The Right Bride? (12 page)

‘No,’ she said tautly. ‘That would hardly be appropriate. I’ll simply—return to my car, and let you go to yours.’ As he rose lithely to his feet, she got up too, smoothing her crumpled skirt with hands that were still unsteady. She could only hope he wouldn’t notice.

Keep the conversation going. Make it all sound normal. As if you aren’t dying inside.

She paused. ‘Or did you ride here?’ she asked with ghastly brightness. She glanced about her. ‘Although I don’t see Roland.’

‘Roland went to a new owner in the Auvergne,’ he said harshly. ‘I too had no plans to return,
tu comprends.’

‘Remy—no.’ She was startled into open distress. ‘But you loved him…’ Her voice faded awkwardly as she realised what she was saying.

‘Please do not disturb yourself.’ His voice was cold. ‘I have survived greater losses, believe me, and even their memory fades in time.’ He stepped back, making her a slight ironic bow. ‘I wish you well,
madame. Adieu.’

She turned, walking out of the circle, trying not to look as if she was in a hurry, or anything but fully in control of herself and the situation.

Aware, with every step she took, that he was watching, but not daring to look back.

Telling herself, as the distance between them lengthened, that she’d done the right thing at last. Absolutely the right thing—for everyone.

And trying desperately to believe it.

A
LLIE
drove back to Les Sables, trying to use the same steely care she would have accorded to the presence of thick fog or black ice. She had to appear calm and composed, she told herself. As if that final encounter with Remy had never happened.

Because it would only distress Tante Madelon if she discovered even an atom of the truth—especially when the older woman had tried so hard to warn her that she had nothing to hope for.

What a fool I’ve been, Allie castigated herself bitterly. What a pathetic abysmal fool.

Did I ever—in my wildest dreams—think that Remy’s attitude to me might have mellowed over the past months and several thousand miles? Did I believe in some empty corner of my heart that he would really be able to forgive me for betraying him like that?

Well, the answer to that was—yes. She’d probably done exactly that. But, then, she’d been able to indulge any sad fantasy she liked when she’d existed in the absolute certainty that she was never going to see him again.

But now she’d walked headlong into hard reality, and it had left her broken and reeling.

So much so that she took the next corner faster and wider than she’d intended, and received a bad-tempered blare on the horn from a vehicle travelling rapidly in the other direction.

However, it was only when she glanced in the mirror, berating herself for her stupid lapse in concentration, that she realised it was a blue pick-up.

Not that she should read anything into that, she thought. There must be dozens of the things around, and they couldn’t all belong to Solange Geran. That glancing impression of a flash of silver-blonde hair as the truck had erupted past her was probably just a figment of her imagination. And so was the fleeting sense of something hostile and malignant aimed at her from the other vehicle, like a stone thrown through her window.

At least she hoped so. Because even the briefest glimpse of the girl who’d destroyed her life would be altogether too much to bear.

Although she was being unfair, and she knew it. She’d laid the charges for her own destruction. Solange had merely lit the fuse.

It was the thought of her wearing Remy’s ring, queening it over her little domain at Trehel, that was piercing Allie’s soul like an open wound.

He has to marry someone, she acknowledged wretchedly. The celibate lifestyle would have no attraction for Remy, and that enormous bed was intended for sharing. But—dear God—does it have to be Solange? Does she have to triumph quite so completely?

The road ahead of her blurred suddenly, and she pulled over on to the verge, putting her head down on the steering wheel as she fought the misery of loss that was tearing her apart.

But there’s nothing I can do, she told herself, choking back a sob. Remy has gone, and it’s all my own fault. I have no one to blame but myself. If I’d trusted him, been honest, Solange could have done nothing.

When she finally arrived back at Les Sables, she’d regained a measure of self-command. She sat for a long moment, arranging her face into a controlled and smiling mask. Trying to look like someone who’d enjoyed a relaxed and pleasant afternoon.

But when she walked into the living room and Tom greeted
her with a toothy grin and an exultant word that was undoubtedly
‘Maman
’, while Tante and Madame Drouac beamed with pride in the background, she was rocked to her foundations.

What will he learn next? she wondered, with sudden shock. To say Papa? And she felt her throat thicken with swift tears as she hung on to her self-control like grim death.

But she managed it with the help of the new toys, which her son accepted with wide-eyed delight, and supper was a determinedly cheerful affair, as she coaxed him to repeat the ‘M’ word, praising his latest accomplishment with suitable extravagance.

Although she might be overdoing the hilarity, she realised, suddenly encountering a shrewdly questioning look from Tante.

When the meal was over, and she’d mopped the bathroom floor after Tom’s boisterous bedtime romp in the tub, Allie came slowly downstairs. Tante was on the sofa, knitting a Tom-sized sweater in thick blue wool, her fingers rapid, her hands held low in her lap in the Continental manner that Allie had never mastered.

‘He is asleep?’

‘Yes, but he went down fighting all the way.’ Allie sat beside her, nerving herself for another battle. She took a deep breath. ‘Darling, this afternoon gave me a real chance to think. Quite soon now, I’ll have to return to England, and I’d—really like you to go with me.’

The busy hands instantly stilled. ‘Go to England?’

Tante couldn’t have sounded more shocked, Allie thought, if she’d suggested setting up a naturist camp in the Arctic Circle. ‘Please listen,’ she urged. ‘It’s not that outlandish a scheme. You won’t tell me what’s the matter with your health, but your letter clearly implied that it’s something serious, and I think we should get a second opinion—before it’s too late.’

Madelon Colville was staring at her almost raptly. ‘Go on,
ma mie.
’

Allie swallowed. ‘And while this house is gorgeous, and I can see why you love it here, and might want to stay until…’ She floundered over the unthinkable, then recovered. ‘What
I’m trying to say is that it’s still pretty isolated, even with Madame Drouac to look after you.’

‘Yes,’ her great-aunt surprisingly agreed. ‘That has become—a consideration.’

‘Well, there’s a really good cottage near the Hall. Hugo had it completely renovated for his groom, just before the accident. Everything’s on the ground floor, so there are no stairs to cope with. It could be—perfect.’

‘There is, however, your
belle-mère
.’ Tante’s tone was dry. ‘Who might not welcome a Breton invasion of her property.’

‘The estate belongs to Tom,’ Allie said. ‘Grace is only one of his trustees. I can deal with her.’

‘You sound very brave,
ma chère
.’

Allie forced a smile. ‘I had to wake up some time.’ She paused. ‘Well, what do you think of my idea?’

‘It is a kind, good thought,’ Tante said gently. ‘But I have no wish to live in England again.’

‘But you need to be looked after,’ Allie pleaded. ‘There must be treatment of some kind…’

Madelon Colville sighed. ‘
Mon enfant,
I am not ill. Just no longer young.’

‘But your letter…’

Her great-aunt took her hand, patted it. ‘I told you that this would be my last summer at Les Sables. And so it will. In the autumn, I plan to sell and move—elsewhere.’

‘But I thought…’

‘That I was dying?’ The older woman shook her head. ‘
Au contraire, chérie.
I have every reason to live, even at my advanced age.’

‘You—deceived me?’ Allie felt dazed.

‘Une petite ambiguité, peut-être,’
Tante agreed calmly. ‘Because, selfishly, I wished very much to see you, and also
le petit,
before more time passed. And for that I needed a very good reason. One that you would believe, and which would defeat the undoubted objections of
madame ta belle-mère.’
She paused. ‘Was it not so?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Allie was still gasping. ‘It certainly worked.’

‘Then what harm has been caused?’

Oh, God, thought Allie. If you knew—if you only knew…

‘And am I forgiven?’ There was an anxious note in Tante’s voice.

‘Of course you are, darling.’ Allie tried to speak lightly. ‘So what shall I say when I go back? That the moment you saw me you made a lightning recovery?’

Tante’s eyes were gravely questioning. ‘Must you—go back,
ma petite
?’

‘I have to.’ Allie stared at the floor.
Where else is there for me to go? Because God knows I can’t stay here.
‘After all, Marchington is Tom’s home,’ she went on, trying to sound positive. ‘I—I can’t keep him away for too long.’

‘But he also has Breton blood,’ Tante said. ‘Another important heritage.’

And one that I dare not tell him about, thought Allie, her throat tightening.

She pinned on a smile. ‘But you haven’t told me yet where you’re planning to live after this?’

Tante was vague. ‘Oh, I have not yet made a final decision.’ She yawned. ‘There is no great urgency.’

And no pressing reason for me to stay either, Allie told herself as she lay in bed that night. But Tante would be terribly disappointed if I left before the end of the week, especially as I know I’ll never be able to come back again. Or not with Tom, anyway. The risk is far too great.

So I’ll return to England as planned, but until I go I’ll just have to stay firmly around Les Sables. That way, there’s no possibility of meeting Remy again. Or anyone else I’d prefer to avoid.

Because, looking back, she was almost certain that it
had
been Solange driving the blue pick-up that afternoon.

And if I saw her, she may well have seen me, she thought grimly.

She sighed to herself. She should never have come here, she thought with quiet desolation.

Nothing had turned out as she’d expected. And, while she was eternally grateful that Tante wasn’t suffering from some
life-threatening condition, she couldn’t understand why the older woman hadn’t immediately put her mind at rest.

She knew what I was thinking, so why didn’t she tell me? she wondered. And what is she still not saying now? Or am I just being paranoid?

She sighed again, and turned her mind to the immediate future. She had to admit that returning to Marchington Hall held no attraction for her, and nor did the inevitable battles with her mother-in-law that lay ahead. But they’d be worth it, she told herself determinedly, if they secured for Tom the happy childhood he deserved, rather than Grace’s rigid regime. She had to believe that, because she had nothing else to cling to. Nothing to hope for either.

So she would go back and take her rightful place as the new, improved Lady Marchington. She would concentrate her energies on fighting Grace and winning, and forget there’d ever been a girl who’d found Paradise in a man’s arms and dared to dream of a different life.

And when these final days that she would ever spend in Brittany were over, she would ensure that, whatever her own feelings, she left only happy memories behind her.

‘I am going to the hairdresser in Ignac,’ Tante announced over lunch the next day. ‘Do you wish to accompany me,
chérie
? You have shopping, perhaps?’

Allie pretended to consider the proposal. ‘Not really—and I think, if you don’t mind, that Tom would be much happier playing in the garden,’ she returned, then suddenly smiled. ‘Do you know, he insisted on having all his new animals in bed with him last night?’

Tante smiled too. ‘He is an enchanting child, Alys. But he needs a masculine influence in his life—a father figure.’ She gave her great-niece a penetrating look. ‘I hope the disaster of your first husband has not turned you against the idea of a suitable remarriage.’

Allie shrugged. ‘Perhaps—one day. But I don’t meet that many people, and besides it would take a very brave man to
get past Grace and the hedge of thorns she’s built round Marchington to enshrine Hugo’s memory.’ She pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘I think most guys would prefer a more accessible woman.’

‘A problem.’ Madelon Colville finished her last morsel of cheese and rose. ‘But perhaps you should attend first to the thorn hedge around your own heart,
ma chère
,’ she said gently. ‘Then all else might follow.’

And left Allie gasping.

It was a gloriously hot afternoon. Allie, bikini-clad, lay on the rug, propped on an elbow as she watched her son playing, pushing his animals around on the grass with ferocious concentration, quacking and mooing at what he felt were appropriate moments.

Sometimes, she thought tenderly, he even got it right.

Wearing only his nappy, and an over-large cotton hat, he looked like an adorable if grubby mushroom. And he was happy. Also a little too pink, Allie thought, sitting up and reaching for the high-factor cream.

But Tom was enjoying himself too much to stand still while she applied it, and set up a wail of protest, his wriggles dislodging the sunhat.

‘You’ll have good reason to cry if you get burned,’ she warned him with mock severity as he tried to pull away from her. Then suddenly he was still, his attention apparently riveted by something over Allie’s shoulder, his thumb going to his mouth as it did when there were strangers about and he felt shy.

Strangers.
There was a sudden tingle between her shoulderblades, and she felt the fine hairs lift on the nape of her neck.

Even before she looked round, Allie knew who was there. Who it had to be.

She hadn’t heard his approach. He’d simply arrived as he always had in the past, skirting the side of the house unannounced. And now he was standing there, just a few feet away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stared at them both.

Allie was in shock. Instinctively she drew Tom closer, her grip tightening, startling a small indignant yowl from him.

She said ‘What—what are you doing here? What do you want?’

His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognisable. ‘I—I came—because…’

His gaze was fixed on Tom. He looked like someone who had suddenly turned to find himself face to face with his own reflection in a mirror. She saw a muscle move convulsively in his throat.

Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘Remy, I’d like you to leave.’

Instead, it was Tom who moved, his small, slippery body evading her slackened clasp as he set off across the grass towards the tall, silent newcomer, grabbing a handful of denim trouser leg to steady himself, and laughing up into the rigid face above him.

And Remy bent, lifting him into his arms and holding him there, his eyes closed and a tanned cheek pressed against the small dark head.

She was trembling violently as she stretched out her arms. ‘Remy,’ she said huskily. ‘Remy—give him to me—please.’

She realised that she was kneeling, what it must look like, and scrambled to her feet, wishing desperately that she had slightly more covering than a few square inches of black fabric.

She said again, ‘Remy…’ And her voice broke on his name.