Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(83)

From the undertones of his voice, Rosalie gathered that she had most definitely fallen into disfavor as a result of following him out of the stable. She chose her words cautiously, wishing she had chosen to stay where he had told her.

“Judging from your present mood, you’ll do the opposite of whatever I advise,” she said. “I think I’ll keep silent.”

“Mireille?” Rand asked, judiciously giving the girl a chance to offer an opinion, but the dark-haired maid shrugged as she stared down at the ground.

“Whatever you think, monsieur,” Mireille murmured. “Then, Guillaume, provided that you have no aversion to working in the stables, you can stay. Mireille will take you to the gardens to see Monsieur Alvin . . . discuss with him the matter of your responsibilities and salary. Since he’s getting on in years, I imagine you’ll be required occasionally to aid him in his gardening.” “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness, monsieur,” Guillaume said, his smile one of relief. Mireille indicated the way to the gardens, her head still bent in a dutiful attitude. As soon as the pair had gone a good distance from them, Rosalie turned to Rand with a faintly puzzled expression.

“Isn’t it strange how they—?”

“When,” he interrupted, his hand clenching her upper arm in a decidedly biting grip, “are you going to start listening to what I tell you to do?”

“I always listen to you,” Rosalie said, jumping slightly and making a vague effort to wriggle away from him.

But rarely obey.”

“I’m not some servant,” she countered defensively, “who has to jump whenever you—”

“My sweet Rose,” he said, his voice containing a mixture of weariness and distaste, his fingers dropping from her arm, “I didn’t tell you to stay in the stable in order to satisfy some petty despotic fantasy. Usually I have a reason for what I do and say—in this case, your safety.”

Instantly her spark of rebellion was extinguished. Rand’s coolness wound around her subtly, eliciting a strong feeling of regret.

“I did not disregard your request out of spite,” she offered stiffly. “I followed you impulsively.” She stood before him with a down-bent head, and Rand’s hazel gaze caressed her warmly. Suddenly he wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her that there had been no harm done, that he understood her impulsiveness and she could do anything she wanted as long as it pleased her. Ruthlessly he squashed the impulse, cursing himself for letting his emotions rule his head whenever she was concerned. It was far too important to make her realize how serious the issue was. The events in Paris were never far from his thoughts, and he was determined never to let anyone hurt her again.

“I would prefer to continue allowing you complete freedom,” he said gently. “But I will keep you under lock and key if I have to, until you decide to trust me.” “I trust you,” she whispered. As she stared into his velvet-green eyes and felt them look into her very soul, she felt drawn to him in a way that no words could explain.

“Good.” Rand let the subject drop, and swallowing hard, he turned her in the direction of the château. “I’ll walk you back. It’s almost time for dejeuner, and I’m hungry.”

Rosalie nodded and took his arm obediently, her lips having frozen together as questions, few in number but large in significance, plagued her mind. What about all that had gone on in the stable before they had been interrupted? Rand seemed to have forgotten all about it, but she certainly hadn’t! Her body felt empty and tender with unfulfilled desire. Did Rand intend to pick up where they had left off at any point in the future? If he still wanted her, why didn’t be make love to her? There was nothing in the world to stop him from coming to her bed at night—least of all Rosalie herself.

“The notary and the vicar both wish to call on you later this afternoon, Monsieur de Berkeley,” Ninette reported dutifully, bringing calling cards to Rand on a highly polished silver tray. “Tomorrow there are also many people who wish to express their gratitude and to give you their thanks.”

“Express gratitude?” Guillaume repeated, having come into the sitting room to partake of a new jug of lemonade. He had been working industriously the entire morning in the French and Chinese gardens, digging and mulching, washing porcelain figurines and cleaning the beds of colored sand that bordered the garden walks. His black hair clung damply to his head, his deep brown eyes framed with moisture-spiked black lashes. A faint trace of sun-induced color gleamed along his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, enhancing his considerable attractiveness.

As Rosalie smiled and handed him a tall glass of soothing liquid, Guillaume’s smile faded. “Thank you,” he said, his thriftless charm replaced by a gentleness that was unusual for him to display. Rosalie seemed to have that effect on everyone, he observed much later to Mireille. Not only did he feel it, but he noticed that even Rand’s fierce temper could be calmed with a few of her gentle words and her smile. Everyone jumped to do the smallest favor for her. It became increasingly obvious that the small community of the château revolved around her. Perhaps it had something to do with her intrinsic sweetness and the unexpected tartness that occasionally tempered her wit. Perhaps it was her beauty and the fantastically blue eyes that sometimes gleamed almost violet. Even Jean-David, the crusty old man who had come to work as the butler, seemed caught in her spell. “That one,” he would say after she had passed by, “is a sirene.” A creature who could laugh like a child, sing like an angel, and love like a woman.