Dawn Song (2 page)

traffic to contend with than in England, and she began to relax.

The sky above her was brilliant blue, but as she drove east she could see

clouds building over the high ground in the far distance, fluffy and

unthreatening at first, but increasing in mass and density with alarming

suddenness.

By the time she stopped to buy food for lunch, the skies were a lowering

grey, and she cast an anxious glance upwards as she made her way back to

the car from
the alimentation,
with her baguette, sliced ham, demi-kilo of

peaches and sedate bottle of mineral water.

She'd planned to have a picnic in some quiet spot. She'd deliberately chosen

a route away from the main thoroughfares, so that she could travel at her

own pace—discover, she hoped, the real France.

Now it looked as if she might be about to discover some real French weather

as well, although it was still very warm, if not downright clammy, and those

threatening clouds might yet blow over.

But as a smattering of rain hit the windscreen she decided reluctantly to

shelve her plans for an alfresco meal, and concentrate on finding somewhere

to stay that night. A helpful girl at the
syndicat d'initiative
in the last town

she'd passed through had recommended a small
auberge
at the head of the

Gorge du Beron, and even marked it on Meg's map.

She found herself following a winding road into a valley flanked by steep

rocky banks which soon grew high enough to call themselves cliffs. The

road ran alongside a river, relatively shallow, but flowing fast over its stony

gravel bed. Presumably this was the Beron, at whose source she would find

the
auberge.

And the sooner the better, she thought with dismay, as more water arrived

suddenly, descending like an impenetrable curtain from the sky, its arrival

announced by a flash of lightning and a resoundingly ominous crack of

thunder.

Meg swore under her breath, turning her windscreen-wipers full on, but it

was wasted effort. They couldn't cope with the sheer force of the rain

flinging itself at the car. And she dared not drive blind on such a tortuous

road, she thought, applying her brakes and easing the car as close as possible

to the side of the road where the rocky overhang seemed to offer a degree of

shelter.

Who could have expected such a change in the weather? she wondered

dispiritedly, although Mr Otway had warned her that these
orages
were

common in the Languedoc, and it was safer to stay in one's vehicle than risk

being struck by lightning.

She felt cold suddenly, and reached for a jacket from the rear seat, pulling it

round her shoulders with a slight grimace. A glance at the river sent another

chill through her. It was rising alarmingly rapidly, the gravel banks almost

covered now, and the water lapping greedily at the side of the road itself,

already awash in several places.

Not a good place to have stopped, after all, she realised in dismay. But she

had to stay where she was now, until the rain eased a little at least. The storm

was directly overhead now, thunder and lightning occurring almost

simultaneously. Meg felt as if she was peering through a wall of water.

Maybe it would have been better to have arrived on the appointed day, and

been met at the airport as Madame de Brissot had originally suggested.

Or would it? That was the straightforward—the sensible course of action

she'd been following for most of her life.

Don't be so boring, she chastised herself mentally. Where's your spirit of

adventure? The car rocked suddenly as if caught in a violent gust of wind,

and Meg shivered in spite of herself, then cried out in fear as her driver's

door was wrenched open, filling the car with cold, sodden air.

For a dazed instant she thought the storm itself was responsible, then she

saw the dark, caped figure framed in the doorway, staring in at her, and

shrank back in her seat. She wanted to scream, but her vocal cords seemed

paralysed with fright.

'Are you quite mad?' His voice was low-pitched, vibrant, and almost molten

with rage. 'Do you want to be killed? Move this car now—at once.'

No spirit conjured up by the storm, but an all too human and angry male. He

spoke in French and Meg replied automatically in the same language, her

heart thumping violently in mingled alarm and relief.

'What gives you the right to order me about?'

'The right of someone who obviously knows this country better than you,'

was the crushing retort. 'It isn't safe to park under a rockface in conditions

like this, you little fool. There are often landslips. Your car could be buried,

and you with it. So move. Quickly.'

However unpleasant he might be, he seemed to know what he was talking

about, Meg realised uneasily. Perhaps she'd do well to accept his arrogant

and unwelcome advice.

'Where do you suggest I park, then?' she asked, coldly.

'There is a safer place two hundred metres further on. Follow my car, and I

will show you. And hurry,' he added grimly.

Her door slammed shut again, and he disappeared. A moment later, Meg

saw the dim shape of a car overtake hers and halt some distance ahead of

her, hazard lights blinking. Reluctantly, she turned the key in the ignition,

but instead of the usual reassuring purr into life from the engine she was

greeted with a profound and ominous silence.

Oh, no, Meg groaned inwardly, and tried again. And again. But the wretched

engine stubbornly refused to fire.

'What's the matter now?' Her caped crusader, his temper apparently

operating perfectly on all cylinders, reappeared beside her.

'What does it look like, you prat? The blasted car won't start,' Meg flung

back at him in a savage undertone, while she searched for the appropriate

and slightly more diplomatic phraseology in French.

'So you are English?' he remarked, switching effortlessly to her language. 'I

should have guessed.'

His tone bit with contempt, and Meg stiffened in annoyance. Of course, he

would have to be bilingual she thought, feeling faint colour rise in her

cheeks at the memory of her schoolgirl rudeness.

'What's the problem with the car?' he continued. 'Has it given trouble

before?'

'It's hardly had the chance,' she said wearily. 'I only rented it today. But now

the engine's dead. I suppose some water's got into the plugs, or the

carburettor.'

He muttered something under his breath which Meg chose not to hear.

'Leave it here, then,' he ordered peremptorily, raising his voice above the

crashing of the rain, 'and come with me.'

'I can't just abandon the thing,' Meg protested. 'It doesn't belong to me. And

besides ...' she hesitated '... I don't know you from Adam.'

'Sit here much longer,
mademoiselle,
and you may make the acquaintance of

the original Adam— in Paradise.' His tone was caustic. 'You have more to

fear, I promise, by remaining where you are than from accepting my

assistance, such as it is.'

He paused. 'And rape, be assured, is the last thing on my mind in these

conditions. Now get out of the car before we both drown.'

Meg obeyed unwillingly, flinching as the water soaked up through the thin

soles of her sandals. Reaching his car was going to be like fording the river

itself. She'd be drenched before she'd gone a couple of metres. She

wondered glumly what Madame de Brissot's reaction would be if her new

companion arrived at Haut Arignac with double pneumonia.

There was a swift impatient sigh beside her, and she found herself suddenly

enveloped in his cape, held with disturbing force against his body under its

voluminous folds, as she was half led, half carried to the other vehicle. Her

nostrils were assailed by a tingling aroma of warm, clean wool, coupled with

the individual and very masculine scent of his skin. She was aware too of the

tang of some expensive cologne.

'Thank you,' she gasped with irony, as she was thrust without particular

ceremony into the passenger seat.

'Pas du tout
,' he returned. 'Now let's get out of here. It's always been a

danger spot.'

Even as he spoke, Meg heard a sound like a low groan, followed by a strange

rushing noise. She craned her neck, staring back down the gorge, and saw,

with horrified disbelief, a tree come sliding down, roots first, from the

heights above, and land with a sickening crash on the roof of her little

Renault. It was followed by a deluge of earth and stones, bouncing off the

bodywork on to the road, like a series of miniature explosions. A few even

reached the other car, where they both sat stunned and immobile.

The silence which followed was deafening by comparison. And, as if finally

satisfied with its efforts, the rain began to ease off.

MEG'S companion was the first to move, to break the profound hush.

He said quietly,
'Et voila,'
and shrugged.

'Oh, God,' Meg breathed almost inaudibly. 'Oh, dear God.'

The driver's side had sustained the most damage, she realised numbly. The

crumpled roof was practically resting on the seat, and the windscreen had

been shattered by a large branch.

And up to a moment ago she'd been sitting there—right there. If he hadn't

come along when he did—made her get out... Her mind closed off in shock,

refusing to contemplate the undoubted consequences. She tried to speak—to

thank him properly this time, and instead, to her shame, burst into tears.

He muttered something else under his breath, then swung into the seat

beside her, flinging the discarded cape into the back of the car, before

reaching into the glove compartment for a packet of tissues and a silver

flask.

'Here,' he said curtly, unscrewing the flask's stopper. 'Drink this.'

It was cognac. She gasped, and choked, feeling the spirit spread like fire

through her cold and shaking body. She dabbed at her face with a tissue. 'My

car,' she whispered. 'My car.'

'You insured the car when you hired it,' he reminded her. 'It can easily be

replaced. But not so your life.'

'No.' She shuddered uncontrollably, then lifted the flask again, taking a

fierce, searing swallow, fighting back the remaining tears, and feeling the

trembling dissipate slowly.

'I think you have had enough.' There was a faint smile in his voice as he

gently detached the flask from her grasp.

When she was sure she was in control of her voice, she said, 'All—all my

things were in the boot. I—I know it's silly to mind...'

'I'll get them.' He took the Renault's keys from her unresisting fingers.

'No.' Meg grabbed at his arm. 'Leave them, please. Don't risk it...'

'It's all right.' His voice was gentler. He pointed back towards the wreck.

'See, the boot was hardly touched.'

'But there might be another landslide.' There were still lightning flashes in

the overcast sky, and thunder was grumbling around in the distance like

some outraged but unseen giant. Meg could visualise more rocks, raining

down on him, crushing him like the Renault.

She found she was looking at him, seeing him properly for the first time in

the sullen light which penetrated the car. She knew that he was tall, and she'd

had first-hand experience of the whipcord strength of his body during that

headlong dash from the Renault, but that was the extent of it. Now she saw

that he was quite young—not more than the early thirties at a guess,

although she was no judge of such things. She assimilated a mass of unruly

black hair, and a thin olive-skinned face, the lines of nose, mouth and chin

strongly, even arrogantly marked. And dark fathomless eyes under heavy

lids.

'I think the worst is past.' He shrugged again. He slanted a smile at her.

'Besides, I lead a charmed life.'

She could believe it. Nevertheless, she sat rigidly, staring ahead of her, not

daring to look back, waiting for the clatter of falling stones and the cry of

agony which seemed inevitable. But there was nothing but the rush of the

water in the swollen river, and somewhere near by the shrill song of a bird

announcing that the storm was over.

It occurred to her that he was taking a long time. She turned her head,

peering back, and saw him standing at the rear of the Renault, very still, as if

he'd been turned into a rock or a tree himself.

Maybe the boot was jammed, and he couldn't open it, she thought. But it

seemed she was wrong, because almost at once he headed back towards the

Citroen he was driving, striding out with a travel bag in each hand. She

heard them thud as he transferred them to his own boot.

When he rejoined her, he looked preoccupied, his brows drawn together in a