Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(71)

“Vraiment,” Mireille said, “the Loire is unpredictable —sometimes it floods the vineyards, the valleys . . . some of the more stupid peasants think it is a punishment from God. Nearer the ocean the river becomes big and deep, and I do not like it so much there. But at Touraine it is regal, it is aristocratic—avec les châteaux, and the trees . . . It looks rather dry for this time of year, don’t you . . . ?” Quickly the girl’s words trailed off as she discovered that Rand was eyeing her in a speculative manner. Rosalie merely appeared to be surprised.

“Mireille,” Rand said slowly, “appears to be exceptionally well-traveled for a chambermaid.”

Flustered, the girl turned away from the window and stared down at her hands. “I have been all over France with Guillaume.”

Rosalie felt a mixture of protectiveness and compassion for the small girl, for she knew exactly how it felt to be alone. Mireille had no parents and no one to take care of her. All that she had said about her brother was that he was away on a new job and that she had left a note at the hotel in Paris concerning her plans. When they had pressed her for more information about him, her expression had become guarded, almost as if she were bent on forgetting all about him. Mireille was certainly an interesting puzzle, for she had talents and capabilities far above those of any average girl of her age and position. Not only could she read and write, but also she had a lightning-quick mind and had picked up an unconventional mixture of knowledge during her short lifetime.

“Mireille, where are you from? Where were you born?” Rosalie asked.

The girl shook her head. “I don’t know. And Guillaume says he does not remember anything about it. One year we spent a long time in Touraine, though, so I suppose you could say I’m from Touraine.” “And what did you do there?” Rosalie questioned further, smiling gently as the girl adopted a whimsical expression and shrugged.

“Anything, mademoiselle. I can do anything.” Mireille suddenly beamed at them both, a wide smile that indicated supreme pleasure with the world in general, and then she looked out the window again. “I have no doubt of it,” Rosalie said in an aside to Rand, and he grinned in agreement.

“As long as she pleases you, love.”

The endearment was meaningless, offhand. It wrung a response from her receptive nerves effortlessly. Love. The only other time he had called her that had been during a moment of passion, and she felt startled at the intimacy it recalled. The word sounded soft coming from his lips, slipping through the pores of her skin like an airy caress. Quietly Rosalie eased herself into the crook of his arm, soaking up the nearness of him as the carriage rolled past the Loire.

How much simpler her life would have been if she had been able to choose whom and when she would love. She could have picked a kind, uncomplicated man, someone who would have fit easily into the pattern of her life—perhaps a junior clerk at a bank, or a baker or tailor. Someone whose kisses were agreeable, not devastating . . . someone who would beg instead of bully . . . someone whose looks were pleasant rather than sensually disturbing. She had never bothered to imagine the problems of loving someone like Rand Berkeley. How much better it would have been to set her sights on a man who would make life steady, not mixed-up and painful, wild and sweet. She would not have chosen someone who would have turned her world upside down. Rand was the stuff of which her dreams had once been made, but how wrong she had been to dream with such ambition!

Slowly her mind wandered to the subject of the Château d’Angoux as she realized that they would reach it in an hour or two. Somewhere in the jumble of sleepiness and troubled thoughts was a twinge of excitement at the prospect of seeing the château, for it might provide a few more revelations about Rand’s past. Once she recovered her health completely, Rosalie was determined to find out more about Helene d’Angoux and Rand’s heritage, about the recent and farreaching histories of the people who had lived there. She did not know how things stood between her and Rand now, for the former pattern of their relationship seemed to have dissolved in the past two days. So far it had not been reassembled. Perhaps at the château she would be able to discover what remained and what was gone, and how the two of them would go on from there.

As they drew closer and closer to the d’Angoux estate, the fertile green land became gently sloped, and the road pulled away from its parallel course with the Loire. Languidly a dark shape broke through the horizon, causing Rand to tense slightly.

“That’s it,” he said, and Mireille jumped to the window, her tiny fingers curling around the edges. Huge walls and cylindrical towers surrounded the château, as well as a shallow moat that had been partially filled in and bridged over, now serving an ornamental rather than useful function. Treetops, flowering ivy, and fluffy pale roses swayed lazily over the edges of the walls.

“Sang, how many towers are there?” Rosalie asked, unable to see the mass of them clearly through the halfopen iron gate.

“Eight,” Rand said, bracing an arm against the windowframe to prevent her from pitching forward as the hired carriage jolted to a halt in front of the gate. Mireille was thrown backward against the velvetupholstered seat. Undaunted, she glued herself to the window once more.

“Mademoiselle, look at the gate!” she exclaimed, and Rosalie leaned forward. As Rand withdrew his arm from in front of her the back of his hand brushed accidentally against her breast. They both froze instantly. The immediacy of Rand’s desire washed over him without mercy. He inhaled sharply, wanting her uncontrollably, images filling his mind: the pliant firmness of her flesh in his hands, in his mouth, anywhere, everywhere. The inward rush of air dried his lips of their moisture.