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Dawn Song - Сара Крейвен - Читать любовный роман онлайн в женской библиотеке LadyLib.Net
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Крейвен Сара
Dawn Song
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CHAPTER TWO
MEG’S COMPANION WAS the first to move, to break the profound hush.
He said quietly, ‘Et voilà,’ and shrugged.
‘Oh, God,’ Meg breathed almost inaudibly. ‘Oh, dear God.’
The driver’s side had sustained the most damage, she realised numbly. The crumpled roof was practically resting on the seat, and the windscreen had been shattered by a large branch.
And up to a moment ago she’d been sitting there—right there. If he hadn’t come along when he did—made her get out… Her mind closed off in shock, refusing to contemplate the undoubted consequences. She tried to speak—to thank him properly this time, and instead, to her shame, burst into tears.
He muttered something else under his breath, then swung into the seat beside her, flinging the discarded cape into the back of the car, before reaching into the glove compartment for a packet of tissues and a silver flask.
‘Here,’ he said curtly, unscrewing the flask’s stopper. ‘Drink this.’
It was cognac. She gasped, and choked, feeling the spirit spread like fire through her cold and shaking body. She dabbed at her face with a tissue. ‘My car,’ she whispered. ‘My car.’
‘You insured the car when you hired it,’ he reminded her. ‘It can easily be replaced. But not so your life.’
‘No.’ She shuddered uncontrollably, then lifted the flask again, taking a fierce, searing swallow, fighting back the remaining tears, and feeling the trembling dissipate slowly.
‘I think you have had enough.’ There was a faint smile in his voice as he gently detached the flask from her grasp.
When she was sure she was in control of her voice, she said, ‘All—all my things were in the boot. I—I know it’s silly to mind…’
‘I’ll get them.’ He took the Renault’s keys from her unresisting fingers.
‘No.’ Meg grabbed at his arm. ‘Leave them, please. Don’t risk it…’
‘It’s all right.’ His voice was gentler. He pointed back towards the wreck. ‘See, the boot was hardly touched.’
‘But there might be another landslide.’ There were still lightning flashes in the overcast sky, and thunder was grumbling around in the distance like some outraged but unseen giant. Meg could visualise more rocks, raining down on him, crushing him like the Renault.
She found she was looking at him, seeing him properly for the first time in the sullen light which penetrated the car. She knew that he was tall, and she’d had first-hand experience of the whipcord strength of his body during that headlong dash from the Renault, but that was the extent of it. Now she saw that he was quite young—not more than the early thirties at a guess, although she was no judge of such things. She assimilated a mass of unruly black hair, and a thin olive-skinned face, the lines of nose, mouth and chin strongly, even arrogantly marked. And dark fathomless eyes under heavy lids.
‘I think the worst is past.’ He shrugged again. He slanted a smile at her. ‘Besides, I lead a charmed life.’
She could believe it. Nevertheless, she sat rigidly, staring ahead of her, not daring to look back, waiting for the clatter of falling stones and the cry of agony which seemed inevitable. But there was nothing but the rush of the water in the swollen river, and somewhere near by the shrill song of a bird announcing that the storm was over.
It occurred to her that he was taking a long time. She turned her head, peering back, and saw him standing at the rear of the Renault, very still, as if he’d been turned into a rock or a tree himself.
Maybe the boot was jammed, and he couldn’t open it, she thought. But it seemed she was wrong, because almost at once he headed back towards the Citroën he was driving, striding out with a travel bag in each hand. She heard them thud as he transferred them to his own boot.
When he rejoined her, he looked preoccupied, his brows drawn together in a frown. She sensed a tension in him that she’d not been aware of before, as if he was angry about something, and trying to hide it.
Perhaps he’d only just realised that his act of gallantry had saddled him temporarily, at least, with an unwanted passenger, Meg thought with a certain compunction. Well, she could hardly blame him for resenting the disruption of his journey. Now it was her turn to reassure him.
She drew a careful breath. ‘You’ve been very kind,’ she said, ‘and I hate to impose on you further, but I do need a lift to the Auberge du Source du Beron. I can get a room there—arrange something about the car too, with any luck.’
He seemed deep in thought, but at her words he turned his head and looked at her.
‘You have a reservation at the auberge?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Well, no,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s where I was heading before the storm. It’s been recommended to me.’
‘It’s very popular with tourists. You’d have done well to book in advance, I think.’ His frown deepened. ‘You have no alternative plan?’
‘Nothing definite,’ Meg returned. She could hardly ask him to drive her all the way to Haut Arignac, she thought. The accident had been a severe set-back, admittedly, but she was still reluctant to arrive at the château a minute before she had to. She summoned up a ghost of a smile. ‘I’ll just have to risk there being a room.’
He gave her another long look. He said softly, ‘It is not always wise, mademoiselle, to take risks—so far away from home.’
There was an odd note in his voice, an undertone of warning—even menace, she thought, a faint frisson of alarm uncurling down the length of her spine. Or was it just the shock she’d suffered playing tricks with her imagination?
It had to be that, because suddenly he smiled at her, charm softening the autocratic firmness of his mouth, and dancing in his eyes.
He wasn’t exactly handsome, Meg thought, blinking under the onslaught, but, dear God, he was frighteningly attractive. The kind of man she’d never thought to meet. And she would be so glad to get to the auberge and see the last of him, because, the spirit of adventure notwithstanding, some unsuspected female instinct told her that this man represented more danger than any landslide she might encounter.
She saw his smile twist slightly, as if he’d guessed the tenor of her thoughts, and was amused by them. He said softly, ‘En avant. Let’s go.’ And started the car.
It was not a pleasant journey, although it had stopped raining and the storm had rumbled its way into some far distance, allowing a watery sun to make an apologetic appearance.
Her companion was quiet, Meg found, if not positively taciturn, but that was probably because he had to concentrate so hard on driving. It was perilous stuff. The road was littered with fallen debris, and several times they even had to stop the car to move rocks and tree branches which were actually blocking the road.
‘Is it always as bad as this?’ she asked, as he came back to the car, dusting his hands on his jeans.
‘I have known worse.’ He glanced sideways at her as he restarted the car. ‘It has been alarming, your introduction to France?’
‘How did you know that? That it’s my first time here?’ Meg pulled a face. ‘From my bad French, I suppose.’
He shrugged. ‘It was just a guess. I didn’t know it at all. And your French is very good,’ he added drily. ‘Remarkably so.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because so many of your countrymen do not bother with our language,’ he said, after a slight pause. ‘They assume that if they shout loudly enough and slowly enough we will understand them.’
Meg gave a rueful nod. She’d heard much the same from her night-school teacher, a Frenchwoman married to a Brit. ‘I think it’s to do with being an island race, and not feeling part of Europe. Maybe things will improve once the Channel Tunnel is open.’
‘Perhaps.’
There was a further silence. He drove well, Meg thought, using the powerful capacity of the car without flourish, the lean brown hands in effortless control of the wheel.
He was simply dressed, but his denim jeans bore a designer label, and the plain white shirt, its cuffs turned back to reveal sinewy forearms, had an expensive silky sheen. His only adornment was a classic gold wrist-watch with a brown leather strap.
It was difficult to know what to make of him, Meg thought, observing him under her lashes. He didn’t slot into any obvious category, either social or professional. But then, she was no expert, she reminded herself wrily. Her experience of men was minimal, unless you counted Mr Otway, or Tim Hansby who collected books on military history, and who’d invited her once to London with him, on a visit to the Imperial War Museum.
Meg had enjoyed the museum more than she’d anticipated, but Tim, devoted only son of a widowed mother, would never be more than a casual friend. He still lived at home, and Meg pitied any girl who might fall in love with him, because Mrs Hansby was grimly determined to preserve the status quo.
Whereas her companion today didn’t look as if he could be tied to any woman’s apron strings. But appearances could be deceptive. He might well have a shrewd-eyed wife, and a brood of children, and tonight, over dinner, he’d tell them how he’d rescued a lone English tourist from the storm, making it amusing—minimising their narrow escape.
And later, his wife would ask when they were alone, ‘What was she like—this English girl?’ and he’d smile and say,
‘Ordinary—I barely noticed her…’
As he glanced towards her, Meg realised she’d allowed a tiny sigh to escape her, and hurried into speech.
‘Is it much further to the auberge?’
‘About a kilometre. Do you find the journey tedious?’
‘Oh, no,’ she denied hurriedly. ‘But I realise that you must have things to do—other plans. I feel I’m being a nuisance.’
‘You are wrong. It is my pleasure to do this for you. Besides, by taking this road, I pass the auberge anyway, so it works out well for us both.’ He paused again. ‘My name is Jerome Moncourt,’ he added with a touch of formality. ‘May I know yours in return?’
Her lips parted to say Meg Langtry, but she hesitated, the words unspoken. She’d come here to be Margot, after all, she thought guiltily, and she’d almost forgotten. But, she supposed, the deception had to start somewhere. So why not practise her new identity on this stranger? After all, she was never going to see him again. Yet, at the same time, she was reluctant to tell a downright lie. I’m not the stuff conspirators are made from, she thought with a stifled sigh.
She forced a smile. ‘Let’s just say—Marguerite,’ she temporised. It was a half-truth, after all, and, with luck, it might be all she’d need.
‘The name of a flower,’ he said softly. ‘And of a famous French queen. You’ve heard, perhaps of La Reine Margot who was born Marguerite de Valois and married Henri of Navarre? She held court at Nerac in Gascony, and was one of the famous beauties of her age. She was what they used to call une dame galante.’
‘Meaning?’ Meg had moved with slight restiveness when she heard the name. Margot, she thought. Of course, it would be. She couldn’t get away from it.
Jerome Moncourt shrugged again. ‘That she enjoyed adventures—particularly with men other than her husband,’ he returned. ‘Her affaires were notorious.’
‘Then she couldn’t have been very happy with this Henri of Navarre.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, he was not faultless, either. Maybe that is why he is one of the kings that France remembers with affection. Un vrai brave homme.’
‘And of course in those days all marriages were arranged,’ Meg said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose they could be forgiven for straying if they were tied to someone they didn’t care about.’
‘But what if the marriage had been for this thing we call love?’ His voice was cynical.
‘Then there’d have been no excuse,’ Meg said firmly.
‘I am surprised to hear you say so.’
‘Why?’ Meg found herself bristling slightly.
Jerome Moncourt hesitated momentarily, then lifted a shoulder. ‘Oh—because that is no longer a fashionable point of view. Easy marriage, easy divorce. That is the modern creed.’
Meg shook her head. ‘I don’t believe that,’ she said. ‘Divorce is never easy. Someone’s always hurt—left behind, especially when there are children.’
He flicked her a swift sideways glance. ‘I did not expect to meet with an idealist.’
‘But then,’ Meg said sedately, ‘you didn’t expect to meet me at all.’
‘No?’ He was smiling again. She felt his charm touch her like a caressing hand. ‘You don’t think it was fate rather than the storm which brought us together?’
Meg, uneasily aware of an unfamiliar trembling in the pit of her stomach, managed a laugh. ‘I’m English, monsieur. I tend to blame the weather for everything.’
He laughed too. ‘And in France, mademoiselle, we say that the marguerite always turns to the sun. Remember that.’ He paused. ‘And there just ahead of us is the auberge.’
A sudden surge of disappointment rose up inside her, and was ruthlessly crushed. Was she out of her mind, letting a complete stranger get to her like this? He’d rescued her, and she’d always be grateful for that, but she wasn’t even sure she liked him, for heaven’s sake. He was an unknown quantity, and she had enough problems ahead of her without taking him into the reckoning.
It was probably second nature to him to flirt with every girl he came across, she thought. She just wasn’t used to his kind of man, or any other for that matter.
The Auberge du Source du Beron was a comfortable rambling building, probably a converted farmhouse, set at the rear of an enclosed courtyard.
Jerome Moncourt drove under an arched gateway into the courtyard, and stopped. Meg straightened her shoulders, and held out a hand, with a determined smile. ‘Well, thank you again, and goodbye.’
‘You are very eager to be rid of me,’ he commented, his mouth twisting sardonically.
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’
‘You must allow me to judge for myself.’ Jerome Moncourt left the car, and walked round to the passenger door to assist Meg to alight. ‘Go and see if they have a room,’ he directed, smiling faintly. ‘I will bring your cases.’
Wide glass doors flanked by tubs of brilliant flowers opened on to a tiled reception area, where the patronne gave Meg a pleasant if harassed welcome.
Yes, there was a room, which she would be happy to show mademoiselle, but there was also a problem. Because of that devil’s storm, there was no electricity. Until the supply could be restored, there would only be lamps or candles. As for the dining-room—madame made a gesture of despair.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Jerome Moncourt said over Meg’s shoulder. ‘Mademoiselle is dining with me.’
Meg felt sudden swift colour invade her face, as madame, putting her troubles aside for a moment, lifted her eyebrows in a roguish and wholly approving assessment of the situation in general and Jerome Moncourt in particular. She then became brisk again. If monsieur would be so good as to transport the luggage to mademoiselle’s room—Millot, whose task this was, being totally engaged in filling lamps—she would be forever grateful.
‘D’accord.’ Jerome smiled at her. ‘But first I must ask if the storm spared the telephone. We need to report an accident.’
The phone system apparently was in full working order. Jerome lifted an eyebrow at Meg. ‘Do you wish me to contact the authorities—deal with the formalities for you? It would perhaps be easier, no matter how good your French…’
Meg said a shy ‘Thank you’ and allowed madame to conduct her up the wide wooden staircase to a room at the back. The ceiling was low, and the floor uneven, but the furniture gleamed with polish, and the wide bed was made up with snowy linen and a duvet like a drift of thistledown. In one corner, a door opened on to an immaculate shower-room hardly bigger than a cupboard.
The small square window set deep in the thick stone wall stood open to admit the return of the sun, and the air, still cool after the rain, was heavy with the scent of lavender. Meg drew one deep enraptured breath. Madame gave a satisfied nod, and returned to her duties downstairs, closing the door behind her.
Meg stayed at the window. It had been quite a day, and it wasn’t over yet—unless, of course, she wanted it to be. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Things like this don’t happen to me, she thought with bewilderment. But then I’m not myself any more. I’m supposed to be Margot. Perhaps I’ve taken over her life as well as her name. But can I carry it off?
She heard the door open, and Jerome enter with her luggage. Her heart began to thud, and her mouth went dry.
‘Another car will be delivered to you in the morning,’ he said, hoisting her cases on to the slatted wooden rack provided for the purpose. ‘You will have to complete an accident report, but you have me as a witness, so there should be no difficulty.’
She kept her back towards him, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I—I’m very grateful.’
‘Grateful enough to be my guest at dinner tonight?’ He was standing behind her, so close that she could feel the warmth from his body.
She stared at the view as if she was trying to memorise it. Behind the auberge’s small walled garden, the ground rose sharply. It was a wild and rocky landscape, studded with clumps of trees. A stream, presumably from some underground spring, had forced itself between two of the largest boulders, splashing down in a miniature waterfall, its passage marked by the sombre green of ferns.
‘The source of the Beron,’ Jerome said at her shoulder. She nodded jerkily, and after a pause he said, ‘You do not, of course, have to accept my invitation.’
She knew that. Knew, too, that it would be safer—much safer to refuse politely, and, with sudden exhilaration, that she had no such intention.
As she turned to answer him, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the window-panes, his face dark and watchful, his mouth grimly set. She gasped, and her head came round sharply. But it must have been some trick of the light, because he looked back at her casually, even with faint amusement.
He said softly, ‘Put me out of my misery, Marguerite. May I return for you here at eight?’
She said, ‘Yes—I’d like that.’
And wondered, once she was alone, whether that was really true.
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