Tower of Shadows (10 page)

claim the relationship which was almost certainly hers. But in the

circumstances it seemed better to remain silent, particularly with

Rohan Saint Yves marching grimly at her shoulder like some

gaoler.

When they were in the corridor, she said tartly, 'I can find my own

way out. Or are you afraid I'll make off with the family jewels?'

'Madame de Rochefort wishes you to taste our wine. I don't usually

ignore her commands,' Rohan returned coolly. 'Indulge her,

please.'

Sabine suspected that the
Baronne
was already sufficiently

indulged, but she allowed herself to be escorted to the grand

chamber.

It was a large, imposing room as the name suggested, its walls

hung with tapestries, and with a minstrel's gallery at one end. A

long polished table stood in the centre, holding an assortment of

bottles, and a tray of glasses. Sabine looked round her with eager

curiosity, her gaze lingering on one large central tapestry. The

tower and the rose again, she thought. But this time there was an

added element—the tower had a window, from which a girl, with

one of the steeple-like headdresses of the fifteenth century, seemed

to be peering down.

'You know the legend of La Tour Monchauzet?' Rohan had noticed

where her eyes were fixed.

'I feel as if I should,' she admitted. 'I think I may have heard it as a

bedtime story when I was a small child.' She racked her brain,

trying to remember once more. 'Wasn't there something about a

princess locked up by her cruel father?' she hazarded.

'The real story is not so fairy-tale,' Rohan said drily.

'The girl wasn't a princess, just an unfaithful de Rochefort wife.'

He paused. 'Her name was Sabine,' he added without expression.

'Oh, really?' Sabine's eyes narrowed, and he laughed suddenly, his

whole face changing, bringing home to her the full force of his

considerable attraction.

'Yes, really,' he said. 'She was the first Sabine. Her husband found

her one day wearing a rose pinned to her gown that was not from

his garden, and guessed it was a gift from her lover. He was mad

with anger and jealousy, so he locked her in the tower, with only a

spinning-wheel for company. There she would stay, he told her,

without food or water, until she had spun enough thread to weave

new hangings for their marriage bed.'

'Sounds like a life sentence,' Sabine commented.

'It could well have been,' Rohan agreed, deadpan. 'Spinning, of

course, was not the lady's chief skill.'

'What happened?'

He shrugged. 'Her lover came seeking her, worried because he

hadn't received any word or token from her. By this time, she was

too weak from hunger and thirst to call to him from the window.

But the rose he had given her was still miraculously blooming on

the breast of her gown. So, with her last remaining strength, she

pushed it through the bars, and it fluttered down to his feet.'

'And he rescued her, and they lived happily ever after,' Sabine

guessed.

'That's one version, certainly,' he agreed. 'But another says that he

didn't notice the rose and simply rode away.'

'So what became of the girl?'

'She starved to death. Her husband gave out she'd perished of some

wasting disease, and duly married someone else, less beautiful but

more docile, who gave him twelve children.'

Sabine grimaced. 'I prefer the happy ending.'

'I'm sure you do,' he said, after a pause. 'But real life is rarely so

tidy. You have only to look back a generation.'

She bit her lip, refusing to be drawn. 'Is there really a tower still?'

'Yes, in the woods,' he said. 'But my uncle says it is structurally

unsound, with a danger of falling masonry, so no one is allowed

near it.'

'It's a pity he doesn't have it repaired instead,' Sabine said. 'As it's

featured on the chateau label, the legend could be used to attract

visitors, and sell more wine.'

'Most of our wine is exported, and our sales are satisfactory at the

moment,' Rohan said curtly. 'And attracting visitors has not been a

priority of the chateau for a very long time. Not since my uncle's

accident, in fact.'

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't know—although the Maison du Vin in

Bergerac did warn there were no tours of the vineyard because the

Baron
wasn't well.'

'The
Baron's
general health is excellent,' he corrected her.

'However, he damaged his spine over twenty years ago, after being

thrown from his horse, and has been in a wheelchair ever since.'

He paused. 'It has made him — over-sensitive to the presence of

strangers, perhaps.'

Sabine swallowed. 'The de Rocheforts seem to have suffered a lot

of misfortune.'

'Not the least being the fact that the line ends with my uncle. Even

before his accident it seemed doubtful that my aunt would ever

have a child of her own. Afterwards, it was impossible.'

'But they have Antoinette,' she ventured, remembering what

Marie-Christine had told her.

'Indeed they have.' Face and voice gave nothing away. 'I'd hoped,

too, they might have a little peace,' he added more pointedly.

In other words, without my disruptive influence, Sabine thought

wryly, turning her attention to the minstrel's gallery. 'That's

beautiful,' she remarked, rather too brightly. 'Is it still used?'

'On occasion —say, if we have a big wine-tasting for overseas

buyers. Or when the chateau is
en fete,
on Tante Heloise's

birthday, for example. Even my uncle puts in one of his rare public

appearances then.' He paused. 'The next time, I suppose, will be

the wedding.'

So it's true, Sabine thought. He is going to marry Antoinette. She

remembered the beautiful, sullen face and the sensual movement

of the other girl's body in the yellow dress, and an odd pang

assailed her, piercing her to the heart with its intensity.

She cleared her throat. 'Will —will the wedding be soon?'

He nodded, almost casually. 'In a few weeks.'

By which time, I'll be gone, she thought, then, fiercely, And I'm

glad I'll be gone.

Because, it occurred to her with heart-stopping suddenness, the last

thing in the world she wanted was to be around when Rohan Saint

Yves married Antoinette — or anyone else.

'Is SOMETHING the matter?' Rohan's voice seemed to reach Sabine

from a great distance. 'You're very pale.'

'I'm fine.' She found a voice from somewhere. 'It's very hot today.

I'm just not used to it yet. . .' She made herself smile. 'Maybe some

wine will do me good.'

'Very well.'

Sabine watched as Rohan chose a bottle and poured some of its

contents into a glass. 'Try this.' He held it out to her. 'It's the '89

vintage.'

She took it, thankful that her hand wasn't trembling noticeably.

Her knees seemed to have turned to water, her mind still reeling

under the impact of the devastating revelation which had just come

to her.

It's not possible, she thought. It's complete madness. This is the

first time he's even been remotely civil to me, for God's sake. . .

She pulled herself together with an effort, trying to remember what

she'd been told about wine-tasting, holding the glass carefully by

the stem, and sniffing delicately.

'Bravo!'
Rohan said satirically. 'What does that tell you?'

'Not a lot,' she admitted.

'Well, at least you are honest about that,' he remarked, and, in spite

of her new-found feelings, Sabine was sorely tempted to throw the

wine in his face. 'Now drink some, but don't swallow it at once.

Hold it in your mouth and think about it.'

Sabine obeyed, wrinkling her brow in concentration.

'You look fierce.' He sounded almost amused. 'Is it that bad?'

'Not at all,' she said, swallowing.

'Can you still taste the wine?'

'Yes,' she said, rather doubtfully.

'Don't sound so worried,' he advised drily. 'It's a young wine, not

really up to drinking yet. You're not supposed to experience a great

deal.' He picked up another bottle. 'Taste this instead. It's the '86.'

He handed her the glass. 'This time, look at the colour first.'

'It's beautiful,' Sabine said. 'Like the heart of a ruby.'

'Now the bouquet.'

Sabine complied and gasped. 'That's completely different. It's got a

lovely rich, warm aroma.'

'Good,' Rohan approved, his tone faintly sardonic. 'Now drink.' He

filled a glass for himself. 'I'll join you.' He was watching her

closely. 'So—what do you think?'

'It's wonderful,' Sabine said, as she swallowed. 'It's got this

incredible fruity taste, rather like blackcurrant. But my mouth feels

very dry, almost furry.'

'That's the tannin from the Cabernet Sauvignon grape. We use a

combination of that and the Merlot, which is much softer, and the

Malbec. One of the problems we've had of late is the wine keeping

too much tannin as it matures. With all wine, it's the force —the

long-lasting flavour in the throat—which matters.'

'But it's not unpleasant,' Sabine said, taking another mouthful, and

savouring it.

'Nevertheless it is not to all tastes. Sometimes it can be caused by

the age of the oak casks the wine is stored in. Some
vignerons
will

tell you that a cask lasts only for four years. Ours have needed

replacing for some time,' he added with a touch of grimness.

'If they're oak, they must be expensive.'

'They're not cheap,' he agreed. 'But a good vintage requires the best

of care. I intend to see that it gets it.'

'Another customer for our wine, Rohan? No one told me.' At the

sound of the voice from the doorway, they both swung round.

Gaston de Rochefort would always be a handsome man, in spite of

his disability, but pain had carved deep and bitter lines across his

forehead, and beside his mouth. The fair hair had faded to a dusty

grey, and his skin looked pale and unhealthy, as if he spent too

much time indoors, but the green eyes were lusty with life and

rebellion against the confines of the wheelchair he was

manoeuvring into the room —

Eyes which widened when they looked at Sabine, then became

opaque —blank. The chair stopped, and the hands directing it

tightened on the controls until the knuckles turned white.

Suddenly, the room was filled with silence, threatening and highly

charged.

It was like that endless moment, Sabine thought, between the

lightning flash and the first crackle of thunder.

He said softly, 'Who are you?' and Sabine felt all the hairs stir on

the back of her neck.

She lifted her chin, and stared back at him. 'My name is Sabine

Russell,
monsieur.'

'And you are Isabelle's daughter, of course.' A pause. 'How is your

mother?'

Sabine said evenly, 'She died eight years ago,
monsieur,
when I

was fourteen. I learned only recently that she'd lived near here.'

'And so you decided to pay us a visit.' She saw his hands relax, and

the broad shoulders lean back in the chair. 'Well, that is natural.

But someone should have told me that you were here,' he added,

shooting a glance at Rohan, who stood, his face expressionless. 'I

live very much in seclusion these days,
mademoiselle,
with my

books and my papers. Yet when I returned to the house just now I

sensed that something—unusual had occurred.'

He gave a wry smile. 'Of course, I understand now the reason for

my poor wife's accident. Your resemblance to your mother is—

quite amazing. I confess that when I came into the room more than

twenty years—slipped away.'

Sabine bit her lip. 'I seem to have been a shock to a number of

people. I didn't intend it.'

'Oh, not a shock,
mademoiselle.
More —a delightful surprise,

wouldn't you say so, Rohan?'

Rohan shrugged, his eyes fixed watchfully on his uncle's face.

'But I should have been told of your arrival,' the
Baron
went on.

'So that I could welcome Isabelle's daughter to my house in

person.'

Rohan drank the remainder of the wine in his glass and replaced it

on the tray. He said, 'I thought you were still in Domme, Uncle.

And Miss Russell was only able to pay a brief visit. She is just

leaving.'

'But not before she has told me what she thinks of our wine,' the

Baron
said, smiling. 'I was told once that a good vintage should be

like a woman—full-bodied and generous. Is ours ready to be —