A Place of Storms (15 page)

He turned and strode away from her across the room, and Andrea heard the door shut behind him.

It was very early the next morning when Andrea awoke. For a moment or two she lay, her fingers pressed against her throbbing head, wondering why she had woken, and why she felt so wretched, and then memory came flooding back, and she knew.

She could not cry any more. She had shed enough tears the previous night, after she had stumbled back from Blaise's room. She still found it difficult to believe that he could have treated her with such diabolical cruelty. He had made her want him, forced a total, aching response from her. and then rejected her. Surely her destruction of the nightgown he had given her had not warranted such an utter humiliation in return?

And it was little satisfaction to know that his plan had misfired, and that his body had tricked him into desiring her too. At the very moment when she had been ready to give herself to him, he had been cold-blooded enough to draw back, in spite of everything that had passed between them.

It was useless too to tell herself that if he had in fact made love to her, merely to appease a cynical desire for a woman, she would have even more to regret at this moment. How would she have felt, waking to the knowledge that she had been used because the woman he really loved and wanted was lost to him?

The thought was like a physical blow. What a fool she'd been! There had been moments in Blaise's arms when she would have sworn there was real tenderness commingled with his passion. Yet not even the passion had been real. He had merely been 'teaching her a lesson.'

More sleep was impossible, she thought, swinging her legs out of bed and searching for her embroidered mules. When she was calmer—when the hurt was less, then she would decide what to do. She had promised Blaise a year of her life, but that was no longer feasible. She could not stay at the chateau after this. She supposed she would have to remain until Philippe arrived, so that the legality of his guardianship could be established without question, but once the boy had settled in she would go. Blaise could say she had gone to England to visit her relations, make up any story he pleased, she thought bitterly. He had shown a total lack of regard for her feelings. Why should she now consider his?

She washed and dressed herself quickly in jeans and a sweater. Her soft leather shoes made hardly a sound on the stairs as she descended and made her way to the kitchen. There was no sign of Madame Bresson. It was too early even for her to be around, although Andrea heard a faint noise somewhere in the distance which might have been Gaston chopping sticks. She set the stove glowing and found the coffee pot and a jar of coffee. When it was ready, she sweetened the brew and drank it black, sitting at the big scrubbed table.

It occurred to her that she had not yet written to Clare to tell her what had happened. As things were, she might well arrive back in London ahead of any letter, she thought with a brief, unhappy sign. It would have been easy to blame Clare for her present desolation, but in her heart she knew that it would be unjust. She had had few illusions when she set out on this escapade about the risks she would be running. And while she had been able to convince herself that she had agreed to marry Blaise solely for Uncle Max's sake, she now knew only too well that it had been a piece of useless self-deception. She had been fighting her attraction to Blaise almost from the moment she had entered his house. Clare's piece of foolishness had been an excuse to stay, however good her intentions might have been initially. Once she had seen the calibre of the man she had crossed swords with, she should have run. But she had stayed, telling herself it was for Clare—for Uncle Max, when the truth was it all for herself. This truth had been forced on her last night, when she had lain in Blaise's arms and known in his lovemaking the culmination of every dream of delight she had ever experienced. Yet all the time she had been caught in a trap of her own devising.

She grimaced slightly as she drained her cup down to the dregs. She rinsed
it
out in the sink and left it to dry on the wide draining board. She would go back to her room, she decided, and write to Clare and her aunt, giving them a severely edited version of what had transpired. It was pointless telling them not to worry, she knew philosophically, but at least she could give them the reassurance that she would be home very soon, for good.

She was walking back through the great hall when she heard someone moving about. For a moment she thought it was Madame Bresson and nerved herself to meet an interrogation as to why she was up so early on the day after her wedding.

The dining room door opened suddenly with a jerk, and Blaise stood framed in the doorway. His dinner jacket was slung carelessly over one shoulder, his tie was gone, and his once elegant shirt hung open to the waist. His hair was dishevelled and a dark stubble of beard showed on his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, and as they met Andrea's they narrowed slightly, as if he was having difficulty in focusing.

Looking past him, Andrea could see an empty whisky bottle and a glass on the table.

'Good morning,
madame
.' His articulation was a little too careful. 'I trust you slept well?

For a long traitorous moment she let her memory run back, feeling again his body, hard with desire, against her own, re-living the touch of his mouth, tasting the scent of his skin. Then she crushed the feelings down and let pride and hurt and anger have their way.

'At least I didn't need the help of alcohol,' she retorted, lifting her chin defiantly.

He grinned sardonically and waved a hand in the direction of the bottle. 'You are familiar with the tradition of the bachelor night, are you not? I preferred to have mine after the ceremony rather than before it, that is all.'

She shrugged scornfully. 'You don't have to explain yourself to me,
monsieur
. If you wish to degrade yourself by getting drunk, it's your own affair.'

'Don't provoke me,
ma mie
,' he said between his teeth. 'Didn't last night's lesson teach you it could be dangerous?'

She gave a slight shrug, turning away deliberately towards the stairs in an attempt to conceal the emotion she was afraid he might read too frankly in her eyes.

'I didn't mean to be provocative,' she said wearily, at last. 'It really isn't any concern of mine what you do. At least we can guarantee not to interfere in each other's lives while I am here.'

'I think you deceive yourself, Andrée. I promise I shall not hesitate to interfere if your conduct does not meet with my satisfaction.' He walked over to her and stood studying her averted face rather grimly. 'Following from this, I would prefer you to—curtail, shall we say?—your visits to the gatehouse.'

Startled, she looked up at him, her eyes blazing. 'I'll do nothing of the sort! You have no right to expect…'

'I have every right,' he interrupted, his tone hardening perceptibly. 'You are my wife, and you will behave in an appropriate manner.'

'There is nothing—inappropriate about my meeting Alan Woodhouse,' she flashed. 'I find him pleasant company, that's all.'

'It could well be enough.'

'Oh, I don't believe this is happening,' she shook her head impatiently. 'We're fellow countrymen, alone in a strange place. It's natural we should seek each other out occasionally—surely you can see that?'

'I can see that and beyond,' he said curtly. His fingers gripped her chin bruisingly, making her meet his gaze. 'I warn you, Andrée, obey me in this or your young compatriot will have to find another refuge in which to pursue his researches.'

'That's the most unfair thing I've ever heard!' she wrenched herself free of his clasp. 'My God, anyone who heard you would actually think you were jealous, instead of…' she paused.

'Instead of what?' he prompted her too pleasantly.

'A dog in the manger, I suppose,' she said rather lamely.

'Warning everyone else away from what I do not myself desire?' He smiled mirthlessly. 'Perhaps, but don't be mistaken,
ma mie
. My bite is infinitely worse than my bark, as you have come near to discovering on more than one occasion. Accept this as a friendly warning, and act upon it.'

'What have either of us to do with friendship?' she asked almost despairingly, and could have bitten back the words as soon as they were uttered. Something flickered for an instant in his eyes, but his voice was quite calm when he spoke.

'Probably very little, you are right. Maybe mutual toleration is the best we can hope for.' He pushed a hand through his dark hair, stretching wearily. Andrea turned away and began to mount the stairs.

'I made some coffee,' she tossed back over her shoulder at him. 'It will probably still be hot.'

'You overwhelm me,
ma mie
,' he returned mockingly. 'What a dutiful wife you might have made under happier circumstances!'

He waited for a moment as if expecting some retort, then laughed softly as he walked away.

Andrea came down the steps from the upper room of the tower and stood looking around her with a certain amount of quiet satisfaction. Two weeks of concentrated hard work had certainly paid off. With Gaston's admittedly reluctant assistance, she had cleared the lumber out of the ground floor room, and covered the discolouring plaster in a warm oatmeal shade. There was rush matting on the floor, and gay cotton curtains in a mixture of red, violet and white at the windows. She had covered flat cushions to match and put them into the deep window embrasures to act as informal seating. Gaston had unearthed a large rather ugly cupboard from some recess, and this, now painted white, waited to house Philippe's toys and books. Andrea had been unsure whether she was expected to supply these as well, but she was unwilling to approach Blaise and ask him. He had not expressed the slightest interest in her activities in the tower so far, which increased her reluctance to involve him. She had no wish for him to think that she was seeking his attention or his praise.

She had kept her spending rigidly to a minimum. The main expenditure had been on the little divan bed, which had had to be transported in sections up to the upper room by the sweating Gaston. The simple chest of drawers and clothes cupboard had been kits which she had managed to assemble herself after a short struggle.

Gaston had obtained the window catches she wanted and fixed them, and he had also securely screwed down the trapdoor which led from Philippe's bedroom to the floor. He did not say so, and Andrea did not ask, but she guessed this was where the legend stated that Marie-Denise's child had fallen or been pushed to his death. There was an oddly desolate air in the room that even the pigeons lodging in the rafters could not disseminate, and she was glad it was so firmly blocked off.

It had been a strange task, preparing these rooms for a child she had never seen. She had wondered about him a great deal as she worked, glad of the preoccupation to keep her mind from more personal matters. Blaise had been noncommittal about him, saying merely he had been little more than a baby when he last saw him, and inclined to cry a great deal.