Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(70)

Thoughtfully Rand regarded the girl, who was caught in an immediate agony of suspense. Her wet eyes were dark and hopeful.

“Are you capable of being a companion to mademoiselle?” he asked. “Helping her dress, doing whatever she wants done without question?”

Mireille nodded violently. “Out, monsieur! I will even learn to speak English!”

“A sacrifice that would be greatly appreciated,” Rand commented, suddenly grinning.

“Then she can come with us to the château?” Rosalie asked.

Suddenly Rand’s pulse leapt at the eager note in her voice. He would have given her the moon to keep it there. Smiling down at her, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and then he raised his head to fix Mireille with a meaningful stare. “Only if she is the kind who keeps a promise,” he replied enigmatically, a hint of steel edging his voice, and he and Mireille exchanged a somber glance that utterly confused Rosalie. In order to keep her from worrying, Rand had decided not to tell Rosalie about the intruder in her room, or about the scuffle that had taken place there. Concerning the matter of the opium-tainted wine, he had told her succinctly that it had been the work of inept thieves who had wanted to steal their valuables after drugging their victims into unconsciousness. It was a common ploy of burglars, and Rosalie had not questioned Rand further on the subject.

“Oui, monsieur,” the little maid murmured dutifully. “Then be ready to leave tomorrow morning.” Mireille gave a little shriek of happiness and ran from the room.

“Thank you,” Rosalie said, looking up at Rand in a grateful, wondering manner. “But what was that all ab—?”

“You’d better try to get some sleep,” he interrupted, plying the handkerchief to her face again. “You’re going to rest and eat like a country maid until you can barely fit into your clothes.”

Rosalie smiled faintly. “Do you like the look of a voluptuous woman?” she murmured.

His fingertips traced gently over the overdefined edge of her cheekbone. “I like the way you looked before,” Rand replied, and wiped her face with the handkerchief once more.

After the last of the tears had been blotted, Rosalie snuggled against him in search of further comfort, pressing the softness of her face against his rough, unshaven jaw. To her surprise, his arms loosened, and he unloaded her carefully from his lap.

Had Rand refused her advance because he was annoyed with her? Rosalie stared apprehensively at him, but his face was impassive. It was then that she reflected on the fact that his behavior toward her ever since she had woken from her drugged slumber had been exactly like that of a brother—kind but completely platonic. Could it be that after the ravages she had been through he found her too unattractive to kiss? She could not blame him if that were so. Or perhaps he had finally lost his desire for her—perhaps upon reflection he had decided that she was no longer a novelty. Confused, she lowered her lashes and obediently set tled under the covers.

“Are you going to mind going to the château?” she asked. “I know that you dislike—”

“I’ll mind staying here one more day,” Rand said, deftly arranging the pillows behind her head. “I’m tired of inns and hotels. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live in more than one or two rooms at a time. I also haven’t been riding in weeks—”

“What about your business concerns?”

“I have appointed an efficient manager to handle them for a while, and I’ll be able to get in touch with him without difficulty.”

“And the meetings in Paris?” Rosalie questioned sleepily.

“They can wait.” “And Brum—”

“He can wait too.”

“Rand . . . when are we going back to England?” she whispered, closing her eyes, afraid of what she might see in his face.

“When I decide we will,” he said in a hard manner that squashed any inclination she might have had to question him further. The prospect of returning to England was loaded with too many indefinites. It was unpredictable as to how their relationship would change when they reached London. But in France he knew how things stood: she was his without question, and there was no way she could alter the fact.

Ten

Prithee, say aye or no; I f thou it not have me, tell me so; I cannot stay, Nor will I wait upon A smile or frown. I f thou wilt have me, say; Then I am thine, or else I am mine own.

—Thomas Shipman

“I’ve never seen anything so peaceful,” Rosalie said, staring out of the carriage window at the wide slate-blue expanse of the Loire River. “From what I remember of my geography lessons, I expected it to be fiercer, more turbulent.” Underneath her head she felt Rand’s shoulder flex as he leaned to get a closer look of the scene.

“The Loire varies from place to place,” he said, his eyes turning a bright shade of gold as the rich light of the sun crossed his face. “In Nantes it’s as congested with traffic as the Seine . . . at Orleans it’s a docile stream barely a few feet deep. Just when you’re convinced the Loire is tame and gentle, it begins to rage.” Rand’s mouth twitched as he added, “As unpredictable as a woman.”

“As fickle as a man, you mean,” she rejoined immediately, uncertain as to whether or not he was making jest of her. Rand laughed, enjoying the signs of her returning temper. Lately he had taken an apparent delight in baiting her, in the manner of one who provokes a kitten to take tiny-clawed swipes at him. Mireille, who was sitting on the seat opposite them, spoke as she peered out of her window. Wisely she had pretended ignorance of the mildly testy exchanges that had been going on ever since they had left Paris.