Shadows (25 page)

“Oh, I’ll stay here.  The place could do with a tidy up.”

~~~

Christophe greeted her with a smile, but he looked forlorn, with deep shadows under his eyes.  Melissa's instinct to help him burned stronger than ever.  He needed to fight free from whatever troubled him.

She let Christophe make all arrangements with the Lalinde librarian.  A small quiet room midway along a short corridor had been designated as the local history center.  When the door opened, Melissa sighed at the sight of a room stuffed full of maps, books, and pamphlets.  The pair of twelve-foot oaken tables dominated the room, a microfilm reader perched to one side and a few wooden chairs patiently awaited researchers to begin work.  Melissa eyed the vast number of battered old volumes and stacks of microfilm with misgiving.  Outside the window, a magnolia tree filtered the sunlight and beyond a patch of sparse green lawn, an offshoot of the Dordogne ran between low, level banks.

“We check these first.”  Christophe indicated a row of dark blue leather bound volumes.  Melissa counted twelve and resigned herself to a long hard morning’s work.  Skilled though she was, checking for any reference to the mill or the monastery through indexes written in old French would require furious concentration.  She made quiet, conscientious notes, but found nothing of importance.

Occasionally people walked past the room, but no one entered.  Toward eleven o’clock Melissa grew warm, got up, stretched and strolled over to open the window.  She hung over the sill, and breathed in the fresh air laced with nose-curling smells that made her salivate.  The proprietor of the café on the corner was preparing for the lunchtime rush.

Christophe hissed, and threw down his glasses.  He got up, jabbed an impatient finger at a paragraph halfway down the page and moved away from the table.  Melissa obediently moved in and bent to the text.  Written in French, of course, something about an Abbot.

Melissa ran her finger beneath the words.  “Abbé Roulet, a strict man, lived at the monastery from 1728 to 1745 and was known as…”  The hint of vetiver and lime came from Christophe’s aftershave and she closed her eyes and images of deep woods and cool streams floated into her mind.

“Melissa?”

She opened her eyes.  Christophe had moved round the table to stand by her shoulder and help with the translation.  Puzzled, he stared at her, his brow creased.  Melissa stared back.  She had never been this close to him.  The shaggy, exotic curls hung down to his eyebrows, the lashes beneath were thick and long, the bones of his face were far more prominent than she remembered.  Her gaze wandered back to his warm brown eyes.  The walls of the library receded, the hum of traffic disappeared and the birdsong of the forest filled the room.

She smiled.  She loved him, adored him.  Her palm lifted, cradled his cheek and the warmth of him flowed into her blood.  His head came closer, angled a little, his mouth framed her name, hesitated and then came down over hers.  She breathed deep, taking the essence of him within her lungs and from there to her bloodstream.

She rose into his arms.  A pulse thudded in her ears, through the bones of her head and she pushed herself against him, encouraged him as he fumbled with her clothes, found her breasts and fondled them.  Every sensation redoubled.  She cried out and gripped the wood of the table behind her.

A phone rang somewhere close by.

For one startled moment, she did not move, but stared his panicked face.  Christophe glared at the offending instrument, perched unobtrusively on one of the shelves close to the window.  Sweat sheened his throat and air shuddered in and out of his lungs.  His eyes were blue, not brown.

Melissa gripped the table to stop herself falling.  The phone went on ringing while she stared in horror at her breasts, naked and trembling against a webbing of fine black hair across Christophe’s heaving chest.  His crisp blue shirt hung off one shoulder.

She shut her eyes, hating herself and tried to still her breathing.  Christophe yanked his shirt back into place, and shook her arm.  His larynx bobbed as he swallowed hard.  He indicated her nakedness.  “Chérie, please.”

He walked toward the phone.  The door opened and a young woman rushed into the room to answer it.

“Pardon.”  Flushed from her run down the corridor, she barely noticed Melissa and Christophe.  “Pardon, Madame.  Monsieur.”

Melissa turned her back on the telephone, and hoped Christophe blocked any view of her. Embarrassment heated her face and throat.  Surreptitiously she tugged her bra back into place and re-fastened her blouse.

Christophe slid into the seat on the opposite side of the table and turned the book back toward him.  He glanced at Melissa, and then at the library assistant chattering rapidly on the old-fashioned black telephone.

Melissa could hardly look at Christophe, but made herself do it.  “What…what did you want to show me?”

He cleared his throat and kept his eyes on his finger as it moved along the page.  “It says that Monsieur L’abbé was…people named him L’Homme de Fer.  The man of iron.  The monk wrote of Pierre…rêvé de sa mort, and that he…empêché de la monastère.”

“Oh.”  Melissa stared at Christophe’s eyes.  Her breathing slowed along with her heartbeat, but her memories of the encounter were vivid and she was absolutely certain that the man she had kissed had owned brown eyes.  Christophe’s were blue.  And what, she thought, would have happened if Rory had been here?

The phone clattered back into the cradle, and the assistant called a cheery apology for disturbing their research and hurried out of the room without noticing anything untoward.

Christophe put his head in his hands, dragged his fingers through his hair.  “Je suis desolée. ’ow can these things ’appen?”

He looked quite haggard, and his hands trembled as he laid them on the open book before him.

“I don’t know.  But I don’t blame you.  For a moment or two, we were not Melissa and Christophe.  We were Justine and Pierre.”

The Frenchman rolled his head from side to side and groaned.  His hands covered his face once more.  Melissa shifted in her chair, more than a little embarrassed at such a show of emotion.  “Do I look different when I’m Justine?”

Christophe regarded her from between his spread fingers.  Slowly he drew his hands from his face.  “Your eyes,” he said softly.  “Now they are blue, but when you are Justine, they are brown.”

That was interesting.  Her eyes changed color and she didn’t feel a thing.  How odd.  “Yours go brown, too.”

He stared at her, then blinked rapidly.  “I know you, when you are her.  I know all of your body.  Her body.”  He covered his face with his hands again.  “Sometimes I see you, and you are her.  Pour un moment.”

Melissa nodded.  What he said seemed no stranger than acting out the desires of a woman who died two hundred years ago.  “Last night.  At the dinner table.  Your eyes went brown, just for a second.  It was Pierre peeping out, but I don’t know why.”

“We had been talking of them.  Rory, he dislikes the idea of you as Justine.”

“I can’t say I’m wild about it myself.”  Melissa made a note on her pad about the man of iron.  She must be businesslike and not forget the name.

Oh, God.  She would have to tell Rory about this.  The thought made her toes curl inside her sandals.  Would he ever believe her?

Would she ever have courage enough to tell him?

~~~

Rory clicked his phone shut, closed his fist around it and lay back on the cushioned lounger.  The action tipped the peaked brim of his cap forward till it almost touched his nose, and he raised a finger to lift it clear of his eyes.  He waited for Melissa's return while the sun beat down on the lower terrace.  Two lizards crept out from under the lavender bush beside him and basked in the sun.

The sound of the Honda engine coming along the road from Lalinde reached him first.  He rose, walked up the steps to the bolly, watched the sports car turn into the lane and head toward the mill.  The little red car followed behind.  His mouth tightened.  Damn the man.  Could he not stay away?

Melissa got out of the Honda and walked toward him.  As always, from the first day he met her, a frisson of desire ran through him at the sight of her.  She looked so cool and crisp in her white blouse and blue cotton skirt, and she held a roll of paper in one suntanned hand.  There was something about her smile that worried him.  In fact, her whole attitude seemed a little strained.  Surely she wasn’t regretting their new relationship?  Or had Christophe said something, done something?  His fists tightened.  He wouldn't put it past the man.

Masking his feelings behind a smile of welcome, he strolled forward, bent and kissed her cheek.  “I see your tame librarian is behind you.  Come and sit down.  Lunch is almost ready.”

Melissa glanced back down the drive.  “We’ve been busy.  And we’ve got more information.”

Rory’s gaze stayed on Melissa as Christophe got out of his car and walked over.  Was that a flush on her cheeks, or was he imagining it?  She couldn’t be falling for that little twerp, could she?  He took the Frenchman’s outstretched hand, greeted him with the unfailing politeness his parents had drilled into him, and didn't comment on the fact that Christophe looked even more ill than he had yesterday.

There was an air of uncertainty about them both as they sat down to lunch in the shade of the bolly.  Melissa looked over the salads, bread and pâté and back to Rory.  “Shall we have some wine?”  She disappeared into the mill.

Rory looked at Christophe.  “Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?  What’s up?”  The air seemed full of worry and strain.  There was definitely something wrong with these two.

“Je déteste…qu’est-ce qui arrive.”

Merde.  Rory ground his teeth together.  Christophe may hate what was happening, but at least he knew what was happening.  He resisted the urge to seize the Frenchman.  Not since his schooldays had wanted to tackle someone physically.

Melissa returned, waving a bottle of red wine and glasses, and addressed him in cheery tones.  “Have you had a good morning?”  She handed him the bottle and corkscrew, leaned over and kissed him.  “What did you do?”

Her kiss seemed normal and affectionate, yet he was sure there was a shadow of worry in her eyes.  Or was he imagining it?  Torturing himself for no good reason?  Rory moved round the table to pour the wine.  The heat of the sun struck his shoulders.  He glanced at the small, unhappy Frenchman with a shred of sympathy.  Taking his seat once more, he raised his glass.  “Santé.”  He took a sip of wine.  “I’ve spent a good deal of time on the phone.”

“Did you ring Johnny again?”

Rory nodded.  “I needed some advice.  I went down into the cavern this morning, only this time I made sure I could get back up.”  He smiled in answer to her look of alarm.  “I found a ladder first.”  He shrugged and took another bite of bread and pâté.  “I poked around in the mud beneath the wheel, and I found bones.  I won’t go into details,” he added as Melissa stopped eating and stared at him.  “But I think they’re human.”

Christophe’s skin turned an unpleasant shade of gray.  “Ils sont mes os.”  He lurched away from the table and ran toward his car.

“Christ.  Now what?”

“Oh, Rory.”  Melissa pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet.  “Don’t you ever think of his feelings?  He just said they were his bones.”

Rory grasped her wrist.  “Let him be.  He doesn’t need you right now.”

Clearly annoyed, she glared back at him and struggled to be free.

“Melissa, you’ll embarrass him.  Let the man puke in private if that’s what he’s going to do.”

She stared out along the drive.  The blue curve of Christophe’s shirt was bending over behind the bulwark of his red car.  Doubtfully, she sat down and frowned.  “Human bones?  Are you sure?”

Rory sat down alongside her, picked up his wine and nodded.  “I found a skull, which sort of clinched it.  Not very far down, and right beneath the old waterwheel.  It seems Christophe saw exactly what happened when he was so terrified the other day.  Not that I blame him.  I’d have been a bit pale myself if it had happened to me.  Stay there.”

Rory walked into the mill and reappeared with a large glass of water and a handful of kitchen roll.  With a gesture to Melissa to stay where she was, he took the glass to Christophe and returned almost immediately.  “He’ll be all right in a minute or two.  Give him a chance to pull himself together.”

He resumed eating, though it hardly seemed the correct thing to do.  The brutal facts of death had seemed very close that morning.