A Place of Storms

• CHAPTER ONE
  
• CHAPTER TWO
  
• CHAPTER THREE
  
• CHAPTER FOUR
  
• CHAPTER FIVE
  
• CHAPTER SIX
  
• CHAPTER SEVEN
  
• CHAPTER EIGHT
  
• CHAPTER NINE
  

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IN HARLEQUIN PRESENTS


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WILD MELODY


TEMPLE OF THE MOON


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IN HARLEQUIN ROMANCES


GARDEN OF DREAMS

Harlequin Presents edition published May 1978 

ISBN-0-373-70735-5

Original hardcover edition published in 1977 by Mills & Boon Limited

Copyright © 1977 by Sara Craven.

'Andy—please! You've just got to help me. There's no one else I can turn to.'

From her seat on the Persian rug in front of the fire, Andrea Weston thought wryly that Clare's flair for the dramatic was going to be wasted on anything so mundane as marriage. But this time—this time she was going to turn a deaf ear to it, and to that deliberate use of the diminutive of her name. She had heard it all before when Clare wanted to be rescued from some childhood or schooldays scrape of her own making.

'No one?' she asked caustically, letting her eyes rest on the magnificent sapphire and diamond ring adorning Clare's left hand.

Clare noticed the direction of her gaze and shuddered.

'Peter mustn't know.' She sounded genuinely panic-stricken. 'Promise me you won't tell him.'

'Oh, I can safely promise that.' Andrea pushed back her long fall of chestnut hair. 'How can I tell him what I don't know myself?' She saw Clare open her mouth and hastily forestalled her. 'And I don't want to know either, Clare. We're not children any longer. I may have been able to talk you out of trouble with Nanny and Sister Benedict, but you're a big girl now. You've got to learn to solve your own problems.'

'Oh, Andy!' Clare's shoulders drooped forlornly. 'Don't be hard on me.'

'It's time someone was,' Andrea told her honestly. 'Uncle Max has spoiled you rotten for years, and you know it.'

Clare nodded humbly, her enormous blue eyes filled with tears. 'I do know—but you've got to help me, Andy. You're my last hope.'

'Nonsense!' Andrea hoped her voice was sufficiently robust. 'Whatever you've done, my advice is go to Peter and make a clean breast of it. You're going to be married to him in six weeks and you can't hope to hide things from him then…' Her voice trailed away uneasily as Clare buried her face in her hands and began to cry in real earnest.

'Oh, love!' Andrea got up and went to sit on the big white chesterfield next to Clare, putting a comforting arm round her cousin's heaving shoulders. 'It can't be as bad as all that, surely.'

'But it can.' Clare's voice was choked with sobs. 'I'm in such a mess—and there may not be any wedding, and I'll make Daddy ill again, I know it.'

Andrea sighed. 'Then you'd better tell me,' she said wearily. An awful thought occurred to her. She stared at her cousin. 'Clare—you haven't… I mean, you aren't…'

'Oh, no.' Clare shook her head vigorously. In spite of her distress a faintly dreamy look crossed her lovely features. 'Anyway, Peter has always said he has far too much respect for me to try and anticipate our marriage vows.'

'How—how honourable of him,' Andrea said a little wildly. Her own private view of Clare's fiancé was that he was a stuffed shirt, and Clare's artless disclosure seemed to confirm this. Clare was an entrancingly beautiful girl with her shining cap of blonde hair, and a figure just verging towards the voluptuous, and Andrea could not imagine any red-blooded man being able to resist at least an attempt to make love to her. However, dare seemed convinced that he was the only man who could make her happy and Andrea supposed that this was really all that mattered. Her own doubts about whether Peter would ever have proposed to Clare if she had not been Maxwell Weston's daughter she kept strictly to herself.

'All right,' she said gently. 'Then what is wrong?'

Clare gave a long sigh that seemed to come up from her toes. 'There's—there's someone else,' she said.

'Another man?' Andrea could hardly believe it. Admittedly Clare had played the field before she met Peter. Since her early teens there had hardly been a time when she was not madly in love with someone, either in the ecstatic throes of first meetings, or the tears and recriminations of parting. Yet Andrea would have been ready to swear that her devotion to Peter had been utterly single-minded. 'Do I know him?'

Clare shook her head. 'He's—French.'

'I suppose you met him when you were staying with Martine in Paris.' Andrea racked her brains to remember some of the details of Clare's scanty letters. 'Surely it can't be that appalling Jacques! Oh, Clare…'

'No, no,' Clare assured her hastily. 'Though it is all his fault indirectly,' she added, her eyes kindling with resentment. 'If I hadn't been so absolutely devastated about him, I'd never have contemplated getting involved with the Levallier man.'

'So his name's Levallier,' Andrea persevered. 'How did you meet him?'

'I didn't.' Clare gave her a limpid look.

Andrea closed her eyes and prayed for patience. 'You can't possibly be in love with someone you've never met— not even you…'

'But I'm not in love with him. I tell you I've never set eyes on him. It was just… oh, when Jacques threw me over like that for that awful Janine, I just wanted to die. I've never felt so wretched before. Nothing seemed to matter any more, so when he wrote and suggested we should get married, it seemed a godsend—an absolute face-saver.'

Andrea stared at her, slim arched brows raised incredulously. 'A complete stranger wrote to you and proposed?'

'Not exactly. I—I had been writing to him before that. He's a cousin of Martine's—second or third, from what she said, but her family don't talk about him much. He's some kind of black sheep, apparently. I think he must have been living abroad somewhere, but he's come back because he's inherited this chateau in Auvergne, and he wrote to Martine's parents, extending an olive branch, I think. They were highly indignant about this,' Clare added reflectively.

'Martine and I thought it was a shame, and so we decided if they didn't want to reply to his letter, we would. We sent a joint letter, as a joke really.'

'And he replied?'

'Oh yes. It was rather a nice letter—amused, as if he guessed what we were up to. But Martine wouldn't write again. She was afraid her parents would find out and cancel the winter sports holiday they were planning, so I wrote the next letter myself. Eventually we had quite a correspondence going. I told him all kinds of things. I even told him about Jacques when it was all over. It was marvellous to be able to pour it all out to someone who wasn't actually involved, or who knew either of us. And that was when he proposed.'

'But why? Did he give a reason, or was he just sorry for you?'

'No. He made that very clear. In fact,' Clare said rather coldly. 'He implied I'd asked for it. No, the proposal was purely a business proposition. He stressed that. He needed a wife urgently to settle some legal difficulty—he didn't really specify what—and as I was so miserable and at a loss, he thought we could help each other.'

'But surely you ended it there—when you saw what deep waters you were getting into?'

Clare did not meet her cousin's clear hazel eyes. 'I— accepted,' she said after a pause.

'Clare!'

'Oh, don't look at me like that. I told you—I was so desperate about Jacques, I'd have done anything. I'd have married Bluebeard if he'd asked me. And this was a way out. If I was engaged to this Blaise Levallier, then Jacques would see I didn't care. Which I didn't, of course,' she added wonderingly. 'I wish I'd realised it earlier.'

Andrea groaned. 'So do I,' she said with feeling. 'You must have been out of your mind!'

Clare considered. 'I felt very calm, actually. After what I'd just been through with Jacques, a
mariage de convenance
sounded like bliss, I don't mind telling you. I meant to go through with it, too. He sent me some things to sign—and some money—to buy my trousseau with, I suppose. I hadn't told him about Daddy, and he probably thought I was living
au pair
with Martine's family.'

'Probably.' Andrea looked at her in consternation. 'What did you do with the money?'

'I didn't spend it,' Clare assured her. 'I might have done, I admit, but then Daddy had his first heart attack. When Mummy sent for me, I forgot about everything else.'

She got up and walked across the room to the small Regency bureau against one wall. 'The money's all here— every franc. You can count it if you like.'

'No, thanks.' Andrea put out a restraining arm and caught her cousin's skirt. 'Never mind the money. Just tell me the rest. There is more, I presume.'

'Yes.' Clare returned to the chesterfield and sat down. 'But you know it really. I met Peter—I think we both knew at once there would never be anyone else—and Blaise went out of my head altogether. When I did think about it, it just seemed like a bad dream.'

'I can imagine,' Andrea said drily. 'And when did you wake up?'

Clare reached for her cream leather handbag. 'When these came.' She drew a small packet of letters secured by a rubber band out of the bag. 'Martine sent the first one on.' She sent Andrea a stricken look. 'It was full of details about the arrangements for the wedding. I was petrified. I —I didn't answer. I hoped he might think the letter hadn't arrived and just—give up.'

'But he didn't.'

'No,' Clare admitted despondently. 'He wrote again, and this letter came straight here, so he must have had me traced in some way. He sent me the money for my air fare and said that if I let him know when I'd be arriving, he would hire a car to meet me at the airport, and I could drive out to St Jean des Roches—that's where his chateau is. I—I had to reply, so I said I was ill,' Clare concluded in the tone of one blessed with divine inspiration. 'A few weeks went by and I heard nothing more, so I began to hope that he'd given me up as a bad job. Peter and I were engaged by now, and everything was sheer heaven. Then another letter arrived. It was totally different from the others—really hateful. He said he was sure I must have recovered by now and that the wedding had to take place almost at once.' She sighed and bent her head. 'I—I couldn't very well ignore that, so I wrote to him and told him I'd changed my mind…'

'You didn't tell him about Peter?'

'No, and I'm glad I didn't.' Clare's pretty face became stormy. 'Because this arrived back—by return of post, I should think.' She extracted one of the letters from the bundle on her lap and handed it to Andrea.

'Mademoiselle,' it began unpromisingly, 'Much as I may regret your sudden reluctance to proceed with our agreed contract, I have to tell you that my own plans are now too far advanced to permit any withdrawal on your part. Unless you present yourself here in accordance with our agreement, I shall take action against you for breach of promise. I have, you may remember, your written consent to the marriage.'

The letter was typewritten, but the signature was there, black and bold and uncompromising, the downstrokes with the pen thick and formidable as if they had been made by an angry man.

Andrea's lips were compressed as she refolded the single thin sheet.

'I think he means it,' she said, meeting her cousin's anxious look. 'Can you still sue people for breach of promise?'

Clare shuddered. 'I don't know, but even if he can't, there's bound to be the most awful scandal. The newspapers have been looking for something involving Daddy for ages. I—I just can't do
it
to him, Andy. He could have another attack—and this time it could be fatal. The specialist warned us…' She began to cry again and Andrea looked at her with compassion.

'Don't worry, love.' She gave Clare a quick hug. 'It won't happen. We won't let it.'