Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(87)

“Look at you . . . mon Dieu, what a pretty girl,” Guillaume exclaimed, causing his tiny sister to flush with pleasure. “Ah, wait, Mira—seat yourself carefully, you don’t want the grass to stain your gown.” As Mireille seated herself inch by inch onto the ground, he spoke in a warm undertone to Rosalie. “Thank you, gracious angel. I appreciate any kindness done for Mira as if it were done for me.”

“Oh, please don’t thank me,” Rosalie said, the delicious softness of her lips curving into a smile as she looked up at him. “I wish I had more to give her. You don’t know what she’s done for me.” As she met his eyes, dark brown and lightened with hues of cinnabar, she suddenly became confused. In his gaze there shone a flash of hunger, adoration . . . regret, tumbled in a bewildering way. Then it was extinguished as he turned his face away, as if he were afraid of what she might see there.

“Sometimes I don’t believe you’re real,” he murmured, smiling as if to himself. “I gave up believing in angels a long time ago, Rosalie . . . Berkeley.” She frowned at the deliberate pause, the subtle emphasis he placed on the last name. Forcing her expression to smooth itself out, she went to sit down by Mireille. Soon Guillaume began to entertain her with tales of a troupe of traveling players that he and Mireille had once joined, and Rosalie began to giggle at the ludicrous snippets of verse and dialogue that he recited. Mireille soon joined in, adroitly supplying the parts that he had forgotten over time. Soon the two women were weak with laughter, the humor made all the more piquant by Guillaume’s straight face.

“. . . and between acts Mira and I would provide the entertainment while they changed scenes,” he said, picking up three peaches from the ground and juggling them as he continued. “Mira wore a tasty little outfit— orange, I believe it was—cut right off at the knees. Of course, considering Mira’s size, that wasn’t very far from the ground—” His monologue was briefly interrupted as Mireille threw a soft peach at him and he dodged it while continuing to juggle.

“That move speaks of much experience in evading projectiles,” a new voice suddenly joined the conversation.

Guillaume grinned at the newcomer. “Very true, monsieur.”

Rosalie had turned with delight at the first sound of Rand’s voice, a strange relief filling her at the knowledge that he was back. She threw him an inviting smile, patting the grass beside her.

“We’re being decadent, my lord. I see no reason why you shouldn’t join us.” Having just returned from the wearying journey to Havre, Rand obligingly let all thoughts of shipping and money slip from his mind, collapsing beside her in a graceful masculine heap. Rosalie wondered how he could seem so fresh and collected after traveling for so long. She could detect the scent of sandalwood soap on his skin and the cool white cotton of his shirt. His long legs were encased in light buff breeches and soft cuffed boots. “You’re late. I thought you’d be back this morning,” she murmured to him as Mireille stood up to help Guillaume with the juggling act. Rand smiled at her, the gold in his eyes mixed with gleaming fragments of jade. He leaned over as if to whisper a reply in her ear. As she bent closer to hear him, Rosalie felt his teeth catch gently at her earlobe, his tongue tracing the tip. The diaphanous caress of a breeze teased the slight dampness even after his mouth had left the spot, and she shivered as she stared at him.

Slowly she refocused her attention on the performing pair, watching as Mireille posed prettily, handing Guillaume another peach and adopting a vacuous smile as she did so. Then she tossed two more peaches deftly into the air as Guillaume juggled, so that he was manipulating six pieces of fruit. Rosalie laughed and clapped her hands in appreciation as all the peaches tumbled to the ground.

Contentedly the performers sprawled onto the grass, Mireille now childishly heedless of her dress. Rosalie allowed herself to lean against Rand, her head against his shoulder as he braced his back against the trunk of the tree.

“I am thinking of a rhyme,” Mireille said drowsily, her usually high-pitched voice containing a low musical sound that was not present when she was completely awake.

“I adore rhymes,” Rosalie replied, thinking that if the other two had not been present, she might have turned her nose into Rand’s strong brown neck and nuzzled the warm skin hungrily . . . or perhaps she would have enticed him to kiss her.

“It is French, and I will not say it unless you translate it into English,” the girl stated.

“I have translated every word I know for days,” Rosalie said, sagging against Rand as if for respite. “Haven’t you learned enough English yet?” She meant the remark as a joke, but Mireille took it quite seriously.

“Almost, mademoiselle . . . but the rhythm is not right yet. I need more—”

Rand’s shoulders shook with silent amusement. Quickly he managed to recover himself enough to speak to the girl with admirable steadiness. “Mireille. Why don’t you allow Guillaume to escort you to the château? I would hate to think that that peach stain won’t come out of the hem of your gown. Perhaps Madame Alvin should look at it right aw—”

“Peach stain!” Mireille exclaimed.

Suddenly she was flying down the path, chattering quickly in French. Guillaume threw Rand an ironic glance before following her at a more lethargic pace. Rosalie turned her face into Rand’s shoulder, chuck ling quietly until she was certain the pair was gone. Then she raised her head and looked at him with shining eyes. “That wasn’t very subtle,” she said, her lungs still taut with unshed laughter.