Chateau D'Armor Page 17

  “Champagne?” The deep glow in his eyes warmed her whole body as she listened to him, and he laughed. “French children are for the most part brought up on vin ordinaire, ma cherie,” he told her with a smile. “Not many of them are born with a taste for champagne!”

  “Unless of course they happen to be wealthy little boys with the name of d’Armor,” she guessed rashly, and his eyes held hers for several seconds before he shook his head.

  “Does it—offend you so much, my being wealthy?” he asked.

  “Offend—” She stared at him. “No, of course it doesn’t offend me,” she said a little breathlessly. “Why on earth should it?”

  He said nothing for a moment, but continued to hold her with that steady and rather disconcerting gaze. Then he shrugged. “Je ne sais pas, petite,” he said. “How would I know? You do not always need a reason, do you?”

  “Paul—” She hesitated, looking at him for a second or two before she shrugged uneasily and shook her head. “No,” she said firmly, “I refuse to spoil the rest of this lovely evening by starting even a mild argument with you!” She laughed a little unsteadily. “I really think I must have had far too much champagne,” she said. “I feel very lightheaded, and I know I must look slightly tipsy—”

  Paul took her hand in his and briefly his mouth was pressed to the soft warmth of her palm. “Allechante!” he murmured, his lips brushing her palm in a flutter of sensation that made her shiver.

  Vaguely at the back of her mind was the thought that she ought to do something about such a blatant display in a place as public as a crowded restaurant, but somehow she could not seem to find either the words or the inclination to object. Instead she looked at the top of the fair head as it bowed over her hand and felt a curious sense of occasion. Her whole body was aglow and her lips were parted in breathless anticipation as she reached out with her free hand and touched his face; lightly, almost fearfully, beside the strong jaw.

  “Paul!”

  He looked up and his eyes still had that deep glowing warmth in them. Covering the hand that was touching his face he pressed it to the firm tanned flesh with his own strong fingers. “Shall we go, cherie?” he asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper, and Jesamine did not answer at once. “I want you to myself!”

  Her heart was hammering hard at her ribs, beating like a wild thing that sought to escape, and she felt as if they were suddenly alone. It was the moment she had both longed for and dreaded; the moment when she must decide whether she was prepared to belong to him for a time, no matter how short, or whether to be firm, now, before her emotions became too involved for there to be any choice.

  Her voice was shiveringly unsteady, but she had made her choice and she must make it clear to him now, before it was too late. She could not face losing him again if she once had his love, she had not the strength to go out of his life, not the way Louise Sutton had out of Charles Louis Vernais’s. Drawing her hand from his clasp as gently as possible, she folded both her hands together in front of her, trying to stop their trembling.

  “Paul,” she said, barely audible in the hubbub of the restaurant, “I can’t—you know I can’t just—”

  “I ask that you come with me, ma cherie,” he urged. “That you listen to me for just a little while, hmm?” His voice was deep, quiet, seduisant, just as Charles Louis’s had probably been, and she shivered at the sound of it, but she was still shaking her head determinedly, and Paul’s mouth tightened. “You refuse even to listen to what I have to say?” he demanded harshly, and she looked up at him, her eyes dark and anxious. It was such a sudden and unhappy way to end a lovely evening, and she regretted it more than he could ever realise.

  “I—think I know what you have to say,” she whispered. “But I—” She shook her head, troubled because words usually came easily to her. “You know what I’m trying to say, Paul,” she said, “I tried to tell you earlier on this evening. I—I can’t let myself become any more deeply involved with you, not when I know it won’t—it can’t last!”

  “One man, one woman—every woman’s ideal!” He repeated the phrase cynically, and she flinched as if he had struck her. Filling his glass from the almost empty champagne bottle, he raised it in mock salute before emptying it in one draught. “Why is it so hard for you to—Zut!” He swore impatiently and looked at her as if he tried hard to understand her and failed. “Why are you so afraid of love, mon petit angel,” he asked.

  Meeting his eyes, she felt her own mist over and despaired of making her sudden weakness so obvious. “Why do you find it so hard to love?” she countered in a small, husky voice. “Why does it always have to be an—affaire de coeur, Paul? Why never the real thing?”

  He put down his glass slowly and he no longer looked at her, then he called over the waiter and settled the bill, all without an unnecessary word, and finally he helped her to her feet with a hand under her arm, and she shrank from the coldness of him as they made their way through the crowded restaurant again.

  Outside in the warm night air she took a moment to breathe in the freshness after the close atmosphere of the restaurant, then she looked up at him, not quite sure what she wanted to say, but appalled by the barrier between them. “Paul—” She tried to see his face more clearly, but there were tears in earnest now, rolling down her cheeks and filling her eyes, and there seemed nothing she could do about it.

  He did not turn his head nor look down at her, but kept his hand under her elbow as they walked along the shadowed street. “You need have no fear, enfant,” he told her in a flat cool voice, “I will return you at once to the safe keeping of my grand’mere! You are in no danger from me!” Jesamine said nothing, but sat beside him in the car as they drove back along the Grosvallee road, crying silently in the darkness and wishing James had not come back. For with him came the temptation to go back home and try to forget about Paul d’Armor—even though she knew it was already too late for that.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JESAMINE was unable to face the prospect of breakfast the following morning, knowing that both Monsieur and Madame d’Armor would be curious about their unexpectedly early return the night before. Neither could she face Paul across the breakfast table with any degree of self-confidence, so she sent her apologies via the maid and took more than her customary time over getting up.

  They would still be at breakfast, she thought, as she came downstairs, and she hesitated for a moment when the salon door opened. It was not Paul, however, but Brigitte, and the housekeeper looked up and smiled when she saw her, waiting for her to come down into the hall. Monsieur Terril has telephoned, mademoiselle,” she told her. “I am to make the apology, but he cannot now see you as he had planned. He will telephone you at some other time today.”

  “Oh!” Jesamine looked stunned for a moment. “Thank you, Brigitte.”

  “You are ill, mademoiselle?” Brigitte’s plain but kindly face expressed concern, and Jesamine smiled.

  “Oh no, Brigitte, thank you,” she told her. “I’m all right.”

  “Tres bien, mademoiselle!” The housekeeper left her, but she was still concerned, it was obvious, and Jesamine made her way to the library, feeling almost as tearful as she had last night.

  She picked up the list she had been working on for the past few days, but her mind was not on what she was doing, instead she kept seeing Paul’s face as it had been last night—firm and unrelenting. She shook her head, impatient with her own weakness, and walked over to stand in the window, gazing out at the gardens, mellow and full-blown in the August sun.

  The door behind her opened and she swung round quickly, her eyes wide and anxious and a wild turbulent beating in her heart, for she knew who it would be as surely as she knew that Brigitte had told him where she was. In dark slacks and a navy shirt he had a sombre look that contrasted with his more usual appearance, but her senses still responded to him as urgently and she shook back her hair in a gesture that betrayed her nervousness.

  He stood just ins
ide the door, looking across at her, and his voice had that deep, soft tone that was always so affecting, though never more so than now. “Jesamine?” he said, moving across the room to her. “Are you all right?”

  The question confirmed Brigitte’s part in his being there and she nodded, not quite meeting those grey eyes that looked at her so disturbingly. “I’m all right,” she said huskily. “Just a little apprehensive, that’s all. James rang to say he isn’t coming for me this morning.”

  He frowned, plainly curious. “And that makes you apprehensive?”

  Jesamine lifted her shoulders. It was not quite a shrug, but it defined the uncertainty she felt. “Only because I hope he isn’t—” She hesitated, seeking suitable words to say what she had to say without arousing his antagonism. “He mentioned something about someone at the University of—”

  “My mother,” Paul said quietly, and she stared at him for a moment in stunned surprise. He looked at her steadily, as if making up his mind, then, briefly, a hint of smile touched his mouth and he took another step towards her, bringing him within touching distance and setting her pulses racing again. “You knew it was Louise d’Armor he referred to, did you not, ma chere?” he asked quietly.

  She found it incredibly hard to answer with the grey eyes fixed on her so steadily. All the weeks she had known him and his family, never once had Louise d’Armor been mentioned; he had even threatened to send her packing if she asked questions in the village. Something had happened since last night, something she could not even guess at, but which had brought him, quiet and confiding, to find her this morning.

  “I—guessed,” she admitted. “It wasn’t difficult, although I’ve never discussed it with James, I swear it, Paul. He must have—”

  “He was consumed with the same curiosity as you were, ma petite,” Paul teased her gently.

  “A curiosity you despised me for,” she suggested in a small husky voice, and he shook his head in immediate denial.

  “Not despised you, Jesamine, but I was not—ready to tell you then.”

  “And now?” she prompted.

  He studied her face for several seconds in silence, then shook his head slowly. “Last night,” he said in that deep, soft voice, “I lay in the darkness of my room for many hours and thought of you, this morning, with James Terril. I was resolved this morning to have no secrets from you, to tell you as much of Louise d’Armor as I know myself. Will you hear me, cherie?”

  The tears that had for so long been held back stood bright and glistening in her eyes as she looked at him, and she wanted more than ever to reach out and touch him. “You know I will,” she said.

  He spoke of Louise d’Armor, she realised as he began the story of his mother’s tragically short life, as if she was a stranger, someone he had only heard of but never met, and it took her several minutes to realise that that was exactly what Louise was to him. Merely a name in the past, a stranger he had never met.

  “She was a student at the University of Paris, as Monsieur Terril said,” he told her, “and so, also, was my father, Paul Muller. They were parted when war became imminent and he went back to Germany. Then, by one of those coincidences that make life so—unbelievable at times, he was sent with the occupation forces to this area and, naturellement, they met again.”

  “On opposite sides,” Jesamine whispered, and he nodded agreement.

  “It was not the easiest of situations,” he said. “Nothing had changed as far as they were concerned and, after a while, they began to meet again secretly. It was not possible any other way, for my family have never been collaborators. It must have taken much pleading from Louise, but eventually, in the strictest secrecy, Pere Dominic in his capacity as chaplain to the d’Armors married them in the family chapel, with Monsieur Marais, a close friend who could be trusted, as a witness.”

  “The schoolteacher!”

  “Mais oui,” Paul agreed with a slight twitch of his wide mouth. “You also have met with him, I think, via his son!” He gave her no time to reply but went on with his narrative, still in that strangely impersonal voice. “It was impossible for the ceremony to be made public knowledge, naturellement, but it was inevitable that at some time someone was sure to see them together, and by then Louise was heavy with child.”

  “That fact may have saved her from the attentions of the local resistance group, they may have thought her an unwilling victim, or it might have been that the d’Armor family were still in good standing with the people of Grosvallee. Whatever the reason, Paul Muller was found mysteriously drowned in the river one morning. It was assumed by his superiors that he had slipped and fallen while crossing the bridge, so there were no reprisals taken, but that same morning Brigitte found Louise dazed and wandering in the grounds of the chateau. She was delivered of her child, and died within hours.”

  Jesamine shivered, wondering for a second how he could seem so untouched by it, and perhaps, only days ago, she might have gone on believing he was unaffected. Only now she thought she knew him better, and saw beyond the impersonal tone of his voice and the steely coolness of his eyes, reaching out to the man behind them.

  “Paul.” She whispered his name, no more, and he looked at her and smiled, as if it was a relief to talk of it at last.

  “Pere Dominic’s part in the affair had to be concealed, naturellement,” he said. “He was a brave man, but he would have been in trouble with both sides if it had been discovered that he had performed a marriage ceremony. No one but Pere Dominic and Pierre Marais know that I am other than—” His broad shoulders shrugged off the inevitable burden he had had to bear for all his thirty-odd years. “I am known as Paul d’Armor, and I have no fault to find with the name I bear.”

  “Why should you?” Jesamine asked quietly. She looked up at him for a second, then shook her head. “I—I wanted so much to say I was sorry last night,” she went on. “I shouldn’t have said the things I did to you about—about falling in love. No matter if you were—unkind,” she hurried on breathlessly when he would have spoken, “I shouldn’t have been quite so—personal.” She tried to laugh, but it was no more than an odd little sound more reminiscent of a sob, and she went on again hastily. “I had far too much champagne,” she said, “that will have to be my excuse!”

  “And what will be my excuse, petite?” Paul asked softly. He took the one more step that brought their bodies into contact. A light, nebulous touch that made her shiver and brought a swift urgency to her pulse. He took the list from her then enclosed her hands in his own, his strong fingers moving over hers with infinite gentleness. “I hurt you,” he said, and shook his head, as if he expected her to deny it. “I think I meant to hurt you, cherie, because I was afraid to admit what you could—what you had already done to me.”

  Jesamine raised her eyes, every nerve crying out for him to hold her in his arms. She could not yet believe what was happening, but she wanted so much to believe that she half-closed her eyes as she looked up at him, and swayed a little closer. “What have I done to you?” she whispered, and his arms slid around her, pressing her so close that she could feel the urgent pressure of his body as if it was part of her own.

  “One man, one woman,” he reminded her in a soft voice. “I have lain for long hours in the night learning your creed, ma cherie, but I want it to be so with us, if you will let it.” He bent his head and pressed his mouth to the softness of her neck, his voice muffled by her long hair. “Je t’aime, ma petite—I love you!”

  Jesamine looked up at him with eyes that were dark with the tumult of emotions that swept through her like fire, urging her to think of nothing beyond the fact that he loved her. She lifted her arms and put them around his neck, searching that strong rugged face for a moment as if she could still not quite believe it.

  “I was—afraid,” she confessed in a voice that still shivered with uncertainty. “I loved you and I was afraid you—”

  “Last night when I lay thinking of you into the small hours,” Paul said, his mouth again
st hers, “I thought of you meeting with James Terril this morning, and I knew you were not one to be taken lightly and forgotten, mon amour. When Brigitte came to tell me that you were here—alone, I came to find you, ma chere petite, to confess how I felt.” He kissed her mouth lightly, barely touching her lips with his. “Will you marry me, mon amour?” he whispered.

  “Oh, Paul!” She looked at him with bright glistening eyes that gave him his answer without words. “Je t’aime, mon cheri!”

  Paul laughed, shaking his head over her accent, but drawing her closer still as he sought her mouth. Her lips parted and she yielded willingly to the urgent hunger of his kiss, pressing close to him, sure at last that he was as unshakably in love as she was herself. It was quite a lot later that she thought about Louise Sutton. Louise and Charles Louis Vernais had started it all, and now, two hundred years later, there was to be a happy ending at last—it was as she had always visualised it.