Dawn Song (4 page)

with the scent of lavender. Meg drew one deep enraptured breath.
Madame

gave a satisfied nod, and returned to her duties downstairs, closing the door

behind her.

Meg stayed at the window. It had been quite a day, and it wasn't over

yet—unless, of course, she wanted it to be. And she wasn't sure how she felt

about that.

Things like this don't happen to me, she thought with bewilderment. But

then I'm not myself any more. I'm supposed to be Margot. Perhaps I've taken

over her life as well as her name. But can I carry it off?

She heard the door open, and Jerome enter with her luggage. Her heart

began to thud, and her mouth went dry.

'Another car will be delivered to you in the morning,' he said, hoisting her

cases on to the slatted wooden rack provided for the purpose. 'You will have

to complete an accident report, but you have me as a witness, so there should

be no difficulty.'

She kept her back towards him, moistening her lips with the tip of her

tongue. 'I—I'm very grateful.'

'Grateful enough to be my guest at dinner tonight?' He was standing behind

her, so close that she could feel the warmth from his body.

She stared at the view as if she was trying to memorise it. Behind the

auberge'
s small walled garden, the ground rose sharply. It was a wild and

rocky landscape, studded with clumps of trees. A stream, presumably from

some underground spring, had forced itself between two of the largest

boulders, splashing down in a miniature waterfall, its passage marked by the

sombre green of ferns.

'The source of the Beron,' Jerome said at her shoulder. She nodded jerkily,

and after a pause he said, 'You do not, of course, have to accept my

invitation.'

She knew that. Knew, too, that it would be safer—much safer to refuse

politely, and, with sudden exhilaration, that she had no such intention.

As she turned to answer him, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of

the window- panes, his face dark and watchful, his mouth grimly set. She

gasped, and her head came round sharply. But it must have been some trick

of the light, be

cause he looked back at her casually, even with faint amusement.

He said softly, 'Put me out of my misery, Marguerite. May I return for you

here at eight?'

She said, 'Yes-I'd like that.'

And wondered, once she was alone, whether that was really true.

MEG took a long, luxurious shower, then spent some considerable time

deciding what to wear that evening. In the end she fixed on a simple honey-

coloured cotton dress in a full-skirted wrap-around style. She fastened gold

hoops into her ears, and sprayed on some of her favourite Nina Ricci scent.

She studied her appearance frowningly in the cheval mirror, from the

shining tumble of hair, framing a slightly flushed face, and hazel eyes

strangely wider and brighter than usual, down to her slender feet in the

strappy bronze sandals, then shook her head.

I

feel

like

the

old

woman

in

the

nursery

rhyme,

she

thought—'Lawks-a-mercy, this be none of I.'

It was daunting to realise that if Jerome Moncourt had come strolling into

Mr Otway's bookshop during the past eighteen months he probably wouldn't

have given her a second look. She still wasn't sure why she'd agreed to have

dinner with him. It wasn't the wisest move she'd ever made. After all, she

knew nothing about him but his name, and that could well be an invention.

Oh, stop being paranoid, she admonished herself impatiently. Just because

you're playing a part, it doesn't mean everyone else is too. And she could not

deny that he'd fallen over himself to be helpful, but there could well be

another side to him, she thought, remembering that unnerving, frozen

glimpse she'd caught of his reflection, and that other moment, earlier in the

day, when she'd felt his anger in the car reach out to her like a tangible thing.

Perhaps he was one of those people whose moods changed in seconds, or,

more likely, maybe she was just imagining things. I just don't know any

more, she thought, turning away from the mirror. But the invitation had been

made in
madame'
s presence which seemed to suggest it was above-board.

And at least she wouldn't dine alone on her first evening in the Languedoc.

She felt a swift glow of excitement.

She caught up her bag, and the book on the history of the Cathars that Mr

Otway had given her on parting, and went downstairs to wait for him. In

Reception,
madame
was conducting a full- blooded argument by telephone,

illustrated by gestures, with some hapless representative of the electricity

company, but she smiled at Meg and motioned her to go through to the

courtyard.

The sun was back in full force, bathing the whole area in syrupy golden

light, and Meg sat at one of the small wrought-iron tables which had been

placed outside, sipping a
pastis,
and reading.

It was difficult to comprehend on this beautiful evening, and rather

depressing too, that the Cathars had believed the world to be the devil's

creation, and man and all his works intrinsically evil. To escape damnation

they had pursued a strict regime of prayer and abstinence, including

vegetarianism, and the leaders of the cult, known as the Perfect Ones, also

advocated celibacy in marriage.

Presumably the majority of their followers had decided to be not quite so

perfect, otherwise Catharism would have died out in a generation, Meg

thought.

From a modern viewpoint, their creed seemed eccentric rather than

dangerous, yet armies had been sent to wipe them off the face of the earth. A

bit like taking a sledgehammer to swat a fly.

Probably, as Mr Otway had said, it was greed for the riches of the South

which had sent the Crusaders south, ravaging the vineyards and looting the

cities, and religion was just the excuse.

She knew, before his shadow fell across the open page, that Jerome had

arrived. She'd become aware of the stir at the adjoining tables, of the raised

eyebrows and murmured asides as women turned their heads to watch him

cross the courtyard.

'Bonsoir.'
This evening, he was wearing well-cut cream trousers and a

chestnut-brown shirt, open at the neck, while the mane of dark hair had been

controlled, but not tamed.

Perhaps that was a clue to his personality, she found herself thinking as she

shyly returned his smile of greeting. That under the expensive clothes and

civilised manners there was a streak of wildness, waiting to explode. She

wondered if he was an artist, perhaps. If so, he was a very successful one.

The watch, the car, everything about him spelled out serious money.

If he'd noticed the interest his arrival had caused, he gave no sign of it, as he

pulled out a chair and sat down, signalling to the hovering waiter to bring

him a drink. She approved of his seeming un- awareness of his own

attraction. And he wasn't just attractive, either, Meg acknowledged wrily.

For the first time in her life, she'd encountered a man who possessed a

powerful sexual charisma that transcended ordinary good looks, and she

wasn't sure how to deal with it.

'You looked very serious just now,' he observed, adding water to his
pastis.

'You are not suffering from delayed shock, I hope?'

Meg shook her head, wrinkling her nose slightly. 'Actually I was thinking

about man's inhumanity to man.'

'A sad thought for such an evening.' He glanced at her book, his brows

lifting. '
Land of the Cathars
,' he read aloud. 'You are interested in the history

of the Languedoc?' he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

'Why not?' Meg lifted her chin. Just because she'd delayed leaving her car at

his command, it didn't make her a complete idiot, she thought crossly.

He looked at her for a long moment, the expression in the dark eyes

unreadable, then he shrugged. 'As you say—why not?' he agreed. 'You are a

creature of surprises, Marguerite.'

'Not just me,' she reminded him, feeling oddly defensive. 'Neither of us

knows the least thing about the other.'

'So tonight,' he said softly, 'will be a journey of discovery,
hein?'

She bit her lip. That had altogether too intimate a ring, she thought uneasily.

And his dark gaze had begun its journey already, travelling in silent

appraisal down from her face to the rounded curves of her breasts under the

cling of the cross-over bodice.

Meg, about to draw a deep, indignant breath, checked the impulse. It would

have totally the wrong effect in the circumstances, she told herself tersely.

Perhaps Monsieur Moncourt was completely
au fait
with the effect he had

on women, after all, she thought with angry derision, and was confident of

an easy seduction. Payment, maybe, for helping her out. Well, don't count on

a thing, she assured him in grim silence.

This was the kind of game that Margot would enjoy, she realised. A

sophisticated advance and retreat, spiced with unspoken promise and sexual

innuendo, from which at the end she would walk away. Or not, as she chose.

And perhaps, just for one evening, it would do no harm to play the game

herself—or at least learn some of its rules. Maybe this is my day for living

dangerously, she thought.

Jerome Moncourt finished his drink and glanced at her empty glass. 'Shall

we go?' he said. 'I hope your adventure today has given you an appetite?'

'My first experience of French cooking.' Meg smiled brightly as she pushed

her chair back. 'I can't wait.'

The sun was beginning to set in a blaze of crimson as they drove out of the

valley.

'Oh, how wonderful.' Meg craned her neck. 'It's going to be a fine day

tomorrow.'

He smiled. 'No more storms,' he said teasingly, and she shuddered.

'I hope not.'

'You were unlucky,' he said. 'It is more usual for the storms to come at night.

Sometimes as you drive you see the lightning playing round the hills, like a

gigantic silent spotlight. We call it the
eclairs de chaleur.
Then suddenly a

fork will streak to the ground, and the world goes mad. As you saw.'

'I did,' she said ruefully. 'Don't you have any gentler form of
son et lumiere

for the tourists?'

'Perhaps the dawn would suit you better,' he said. 'That trace of pure clear

light in the sky that drowns the stars, before the sun even lifts its head over

the horizon.'

'You sound like a poet,' Meg said, stealing a sideways glance. 'Is that what

you are?'

He laughed. 'No, I regret, nothing so romantic, although my grandfather was

deeply interested in the poetry of the region—the songs of the troubadours

and those that followed.'

'Did he write himself?'

Jerome shook his head. 'He lived on the land in a
mas.
which belonged to his

family. Grew his own vines. Adopted the simple life.'

'It sounds—good.'

'I think it was, for a time. Unhappily, even the simple life can become

complicated, and eventually he returned to Paris.'

'And do you—lead the simple life too?'

'When I can.' He slanted a smile at her. 'But most of the time I'm an architect.

I used to work in Paris, but our business expanded quite remarkably, and

now I am based in Toulouse.'

'Back to your roots.'

'As you say. I work mainly as a consultant, advising on the preservation and

restoration of old buildings—houses, usually, which have been allowed to

become derelict during the drift from the land to the cities, but which are

now in demand again.'

'Actually, I think that's quite as romantic as poetry,' Meg said thoughtfully.

'Repairing the fabric of history.'

His smile widened. 'And actually I agree with you, but I don't tell my clients,

or they would expect me to work for love and not for money.'

'Are you working on a project at the moment?'

'In a way, although I'm officially on leave.' He didn't seem to want to enlarge

on the subject, so Meg left it there.

'Do you miss Paris?' she asked, after a pause.

He shook his head. 'I wouldn't miss any city,' he said flatly. 'My family chose

to live there. I did not.'

'Were they from this part of the country originally?'

'Yes. Our roots have always been here. My grandfather was the first to move

away completely, in fact.'

'Was he never tempted to return?'

Jerome shrugged. 'My grandmother was a Parisienne,' he said tonelessly.

'She had no taste for the country.'

'But you've come back.'

'Yes,' he said. 'To the country of my heart. The place where I belong.'