Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(82)

“And knowing that, you still feel justified in leaving her alone while you disappear for weeks?” Rand inquired, his sardonic expression indicating exactly what he thought about that.

“A man must work to eat,” Guillaume pointed out, shrugging lightly. He was about to continue, when suddenly his eyes fixed on an object past Rand’s shoulder, and he fell into an intent silence. Turning, Rand saw that Rosalie had disobeyed his command, following him outside to see for herself what was going on. Even through his inward exasperation, Rand had to admit that she was extraordinarily lovely in that moment, her blue eyes wide with curiosity, her lips rosy and soft from his kisses, her hair escaping from its precise arrangement into wispy curls that brushed against her flawless skin.

“Mademoiselle,” Mireille said hurriedly, “this is Guillaume.”

“Hello,” Rosalie said, coming to stand by Rand as she regarded the stranger with immediate interest. She found it strange that Mireille was looking at the new arrival with nothing resembling sisterly affection. The girl’s cheeks were pale, her eyes so dark that they were almost black. Guillaume met Rosalie’s gaze and smiled, his grin charming and infectious, his teeth white, his eyes sparkling. Guillaume Germain was a very attractive man and he seemed to be completely aware of this fact.

His face was carved with an exquisite attention to detail, every curve of his mouth, every filament of his eyebrows almost perfectly arranged. Like Mireille, he had eyes of the darkest, most velvety brown, and hair as black as a raven’s wing. He was tall, his posture one of languid grace, his body lean almost to the point of thinness. He also appeared to have Mireille’s happy-golucky charm, for the twinkle in his eyes and the brilliance of his smile were utterly engaging. Why was it, then, that she could only admire his attractiveness in a disinterested, abstract manner? Why didn’t his looks have the forceful effect on her that Rand’s did?

Succumbing to a basic feminine curiosity, Rosalie silently compared the two men. Although they were of a similar height, there was a night-and-day difference between them. Guillaume’s agreeable face and form did not stand a chance against Rand’s physical potency. Nothing could compare with Rand’s lean, lithe body and square shoulders, his dark gold hair and burnished skin, hazel eyes that could dance with amusement or gleam with moodiness. He was frustrating and arousing, and it would take a lifetime to completely understand him . . . but only with Rand did waltzing become pure magic, only he could make her wild with passion, only he would dare to discipline her one minute and then tease and indulge her shamelessly the next. It would always be Rand, she realized, no matter whom she compared him with.

Rosalie met his eyes and saw that he had duly noted her inspection of Guillaume. A trace of moody jealousy flickered in his gaze, and then it was deftly concealed.

“This is not the sort of welcome I had envisioned,” Guillaume commented to Rosalie. “I only meant to—”

“Do you usually make it a practice to wander unin vited around another man’s land?” Rand asked bluntly. “If so, you know to expect a less-than-enthusiastic welcome.” He glanced at Rosalie once more, and when it became apparent that she had no sort of interest in Guillaume, his expression became less wary. “I rarely walk into a situation before making an appraisal of it,” the younger man replied, his gaze direct and frank. “I did not know what sort of people Mira was with, nor what kind of position she might be in.” “As you can see, she is content,” Rand said, and Mireille nodded, her little face looking pinched. If the situation had been less serious, Rosalie would have had to smother a sudden laugh, for at the moment Mireille appeared to be anything but content. “Now that your concern has been satisfied,” Rand continued, “is there anything else you would care to ask?”

“Actually, there is,” Guillaume admitted. “I find it necessary to ask a favor of you.”

“I thought so.”

“I have spent all of my money coming here to find Mira. I have nothing to eat and no place to sleep.”

“An unenviable set of circumstances.”

“Is it just that a brother should suffer because of his feelings for his sister? You would surely not judge a man harshly for that. And it looks as if there are several uses around the château for another pair of hands. Your estate is impressive but its condition could be improved,” Guillaume said carefully, his smile faltering as he began to see that trying to elicit Rand’s sympathy was like chipping away a stone wall with a spoon. “Your diagnosis is appreciated,” Rand said, his trans lucent gaze flickering to Mireille to evaluate her reaction to the turn of the conversation. She appeared to be holding her breath, her expression apprehensive.

“However, I have all the help I need from the village.”

“The village?” Guillaume parried. “An excellent source of unskilled labor, I have no doubt. But for some of the tasks around here my talent would be more effective. In swordsman’s terms, why use a pair of fists when you have the accuracy of a foil at your disposal?” “You are skilled with a blade?” Rand inquired politely.

“I have skill with many things,” Guillaume responded immediately.

“Including horses?”

“I can do anything, monsieur.”

Suddenly Rand’s eyes flashed with brief sparks of laughter, his mouth twitching at one corner. “Apparently a common sentiment among members of your family, Germain.” He looked down at Rosalie with a mocking inquiry. “What is your opinion on the matter, my disobedient little friend?”