Place Of Storms. Sara Craven
irrevocably, by the long scar which twisted the corner of his left eye and distorted the clean line of the high cheekbone. And even as she thought savagely, Damn Clare for not telling me, the realisation dawned that Clare could not have known.
Was this why Blaise Levallier had felt bound to carry out his wooing, such as it was, by letter? she wondered dazedly, and crushed away the instinctive feeling of compassion that accompanied the thought. The last thing this man wanted would be pity, especially from her.
As if he could guess what she was thinking, he paused a few feet away from her, a faint derisive smile curling the firm lips. His eyes were as dark and hard as the volcanic rocks under his feet as he looked her over.
‘Mon amour!’ Could she detect a note of mockery in the timbre of that low-pitched, slightly husky voice? ‘So you’ve come to me at last.’
Too shocked to protest, she felt long arms drawing her inexorably towards him. She closed her eyes instinctively as the scarred face approached hers. She felt as if she was in a dream, and then dreams were dispelled for ever by the devastating reality of his mouth on hers.
FOR one suffocating moment Andrea felt the hard pressure of his muscular body against hers. The sound of the closing door behind her, signalling the departure of Madame Bresson, jerked her back to her senses, and she tore herself free of his arms, facing him with flaming cheeks.
‘That was not part of the agreement.’ She wanted to sound cool and in control of the situation, but to her annoyance her voice came out high and breathless like a little girl’s. Anyone would think she had never been kissed before in her life, she thought vexedly.
He shrugged, and again she was aware of that faint amusement.
‘Yet it was the reaction expected of us, and it is dangerous to ignore the conventions on these occasions. Our—arrangement is a private one. I imagine you do not wish it to become a matter for speculation in the village.’
She bit her lip. ‘No, of course not. I—I wasn’t thinking. You—you rather took me by surprise.’
‘Evidémment,’ he murmured. ‘I shall have to signal my intentions more clearly in future.’
Now how would Clare react to that? Andrea wondered confusedly. Coquettishly, probably, knowing her. But it was not a response she would dare to try with this man. His scarred face was unimportant. There was about him a kind of sensual magnetism which transcended ordinary physical appeal. Yet she should be able to handle him. She was used to working with men, treated as their equal. Any emotional involvements there had been, she had kept on the lightest possible level.
For one crazy moment she thought, ‘I’m frightened of him—frightened of what he could make me feel emotionally.’ And then a warning shutter came down in her mind, telling her that she was being nonsensical, and that her senses were playing tricks because she was overtired after the drive.
‘Did the journey cause you any problems?’ he asked, and it occurred to her that he spoke excellent English. She recalled that Clare had mentioned something about him having possibly spent some time abroad.
‘No. It’s not the first time I’ve driven on the Continent.’ She sounded impossibly stilted, she thought.
‘Perhaps not, but you did not give me the impression that you were totally confident in your driving ability.’
That was her first slip, Andrea told herself furiously. She might have known Clare would probably have poured out her numerous driving mishaps. She had a knack of making them sound feminine and absurd.
She shrugged slightly, making herself smile. ‘Well, I didn’t actually kill anyone on the way.’
‘God is merciful.’ The scarring gave him the look of a satyr, it occurred to her. ‘Permit me to take your coat.’
She tensed involuntarily as his hands came down on her shoulders, but this time his touch was as impersonal as she could have wished.
A heavy wooden settle stood on one side of the fireplace and he invited her to take a seat on it with a wave of his hand. He remained standing.
‘Dinner will not be long.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Would you care for an aperitif, or would you prefer to go to your room before the meal is served?’
‘I’m quite glad to be sitting still,’ she said frankly. ‘Besides, my cases are still in the car.’
‘Ah, yes. You will wish Gaston to fetch them.’ He tugged at a frayed tapestry bell pull hanging at the side of the fireplace and a bell jangled faintly in the distance. He walked over to the massive, heavily carved sideboard against one wall and picked up a bottle, turning to her with raised eyebrows. ‘Dubonnet? Or do you prefer sherry?’
‘Dubonnet will be fine,’ Andrea said rather helplessly. The situation was fast slipping out of her control. Here she was having a pre-dinner drink with this man as if he was merely her courteous host and nothing more. It was unthinkable that they were going to spend the evening mouthing a lot of polite nothings at each other. There was so much she needed to know. First and foremost it was essential to discover if there was any likelihood of him voluntarily relinquishing his plan to marry Clare even at this late stage. She glanced up with a shy word of thanks as he handed her the drink, and registered the bitter, almost brooding look he wore, and the hard lines of his chin and mouth. He did not look the sort of man who could be easily persuaded about anything, she thought uneasily.
‘We’ll drink a toast.’ Once again she was aware of that quiet element of mockery. ‘To our—better acquaintance, mademoiselle.’
She murmured something indistinguishable as he touched his glass to hers, and hoped he would blame the heat of the fire for the sudden colour which tinged her face. It was a relief when the door opened and a short stocky man with a brown weatherbeaten face and round, rather staring eyes ambled in.
‘M’sieur?’
‘Ah, Gaston.’ Blaise Levallier turned to him, and spoke a few quiet words in his own tongue. Then he turned to Andrea.
‘He will need your keys, mademoiselle.’
She hesitated a moment, oddly reluctant to part with them. The car was her passport to safety, after all, and it gave her a sense of security to know that its keys were in her keeping.
‘You need not worry. Gaston is simple, it is true, but he is also completely trustworthy and devoted to my family.’ Blaise Levallier sounded ironic. ‘He is perfectly capable of rescuing your baggage and taking it to your room, I promise you.’
She flushed more hotly, annoyed that she was unable to justify her hesitation. She delved into her handbag and produced the key-ring, dropping it into Gaston’s waiting palm, murmuring her thanks.
When the door had closed behind him, Blaise Levallier said, ‘He speaks no English, I should warn you, but I don’t think you will have any difficulty in making him understand you. Madame Bresson—Clothilde—is his aunt and has cared for him since he was a child. He helps with some of the heavy work around the chateau, and assists the herdsmen with the cattle. He is magnificent with the beasts and with the horses. He has a skill born of instinct.’
She nodded constrainedly and sipped her drink. It was essential, of course, for the future mistress of the chateau to be acquainted with these details, but it was a far cry from all she really needed to know. For a moment she found herself wondering how Clare would have reacted to Gaston. Her cousin had an undue sensitivity about all forms of abnormality, and would have had difficulty in adapting herself even to Blaise Levallier’s scarred face, she realised.
‘What—other help do you have?’
‘Very little, as you must have noticed, in the house. The land, of course, is different. But there we all work for each other.’
She