A Place of Storms (4 page)

For one suffocating moment Andrea felt the hard pressure of his muscular body against hers. The sound of the closing door behind her, signalling the departure of Madame Bresson, jerked her back to her senses, and she tore herself free of his arms, facing him with flaming cheeks.

That was not part of the agreement.' She wanted to sound cool and in control of the situation, but to her annoyance her voice came out high and breathless like a little girl's. Anyone would think she had never been kissed before in her life, she thought vexedly.

He shrugged, and again she was aware of that faint amusement.

'Yet it was the reaction expected of us, and
it
is dangerous  to ignore the conventions on these occasions. Our— arrangement is a private one. I imagine you do not wish it to become a matter for speculation in the village.'

She bit her lip. 'No, of course not. I—I wasn't thinking. You—you rather took me by surprise.'

'
Evid
é
mment
,' he murmured. 'I shall have to signal my intentions more clearly in future.'

Now how would Clare react to that? Andrea wondered confusedly. Coquettishly, probably, knowing her. But it was not a response she would dare to try with this man. His scarred face was unimportant There was about him a kind of sensual magnetism which transcended ordinary physical appeal. Yet she should be able to handle him. She was used to working with men, treated as their equal. Any emotional involvements there had been, she had kept on the lightest possible level.

For one crazy moment she thought, 'I'm frightened of him—frightened of what he could make me feel emotionally.' And then a warning shutter came down in her mind, telling her that she was being nonsensical, and that her senses were playing tricks because she was overtired after the drive.

'Did the journey cause you any problems?' he asked, and it occurred to her that he spoke excellent English. She recalled that Clare had mentioned something about him having possibly spent some time abroad.

'No. It's not the first time I've driven on the Continent.' She sounded impossibly stilted, she thought.

'Perhaps not, but you did not give me the impression that you were totally confident in your driving ability.'

That was her first slip, Andrea told herself furiously. She might have known Clare would probably have poured out her numerous driving mishaps. She had a knack of making them sound feminine and absurd.

She shrugged slightly, making herself smile. 'Well, I didn't actually
kill
anyone on the way.'

'God is merciful.' The scarring gave him the look of a satyr, it occurred to her. 'Permit me to take your coat.'

She tensed involuntarily as his hands came down on her shoulders, but this time his touch was as impersonal as she could have wished.

A heavy wooden settle stood on one side of the fireplace and he invited her to take a seat on it with a wave of his hand. He remained standing.

'Dinner will not be long.' He glanced at his watch. 'Would you care for an
aperitif
, or would you prefer to go to your room before the meal is served?'

'I'm quite glad to be sitting still,' she said frankly. 'Besides, my cases are still in the car.'

'Ah, yes. You will wish Gaston to fetch them.' He tugged at a frayed tapestry bell pull hanging at the side of the fireplace and a bell jangled faintly in the distance. He walked over to the massive, heavily carved sideboard against one wall and picked up a bottle, turning to her with raised eyebrows. 'Dubonnet? Or do you prefer sherry?'

'Dubonnet will be fine,' Andrea said rather helplessly. The situation was fast slipping out of her control. Here she was having a pre-dinner drink with this man as if he was merely her courteous host and nothing more. It was unthinkable that they were going to spend the evening mouthing a lot of polite nothings at each other. There was so much she needed to know. First and foremost it was essential to discover if there was any likelihood of him voluntarily relinquishing his plan to marry Clare even at this late stage. She glanced up with a shy word of thanks as he handed her the drink, and registered the bitter, almost brooding look he wore, and the hard lines of his chin and mouth. He did not look the sort of man who could be easily persuaded about anything, she thought uneasily.

'We'll drink a toast.' Once again she was aware of that quiet element of mockery. 'To our—better acquaintance,
mademoiselle
.'

She murmured something indistinguishable as he touched his glass to hers, and hoped he would blame the heat of the fire for the sudden colour which tinged her face. It was a relief when the door opened and a short stocky man with a brown weatherbeaten face and round, rather staring eyes ambled in.

'
M'sieur
?'

'Ah, Gaston.' Blaise Levallier turned to him, and spoke a few quiet words in his own tongue. Then he turned to Andrea.

'He will need your keys,
mademoiselle
?'

She hesitated a moment, oddly reluctant to part with them. The car was her passport to safety, after all, and it gave her a sense of security to know that its keys were in her keeping.

'You need not worry. Gaston is simple, it is true, but he is also completely trustworthy and devoted to my family.' Blaise Levallier sounded ironic. 'He is perfectly capable of rescuing your baggage and taking it to your room, I promise you.'

She flushed more hotly, annoyed that she was unable to justify her hesitation. She delved into her handbag and produced the key-ring, dropping it into Gaston's waiting palm, murmuring her thanks.

When the door had closed behind him, Blaise Levallier said, 'He speaks no English, I should warn you, but I don't think you will have any difficulty in making him understand you. Madame Bresson—Clothilde—is his aunt and has cared for him since he was a child. He helps with some of the heavy work around the chateau, and assists the herdsmen with the cattle. He is magnificent with the beasts and with the horses. He has a skill born of instinct.'

She nodded constrainedly and sipped her drink. It was essential, of course, for the future mistress of the chateau to be acquainted with these details, but it was a far cry from all she really needed to know. For a moment she found herself wondering how Clare would have reacted to Gaston. Her cousin had an undue sensitivity about all forms of abnormality, and would have had difficulty in adapting herself even to Blaise Levallier's scarred face, she realised.

'What—other help do you have?'

'Very little, as you must have noticed, in the house. The land, of course, is different. But there we all work for each other.'

She looked up at him in surprise, and he explained.

'In my forefathers' day, the chateau took the best of everything—the best of the grazing, the most sheltered portions of the orchards, the finest sites for the vineyards. It has been a policy that has bred poverty and resentment— both forces for destruction. Well, I prefer to construct, rather than destroy, so we have pooled our land and our resources and formed a co-operative. The time is past when the village could simply produce enough food and wine for its own needs and ignore the rest of the world. We make excellent wine—it needs a wider market. In time, too, we will have one of the, finest breeding herds in Auvergne.

St Jean des Roches will not become a dead village peopled by the elderly.'

'And what part do you play in this—co-operative?'

'I am its overall manager.' He noted the rather satirical look Andrea sent him, and raised his hand. 'Not because the feudal system still flourishes, I promise you. If I did not have the necessary skill, I would be labouring in the fields. I've served my apprenticeship in management on the plantations of Martinique and—other places.' His smile jeered at her suddenly. 'So if you thought you had come here merely to play the gracious chatelaine,
ma mie
, I'm afraid you must think again.'

'I thought nothing of the sort,' she said truthfully, and relaxed as a knock at the door signalled the arrival of Madame Bresson with their dinner.

Andrea had not realised how hungry she was until Madame lifted the lid off the earthenware pot in the middle of the table and disclosed the simmering
cassoulet
, chunks of pork, slices of country sausage and black-eyed beans swimming in a rich gravy, redolent of garlic and herbs. She made a token protest at the huge plateful that was put in front of her, and then ate every mouthful, assisting it on its way with wedges of fresh, warm bread. The wine they drank was one of the local vintages, Blaise told her, and she found it surprisingly mellow and full-bodied. She refused the cheese that followed, but accepted a cup of strong, black coffee.

'So Clothilde's cooking is to your liking?' Blaise Levallier leaned back in his chair, watching her.

'Very much,' she agreed. 'If I stayed here very long, I'd be as fat as…' Her voice tailed away, as she realised with horror what she had just said.

'It will be a metamorphosis that I shall observe with interest,' he said smoothly, as if unaware of her slip.

Well, it was said, and it could not be unsaid, and now was the time, if ever, for her challenge to him. She set her coffee cup back in its saucer very carefully.

'Monsieur Levallier, I think you must realise as well as I do that this—this marriage cannot take place.'

'You are incorrect,
mademoiselle
. I realise nothing of the sort.'

She heard the grimness in his voice, but persevered. 'I— I agreed because I was—emotionally disturbed at the time. You can't really intend to hold me to a promise made under such circumstances.'

'Oh, but I can,' he said almost idly, 'and I will. Make no mistake about that,
ma mie
.'

'But it would be too cruel,' she said, her voice quivering, and shrank back from the sudden fury that glared at her from his eyes.

'And do you imagine life has been so kind to me, that I am prepared to take that into consideration?' he demanded harshly, his fingers straying as if in spite of himself towards his damaged face. 'Spoiled from your cradle, what can you know of cruelty?'

'Do I have to learn my first lesson from you?' she flung at him, forgetful in that moment that it was not for herself that she spoke.

He shrugged. 'The nature of the lesson will be your own choice,
mademoiselle
. But I warn you now, the marriage will go ahead as planned. It has already been delayed too long.'

'Am I ever to be told why it's so essential for you to be married?'

He poured himself another cup of coffee. 'You have never displayed any particular curiosity before,' he reminded her drily. 'You seemed more preoccupied with ..your own—affairs. But there is no reason for you not to know. I am shortly to assume the guardianship of my nephew, and the terms of my brother's will stipulate that I have to be a married man in order to do so. That is all.'

'That's quite enough!' The breath left Andrea's body in a gasp. So Clare was not merely to have been pitchforked into matrimony but into motherhood by proxy as well, she thought furiously. The nerve of this creature! 'Why on earth did your brother include this—stipulation, if he knew you were a bachelor?'

'At the time the will was made, I was expecting to be married—quite soon,' he said, and there was a note in his voice that made her stomach constrict nervously. Her eyes went involuntarily to his scarred cheek, and he nodded sardonically. 'You are very perceptive,
mademoiselle
. And more skilful at concealing your revulsion than my fiancée.' He laughed shortly, without mirth. 'It was a memorable few hours of my life. In the space of a day, I lost everyone in the world I most cared for. My nephew alone remains, and him I do not intend to lose.'

'But surely, if you're his only relative…'

'But I am not,' he cut in. 'He has an aunt on his mother's side. Unless I fulfil the conditions, of the will, she intends to contest the guardianship in the courts. All my money has been sunk into this co-operative. I cannot afford to fight her.'

'But how old is this child? Wouldn't he perhaps be better with his aunt?' Andrea began, and quailed under the look he sent her.

'No, he would not,' he said briefly. 'The child is my heir and his place is here, with his heritage.'

'But what if you have a child of your own…' Andrea said unthinkingly, and crimsoned as she realised the implication in her words.

'Aren't you afraid I might take you at your word?' His eyes appraised her with sudden insolence. 'What would you do, I wonder? What is that saying you have—close your eyes and think of England, or in this case, France?'

She pressed her hands to her burning face. 'I didn't mean…' she stumbled, and his smile widened unpleasantly.

'I believe you,
mademoiselle
. Don't look so frightened. I would not demand a sacrifice of that magnitude. I am well aware that my—face would give nightmares to any woman forced to share my bed.'

She shrank from the bitterness implicit in his words. Someone—his fiancée?—must have said that, or something very like it, to him. It betrayed a lack of sensitivity and compassion that was almost inconceivable. Whoever this girl had been, he was well rid of her, she found herself thinking stormily, and checked herself sharply. No matter where her sympathies might instinctively lie, he was still her adversary.

She tried reason again. '
Monsieur
, you've been hurt, I know, but is that any reason to hurt in your turn? This— marriage would be a total disaster. We—we don't know each other. What kind of a relationship could we have?'

Again she was conscious of that uncanny feeling that she was pleading not for Clare but for herself, and she shivered slightly.

'You are cold? Come and sit by the fire.' He got up and strode to the fireplace, flinging on a couple of logs from the basket that stood in the hearth.

'I'm all right here, thank you,' her voice faltered a little and he looked at her impatiently.

'What are you frightened of? This relationship that is only a figment of your own imagination? All I require,
mademoiselle
, is a marriage on paper that will satisfy the lawyers and release Philippe into my custody. Once that has been achieved, you are free to go or stay as you please.'