Tower of Shadows (16 page)

about you — presented a complication I didn't need in my life.' He

groaned. 'I wanted to seize you in my arms, but at the same time

drive you away into oblivion—pretend I'd never seen you —that

you didn't exist.' His voice roughened. 'But each time I saw you I

could feel myself weakening—wanting to be close to you.'

Sabine smiled impishly. 'I would never have guessed it.'

'I didn't intend you to,' he said with a trace of grimness. He reached

across the table and took her hand. 'What do you plan for this

afternoon?'

'I need to go and look at this furniture for the house,' she admitted.

'Were you thinking of something else?'

He smiled ruefully. 'I wanted to take you round my vineyard —

show you my world, but it can wait.'

Unbidden, Antoinette's angry words came back into her mind, and

niggled there.

'They mean everything to you —the vines, don't they?' she said

slowly.

'They must —to any
vigneron.
The vines are greedy—hardy, and

they push deep roots down into the soil, but they are also

vulnerable. They need constant attention, constant vigilance, like a

nursery of children. When the vines flower early, the vintage is

usually better, but that also brings the danger of a late frost in

April killing the buds.

'But every season of the year brings its own hazards,' he added. 'No

one has forgotten the devastation that Phylloxera brought to our

vineyards. We can't afford another such disaster. It won't happen to

my vines.'

The pride of possession in his voice troubled her. La Tour

Monchauzet didn't belong to him, after all, but to the
Baron.
She

bit her lip. Was it Monsieur de Rochefort who'd tried to persuade

Rohan to marry Antoinette? she wondered. And was that the price

he'd be expected to pay for his dream?

She looked down at her empty plate, wanting to probe, but

reluctant at the same time to seem too inquisitive — to breach,

even slightly, the warmth of their newly fledged accord. 'It must be

difficult for you —not being completely in charge,' she ventured.

'I hate it,' he said frankly. 'But it won't continue for much longer. I

shall make sure of that, with your help.' He threw his head back.

'I'm going to take control — be. my own master at last, and to hell

with everything else.'

But how? she wanted to ask. And what have I got to do with it?

He pushed back his chair, signalling for the bill. 'Now let's go and

look at your furniture.' And the moment was lost.

As she followed him out into the sunshine, Sabine thought, I'll ask

him later, and pushed the memory of Antoinette's venom to the

furthest recesses of her mind.

It was an idyllic afternoon. Monsieur Pallon was a portly man with

a luxuriant moustache and twinkling eyes, and he was clearly

delighted at the prospect of having some of the floor space in his

depot returned to him. As Mademoiselle Lavaux had said, much of

the furniture dated from a different era, and was ornately carved in

dark, heavy wood. It was totally different from anything Sabine

possessed in England, but that only added to its charm.

She could imagine it all back at Les Hiboux —was already

planning out loud where she would place the various pieces, while

Rohan and Monsieur Pallon exchanged indulgent glances, and

settled the details of how and where it was all to be delivered.

She almost danced back to the car. It seemed impossible that in a

few short days her life could have changed so dramatically and

fundamentally, and she told Rohan so.

'I was so miserable when I came here, and everyone rejected me all

over again,' she said. 'But now I'm really beginning to feel I

belong.'

He kissed her, swiftly and fiercely. 'And you always will,' he said.

'I'll see to that.' He reached to the back seat, and handed her a

pretty carrier bag. 'This is for you.'

The tissue-wrapped contents proved to be a skirt, romantically full

and swirling, and matching low-necked top in a silky print of tiny

black and white flowers.

'Oh.' The folds cascaded through her hands on to her lap. 'It's

lovely. It's from the shop in the square where they make all the

dresses from their own fabrics.' She remembered how much they'd

cost too. 'But I—I can't accept it.'

He touched her cheek with his hand. 'Yes, you can,' he

contradicted firmly. 'It's to replace the one I — damaged

yesterday.'

'But that can be mended,' she protested, blushing slightly. 'It was

only a couple of buttons. . .'

'Then take this as an apology for the inconvenience.' He smiled at

her, his eyes dancing wickedly. 'Wear it for me tonight.'

'I can't,' she said, downcast. 'I'm going to have dinner with

Mademoiselle Lavaux and Marie-Christine.'

'What a coincidence,' he said softly. 'So is Jacques, and so am I. I

hope you don't object. You see, I needed to see you away from the

chateau, and I couldn't be sure you'd come with me today. So I

made a contingency plan with Monique's help.'

Sabine laughed as he started the car. 'You're very determined,

Monsieur Saint Yves,' she teased. 'And very manipulative.'

'I get what I want,' he nodded, and shot her an unsmiling glance. 'Is

that so wrong?'

'I—suppose not.' She found the hint of ruthlessness in his voice

vaguely disturbing. It reminded her how little she really knew

about him — about his character — his ambitions, and the lengths

he might go to achieve them.

She was in love with a man who was still a virtual stranger to her,

she thought, and shivered, as if a cloud had passed suddenly across

the sun.

THAT vaguely troubled feeling still persisted as Sabine got ready

for the dinner party that evening. She had the impression she was

on some kind of rollercoaster ride, exhilarating but inherently

dangerous.

She thought again, Things don't happen like this — not to people

like me. It's all going too far and too fast, and felt a little uneasy

frisson
shiver between her shoulder-blades.

Because by nature she wasn't a risk-taker. Or was she? She hardly

knew any more. She'd come to France to find her identity, and the

search wasn't over yet. She knew that with total certainty.

The skirt and top Rohan had given her only added to her inner

confusion. The style was too extravagant, too romantic when

compared with the simple, even tailored clothes she normally

chose.

She looked into the mirror, moving her hips in time to some silent

music in her head, letting the silky skirt swish enticingly around

her legs— And saw another stranger looking back at her, eyes and

mouth dreaming and vulnerable.

Turning away hurriedly, she caught sight of the bed, and wondered

if she would sleep there alone tonight, or if the choice was even

hers to make. She draped a plain white shawl round her shoulders,

and walked slowly to the farm.

She received a charming welcome from Monique Lavaux, and a

boisterous one from Marie-Christine, who promptly dragged her

off to her room to see the wedding dress she was making for

herself, in fold after fold of shimmering ivory brocade. It was

beautiful, and the work Marie-Christine was putting into it was

exquisite, and Sabine told her so sincerely.

'I'm so happy you like it.' Marie-Christine was bubbling. 'You will

come to the wedding? Of course you will. I won't take no for an

answer.' She lowered her voice. 'Besides, I wish to ask you a big

favour.'

'Ask away,' Sabine said, amused.

'We would like to borrow your house — Jacques and I—for our

wedding night. It is the custom, you understand, for the bride and

groom to slip away from the wedding during the evening

celebration, and hide somewhere—at a friend's for example.' She

rolled her eyes. 'The better the hiding-place, the more privacy we

have before the guests find us.'

'Do they always find you?'

'Oh, yes, eventually,' Marie-Christine said serenely. 'And they

bring us the
tourain.''

Sabine's brow wrinkled. 'I don't think I understand.'

'A big pot of garlic soup,' Marie-Christine explained. 'Very hot

with egg in the Perigordine style, and a lot of black pepper.' She

grinned. 'This is for the groom.'

'I see,' Sabine commented drily. 'And what happens then?'

'We wash our hands in a basin of water, and we drink the soup. It's

a tradition. Only, we don't make it too easy for them to find us.'

'I understand that too. Of course you may borrow the house, and I

won't mention it to anyone.'

'Thank you a thousand times.' Marie-Christine gave her an arch

look. 'Perhaps in time we can perform a similar service to you.'

'Perhaps.' Sabine tried to sound non-committal and was furious

with herself for blushing.

The main living area of the farmhouse was one large room, with a

wooden staircase leading off it, and an expensively fitted kitchen

at one end, separated by a peninsular unit, behind which Monique

was bustling happily.

Rohan and Jacques had arrived when the two girls returned, and

were sipping their aperitifs while Monique put the finishing

touches to her meal.

'It is only simple,' she apologised as she brought the first course to

the table. 'I love to cook, but my work leaves little time.'

'Garlic soup?' Rohan's brows lifted appreciatively as a creamy

liquid was ladled into his bowl. 'Isn't this a little premature,

Monique?'

She laughed. 'I wanted to give Sabine something typical of the

Perigord.'

Marie-Christine caught Sabine's eyes and gave an expressive wink.

Sabine sampled the soup, and found the flavour surprisingly

delicate. The egg which had been stirred into it gave an unusual

texture, and the pepper added pungency. To her surprise both

Rohan and Jacques poured red wine into their bowls as they drank,

and Marie-Christine explained this was known as
chabrot.

Smoked duck's breast on a bed of mixed salad came next, followed

by a meaty chicken terrine, cut into thick slices and served alone.

The main course was rabbit sautéed quickly with garlic,

accompanied by tiny potatoes cooked in their jackets; a bowl of

green salad was also passed round.

'And cheese?' Sabine said faintly, soon after, as a platter with

several varieties was placed in the middle of the table. 'I won't be

able to walk after all this.'

Then, finally, a sponge pudding soaked in liqueur and decorated

with fresh pineapple and cherries was served. It occurred to her

that if this was a simple meal she would hate to see what Monique

Lavaux could do when she was really trying.

With the coffee, Armagnac was offered, and an innocuous-looking

local spirit, served in a tall bottle with a carved wooden figure

inside it. Sabine, coaxed into taking a sip from Rohan's glass, felt

as if the top of her head had exploded, and laughingly refused any

more. All during the meal, she'd been aware of his eyes on her

across the table, the warmth in them as tangible as a caressing

hand. She told herself to be sensible, and concentrate on the food

and the others around the table, but all the same she could feel a

soft, trembling excitement building inside her.

Conversation during the meal had been general, but now it turned

more specifically to the chateau, and the prospects of the year's

vintage. Jacques was speaking enthusiastically about the crop of

grapes which the vines had produced, and was prophesying a

bumper harvest. The talk quickly became too technical for Sabine

to follow, and Marie-Christine laughed at her bemused expression.

'Making wine is not just an occupation,' she said. 'It is a way of

life. You will have to accustom yourself to that,' she added, with a

droll wrinkle of her nose.

Sabine felt that betraying flush rise in her cheeks again. But there

was nothing she could say in way of denial. No one could have

misread the significance of Rohan's attitude to her.

Between them, she and Marie-Christine loaded the dish-washer,

while Monique, with a tolerant eye on the engrossed pair at the

table, made more coffee, before settling down with her
petit-point.

Sabine welcomed Marie-Christine's suggestion that they should

take their coffee up to her room, and look at some furniture