A Place of Storms (14 page)

She got up, smoothing the creases out of her jeans. 'I'd better be going,' she said awkwardly. 'Thanks for the hospitality. You must have dinner with us at the chateau soon.'

Alan sent her a wry grin. 'Perhaps not too soon, but thanks for the thought. If I'm still around when the honeymoon is over, I hope you'll ask me again.'

She had an impulse to tell him that the honeymoon was over now—that it had never, in fact, begun, but something held her back. She had probably told Alan too much as it was. So she gave him a swift, meaningless smile and murmured goodbye.

Her thoughts were sombre as she walked back to the chateau. Marie-Denise's tragic story had affected her deeply, and she found herself wishing almost childishly that she had not had to hear it on her wedding day. It was not very encouraging to hear about another arranged marriage at the chateau which had gone so disastrously wrong.

Madame Bresson was hovering rather anxiously in the great hall when she appeared, and Andrea looked at her inquiringly.

Madame's own gaze was reproachful. 'Does Madame wish me to run her bath?' she asked.

Andrea realised that as far as the housekeeper was con-cerned, the honeymoon was in full swing, and that she was being given a none-too-subtle hint to dress for dinner. Her first impulse was to reply that she preferred to remain as she was, but she realised nothing would be gained by offending Madame Bresson's notion of correct behaviour, so she smiled and thanked her. In any case, the thought of a bath was not an unwelcome one. She was not so sure about dressing for dinner.

She had a dress, of course, popped into her case as an afterthought. Wool jersey in a glowing amber shade, cut on strictly mediaeval lines—long-sleeved and square-necked. And it did not come as a complete surprise, when she entered her room, to find it laid out across the bed. Her mind was being made up for her, it seemed.

When she was ready at last, she surveyed herself in the mirror. On the surface everything was fine. Her chestnut hair was looped smoothly back over her ears and tied at the nape of her neck by a length of chiffon the same shade as her dress. Gold fringed ear-rings swung from her ear-lobes. But it was her face that gave her away. The discreet makeup she had applied could not alleviate the underlying pallor induced by tension. Her eyes looked enormous and the soft curves of her mouth bore unmistakable signs of strain. She sighed. It was not the poised image she would have liked to present to the man who awaited her downstairs, but at least she would not have to contend with the revealing glare of electric light.

And tonight even the prosaic lamps had been dispensed with. The panelled walls gave back the more intimate glow of candlelight. Andrea checked in the doorway, fighting irritation and embarrassment. The room had been transformed into a setting for a lovers' tryst, and she would not have needed much prompting to turn around and flee back upstairs to the comparative security of her room. But common sense told her that it would be better to stay and try and behave as if she noticed nothing unusual. She must not let Blaise catch a glimpse of her inner disturbance, she thought almost frantically.

She walked across to the settle and sank down on to it, holding out her hands to the leaping flames in the hearth. The crackling of the burning logs sounded like thunder in her ears, echoing the tumult of her own pulse beats.

More than anything she regretted this enforced intimacy. She wished now that she had persuaded Blaise to take her out—to the restaurant in Craudon that Alan had mentioned, perhaps—or that they had invited other guests to join them. But she was forced to admit that it was unlikely that anyone would have accepted such an invitation. It was assumed by everyone that they wanted to be alone. Any protestations to the contrary from her would be attributed to bridal nerves —which Blaise would soon have the means of curing. She had seen it in their eyes as they had come to congratulate them after the wedding ceremony, as she had stood beside Blaise, her hand resting formally on his arm—the age-old curiosity and speculation directed at every newly married pair.

Then, she had felt armoured in her own secret knowledge that they were all wrong, and that this marriage did not contain the elements their imagination were creating. Now, she was sure of nothing.

A sudden small sound disturbed her and she swung round, choking back the cry of alarm that her overcharged emotional state had brought to her lips. Blaise was standing at the end of the settle, one arm resting on its high carved back. His face was in shadow, so she could not read his expression, but she was immediately aware that he too had chosen to dress for the occasion, and to register how well the formality of his dark dinner jacket and white frilled shirt became him.

'You—you startled me.' Her voice sounded unaccustomedly breathless in her ears.

'
Evid
é
mment
,' he said drily. 'I apologise. Perhaps I can make amends by getting you a drink.'

'Thank you,' she returned almost inaudibly. She took the glass he handed her, and sipped without the slightest awareness of the contents. Her hand was shaking so much she began to be afraid she would give herself away by spilling some of the liquid on her gown. But fortunately Blaise did not seem to notice her nervousness. She wondered how long he had been standing there before she had become aware of his presence. It disturbed her to think how vulnerable she had been under his scrutiny.

'Clothilde tells me you wish to use the tower rooms for Philippe.'

She looked up at him quickly, unable to gauge from his tone what his attitude might be.

'It seemed a good idea at the time,' she admitted. 'But now I'm not so sure.'

'Am I permitted to ask you why?'

She looked at him in surprise. 'I should have thought it was obvious. Once I'd heard about Marie-Denise…'

'Ah,' he said meditatively. 'So someone has told you that old story.'

'You don't believe it?'

He shrugged. 'Every old house has its stories of savagery and blood. Ours is no exception. But I would prefer they were not given undue importance. How much is truth and how much the product of fanciful minds is hard to tell at this distance.'

'Then can I go ahead?' she asked. 'It did seem ideal, but Madame Bresson thought…'

He smiled faintly. 'I will deal with Clothilde. As you can see,' he waved a hand rather derisively at the elaborately arranged dining table and the polished candelabra, 'she is the possessor of one of the fanciful minds I mentioned.'

Andrea felt the colour rise in her cheeks. 'I'd like to colour-wash the interior walls,' she said hurriedly. 'Cream, I think, or perhaps a pale yellow for warmth. And I'd like to buy a new bed for Philippe—a modern divan, I think, and some simple furniture.'

Blaise nodded. 'Order what you think will be best. I will tell Gaston to check the floors and ceilings—and the windows. Do you think bars should be fixed?'

'I don't like that idea. Philippe wouldn't be made to feel that he's a prisoner in any way. Perhaps Gaston could fit safety catches to the windows, so that they can be opened for ventilation just a little way.' She looked at him. 'Besides, bars at the windows would simply give credence to old superstitions.'

'Instead of which, we shall relegate them to the past where they belong.' He lifted his glass towards her in a mocking toast. '
Votre sant
é
, madame
.'

She was saved having to reply by the entrance of Madame with the first course of their dinner. Tonight she had surpassed herself, Andrea thought as the clear soup was replaced by succulent prawns in a creamy sauce, to be followed in turn by chicken simmered with grapes in wine. In spite of her nervousness, the food was irresistible, and she ate with something very near her usual appetite. They drank champagne with the meal. The wine of celebration, she found herself thinking, and laid down her spoon, pushing her dessert plate away from her.

'Is something the matter?' Blaise's eyes seemed oddly watchful in the candelight.

'No,' she lied. 'I—I've just had enough to eat, that's all. Too much, really, I wasn't expecting such a banquet.'

'Ah." Blaise leaned back in his chair, his dark face enigmatic. 'But Clothilde is of an old-fashioned tradition. She believes that good food and good wine means that—later —there will be good love.'

Andrea set her glass down again hurriedly. Her cheeks were crimson and she could think of nothing adequate to say in return.

'You are very quiet,' he observed after a pause, and she hated the sardonic amusement in his voice. 'It is possible that silence means consent, as your countrymen say?'

'No, it does not,' she made her voice as cold as possible. 'And I think under the circumstances, this conversation is in very poor taste.'

'What circumstances do you refer to,
ma mie
? 'He poured some more wine into his glass.

'You know perfectly well.' She glared at him.

'I know that we were made man and wife today,' he said reflectively. 'And that you look very beautiful, and that there is only the width of this table separating us.'

She pushed her chair back hastily, scraping the legs over the floor. 'There is far more than that between us,
monsieur
,' she said, unsuccessfully trying to control the tremor in her voice. 'It was a business arrangement that you offered and forced me to accept—nothing more.'

A faint smile brushed his lips. 'You deceive yourself,
ma chère
. The business arrangement, such as it was, I offered to your cousin Clare.'

Andrea stared at him, her heart hammering wildly. Then she got to her feet, her legs shaking under her. 'This has gone far enough,' she declared with more conviction than she was actually capable of feeling. 'That's pure sophistry and you know it. I agreed to a legal contract, that's all. There's not the slightest difference between that and the arrangement you made with Clare.'

'I hate to argue with you,
ma mie
,' he said coolly. 'But there is a marked difference. I have never, after all, held your cousin in my arms and felt her body tremble with desire.'

Andrea felt as if she were choking. 'How dare you!' she forced out at last. 'You have no right to say that…'

'When you became my wife, you granted me any rights I chose to assert, Andrée.'

He stared up at her through half-closed eyes. The flickering candelight playing on his scarred face gave him the look of a devil, she thought hysterically.

'I'll leave you,
monsieur
. Perhaps tomorrow you'll be in a more reasonable frame of mind.'

She made herself walk, not run, to the door. As she passed him, she had to resist an impulse to flinch away as if she was afraid he might lean out of his chair and seize her as she passed. But of course he
did
nothing of the sort. Only he laughed softly as she reached the door and went out.

She was halfway up the stairs when she realised he was coming after her. She stumbled over her long skirt as she tried to run, and snatched it up out of hex way, damning it under her breath. Then he was beside her, and she was facing him, her back against the staircase wall. His hands rested on the wall on each side of her, not touching her. She could neither go up the stairs or down, and even without his imprisoning arms she knew that her trembling legs would not have obeyed her.

Pride would not serve her now. She whispered plead, 'Blaise…' but her plea was stifled as his mouth came down on hers.

She would have welcomed brutality. It would have given her something to withstand, to fight against. His mouth was cool and gentle, almost teasing as he coaxed her lips apart, and then possessed of a devastating sensuality. Her head swam dizzily, and she lifted her hands, clinging to the lapels of his coat because otherwise she knew she would sink to the ground.

She never knew when kissing no longer became enough, but a convulsive sob of delight caught at her throat as the fierce demand of his hands sought and found her breasts. She had entertained an image of herself as cool and self-possessed. Now she was aware of needs within herself that terrified her. Yet it was not fear but a far older emotion that made her arch her slim body against his in an invitation more potent than any words.

He lifted her into his arms as easily as if she had been a featherweight. She turned her face against his chest, not caring where he was taking her, savouring the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

A small measure of sanity returned when she was set gently to her feet and knew that they were in his room. Now, if ever, she had to rally her defences against him—to protest. But even as she registered the thought, she felt her dress slip from her body to the floor, and knew that all protest was much, much too late.

Lying on the bed beside him, she gave herself up to his kisses. His hands were exploring her body with a heart-stopping intimacy which seemed to make even the most fragile of underclothing an indefensible intrusion—a barrier which could and should be swept away.

Yet when it was done, a sudden paralysing shyness overwhelmed her. She wasn't ashamed of her body—of course she wasn't. She wanted him to look at her. But he was the first man who had ever seen her—like this, and she couldn't meet his gaze. She turned her face away and closed her eyes, longing for him to kiss and caress her again, and dissolve away her shyness for ever.

But he neither kissed nor touched her, and with a swift quiver of awareness she realised that he was no longer beside her. Her eyes flew open.

He was standing by the bed, looking down at her, his face filled with a cold anger that terrified her. The fact that he was still fully dressed made it all, somehow, so much worse…

'Cover yourself with this,
madame
,' As if he could read her thoughts, he tossed something down to her. It drifted across her body, a ripple of white lace torn to shreds. She gave a little horrified gasp, then was mute as he spoke again, his words falling like so many lashes with a whip across her quivering senses.

'I promised I would teach you a lesson,
ma mie
. Maybe we have both learned something. At least you will treat any future gifts from me with a little more respect. I wish you goodnight.'