Place Of Storms

‘Thank you.’ Andrea knew her face was crimson.

‘It is nothing.’ He gave her a narrow look. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake asking you to ride so soon. You must still be tired after your journey—and your sleepless night.’

Now why didn’t I think of that? Andrea asked herself in exasperation. Aloud she said, ‘Probably,’ in a wooden voice.

She took a firm grip on herself and the reins after that, determined to cope better. Certainly, in spite of everything, there was a great deal to enjoy. The air seemed to sparkle after the night’s rain, and the views as they continued to climb were breathtaking. Away in the distance she could glimpse the flattened cones of the puys, the dead volcanic mountains of Auvergne, while around them the trees still wore the last remnants of their autumn glory before the stark onset of winter.

Andrea felt so exhilarated that when they eventually reached a level, grassy stretch of ground she forgot to be nervous when the horses broke into a canter, and then a gallop. Delphine was no longer a monster, fixed on her undoing, but a lovely creature, fluid of bone and muscle, who merely wanted to share her pleasure in her own swift eagerness.

When they reined in, Andrea saw that from this vantage point it was possible to look down on the village and the chateau. Seen from above, it had an even more forlorn look, and Andrea stole a sideways look at her companion to see his reaction. The scarred side of his face was hidden from her, but his expression was bleak and brooding and she did not dare venture a remark.

At last, when she had begun to think he had forgotten her presence, he said ‘Allons!’ in an impatient tone, and they turned the horses and rode on.

The black mood that possessed him persisted as they toured the vineyards, and looked at the new bottling plant which had been installed. Andrea, somewhat to her own surprise, found she was genuinely interested in what was being achieved, and it was frustrating to have her questions answered in monosyllables.

At last she could hold her tongue no longer.

‘This ride was your idea, monsieur,’ she reminded him acidly. ‘If you want me to learn about the estate, you need to improve your teaching technique.’

The look he sent her was chilling, but he made no response. She was not altogether surprised, however, when she found they were on their way back to the chateau.

‘Here endeth the first lesson,’ she observed flippantly.

This time he did reply, and his voice was icy with rage. ‘It may all seem a joke to you, mademoiselle, from your secure English background, but to me and many others in this village, it is life and death. Do you know how many villages there are in France where old people sit in their houses alone, because their children have left—gone to the cities to find work? Do you even care? I doubt it. But I care. And I care too that my home—the house which my family has occupied for hundreds of years—is falling into a ruin about me. Do you imagine that I would have permitted this neglect? Regard it well, mademoiselle. That is what hate can do, and spite and revenge. It is not pretty, hein?’

‘Whose hate, monsieur?’

‘My father’s, mademoiselle. My younger brother was his favourite. He could not forgive me for being the elder and his heir. I could do nothing right—nothing that would please him, except absent myself. He could have stopped the rot then, if he had wished, but he did not wish. I do not think he cared if there was one stone standing upon another when I came into my inheritance. Every last franc was devoted to Jean-Paul, and to our plantation Belle Rivière.’

‘Your brother ran the plantation?’

‘Oui. It was his part of the inheritance. God knows I never grudged it to him. But there were problems. Several bad seasons—hurricanes, pests which destroyed the crop. At last my father ordered me to go there and put things right. It would have taken a miracle. By the time I arrived, Jean-Paul had speculated trying to recoup some his losses, and was facing ruin.’

He stopped abruptly, as if sensing her tension. The anger and bitterness died from his face as if a slate had been wiped clean.

‘But I am boring you, mademoiselle, with our sordid family squabbles. My father has been dead for two years, God rest his soul, and Jean-Paul and his wife are also at peace now. I am left to salvage what I can and make some kind of life for myself and Philippe.’

She moistened her dry lips, appalled at what he had let her see.

‘And Belle Rivière? What has happened to that?’

‘The house has gone,’ he said briefly. ‘It was—burned to the ground a year ago. The land is now leased to the government.’

Something warned her that now was not the time to probe any further. She stole a glance at him and saw that the scar was standing out livid against his tan.

Gaston was waiting to take the horses when they rode into the yard. The ground suddenly looked a long way down, Andrea thought wearily as she eased her aching rear. She felt agonisingly stiff, and was afraid her legs might give way under her through sheer reaction when she dismounted.

‘Permit me.’ Blaise Levallier appeared at her side. Gratefully, she freed her feet from the stirrups and allowed herself to slide from Delphine’s back into his waiting arms. Just for a moment she felt the brush of his warm body against hers, and knew an insane urge to press herself against him, savouring the intimate smell of his sweat.

As her feet touched the ground, she pulled herself away, her face flaming as if he could guess her wanton thoughts, and stumbled slightly.

‘Take care.’ His voice was courteous but impersonal. ‘If you ask Clothilde, she will prepare a hot bath for you. I will see you at dinner.’

He gave her a brief formal nod, before turning and striding away.

Andrea had to force herself not to turn and watch him go. She felt confused and disturbed by this sudden turbulence in her emotions. I hate him, she told herself almost desperately. I’ve got to hate him. And I must never let him touch me again.

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