Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(18)

“Little experience with mothers?” she repeated. ”I suppose your own refused to acknowledge you.”

Rand grinned lazily, fastening the waist of his trousers and strapping them over his boots.

“It probably would have come to that, had she lived.”

“Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

Dearest Maman, Rosalie wrote, distractedly drawing the end of the soft feather quill across her nose as she thought. Please be assured of my safety and well-being. This will shock you, but I am going to France with a man . . . She glanced up at Rand Berkeley as he slid his arms into a well-cut coat of navy blue. He looked eminently more civilized in the conservative garb. A man like none she had ever seen or imagined, wry, violent, cool, passionate. He had been right: she detested him but was unafraid of him. He was a man, not a monster, and his treatment of her had been no different from what she would have received from any other. Something in her, perhaps the French part, caused her to look at the situation in terms of practicalities. What had been done was done, and now she intended to collect on the debt he owed to her. I’ll find some way to make you pay, Rand Berkeley, she whispered inwardly. He would be sorry for what he had done. Then she lowered her eyes to the paper hastily, afraid he would see her thoughts. I will see you when I return. I am not the same, Maman, but I will love you always. Rose.

She addressed the note and handed it to him silently. Conscious of the soreness between her thighs as she approached the mirror, Rosalie regarded herself critically. There were dark smudges under her eyes and a faint shadow on her jaw where she had been struck the night before. Touching the place, she found that it was tender but not acutely so. It would heal soon. Frowning, Rosalie lifted her hair, which was a mass of tangles and snarls, and let it fall. It would take hours of work to repair the damage. Meanwhile, she had no pins or hats to confine it.

“I need a brush,” she said, and Rand paused in the middle of tying his cravat. It was made of black silk, more informal and practical for daytime wear than starched white.

“The armoire,” he directed, and she picked it up with determination, brushing at her hair until at least the surface was smooth. Somehow she managed to separate it into three tangled bunches and made a thick braid that fell over one shoulder and hung to her waist. Feeling his eyes on her, Rosalie glanced upward with vexation in her expression.

“I’ll have to cut the snarls out,” she said.

“You do and I’ll lock you in a room until every strand grows back,” Rand said tersely, folding his collar over the cravat and ushering her out of the room none too gently.

“A predictable reaction from you,” Rosalie said, pulling at her imprisoned wrist as he dragged her through the door. She would learn soon that it was often difficult to tell when Randall Berkeley was serious or jesting.

Any other man would have expressed concern or regret at having taken her innocence, most likely with the bluntness that came with sincerely expressed emotion. But Rand had discussed her plight with mocking verbosity, as if he were conducting a teatime chat. He had a habit of mocking the trivial nature of most conversations by treating the banal with utter seriousness. He used intellectual words to discuss things of a highly unintellectual nature, and then utterly confused Rosalie by treating the most weighty subjects with irreverent lightness.

They left from Dover to cross the Channel in a fortyton sloop. The sea was glassy and smooth on the first afternoon, and Rosalie slept with the deepness of exhaustion that night, curled up on a heavy chair in the compartment Rand had booked. The next morning, however, she woke up depressed and confused at the quickness with which her life had changed. The ocean was disturbed by huge swelling waves, enough to send Rosalie into the miserable state of seasickness. Rand forced her to come up from below to stand on deck for an hour with him, enduring her complaints until he could stand no more.

“If you stop badgering long enough to take a breath of fresh air, you might begin to feel better,” he pointed out with irritation, and Rosalie lifted her pale face to him to deliver a cold blue stare. She envied his perfect health and composure. Her stomach had relieved itself of its contents several times over, and unbelievably the waves of nausea kept breaking over her.

“If it weren’t for you—”

“You’d be rotting in an alley.”

“Forgive my lack of gratitude—” Rosalie began acidly, but Rand cut her off sharply.

“For being a former companion, you lack the talent to provide tolerable companionship, petite fleur. All right, you can go back to the cabin. In fact, see if you can get as far away from my sight and hearing as possible on this unhappy little craft.” He looked across the rolling water, his face turned away from her. Lord, it was tiring to have to worry about her comfort, her needs, when he was used to taking care of no one but himself. He was experiencing the beginnings of regret at the entire idea of enduring her for a few long weeks in France. What had possessed him to take her along?

Rosalie began to leave in relief, anticipating the prospect of lying down in privacy. When her hands left the railing, however, she realized with humiliation that she was not capable of walking by herself. She had never imagined it was possible to feel so sick and miserable, and it further galled her to ask him for anything. Reluctantly she placed a hand on his arm, her grip tighter than she knew as she fought off the throbs of pain in her head. Rand looked at the hand on his arm and then at her face, a question on his lips. She looked ghostly white.