Dawn Song (6 page)

open a door on the other side of the landing. 'And the rest is mine.'

No frills here either, thought Meg, stepping into a room which occupied at

least two-thirds of the available first-floor space. The whole rear wall

seemed to be glass, allowing a panoramic view of the wooded slopes of the

valley and the tall crags beyond.

At the far end, skylights had been let into the roof to maximise the light, and

here Jerome had a working-table, a vast surface covered by plans and

drawings. Apart from a tall chest of drawers, the only other piece of

furniture was the bed—more than kingsize, with elaborately carved head

and footboards, and a coverlet in shimmering black and gold brocade.

There was something barbaric about it, thought Meg, something which

made the bed, quite deliberately, the focal-point of the room. A kind of

personal statement, whose message she'd prefer to ignore.

She studiously transferred her gaze to that amazing view instead. 'It's

breathtaking,' she said. 'I can understand why you had the wall made into a

window.'

Jerome came to stand beside her. 'And there is another advantage. You see

that tall peak?' He pointed to a jagged outline against the pale evening sky.

'That is almost due east. From my bed, I can watch the dawn break.' He

paused. 'In the right company it can be an inspiration.'

To her fury, Meg felt her face warm at the image his words had evoked.

Jerome lifted a hand and stroked a finger gently, lingeringly down the curve

of her flushed cheek. He said softly, half to himself, '
"Oi deus, oi deus, de

I'alba tan tost ve." '

'I—I don't understand.' Meg felt her breathing go ragged as the caressing

hand found the lobe of her ear, and the sensitive column of her throat, then

moved to fondle the nape of her neck under the soft mass of hair. She knew

she ought to stop this right now—step back out of range—but something

kept her rooted to the spot.

'It's a line from a troubadour,
ma belle,
an
aubade,
a song of dawn,

lamenting the swift passage of his night with his beloved.' He leaned

towards her, and murmured the translation, his lips almost brushing her ear,

' "Ah, God, ah God, but the dawn comes soon."'

Meg's flush deepened. She tried to move, to resist the blatant persuasion of

his caress, because his fingers were on her back now, following the supple

length of her spine. Urging her, she realised, too late, towards him. And into

his arms, pinned against his body.

Jerome bent and took her mouth with his, coolly and unhurriedly, almost

questioningly.

At the first silky contact, Meg's eyes closed. She felt his lips move on hers,

coaxing them apart, felt the sweet fire of his tongue against hers as she

capitulated helplessly. Letting the kiss deepen. Letting her mind—her

will—spin into oblivion, as he drained all the sweetness from her mouth.

Jerome Moncourt lifted his head, and little devils danced in his eyes as he

looked down at her. She stared back at him dazedly, knowing that he was

going to kiss her again, knowing that she should resist—now, this

minute—break free from whatever thrall he was weaving around her...

Then from the bottom of the staircase they heard Berthe calling, '
Monsieur

Jerome—vous etes servi,'
and the spell was broken.

Jerome's smile was faintly crooked. 'One appetite at a time,
mignonne.'
He

took her hand, and pressed a swift kiss into the palm, making her whole

body shiver in delight—in shameful anticipation.

She was trembling inside, her head light, her legs oddly weak. As she went

down the spiral stair, she stumbled slightly, and his hand caught her,

steadied her.

'Take care,' he warned on a note of laughter, as if perfectly aware of the

havoc he'd created. Which, of course, he was. He was a sophisticated man

with a whole battery of sensual expertise at his command. And she was a

total novice.

As her untutored response to his kiss must have told him, she reminded

herself bleakly. He'll think I'm a piece of cake—a pushover, she thought,

gripping the narrow rail until her knuckles turned white. She needed to hang

on. She couldn't afford any more slips, she told herself, swallowing. She also

needed some food. It had been a long time— a lifetime—since breakfast.

A good meal would put fresh heart into her. It would also allow her a

breathing space to decide how to deal with this potentially disastrous

situation.

Downstairs, Berthe was placing a steaming tureen on the table, with a platter

of bread next to it. She indicated with a jerk of the head that Meg and Jerome

should sit at the table, and began to ladle the smoooth creamy concoction

into pottery bowls, one of which she dumped in front of Meg.

She'd had more graciously served food, Meg thought, with faint amusement,

but she knew after just one mouthful that she couldn't fault the cooking. The

soup was delicious with a delicate flavour she did not immediately

recognise.

'Tourain toulousain,'
Jerome told her when she enquired. 'Garlic soup. You

like it?'

'It's fantastic,' she said honestly. 'Please tell Berthe so. I don't think she

understands me.'

'I'm afraid she does,' There was a touch of wryness in his voice. 'Berthe, you

understand, has held a long and privileged position in my family. Sometimes

she and Octavien take advantage of this. You must excuse them.'

Maybe she could take advantage of it too, Meg thought; use Berthe's overt

disapproval of her presence to make a strategic withdrawal at the right time.

The soup was cleared away and replaced by a rich, meaty terrine,

accompanied by a tomato salad, rich with virgin olive oil and fresh basil.

'I thought you mentioned
cassouletV
Meg said wonderingly.

He smiled at her. 'That is still to come.' He poured her red wine from an

unmarked bottle. 'From my own vines,' he said.

Meg was beginning to think she couldn't eat another mouthful when the

cassoulet
arrived, served in a big earthenware pot. It was a brown and

bubbling mixture of haricot beans, sausage and minced bacon with garlic

cooked in layers around a large joint of pork.

Yet somehow she managed to demolish the plateful Jerome handed her with

yet more bread, although she regretfully declined a second helping. She also

refused more of the full-bodied, and, she suspected, lethally potent wine.

The meal was rounded of with a tart, in which swirls of thinly sliced apple

had been cooked under a light glaze.'I don't think,' Meg said reverently as

she put down her fork, 'that I shall ever move again.'

He laughed. 'Ah, but you will,' he said. 'You lack practice in eating, that's

all.'

'By the end of my stay I shall be like a barrel.'

'That will depend on the length of your stay.'

Of course, he thought she was here for a conventional vacation only. She

wondered what he would say if she told him she was staying for a month.

Not that she planned to tell him.

Ships that pass in the night, she told herself resolutely, as coffee was placed

on the table by the surly Berthe, who then withdrew.

Meg watched her go with mixed feelings.

'She and Octavien occupy quarters on the other side of the kitchen,' Jerome

told her softly, interpreting her expression with infuriating accuracy. 'If you

scream loudly enough, they will hear you.'

'Thank you,' she said shortly. 'That's—very reassuring.'

'On the other hand,' he said, 'you may not wish to scream.' The words, and

their implication, seemed to linger in the air, and she felt that betraying

colour steal into her face again.

Margot wouldn't have sat here blushing like an idiot, she berated herself.

She'd have flung back an answer—amusing, provocative, the outcome of the

evening already decided in her own mind.

And not the decision Meg herself had reached...

'Some cognac with your coffee?' His voice cut across her confused jumble of

thought. 'It will be quite safe,' he added with a touch of derision as she

hesitated. 'Alcohol is only used by the clumsy, or the uncaring, as a means of

seeking a woman's compliance.'

Meg stared down into the dark swirl of coffee. 'Is that what you look

for—compliance?' she asked in a low voice.

'Perhaps that is the wrong word.' He frowned slightly, the dark eyes fixed on

hers, his voice low— almost mesmeric. 'When I make love to a woman,
ma

belle,
I demand her full response—to know beyond doubt that she feels as I

do—wants what I want. Passion must be shared, or it is worthless.'

There was a brief silence. In spite of herself, Meg was aware of her body's

involuntary reaction to his words, could feel her nipples tautening with

excitement against the clinging fabric of her dress- knew, dry-mouthed, that

he could not fail to notice that either.

'I don't think passion on its own counts for much, anyway,' she countered

with a touch of desperation. 'It should be part of something else- something

deeper, and more lasting.'

'A very moral point of view.' His mouth twisted. 'And yet one has to start

somewhere, and usually it is with the kind of physical enchantment that we

discovered, just now, in my room. You don't deny that, I hope?' he added

mockingly, his gaze lingering on the betraying thrust of her breasts.

'On the basis of just one kiss?' Meg managed to invest her tone with an

inflexion of amused scorn worthy of Margot herself. 'Really,
monsieur,
you

may be very attractive, as I'm sure you know already, but perhaps you might

be overestimating your appeal.'

'You think so?' he asked, silkily. 'Well, one kiss is hardly grounds for

judgement, as you say, so let us see...'

He rose from his chair, and came round the table to her in what seemed to be

one lithe, totally predatory movement. Meg found herself lifted from her

chair into his arms, and carried across the room to one of the sofas.

'Let go of me.' Meg struggled, pushing at his chest with frantic fists.

'Presently,' he said softly. 'When I have completed my experiment.' He sat

down, holding her pinioned across his body, one hand twisted ruthlessly in

her hair, making it impossible for her to move. There was no gentleness

either, this time, in the lips which plundered hers. He seemed savagely

determined on enforcing a response from her, to salve, she supposed

breathlessly, his wounded pride. She'd made him angry, and this bruising,

burning possession of her mouth was to be her punishment.

Well, she could fight that with her own rage at his assumption that she'd be

another easy conquest—an apple ripe to drop from the tree into his careless,

outstretched hand.

Damn him, she thought raggedly. Damn him to hell.

At last, with a groan, he tore his mouth from hers. 'Marguerite.' The word

was almost a sigh. 'Ah,
Dieu,
this is not the way.'

He-bent, tracing the swollen outline of her lips with the tip of his tongue,

while his hand lifted to pull aside the concealing fold of the honey-coloured

dress and cup one lace-covered breast in his lean fingers.

The sudden
volte-face
from aggression to beguiling and seductive

tenderness sent Meg's head reeling. She found herself sinking into his

embrace, cradled against the lean warmth of his body, letting her lips caress

his in turn with shy invitation. He gave a soft groan of satisfaction, then

lifted his head to watch her face as his thumb stroked the suddenly

tumescent nipple, sending a sensation of mingled pain and delight shafting

through her body, making her gasp helplessly and revealingly.

No one had ever warned her that desire could be like this, she thought

dazedly. So swift and all- encompassing, making you deaf and blind to

everything but the primitive urgings of your newly awakened body.

When his mouth returned to hers again, she welcomed his kiss with

eagerness and anticipation, her lips parting involuntarily, her tongue moving

against his in instinctive eroticism. She felt him loosen the bow at her waist

which fastened her dress. She lay, quiescent, her eyes fixed on his face, as he

parted the dress, pushing the edges aside so that he could look at her.

The fragile scraps of underwear were an enhancement of her nakedness

rather than a covering for it, the dusky aureoles of her breasts clearly visible

through the flimsy lace bra, and the white V of her briefs shadowed by the

darker, silky triangle beneath.

Jerome drew a sharp breath.
'Tu es toute belle,'
he muttered unevenly, his

caressing hand slidingfrom her breast to her thigh in one lingering gesture of