Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(69)

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here! Why don’t you eat something yourself? You need it more than I do!” He was a more starkly authoritative figure than before, slightly thinner than she remembered, his skin lighter by several shades, his face haggard. Suddenly he scowled at her, feeling caged by the small room and the pall of sickness that was threaded through the very air. In the few days since she had woken up, Rosalie had been curiously listless, not even asking what had happened to her. He missed the old Rosalie desperately, wanted to hold her, wanted her to laugh and press a warm kiss against his lips, and instead he was confronted with a shadow of the woman he longed for. Rand, who had once been the most self-sufficient bachelor in London, found for the first time in his adult life that he was lonely. Though he struggled to maintain his calm, he felt something inside snap.

“I need to eat?” he repeated in a dangerously low tone, striding over to the washstand and picking up a small lacquered hand mirror. “At least I don’t look like a damned skeleton! Are you trying to starve yourself into the grave? Do you think that somehow I’ll manage to feel even guiltier then? Look at yourself!” He thrust the mirror at her, and Rosalie stopped breathing as she saw her own reflection for the first time since her illness. She was as white as chalk, her skin splotchy, deep circles carved underneath her eyes. Her bair was lank and dark, pulled away from her face for the sake of neatness, with none of the sprightly curl or shine that she was accustomed to seeing. The only sign of color in her face was her eyes, and they appeared startlingly huge and blue above the fragile, sharply carved lines of her cheeks. To her blurring gaze, the vision appeared to be that of an old woman.

“Take it away and leave me alone,” Rosalie said throatily, and as her initial shock wore off, misery threatened to overpower her completely. “I can’t bear for you to be around me anymore—you’re overbearing and unfeeling, and I can’t . . . I don’t . . .” Trailing off in a tiny voice, she looked up into Rand’s unreadable face and then burst into tears, unable to think of anything else to do. Swearing vividly, Rand dropped the mirror onto the carpeting and sat on the bed, pulling her into his arms to cradle her. Her body shook with sobs as he rocked her gently, and his exasperation fled as he felt her hot tears dampen his shirt.

“Rose, hush. I didn’t intend for you to cry,” he murmured against her ear. “But you’re not going to ruin yourself through your own stubbornness. I intend to take care of you, petite, and that includes keeping you from starvation.” Rosalie’s noisy weeping continued while he tried to soothe her with indulgent words, and Rand’s heart ached at the woeful sounds she made. Unexpectedly he was all velvet charm and tender warmth, the transformation quite startling from the harsh stranger of a minute before.

Unfortunately it seemed that unhappiness was infectious. As soon as the commotion began, Mireille stared at Rosalie with round eyes, and inexplicably she jerked her hands over her own face as tears blurred her vision. Now she stood in the corner of the room like a tired, punished child, sobbing just as loudly as Rosalie. Either the girl was profoundly affected by Rosalie’s condition, or the crying had reminded her of some past tragedy, but in any event a storm had been unleashed that showed no signs of abating. “Mireille, why . . . ? Oh, hell,” Rand muttered, near his wits’ end as he was confronted with two weeping females in a room of tiny and stuffy proportions. He almost had to smile at the ridiculous situation he found himself in. His mind cast about for the best course of action to take.

It was clear that they could no longer stay in the hotel. It was dangerous for two reasons: Rosalie was easily accessible to anyone who wished her harm, and second, anyone in a physically weakened condition was prey to the multitude of fevers that constantly circulated through the city, fevers that struck at any time and could cause a variety of damage to the victims. And putting all that aside, Rand was beginning to loathe the place. The city was beginning to press in on them, bricks and buildings blocking out air and light, relentless sounds of the street abusing the ear with a myriad of shouts and clatterings. A deep and basic urge suddenly possessed him, to retreat, to find the shelter and comfort of a protected home, a sanctuary. It was the same urge that his ancestors had felt after surviving the taxing clashes with the outside world, when they had finally sought relief within the walls of the Chateau d’Angoux.

A corner of his mind immediately protested the thought of returning to the chateau, but he countered it with clear and rational reasoning. The château was an ancient fortress, strong and protected, surrounded by miles of land through which it would be difficult for trespassers to travel undetected. It was clean and luxurious, although it was staffed lightly, and it was situated in the country, the ideal place for Rosalie to recover. There were fresh food, sunny gardens that made for pleasant and leisurely walks, and an abundance of grateful tenants who would most likely tend toward minding their own business during the harvest season.

“It seems we’re in something of an untenable situation,” Rand said dryly, and Rosalie nodded as she hiccuped against his shoulder. She felt weak and fretful, completely unlike herself. Lightly Rand pressed his lips to her hair and shifted her in his arms. His touch was comforting, his cool hard strength a blessed relief to her. “Mireille, get out of the corner, s’il te plait. There are some handkerchiefs in the armoire in the second drawer—get one for Rose and one for you.” As Mireille hesitated at the unorthodox breach of protocol, he sighed impatiently. “Yes, one for you also.” Rosalie suddenly giggled through her tears as she listened to his overpatient tone, and unceremoniously Rand clamped the fresh white cloth to her nose. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning for the château in Brittany. It’s peaceful there and it will provide a welcome change of scenery. I want all of mademoiselle’s belongings packed tonight, Mireille.” The tiny chambermaid nodded, mopping her face solemnly with a handkerchief. “What about Mireille?” Rosalie questioned in a small voice. “Are we just going to leave her here?”