Helen Dickson (9 page)

‘Are you all right?’ he asked when he had settled himself across from her and ordered Pierre to drive on, putting the beacon of the burning villa behind them.

She nodded. ‘When you got out of the coach, I counted each breath as though it were my last.’

‘It could well have been. I told you to stay inside the coach.’

‘I know, but I had to do something. I was terrified.’

‘It took courage not to show it. It was also ingenious of you to feign smallpox.’ He handed her a handkerchief. ‘You can wipe them off now. They have served their purpose.’ He glanced down at her hand. ‘You found my other pistol, I see. Can you use it?’

‘Yes, if I have to,’ she replied, rubbing hard at the rouge on her face. ‘One of the grooms at the chateau taught me how to shoot.’

‘Which may come in useful, who knows? But hear me well, Maria.’ His voice was like ice and his eyes held a terrifying menace as very quietly, very deliberately, he said, ‘Unless you have a death wish, don’t ever do anything like that again. By your reckless action you could have got us all killed. It was stupid. How dare you disobey me?’

Feeling the frigid blast of his gaze, reflexively, to her consternation and fury, Maria felt her cheeks grow hot and found herself shrinking into the upholstery, then checked herself and met his look head-on.

‘Disobey you?’ she repeated, indignant. ‘If I did that then I am very sorry, but I think it was my quick thinking that saved us, not your pistol.’

‘However it may have looked to you, I had the situation under control. How can any man make a coolheaded decision that he knows may involve grave risk, while the woman he is trying to protect has ideas of her own—ideas that could have jeopardised everything?’

She wanted to shout at him, to tell him how frightened she had been for him, but the words froze on her lips; instead she said, ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

‘Obviously. When I give an order, I don’t expect it to be questioned. That’s a matter of principle with me.’ His voice rang with authority. He saw Maria stiffen with angry confusion. ‘Don’t you dare defy me again.’

Before Charles’s eyes, Maria’s expressive face went from shock to fury, and then she coldly turned her face away from him. He stared at her profile, furious be
cause, by her actions, the situation could have turned very ugly. But most of all he was furious with himself for failing to anticipate that such a scene with the rabble might occur, and for not taking steps to avert it by instructing Pierre to take the longer route to avoid the village, such had been his haste to get to the hostelry before nightfall.

He wondered grimly how it was possible that he could intimidate those he employed into doing his bidding with a single glance, and yet he could not seem to force one young, stubborn, defiant girl to behave. She was so damned unpredictable that she made it impossible to anticipate her reaction to anything. But then again, he thought, a feeling of admiration for the courage she had shown coming to the fore, the idea of feigning smallpox had been clever.

As they neared the inn where they would spend the night, he glanced at her, belatedly realising how terrified she must have been on finding herself confronted by a band of miscreants who had just set fire to a house with its inhabitants still inside. With a twinge of pity and reluctant admiration, he admitted that she was also very young, very frightened and very brave. Any other woman might well have given way to hysterics, rather than coolly confronting the rabble and implying that she could infect them all with smallpox as Maria had done.

On reaching the inn, Pierre drove the coach through the arched gateway and brought the steaming horses to a halt. Charles was the first to alight. Turning, he reached up and held out his hand to assist Maria, noting as he did so that her lovely face was stiff, and she was carefully avoiding meeting his eyes.

His gaze swept the bustling inn yard. ‘Unfortunately we have not reserved rooms so we will have to take what’s on offer.’

Maria turned to him. ‘I would appreciate it if you would engage alternative accommodation for yourself tonight, Charles,’ she said coldly. ‘I don’t care what interpretation Pierre or anyone else puts on a husband and wife having separate rooms—make any excuse you like, but tonight I would like my privacy.’

‘As you wish.’

Maria was relieved he didn’t object, but then Charles seemed to have a trick of wiping all expression from his face when he wished, and it was difficult to know what he felt or thought.

Noise struck them as they entered the main room. The inn appeared to be full, but Charles managed to engage rooms.

‘This way,
madame,
’ the innkeeper said, picking up her valise and heading for the stairs.

Charles stayed to drink a much-needed tankard of good, cool ale with Pierre in the common room.

Relieved to have some time to herself, Maria followed. In a moment he had thrown open a door and ushered her into a cramped chamber with bare whitewashed walls. Dimly illuminated by a single oil lamp, it was furnished with a long narrow bed covered with a flowered counterpane, a wash stand with a jug and basin, and a pair of upright chairs near the window set in the eaves. The innkeeper went out, promising to have dinner sent up.

The long day of undiluted tension and anxiety had taken its toll. The fire and the horrific images of what
the people must have suffered in the flames had affected Maria profoundly. A ragged sob escaped her, and she flung herself away from the door in a desperate attempt to keep her mind from thinking of the many things that did not bear thinking of—of what might have happened to her aunt and Constance. Had the chateau been burned like the villa she had seen? Were they dead, or were they hiding and hunted, with no refuge?

Pressing trembling fingers against her temples, she sat on the bed. Tears flowed easily and the sleek lines of her body shuddered with each racking sob. She could not believe what had happened. The nightmare had come true at last, just like Charles said it would—noble houses were burning all over France, and this was far worse than any of the dreams had been, because she knew that she would awake from it to find herself trembling with fear.

Much later, Charles came to her room. Knocking softly on the door, he waited until he was told to enter before turning the handle, surprised, after what had occurred the night before, to find it wasn’t locked. He found her sitting by the tiny window, her fine-boned profile tilted to one side. The forlorn droop of her head went to his heart. He could not help but wonder at the courage of this young woman. He had known no other quite like her, and the disturbing fact was that she seemed capable of disrupting his whole life.

‘Maria,’ he said softly.

She looked at him directly with her clear green eyes, without smiling.

Crossing the room, he went down on one knee in
front of her and took her hand. He longed to take her in his arms and soothe her as he would a frightened child, but her rejection of him would only make matters worse between them. It would be a step too far, too fast, and he didn’t want her to withdraw into the protective shell she seemed to have built around herself and shut him out in the cold.

He could read nothing on her closed face. Her eyes were downcast, the thick lashes making half-moons on her cheeks. He could not tell if she was welcoming the touch of his hand or grimly enduring it.

‘Maria—I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. That you, of all people, should have had to go through that. What I said to you was harsh. I apologise for my tone. As you know, I was not in the best of moods when we came upon the rabble. My temper had been well tested earlier, and I stood very near the edge of losing it entirely.’ A slight, crooked smile curved his lips. ‘Am I forgiven?’

Maria nodded her acceptance of his apology, but the expression on her face remained impassive.

‘If you’re thinking of what happened earlier, forget it. It is behind us now.’

‘Perhaps my memory is clearer than yours. Perhaps I cannot forget as easily as you. I can still see that fire, imagine those poor people who must have been—’

‘Don’t, Maria. Don’t torture yourself this way. Violence is only one aspect of life.’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘Yes, you do. Violence has always been hidden from you. It has been done by people far from sight. Now you have been made aware of it, and it will not go away.’

‘Do you really think the Seigneur, and perhaps his family, perished in the fire?’

‘It looks bad, I’ll admit. But in the absence of any conclusive evidence to the contrary, why not believe that at worst the Seigneur and his family may have been hurt, and afterwards managed to escape?’

‘That,’ Maria said, ‘is what I want to believe.’ But there was no hope in her voice. ‘I also want to believe things have not changed at Chateau Feroc. I pray my aunt and Constance are all right. When I remember how I laughed on leaving, of the joy I felt because I was going home—to Gravely.’ She looked at Charles, unable to hide the guilt she felt and the self-disgust.

‘Why do you look like that?’

‘Because I am ashamed of myself. I ran away and left them to face a terrible fate. How could I?’

‘You don’t know that anything has happened to them. Besides, it was their choice to stay.’

‘I should not have left them. My aunt took me in when my father died. There was no one else, you see. I was under an obligation to stay and help.’

‘The way I see it, you had no alternative but to leave. Colonel Winston was most insistent that you left France while it was still possible. And besides, I had travelled a long way to fetch you. I would have been none too pleased to find my journey had been in vain.’

Realising that he still retained her hand in his, self-consciously Maria withdrew it, and immediately mourned its loss, its strength. Suddenly she was aware of his proximity and what it was doing to her. When she gazed into the pair of penetrating pale blue eyes levelled on her, her heart turned over.

Charles stood up and looked at the food she had left untouched. ‘I see you have not eaten. You should eat something.’

‘I haven’t much of an appetite at the moment.’

‘Then a glass of wine.’

‘No—I…’

‘I insist.’ Charles poured some of the wine from the decanter into two goblets and handed one to Maria. She took it reluctantly and sipped it slowly. He sat opposite, watching her, and he sensed rather than saw her relaxation of tension.

‘Feeling better?’

She nodded. ‘When do you hope to reach Calais?’

‘Tomorrow—hopefully before dark, which means an early start. I can only hope we get there without incident. Before I went to Chateau Feroc, I wrote to Colonel Winston informing him of when we hope to reach Dover—providing everything goes to plan. He will make provision for you after that—unless things change.’ She gave him an enquiring look, but he did not enlarge on this, for it was his dearest hope that after taking one look at Winston, she would send him packing. ‘I have made my own arrangements. We shall part company at Dover, but I will not be at ease until I am assured you are taken care of.’

Charles looked at her now. ‘I suppose you are looking forward to meeting your betrothed again after all these years, Maria.’

The unexpectedness of his words took her by surprise. ‘I—I am apprehensive—not knowing what to expect. It has been a long time.’

‘Are you afraid?’

Maria met his steady gaze. ‘I suppose I am—in a way. My dread of meeting Henry again actually intensified rather than abated as time went on,’ she confessed quietly. ‘You know as well as I that my father was a man of keen intuitive intellect and he was adamant in his belief that Henry would make me a good husband—and I will do all I can to honour his memory.’

‘I know you will, and if you decide you cannot go through with it, I’m sure your father would understand.’

‘You needn’t try to assuage my feelings, Charles. I’ve realised for a long time the limited possibility of my marrying Henry. So please spare me your concern. There really is no need. In days from now I may decide to take a different path from what my father intended.’

‘It is you that looks concerned, Maria. Will it disappoint you to walk away?’

‘In a way. You see, at Chateau Feroc there were times when I was afraid. It seemed that everyone I had been close to had died—my parents, my brother who died in infancy, my maternal grandparents, who drowned when their ship went down in a storm in the English Channel—and there was no one at the chateau I felt really close to. In the early days I pinned all my hopes on Henry.

‘When I came to France, knowing that he was waiting for me, my heart and soul longed for the years to pass so he would come and take me home. But as I grew older my feelings changed. He wrote seldom—the content forced—as though he wrote out of duty. I became apprehensive and even afraid of him. Determining his character for myself is vital in making a prudent choice before we speak our vows. Whatever his faults, I am committed to seeing him—whatever may come from it.’

‘It could be the end—or the beginning of something.’

Maria looked at him steadily. ‘Yes, it could.’

She was wearing the woollen dress she had worn when she had left Chateau Feroc, which she had unfastened at the neck. Her face glowed in the light of the lamp, and her black hair falling loose about her shoulders gleamed with flickering blue lights. With a rush of emotion Charles thought that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. At the end of two days, he was captivated by her. She seemed to have taken up occupation in his mind. She was an intoxicating combination of beauty, an exhilarating intelligence and disarming common sense.