Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(93)

“Would you like some sugar?” Rosalie asked in slow, clear English, and Mireille wrinkled her brow before replying in the same language.

“Not only would I like some sugar . . . but I . . .

would like more sandwich.”

Rand laughed at Mireille’s answer. “Spoken like a true Englishwoman,” he said, and Rosalie looked up at him with a dazzling smile.

“We read about tea in a Jane Austen novel recently,” she informed him. “Naturally it was an experience that Mireille wanted to try for herself.”

“Naturally.” Rand was about to say something else when they were disturbed by a minor commotion. Outside the transparent French doors, sounds of cursing and scuffling floated from the direction of the garden. Rand’s eyes narrowed as Guillaume appeared with a wiry middle-aged man in tow, having twisted the stranger’s arm behind his back. Althougb Guillaume was built on a larger scale, he was having difficulty in dragging his captive toward the château, for the man was stiff with fury. Rand twisted the door handle and sent the portal swinging open widely.

“Guillaume, what the hell is going on?” he inquired none too gently, and Guillaume’s prisoner froze at the sight of him.

“Sorry, monsieur,” Guillaume said, grabbing hold of the man’s collar in order to prevent him from bolting. He was poorly dressed and appeared to be a lowerclass sort, a downfallen farmer wbose face was deeply lined. “I caught him stealing a bag of peaches and other articles from the garden, and was certain that you would have something to say about it.”

“Indeed,” Rand drawled, stepping outside to join them. Mireille and Rosalie left the tea table to draw closer, watching the men through the half-open doors.

“He also had a string of fish with him,” Guillaume added, his velvety brown eyes crackling with the light of exasperation as the man struggled briefly. “Taken from d’Angoux property, I am certain.”

“You must know that poaching is against the law,” Rand said to the stranger, whose bony face twisted with hatred. “I am not an ungenerous man . . . I would have freely allowed you to fish or hunt on my land if you had asked for permission. However, I draw the line at being robbed.”

“I am not an idiot,” the man rasped. “Also not a beggar. You think any man like me would ask a d’Angoux for anything?” He was cut off as Guillaume made a sound of irritation and tightened his hold on the collar.

“Tiens,” Guillaume said. “Show some respect for monsieur!”

“I’m not a d’Angoux,” Rand said.

The man laughed bitterly, staring at him with bright, feverishly excited eyes. “You cannot lie about it. My family and I have been ruined by the d’Angouxs. I would know one anywhere—it is in your eyes and face, and in your black soul! Devil’s children, all of you!”

“A little melodramatic, don’t you think?” Guillaume inquired, but he was ignored as Rand regarded the man thoughtfully.

“How have you been ruined?” he asked.

“I once had a comfortable home, a large family with many sons who helped me to farm, even some money to save. We lost everything because of Helene d’Angoux and the marquis. He drained the village of everything in order to pay her bills . . . he took the peasants’ grain and charged us for storing it in his warehouse, we had to bake our bread in his baking ovens and pay him for it, we were taxed for everything except breathing. My wife died of hunger because of the d’Angouxs—that is the legacy you inherit, monsieur, and you do not have the right to judge me for taking a handful of food from you.”

Rosalie held her breath, wanting to cry out as she saw Rand’s face whiten. He felt responsible for the sins his family had committed, and the man’s words had added to the invisible burden of guilt that he carried on his shoulders. It’s not your fault, she wanted to tell Rand, but held her tongue in fear of wounding his pride.

“He should not blame himself,” Mireille whispered. “He already does,” Rosalie said softly, her heart aching with sympathy.

Cool and emotionless, Rand looked over the poacher’s head to Guillaume. “Let him go,” he said.

As Guillaume released the man with distaste, the thin peasant glanced at Rand with glittering eyes before fleeing as if the devil were chasing him.

Rand turned to see Rosalie silhouetted through the myriad of glass panes and his expression became even more remote.

“My lord, I would like to speak with you,” she said, fighting to keep the urgency from her tone.

“Later, perhaps,” he replied, sounding indifferent. “I’m going for a ride.”

Guillaume spoke then in an unusually subdued manner. “I’ll saddle Diamond.”

Mireille gently pulled Rosalie back to the tea table. “I’ve got to talk with him,” Rosalie murmured, her emotions stirring tumultuously.

“I do not think he would listen at the moment.” “Damn,” Rosalie breathed, folding her arms around her middle and staring vacantly at the bountifully heaped plate of scones. “Damn all of this . . . I’m not sure what I’m going to say anyway. Oh, I wish I had asked him when he was going to get back—”

“Would you like a glass of wine, mademoiselle?” Mireille asked tactfully.

“Yes. And no water in it,” Rosalie said, sitting down in the embroidered chair and scowling.