Shadows (22 page)

Melissa remonstrated with him, but Christophe shook his head.  “Non, j’avais peur.  But tonight I give you dinner at the Moulin St Pierre.  We talk then.”

Melissa glanced at Rory, who remained silent.  “There’s really no need, Christophe.  We have more than enough food here.”

Christophe got to his feet.  “I go ’ome now.”

She let it go and let out a sigh of relief as the little red car reached the end of the lane.  “He is such an odd man.  Do you like him?”

Rory had been watching the Citroen.  Now he met her glance.  “With reservations.”

“Oh?  Which reservations are those?”

“The biggest one is that he flirts with you.”

A flutter of happiness had her smiling.  “Don't worry.  He doesn’t flirt with me in any real sense.  It’s because he’s French.  It seems to come with the breed, somehow.”

“Are you glad you came to France?”  Rory sipped the last of his wine and gazed at her across the table.

“Oh, yes.  In spite of the ghosts.”  How could she not be glad?  She was with Rory, and he cared for her.

“I’m glad.  I didn’t bargain for this kind of competition.”  He stirred restlessly in the big whicker chair.  “The ghosts.  Christophe.  I thought we’d be here on our own, unless we went seeking company.  But here, the company doesn’t wait to be invited.  It turns up anyway.”

He wanted to be alone with her.  Restraining an impulse to get up and dance along the bolly, she nodded.  “Like he did this morning.  That’s true.”

Rory threw her a quizzical glance.  “Actually I was thinking of the ghosts, but never mind.”  He squinted at her.  “After the first night I thought you’d demand to be taken to the airport immediately.”

“Give up on the ghosts, and you taking me for granted?”

“Sorry about that.”  He shook his head.  “I don’t know what I was thinking when I invited you here.”

She sobered instantly.  “That sounds as if you regret it.”

“Not at all.  I wanted you here with me.  I still do.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not sure if I know.  I don’t want to crowd you.  I know you didn’t want to fall into bed with me right away.”  He raised both hands in a gesture that spoke of regret.  “In spite of last night, you can still have the bedroom.  I can sleep on the sofa.  Or I could sleep down stairs, I suppose.”  He offered a lop-sided smile.  “After all, Christophe survived.”

A cold hand gripped and twisted her innards.  Surely her worst fears were not about to come true?  “Why do you want to sleep down there?”  What could it mean except that he wanted to sleep alone?  He was disappointed in her.  Last night must have meant nothing to him after all.

“It might be interesting to see if they visit me or you.”  He was smiling, damn him.

“If that’s what you want.”

He laughed.  “Pierre will probably home in on you at once.”

“Rory.”

She couldn't joke about it, and her distress must have shown in her face, for Rory got up, suddenly serious, and came over to her.

“Do you think I’d let you out of my sight?  Not now, not for an instant.  I need reassurance as much as you do.  I wanted to be sure I wasn’t rushing you.”

As he spoke, he stooped over her and his lips found hers.  Gently, teasing, testing her responses.  She held back, unsure.  The teasing had unsettled her, shaken her newfound confidence.

She batted him away.  But the moment he retreated, she grabbed his shoulders, held on, and soon gave in to the warmth of his mouth on hers.

~~~

That evening Christophe’s little red car drew up at the end of the drive as promised.  Rory folded his long legs into the tiny vehicle with some difficulty.  “This is small.”

Melissa coughed as Polo collided with whatever aftershave Christophe sprayed so liberally over himself, huddled in the back seat and was glad she had not added her perfume to the pungent mix.  Rory’s head hit the roof every time the car drove over a bump, and she was pleased when Christophe wheeled into the dusty car park of the St. Pierre and led them into a cool stone hall.

“Look at that drive-shaft.”  Rory stared up at the ceiling where a massive, ten foot long beam of wood sprouted a complex system of cog wheels.  “Probably turned the mill wheels once upon a time.”

Soon old machinery and antique furniture were forgotten as they drooled over the menu.  Melissa sat with her back to the window, happy in the knowledge that her pale green dress suited her and was exactly right for the occasion.  Christophe wore fresh whites, and Rory looked handsome in cream slacks, and a brown and cream check shirt.  His favorite brown leather belt gleamed at his waist.

The open-necked shirt displayed the strong tendons of his throat to advantage.  He glanced up and spoke to her alone.  “What would you like?”

Riffles of delight danced along her nerves endings.  The sound of his voice made her long for the time when they would be alone again.

“Permittez-moi to order pour la table?”   Christophe peered over the rim of his heavy glasses.  Melissa shrugged, and Rory nodded agreement.

A tall, sturdily built woman with a tempest of black hair piled in high coils about her head approached the table, greeted Christophe like a long lost friend.  A conversation sprang up between them in rapid French, went on for several minutes while the lady made frequent notes on her order pad.

The salad aux gesiers Christophe chose as the first course arrived almost immediately.  Duck gizzard wasn’t something Melissa would have chosen herself, but she sampled a small piece and was astonished at the depth of flavor that flooded her mouth.  Rory complimented Christophe on his choice, but there was little conversation.  Melissa sipped her wine and sat back in her chair as a waiter cleared her plate.

Christophe rattled his knuckles on the table.  “I talk about today.”

Rory met and held her gaze, lifted one brow and turned his attention to the Frenchman.

“Vous savez, je pense…I want very much to look under the mill room?”  Rory nodded.  “I was ’appy, then we found the old…”  He indicated a circle in the air.

Rory nodded.  “The old water wheel.”

“Then I ’ad bad feeling.  I know terror.”

Melissa widened her eyes, but stayed quiet.  This was a bit dramatic, even for a Frenchman.

Rory broke the silence.  “The wheel made you feel bad?  Can you describe the bad feeling?”

Christophe ground his teeth together, frowned at the fork in his hand and tapped the prongs over and over on the white tablecloth.  “Le panique.”

“What made you panic?”  Rory was gentle but relentless.

Christophe gesticulated at something in the air above his head.  “The…waterwheel, I saw it…it came down, to kill me.”

“It was already down in the mud, Christophe.  It couldn’t fall on you.”

Melissa compressed her lips together in a physical effort not to interrupt.  Rory was doing so well, but she guessed what might be coming next.  She clasped her hands together, hid them under the table, fixed her eyes on Christophe and waited.

“No, no, no.  It was—”  Christophe’s hands described huge circles in the air.  “It was en place, and working.  The water, and the wheel, they came down and ’it me.”

A frown marred Rory’s brow.  “You imagined the waterwheel when it was working?  When—”

“No.”  Christophe shook his head so hard his curls shook.  “J’étais là.  Là.  I was there.  The water, it was fast, it was cold.”  He mimed receiving a series of heavy blows.  He kept his voice low, but couldn’t hide the thread of panic and fear running through it.  Melissa suppressed a shiver.

“Okay.”  Not a hint of impatience showed in Rory’s level tone.  “You imagined what it would be like when it was working, and knew that anyone standing where we were standing would be drowned—”

Melissa’s goose bumps rose in earnest at Christophe’s agonized cry.  She put her hand on Rory’s arm, leaned forward and spoke slowly into the resulting silence.  “Christophe.  Listen to me.  Are you saying you went back in time to when the wheel was working?”

He nodded unhappily.

With a hiss of impatience, Rory flung himself back in his chair, folded his arms and breathed hard through his nose.  Melissa glared at him.  Why was he so impatient?  Before she could say anything further, a smiling waiter hurried forward bearing their next course.

By the time the food had been served and wine glasses deftly replenished, Christophe appeared calmer.

“So now you have seen a ghost, too?”  Melissa waited for his reaction.

His blue eyes, brilliant in the candlelight, held hers for a long moment.  “Yes, but le fantôme was me.”

Melissa nodded.  “I thought so.  I’m glad you’ve told us.”  Full of sympathy, she reached across and patted the Frenchman’s hand.  Rory loosed an explosive sigh.  Surprised, she sent him a frowning glance.  Couldn't he see that Christophe needed support?  Surely he couldn’t be jealous about her patting Christophe’s hand?

After the first taste of her food, Melissa smiled brightly.  “This is delicious, Christophe.  The cherries add such a piquant flavor to the duck.”

Christophe brightened.  “It is a local specialty.  I ’oped you like it.”

“This chap Pierre,” Rory said.  “He drowned, according to your history book, yes?”

Christophe nodded.

“So if Pierre drowned, and you felt terror in a place where there was a lot of water and a dangerous waterwheel, perhaps he drowned there?”

“Beneath the mill room?”  Horror pitched her voice high.  “No wonder he haunts the place.”

Rory picked up his wine glass.  Holding it in by the stem, he sipped, saluted Christophe’s choice of wine and considered her comment.  “Yes, perhaps beneath the mill room.  There are no details in the book.  But if you give credence to Christophe’s feelings today, which I’m sure you do, it suggests to me that Pierre drowned there.”

Melissa ignored his insinuation that she favored Christophe.  “What do you think, Christophe?”

“I am not ’appy.”

“Have some more wine.”  Melissa seized the bottle and topped up his glass to hide her own growing confusion.  Christophe’s confession reminded her of the powerful but embarrassing wave of sensuality she’d experienced watching Pierre and Justine.  She ought to speak of it, as it threw an unusual light on the experience, but couldn't screw up the courage to do so.  At least it had been pleasurable, in an odd sort of way, but Christophe seemed to pick up nothing but panic and fear.  She patted his hand again.

“Perhaps we should ask the local priest’s advice.”  Rory kept his head down and went on eating.

Melissa speared a cherry.  Rory seemed keener on eating than helping Christophe.  If he'd picked up the same horrid feelings as the Frenchman, he’d be far more interested.

Christophe put down his cutlery.  “You want ’im to exercise the spirit?”

“Exorcise, yes.”  Rory nodded.

“If the spirit is me, what ’appens to me?  It is exer…exorcised, and me, I go—pouf?”

Melissa choked on a sip of wine.  “Surely not.”  Hastily she used her napkin to wipe the dribble from her chin and then realized that if Christophe needed exorcism, then probably she did, too.  Her experience wasn't so far removed from his.

“The spirit is not you.”  Rory spoke in the firm tones of lawyer to client.  “It may be communicating with you, somehow, but it is not you.”

Melissa studied her potatoes, stacked in thin slices like an apple pie, tasted them and found them delicious.  “I wonder why Rory did not feel anything?  He was right beside you in that nasty place.”

Christophe shrugged.  The experience appeared to have knocked all the stuffing out of him.  Was he recounting everything?  Some instinct made her ask the question.  “Is there something else, Christophe?  Something you don’t understand?”

His eyes were troubled, but wasn’t that relief as well?

He grabbed her hand.  “’ow did you know?”

“Know what?”  Rory stabbed a piece of duck with his fork, and glared at the Frenchman.