Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(96)

He was still for several long minutes, and she could tell without looking that his eyes were fastened on the portrait. Then he moved, gathering her more closely in his arms and standing up from the chair. Rosalie was surprised at the smoothness of the movement because she knew that his muscles had to be cramped. The muscles of his shoulders swelled under her cheek, full of latent power that mocked her frail hold on him. She clung to him wordlessly as he carried her down the hall to her bedchamber, unable to see his face. She said his name with careful quietness, but he did not reply, and then he laid her on her bed. He stared at her for a few seconds, his hazel eyes taking in every detail of her face, which had been ravaged by the lack of sleep. She did not know what to say to him any longer and so held her silence, her hands dropping reluctantly from him.

Rand lifted one of her slender hands in his and brought it to his mouth, holding it against the warmth of his lips as he looked down at her. She caught her breath, her fingers fast and tight around his. Then he left, his soft cuffed boots making no sound on the floor.

The last thing Rosalie expected to be wakened by was the distant clanging of the village bell. She tried to ignore the persistent sound and rolled over to bury her head in the pillow. Moaning, she finally lifted her head and squinted in the afternoon light that pushed past the half-open curtains. Judging from the enthusiasm with which the bell was being rung, something significant was happening in the village.

“I wonder,” she mumbled, pushing the disheveled locks of sable hair out of her face and holding a hand to her head. “Either a disaster has occurred or the King of France is passing by.” Sighing, she struggled from the bed and staggered over to the window to peer outside. The sunshine was brilliant and glaring, bleaching the rich greenness of the grass to a pale, whitewashed hue. In the distance, toward the village, the hot blue sky appeared to be brushed with a thin, hazy film. Thinning clouds? Smoke? Rosalie frowned and left the room without thinking, instinctively heading toward Rand’s room. He was not there.

“Mireille?” she called, the edge of her gown billowing out behind her as she went down the stairs. There was a minor commotion on the ground floor, people flying across the front entranceway, the door knocker rapping sharply against the portal, voices raised in fast-paced debate. Rosalie halted halfway down the curved staircase as Mireille appeared at the bottom. “What’s happening? I heard the bell—”

“Mademoiselle, there is a fire in the village. It is spreading very quickly, and it is heading toward the shops, the main square, the church . . . they are asking all the men to come and help.”

Rosalie felt a premonition that boded ill. Doubt and unease spread rapidly through her.

“How can they do anything against the fire in this dry heat?” she asked, her eyes flickering around the huge hall in search of Rand. “I’ve heard the Loire is several feet lower than usual—there’s hardly enough water to drink, much less to put out a large—”

“Rose, what are you doing?”

Suddenly Rand, who had been passing by in the entranceway, swept past Mireille to bound up the stairs, a scowl crossing his handsome face. Rosalie remained where she was as he approached her. The white of his shirt and the light coffee shade of his strapped trousers emphasized the tawny hues of his skin and hair. She stared at him in apprehension.

“You aren’t going to the village, are you?” she asked, and he hooked a steely arm around her waist to drag her up the stairs.

“What possessed you to stand there in your nightgown?” he demanded, and she fought to keep from tripping as he hauled her ruthlessly to her room. “Dammit, just standing in that little see-through costume for all the world to see—”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Rosalie protested, her feet moving at double pace to keep up with his stride.

“As usual.”

In her worry over him, she let his comment go undebated. They reached her room, and Rand closed the door behind them. Rosalie stared at him in growing concern, her stomach clenching at the sight of him, so large and healthy and perfect. She wanted him to stay that way, and she wanted to keep him from tempting fate by placing himself in danger. The thought of him burned by fire or crushed by crumbling walls frightened her acutely.

“Please, please don’t go,” she said, prepared to beg shamelessly if he refused. “There are hundreds of others who can fight the fire—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Rand said, his voice firm and reassuring. “I’ll take no risks . . . but I couldn’t stay here knowing that my help might be needed. I’m a man, Rose, and only a coward would stay safe in his home when that bell is ringing.”

“It’s not even your village,” she said, and as she met his unyielding eyes, she felt a mist of tears blur her vision. “You don’t really even live here. Please stay.” “Petite . . . “ Rand said, and his arms slid around her.

Rosalie was stiff with resentment at the fact that he was refusing her, and yet she was so afraid of what might happen to him that she allowed him to pull her against his big warm body. “What if that were the château bell ringing?” he bent his head to murmur in her ear. She could tell from the sound of his voice that he was smiling as he spoke. “I don’t think we would appreciate it much if every man decided to let his neighbor be the one to come and help us.”