by Sara Craven
‘Heavens,’ Ginny said weakly.
He clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘You, ma belle, are thinking naughty thoughts.’ He discarded his jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair, then walked over to the stove. ‘Du café?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said quickly, deciding it was best to leave and take her naughty thoughts with her. She put a hand over her mouth as if stifling a yawn. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘It is still early,’ he said. ‘And still I wish to talk to you. I will join you in the petit salon, and we will have a digestif together.’
As she hesitated, he added softly, ‘S’il te plaît, Virginie,’ and she found herself making her way reluctantly out of the kitchen and across the hall.
The fire in the salon had been rekindled at some point, and the room felt deliciously cosy. Ginny fed it with more logs before seating herself stiffly in the corner of the sofa.
When he came in, he was carrying a bottle of brandy and two glasses into which he poured generous measures before seating himself beside her.
‘A la tienne,’ he said, lifting his own glass in a toast. ‘Eh bien, what else did Monique say to make you so thoughtful?’
Ginny stared straight ahead at the leaping flames. ‘Something I already knew,’ she returned, choosing her words with care. ‘That I don’t belong here and should go home.’
There was a taut silence, then he said quietly, ‘How obliging of her to interest herself in your welfare on so short an acquaintance.’
‘Perhaps she was also speaking for Monsieur Bertrand,’ she said quickly. ‘He clearly doesn’t welcome my presence.’
Andre shrugged. ‘He found it a surprise, peut-être.’
Ginny swallowed some brandy, enjoying against her will the smooth mellow flavour. ‘All the same, I want to bring this supposed visit to an end.’
‘Not,’ he said, ‘until the situation between us has been resolved. As you agreed.’
‘That was before I knew how impossible it would be. Whatever you may think, I don’t like deceiving people, and I can’t treat it as lightly as you seem to.’
‘You are mistaken,’ he said quietly. ‘I regard it as seriously as you could wish.’
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘please let me go home.’
‘Home?’ The query was almost contemptuous. ‘To what? No vague replies. Where and how will you live?’
His words struck an unhappy chord with her own fears, pushing her into dangerous waters.
‘You mean now that Andrew, my meal ticket, won’t be there?’ she challenged.
The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Is that how you saw him?’
Think what you like...
The words hovered, but remained unspoken. She would not—could not betray Andrew’s memory.
She bent her head. ‘No, of course not.’ She drew a shivering breath. ‘I—I loved him, and I thought he cared for me.’ She added wildly, ‘For all of us.’
Her voice cracked suddenly as a wave of the sorrow circumstances had so far forced her to suppress finally broke over her. Overwhelmed her.
She found herself blinded, drowning in scalding tears, her throat aching and her body torn by the hot and heavy sobs she was unable to control as she mourned for Andrew.
She was dimly aware of Andre taking the glass from her hand. Felt herself enfolded, lifted across his body, her face pressed into the strong angle between his neck and shoulder and his lips against her hair as he held her.
She was aware of the crisp collar of his shirt against her cheek. The warmth of him, coupled with the evocative scent of his skin. The infinite comfort of his hand moving slowly and gently against her spine.
He said softly, ‘You must not cry any more. My father was a man with disappointments in his life, but please believe that you were not one of them.’
But her tears were not so easily dammed, and she clung to him, pushing into him in a kind of desperation, as if she needed to be absorbed, utterly consumed. A mute offering of her entire self.
She heard him murmur something roughly. Then his hand was under her chin, tilting up her soaked, ruined face, and his lips found hers, parting them for the heated, irresistible invasion of his tongue.
The kiss was endless. Driven. Her hands moved on him, tracing the familiarity of bone and muscle through the linen fabric of his shirt, and stroking the strong column of his neck before twining in his dark hair.
As the demand of his mouth deepened, he pushed her top down from her shoulder together with the strap of her bra, his fingers seeking one rose-tipped breast, freeing it from its lacy cup and caressing it with delicate sensuality.
She was lost, the raw emotion of grief exploding into another very different sensation, her body arching in its own demand that was also a surrender, as she remembered the searing, exquisite pleasure of being naked in his arms. And as the desire to have him once again sheathed inside her exerted its own almost brutal pressure, impossible to be ignored or denied.
He said her name quietly and huskily. Then his mouth closed on her uncovered nipple, laving it with the tip of his tongue, before suckling it gently and voluptuously to an aching glory of need, as his hand moved downwards to push away the folds of her skirt and stroke the silken warmth of her parted thighs.
But it was not enough. She wanted to feel the arousal of his touch on her bare flesh—to relive the wonder of that first devastating awakening, and arched towards him, silently inviting him to free her from the confines of tights and briefs.
She heard him sigh softly, felt the arm that held her tighten its clasp to the brink of pain. Then he moved, lowering her slowly and with infinite care to the softness of the fur rug in front of the fireplace and following her down.
The only sound in the room was the hiss of the smouldering logs a few feet away and their own urgent breathing as they undressed each other between kisses, clumsy in their haste.
Their clothing gone, Andre’s mouth left hers and began to trace a slow, lingering path down her body, exploring with minute and exquisite detail every slender curve and plane, making her shiver with delight and an anticipation she hardly understood and almost feared.
Only to feel him pause, his head lifting as he stared towards the door.
And the next second she heard it too—the faint sound of footsteps crossing the hall combined with a man’s tuneless whistling and, at the same moment, in the distance, Barney’s vociferous barking.
Andre said on a groan, ‘Ah, Dieu.’ He sat up, reaching for his clothes and dragging them on, then got to his feet, pushing his shirt back into his pants and raking his dishevelled hair with his fingers.
He looked down at her, his mouth twisting ruefully.
‘Gaston,’ he said. ‘Doing his rounds before he locks up. I had—forgotten. I will delay him in the kitchen while you cover yourself.’
When he had gone, she lay still for a moment, her dazed brain coming to terms with what had happened.
And what might have happened if Gaston had started with the salon, finding them naked and enthralled in the welter of their discarded clothing.
She gave a little inarticulate cry and sat up, pulling on her skirt and top with frantic shaking hands and thrusting her feet back into her shoes, listening to the distant murmur of voices and dreading their approach. Knowing that even if she was now marginally decent, she could not risk being caught there.
Her underclothing scrunched into a tight ball in her hand, she tiptoed from the salon, making for the main staircase, and the sanctuary of her bedroom.
Although what kind of a sanctuary was it when her door was unlocked and Andre had the key?
She sank down on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands.
What had happened to her? she asked herself in despair. In a matter of days, how had she gone from a rel
atively blameless existence to one which had her stumbling from one disaster to the next? And all of it entirely her own fault—especially tonight.
Because only Gaston’s pursuance of some nightly routine had saved her from yet more abject folly, and that was the bitter truth she had to face.
Only now it must stop.
After a moment’s hesitation, she fetched the chair from the dressing table, and wedged it securely under the door handle.
At least she hoped it was secure. It was something she’d read about in an old-fashioned thriller, which was no guarantee it would be proof against a strong and determined man.
Or, for that matter, a weak and stupid female...
She took off her shoes, turned off the light and got under the covers, still in her skirt and top. Listening—waiting in the darkness.
And eventually she heard it—the soft knock on the door and his voice saying her name.
She realised that he was waiting for her to invite him in—to enter her room, her bed, her body.
To complete what that strange storm of emotion had brought in its wake.
She lifted her hands, clamping them fiercely over her mouth so that no sound could escape. Not a word, a sigh or even an indrawn breath. So that he would think she was asleep, instead of lying there trying to conquer the burning, trembling ache of her unfulfilled flesh.
Knowing that her memories of his lovemaking were already a torment, hardly to be endured, and for the sake of her sanity she could risk no more.
Waiting until the heavy silence told her at last that he had gone.
CHAPTER TEN
I HAD TOO MUCH to drink last night.
Ginny rehearsed the words in her head over and over again as she prepared reluctantly to go down to breakfast the following morning.
That was the story she was going to use, treating the whole thing lightly as an error of judgement, embarrassing but not fatal, and she would stick to it like glue, no matter how Andre might respond.
After all, it was more or less the truth, she told herself defensively, the brandy proving the final straw after the wine so generously poured at dinner. Also she seemed to have done him an injustice. The chair, now restored to its rightful place, had been an unnecessary precaution because he would never have entered the room without her consent.
Sighing, she opened the shutters and found that Mademoiselle Chaloux had been right about the weather. The sky was uniformly grey and the view of the vines was concealed by a thick drizzle. Her accuracy in other matters remained to be discovered.
At the kitchen door, she braced herself, before turning the handle and walking in.
But the room’s only occupant was Madame Rameau setting a platter of bread and croissants and a jar of preserves on the table. Even Barney’s basket was empty, presumably because Andre had taken him for a walk.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’ Madame’s shrewd eyes swept her from head to foot. ‘Vous avez bien dormi?’
‘Oui, merci,’ said Ginny, aware that she was lying. That it had been hours before she fell into a restless doze interspersed with dreams that she would much prefer to forget. She took the coffee that Madame handed to her and sat down.
All she needed to do, she thought, spreading a slice of bread with blackcurrant jam, was ask casually for Andre. Simple enough surely, when he was her host, so why did it seem so impossible? As if she was somehow exhibiting their entire relationship for inspection?
‘You look pale, little one, and not happy.’ Madame sounded almost severe. ‘And you will be plus contente, peut-être, when you know more of Terauze and the life here. So, later, when the rain has stopped, you will take a little promenade with me to the village, n’est-ce pas?’
She nodded briskly. ‘And do not disturb yourself, mon enfant, if you are stared at. Everything that occurs here is of interest to the whole of Terauze, and it’s natural that your arrival should cause a brouhaha. But all will be well. Clothilde gives you her word. And now I shall feed the chickens.’ She bustled away, leaving Ginny to finish her tartine. She was just clearing the table when the Baron came in, looking harassed and muttering under his breath in a way that told her he was swearing.
He checked when he saw Ginny. ‘Your pardon, mademoiselle. I did not know you were here.’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘A problem with the computer, hélas.’
‘Is it all right now?’
He sighed impatiently. ‘No, it is beyond me. And Monique does not work today.’
‘But Monsieur Andre will be back soon...’
‘That will not be for some hours, mademoiselle,’ he interrupted curtly. ‘And I need urgently to access some figures.’
Giving her an opportunity to justify her presence here.
She said quietly, ‘I used computers at home and at work in England, monsieur, so I know a little about office systems. Perhaps I could help.’
His hesitation lasted less than an instant. ‘If so, I would indeed be grateful.’
He took her across the hall to a door on the other side, opening on to a flight of steep stone stairs, winding upwards.
Good God, thought Ginny as she climbed. I’m inside a tower. And what’s waiting for me at the top? Monique Chaloux crouched over a spinning wheel, hoping that I’ll prick my finger and sleep for a hundred years?
Instead, she found herself in a circular room that had been transformed from medieval austerity into a functional and well-equipped office with a large desk holding a computer stationed right in its centre.
She halted, entranced. ‘What a wonderful place to work.’
The Baron’s look held faint surprise. ‘I am gratified that you think so.’ He added quietly, ‘It was chosen by my wife.’
‘I don’t blame her.’ A series of windows had been set into the curve of the outer wall, and Ginny walked over and knelt on the cushioned seat beneath them, enjoying, in spite of the rain, a panoramic view of the vineyard and the area of thick woodland which adjoined it.
She turned away and crossed to the desk. As she’d suspected, the system on the computer was familiar, if totally out of date, so she had little trouble retrieving the information the Baron required, although the pages of figures seemed confusing.
‘I think you might find this easier to read on a spreadsheet, monsieur,’ Ginny said as she pressed ‘Print’. ‘And your security is very old-fashioned, which could be dangerous. For example, I can’t see how to back up the files. Has Mademoiselle Chaloux never mentioned these things?’
The Baron shrugged. ‘She seems content to work in her own way, mademoiselle. And I know little about technology.’ He paused. ‘But please accept my most sincere and grateful thanks for your assistance. And perhaps you could suggest some improvements to the system to Monique.’
Ginny said drily, ‘I think she would regard that as arrant interference, monsieur. After all, I’m only a visitor here.’
He studied her for a moment, his brows lifting. ‘Peut-être, vous avez raison, mademoiselle. Then speak first to Andre. If the suggestions come from him, then she must listen. He is as much her employer as I am.’
Which did not suggest he saw the lady as a future wife. Or that he looked on Ginny’s own presence as anything more than temporary.
Which, of course, was a good thing, she thought as she followed him downstairs. Wasn’t it?
* * *
As Madame Rameau had predicted, the rain eased off during the morning, allowing a watery sun to make its appearance, so the village tour took place as planned.
It wasn’t a lengthy operation. Terauze was a cluster of narrow streets all leading on to a central square, where the daily market was just beginning to pack up, its stalls clustering round the statue of a man, standing high on a stone plinth.
Madame pointed. ‘See, mademo
iselle. That is Baron Emile who planted the first vineyard at Terauze.’ She sighed. ‘Each year at the Château, it was the custom to invite the village and our neighbours to celebrate his birthday, but no longer. Not after Madame Linnet was taken from us. It was as if Monsieur Bertrand could not bear such an occasion without her.’
She sighed again and walked on, but her subdued mood soon vanished as she was greeted with jovial familiarity on all sides. However, Ginny was soon aware that she was indeed the real focus of all this interest, and that whispers and stares were following her as she was marched round the square, past the mairie where the tricolour flew, in a kind of royal progress, which took in the bakery, the patisserie, the butcher’s shop and the charcuterie.
Next was the farmacie, but as Madame had been accosted and engaged in animated conversation by a woman who was clearly an old friend, Ginny, seized by a sudden idea, slipped inside alone.
As she entered, two women, standing at the counter and talking to a thin-faced woman in a white coat, turned, alerted by the shop bell, and regarded her with the same curiosity she had attracted outside, but lacking the bonhomie.
Ginny hesitated, her immediate impulse being to back out into the street again. Because, she realised, her bright idea had just turned into Mission Impossible. Even if she’d been able to recognise the French brand names, how could she possibly buy a pregnancy testing kit when the news would be all round Terauze almost before she’d been handed her change?
And however keen she was to know the result—to reassure herself that she would soon be free to leave—she couldn’t allow that to become a subject of common gossip.
‘Vous voulez quelque chose, mademoiselle?’ The thin woman was coming forward unsmilingly.
Ginny thought quickly. ‘Aspirins, s’il vous plaît, madame,’ she hazarded, and received a sour nod in return.
She was paying for the tablets when the door opened to admit Madame Rameau in a swirl of cape. Her greeting to the woman in the white coat and her other customers was civil but brisk, and Ginny found herself shepherded firmly into the street again.
‘She didn’t seem very friendly,’ she commented.
