Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(104)

Clad in a demure white-and-salmon-striped gown, Rosalie sipped at the remaining coffee in her china cup. She was extremely grateful that Rand had devoured breakfast quickly and left to go riding, for she had found it difficult to face him this morning without flushing uncontrollably.

Although everyone behaved as if it were an ordinary day, she sensed that many speculative looks had been cast in her direction. She had no doubt that Guillaume and other residents of the château community had seen and reported her extraordinary behavior at the site of the fire, including the demonstrative kiss she had shared with Rand. Mireille was unexpectedly quiet, asking no questions but seeming to be very content . . . and Madame Alvin seemed to alternate between an approving tone of voice and a suspicious one. They all knew that there was much more to Rosalie’s relationship with Rand than had previously been revealed— but no one was certain to what extent they were involved, or in what way. Rand’s attitude was a cross between amusing and maddening. In the past hour, after coming downstairs and making some mundane remark about having a hearty night’s sleep, he had treated Rosalie as if she were an indifferent acquaintance. However, every now and then he would make a double-edged comment, timing his remarks so that they invariably caused her to choke on her coffee and croissant.

After he had gone, Rosalie and Mireille finished breakfast, spreading the last of the hot rolls with fresh butter and eating them leisurely. Mireille excused herself for a few minutes, and after the girl left, Rosalie stood up from the table to walk over to the window. Guillaume passed by with an armload of dead primings from the rosebushes. He was whistling in a carefree manner, his eyes slanting with the intimation of a smile, just as Mireille’s did when she was happy. Rosalie noticed with concern that there was a heavy white bandage swathed about his upper arm, and she went to the sitting-room doors to meet him as he walked by.

“Lady angel,” he greeted her, his smile dazzling in its cheerfulness.

“I did not notice last night that you were hurt.” “You were occupied with many other thoughts, all of them more pressing than my little burn.” She refused to accept his facetious attitude, her expression retaining a touch of seriousness. “Burns are dangerous if they are not well-tended, Guillaume. Was it properly—?”

“Mira saw to it,” he said with a slight shrug, taking care that he did not drop any of the clippings he held in his arms. “She is very good at such things—I have sworn many times that her touch is magic. Have you ever seen the little bundle she keeps in her room?—all kinds of foul herbs, oils, and pungent salves.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Then Monsieur de Berkeley hasn’t mentioned anything about it to you?”

“No, he hasn’t,” Rosalie replied, wondering why Guillaume seemed so inordinately interested in her answer. “Why would he know anything about Mireille’s talent at healing?”

“There is no reason why he should,” Guillaume said quickly, and his dark eyes smiled into hers. “I am just making a poor effort at conversation, mademoiselle.” “Guillaume . . . please don’t work hard today,” Ro salie said. “Be very careful of your arm, and if it starts to bother you, come in right away.”

“But what if monsieur—?”

“Monsieur might have been too preoccupied this morning to remember your arm, but I am certain that he wouldn’t want you to exert yourself.”

“You are very kind, mademoiselle,” Guillaume said, and his wide smile faltered as he looked into her innocent blue eyes. “The kindest woman,” he added, “that I have ever met.” He looked at her in a manner that made Rosalie feel flattered, bashful, and faintly uneasy.

“I have many faults,” she said softly. “I’m far from being an angel, Guillaume.”

He stood there in indecision, usually so facile with words, struck dumb by the sweet compassion in her face. He did not deserve even one smile from her, much less her concern, yet even knowing that did not stop him from bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a reverent kiss to her fingertips.

“You have no faults,” he said, releasing her hand gently, “except that you trust too easily, jolie ange.” With that he left her, the sun playing over him so that his hair shone like a raven’s wing. Thoughtfully Rosalie walked back into the sitting room, shaking her head as she wondered if he had been trying to tell her something.

The foils flashed in the sunlight, scissoring together and then clicking apart. Guillaume’s face was set in concentration as he parried Rand’s smooth attack, his injured arm serving to balance his movements while the good one wielded the blade efficiently. Guillaume cursed under his breath as his triple feint was blocked, for he realized then that through a series of subtle maneuvers Rand had led him from one engagement to another with the ease of a puppeteer.

“What was that?” Rand inquired, flashing a sudden grin as he sought to find an opening in the other man’s weakening defense.

“A commentary on your performance, monsieur. Or perhaps on my own—I am not certain which.”

Rand chuckled. He enjoyed fencing with Guillaume because it presented an unusual challenge. Guillaume was not always a fair player, and whether it was from a lack of classical training or practiced cunning, he bent the rules slightly. It took a great deal of concentration to form an adequate defence to such unorthodox moves, forcing Rand to switch from automatic and reliable methods to equally inventive ones.