Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(79)

“Mademoiselle Berkeley,” he murmured, nodding his head in a gesture of respect, and then his pale brown eyes flickered to her companion with a great deal more familiarity. “. . . el Mireille.”

“Hello,” Rosalie said, her lips tilted upward in a vaguely inquiring smile. It was apparent that something had occurred between her companion and Jereme, for Mireille pointedly ignored the boy, her little nose lifting in the air as she brushed by him. “These are the horses Monsieur de Berkeley purchased,” the maid informed Rosalie. “They are very handsome, aren’t they? . . . This is Whisper, and this is Linnette. The empty place is for Diamond, a big black one that monsieur has taken on his visit to Monsieur Lefevre.”

“Lefevre . . .” Jereme joined the conversation eagerly, making a pretense of spitting on the ground after the name left his lips. “The whole village hates Monsieur Lefevre. I do not believe he will make any agreement or bargain with Monsieur de Berkeley or anyone else. Lefevre is too—”

“Monsieur de Berkeley has had vast experience negotiating with disagreeable officials,” Rosalie said reassuringly, reaching out a hand to stroke Whisper’s soft muzzle.

“With respect, mademoiselle, not with black-hearted men who like to squeeze every franc out of a little village and fill their own pockets with it.”

“He runs a large shipping enterprise and has dealt very capably with stubborn customs agents who detest English imports,” Rosalie replied. “I don’t think Monsieur Lefevre will present any difficulty to him.”

“I hope you’re right,” Jereme murmured doubtfully. Mireille stamped her tiny foot with characteristic impatience. “Of course she’s right, idiot! Anyone who has ever stepped a foot out of the village would know that a customs agent is ten times more difficult to reason with than a little nothing of a tax collector!” Rosalie grinned at her companion’s worldly-wise air and sought for a way to change the subject, since “Jereme was beginning to look distinctly offended. She clicked her tongue lightly to the aging chestnut horse beside Whisper. “Who is this?” Rosalie asked, unable to make out the blunted lettering on the nameplate. “Revenant,” Jereme answered.

Rosalie chuckled.

“In English his name is Spook, Mireille. I wouldn’t recommend trying to ride him until we discover how he earned it.”

As Mireille began to reply, her attention was caught by a tiny movement in the corner of an unoccupied stall and she flew toward it with an exclamation of delight.

“Mademoiselle! Oh, come here and see!”

In the stall four kittens tumbled over each other, lively bundles of gray fur that swatted and pounced at each other, then peered at the approaching visitors with bright round eyes.

“How sweet,” Rosalie crooned, her eyes gleaming with pleasure. She crouched beside Mireille without hesitation, her skirts billowing on the hay-sprinkled ground. Scooping up one of the wriggling bodies, Rosalie stroked her fingers over the downy fur and discovered the tenuous vibrations of a purr against her palms. The thought suddenly occurred to her that she was behaving with a notable lack of dignity. No lady would squat in a stable to coo over such a discovery— but how soft the kitten was, how trusting and fragile. Wonderingly she fit her palm over the entirety of its tiny head, chuckling at the miniature ears, the wispy strands of whiskers. As she held it against her neck, clasping the little animal in a gentle hold, it scrabbled for a more secure position and accidentally caught at her skin with one frail claw. Still she did not release the purring kitten, settling it against her shoulder and standing up as she heard the multiple thuds of approaching hoofbeats.

Framed in the wide entrance to the barn, Rand dismounted from a huge horse that gleamed like ebony. The horse’s large, sensitive nostrils were quivering from a fast-paced ride, his great sides expanding and contracting with deep breaths. Large, shining hooves pawed nervously at the ground in his unwillingness to stop so suddenly.

“Cool him down well, Jereme,” Rand said, the low baritone of his voice carrying even though he spoke softly. Rosalie stared at him in absorption, hugging her arms around herself as she drank in the sight of him. So many times she had seen him in the most expensive evening clothes, cool, unruffled, and perfectly handsome, yet nothing or no one could compare with him as he looked right now, exuding unvarnished masculinity from every pore.

The sleeves of his simple white shirt were rolled up to just above the elbows, revealing powerfully sculptured forearms and wrists. The garment clung to him in damp patches, especially to the flatness of his midriff and the broad, rock-solid surface of his back. As Rand turned to hand the reins of the horse to Jereme, Rosalie’s gaze skimmed admiringly over his tall, broadshouldered form, detecting the subtle changes that had occurred in him since they had come to the château. He had gained back the weight that he had lost during her illness in Paris, regaining that muscular sturdiness that made him appear so invulnerable. Riding breeches were adhered by perspiration to the tough, strapping lines of his thighs, hips, and the lean surface of his bu**ocks.

The sun had infused his skin with renewed color so that it shone with a rich shade of tan. Conversely, his hair was several shades lighter, soaked liberally with the molten glitter of gold. Walking with a limber stride to a nearby well, he bent to rinse his arms, face, and neck of the effects of the long ride. Not many men possessed his type of lusty vitality, of that Rosalie was certain. She would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to want him. The kitten mewed in protest at her tightening grip, and hastily Rosalie let it down.