Dawn Song (8 page)

with almost exaggerated courtesy. 'You should have listened to me last

night.'

'Well, now it's your turn to listen—before I get into this car.' She gave him a

clear, cold look. It was another denim day, she noticed sourly, the

beautifully cut jeans clinging to his lean hips and long legs. The blue cotton

shirt was partly unbuttoned, revealing the bronzed, hair-darkened wall of his

chest. She felt her throat tighten, and was aware, with shock, of a sudden

moist warmth invading her body.

She swallowed. 'As far as I'm concerned, yesterday is over. In fact, it never

happened. I'm here to work. To be Madame de Brissot's companion. And I

don't want...' She hesitated.

'Complications?' he supplied softly.

'Precisely,' she said tautly. 'You do your job, I'll do mine. We'll leave it like

that.'

'Maybe that isn't what I want.' His eyes skimmed her body, lingering on the

curve of her breast under the clinging top, the slender line of her thighs

under the brief skirt. His gaze seemed to touch her like a caressing hand,

reminding her with nerve-shattering potency how, only a few hours before,

she'd lain half naked and wholly vulnerable in his arms. And for one perilous

moment the precision of that memory lit a small flame of response deep

inside her. Exactly, she realised with dismay, as he'd intended.

She doused it instantly with anger. 'No?' Her eyes flashed. 'Then that's

tough,
monsieur,
because I'm sure my godmother wouldn't want me being

harassed in any way. In fact, if I informed her of your recent behaviour, she

might even feel inclined to hire another architect,' she added coldly.

Jerome laughed. 'Threatening me,
ma belle?
I don't advise it. And I am not

just at Haut Arignac in my professional capacity. As I mentioned, I'm on

vacation myself. Your godmother is an old and dear friend of mine, and my

work there is very much a labour of love. So you're going to have to accept

my presence, Marguerite—whether you like it or not.'

She moved restively. 'For how long?'

His meditative glance swept her, sending another quiver of uneasiness

through her body. 'As long as it takes.'

'Meaning?' she asked thickly.

The dark eyes were enigmatic. 'She needs us both, Marguerite. That's all that

matters. Now will you get in the car, or do you wish to stand here and argue

until we get heatstroke?'

She complied reluctantly. So much for Haut Arignac ..providing a

sanctuary, she thought with irony, as the car moved forward. Jerome

Moncourt's web spread wide, it seemed.

And this could well turn out to be the longest four weeks of her entire life.

They came to Haut Arignac just before noon. It had been a journey filled

with tensions. Not a great deal had been said by either of them. Jerome had

politely drawn her attention to various landmarks and points of interest

along the way. She had responded largely in monosyllables, only permitting

herself to betray any real interest when they reached the village of Arignac,

from which the chateau derived its name.

It was only a small community, held peacefully in the curve of a meandering

river. The houses were built from rose-flushed stone, and a huge medieval

church like a small cathedral brooded over the main square with its fringe of

plane trees.

Jerome pointed to it. 'Built by the Crusaders in thanksgiving for their victory

over the Cathars,' he told her. His mouth twisted. 'A slight over-reaction,

since they outnumbered them four to one.'

'From what I've read so far, it was a ghastly campaign all round,' Meg said,

shuddering.

Beyond the village, a faded fingerpost, half- buried in long grass at the side

of the road, pointed them over an ancient stone bridge. There was always

something about crossing a river, Meg thought. As if each one was some

personal Rubicon, from which there was no turning back.

Which was exactly her own position, of course. Once she arrived at the

chateau, she was committed to the part she'd agreed to play,

howeverdistasteful she found it. The die was cast, and she was Margot.

But Madame de Brissot would never know, or suffer by the deception, she

told herself with determination.

And the man beside her would simply never know...

Beyond the bridge, the trees closed in like some green and sun-dappled

tunnel. The road was climbing perceptibly, and ahead of her she could see

tall wrought-iron gates, standing open between massive stone pillars,

crowned with eagles.

Jerome turned the car through the gates on to a drive, which was broad but

neglected, with moss and grass sprouting through the centre of its worn

surface. The trees and bushes on either side needed cutting back, and the

undergrowth was running riot.

As they rounded a long, curving bend, Jerome braked gently. 'The best view

is from here,' he said.

He wasn't exaggerating, Meg realised, as she bent forward with a gasp of

delight. The Chateau Haut Arignac was a gracious country house, built on a

slight eminence in the middle of rolling parkland, like an island of stone in a

sea of grass. It was an elegant rectangle of a house, built on three storeys, the

severity of its lines tempered by a pepper-pot tower at each end, and by the

broad raised terrace which surrounded it. The faded earthy pink of the roof

tiles contrasted with the grey stone walls, and the tall-windows on the two

lower floors were masked by white shutters, like closed eyelids, as if the

house drowsed in the midday sun.

Jerome parked below the terrace on a square patch of gravel. He motioned

Meg to go ahead of him up the broad flight of shallow steps leading to the

main entrance.

The air was hot and very still, and her heels seemed to echo as she crossed

the stone flags. As she got nearer, she saw that Jerome's comment about the

best view had been slightly ironic. The chateau's facade was altogether more

elegant at a distance. Close to, it was apparent that the paintwork and

pointing of the masonry needed renewing, and several of the ground-floor

shutters needed repairing, and were hanging from their hinges.

In fact, it was all rather run-down. Maybe Margot's potential inheritance

wasn't the gilt-edged security she'd imagined after all, Meg thought drily.

As she reached the heavy door, it swung open, and she found herself

confronted by a small roly- poly woman in a dark dress, her eyes twinkling

in welcome.

'Come in,
mademoiselle. Madame
told me to keep watch for you.' She

looked past Meg, her smile widening to a beam. 'Monsieur Jerome.'

'
Ca va,
Philippine?' Jerome looked at Meg. 'Margot, this is Madame Lange,

who keeps house here.'

She's got a job on her hands, Meg thought, her nose detecting a faint but

pervading odour of damp. The hall itself was lofty, its painted ceiling rioting

with rather grimy gods and goddesses. The walls were panelled in dark

wood, and hung with pictures which seemed mainly to be portraits. The de

Brissot ancestors, no doubt, Meg thought as she was led across to a pair of

double doors.

Philippine threw them open with a flourish. 'Mademoiselle Margot is here at

last,
madame.'

Fighting back her trepidation, Meg walked into the room. She found herself

in a large
salon
overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. The French

windows leading to the terrace were ajar, but the shutters were half closed to

exclude the fierceness of the sun, and Meg had to peer to discern her hostess.

Margaret de Brissot was sitting in a striped satin chair beside the empty

marble fireplace, a slight upright figure in a navy silk dress, with snow-white

hair arranged in a formal chignon. Her face was masked by a pair of tinted

glasses, and a silver- topped cane rested against her chair.

She held out a commanding hand. 'Welcome to Haut Arignac, my dear

child.' Her voice was clear and crisp, belying the fragility of her appearance.

'A little more light now, Philippine, if you please.'

The other woman opened the shutters, and sunlight flooded in, revealing,

with less than kindness, the faded grandeur of the room. Meg's hand was

taken with surprising firmness, and she was drawn down into a swift, formal

embrace,
madame'
s papery-cheek placed fleetingly against hers.

'It has been a long time, my dear. Too long, and for that I blame myself.' She

sighed faintly. 'Your mother and I were never—close, and after your dear

father's-death I made little effort to maintain any real contact between us.

Which I have come to regret, with the passage of time. My companion

Sylvie's absence seemed to offer an opportunity to—heal the breach.'

'She never liked me.' Iris Langtry's pettish words echoed in Meg's mind.

'Never thought I was good enough for her beloved nephew.'

Meg said gently, 'I understand.'

Madame de Brissot's fingers tightened on hers. 'So shall we abandon the

foolish pretence that we remember each other, and begin our acquaintance

from this minute?'

Meg nodded. 'I—I'd like that,
madame.'

The thin face relaxed into a smile. 'Then, perhaps for your father's sake, you

would call me "Tante" as he did.'

This was where the guilt began, Meg thought bleakly. She forced a smile of

her own. 'Of course. I'd like that.'

Madame de Brissot looked at Jerome. 'She's charming, isn't she,
mon cher!

And you are so good to have brought her to me.'

He took her hand and kissed it. 'It was my pleasure, believe me.' His eyes,

hooded and expressionless, met Meg's, who found involuntary colour

stealing into her face.

'I hope so.'
Madame
lowered her voice conspira- torially. 'I am relying on

you, Jerome, to ensure that Margot is not bored during her stay here.' She

turned to Meg. 'He was completely against my inviting you, my.dear. And

he has a point, of course. It is expecting a great deal—too much, perhaps—

to ask a lively young woman to give up her busy life and spend a quiet

month in the country, dancing attendance on a virtual stranger.'Meg lifted

her chin. 'Really? Is that Monsieur Moncourt's considered opinion? It isn't

mine. I'm happy to be here with you—Tante.'

Madame
took Meg's hand and patted it. 'You hear that, Jerome? All the

same, we must try to make her stay an interesting one.'

Meg bit her lip. 'I don't require a great deal of entertainment,' she said with a

touch of desperation. 'Being part of the family is quite enough. And I

certainly don't want to be any further bother to Monsieur Moncourt,' she

added with cold emphasis. 'I know he has his hands more than full already.'

And he could read whatever he wished into that, she told herself, watching

his firm mouth twist with a kind of wry acknowledgement.

'But you will have a great deal of spare time to fill,'
madame
pointed out.

'My doctor insists—so foolish—that I rest, morning and afternoon.'

Meg said with finality, 'I'll be fine, I promise you.' She smiled at the older

woman. 'All this is so new to me. I know I can find plenty to occupy me.'

'Searching for more traces of the Cathars, perhaps?' Jerome suggested softly.

He turned to
madame.
'Your new companion,
ma chere,
is studying the

history of the Albigensian Crusade.'

'A sad and bloody period in the history of the Languedoc.'
Madame's
brows

lifted. 'And a curious interest, too, for someone so young and lovely.' Her

expression became faintly roguish. 'Now the troubadours—the Courts of

Love—that I could understand.'

'Clearly Mademoiselle Margot has hidden—and unexpected—depths.'

Jerome's tone was silky. 'I wonder what other surprises she has in store for

us?' He paused. 'Apart, of course, from her excellent French.'

'Vraiment!' Madame's
face was astonished. 'But your mother's letter, my

dear, stated quite categorically that you couldn't speak a word of the

language.'

Meg groaned inwardly. 'She didn't ask me, actually.' She tried to sound

casual, even faintly amused. 'And my marks at school, admittedly, were

never that good. All those irregular verbs.' She shrugged, pulling a laughing

face. 'I guess she simply—took it for granted that nothing had changed.'

'A grave mistake. I am beginning to see that with you,
ma belle,
nothing

should ever be taken for granted.' The dark face was sardonic. 'I think the

month ahead of us is going to be fascinating—and most instructive.'

'You see,'
madame
exclaimed triumphantly, 'I made exactly the right choice,

after all.' She turned to Meg. 'Now Philippine will show you to your room,