Tower of Shadows (18 page)

as Rohan walked in, a towel knotted round his hips, carrying two

cups.

'Do you have to go?' She watched in disappointment as he reached

for his clothes.

'Of course.' He slanted a sardonic brow-at her. 'A
vigneron's
day

begins early, my love. As it is, I've stayed longer than I intended.'

He finished his coffee, and knelt on the bed to kiss her deeply and

lingeringly. 'I'll see you at the chateau tonight for dinner.' He

paused. 'You hadn't forgotten you were invited?'

'No, of course not, but can't —won't I see you before that?'

'So greedy?' he teased, caressing one pink-tipped breast.

'I didn't think I was,' she said wryly, and he laughed.

'I'm flattered, but it's better that we wait until tonight, believe me.

Quite apart from the vines, I have a heavy day ahead of me — a lot

of serious talking to do. Matters that affect us both.'

'Such as?' She frowned a little.

'I'll explain everything tonight,' he said. He touched her cheek.

'Don't worry about it. You have a busy day too, remember.

Monsieur Pallon is bringing your furniture.'

'So he is,' she said slowly. The laughter had gone from Rohan's

face. He was preoccupied suddenly, at a distance from her, and she

wanted him back. She needed the new-found intimacy of the night

translated into daytime terms.

At the same time, she recognised she was being unreasonable.

Their commitment to each other was made, after all, and she

couldn't expect Rohan to jettison every other aspect of his life in

her favour.

She looked up at him, forcing a smile. 'Off you go, then, and I'll —

see you tonight.'

'Yes.' He took one last kiss, frowning slightly. 'We'll spend the

whole of tomorrow together, I promise.'

Reluctantly Sabine unclasped her arms from his neck. 'I'll cook

you a meal.' She grinned at him. 'Something English.'

She slipped on a robe and went to the door to wave goodbye to

him. It was a grey morning, she thought with a shiver, the sky

heavily overcast with cloud which had appeared out of nowhere

during one night. But at least it would be cooler for shifting

furniture around.

By the time Monsieur Pallon's van arrived, it was raining, and the

delivery of the furniture took place almost on the run. Sabine

concentrated solely on making sure the appropriate pieces got into

the right rooms. The fun of choosing the exact position for each

item, and making the final adjustments, could wait until she was

on her own.

It was mid-afternoon before she had Les Hiboux sorted to her

approximate satisfaction. She was clammy with sweat, and her

arms and shoulders ached with tugging and heaving. Old Hercule's

stuff had been built to last, she reflected ruefully as she turned on

the shower.

She dressed in clean jeans and a shirt, and drove to Villereal to

shop for the following day. It was still raining, and the washed and

windless air, such a contrast to the heat of the previous days,

struck a distinct chill as she dashed to the Intermarche. She'd

already decided what she was going to cook for Rohan — home-

made tomato soup to begin with, then
le rosbif
with all the

trimmings, although she was going to cheat on the dessert and buy

one of the beautifully glazed
tartes aux pommes
from a
patisserie.

As she drove back, she reviewed her scanty wardrobe in her mind's

eyes, wondering what would be appropriate for dinner at the

chateau.
Whatever she chose, it couldn't compete with the

couturier clothes worn by the
Baronne
or Antoinette, she thought

with a grimace.

Not that any amount of designer labels would or could reconcile

her to the prospect of meeting Antoinette again. She was frankly

dreading any further confrontation with the other girl. Unlike

Rohan, she wasn't convinced that Antoinette could be so easily

dismissed from their lives. It was something they needed to talk

about. It was, maybe, one of the serious topics that Rohan was

already discussing today, trying to smooth the path to her

recognition as his future wife.

She still found it hard to assimilate the way her life had changed so

drastically in the course of a mere few days. She'd come to

investigate the past, and discovered her own future instead.

She parked the car and hoisted the plastic carriers from the boot,

perching the flat, be-ribboned
patisserie
box on top. She saw the

note as soon as she got to the door. It had been left on the terrace

this time, anchored down by a stone. No envelope either, just a slip

of paper, folded in two, containing a brief typewritten message. 'I

must talk to you before tonight. Meet me at the tower at five

o'clock. R.'

She gave herself a small mental hug. It was just what she needed

—to see him, to have the reassurance of him before she faced the

evening at the chateau.

Not that the wording of the message was particularly reassuring,

she admitted, as she put her provisions away. Perhaps there'd been

some trouble — some kind of scene he wanted to warn her about.

If so, she would simply invent a diplomatic headache, and stay

away from La Tour Monchauzet altogether. She'd suffered enough

traumas and indignities already, she thought grimly.

The rain had subsided by the time she was ready to set out, so she

only needed to knot a sweater round her shoulders. But the woods

were dank and damp, and every icy, unexpected drip on to her hair

or down the back of her neck made her regret having left her

umbrella behind long before she reached the tower.

She was early for their rendezvous, but Rohan had still arrived

before her, apparently, because the massive door was slightly

open. She squeezed round it and called to him, but there was no

answer, and she frowned a little, as she stood looking round her.

She'd been so sure she would find him there. . .

It occurred to her suddenly that she found the cloak-and-dagger

element in all this vaguely disturbing, and totally unnecessary. If

Rohan needed to have a private word with her, why hadn't he

arranged to see her at the house instead? For one thing, it would

have been warmer, she thought, wriggling her shoulders

defensively and wishing she'd brought a jacket. The interior of the

tower was like a refrigerator. Maybe Rohan had thought so too,

and gone for a walk, rather than hang around waiting, and getting

frozen.

And there was still something about the place's atmosphere that

she found unnerving. It was the last place in the world she would

ever have chosen for a tryst, as she would tell him when he turned,

up.

She untied the sleeves of her sweater and began to pull it on over

her head, aware as she did so of a faint muffled sound behind her.

She emerged from the confines of the turtle-neck, and turned

quickly, shaking her hair into place, her lips parting in a smile—

And stopped right there. Because the noise she'd heard wasn't

Rohan's arrival at all. It had been the door swinging shut behind

her, closing her alone into this claustrophobic space.

And as her stomach muscles constricted, and her throat tightened

in swift, unsteading alarm, she heard the unmistakable grating of a

key in the huge lock.

She was a prisoner.

THE important thing, of course, was not to panic. This was clearly

a very bad joke, by some misguided person, or it was a mistake.

Someone had seen the open door, and fastened it up in a fit of

misplaced zeal. Either way, having hysterics wouldn't help.

Sabine decided to take several slow, deep breaths instead. Then

she walked to the door, and tried to open it, just in case the sound

of the key had been a figment of her over-active imagination. But

the huge timbers refused to budge. She took another breath and

yelled, 'Hi, there!' at the top of her voice, banging on the door with

both fists as she did so— And heard the sound die away into a

profound and unresponsive silence. Whoever had shut the door

had gone.

Sucking bruised knuckles, she retired to the sagging sofa, and tried

to think. It had to be a mistake, she thought. Only Rohan, after all,

knew of their meeting, and crude practical jokes just weren't his

style. So she was a victim of understandable human error. The

tower was off limits, after all, and someone was just ensuring that

the
Baron's
orders were carried out to the letter.

All well and good. Because there was really nothing to worry

about. Any moment now, Rohan would be arriving to keep their

appointment, and her problem would be over.

Restlessly, she glanced at her watch. Any moment now. . .

An hour later, she'd stopped thinking in those precise terms, and

was trying to tell herself he'd been detained. A phone call, she

thought, or some visitor. Anything could have happened. She

shivered. It was a long way to sunset, but the air in the tower

seemed to be getting colder by the moment. She was becoming

bitterly uncomfortable.

She wished she'd brought the note with her. She was beginning to

wonder if she'd misread it—got the time all wrong. Yet the couple

of typewritten lines had been plain enough, with little room for

error.

Her train of thought stopped right there, and she sat up suddenly,

as a number of things occurred to her all at once. Firstly, how

could she be sure that note had actually come from Rohan?

Anyone could have typed that message and his initial, she realised

with dismay. In fact, she wasn't even sure she'd told Rohan she

knew where the tower was located, let alone that she'd been there.

All she'd done was show him that photograph of Fabien, she

remembered restively.

No one knew she'd actually been here —except possibly. . .

She paused. '
Isabelle's daughter'.
The recollection of those

whispered words came rushing back to haunt her. Except—

someone who might have watched her— followed her. . .

Sabine bit her lip, sinking her teeth into the soft inner flesh. It

wasn't the kind of possibility she wanted to contemplate, she told

herself firmly. She was being melodramatic. Allowing her

imagination to run away with her again. There had to be a

perfectly simple explanation to all this — if only she could think

what it was.

In spite of everything, her mind kept returning to Antoinette —

seeing her face as it had been during their last confrontation in

Monpazier, twisted with bitterness and hate. It was not a memory

she cherished. But was the other girl really capable of this kind of

spite? And, if so, what did she hope to gain by it?

Because I'll be found—sooner or later, Sabine thought. I may be

hungry, thirsty and chilly, but I'll be found. And then she'll have

some explaining to do. Only that wasn't much consolation at the

moment, she admitted, as she began to walk up and down, flapping

her arms to drive away the permeating cold.

Hungry, she thought, suddenly. Of course. That was her salvation.

When she didn't arrive for dinner at the chateau, they would

institute a search. And someone would think of the tower—

eventually.

The problem was making her presence known to any search party.

The walls and door were so thick that she wasn't sure her cries

would be heard. And the windows on the ground floor at least

were too high to reach, otherwise she could have sacrificed her

sweater to hang out like a flag of distress. Except she'd probably

freeze without it.

Time crawled past. She could tell by the angle of the light that it

would soon be sunset, and the prospect of being here in the dark

appalled her. Already, she'd heard all kinds of rustlings and

scufflings from the floor above. Little as she relished the idea, she

supposed she would have to go up there before the light went

altogether—see if there was some kind of signal she could make to

advertise her presence.

She went up the narrow stone stairs with infinite care, reflecting

that the last thing she needed was to slip and sprain something, and

peered cautiously around her. A bird, a pigeon perhaps, took