"You have no brothers or sisters?"
"I do not. And you? Can you recall anything about your family yet?"
"I, uh, I'm not sure."
"Perhaps some wine will help you relax, and when you relax something might come to you. Ah, excellent, here's our cheese and bread."
Bancroft entered with the first footman who carried the tray to the large coffee table in front of the fireplace, and handing Flora her wine, Zane guided her to the red-silk, over-stuffed sofa.
"Thank you, Bancroft, that will be all," he said as they sat down. "I'll ring if I require anything else."
"Yes, my lord," Bancroft replied with a slight frown.
"He doesn't approve," Flora said softly as the butler and footman left the room. "I shouldn't be here alone with you, and butlers are supposed to stay in case you need something."
"Yes, it's this way in France as well, but I live by my own rules. Those around me have given up trying to make me conform."
"You live by your own rules?" Flora beamed. "How marvelous. I do too."
He was tempted to ask how she knew that if she had no memory, but he decided not to press. If she had accidentally let something slip she might give away more.
"Please, taste the wine. It's one of my favorites. It's made by a friend of mine in France, Zavier Moreau. Perhaps you've heard of Moreau wines?"
"It rings a vague bell," she replied raising the glass to her lips and taking a sip. "I like it very much. It's exceptionally smooth."
"And I think perhaps you will enjoy this cheese with it," he continued, and cutting into a round of creamy Camembert, he spread it on a cracker, setting it on a plate.
"Thank you. I do love soft cheese, especially when it comes from France. Your dairy products are so much better than ours…though I'm not sure why I know that."
Her face turned slightly pink, and it occurred to him she might blush when she lied. Selecting a hard cheese he sliced off a large chunk, and picking it up he broke it in two and offered her a piece.
"Here, try this. It's rather sharp."
He studied her as she stared down at his fingers. Manners dictated it should have been cut with a knife and set on a plate as he'd done with the Camembert, but he wanted to see if she really was a free spirit as she claimed to be.
"Thank you, or should I say, merci?" she said, her eyes twinkling as she accepted it in her gloved hand.
"Whichever you prefer, but we are in London so perhaps thank you. If you are ever in Paris with me, then—"
"Then I will be happy to say merci," she said with a happy smile interrupting him.
"Do you speak much French?" he asked casually. "It is useful if you're there, though many speak English."
"A little, but I, uh…"
"Fleur," he began, leaning forward and fixing her with a solemn look, "I think perhaps you need to tell me who you are and why you're hiding."
"Zane, I—"
"Before you speak," he said briskly, holding up his hand, "there is one thing about me you should know. Dishonesty makes me very upset. There is no truth that is worse than a lie."
"Can I think about that for a moment?"
"You can think about it as long as you wish, but don't think about it so hard you forget my warning."
Flora was beginning to feel very strange. Her stomach was fluttering, her face was feeling hot, and she never wanted to stop gazing into his mesmerizing brown eyes. He was so perfectly handsome, almost to the point of distraction, and she wished she could remove her gloves and hold his hand. Not knowing what to say, she raised the wine glass to her lips and took a long swallow.
"You see, Fleur, I believe you have regained your memory but are afraid to share your secrets. I understand, I am a stranger, but perhaps I can alleviate your fears. I mean you no harm. Do you believe that?"
"I do believe that," she murmured, her wish to feel his fingers around hers being joined with a deep desire to rest her head against his chest.
"I brought you into my home and cared for you, but did I call the police?"
"No, no you didn't."
"You need a friend, Fleur, and I hope you know in your heart I can be that friend. I want only to help you."
She wanted to tell him everything, but the thought of facing her father was filling her with dread.
"Now I will ask you again. Do you remember who you are, and why you were running through that storm?"
It was a point blank question, and he studied her as she took another swallow of her wine. Her lack of response was his answer. Clearly she did. Would she lie?
CHAPTER FIVE
Flora had the overwhelming feeling that if she lied to him it would be very bad indeed, but conflict was raging inside her. She was sure her father would still be angry. It took him ages to get over a bad temper but she wasn't ready to face everyone. She was all too aware that what she'd done was bordering on the unforgivable, even though she honestly believed she'd had no choice. If she told Zane he'd be shocked and dismayed and want to take her straight home. Or would he?
"Fleur, it's a yes or no question. Do you remember who you are and what happened to you? I'm not asking for a detailed explanation."
Had he just read her mind? She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. Taking a deep breath, she nodded her head.
"Yes!"
He narrowed his eyes, and as the silence fell between them the only thing she could think to do was drink more wine.
"That means," he finally began, "over the last couple of days when I've asked you questions you have lied to me."
"No, I haven't," she said hastily, grateful the conversation had resumed. "I simply didn't respond."
He inwardly smiled; he'd been right. The lowering of her eyes and the soft blush that spread across her face happened when she didn't want to answer a question. He couldn't fault her. He often used the same tactic.
"I can accept that, but you must promise me there will be no lies."
To his surprise she crinkled her brow and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, apparently in deep thought.
"Is that a problem?"
"Um, it is rather," she replied dropping her gaze back to him.
"How so? Do you wish to lie to me?"
"No, of course not, but never is an awfully long time. If I promise never to lie to you it's a promise I don't know I can keep. Saying it just to please you would be a lie in itself, so I'd be lying from the start."
Zane couldn't hide his shock. In the countless times he'd asked for the promise, not once had he received anything but a heartfelt agreement.
"Do you not understand?" she asked misinterpreting his silence.
"Of course I understand, but why are you so sure you can't keep such a promise?"
"Sometimes a lie is better, and I've thought about it, and I'm afraid I disagree with what you said earlier."
"What I said earlier? Please explain."
He hadn't meant to sound so brusque but he was bewildered, a state of mind he'd not experienced since he was a boy. It was not a comfortable feeling.
"There is no truth that is worse than a lie. I take exception to that."
Zane stared at the pretty young woman seated before him. The phrase was one of his own making. He believed it utterly. No-one, man or woman, had ever questioned its wisdom, yet Fleur, or whatever her name, was looking at him with wide protesting eyes.
"Give me one example of when it is better to lie," he said briskly. "Just one!"
"Hmmm, let me think. Ah, yes, I know. A woman has had five sons and it is her greatest wish to have a little girl. Her husband too, is yearning for a tiny version of the wife he loves. When she is having her next baby there are complications, and the doctor tells her husband that the baby will be fine but his wife will not survive."
"This is a terrible tale," Zane declared. "Why would you start such a story?"
"You asked for an example and I'm giving you one, at least I will if you let me finish."
"That was petulant. I'm beginning to believe
you might be a bit spoiled."
"Perhaps I am, but may I continue with my example?"
"Please do. I'm looking forward to learning how a lie can serve better than the truth, even if it does involve a tale as tragic as this."
"The woman has given birth, but it's a boy. Her husband is holding her, and with her final breath she asks, Have I made our wish come true? Have I given you a baby girl? Should he not send her to her grave with a joyous thought? Wouldn't that be the best for her? He would have to live with the lie, but he would do so knowing he gave his wife peace in her final moments. Isn't that an example when a lie serves better than the truth?"
Zane was confounded. In the big scheme of things she was right, but morally she was wrong, or was she?
"That was an extreme situation," he declared. "It is not an every day occurrence."
"You didn't say anything about an every day occurrence, you asked me for an example and I've given you one, but if you want something mundane," she said thoughtfully, "I'm sure I can think of something. Yes, I can. Do you wish to hear it?"
"Oui. Tell me what you've come up with."
Though he didn't want his deeply held belief to be undermined she was fascinating him, and he found himself eager to hear what she had to say.
"You're walking near an impoverished part of the city and a child races past you holding a bread roll. She is dressed in rags and is obviously starving. She darts into an alley and hides behind a barrel. The baker runs on to the street, stops, looks around, and asks you if you've seen the young thief. What do you tell him? Do you turn in a poor starving wretch who is only trying to survive in the cruel world into which she was born?"
The example hit a nerve. Zane was passionate about helping those less fortunate. His family had been on the side of the revolution. It was one of the reasons they'd survived.
"I wouldn't tell him, but I wouldn't lie," he said firmly. "I would ask the cost of what was stolen and I would pay him. An honest hard-working merchant should not suffer the loss. Then I would seek out the youngster and tell her it was wrong to steal, then ask her to tell me her circumstances so I could help."
Flora was deeply touched by Zane's short speech. She knew no-one in her circle who would do such a thing, and as she gazed into his beguiling chocolate eyes, she wondered if her heart was thumping in her chest because the story so moved her, or if something else was happening—something profound. Something like, being utterly captivated by him.
"Do you see, Fleur, how you don't have to lie and can still help the situation."
"I do, and I take it to heart," she said softly, "but my point is simple. I cannot promise you something unless I know I can keep that promise, and there may come a time when you will be better served if I lie to you. I can promise to always do my very best to tell you the absolute truth. Will that satisfy you?"
"It will satisfy me," he said with a warm smile, "but if you take advantage of my understanding I will not be very happy with you."
A strange fluttery thing came to life in her stomach. She nervously nodded, then picked up her glass and took another sip. She was beginning to feel the effects of the velvety smooth wine, but she was enjoying the tipsiness.
"This really is excellent," she declared, mostly because she couldn't think of anything else to say, but studying his expression she sensed he was about to ask her something. "Go ahead."
"Excuse me?"
"You want to ask me something, go ahead."
"How did you know that?" he queried, wondering why he was suddenly so transparent.
"Sometimes I just do, know things I mean."
"My goodness, what an extraordinary woman you are."
Again he was taken aback. He was the one who detected such things. People were constantly amazed by his ability to see through them. Now he knew how they felt.
"You probably want to ask about who I am and my circumstances," she said with a sigh. "I really don't want to tell you, not yet anyway."
"You're quite right," he admitted, "but can you at least explain why you were running through that storm? Was someone chasing you?"
"Um, yes, that part I can tell you. My father was insisting I marry an awful German chap, though I shouldn't say he was awful, I didn't really know him, but he was much older than me and he looked like a scarecrow. It would have meant I'd have to leave my mother and brother and my friends and my home, and go and live in some dreary castle in Germany. I told my father I couldn't, and I wouldn't, but he refused to listen. I thought if I ran away he'd understand I meant it. He needs to know he can't force me to do something that will make me miserable for the rest of my days!"
Her tale had tumbled out of her in a torrent of exasperation and distress, and as Zane had listened he could well imagine the scene. The defiant daughter railing against her overbearing father who probably saw the marriage as something she needed. An older man would give her security, and would be better prepared to handle her willful and sometimes fiery temperament.
"I will not return until I know he takes me seriously," she added vehemently. "I will not be pressured into marrying someone I don't love."
"I see," he said thoughtfully, "but you had no coat or hat. Surely you could have planned better."
"Ah, well, I did plan better, but something unexpected happened."
"So you took it into your head to run out in the pouring rain with no protection? Did you have a destination in mind? You had no money on you. Where were you headed?"
"It's too much to explain," she replied crinkling her brow. "I think I've said enough."
"You've just told me you don't want to leave your mother, your brother, and your friends."
"Of course I don't. It would be terrible."
"But isn't that exactly what you did?"
"Only for a short time," she said impatiently.
"Do they know that?"
"Yes, I left them a note."
"How very considerate," he muttered sarcastically, shooting her a scolding look.
"It was. Why are you staring at me like that?"
"How do you think your loved ones are coping right now? Will they be jumping every time the doorbell rings hoping it's good news, hoping they'll hear that you're safe, and at the same time terrified that the news will be bad?"
"I, uh, suppose, but I had no choice."
"There is always a choice. How old are you?"
"I'm twenty, but why must you know that?"
"Do you know what I think?"
"You're going to say something not nice," she mumbled, picking up her glass to down the last of her wine. "You are! You're going to say something not nice. I can feel it."
."One of those things you know?" he suggested raising his eyebrows.
"Yes, one of those things I know."
"You're correct. What I think, young lady, is that you need a good spanking."
"What did you say?"
Zane suppressed a smile. She had gasped her question with her eyes as wide as saucers. He let the air fall silent, then leaned forward.
"You heard me," he said, dropping his voice. "You say you're twenty, yet you act like a child."
"You have no right to say that! You don't know me!" she exclaimed, her voice rising. "You don't know anything about me!"
"Perhaps, but you have no right to cause so many people so much worry," he said sternly. "If you were so opposed to the marriage and your father wouldn't listen, you should have sought out someone to speak to him on your behalf. Your brother perhaps, or you and your mother could have made a united front, or you could have written your father a heartfelt note, or been honest with the would-be husband and told him you had no desire to be with him. Would it have upset your father? Of course, but as we sit here and discuss this there are probably policemen searching for you, and your mother is probably absolutely beside herself. Yes, I am scolding you, and I'm sorely tempted to put you over my knee for being such a thoughtless, inconsiderate, spoiled girl."
"How dare you speak to me like that?
" she shrilled rising abruptly from the couch. "It wasn't your life that was about to be ruined. You have no idea what…ooh…my head…"
Zane knew exactly what was happening, and as she teetered he sprang to his feet and caught her around the waist.
"Let me go, you beastly man," she protested, wriggling in his hold as the room continued to spin. "You don't understand anything. You and your big brown eyes."
"Tell me your name."
"No, I'm not telling you anything ever again."
"Just your first name."
"You know it already. It's what you call me, well, almost."
"Fleur? Your name is Fleur?"
"No, it's Flora. It means flower just like Fleur does."
"Your name is Flora?"
"That's what I just said," she muttered, "and I don't feel so good."
"You need to sit back down and eat something, and no more wine."
"You're so bossy."
"You have no idea," he quietly remarked putting her back on the couch, "but you might well find out. Stay there and have some bread. I'm going to get you a glass of water."
He turned to walk across the room to the drinks cabinet, but he suddenly knew what was happening behind his back.
"Flora, If you pour that wine into your glass I will put you over my knee and spank you right now, and I don't lie, remember?"
She had already picked up the bottle. His unexpected warning shocked her. In spite of her giddy state she'd been keeping an eye on him, and she was sure he hadn't turned around. How had he known? Worse, why did his threat send her stomach into its wild fluttery dance? Maybe he was right. Maybe she did need something to eat, but as she picked up a thick piece of bread and sliced off a large piece of creamy Camembert, she knew the flipping in her stomach had nothing to do with the wine or her hunger.
It was him.
It was the handsome, chocolate-eyed, amazing Zane, and in spite of her righteous indignation, his threatened discipline was having a very strange and profound affect.
CHAPTER SIX
Zane had been a miracle baby. Born to a childless couple of a certain age, his birth had been shockingly easy, and the beautiful infant had grown into an enchanting child. It was said he'd been kissed by the angels. His hazelnut eyes held a warm unwavering gaze, his hair was thick and wavy, and he possessed a disarming sweetness that charmed men and women alike. He also possessed an uncanny sense about people, and his parents quickly learned to pay attention to his casual comments.
Master Zane Page 4