Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(97)

“This isn’t funny!” Rosalie scolded in a muffled tone. “You said . . . you said that whatever I wanted of you was mine. I want you to stay here.”

He was suddenly still. “That isn’t fair, Rose,” he said gravely, the amusement leaving his voice. She knew in her heart that he was right, but that did not appease her anger and fear. “Please.”

“No,” he said softly, an odd glow in his eyes as he looked down at her.

Her temper blazed. “Then go! Forget everything I said, I should have bitten my tongue before asking you for anything!” She tried to pull away, and his arms tightened around her. It was ridiculously easy for him to hold her right there where he wanted her, and so Rosalie stopped struggling.

“Don’t turn your face away from me,” Rand said. “Leave me alone!”

He lowered his mouth to her downturned face, nuzzling the softness of her cheek until he found the dampness of a flaring tear track with his lips. “Go away,” Rosalie choked out, but the feel of his mouth moving against her skin was more than she could bear. She became still and docile. As the silence deepened, she turned her face with a sob to meet his lips. The room around them seemed to wither away as he kissed her. Rosalie was surrounded by darkness, consumed by it, until he became the only reality that she could imagine. Aware that his mouth pressed more firmly against hers, she lifted her arms around his neck and clung tightly. She had never felt so alive, so human and vulnerable. The cool, sensual darkness filtered through her, spiraling headily, causing her to tremble at the shadowy pleasure of it. She breathed his name as he brushed gossamer kisses along her neck, and her voice seemed to come from some remote distance. Then he was unfastening her arms from around his neck, and Rosalie felt as if her body were being torn in two.

“Hold me longer,” she whispered, the darkness swirling around her in an exotic mist, his masculine scent filling her nostrils and mixing intimately with the air that she breathed. “Don’t leave me . . . Rand, love me.”

He shivered and opened his eyes, wondering in the next hovering moment if she had meant those last two words in a physical or emotional sense. The reply he wanted to give was blocked in his throat. Rand had never spoken of love to anyone in his life, and now did not seem the right time or place. Coward, he railed at himself, and forced his arms to loosen from Rosalie’s slender body.

“I’ll come back soon,” he said huskily. Her lashes flickered upward to reveal eyes that were as dark and blue as a troubled sea, stunning in their unrelenting intensity of color. “Don’t leave the château,” he continued, giving her a little shake to make certain that the words left a strong impression on her. “Don’t set one of your little feet outside the château, Rose, do you understand?”

“I understand,” she murmured, quivering a little as his strong hands left her. Rand, love me. Thick, com pressed sobs congealed in her chest, but she would not let them out. She would not cry in front of him, she would not beg for his love or his pity, she would not let him guess at the extent of her fear or the reasons behind it. She turned her back as he left the room, keeping her back resolutely stiff.

The sky darkened as the hours passed, and as Rosalie stared out of the sitting-room window with Mireille in silence, they noticed a fascinating illusion. The fire in the village became visible as night settled over the land, and the setting sun hung over the leaping blaze. It dropped lower and lower, until the sun seemed to pool into the fire and fuel it with new strength. Hour after hour the women in the château waited, for all of the men, including Guillaume, Jereme, Eleazar, and Monsieur Alvin had gone to the village to help. Around ten o’clock most of them decided to retire, and Rosalie paused before the window, her blue eyes fastened unblinking on the glow that broke the line of the horizon. Surely half the village must have burned by now. Mixed with her pity for those who had lost their homes and probably some of their loved ones was the cold fear that Rand might be hurt. He no longer struck her as being quite as reckless as she had once considered him, but she knew that it was very likely for him to volunteer for the riskier tasks. What if he were trapped somewhere this very second, smothering from thick smoke and thin air? What if he was being scorched by the flames that were so hot she could see their light even from this distance?

Valiantly Rosalie tried to wait patiently, waving all of the others off to bed and repeating to herself what Rand had told her. He would be incensed beyond reason if she left the château. She could picture his rage if he discovered that she had even considered disobeying him. But if she had to wait in suspense much longer, then Randall Berkeley would have to institutionalize her at Bedlam, the insane asylum north of London. She could not tolerate the buzzing anxieties that plagued her in the silence, any more than she could have held still while a swarm of flies tried to settle on her.

“Please forgive me,” she whispered, closing her eyes and wrinkling her nose in agitation. She already had misgivings about her next actions. “I won’t go near anyone, I won’t go near the fire . . . I won’t even get off the horse. I’ll just go and make sure that you’re all right, and then I’ll come straight back. God willing, you won’t even see me. And I’ll never do anything like this again, I promise.”

Feeling relieved at having made a decision, she blew out the candle beside her chair and turned out all of the lamps. Quietly Rosalie opened the glass-paneled door of the sitting room and slipped outside. The night air was cool as it blew against her throat, and she gathered her shawl more closely around her bare arms. Her dress was pale yellow and sleeveless, one of the simplest garments she owned. As she went into the stable and heard the nickers of the horses, Rosalie found herself exceedingly grateful for the experience she had received at Robin’s Threshold, the Winthrops’ country estate. Baron Winthrop had insisted that she and Elaine learn how to ride when they were young, and Rosalie silently thanked him.