Bride of Desire (22 page)

 
She arrived downstairs in a flurry of embarrassed apology, but neither Tante nor Madame Drouac, busy at the sink, seemed to share her concern.

 
‘You needed your sleep, ma chère,’ Tante told her. ‘And le petit has had his breakfast, also lunch, and is now perfectly contented.’ She indicated the sofa, where Tom was slumbering among a nest of cushions.

 
‘But you’re the one who needs rest,’ Allie protested anxiously. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you. That’s why I came. Yet I’m just making more work.’

 
She was aware that Madame Drouac had turned, directing an openly curious look at Allie. She broke into a torrent of words, none of which Allie understood, apparently asking Tante a question, but Madelon Colville’s brief reply accompanied by a shrug indicated that it wasn’t too important.

 
‘And now I have a plan,’ her great-aunt announced, when Allie had obediently demolished a large bowl of chicken soup, thick with vegetables. ‘For the remainder of the day, chérie, you must continue to relax. Take some time alone. Drive to Pont Aven, or perhaps Concarneau. Walk and breathe fresh air, to put colour back in your face and banish the shadows from your eyes. Look at shops and visit galleries, if you will. Do whatever seems good to you. And, above all, do not worry about anything. The little one will be quite safe here with us until you return.’

 
Allie saw that Madame Drouac was nodding vigorously and smiling, seemingly entranced at the idea of being in charge of an energetic toddler. All the same, she tried to protest, but was firmly overruled and almost bundled out to her car.

 
She began to see where Tom had acquired some of his self-will.

 
She thought of finding some quiet place and spreading the car rug in the sunshine, but realised suddenly she’d had enough of solitude. And that she didn’t need more thinking time either.

 
Forcing herself to remember what had happened between Remy and herself had been a series of harsh, scarcely bearable agonies, but now that her unwilling journey into the past was over and done with she was conscious of an almost imperceptible lightening of the spirit.

 
It was, she thought, as if she’d performed some ritual of exorcism, so that her healing process could start. And maybe she had.

 
So there would be no more introspection, she warned herself. No more peeling away the layers to reveal her own guilt and unhappiness. That had to stop.

 
Now, she needed other people around—and plenty of them. So, in the end, she went to Concarneau, walking over the bridge to the old town and mingling with the hordes of tourists. Enjoying the holiday atmosphere.

 
There was a group of artists painting harbour scenes, and she stood for a while, watching them at work. She was seriously tempted by one of the paintings displayed for sale—as vivid and engaging as a cartoon. She was thinking of it for Tom’s nursery wall, but common sense told her it would probably never survive Grace’s inevitable disapproval.

 
Instead, she stopped at a stall selling beautifully made wooden toys—farm animals and birds mounted on little wheels and painted in radiantly cheerful colours. She chose a duck like a rainbow, a pink pig with black spots and, after a brief hesitation, a horse with piebald markings in brilliant red and white. She paid with a smile, imagining Tom trotting about dragging them behind him.

 
She sat outside a bar and drank lemon pressé in the sunshine, politely refusing an offer from a tall, blond Dane at the next table to share his bottle of wine.

 
Some children were watching a puppet show nearby, whooping with glee at what was clearly a familiar story, and Allie watched them, thinking of the time when Tom would be old enough to enjoy similar entertainments.

 
Not long now, she thought with a swift pang. How quickly time passes.

 
Which reminded her…

 
She’d enjoyed her afternoon, but now she needed to get back to Les Sables, because she’d left Tante to cope with Tom for quite long enough, even with Madame Drouac to assist her.

 
She found herself frowning a little as she walked back to the car. That was something else she had to deal with—the question of Tante’s health. For a woman whose letter had implied she was sinking fast, Madelon Colville seemed remarkably robust, and certainly not someone just living out her last days.

 
I think a little plain talking on both sides is called for here, she decided, with a touch of grimness.

 
And even more of it would be needed when she eventually returned to Marchington Hall. Because her next task was to remove the upper hand over Tom’s upbringing from its present custodians, and establish herself as the real authority.

 
She was her baby’s mother, and there was nothing that Lady Marchington could say or do to prevent her. Not without risking the kind of challenge that Allie knew she would fight tooth and nail to avoid.

 
My first act, she told herself, will be to replace Nanny with someone young, sensible, and also fun, who’ll work with me and not against me. And I really wish now that I’d bought that damned picture.

 
She was so busy planning her future campaign that she took the wrong road entirely and, cursing her own stupidity, had to draw in at the side of the road and consult her map. She’d need to retrace her route to get back to the coast, she realised crossly, unless she used what seemed a winding minor road to take her across country.

 
Well, it would be quicker, she reasoned, restarting the car. And she’d have to concentrate on her driving, rather than scoring imaginary points from Grace, which would be no bad thing.

 
It was only when she’d gone more than halfway that she realised her road wandered past the other side of the stone circle where Remy had taken her on that first afternoon, and they were there, only a few hundred yards to her right, their dark shapes crowning the faint rise of the ground.

 
Shocked, Allie found herself braking for no fathomable reason, then fumbled her gears, stalled the engine and swore.

 
She sat for a moment, gripping the wheel and steadying her breathing. It went without saying that the rational course was to drive on and not look back.

 
But was that because, in spite of her brave resolution, she still dared not face all of her memories? Would she always wonder, in fact, if she’d simply taken the coward’s way out?

 
Well, there’s only one way to discover the truth, she thought, undoing her seat belt. And if I can bear this, I’ll know that I can stand anything.

 
She walked across the short scrubby grass without hurrying, telling herself with every step that she could always turn back, but knowing that she wouldn’t.

 
She entered the ring of tall stones and stood in the middle of them, lifting her face to the sun. Wine, she thought, and strawberries. Kisses that drew the soul out of her body. The warm, calculated arousal of his hands. The day when her self-created myth of cool reserve had crumbled, awakening her body to the bewildering force of its own desires—the sweet vulnerability of passion.

 
Oh, no, she thought, drawing a swift, painful breath. She’d forgotten nothing. How could you ignore the time when your life had changed for ever? Pretend it had never happened?

 
Or even, she realised, as her heart suddenly missed a beat, make believe that she was still alone here. That every instinct she possessed was wrong, and no tall figure had emerged from the shelter of the stones behind her.

 
She turned slowly and looked at him across the pool of sunlit grass.

 
He seemed, she thought, to have been carved from granite himself, the lines of cheekbone and jaw sharply delineated, the mouth set bleakly. He was wearing khaki pants and a black shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves turned back over brown forearms.

 
He was also, she realised, thinner, and a century older. She hadn’t realised that when she’d seen him in Ignac, because he’d been smiling as he dealt with old Madame Teglas. But he was not smiling now.

 
The blue eyes glittered like chips of ice as he watched her, letting the silence stretch endlessly between them. Rigidly maintaining his distance.

 
Allie tried to speak—to say his name—to say something—but her voice wouldn’t obey her. All she could do was wait helplessly for him to take the initiative.

 
Which, at long last, he did.

 
‘I was told you had returned.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘But I did not think it could be true.’

 
She squared her shoulders defensively. ‘Bad news clearly travels fast. But I didn’t know you were back in Brittany either. I thought—I understood that you were still inSouth America .’

 
His mouth twisted. ‘Or you would not have come back?’ he countered harshly.

 
‘No,’ she said. ‘I would not.’

 
There was another silence. ‘I also hear that you are a widow now.’ The words seemed wrenched from him. ‘A rich widow—with a baby. So you managed to achieve some kind of rapport with the husband you professed not to love, hein? Tell me something. Did he know—about us?’

 
‘Yes,’ she said, dry-mouthed. ‘He knew.’ Knew, but never acknowledged—never admitted the truth.

 
‘And, of course, he accepted your betrayal of him. Took you back again into your rich and comfortable life as if nothing had happened.

 
She shrugged, trying to erase the scorn in his voice. ‘Why not? All life is a series of compromises. As I’m sure you’ve discovered for yourself,’ she added, her mind wincing away from the thought of Solange Geran.

 
And she saw him move for the first time, suddenly, restlessly, taking a step forward. He said quietly, ‘What are you doing here, Alys?’

 
‘I had a letter from my great-aunt. It made me—concerned for her.’ She lifted her chin. ‘As you of all people should realise.’ After all, you’re her doctor now, so you must know…

 
‘And Tante Madelon is very dear to me,’ she added curtly. ‘I don’t want to lose her.’

 
Remy raised his brows. ‘You feel that is a possibility?’ He sounded almost curious.

 
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘Although she sent for me, she seems—reluctant to discuss the situation.’

 
‘Well, that is hardly strange,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances.’

 
‘I suppose so.’ Allie bit her lip. ‘So, will you explain it all to me—please?’

 
‘I regret that is impossible.’ The hardness was back in his voice. ‘But give madame time, and she will tell you what you need to know.’

 
She stared at him. ‘And that’s all you have to say?’

 
‘On that subject, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Madame does not wish me, or anyone, to speak for her.’ He paused. ‘But if you are so anxious about her, why are you not with her, at Les Sables, instead of here—in this place—at this time?’

 
He took another step, narrowing the distance between them. ‘Did you come to count the stones, perhaps? To see if one more had been added—for you?’

 
Allie threw back her head. ‘I hardly think your saint would interest himself in our little affaire.’ She paused. ‘If it comes to that, what are you doing here?’