Inherited by Her Enemy

by Sara Craven

  ‘You—and that man? I can’t believe even you would stoop so low.’ Rosina flung out a dramatic arm. ‘Oh, I shall never forgive you for this—you little Judas.’

  ‘But at least I shan’t be a drain on your resources, Mother.’ Ginny lifted her chin, trying not to see Cilla’s expression of frozen resentment and disbelief. ‘You can’t have it all ways.’

  She paused. ‘And maybe some of our problems stem from other causes,’ she added, and walked out, closing the door on another furious tirade.

  Packing did not take long, her clothes and other personal possessions barely filling the suitcase she hadn’t used since boarding school.

  Not much to show for nearly twenty-two years, she thought wryly, as she added the framed photograph of Andrew with Barney that she’d taken from the desk in the study. Something, she told herself, that only she would value.

  As she carried her case downstairs, Mrs Pel suddenly appeared, her face troubled. ‘So you’re really leaving, Miss Ginny? And your mother beside herself, saying things about you and Mr Andre that don’t bear repeating. Are you quite sure you know what you’re doing, my dear?’

  Ginny tried to smile. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. After all, Mrs Pel, you were the one who told me to spread my wings and fly.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Pel said soberly. ‘But only for the right reasons.’

  Ginny put down her case and hugged her. ‘I’ll make them right,’ she said, more cheerfully than she felt. ‘And I won’t be gone for ever. I’ll write to you at Market Lane.’ She hesitated. ‘And if there’s any news of Barney, can you let me know?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mrs Pel sighed. ‘But I’ll be glad to be gone, and that’s the truth. This house will never be the same again.’

  What will? Ginny asked herself tautly as the hall clock began to strike twelve, and she heard the sound of a car approaching up the drive.

  Head held high, she walked out, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  Once the plane had taken off and she knew there was no turning back, she sat stiffly, hands gripped together in her lap, only too aware of the intimacy imposed by the seating, the proximity of Andre’s thigh to hers. Fighting the memories it aroused. Dreading the inevitable conversation.

  But Andre said very little. After making sure she was warm enough and ordering coffee, he occupied himself with a sheaf of papers he’d taken from the leather satchel she recalled from their first meeting.

  All too soon they were landing at Dijon, where a stocky young man, introduced to Ginny as Jules Rameau, was waiting with a battered Range Rover to take them to Terauze.

  Slumped in the back, unable to understand the quick-fire exchanges between the two in the front, Ginny found herself swamped by weariness mingled with depression.

  The quarrel with her mother had been inevitable, but she still regretted it. When she returned to England, she would have to find a way to make peace with Cilla too. Perhaps a week or two on a sun-drenched island would make both of them more amenable to reason.

  And maybe pigs would fly...

  * * *

  The jolting of the Range Rover as it slowed, then halted, dragged her back to the here and now. That, and the piercing cold of the night air as she left the car.

  There were cobbles underfoot and she stumbled slightly, only to find Andre’s steadying hand under her elbow as they moved towards a lighted doorway.

  They walked along a flagged passage and through another door into the kitchen beyond, and Ginny stood for a moment, feeling a blissful warmth surround her. Aware, too, of an equally heavenly aroma from a cast-iron pot on the big stove.

  Her gaze travelled from the wide fireplace where logs smouldered and the wooden rocking chair next to it, to the dresser filling an entire wall, its shelves groaning with china and glassware, and on up to the beamed ceiling where strings of onions and bunches of dried herbs hung from hooks.

  Through an archway, she could see the gleam of a sink and the shining white of a large washing machine and tumble dryer.

  By the time she left, she thought, all this would be totally familiar. But right now, she felt as if she’d landed on a different planet, and she was scared—especially about what tonight might bring.

  He said he’d leave me alone, she reminded herself. But how do I know he’ll keep his word—about anything?

  Andre’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘I regret that my father is not here to welcome you, but he is in Paris until tomorrow.’

  He was briskly ridding himself of his coat and, after a slight hesitation, Ginny did the same, before joining him at the long table covered in oilcloth and set with cutlery and a platter of bread, and watching as Jules ladled stew into bowls and Andre filled glasses from the unmarked bottle of red wine in the centre of the table.

  ‘Boeuf bourguignon,’ he said, handing her a bowl. Taking a seat opposite, he raised his glass to her. ‘Salut. And welcome to Burgundy.’

  Tired as she was, Ginny did not miss the faintly caustic glance directed at him by Jules as he joined them. Maybe her arrival was not going to be greeted by universal rejoicing, and Andre might possibly come to regret his hasty offer.

  She’d thought she’d be too tired to eat, but it took just one delicious mouthful of tender beef, beautifully cooked with wine, herbs, tiny onions and mushrooms to convince her she was wrong.

  The wine was astonishing too, filling her mouth with rich earthy flavours while caressing her throat like velvet. Or a lover’s touch...

  She even had some of the sharp, creamy cheese which followed the stew and sighed as she finally pushed her plate away.

  ‘That was—utterly delicious,’ she said stiltedly and looked at Jules. ‘My compliments to the chef, monsieur.’

  For a moment he stared at her, astounded, then a broad grin spread across his rugged face as he turned to Andre, making some incomprehensible remark.

  ‘Jules is flattered,’ Andre translated. ‘But the credit must go to his aunt, who has been cook here for many years. Madame Rameau is busy elsewhere tonight, but you will meet her tomorrow.’

  Jules got to his feet, still grinning. He said, ‘Bonne nuit, Andre, mam’selle.’ His dark eyes danced as he looked from one to the other. ‘Et dormez bien, n’est ce pas?’

  Well, she didn’t need a translation of that, Ginny thought, flushing angrily as Jules sauntered across the kitchen and out into the night.

  She said tautly, ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘Home to sleep. He lives in a house on the edge of the vineyard. La Petite Maison is always occupied by the manager.’

  He picked up her coat and suitcase. ‘And I think it is time that you, too, Virginie, went to bed. Viens avec moi.’

  A door in the corner led up a winding flight of wooden stairs to a curtained archway. He held the velvet aside to allow her to precede him and she stepped through to find herself in a broad corridor, its pastel walls illumined by elegant gilded sconces, which appeared to lead to a pair of ornate double doors at the end.

  Conscious that with Jules’ departure, she seemed to be here alone with him, she felt her apprehension mounting.

  Swallowing, she saw he’d reached the doors and was holding one of them open, motioning her to enter. Ginny obeyed warily and stopped dead, gasping, as she gazed round the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen.

  All the elaborately carved furniture—the enormous armoire, the dressing table and chair, the night tables and the linen chest at the foot of the bed—were clearly very old and made from wood the colour of horse chestnuts. While the bed itself...

  It was easily more than double the width of the queen-size bed she’d slept in at Barrowdean, making it what? Emperor-size? Dictator-of-the-world-size? And rendered even more imposing by its four carved posts, and its canopy and curtains in pale gold brocade.

 
And totally inappropriate for single occupation—if that had ever been his intention.

  Her heartbeat faltered then steadied as Andre set her coat and case down on the chest, then walked across the room to open a door on the other side and reveal the gleam of ivory tiles.

  ‘I am sure Clothilde has provided all that you need,’ he said. ‘Permit me to wish you goodnight.’

  As he reached the bedroom door, she said huskily, ‘Just a moment. There must be some mistake. This is not a servant’s room.’

  ‘Tu as raison,’ he agreed. ‘This is the room always occupied by the Baron de Terauze and his wife. Papa Bertrand, being a widower, chooses to sleep elsewhere. And although I am not yet the Baron or a husband, I have decided you will sleep here as my chosen bride until I am legally entitled to join you.’ His smile touched her like the stroke of a hand across her skin. ‘I live for that night, ma belle.’

  Her throat tightened. She said dazedly, ‘But that’s tantamount to a public announcement. You can’t do that.’

  He shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, it is done.’

  She gave him a challenging look. ‘And when it’s confirmed that there is no baby and I go back to England, what will you do then?’

  ‘I shall cross that bridge,’ he said softly, ‘only if I come to it.’

  ‘When,’ she said. ‘Not—if. And another thing. You told us all—you let us think you worked in a vineyard.’

  ‘And so I do,’ he said. ‘Very hard, and so do Papa Bertrand and Jules. If your mother wished to believe that as well as a bastard I was a peasant toiling in a field, that was her concern.’ He added reflectively, ‘But I do not think, Virginie, that you were fooled even for a moment.’

  Her skin warmed as she remembered with blazing clarity that strange shock of recognition when she opened the door to him and—later—the exquisitely practised sophistication of his lovemaking.

  She said, ‘I think it was a lousy trick to play.’

  ‘Vraiment?’ His smile was edged. ‘I thought it would please you, ma mie, to find that you also will not be required to live in a hovel.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said shakily. ‘Nothing about this—arrangement pleases me, or ever will.’

  His mouth hardened. ‘Then let us hope a night’s rest will bring you to a more equable state of mind. Because this is my future as well as yours, and you would do well to accept it as I am prepared to do.’ He inclined his head curtly. ‘À demain.’

  For a moment, Ginny stood staring at the door he had closed behind him and then, with a little inarticulate cry, she ran to it, twisting the heavy key in the lock. Wanting the physical bulk of wood and iron to create a barrier between them.

  And ashamed to her soul that she should feel it necessary.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GINNY AWOKE SLOWLY, as if she was swimming upwards through layer after languid layer of comfort.

  For a moment, as she opened her eyes, she felt disorientated, looking round an unfamiliar room from the depths of an unfamiliar bed. But then the memories of yesterday’s incredible sequence of events came flooding back.

  She had not expected to sleep and yet it seemed she had—almost as soon as the silk-shaded bedside lamp had been extinguished.

  Off with the light, then out like a light, she thought, her mouth twisting. But it’s a new day now and I need to be wide awake and firing on all cylinders to deal with whatever it brings.

  She pushed aside the covers and slid down to the floor, the polished boards striking cold to her feet. She retrieved her ruby robe from her case and huddled it on over her pyjamas before going to the window and opening the shutters. To find herself standing motionless, gasping at the unexpected glory confronting her.

  There had been a hard frost in the night, and, as a result, the red-gold ball of the early sun had turned the vine-clad slopes spreading as far as the eye could see into living flame.

  A welcome contrast to the darkness of her arrival and maybe, from now on, she would see more clearly in other ways.

  But maybe not hear or speak so well, with only her schoolgirl French to rely on. But that would probably be the least of her inadequacies, she thought, pulling her robe further around her with a shiver and taking one last look at the vibrant glow of the landscape before turning away.

  She picked a pair of jeans and a thick navy Guernsey from her case, then transferred the rest of her meagre haul of clothing to the depths of the armoire where it looked small and slightly lost. Rather how I feel myself, she thought wryly, locating her hairdryer and putting it on the bed.

  Collecting a handful of underwear and a towel, she was on her way to the bathroom when there was a loud knock at the bedroom door and a rattle as the handle was tried.

  She halted. ‘Who is it?’ Just as if she didn’t know.

  ‘Andre.’ He rattled the handle again. ‘Open the door, Virginie.’

  Reluctantly, she obeyed, turning the key in the lock. He walked in and stood, hands on hips, his face grim as he looked her up and down. Although she was perfectly decent, Ginny had to fight an impulse to draw her robe even more closely round her.

  Which was ridiculous when he knew perfectly well what she looked like naked, she thought with a pang that mingled embarrassed discomfort with something altogether more ambiguous.

  ‘I thought we had agreed to trust one another,’ he commented coldly. ‘So why lock your door?’

  She shrugged defensively. ‘My first night in a strange house. I felt—nervous.’ And she was nervous now. His arrival made the room seem almost smaller. And he hadn’t shaved, rekindling unwanted memories of the way his stubble had grazed her bare skin.

  He nodded. ‘And if there had been a fire and we had been unable to reach you? What then?’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But not impossible. Alors...’ He took the key from the lock and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I came to say that Madame Rameau will be preparing breakfast. I hope you will join us.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said jerkily. ‘Yes, of course. I—I’ll soon be ready.’

  He turned towards the door, then swung back and came over to her, his fingers reaching for her sleeve, grasping the soft ruby fabric. He said softly, ‘I find I do not care for this garment. Something else I should have told you to leave behind, ma mie.’

  And, before she could form any kind of protest, went.

  High-handed, dictatorial, and arrogant were just some of the words Ginny muttered under her breath as she stood under the blissful heat of the powerful shower. Words that she repeated over and over again as if they were a spell which would give her some kind of protection.

  Although she should not need protection. She was hardly here through choice, yet while she might have accepted the deal on offer, there were still parameters to be drawn. Limits to be observed.

  Her mood was not improved when she realised she could not plug in her hairdryer, and therefore she would be going down to breakfast with her hair hanging to her shoulders in rats’ tails.

  But what the hell, she thought, raking the damp strands back from her face. Looking attractive was hardly a preferred option.

  She took off her robe and, shivering in bra and briefs, reached for her jeans. At which moment the door opened and Andre walked in.

  She snatched up the jeans and held them defensively in front of her. Her voice shook. ‘Can’t you knock?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have seen you wearing less.’

  ‘I don’t need any reminder of that.’ She lifted her chin. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I thought you would need this.’ He tossed an adapter plug on to the bed beside the dryer. ‘I do not wish you to add a bout of pneumonia to the list of grievances against me you are undoubtedly preparing.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She bit her l
ip. ‘That was—thoughtful.’

  His brows lifted in faint amusement. ‘You said that, chérie, as if you were chewing broken glass,’ he observed. ‘I had hoped you would be more grateful.’ He paused. ‘I would welcome as little as a smile.’

  She said in a low voice, ‘Perhaps I haven’t much to smile about. And on the subject of pneumonia, I’d like to get dressed in peace.’

  ‘Hélas, I can only offer privacy,’ he said sardonically, his eyes travelling over her in frank and unhurried reminiscence. ‘Peace, ma mie, is a very different matter.’ And added, ‘For both of us.’

  It wasn’t until the door closed behind him that Ginny realised she was holding her breath.

  She fumbled her way into her clothing with hands that shook, but the necessity of wielding dryer and brush to restore her hair to its usual shining curtain gave her a modicum of composure.

  Making her way downstairs, she paused at the kitchen door, silently rehearsing an apology for being late, then marched in only to find that preparations for breakfast had apparently not yet begun.

  Instead she was immediately conscious of an odd tension in the silent room as if her arrival had halted a conversation, she thought as she registered the woman standing by the fireplace.

  She was tall with silver-grey hair cut in a sleek angular bob and a striking, even beautiful face, and Ginny found herself struggling to make a connection between the newcomer and Jules with his distinctly sturdy build and blunt, slightly pugnacious features.

  She summoned a smile and walked across the room, ready to shake hands. ‘Bonjour, Madame Rameau? Comment allez vous? Je suis Virginia Mason.’

  ‘Madame Rameau,’ the other woman repeated wonderingly. Adding in English, ‘Is this perhaps a joke?’

  ‘Au contraire, it is a mistake on my part, Monique.’ Andre, standing with Jules at the window, spoke coolly. ‘We were not anticipating the pleasure of seeing you at this hour and Mademoiselle Mason was expecting to meet Clothilde.’ He came forward to Ginny’s side. ‘Virginie, allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Chaloux.’