A Place of Storms (20 page)

She was only too aware that when they returned home it was Simone he looked for eagerly, running to show her any treasures he had collected on their walk—a glossy bird's wing, an unusual pebble, a clump of flowers discovered in a sheltered corner.

Blaise he never went near. There was tension whenever the two of them were in the room together. At mealtimes, Philippe sat hunched and silent in his chair, his eyes fixed on his plate. And there was no question of being able to explain his behaviour away by the fact that he responded better to women. Philippe was constantly to be found in Gaston's company, running countless small errands, carrying in logs. He spent part of every day in the gatehouse too, listening entranced to long-ago tales of Vercingetorix the Gaul and his guerrilla war against the Romans, which he re-enacted with garbled enthusiasm for a bored Simone in the evenings.

The evenings, Andrea thought, were the worst of all. She could keep herself occupied during the day, taking more and more of the housekeeping reins into her hands and learning to cope with the intricacies of Madame Bresson's kitchen range. During the afternoons, Madame drew her high-backed chair close to the fire and got on with her lacemaking. Andrea did not ask to be given lessons—she knew that the traditional patterns evolving under Madame's flying bobbins were a closely guarded secret—but it was peaceful to sit in the warm, homely kitchen watching the unassuming expertise with which Madame performed her craft.

But in the evenings, there were several empty hours to be got through between the completion of dinner and the time when she could decently excuse herself and go up to her room. She found a pile of sheets in a cupboard and set herself to patching them, finding an odd escape in the total mindlessness of the occupation.

When she did get to her room, all she could do was lie in the darkness, waiting endlessly for the moment when the door would open.

Each night she made up the bed on the couch for Blaise, smoothing the pillow and arranging the covers to her own satisfaction. And each night she lay still, trying to control the evenness of her breathing when he came into the room, oddly terrified that he would know of her wake-fulness. But he never spoke or gave the slightest sign he was even aware of her presence, and she knew as she dropped at last into an uneasy sleep that however early she woke the following morning, he would already be gone.

As she brushed her hair and tied it back, she was aware of shadows beneath her eyes and a new wistfulness around her mouth. The girl who had come so recklessly to Auvergne to rescue her cousin seemed a million miles away. She gave a swift impatient sigh and turned away from the mirror, her slenderness emphasised by the black corded jeans and matching ribbed sweater she was wearing.

As she descended the stairs, she wondered what creation Simone would be wearing that day, and found herself smiling faintly. It was almost as if Simone had had advance warning that she would be snowed up at the chateau perhaps for days, and had come prepared with a wardrobe that would not have been out of place on a jet set winter sports holiday. At least, her constant changes of clothes gave her an occupation of sorts, Andrea thought, and grimaced at her own malice. Certainly there was little else for Simone to do. She was not interested in any of the books at the chateau, and she made no effort to conceal her annoyance that there was no form of canned entertainment. Almost in desperation, Andrea had unearthed an elderly chessboard from the depths of the sideboard, but chess was not to Simone's taste either.

She seemed to prefer to spend her time in animated and totally one-sided conversations with Blaise, ignoring Andrea completely as soon as Philippe had left them for the night. Andrea soon found she could not follow half of what the other girl was saying, and guessing that this was what Simone intended, gave up the struggle and concentrated on her needlework instead.

But at least she was spared her company at breakfast these days, Andrea thought as she opened the dining room door. Simone now partook of coffee and rolls in her room, and often didn't come downstairs until it was nearly lunch-time.

She was quite unprepared for the scene which met her eyes. Philippe looking small and defensive was backed against the window seat. His eyes were wide and scared as he stared up at Blaise who was towering over him, obviously angry. As Andrea appeared in the doorway, he gave a little choked cry and ran to her side. Blaise swung round, his hands resting on his hips, and confronted the pair of them.

'How fortunate that my nephew has a refuge in you,
madame
.' His dark face was openly sneering as he looked at them. 'Your timely appearance has probably saved him from a good hiding.'

'What has he done?' Andrea put a hand on Philippe's shoulder and felt it trembling.

'Borrowed some of Gaston's tools and failed to return them. Now Gaston needs them urgently for some jobs he wishes to do, and the tools cannot be found anywhere.'

'Oh, Philippe.' Andrea put her hand under his chin. 'That was naughty. If you borrow something, you must return it. Where are the tools? We'll take them back to Gaston.'

Philippe's lip quivered as he looked up at her. 'I—have not got them.'

'Then where are they?'

The child paused, then shrugged. 'I did return them,' he said eventually in a low voice. 'They must be there. Gaston must be lying.'

'There is only one liar in this room,' Blaise interjected coldly.

'Oh, please.' Andrea put up an appealing hand. 'That isn't going to help.'

'Then what is?' he demanded, his face hard and set.

'You think you will persuade him to tell the truth? I have already tried persuasion,
madame
, and it does not work. If you can convince him that it is not to his advantage to add to his guilt by lying about his misdemeanour, then you will have done us both a service.'

Andrea groaned inwardly, then knelt down beside Philippe.

'You did borrow the tools?' she began, and he nodded.

'I was a sculptor,' he explained simply. 'I made a statue of Vercingetorix from a block of snow.'

'I see.' Andrea sat back on her heels. 'Then what did you do? Did you leave the tools in the snow?'

'No!' The rebuttal was indignant. 'Gaston has told me many times that such things must be cared for. I—I took them back,' he added with obvious hesitation.

'Then they must be there,' Andrea tried to sound cheerful. 'Perhaps you just put them in the wrong place…'

'Gaston and I have both searched,' Blaise said abruptly. 'There is no sign of any of them. The truth is Philippe has left them out in the snow and is afraid to confess his fault.'

Sudden hot colour rose under Philippe's skin. 'I am not afraid.' His voice was shrill. 'It is you who is the coward, Monsieur la Cicatrice. You let my father die. I hate you!'

He whipped around, freeing himself from Andrea's detaining hand and was gone, the door banging stormily behind him.

Andrea looked up at Blaise, her own eyes wide with astonishment, and saw that he was white to the lips, the scar standing out in livid contrast. He saw her questioning gaze and his own eyes narrowed.

'What do you want me to say?' he asked. 'Do you want me to deny what he says? I cannot. My brother died because I failed to rescue him. If his son wishes to brand me as a coward then that is something else that I must learn to live with—along with this.' His hand went up and I touched his disfigured cheek.

Andrea scrambled to her feet. 'Philippe says you let his father die. You say that you failed to rescue him. There's a world of difference between the two stories.'

'A difference in emphasis, perhaps.' He stared past her. His face might have been carved out of stone. 'Jean-Paul is no less dead, however.'

'Blaise, how did it happen? Jean-Paul's death—your face—everything?'

For a long moment, she thought he was going to ignore her questions and walk past her out of the room into this private hell of his own making, but after a while he gave a short sigh and his eyes seemed to register her again.

'Jean-Paul died in the fire that destroyed Belle Riviere,' he said colourlessly. 'He believed—God alone knows why —that Philippe was still in the house. He broke free from us—he was like a mad thing—and ran back into the burning building. I went after him. I was shouting to him—I could see him just ahead of me. I could have sworn he heard me and was turning to come back, when there was some kind of an explosion. The next thing I remember is some of the plantation workers dragging me out of some rubble and seeing their faces when they looked at mine. They told me later that no trace of my brother had been found. I think this was to spare me.'

He turned away and walked over to the window, standing with his back to her, looking out.

'I can sympathise with Philippe,' he said after a pause. 'Jean-Paul was loved by everyone who knew him. I can understand why Philippe cannot comprehend why his father was taken, and I was left. I have wondered the same thing myself.' He thrust his hands into his pockets. 'I understand too why he shrinks from the sight of my face. Every time he sees me, I must remind him of Jean-Paul and how he died.'

'But he was scarcely more than a baby when it happened.' Andrea's hands clenched helplessly at her sides.

'
C'est vrai
. But if one has a strong enough motive, one can sow the seeds of memory even in the mind of a child as young as Philippe.'

A shiver ran through her body. She wanted desperately to ask. 'And your fiancée? What of her?' But the words would not be uttered.

Other things, however, had to be said.

'You've got to stop blaming yourself,' she said, very quickly before her courage melted away. 'There was nothing more you could have done.'

He was silent for so long she thought he had not heard what she said, then he said quietly, 'That is what I have tried to tell myself, but I know it is not the truth. I could have stopped the whole thing at the outset. It need never have happened.'

Andrea shook her head bewilderedly. What was he referring to—the fire—Jean-Paul's death?

She walked across the room to his side, and put her hand on his arm, making him turn and look down at her. His eyes were shuttered and enigmatic, his mouth set in grim lines.

'Don't concern yourself for me,
ma mie
,' he advised her brusquely. 'There are many more deserving cases for your charity than myself.'

'It's not a question of charity,' she denied stormily. 'And how can I help being concerned? I'm a human being after all, even though I know I'm just a pawn to you in this weird chess game you seem to be playing with your conscience. But I have feelings and emotions too. I'm not an automaton, Blaise, and I can't make myself into one for you.'

Her voice was shaking uncontrollably as she broke off. His face swam at her as she stared up at him with tear-dimmed eyes, then obeying an impulse she barely understood, she reached up and pressed her lips for one warm, fleeting instant to the scar on his cheek. For a moment he was rigid, then with a small harsh sound he pulled her into his arms and sought her mouth with his. Her lips parted for him instinctively, her body moulding itself breathlessly against the long, hard length of his. His kiss was as gentle as a snowflake and at the same time, in some magical way, as fierce as the storm wind. At last he let her go, standing looking down into her face with eyes that burned into hers while his hands moved on her body with a demand that became ever more urgent until at last with an incoherent murmur she offered him her mouth again.

It was the sound of the dining room door softly closing that brought them back to reality. Andrea heard Blaise curse softly under his breath as he released her. She left the strength of his arms with a reluctance she did not bother to disguise.

'I suppose that was Madame Bresson with our breakfast,' she said with a slight catch in her voice.

'Reminding us that we can only satisfy one hunger at a time,
hein
?' He was smiling as he spoke, but there was a warm, sensual intensity in his gaze that sent the blood racing giddily through her veins. She returned his smile, her shining eyes, parted lips and faintly flushed cheeks an unconscious provocation.

'
Sacre dieu
!' he breathed, and took a step towards her, checking as the dining room door swung open again to admit Madame Bresson with a tray.

Andrea expected at the least a knowing glance from the housekeeper's dark eyes as she placed the food on the table, but Madame's face merely wore its usual amiable expression, and she gave no sign of her awareness of the scene she had interrupted only minutes before.

She was angry to find her hand shaking as she picked up the coffee pot, and knew that her tremulousness was not lost on Blaise. To mask her embarrassment, she turned to Madame, asking about Philippe's whereabouts in an unwontedly sharp tone. Madame looked surprised but answered that she had seen
le petit
making for the gatehouse.

'Monsieur Alan will feed him,
madame
, have no fear,' she added with a broad smile and took her departure.

It was not an easy meal to get through. Andrea was conscious of nothing but the proximity of the man who sat just across the table from her. She was bewildered by the force of her own emotions and desires, and a little frightened too. At the back of her mind lurked the fear that by yielding to him so completely she was providing him with another opportunity to torment her as cruelly as he had done on their wedding night. The warm bread and fragrant coffee tasted like stale crusts and water as she remembered the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. Yet at the same time she sensed a difference in his attitude towards her. There had been a tenderness, almost a pleading in his kisses, which had been absent before, as if he too was vulnerable now.

'Relax,
ma mie
.' Blaise's voice came sardonically to her, and she started, spilling some of her coffee on to the linen cloth. 'I won't force my animal lusts on you at the breakfast table, I promise you. I prefer to wait for a time when we are truly alone and safe from interruptions.'