Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(76)

“Not today. But I’ll be back in time for supper tonight.” As Rand stood up, his riding boots gleamed with an ebony sheen in the morning light, hugging his calves and emphasizing well-hewn thighs in a way that any decent woman would probably ignore. As matters were, Rosalie could not help noticing how magnificent he was in riding clothes, how tousled and masculine he appeared with his gold-brown hair mussed and his face unshaven. “If you need anything, tell Mireille or Madame Alvin,” he said, and Rosalie smiled at him.

“I never dreamed I’d have my own companion,” she said, licking a tiny spot of honey off her forefinger. “I should be at home, running to fetch Elaine’s morning tea, and instead I’m lolling in an ostentatious château in France, trying to decide how best to spend my leisure time.”

As the thick braid of sable hair trailed over her shoulder and down to her waist, as her rich blue eyes shone with feline contentment, Rand stared at the appealing picture she made. Still so innocent, so serene. He wanted to crush her slender silken body in his arms and hold her like that for days, inhaling her scent, hearing every breath she took and every beat of her heart.

“You should be at home safe with your mother,” he said thickly, and Rosalie glanced up in surprise at the change in his tone. “Deciding which color your hair ribbon should be, which boy to dance and flirt with at the next ball.”

“I . . .” she started to say, confused by his mercurial mood, and then she decided to smile again. “Have a good day,” she said. Her smile faltered as Rand ignored her words and left abruptly, his thick, straight brows drawing together as he closed the door with absolute control.

He leaned against the wall in the outside hallway as soon as the latch clicked, closing his eyes and taking a deep, even breath.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, his hands clenched into tight, solid fists. “God help me, I can’t read your mind, Rosalie, and I don’t know what you want. I’m wrapped around those little fingers, wanting to jump every time you beckon and call . . . damn, but you’re hard on a man’s pride.”

Sometimes she was a strong woman with mettlesome spirit, sometimes she was frail and in need of his strength—her changeability was part of what fascinated Rand about her, but it also made him wary. For a while he had to establish a safer distance from Rosalie, for he was far too vulnerable to her capricious moods, and it was apparent that she needed time to think.

“I think,” Mireille said, her elfin features wrinkling in concentration, “we think . . . you think . . . they think . he think . . .”

“He thinks,” Rosalie corrected, turning the pages of the English book in search of another verb to conjugate. They sat in the small sunny garden at the back of the château near the glass-paneled doors that opened from a magnificent sitting room. Chairs and cushions had been set out for them by Monsieur Alvin so that they could study outdoors in complete comfort. The breeze was warm and pleasant, permeated with the fragrance of flowers, grass, sunlight, summer. “Mireille, you are a wonder. I’ve never met anyone with a memory like yours. Try this one—the verb ‘to be.’ I am, you are, we are—”

“—they are, he are,” Mireille supplied triumphantly, and Rosalie suppressed a quick urge to laugh.

“No—”

“He am?”

“He is,” Rosalie said, her voice colored with no small amount of sympathy. English was not as easy to learn as French, not by half. Mireille sighed in disgust, her dark brown eyes glowing with animation.

“The English language . . . is like the English people: elle n’est pas raisonable.”

“No, it doesn’t make much sense,” Rosalie agreed, closing the book while smiling at her petite companion. “I think that is enough for today.”

“I can do more,” Mireille said stubbornly. “What is this?” she asked, picking up the nearest object within reach.

“A book,” Rosalie replied. “And this?”

“A stone. And that is a door, that is a tree . . .” “And this?”

“A flower,” Rosalie said, taking the blossom from Mireille’s tiny hand and examining it reverently. She had never seen such a spectacular rose. Its petals were luxuriant and profuse, fragile and pale, shaded with yellow near the center. The stem and leaves were glossy and dark green. Its perfume was sweet, mild, intoxicating. “A very beautiful flower.”

“A Gloire de Dijon rose,” a new voice joined the conversation. The two women turned to see the stout form of Monsieur Alvin as he returned from pruning and clipping the flowering ivy. He was not quite so wide in girth as Madame Alvin, but his smile was just as pleasant, his eyes twinkling with the satisfaction of a man who was at ease with his life and his work. He was the general caretaker of the château in the absence of the proprietor, but his main love and talent was gardening. “Beyond the maze there is another thicket of them, shaded with pink and not yellow, and they are not as large as these. They do not have the protection of a wall, as these do. Gloire de Dijon roses need protection .

. they are strong and sturdy at the base, but their petals are delicate. They need shelter from the wind and the elements in order to grow full and beautiful.”

“Yes, I understand,” Mireille said, her little grin taking on a mischievous quality as she glanced at Rosalie. “Don’t all of Monsieur de Berkeley’s roses need protection?”