Dawn Song (5 page)

It must be good to have such certainty, Meg thought rather wistfully. She

wasn't sure where she stood in the scheme of things. She still lived at her late

father's house, but it had been totally transformed to Iris Langtry's taste, and

Meg felt like an outsider there most of the time. And she no longer had a job

to hold her. So, she supposed, the world was her oyster now. Maybe it was

time she found where she belonged. Put down some roots of her own.

In the meantime, she was beginning to wonder where they were going. She'd

presumed he was taking her to some local restaurant where the electricity

was still functioning, but they were still travelling purposefully, the Citroen

eating up the kilometres. She wished she'd been watching the signposts, so

that she could have followed their route on the map she had in her bag.

'You would like some music?' He seemed to have noticed her slight

restiveness.

'No,' she denied quickly. 'I like to watch the scenery, and talk. But you must

stop me if I ask too many questions.'

'You're unlikely to ask anything I won't wish to answer.' The dark eyes

flickered towards her, then returned to the road. 'Can you say the same,

Marguerite?'

'Of course,' she said stoutly, crossing her fingers metaphorically. 'I've

nothing to hide.'

'A woman without secrets,' he said musingly. 'Unbelievable.'

She laughed. 'No, I just lead an uncomplicated and rather boring life.' Or I

did, she thought.

'Yet you travel alone through choice, and have a deeper interest in this

region than the average tourist. That is hardly dull. I think you have hidden

depths, Marguerite.'

There was a note in his voice which made her heart leap in sudden ridiculous

excitement. She said rather breathlessly, 'But then they say that everyone's

more interesting on holiday.' There was a brief silence.

'Tell me,' he said softly, 'why you were so reluctant to answer when I asked

you to dine with me? There is a man in England, perhaps, who might

cause—complications?'

Meg stared ahead of her. Tim Hansby? she thought with a kind of desperate

amusement. She said shortly, 'There's no one.'

'Vraiment?'
Jerome Moncourt sounded sceptical. 'I cannot believe there is

no one you care about.'

She shrugged, pride making her reluctant to admit that up to now she'd

occupied a fairly undistinguished place on the shelf—that there were only

two people she really cared about, she realised with a pang. A retired

second-hand bookseller, and the elderly woman who'd taken the place of her

mother, and given her the affection and comfort that her father, dazed with

grief at the loss of his young wife, had been unable to bestow. For whose

sake she was here in the first place. She swallowed. Not a lot to show for her

twenty years, she thought. Although this was not the time to start feeling

sorry for herself.

And what the hell? she argued inwardly. It's nothing to do with him if I

prevaricate a little. Although why she should wish to appear marginally

more interesting than actual reality was something she didn't want to

examine too closely, she thought, biting her lip.

'Does it make any difference?' she challenged. 'An invitation to dinner

hardly constitutes a major breach of faith.'

She took a breath. 'For all I know, you could be married.'

'Would it matter if I was?' he tossed back at her.

That sounded like hedging. Her heart plummeted in a dismay as acute as it

was absurd.

'I think it might matter a hell of a lot to your wife,' she said curtly.

'Then it is fortunate she does not yet exist.' There was a note of mockery in

his voice, mingled with something else less easy to decipher.

'Fortunate for her, anyway,' she muttered, self- disgust at the relief flooding

over her making her churlish.

He clicked his tongue reprovingly. 'That's not kind. You don't think I'd make

a good husband?'

'I can't possibly tell on so brief an acquaintance.' Meg kept her tone short.

She knew he was laughing at her, even though his expression was serious,

almost frowning.

'But you have an ideal? What qualities should he possess? Would you

require him to be faithful?'

Meg twisted the strap of her bag in her fingers. 'I'd want him to love me, and

only me, as I'd love him,' she said at last. 'I suppose that takes care of most

things.'

'It is certainly sweeping,' Jerome said, after another pause. 'And if, in spite of

that love, another woman intervened—tried to take this paragon away from

you—what would you do then? Make the sacrifice? Let him go?'

'No,' she said, fiercely. 'I'd fight for him with everything I had.'

'You would be ruthless?' his voice probed softly. 'Use any weapon?'

'Of course.' She hesitated uncertainly. 'Why do you ask me all this?'

'Because I wish to know,
ma petite,''
he said softly. 'It is part of that journey

of discovery I mentioned—to find that you would fight like a tigress for

love.'

Again that odd note in his voice. Meg felt herself shiver. He noticed at once.

'You are cold?'

'Oh, no.' She forced a smile. 'Hungry, perhaps.' She thought of her picnic

lunch, crushed in the car.

'You've been patient long enough. Now you shall be fed.' He turned the car

suddenly off the road, and on to a track leading downhill. Meg braced

herself as the Citroen swayed and jolted over stones and deep ruts.

'There's actually a restaurant down here?' she gasped. 'I hope there's another

road out, or people's meals won't stay down for long.'

'Not a restaurant.' Ahead of them, bathed rose- pink in the sunset, there was a

straggle of buildings, a chimney from which smoke uncoiled lazily in the

still evening air.

'Then where are we?' They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, she

realised with alarm. And isolated too. There were no other cars around that

she could see, so it couldn't be a very popular establishment.

'This is my house.' The mockery was back, full force. 'The family
mas
I was

telling you about.'

He paused. 'I decided,
ma belle,
that we would dine at home tonight. Enjoy

our mutual discoveries in private.' He let that sink in, then added silkily, 'I

hope you approve?'

THE silence in the car was almost electric. Meg was rigid, her mouth dry.

How could she have been such a fool? she asked herself with agonised

disbelief. She should have listened to her misgivings, but instead she'd

trusted him—because he was the first attractive man to show any interest in

her, she flayed herself savagely—and now here she was, in some kind of

ghastly trap.

This is my house.
Here, in the back of beyond, miles from anywhere—and

she didn't even know where 'anywhere' was.

'"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the spider to the fly.' And she'd done

exactly that. A nightmare coming true.

Her hands curled into fists in her lap.

She said, keeping her voice cool and even, 'I seem to have lost my appetite.

Will you take me back to the
auberge,
please?'

There was a silence, then Jerome Moncourt shrugged, the dark eyes agleam

with amusement, as if he knew exactly the thoughts and fears churning

under her calm exterior.

'Of course—if that is what you prefer,' he agreed equably. 'But Berthe will

be desolated if you do not at least taste her
cassoulet.'

'Berthe?' she questioned.'My housekeeper,' he said. 'She and her husband

Octavien have lived here, looking after the house and the vines, since my

grandfather left. Now they look after me.' He pointed towards the house.

'See?'

A man had emerged from the front entrance, and was standing hands on

hips, watching them curiously. He was of medium height and stocky build,

his face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, the inevitable beret pulled on

over his shock of white hair. He had bow legs, and a drooping moustache,

and bore no resemblance to the kind of sinister henchman who'd collaborate

in kidnap and rape, Meg decided, feeling suddenly oddly reassured.

'Will you risk my dining-table now?' Jerome Moncourt enquired

courteously. 'Or shall we eat here, in the car?'

Put like that, it did sound ridiculous, Meg admitted to herself, as she got out

of the car with all the dignity she could muster.

'All the same,' she said, as they walked towards the house, 'you should have

told me we were coming here.'

'Perhaps I did not dare. You might have refused—and,' his voice gentled, 'I

so much wanted to see you tonight.'

It was the perfect answer, she thought. Perhaps almost too perfect, as if this

was a well-practised line, her head reminded her as her heart began to thud

against her ribcage. But then she surely didn't think she was the first young

woman to feel her pulses quicken and her body grow feverish with

excitement at the smile in his eyes?

And she'd been stupid to think he'd ever need to resort to rape, or any kind of

force, she told herself wrily. His tactics would be far more subtle, and just as

dangerous in their way. He was still the spider, and she the fly, and she

mustn't forget that.

But his web was a delight.

The house was built on two storeys, the roof tiled in faded terracotta, sloping

gently down to the storage buildings which flanked it. Beneath the roof, the

stone walls were washed the colour of rich cream, dark green shutters

guarded the windows, and a golden climbing rose flung a triumphal arch

over the square doorway.

The door led straight into the main room of the house, the ceiling low and

dark-beamed, the floor flagged. At one end there was a large fireplace, its

massive hearth empty now. On either side of it two battered leather sofas

confronted each other. Opposite the entrance, glazed doors gave access to a

courtyard bright with stone troughs filled with flowers. In the corner, a spiral

staircase led to the upper floor.

At the other end of the room was a magnificent refectory table at which two

places were laid, and six high-backed leather chairs. Apart from a well-

filled bookcase, and a bureau overflowing with papers, there was no other

furniture. The effect was uncluttered, but it also created a very masculine

environment with few soft touches, Meg thought, as she looked around her.

'Is this the project you talked of?' she asked, catching sight of some timber

and other building materials in a corner of the courtyard.

He nodded. 'One of them. I'd thought of extending down the side of the yard

at the back, converting one of the barns. I wanted to provide myself with a

place to work, and also some guest accommodation. But I've decided against

that now. To provide the space I need would spoil the whole feel of the
mas.'

'Do you entertain a good deal?' She tried to sound casual.

'At the moment, not at all. I've been too busy.' He paused. 'My first task

when I came back here was to remodel the upper floor. I wanted to start on

the kitchen--' he pointed to an archway, through which Meg could glimpse a

scrubbed table and an old-fashioned range '—but Berthe wouldn't allow it.'

Meg sniffed appreciatively at the savoury garlicky aroma emanating from

the other room. 'I think most cooks prefer a familiar stove.'

Octavien had preceded them into the house. Now he appeared in the kitchen

door, frowning portentously, his wife behind him peering over his shoulder.

Berthe was a head taller than her husband, gaunt in a shapeless flowered

cotton dress. Her hair, iron-grey streaked with silver, was pinned in an

uncompromising knot on top of her head, and., her face was unsmiling and

suspicious as she openly looked Meg over.

Meg heard Octavien mutter something that sounded like, 'Another

Englishwoman,' but she might have mistaken the harsh
patois
he used. In

any case, it was no business of hers what nationality the other women were

that Jerome had brought here, she thought, lifting her chin, and she had no

doubt there'd been some, no matter what his work schedule might be.

Perhaps, unlike his staff, he had a penchant for foreigners.

'The food will be a few moments yet. Would you like to see the rest of the

mas?'
Jerome asked.

'Yes, that would be fine.' Meg smiled at the unresponsive faces in the kitchen

doorway. 'It all smells so wonderful,' she said in French.

But there was no softening. The couple turned and vanished back into their

domain, with only the clatter of saucepans and china as a reminder of their

presence, as Meg followed Jerome up the spiral staircase. It emerged on to a

narrow landing lined with beautifully made wooden cupboards.

'It was a maze of tiny rooms, all opening out of each other,' Jerome said.

'Now there is just a storage-room and a new bathroom next to it.' He threw