Dawn Song (3 page)

frown. She sensed a tension in him that she'd not been aware of before, as if

he was angry about something, and trying to hide it.

Perhaps he'd only just realised that his act of gallantry had saddled him

temporarily, at least, with an unwanted passenger, Meg thought with a

certain compunction. Well, she could hardly blame him for resenting the

disruption of his journey. Now it was her turn to reassure him.

She drew a careful breath. 'You've been very kind,' she said, 'and I hate to

impose on you further, but I do need a lift to the Auberge du Source du

Beron. I can get a room there—arrange something about the car too, with

any luck.'

He seemed deep in thought, but at her words he turned his head and looked

at her.

'You have a reservation at the
auberge
?' He sounded surprised.

'Well, no,' she admitted. 'But it's where I was heading before the storm. It's

been recommended to me.'

'It's very popular with tourists. You'd have done well to book in advance, I

think.' His frown deepened. 'You have no alternative plan?'

'Nothing definite,' Meg returned. She could hardly ask him to drive her all

the way to Haut Arignac, she thought. The accident had been a severe

set-back, admittedly, but she was still reluctant to arrive at the chateau a

minute before she had to. She summoned up a ghost of a smile. 'I'll just have

to risk there being a room.'

He gave her another long look. He said softly, 'It is not always wise,

mademoiselle
, to take risks— so far away from home.'

These was an odd note in his voice, an undertone of warning—even menace,

she thought, a faint
frisson
of alarm uncurling down the length of her spine.

Or was it just the shock she'd suffered playing tricks with her imagination?

It had to be that, because suddenly he smiled at her, charm softening the

autocratic firmness of his mouth, and dancing in his eyes.

He wasn't exactly handsome, Meg thought, blinking under the onslaught,

but, dear God, he was frighteningly attractive. The kind of man she'd never

thought to meet. And she would be so glad to get to the
auberge
and see the

last of him, because, the spirit of adventure notwithstanding, some

unsuspected female instinct told her that this man represented more danger

than any landslide she might encounter.

She saw his smile twist slightly, as if he'd guessed the tenor of her thoughts,

and was amused by them. He said softly,
'En avant.
Let's go.' And started the

car.

It was not a pleasant journey, although it had stopped raining and the storm

had rumbled its way into some far distance, allowing a watery sun to make

an apologetic appearance.

Her companion was quiet, Meg found, if not positively taciturn, but that was

probably because he had to concentrate so hard on driving. It was perilous

stuff. The road was littered with fallen debris, and several times they even

had to stop the car to move rocks and tree branches which were actually

blocking the road.

'Is it always as bad as this?' she asked, as he came back to the car, dusting his

hands on his jeans.

'I have known worse.' He glanced sideways at her as he restarted the car. 'It

has been alarming, your introduction to France?'

'How did you know that? That it's my first time here?' Meg pulled a face.

'From my bad French, I suppose.'

He shrugged. 'It was just a guess. I didn't know it at all. And your French is

very good,' he added drily. 'Remarkably so.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because so many of your countrymen do not bother with our language,' he

said, after a slight pause. 'They assume that if they shout loudly enough and

slowly enough we will understand them.'

Meg gave a rueful nod. She'd heard much the same from her night-school

teacher, a Frenchwoman married to a Brit. 'I think it's to do with being an

island race, and not feeling part of Europe. Maybe things will improve once

the Channel Tunnel is open.'

'Perhaps.'

There was a further silence. He drove well, Meg thought, using the powerful

capacity of the car without flourish, the lean brown hands in effortless

control of the wheel.

He was simply dressed, but his denim jeans bore a designer label, and the

plain white shirt, its cuffs turned back to reveal sinewy forearms, had an

expensive silky sheen. His only adornment was a classic gold wristwatch

with a brown leather strap.

It was difficult to know what to make of him, Meg thought, observing him

under her lashes. He didn't slot into any obvious category, either social or

professional. But then, she was no expert, she reminded herself wrily. Her

experience of men was minimal, unless you counted Mr Otway, or Tim

Hansby who collected books on military history, and who'd invited her once

to London with him, on a visit to the Imperial War Museum.

Meg had enjoyed the museum more than she'd anticipated, but Tim, devoted

only son of a widowed mother, would never be more than a casual friend. He

still lived at home, and Meg pitied any girl who might fall in love with him,

because Mrs Hansby was grimly determined to preserve the status quo.

Whereas her companion today didn't look as if he could be tied to any

woman's apron strings. But appearances could be deceptive. He might well

have a shrewd-eyed wife, and a brood of children, and tonight, over dinner,

he'd tell them how he'd rescued a lone English tourist from the storm,

making it amusing—minimising their narrow escape.

And later, his wife would ask when they were alone, 'What was she

like—this English girl?' and he'd smile and say, 'Ordinary—I barely noticed

her...'

As he glanced towards her, Meg realised she'd allowed a tiny sigh to escape

her, and hurried into speech.

'Is it much further to the
auberge?'

'About a kilometre. Do you find the journey tedious?'

'Oh, no,' she denied hurriedly. 'But I realise that you must have things to

do—other plans. I feel I'm being a nuisance.'

'You are wrong. It is my pleasure to do this for you. Besides, by taking this

road, I pass the
auberge
anyway, so it works out well for us both.' He paused

again. 'My name is Jerome Moncourt,' he added with a touch of formality.

'May I know yours in return?'

Her lips parted to say Meg Langtry, but she hesitated, the words unspoken.

She'd come here to be Margot, after all, she thought guiltily, and she'd

almost forgotten. But, she supposed, the deception had to start somewhere.

So why not practise her new identity on this stranger? After all, she was

never going to see him again. Yet, at the same time, she was reluctant to tell

a downright lie. I'm not the stuff conspirators are made from, she thought

with a stifled sigh.

She forced a smile. 'Let's just say—Marguerite,' she temporised. It was a

half-truth, after all, and, with luck, it might be all she'd need.

'The name of a flower,' he said softly. 'And of a famous French queen.

You've heard, perhaps of La Reine Margot who was born Marguerite de

Valois and married Henri of Navarre? She held court at Nerac in Gascony,

and was one of the famous beauties of her age. She was what they used to

call
une dame galante.'

'Meaning?' Meg had moved with slight restiveness-when she heard the

name. Margot, she thought. Of course, it would be. She couldn't get away

from it.

Jerome

Moncourt

shrugged

again.

'That

she

enjoyed

adventures—particularly with men other than her husband,' he returned.

'Her
affaires
were notorious.'

'Then she couldn't have been very happy with this Henri of Navarre.'

He laughed. 'Oh, he was not faultless, either. Maybe that is why he is one of

the kings that France remembers with affection.
Un vrai brave homme.'

'And of course in those days all marriages were arranged,' Meg said

thoughtfully. 'I suppose they could be forgiyen for straying if they were tied

to someone they didn't care about.'

'But what if the marriage had been for this thing we call love?' His voice was

cynical.

'Then there'd have been no excuse,' Meg said firmly.

'I am surprised to hear you say so.'

'Why?' Meg found herself bristling slightly.

Jerome Moncourt hesitated momentarily, then lifted a shoulder.

'Oh—because that is no longer a fashionable point of view. Easy marriage,

easy divorce. That is the modern creed.'

Meg shook her head. 'I don't believe that,' she said. 'Divorce is never easy.

Someone's always hurt—left behind, especially when there are children.'

He flicked her a swift sideways glance. 'I did not expect to meet with an

idealist.'

'But then,' Meg said sedately, 'you didn't expect to meet me at all.'

'No?' He was smiling again. She felt his charm touch her like a caressing

hand. 'You don't think it was fate rather than the storm which brought us

together?'

Meg, uneasily aware of an unfamiliar trembling in the pit of her stomach,

managed a laugh. 'I'm English,
monsieur.
I tend to blame the weather for

everything.'

He laughed too. 'And in France,
mademoiselle,
we say that the marguerite

always turns to the sun. Remember that.' He paused. 'And there just ahead of

us is the
auberge.'

A sudden surge of disappointment rose up inside her, and was ruthlessly

crushed. Was she out of her mind, letting a complete stranger get to her like

this? He'd rescued her, and she'd always be grateful for that, but she wasn't

even sure she liked him, for heaven's sake. He was an unknown quantity,

and she had enough problems ahead of her without taking him into the

reckoning.

It was probably second nature to him to flirt with every girl he came across,

she thought. She just wasn't used to his kind of man, or any other for that

matter.

The Auberge du Source du Beron was a comfortable rambling building,

probably a converted farmhouse, set at the rear of an enclosed courtyard.

Jerome Moncourt drove under an arched gateway into the courtyard, and

stopped. Meg straightened her shoulders, and held out a hand, with a

determined Smile. 'Well, thank you again, and goodbye.'

'You are very eager to be rid of me,' he commented, his mouth twisting

sardonically.

'Oh, it's not that,' she said hurriedly. 'But I've taken up too much of your time

already.'

'You must allow me to judge for myself.' Jerome Moncourt left the car, and

walked round to the passenger door to assist Meg to alight. 'Go and see if

they have a room,' he directed, smiling faintly. 'I will bring your cases.'

Wide glass doors flanked by tubs of brilliant flowers opened on to a tiled

reception area, where the
patronne
gave Meg a pleasant if harassed

welcome.

Yes, there was a room, which she would be happy to show
mademoiselle,

but there was also a problem. Because of that devil's storm, there was no

electricity. Until the supply could be restored, there would only be lamps or

candles. As for the dining-room—
madame
made a gesture of despair.

'That doesn't matter,' Jerome Moncourt said over Meg's shoulder.

'
Mademoiselle
is dining with me.'

Meg felt sudden swift colour invade her face, as
madame,
putting her

troubles aside for a moment, lifted her eyebrows in a roguish and wholly

approving assessment of the situation in general and Jerome Moncourt in

particular. She then became brisk again. If
monsieur
would be so good as to

transport the luggage to
mademoiselle's
room— Millot, whose task this was,

being totally engaged in filling lamps—she would be forever grateful.

'D'accord.'
Jerome smiled at her. 'But first I must ask if the storm spared the

telephone. We need to report an accident.'

The phone system apparently was in full working order. Jerome lifted an

eyebrow at Meg. 'Do you wish me to contact the authorities—deal with the

formalities for you? It would perhaps be easier, no matter how good your

French...'

Meg said a shy 'Thank you' and allowed
madame
to conduct her up the wide

wooden staircase to a room at the back. The ceiling was low, and the floor

uneven, but the furniture gleamed with polish, and the wide bed was made

up with snowy linen and a duvet like a drift of thistledown. In one corner, a

door opened on to an immaculate shower-room hardly bigger than a

cupboard.

The small square window set deep in the thick stone wall stood open to

admit the return of the sun, and the air, still cool after the rain, was heavy