Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(74)

How strange, Rosalie mused absently, that fate had forced her to depend on Rand so much and so often . . . she who had longed for freedom and independence he a man whom few trusted, who had the reputation of loathing responsibility. What impelled him to take care of her and protect her?

He carried her into a bedchamber shaded in gold and pastels, the counterpane on the small canopied bed a pale pink hue. Rosalie could do no more than cast a weary glance around the exquisite room to take in the details . . . the gilded dressing table, the ornate mirrors, the walls painted with whimsical pictures of clouds, cherubs, and dainty foliage.

“Where are you going?” she asked as the comforting folds of the bed surrounded her.

“My room is down the hall,” he said, pulling the light covers over her. “Mireille is being settled in right next door. You’ll feel better after you sleep for a while, love.” Bewildered by his tenderness, Rosalie found that her arms were still entwined around his neck. Slowly she released him and slid her hands under the covers, her eyes closing. She looked so absurdly helpless against the large lace-edged pillows that Rand could not resist staying with her one more minute, the mattress giving slightly as he sat by her.

“Are you going to rest also?” she asked. “I have some things to take care of.”

“What kinds of things?” she persisted, and Rand smiled.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said, his tone gentle. “I won’t stray far from you.” As he spoke, he stroked the satin tendrils of hair away from her face with a whisper-light touch, letting them curl around his fingers and then tucking them behind her ears.

“What will you be doing?” Rosalie questioned sleepily, relaxing deeply under the caress of his fingertips.

“Waiting for you to wake up, of course. And making some decisions.”

“About me?” she whispered, feeling him trace the delicate line of her jaw, the vulnerable turn of her neck. “No decisions about you,” Rand replied, his voice full of low, subtle inflections that her mind was too tired to analyze. “How can I?” His thumb brushed against the pulse in her neck, then drifted to the clustered nerves near her shoulder and massaged until her muscles were soft and loose. “My dilemma is that of the miner who finds a diamond in a pile of rocks. Never having had such a possession before, he’s afraid of losing it. He is besieged by questions: what kind of setting does it require . . . and how should he guard it? And how does he keep himself from becoming a miser?”

Dropping off to sleep, Rosalie barely heard his words. She wondered much later if she had felt the soft brush of his mouth against her cheek, the stroke of his breath against her skin, the sweetness of a lover’s whisper in her hair. Or had it been only a dream that had stolen over her like a reluctant summer sunset? Rosalie slept in undisturbed peace, finally wakening a few hours later when evening had already settled. Mireille was there as she opened her eyes, bustling into the room with a bed tray that contained an enticing selection of food.

“Mademoiselle, would you like some supper?” she entreated. As Rosalie smiled and rubbed her eyes, the girl set the tray on a gilded table. “Monsieur de Berkeley said that you would eat up here tonight,” Mireille informed her, plumping up the pillows for Rosalie to lean against and rearranging the covers as she sat up. “They are so busy organizing the château . . . new people have arrived from the village, a butler, a man to clean the knives and boots, a girl to help the cook, and another to help open up more rooms.”

“So you’ve been investigating everything?” Rosalie asked, receiving the bed tray with pleasure. “What is this?”

“Blanc manger d’un ckapon—very good for a sick person. A capon breast milled with ground almonds, and those little things on top are pomegranate seeds.”

Rosalie took a tentative bite and found it to be the most delicious dish she had ever tasted. Nestled on the gold-edged plate next to the capon was a sparse handful of mushrooms sautéed with cream and scallions, and there were also two small milk rolls, to be spread liberally with butter.

“For dessert I will bring you a strawberry cream,” Mireille announced, and Rosalie laughed.

“I doubt that I’ll be able to eat dessert after this.” “Monsieur said you must eat everything.” “Everything?” Rosalie repeated doubtfully. “I don’t suppose you would—”

“Monsieur said I must not eat anything for you,” Mireille said virtuously.

“Monsieur is extremely fond of dictating orders,” Rosalie grumbled, thinking that Rand needed to eat just as much as she did. “I hope he had a large dinner. A very large one.” The girl nodded, settling on the corner of the bed as Rosalie picked up a three-pronged fork.

“Vraiment, he did, after going to the stable to see the horses. The stable is made to hold forty horses, Ninette told me, and in the old days it was packed with them.” “How many now?” Rosalie questioned around a savory mouthful.

Mireille tilted her head thoughtfully. “Ah, let me think . . . only five. Monsieur de Berkeley said to Monsieur Alvin—the caretaker and gardener, who is also husband to Madame Alvin—that we need another stableboy, because he wishes to buy more horses . . . the ones in the stable now are not fast or spirited enough for him to ride.”

“That sounds like him,” Rosalie agreed, taking a sip of watered-down wine. “Rand’s idea of riding is probably to risk his neck by racing the wind and jumping every hedge and fence in sight.”