The Right Bride?: Bride of Desire / The English Aristocrat's Bride / Vacancy: Wife of Convenience

Its church was ordinary, and Ignac didn’t possess one of the elaborately carved calvaries which were among the great sights of the region, but its busy fishing harbour bestowed a quiet charm of its own.

The narrow streets were already crammed, with parked cars on both sides, and as she negotiated them with care she realised that the town square ahead was a mass of striped awnings.

‘Of course,’ she said aloud. ‘It’s market day. I certainly forgot about that.’

The market was drawing to its close, the stalls being swiftly dismantled, rails of clothing and boxes of household goods being put back in vans, although last-minute shoppers still lingered at the food stalls, hoping for bargains.

But we, she thought, always came early to buy…

She forced her attention back to the road ahead, braking gently as an old lady stumped out on to the pedestrian crossing just ahead, waving her stick to signify her right to priority. She was accompanied, apprehensively, by a younger couple, and as she reached the middle of the crossing she stopped suddenly, and turned to upbraid them about something, using her stick for emphasis. The other woman looked at Allie, shrugging in obvious embarrassment, as all efforts to get the senior member of the party moving again ended in stalemate.

She wants to have her say, and she wants it now, Allie thought, reluctantly amused. And, until it’s over, we’re going nowhere.

People were pausing to watch, and smile, as if this was a familiar occurrence.

He seemed to come from nowhere, but there he was, joining the trio on the crossing, a tall, lean figure, dark and deeply tanned, casual in cream jeans and an open-necked blue shirt. He was carrying two long loaves of bread, and a plastic bag that Allie knew would contain oysters. He transferred it to his other hand, before he bent, speaking softly to the old lady, while his fingers cupped her elbow leading her, gently but firmly, to the opposite pavement.

For a moment it looked as if she might resist, then the wrinkled face broke into an unwilling grin and he laughed too, lifting her hand to his lips with swift grace. Then, with a quick word and a shrug to her grateful companions, he was gone again, vanishing between the remaining market stalls as quickly as he’d arrived.

Allie sat and watched him go, her hands gripping the wheel as if they’d been glued there. She thought numbly, But it can’t be him. It can’t be Remy because Tante said—she promised—that I’d have nothing to fear.

Nothing to fear…

An impatient hooting from the vehicles behind brought her back to the here and now, and she realised, embarrassment flooding her face with colour, that the total shock of seeing him had made her stall the engine. She restarted carefully, and set off, waving an apologetic hand to the other drivers.

She threaded her way out of town and on to the narrow road which led to Les Sables, before yanking the wheel over and bringing the car to an abrupt halt. She sat for a moment, her whole body shaking, then flung open the car door and stumbled out, kneeling on the short, scrubby grass while she threw up.

As she straightened, her head swimming, her throat and stomach aching, she heard Tom’s frightened wail from the car, and dragged herself to her feet in instant contrition.

‘It’s all right, darling, Mummy’s here.’ She found a packet of wipes in the glove compartment and hastily cleaned her face and hands, before releasing Tom from his harness and lifting him into her arms. She sat down on a flat boulder a few feet away from the car, and held him close against her, patting him and murmuring soothingly while she waited for her heartbeat to settle. And she tried desperately to make sense of what had just happened. But failed.

There is nothing that should keep you away…

The words were indelibly printed on her brain. Unforgettable.

The wording of Tante’s letter had suggested—had seemed to promise—that Remy was still far off in South America. So how could he possibly be there in Ignac, charming tough old ladies into compliance, buying food from the market, clearly as much at home as if he’d never been away?

She should have told me the truth, she thought passionately. Should have warned me that he was here. Except that if she had nothing would have dragged me here, and she knew it.

Perhaps, she thought, Tante doesn’t know he’s come back. Maybe it’s a temporary thing—some kind of furlough—and she hasn’t heard.

But she discounted that almost at once. Her aunt’s house might be secluded, but it wasn’t in limbo. Every piece of gossip, every item of local news, found its way to her sooner or later.

Besides, Remy’s father, Philippe de Brizat, was Tante’s doctor—and his father before him, for all she knew.

Of course the news of Remy’s return would have been shared with her.

Anguish stabbed at her. It seemed unbelievable that her beloved and trusted great-aunt should have deliberately set out to deceive her like this. Unless she knew that the first time she did so would also be the last.

She must, Allie thought sombrely, be really desperate to see me again—to see Tom—even to contemplate such a thing.

Her immediate instinct was to turn the car and drive back to Roscoff. Get the first possible return sailing. But, apart from all the other considerations, that would mean returning to the Hall with her tail between her legs, losing any advantage she’d gained in her belated bid for independence.

I could still visit Tante, she thought, but make it a brief visit—not stay for the ten days as planned. That should be safe enough.

After all, France is a big country, and Brittany’s not its only region. Plus, it’s still early enough in the year for there to be hotel vacancies. I could take Tom exploring the Auvergne, or the Dordogne. Even go as far as the Côte d’Azur.

Anywhere, she resolved, as long as it was far—far away from Remy de Brizat. Because Tante was so terribly wrong, and she had everything to fear from encountering him again.

Her arms closed more tightly around Tom, who wriggled in protest, demanding to be set down.

She held his hands, steering him back to the car as he paced unsteadily along, face set in fierce determination.

‘I know the feeling,’ she told him as she lifted him back into his seat for the short drive to Les Sables. ‘And from now on, my love, it’s you and me against the world.’

The house stood alone, grey and solid against the slender clustering pine trees behind it. Allie eased the car along the track, remembering her father’s concern that Tante should have chosen such an isolated spot.

‘It wouldn’t do for me,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘The silence would drive me crazy.’

Tante had laughed gently. ‘But there is no silence, mon cher. I live between the wind singing in the trees and the sound of the sea. It is more than enough.’

The front door was open, Allie saw, and a woman’s small, upright figure had emerged, and was standing, shading her eyes against the sun, watching the car approach.

It’s Tante Madelon, Allie realised with astonishment. But if she’s been ill, surely she should be in bed, or at least resting on the sofa.

She brought the car to a halt on the gravelled area in front of the house and paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. She’d already decided on her strategy. No reproaches or recriminations. Instead, she too would practise a deception—she would pretend that she’d simply driven through Ignac and seen no one. As far as she was concerned, Remy de Brizat was still on the other side of the world.

And if Tante mentioned his being back in Ignac, she would produce a look of faint surprise, maybe even risk a polite question about his life in Brazil. Or had he, in fact, moved on from there?

She’d tried so hard not to think about that. Not to wonder where he was and what he was doing.

And now it seemed as if all her desperate efforts to blank him out of her mind had been in vain.

Ah, well, she thought bleakly, as she marshalled her defences. Just as long as it doesn’t show.

And she opened the car door and got out, smiling resolutely.

Madelon Colville had never been a large woman, but now she seemed to have shrunk even more. In Allie’s embrace, she felt as insubstantial as a captured bird. But her eyes were still bright, shining with love and pleasure, and her voice was husky with emotion as she murmured words of welcome.

‘Dearest child, you cannot know what this means to me.’ She looked towards the car with unconcealed eagerness. ‘Now, where is your little son?’

Finding himself on show, Tom decided to be shy, and buried his face in his mother’s neck. But Tante was unfazed by the reaction.

‘It is all too new and strange for him,’ she declared. ‘But soon we will be friends—won’t we, chéri?’ She took Allie’s hand. ‘Now, come in, and meet Madame Drouac, who looks after me. She is a widow, like myself, and so good to me. However, she speaks no English, and you will not understand her patois, so I shall translate for you both.’

Madame Drouac, who was standing at the range, stirring a pan of something that smelt deliciously savoury, was a tall, angular woman with a calm face and kind, shrewd eyes. As she shook hands, Allie was aware of being subjected to a searching look, followed by a low-voiced exchange with her great-aunt.

But Allie did not need a translation. She remembers me from the last time I was here, she told herself without pleasure. Recalls who I was with, too.

‘Amelie thinks you have become thin, ma mie.’ Madelon spoke lightly. ‘She says we must fill you with good food. Also le petit.’

She indicated an old-fashioned wooden highchair, polished to within an inch of its life, which was standing at the table. ‘She has loaned us this for Thomas. Also the cot, where her own son slept. He has married a girl from Rennes,’ she added with a shrug. ‘And she does not need them for her baby. She wants everything that is new. So Amelie is pleased that her things will be used once more.’

She paused. ‘I have told her that you are a widow, Alys, but also that your marriage only occurred after you left here and returned to England.’ Her gaze was steady. ‘You understand?’

‘Yes,’ Allie said woodenly. ‘Yes, of course.’

Lunch was a thick vegetable soup, served with chunks of bread, and there was cheese to follow.

Tom made a spirited attack on his soup, using his spoon like a stabbing spear. He was assisted in his efforts by Madame Drouac, who talked softly to him in Breton, and occasionally clucked at him like a hen, which provoked a joyous toothy grin. Shyness, it seemed, was a thing of the past, Allie saw with relief.

‘He usually has a nap in the afternoon,’ she mentioned as they drank their coffee.

‘Very wise,’ said Tante. ‘I do the same.’ She gave Allie a long look. ‘And perhaps you should rest also, ma mie. You are pale, and your eyes are tired.’

‘Well, I have had more peaceful nights,’ Allie admitted ruefully. She hesitated. ‘Would it be all right if I took a shower first? I feel as if I’ve been wearing these clothes for ever.’

Tante covered her hand with her own. ‘You must do exactly as you wish, chérie. This is your other home. You know that.’

It’s probably my only real home, Allie thought, as she carried Tom upstairs. The room had been rearranged, with its wide bed pushed under the window in order to accommodate the cot—a palatial, beautifully carved affair. For a moment, Allie felt almost sorry for the daughter-in-law from Rennes who couldn’t recognise a family heirloom when she saw it. But her loss was Tom’s gain, and he was asleep even before Allie had finished unpacking.

She undressed slowly, and put on her thin, white silk dressing gown before making her way to the bathroom, which boasted a separate shower cabinet as well as a large tub. ‘It may be a cottage, but I insist on my comforts,’ Madelon Colville had declared, when the old-fashioned fittings had been torn out and replaced.

And maybe I like mine too, Allie thought wryly, as she set out the array of exquisitely scented toiletries she’d brought with her.

She stepped into the shower and turned on the spray, letting the water cascade luxuriously over her hair and body.

The soup had been just what she needed, and, although she was still on edge, she was no longer shaking inside. Madame Drouac was clearly a good cook, and Allie found she was looking forward to the casserole of lamb that had been promised for the evening meal.

‘Amelie is a jewel,’ Tante had said quietly downstairs. ‘I only wish she was not considered a necessity. But the doctor insisted I should have help.’

The doctor… But which one did Madelon Colville mean? After all, there were three generations of de Brizats living at the big stone house at Trehel. It could hardly be the grandfather, Georges, who had retired under protest a few years before and must now be nearing his eighties, so it had to be Philippe still—or his only son, Allie thought, biting her lip savagely. And that was something she couldn’t ask.

She wished that Madame Drouac spoke even a little English, so that, among other things, she could establish exactly what was wrong with her great-aunt. Because, when she’d tried a little tactful probing, Tante had merely waved a languid hand and said that she had good days and bad ones.

‘But today is nothing but good, because you are here,’ she’d added.

On the other hand, Allie thought wryly, the language barrier between the housekeeper and herself meant she didn’t have to answer any awkward questions about her previous stay.

She towelled herself dry, and slipped on her robe again. Back in the bedroom, she combed her damp hair into place, reluctant to use her dryer in case she disturbed Tom.

In spite of her weariness, she knew she would not sleep. She was too tense, and her brain was buzzing. She knew that for her own peace of mind she should have stayed away. That she should not have let herself be provoked into accepting such a dangerous invitation. But could she really regret what she’d done, when Tante was so clearly overjoyed to see her?

And, anyway, it was far too late for repining.

The box was unlocked at last, and all her personal demons had come swarming into the open. And somehow they had to be faced. Whatever the personal pain they might bring in their wake.

CHAPTER FOUR

SHE knelt on the bed, resting her arms on the window ledge, staring down at the bay where it had all begun.

Not very wise…

That was what Madelon had told her in warning, she thought, and it was probably the understatement of the decade. But how could I know where it would lead? After all, I only wanted some time to myself—to think, and make some decisions. And I didn’t wish to be cross-examined, however kindly, over where my husband was, or why he wasn’t with me.

I just—needed some peace.

I never meant there to be more to it than that. And I certainly never intended to deceive anyone, or cause any hurt.

Plus, I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

But then no one actually asked me to do so—or not until it was so much too late.

She stopped herself right there. She could play with words and motives for ever, but nothing could actually justify what she’d done. She’d desperately needed to be honest, and instead she’d crashed in flames. And she could blame nothing and no one but herself.

Yet here she was, two years on, knowing that she could not afford to be completely frank. That there were still things that could not be said.

A widow with a child, she thought. That was all anyone needed to know.

And although Remy might be back in Ignac, that did not necessarily imply they would meet.

On the contrary, she told herself with resolution, she would go out of her way to ensure they didn’t.

I dare not risk it, she thought. For all kinds of reasons…

Sighing, she swung herself off the bed, pulling on shorts, a vest top and sandals, then went over to the cot. Tom was still fast asleep, chubby arms tossed wide, and her heart lurched as she looked down at him.

When Tante was gone, he would be all she had left to love. But he made all the agony of the past seem somehow worthwhile. She smoothed the damp, dark curls with a gentle finger, but he did not stir, so she tiptoed from the room and went slowly downstairs. The living room was empty, so presumably Madame Drouac had returned to her own abode for the afternoon, and the sun was streaming in through the open door at the rear.

Allie, drawing a deep, unsteady breath, walked out into the walled garden beyond.

The wind had dropped, and there were just a few faint streaks of high cloud, motionless against the baking blue of the sky.

She sat down on the grass, her back against the solitary ancient apple tree, and stared upwards, shading her eyes with her hand. So many days like this, she thought, breathing in the scent of earth and sun-warmed grass. So many memories jarring her mind again. Splintering her inner calm. Waiting inexorably to be dealt with.

Closing her eyes, Allie, slowly and reluctantly, allowed herself to surrender to the pull of the past.

In the days following her ruthless and spectacular rescue by Remy de Brizat, she’d made a conscious decision to keep well away from the beach, even though Tante had supplied her with a tide table and told her to learn it by heart.

But, in her heart, Allie knew that the rise and fall of the sea wasn’t the principal danger to be encountered.

The weather had turned intensely hot, giving her a good excuse to remain quietly in the seclusion of the garden, sunbathing and reading, as she felt her inner tensions begin to slip gently away. Or most of them, anyway.

One morning, over breakfast, Tante had mentioned that she was driving to Quimper later, to visit her accountant. ‘Some papers to do with tax, chérie, and so boring. But you are welcome to come with me, if you wish.’

Allie had decided she did not wish. She’d waved goodbye to Madelon, then taken her rug and cushion into the garden and stretched out face downward, unclipping her bikini top with a languid hand as she did so. But the hum of insects, the whisper of the leaves, and the distant murmur of the sea had failed for once to have their usual soporific effect. She’d felt oddly restless, and even the thriller she’d been reading had palled, its plot descending, she had decided, into sheer absurdity.

She’d tossed it aside, pillowed her head on her arms, and closed her eyes, making a deliberate effort to relax her whole body, commencing with her toes, then working slowly upward. Any moment now, she’d promised herself, she would feel completely calm.

‘Bonjour, Alys.’

For a shocked second, she thought she’d dozed off and was actually dreaming, but one startled sideways glance revealed battered espadrilles and, rising out of them, a pair of long, tanned and totally masculine legs.

‘You?’ She almost sat up, remembering just in time her loosened top. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wished to make sure that the events of the other morning had left no lasting trauma.’ He grinned down at her, totally at his ease, casual in shorts and a cotton shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist.

‘And is this how you normally make house calls?’ It was difficult, she found, to glare at someone effectively when you were forced to lie prone, and all they could see was your profile. ‘Just—march in without knocking or asking permission?’ And half-dressed?

‘No,’ he said. ‘But this is not a professional visit, you understand. Also, I met with Madame Colville on the road, and she gave me leave to visit you.’

He looked her over with undisguised appreciation, his eyes lingering, she realised furiously, on the narrow band of jade fabric that scarcely masked the swell of her buttocks.

‘The sun is fierce today,’ he said softly. ‘And you should not risk burning such lovely skin.’ He knelt down beside her, reaching for the bottle of sun lotion. He tipped some into the palm of his hand and began to apply it to her shoulders, in smooth, delicate strokes.

For a moment she was rendered mute with shock, then hurriedly pulled herself together.

‘Thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘But I’m quite capable of doing that for myself.’

‘Vraiment?’ His brows lifted in polite enquiry, but he made no attempt to bring his unwanted ministrations to an end. ‘You are, perhaps, a contorsionniste? No? Then be still, and allow me to do this for you.’

His light, assured touch on her skin sent alarm signals quivering along her nerve-endings.

I don’t want this, she thought almost frantically. I—really do not…

She would have given anything to be able to sit up and snatch the damned bottle from his hand, but she was anchored to the rug. If only—only—she hadn’t unfastened her top. And the fact that he must have seen hundreds of women with bare breasts in his career made not an atom of difference.

Because Remy de Brizat was not her doctor, and, for all his comments about trauma, she was not his patient and never would be.

He took all the time in the world, his hands lingering, while Allie, raging with the knowledge of her own temporary helplessness, lay with her eyes shut and her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she fought a losing battle over the slow, inevitable awakening of her senses.

This can’t be happening to me, she thought. It just can’t.

One of the reasons I ran away was because I didn’t want to be touched—because I couldn’t bear it any longer.

And this man—this stranger—has no right to make me feel like this—as if my skin was made of silk, and my bones were dissolving. He has no right at all.

At last he paused, running a light finger along the rim of her bikini briefs but venturing no further, and she released her held breath, thinking that her ordeal was over.

Only to find herself stifling a startled whimper when he began to anoint the backs of her thighs, moving gently down to reach the sensitive area in the bend of her knees.

‘Alors.’ With sudden briskness, he recapped the bottle and put it down beside her. ‘The rest I am sure you can manage for yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ she said with icy politeness. ‘But I think I’ve had enough sun for one day.’

‘Perhaps you are wise,’ he said, faint amusement in his voice. ‘Why take more risks with such a charming body?’

Her throat tightened. ‘Thank you for your concern,’ she said. ‘But I can look after myself.’

She fumbled for the edges of her bra top and tried to bring them together across her slippery skin, with fingers made clumsy through haste.

‘Of course—as you prove so constantly, ma belle.’ She could hear him smiling, damn him. ‘Permettez-moi.’ He took the strips of material from her, and deftly hooked them into place.

Too bloody deftly altogether…

She sat up, pushing her hair back from her flushed face with a defensive hand. ‘Does that fulfil your quota of good deeds for the day?’ she asked stiffly. ‘Or do you have other visits to make? Because I wouldn’t wish to delay you on your errands of mercy.’

He studied her for a moment. ‘Why do you speak to me as if I were your enemy, Alys?’

Her colour deepened. ‘I—don’t,’ she denied shortly.

‘No?’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘Then I hope we do not meet when you wish to be hostile.’

She took a swift breath. ‘I would actually prefer it, monsieur, if we didn’t meet at all after this.’ She lifted her chin. ‘You got me out of a nasty situation the other day, and I shall always be grateful for that. But now I would really like to be left in peace to—to enjoy my vacation without any further intervention from you. I’m sure you understand.’