Chateau D'Armor Page 7

  Paul said nothing for a moment, but there was a curious expression on his face when he glanced across at Jesamine and he murmured something in French to his grandfather. Whatever it was was unintelligible to Jesamine, but the old man seemed to find it amusing, for he laughed and shook his head, his bright dark eyes twinkling at his grandson.

  Puzzled, Jesamine glanced from one to the other and, after a few seconds Francois d’Armor leaned across and patted her hand reassuringly. “Your pardon, cher enfant,” he begged, “it is unforgivable that we speak so when you do not understand our language.” He shook his head, still smiling. “But this was—how do you say?—an exchange between men, not to be repeated to a lady, though not grassier as you might suppose. It is simply that we know one another too well, my grandson and I, better than I had realised, it seems. You will forgive us, cher mademoiselle?” Jesamine would have given much to know exactly what it was that Paul d’Armor had said to his grandfather. She did not for one minute believe it had been a family joke at all, but she would hate to see the old man embarrassed by his grandson’s probably earthy comment, so she passed it off in the easiest way she knew.

  “Oh please, don’t apologise,” she said, “I don’t mind in the least, monsieur. Every family has its own private jokes—we do at home. I’m not offended!”

  “You are very understanding, mademoiselle!” His thin shoulders shrugged, expressing heaven knew what implication, but his eyes were kind and friendly, and once more Jesamine warmed to the man behind the smile. “I hope you will also understand that it would give me great pleasure to have you stay as our guest for a while longer.” Her eyes strayed instinctively to Paul, and she met the cool look he gave her as steadily as she could. “Thank you, monsieur,” she said, and wondered if Paul would at last make some comment in English.

  Instead he drank down the last of his coffee, then got up from the table with a murmured excuse and Jesamine’s eyes followed his tall striding figure to the door. Turning in the doorway he looked back and the steady grey eyes held an expression that was by now all too familiar to her. Laughter, mockery and that disturbing hint of challenge.

  “Enjoy your stay, mademoiselle,” he said, and closed the door firmly behind him.

  Whether or not Madame d’Armor had been told of her proposed holiday, Jesamine had little time to discover that morning, for James Terril arrived before lunch, for the overdue photographic session, and she was kept busy helping him, deciding which shots were best to illustrate what she had written.

  She had foreseen no opposition from James when she told him she would be staying on for a couple of weeks more, and she was a little surprised when he objected quite strongly. He looked pale still, but he seemed to have recovered well from the virus that had laid him low, and she had to admit to being glad to see him again.

  She had worked with James quite a bit and they got on very well together, but she had never known him take a really personal interest in her affairs, certainly not to the extent of remarking that he thought she was making a mistake in staying on at the Chateau d’Armor. They were walking together in the gardens just after lunch when she told him about her decision to have a holiday, and he had at once frowned at her disapprovingly.

  He had a cheerful and rather boyishly good-looking face normally, but at the moment his brows were drawn into a frown above light blue eyes that expressed his dislike of the idea, and she found his reaction rather puzzling. “I suppose it’s got something to do with that sexy Frenchman, hasn’t it, Jess?” he asked bluntly, and Jesamine wished there was something she could do about the unexpected flush of colour that warmed her cheeks.

  She had not expected that kind of remark from James, and she wondered why he should suddenly start taking an interest in her private life. “Paul d’Armor?” she asked, as casually as she knew how. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, James, you can’t be serious—not about him!”

  James thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks and gave her a sideways glance that questioned both her tone and her attitude. “Are you going to tell me that you don’t find him attractive?” he asked, and it was obvious that he would not believe it if she did.

  “Of course I find him attractive,” Jesamine admitted without hesitation. “He’s a very attractive man—sexy, as you say, but he hasn’t time for me I can assure you, and as for me—I’m far more inclined to have murderous thoughts about him than romantic ones! He can be so—so condescending and autocratic, you’ve no idea!”

  “I’ve a very good idea,” James remarked dryly, “but I’ve known women who find an arrogant devil like that irresistible. From what I saw of him at lunch, I’d say Monsieur Paul d’Armor is a highly dangerous package to have in close proximity to a young girl!”

  Jesamine laughed a little shakily. Jealousy was a new facet of James’s character, but she was ready to swear it was jealousy that gave rise to those caustic observations on Paul d’Armor. Also it was likely that his opinion would in time be relayed to her family in England, and she was anxious that they should not be given any wrong impression of her unscheduled holiday.

  “I’m not a young girl, James,” she told him. “I’m as near twenty-five as no matter.”

  “You’re only twenty-four,” James interrupted flatly.

  “But I’m not a sheltered little home girl,” Jesamine insisted. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, James—if I need to.”

  “You’ll need to,” James prophesied, “and you’re used to having me around to look out for you, Jess, you’re not the independent little hardcase you like to think you are—I know you!”

  “Not as well as you think you do, evidently,” Jesamine declared, although she was uncertain just how seriously to take his estimation of her. She had been around quite a lot during her brief but successful journalistic career, but never alone, and she had never before come into contact with anyone quite like Paul d’Armor.

  “Just the same,” James insisted firmly, “if you’re going to stay on here I’d better take a room somewhere nearby, just to keep an eye on you.”

  “Oh no, James, you can’t!” She looked at him wide-eyed, imagining the repercussions that could have. “Please, I don’t need anyone to look after me, and if you stay around it will look as if—the d’Armors will think—”

  “That I’m looking out for you,” James finished for her, “and they’ll be right. I’m not going home and leaving you here in the same house as that predatory Frenchman, Jess, I don’t trust him!”

  “Then trust me!” said Jesamine, and looked at him appealingly. His opinion of Paul d’Armor merely confirmed her own, but it was much more discomfiting somehow, hearing it expressed by someone else, and she looked away hastily for fear he read the doubt in her eyes.

  “I do trust you, love,” James assured her, “but him—I wouldn’t trust him within a mile of any female I cared twopence about. He’s dangerous, and I mean to see you don’t come to any harm!”

  “No, James!” She stood her ground firmly, determined not to be coddled as James intended. “I don’t need a chaperone, I really don’t, and I’d hate—well, I’d hate Paul d’Armor to realise you were keeping an eye on me.”

  “You think it’d cramp his style?” James asked.

  “It wouldn’t do anything except amuse him!” Jesamine told him shortly. “And I won’t have him laughing at me because you so obviously think he—has designs on me! If you think I’m going to give him the satisfaction of taunting me with your over-protective fear for my reputation, you’re very much mistaken! I’d much rather you went home and left me to enjoy my holiday!”

  James shook his head. “Not a chance, love. I agree it probably wouldn’t cramp his style at all, but at least I’ll be around if you yell for help.”

  They had come into the gardens ostensibly to say their goodbyes before James left for home, but Jesamine knew he would put off his departure indefinitely, if he thought she had the slightest need for him. It was touching to be the object of such loya
lty and devotion, but the thought of Paul d’Armor realising his motive for staying and laughing at her for it made her curl up inside.

  James brought them to a halt beside one of the big chestnut trees that surrounded the chateau. Leaning back against its rough trunk, he turned her to face him and there was a deep, anxious look in his eyes that dismissed all previous efforts to treat the matter lightly. “Jess, listen to me,” he pleaded. “I recognise Paul d’Armor’s type, more easily than you do, apparently. He’s the sort who leaves a trail of ex-lovers all over the countryside and never feels a twinge himself. He’s a heartbreaker, Jess, and if you stay on here alone, you could get hurt, I know it—you can’t touch a man like that.”

  She laughed a little unsteadily and was not at all sure that she was telling the truth, only anxious to convince herself as well as James. “I’m not his type, James,” she told him. “You don’t have to worry!”

  His laugh was short and harsh. “You’re a woman, aren’t you?” he asked dryly, then raised her chin with one gentle hand and looked down at her for a moment, shaking his head. “You could fall in love with him, couldn’t you, my sweet?” he asked, and Jesamine took a moment to admit it.

  “Maybe I could if I let myself,” she admitted slowly, “but not if I’m on my guard, and I shan’t be as easily swept off my feet as you seem to expect, James.”

  He regarded her steadily for a moment or two, then, apparently realising how resolved she was, he sighed and shook his head. “O.K., love, there’s nothing I can do, I suppose,” he said resignedly, “except be around to pick up the pieces.” He bent his head and kissed her mouth—a light gentle kiss that stirred no erotic reactions in her, but touched her emotions in quite another way.

  “You’re the nicest man I know, James,” she told him in a soft, husky voice, and tiptoed to return the kiss, “but I really don't need you as a bodyguard. I can cope with Paul d’Armor, I promise you.” She smiled at him confidently, as if she was firmly convinced of what she said, and only in her innermost heart did she admit she might be wrong.

  James left, though with obvious reluctance, not long after lunch, but for all his assurances Jesamine suspected he would find some excuse before very long to fly back to France. He had not been at all happy about going and James was immovable once he had something fixed in his head.

  He did not trust Paul and sooner or later, she felt certain he would turn up again on some pretext or other. In the meantime, she thought, Francois d’Armor was speculating about her relationship with James, and she was quite prepared for a few searching questions on the subject.

  It was a relief when Madame d’Armor showed no sign of being openly against her prolonged stay, although Jesamine had the feeling that she would have been happier to see her leave when James did. Paul gave the impression that he was resigned to the inevitable, but did not necessarily like it, and she wondered if he really would have found James’ fears for her amusing.

  Once James was gone, Jesamine was left with a curiously lost feeling that she could only attribute to all those dire warnings that he had issued regarding Paul, a feeling she shook off impatiently. Nothing had really changed, except that she was now purely and simply a guest at the chateau instead of a journalist doing a job, but somehow even that minor change made her feel differently, and she wondered if she had done the right thing in staying after all.

  She put on her favourite dress to go down to dinner that evening because she felt in need of a boost for her morale and she knew how much the deep rose pink suited her dark hair and creamy skin. It was a very feminine dress too, and could not fail to win the approval of her host, at least.

  Its soft neckline flattered the smoothness of her neck and shoulders and the bodice clung lovingly to the gentle curves beneath it, and when she walked into the big, brightly lit dining salon Paul’s eyes sought her immediately. Once more James’s warnings came into her mind, making her more than usually self-conscious, when he raised one fair brow as if in comment and half-smiled. He swept his eyes in one long, calculating look over her from head to toe, a look that James would have recognised and resented, but Jesamine felt no resentment, only a curious tingling sensation along her spine as she briefly met his eyes before walking over to take her place at the table.

  Monsieur and Madame d’Armor were already seated and Paul pulled out her chair for her with smooth practised movements that managed somehow to bring his hard brown hands into contact with the softness of her shoulders, so that she glanced only briefly over her shoulder when she thanked him.

  Bending forward to push in her chair for her brought him much too close for comfort and the warmth of his body with its suggestion of restrained power, mingled with some spicy masculine scent, set her pulses racing. She almost held her breath until he walked round and took his own seat opposite, and once sitting there she had no option but to be constantly aware of him for the rest of the meal.

  She had been right about Francois d’Armor approving of the rose pink dress, and she guessed that the old man must have been something of a gallant in his day. There was a glow in his bright dark eyes as he leaned across the corner of the table towards her and smiled. “La rose anglaise,” he murmured. “You look—tres charmante, ma chere.”

  Jesamine felt quite lighthearted suddenly, and she smiled at him with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Thank you, Monsieur d’Armor,” she told him. “You’re very good for my morale!”

  “You have the need of a—lift for the morale?” the old man asked, as if it was beyond belief. “Surely not, mademoiselle!”

  Jesamine smiled and shook her head. “Oh, I can assure you my morale is often in need of a boost,” she told him, and he looked at her for a moment with bright curious eyes.

  “You are perhaps missing the company of Monsieur Terril, your friend?” he suggested, and Jesamine could have laughed aloud at the accuracy of her guess that he would mention it sooner or later. The surprise was that it was so soon and so openly.

  Madame d’Armor, however, was shaking her head and looking at her husband reproachfully. “Francois,” she scolded him, “such questions will embarrass Mademoiselle Arden!”

  “Oh no, it’s quite all right,” Jesamine hastened to assure her. “I don’t mind talking about James, Madame d’Armor.” She turned back to the old man and smiled. “I’m used to working with James,” she told him, “but he was ill, so there was nothing I could do but wait for him to join me. It’s a pity he missed having the few days here with me, but he’s always very busy and unlike me he can’t take a holiday at the moment.”

  Francois d’Armor would not leave it there, she should have known, and he was still eyeing her with that bright, knowing glint in his eyes. “You know him very well?” he ventured, and Jesamine nodded agreement.

  “Pretty well, I suppose,” she agreed, and laughed. “Although James claims to know me better than I know myself!”

  His white head nodding, Francois d’Armor tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger, obviously putting his own construction on that. “Ah!” he said. “An affaire de coeur, n’est-ce pas?”

  Once more Madame d’Armor looked at him reproachfully, but this time she said nothing, and again Jesamine shook her head to deny the implication he made. It was purely instinctive when she looked at Paul from the concealment of her lashes, remembering his lecture to her on the matter of affaires de coeur, while they stood in the hall in front of Charles Louis Vernais’s portrait. She recalled too, her own suggestion that he spoke from experience, and his confirmation of her suspicions.

  “A love affair?” She smiled at the old man, trying to put James in Paul d’Armor’s position and unable to do so. “Oh no, Monsieur d’Armor, there’s nothing like that with James and me. He’s a friend, a very good friend, and a working colleague, that’s all.”

  “So?” She was unsure whether or not he believed her, but Paul was watching her from the other side of the table.

  “Consider, Grandpere,” he said in a quiet matter-of
-fact voice, “if such an affair existed would Mademoiselle Arden have taken such pains to persuade Monsieur Terril to leave without her?” His eyes held hers steadily and that hint of challenge lingered again in his gaze. “You did make quite an effort to persuade him to go without you, did you not, mademoiselle?” he asked, soft-voiced, and Jesamine curled her hands tightly and quite involuntarily.

  “I saw no reason for James to stay on,” she told him, without even stopping to wonder how he came to be so well informed. “It was silly for him to—”

  “But he did not wish to go and leave you, n’est-ce pas?” Paul insisted, and she hesitated for a moment before she answered him.

  “He—he would rather have stayed,” she admitted, and was aware that both Monsieur and Madame d’Armor were looking at her curiously.

  Paul’s eyes glinted like grey steel and she knew he was laughing at her. Her hands curled even more tightly as she fought a desire to be angrily rude to him and her blue eyes matched his for brightness as she looked at him with her chin lifted. “As your—protecteur?” he suggested, and it seemed to Jesamine obvious that he knew well enough who and what it was that James had wanted to protect her from. “James is naturally protective about females,” she said, controlling her voice with an effort. “He usually travels with me and takes care of everything.” She laughed a little uncertainly and was careful to avoid looking at Paul again. “He thinks I’m incapable of looking after myself in a strange country, although I’ve managed perfectly well the past few days without him.”

  “He is concerned for you, naturellement ,” Francois d’Armor said, nodding his head, as if he understood James’s motives perfectly. “It is to be expected when a man is—perhaps just a little in love with his lovely companion, n’est-ce pas?”