Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(108)

“Please.” Rosalie drew out the word slowly, sliding her arms around Rand’s waist and walking her fingers up his back. Her lower lip was pursed in a beguiling pout as she looked up at him. “Say yes or I’ll do something drastic.”

“Drastic?” Rand questioned, grinning lazily and winding one of her stray curls around his finger. “That’s a promising choice of words.”

“I’ll be so lonely while you’re gone,” she said, resting her forehead against his chest.

“You should know by now how much I hate the thought of leaving you,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. They stayed like that for a long, delicious moment, clasped securely, love exchanged in the silent vow of closeness. ”It’s only for a few days,” Rand murmured. “While you’re packing everything here I’ll be in Havre arranging for our passage to England and making certain that the shipping office is in good trim. I’ll come back as soon as possible and we’ll leave for good with Mireille and Guillaume in tow.” “Mireille and I have almost everything packed now, and I’ll die of boredom without you here. Please say yes.”

“Sweet, I don’t understand why you want to go to a village fair so badly—”

“That’s because you’re a man. I want to see what it’s like, and how the ones here are different from the ones in England . . . and everyone here is going to go, including Madame Alvin and Ninette, and Guillaume said he would stay right by Mireille and me the whole time—”

“This soon after the fire, I doubt it’s going to be a spectacular—”

“Many people from other villages are going to participate. It’s for such a good cause—did you know that most of the merchants are going to give a small part of their profits to help rebuild the vicar’s cottage? There are going to be so many things to see and hear—” “And buy,” Rand said ruefully, beginning to relent despite his initial opposition to the idea. Rosalie lifted her face from his chest and smiled at him enchantingly. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, “if Guillaume will promise to escort you—and accompany you every step of the way—I’ll consider it.”

“Only consider?” Rosalie’s hands curved around his back and over his shoulders as she stood on her toes to press closer against him.

“Before I say yes,” Rand murmured, “I want to find out what drastic measures you had concocted to persuade me.”

Rosalie’s smile deepened. “In the worst possible scenario,” she whispered, brushing her mouth temptingly against his, “I’d intended to trade my favors for your consent.”

“Then I should warn you,” he replied, his blood warming rapidly as her body curved sweetly against his, “I’m in a difficult mood this morning.” “How much time do I have to win you over?” “About an hour,” he said. Her smile held a seductive promise as she pulled his head down to hers demandingly. As they kissed, he combed strong but supple fingers through the smoothness of her hair, his thumb lingering to trace the rim of her ear. “But at this rate,” he added, his passion now fully roused, “I can be persuaded in a very short amount of time. . . .”

The village fair would have been more appropriately termed a festival. There were palpable signs of celebration and thanksgiving no matter where the eyes happened to alight. The village square was ornamented with lanterns, fans, rich quilts, and other articles offered for sale, the merchants’ stalls doing much to disguise and camouflage the destruction left by the fire. A cacophony of noise greeted Rosalie’s ears, for bawdy music came from several different sources and was most often accompanied by dancing and singing. Her stomach was reacting appreciatively to the fragrant scents of a wide variety of food. There were rissoles, savory mixtures stuffed into a crust and fried in fat, and there were pies filled with apples and figs or sugarstuffed pears. Tables were loaded with large Rheims gingerbreads, breads filled with chocolate or coffee creams, sugared almonds, marzipans and petits méstiers, sugar-and-honey wafers that dissolved in Rosalie’s mouth after each crunchy bite. Mireille was especially fond of the caramel-glazed oranges, eating so many that Guillaume and Rosalie began to entertain the fear that she would make herself ill.

Rosalie was enjoying herself thoroughly, but there were many times when she stopped to think of Rand and his departure yesterday morning. She wished that she could have pointed out the more entertaining sights of the fair to him. She would have loved to see him laugh at Mireille’s gluttony, and the portly jugglers, and also at the spindly musicians who competed against one another to outdo themselves in their enthusiasm. By now Rand was nearing Havre, a thought that cheered her because the sooner he arrived there, the sooner he would return. In the meanwhile she chattered and laughed with Guillaume and Mireille as they strolled about the village square.

At midday, Guillaume glanced casually at the sky, noting its perfectly centered sun.

“Did you see the Gypsy wagon over there?” he asked, and Rosalie followed the direction of his gaze. “A fortune-teller. Has anyone ever predicted your future, jolie ange?”

“No,” she replied, her eyes gleaming with immediate fascination. Having her fortune told appealed to Rosalie’s rampant love of mystery and fantasy, which had been engendered by reading countless novels. Fortunetellers often played a significant part in such stories, looking into the future and predicting dark, terrible and wonderful secrets that never failed to make Rosalie shiver with delight. “Guillaume, do you think it would be safe to . . . do you think we could—?”