylla uttered a brief laugh. She leaned over André and he could feel her sweet, warm breath on his lips. “André Rouston, you are jealous and that makes me happy,” she whispered.
He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her even closer. “Why don’t you answer my question?”
Love, she had long ago realized, had had nothing to do with Benjamin’s and her decision to marry.
“At first, I thought we might become partners,” she explained after a long pause. “Particularly here in this country, where there are so few foreigners. But the more time passes, the more estranged I become from Benjamin. I don’t understand it myself.”
She pulled off a piece of the flatbread André had brought. “But enough about me. Tell me something about yourself. What sort of a man are you?”
He propped himself up on one elbow and drank the last drop of wine in his glass. The taste evoked long-forgotten memories of France.
“I did not have such a sheltered upbringing as you,” he began, struggling for words. “Life in France during the Restoration was not easy for a poor farm boy. Say what you will about Napoleon, but under him, commoners had a chance. After he was gone, the Bourbons turned back the clock. In my home, we were short of everything: food, clothing, leather for shoes and boots, warm coats. And this despite the fact that my parents were emancipated farmers. Our family has owned a small farm in the Lot area for seven generations. And still, we never had enough to eat, especially if the harvest was poor. I worked like a horse ever since I can remember, but without black truffles, we would have gone hungry during many winters. My father knew the secret spots in the forest where they grow. Truffles meant for us what saffron means for the Chiadma: money for a rainy day.”
By now, the church was almost completely dark. André could see only the outline of Sibylla’s empathetic face. Now that he’d started telling his story, it was as though he could not stop.
“I am one of nine children,” he continued. “I still shared a straw mattress with two of my brothers when I already was old enough to attend village dances with the girls. I didn’t miss any chance to drink and that made me eager to fight. I was as strong as a young ox and just as moody. I probably was not easy to get along with at that time. I realize now that I was desperately unhappy. What did I have to look forward to? Life as a farmhand, because only the eldest son would inherit—”
“But you left,” Sibylla said softly. “You took charge of your life.”
He laughed. “It certainly did not look that way at first! At sixteen, I fled. I had sold one of father’s truffles and felt rich and bold. I made it to La Rochelle and was going to sign on as a sailor and conquer the world . . . Sibylla, I fear I am boring you.” He felt for her hand in the dark.
“Not at all, André. Please tell me more!”
She knew it was time for her to go home. The children were surely waiting. But she could not tear herself away from André and his soft, dark voice, which made his past come alive as though she had experienced it herself.
“And so you were hired on a ship?” She picked up his story.
He cleared his throat. It was such a dark chapter of his life, a year of which he was not the least bit proud. Still, he did not want to withhold anything from Sibylla. He wanted her to know everything and decide for herself whether she truly wanted him.
“I was abducted,” he said. “Carried onto a ship and forced to be a sailor.”
“That’s slavery!” Sibylla exclaimed. “But you didn’t become a slave, did you?”
“In a way, I did, yes. I was a stupid country boy, and one with money in his pocket. I drank myself into a stupor in the first harbor bar I found. There was a man who saw to it that my glass always had rum in it. The next thing I remember was waking up on the high seas and the mate holding a piece of paper in my face that said that I had been hired as a sailor.”