Dawn Song (9 page)

my dear, and, when you have refreshed yourself a little, we can have lunch.'

Meg was thankful to escape from the
salon
without her legs buckling under

her, or nervousness making her throw up on the faded Aubusson carpet.

Well, she'd had her baptism of fire, and survived, she thought shakily, as she

followed Philippine's sturdy form up the gracious sweep of

the stairs. But she didn't like herself any the better for it. The fact remained

that she was an intruder in
madame'
s house, accepting her hospitality—and

her affection—under totally false pretences.

That was quite bad enough. But Jerome Moncourt's presence made

everything a hundred times worse. A nightmare from which there would be

no reassuring awakening, she thought, her throat tightening with unease. His

whole attitude to her was disturbing—a total enigma. Or was it merely

sexual pique because she'd walked out on him?

For her own peace of mind, she would have to stay out of his way as much as

possible, she told herself. That might not be easy. But at least she'd have the

evenings to herself when he went back to the
mas,
and his own private life.

She found herself remembering the black and silver bed, and the panorama

over the eastern hills, wondering how many women had watched the dawn,

there in his arms. '
Ah God, ah God...'

The pain that went through her was like a knife, slashing and savage,

resembling nothing she'd experienced before in its sudden intensity.

She thought, If I didn't know better, I'd almost think I was jealous. But it

can't be that. It can't be...

And -this time the tremor that shook her was not of pain, but of fear.

'THIS is your room,
mademoiselle.'
Philippine's prosaic words rescued Meg,

snatching her back from the whirling edge of some emotional abyss.

'Oh—thank you.' Her heart still thudding wildly, in revolt against that

sudden moment of wholly unwelcome self-revelation, Meg went through

the door that Philippine was holding open.

She found herself in a large square room, made gloomy by an assortment of

heavily carved old- fashioned furniture and a big, canopied bed. The smell

of damp was even more pronounced than it had been downstairs, but the bed

seemed soft enough in spite of its faintly oppressive appearance, and the

linen was crisp and fragrant with dried herbs of some kind, she realised

appreciatively.

'I hope you will be comfortable.' Philippine fussed anxiously with towels.

'The bathroom is across the passage.' She pointed to its door. 'It is the only

one in this part of the house, so you share it with Monsieur Moncourt.'

Meg swung round. 'But he doesn't stay here, surely?' She paused, trying to

moderate the startled sharpness of her tone. 'I mean—he has a house of his

own—not far away—doesn't he?'

'Ah, yes.' Philippine shrugged largely. 'Sometimes he returns there at night.

Sometimes not.' She glanced around her. 'To survey a house of this size in a

limited time, and prepare a list of works, is a task of great magnitude. Often

monsieur
begins early in the morning, and is occupied very late at night, so it

is more convenient for him to stay.'

She gave Meg a darting smile. 'Besides,
madame
likes him to remain. She

enjoys much to have the company of a man in the house once more, I think.'

She sighed sentimentally. 'He is like the son she never had,
la pauvre.'

'Really?' Meg kept her voice non-committal, but her heart sank like a stone.

'Now I must prepare to serve lunch.' Philippine took a last look round, and

pointed to a frayed cord hanging beside the bed. 'If there is anything you

require,
mademoiselle,
you must ring.'

'I'm sure everything's fine.' Meg forced a smile of her own. She'd just seen

that the heavy door sported an ornate lock, complete with key. Rusty,

maybe, but hopefully still functional. Just in case Monsieur Moncourt

decided he wanted to share more than a bathroom, she told herself grimly.

When Philippine had bustled off, she went to have a look at the bathroom.

There was a bolt on this door too, she saw with satisfaction.

The tub was a massive affair, standing on claw feet in the centre of the room,

in a kind of majestic isolation. Meg's tentative manipulation of one of the

heavy brass taps brought an instant gush of steaming water, and she patted

the bath's substantial- cast-iron side.

I think we may be friends, she told it under her breath. She wished she could

sink into its depths right now, and soothe away her growing unease and

uncertainty, but with lunch imminent the best she could hope for was a quick

rinse of her face and hands in the large hand-basin.

She went back across the passage to collect a towel, and stopped dead in the

doorway with a little gasp as Jerome Moncourt turned, hands on hips, from

the window.

He looked, Meg thought angrily, quite un- nervingly at home. 'What are you

doing here?' she demanded between her teeth. 'You've got a hell of a nerve.'

'Don't be more of a fool than you can help,' Jerome retorted crisply. He

pointed to the corner of the room. 'I've just carried up your luggage. It begins

to be a habit.'

'Thank you,' Meg said stiffly. 'But I still want you out of here.' She crossed to

the bed and grasped the bell-pull. 'Or do I have to ring for Madame Lange?'

'Summon whoever you wish,' he said pleasantly. 'But don't tug too hard or

the whole mechanism will undoubtedly come away in your hand, and bring

the whole ceiling with it. Philippine should have warned you.'

'I don't believe you.'

He laughed. 'It's a possibility. Word of an architect.'

Meg took a breath, relinquishing the rope with open reluctance. 'I don't think

I'd take your word for what day it was,' she said with bitter clarity.

'Harsh words.' His voice was dry. He looked her over, the hooded eyes

meditative. 'I think you and I must declare a truce.'

'On whose terms?' She faced him, chin up, eyes sparkling, refusing to admit

to herself the potency of his attraction. 'And for how long? Oh, don't tell me.'

She gave a small, brittle laugh. 'As long as it takes.'

'Exactly that. There is a great deal to be accomplished, as you've already

noticed.' He looked around him. 'I hope you're not too disappointed in your

surroundings,' he went on coolly. 'You'd imagined, perhaps, something more

glamorous— and definitely more affluent.' He shook his head. 'Without

money to halt the decline, a house like this can become more of a burden

than an asset.'

'That's hardly any concern of mine,' she said brusquely. 'And I don't think

Madame de Brissot would care to have her private affairs discussed behind

her back, no matter how old a friend you might be.'

'I stand corrected.' A faint smile twisted the corners of his mouth. 'So you've

never wondered about the future, Marguerite—asked yourself what this frail

elderly godmother of yours might have in mind for her crumbling heritage?

Or why she has chosen to summon you here at precisely this moment in

time?'

'No,' Meg said baldly. 'I haven't.' Yet wasn't this exactly why she was

here—to safeguard Margot's mercenary interests? her conscience nudged at

her. Although these seemed to be fading fast, she acknowledged in silent

satisfaction.

Jerome laughed. 'You are almost too good to be true,
ma belle.'
There was a

jeering note in his voice. 'I look forward to the—furtherance of our

relationship over the weeks to come.'

'Well, I don't share your sense of anticipation.' Meg lifted her chin. 'And we

don't have a relationship, as far as I'm concerned,' she added for good

measure.

'No?' He studied her, brows lifted. 'My recollection is rather different.'

'Perhaps,' she said grittily. 'I remember—a temporary aberration. Nothing

more.' She drew a breath. 'In fact,
monsieur,
I get the distinct impression that

you don't even like me very much.'

'Liking?' His voice was contemptuous. 'What has that bland word to do with

the flame of the senses between a man and a woman? Last night, Marguerite,

your body cried out to mine. And nothing—no denials—no regrets—can

change a thing.'

Two swift strides brought him to her. Before she could assimilate what was

happening and take avoiding action, Meg found herself pulled into his arms,

pinioned with merciless strength against the hard length of his body. His

thigh thrust between hers, parting her legs in harsh and devastating intimacy.

Her lost and frightened cry was stifled in her throat as his mouth closed

hungrily on her trembling lips.

The kiss seemed endless—eternal. She couldn't breathe, and sparks of fire

danced behind her closed eyelids. She could hear the thunder of her pulses,

like the reverberations of yesterday's storm, feel the blood running thick and

hot in her veins. Reason was suspended. In spite of herself she was

transformed into sheer physical sensation.

Jerome's hands slid down her spine, cupping her buttocks, urging her

towards him, to the fierce, compelling pressure of his muscular thigh against

the moist, soft centre of her womanhood.

Oh, God, she screamed wordlessly, as her body ground eagerly, greedily

against his, seeking an assuagement she could only imagine. Every fibre of

her being was focused with an almost savage intensity on the burn of his

mouth and body against hers, until she thought she was going to faint—or

die.

The bed was so close. All she had to do was sink back on to it, pulling him

down with her... And then, with devastating suddenness, she was free again.

Jerome tore his lips from hers, putting her away from him almost roughly.

His hooded eyes glittered, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his

forehead.

He said raggedly, 'So let's not talk of aberrations, my beautiful little

hypocrite. Because now we both know better.' He paused, his eyes raking

her flushed, aroused face. 'Don't we,
ma poule?'

He turned, and strode to the door. Meg watched dazedly as he took the key

from the lock, tossing it almost reflectively in his hand, as he glanced back at

her. He said, half to himself, 'I think this will be safer with me,' and walked

out of the room, leaving-her there, bereft, one hand pressed to her bruised

and quivering mouth.

It took all Meg's courage to go downstairs again. She was desperately

tempted to cry off from lunch— to plead a headache, or some other excuse.

But to do that would be tantamount to admitting he'd achieved some kind of

victory, and that would be fatal.

She went into the bathroom, splashing cool water on her flushed face, then

got to work with the modest supply of cosmetics she'd brought with her,

trying to disguise with colour the swollen contours of her mouth, and

shadow the almost drugged intensity of her eyes. But there was little she

could do to control the unruly throb of her pulses, or the aching torment of

need he'd awoken in her yet again.

In fact, he'd hardly had to try, she thought with a kind of icy despair

commingled with shame. Now she had to face him—to pretend that nothing

had happened. But then, on the face of it, very little had. He'd kissed her, that

was all. A justification of his male ego, which she'd wounded. A mistake she

would not make again, she thought flatly. She'd come here to be Madame de

Brissot's companion, and only that. From now on she'd become her devoted

shadow, never willingly prised from her side, she thought grimly.

And, in spite of his lethal attraction, there'd be little Jerome Moncourt could

do about that. And, sooner or later, he'd get tired of his sterile pursuit of her,

and devote himself to the lady on the telephone—or someone else on his list,

leaving her free to go home at the end of the month, and forget him.If she

could.

Meg stared at her reflection, observing almost clinically the wide, troubled

eyes, the tautness along her cheekbones, and the quiver of her bruised lips,

felt the desolate pang of yearning vibrate deep within her, turning her whole

body into a silent sigh of longing.

She thought with a kind of anguish, Oh, please God, don't let it be too late.

Don't—don't let me be in love with him.

Head held high, she eventually descended the stairs, pausing at their foot to

brace herself as she heard voices from the
salon.
Then quietly, she pushed

open the door and walked into the room.
Madame
was occupying her former

seat, a hand pressed rather wearily to her forehead, while Jerome was

standing at the window, holding a sheaf of papers.

'If you think the work is necessary, then, of course, it must be done,'
madame

was saying as Meg entered.