Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(68)

“When she wakes,” he repeated, and his lips curved in that same frighteningly humorless smile. “Is she going to wake, Mireille?”

Obviously wishing she could say yes but unwilling to lie, the chambermaid began to stutter. Finally she fell silent, her palms upturned in a gesture of helplessness, and Rand sighed grimly.

“You should see her eyes . . .” he murmured absently as he returned his attention to Rosalie. “The darkest blue you can imagine. At night they shine like sapphires. She can’t hide a single emotion with those eyes . . . you can read her every thought.”

“This is inconvenient for her?” Mireille questioned, tilting her head slightly as she watched him. She was beginning to lose her fear of him, for any man who cared for someone with such tenderness was surely not as dangerous as he had first seemed.

“For her. But damned convenient for me.” She smiled at him for the first time, her entire face seeming to glow for just an instant, and she slipped out of the room to fetch the coffee.

Slowly Rand moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand coming to rest on Rosalie’s finely turned hip, his gaze moving over her features possessively.

“Petite fleur,” he said, and a peculiar, pained halfsmile curved his mouth. “I never thought a woman would have the power to break me. But you’ve been my undoing.” He bent his head, his voice becoming thick and unsteady. “Don’t leave me here alone,” he whispered.

He thought he saw her eyelids twitch. Frozen and still, he watched her face, the steady beat of his heart escalating to a rapid pounding. Miraculously the satin gleam of her eyelashes fluttered and a small sigh escaped her lips. Rand caught his breath, leaning closer. Softly he murmured to her, stroking her skin with fingers that shook slightly, and the waxen stillness fell away from her. Wakefulness spread through her like a gentle balm, warming her veins, bringing her sluggish pulse back to life. As if the effort cost her agony, Rosalie moaned and opened her eyes, protective tears coming to ease their dryness. Bewildered, she squinted up at Rand, endeavoring to moisten the coarsened surface of her lips, trying to speak but finding it impossible. “It’s all right,” he said, reaching for a pillow to prop under her head as his eyes devoured her hungrily. His hand supported the back of her neck, his touch firm, tender, possessive. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Mireille returned with a small tray several minutes after she had left, artfully endeavoring to turn the knob without the use of her hands. Suddenly the door was flung open, and she stared up at Rand in surprise. The harshness of his face had relaxed into a strange sort of calmness, and his weariness seemed to have disappeared.

“She’s awake,” he said as if reveling in the sound of the words, and her lips parted in a brilliant smile.

“Oh! I’m so glad! I’m so . . .” She trailed off, searching for words, making an instinctive move in her excitement to clasp his hands and then stopping in confusion as she gripped the tray. Rand flashed an exuberant grin, suddenly bending his head to her upturned face, and he brushed a hard, warm kiss of thanks on her cheek.

“Take the coffee back. Bring some broth and some fresh water. And be quick.” With that he disappeared into the room again.

Mireille’s eyes were round with shock as she turned away and hurried down the hallway. The kiss had been one of gratitude, not passion, yet still she could feel the tingle of his mouth against her skin. It was a wonder she had not dropped dead on the spot. Although Mireille was not a high-strung girl, Rand filled her with agitation. An aristocrat was supposed to be aloof and idle, yet there was a physical, earthy quality about him, a drive that contrasted oddly with his station and position. Compared with her brother, Guillaume, and the other men she knew, he was exotic and rather overwhelming, handsome in a certain way but disturbingly unpredictable . . . a man she would not want to cross in a thousand years. It was for his sake that she had wanted Rosalie to recover, because he looked at mademoiselle as if she were the reason why the sun rose and fell. And Mireille was not too young to appreciate love when she saw it, for love was a meager commodity in her world.

Listlessly Rosalie sipped from a glass of water and handed it back to Mireille, her face whitening as she leaned back against the pillow.

“I do not think you will be able to get out of bed today,” Mireille announced, her voice laced with the infinite practicality that sometimes seemed comical coming out of the mouth of a young girl.

“I think you’re right,” Rosalie said, sighing and then closing her eyes. Her limbs felt heavy and flaccid, and she wondered if she would ever have the energy to get up. She seemed to be able to do nothing but sleep.

“Don’t relax yet,” Rand said in an impersonal voice, and she heard the clink of dishes near the bed. “You need to eat more.”

“No,” Rosalie replied with weak stubbornness, managing to lift her eyelids and regard him with revulsion. She would gag if she had to go through another session in which he relentlessly and dispassionately ladled soup down her throat, paying no attention to her lack of appetite. “No more juice, broth, or soup.”

“Then what will you have?” he persisted, seeming to lose patience with her. As she refused to reply, feeling sick at the thought of food, Rand turned to Mireille. “Maybe an egg and some dry toast—” he began, but Rosalie interrupted him peevishly, lifting her head with effort.