by Nora Roberts
A small sound of anguish escaped Serenity, and her eyes flew to Christophe only to meet a blank, brooding wall. She rose slowly, a deep ache assailing her, and turning her back on her grandmother, she faced the gentle smile in her mother’s portrait.
“I’m not surprised they put you out of their lives and kept you out of mine.” Whirling back, she confronted the countess, whose face remained impassive, the pallor of her cheeks the only evidence of emotion. “I’m sorry for you, Madame. You robbed yourself of great happiness. It is you who have been isolated and alone. My parents shared a deep, encompassing love, and you cloistered yourself with pride and bruised honor. She would have forgiven you; if you knew her at all, then you know that. My father would have forgiven you for her sake, for he could deny her nothing.”
“Forgive me?” High color replaced the pallor, and rage shook the cultured voice. “What need I with the forgiveness of a common thief and a daughter who betrayed her heritage?”
Amber eyes grew hot, like golden flames against flushed cheeks, and Serenity shrouded her fury in frigidity. “Thief? Madame, do you say my father stole from you?”
“Oui, he stole from me.” The answering voice was hard and steady, matching the eyes. “He was not content to steal my child, a daughter I loved more than life. He added to his loot the Raphael Madonna which had belonged to my family for generations. Both priceless, both irreplaceable, both lost to a man I foolishly welcomed into my home and trusted.”
“A Raphael?” Serenity repeated, lifting a hand to her temple in confusion. “You’re implying my father stole a Raphael? You must be mad.”
“I imply nothing,” the countess corrected, lifting her head like a queen about to pronounce sentence. “I am stating that Jonathan Smith took both Gaelle and the Madonna. He was very clever. He knew it was my intention to donate the painting to the Louvre and he offered to clean it. I trusted him.” The angular face was once more a grim mask of composure. “He exploited my trust, blinded my daughter to her duty, and left the château with both my treasures.”
“It’s a lie!” Serenity raged, anger welling up inside her with a force of a tidal wave. “My father would never steal—never! If you lost your daughter, it was because of your own pride, your own blindness.”
“And the Raphael?” The question was spoken softly, but it rang in the room and echoed from the walls.
“I have no idea what became of your Raphael.” She looked from the rigid woman to the impassive man and felt very much alone. “My father didn’t take it; he was not a thief. He never did one dishonest thing in his life.” She began to pace the room, battling the urge to shout and shatter their wall of composure. “If you were so sure he had your precious painting, why didn’t you have him arrested? Why didn’t you prove it?”
“As I said, your father was very clever,” the countess rejoined. “He knew I would not involve Gaelle in such a scandal, no matter how she had betrayed me. With or without my consent, he was her husband, the father of the child she carried. He was secure.”
Stopping her furious pacing, Serenity turned, her face incredulous. “Do you think he married her for security? You have no conception of what they had. He loved her more than his life, more than a hundred Raphaels.”
“When I found the Raphael missing,” the dowager continued, as if Serenity had not spoken, “I went to your father and demanded an explanation. They were already preparing to leave. When I accused him of taking the Raphael, I saw the look which passed between them—this man I had trusted, and my own daughter. I saw that he had taken the painting, and Gaelle knew him to be a thief but would stand with him against me. She betrayed herself, her family, and her country.” The speech ended on a weary whisper, a brief spasm of pain appearing on the tightly controlled face.
“You have talked of it enough tonight,” Christophe stated and rose to pour a brandy from a decanter, bringing the countess the glass with a murmur in Breton.
“They did not take it.” Serenity took a step closer to the countess, only to be intercepted by Christophe’s hand on her arm.
“We will speak of it no more at this time.”
Jerking her arm away from his hold, she emptied her fury on him. “You won’t tell me when I will speak! I will not tolerate my father being branded a thief! Tell me, Monsieur le Comte, if he had taken it, where is it? What did he do with it?”
Christophe’s brow lifted, and his eyes held hers, the meaning in his look all too clear. Serenity’s color ebbed, then flowed back in a rush, her mouth opening helplessly, before she swallowed and spoke in calm, distinct tones.
“If I were a man, you would pay for insulting both my parents and me.”
“Alors, Mademoiselle,” he returned with a small nod, “it is my good fortune you are not.”
Serenity turned from the mockery in his tone and addressed the countess, who sat watching their exchange in silence. “Madame, if you sent for me because you believed I might know of the whereabouts of your Raphael, you will be disappointed. I know nothing. In turn, I have my own disappointment, because I came to you thinking to find a family tie, another bond with my mother. We must both learn to live with our disappointments.”
Turning, she left the room without so much as a backward glance.
Giving the door to her bedroom a satisfactory slam, Serenity dragged her cases from the wardrobe and dropped them onto the bed. Mind whirling in near-incoherent fury, she began pulling neatly hung clothing from its sanctuary and tossing it into the mouth of the open suitcases in a colorful jumble of confusion.
“Go away!” she called out with distinct rudeness as a knock sounded on her door, then turned and spared Christophe a lethal glare as he ignored the command.
He gave her packing technique a raised-brow study before closing the door quietly behind him. “So, Mademoiselle, you are leaving.”
“Perfect deduction.” She tossed a pale pink blouse atop the vivid mountain on her bed and proceeded to ignore him.
“A wise decision,” he stated as she pointedly kept her back to him. “It would have been better if you had not come.”
“Better?” she repeated, turning to face him as the slow, simmering rage began to boil. “Better for whom?”
“For the countess.”
She advanced on him slowly, eyes narrowing as one prepared for battle, giving one brief mental oath on his advantage of height. “The countess invited me to come. Summoned,” she corrected, allowing her tone to edge. “Summoned is more accurate. How dare you stand there and speak to me as if I had trampled on sacred ground! I never even knew the woman existed until her letter came, and I was blissfully happy in my ignorance.”
“It would have been more prudent if the countess had left you to your bliss.”
“That, Monsieur le Comte, is a brilliant example of understatement. I’m glad you understand I could have struggled through life without ever knowing any of my Breton connections.” Turning in dismissal, Serenity vented her anger on innocent clothing.
“Perhaps you will find the struggle remains simple since the acquaintance will be brief.”
“You want me out, don’t you?” Spinning, she felt the last thread of dignity snap. “The quicker the better. Let me tell you something, Monsieur le Comte de Kergallen, I’d rather camp on the side of the road than accept your gracious hospitality. Here.” She tossed a flowing flowered skirt in his general direction. “Why don’t you help me pack?”
Stooping, he retrieved the skirt and laid it on a graceful upholstered chair, his cool, composed manner infuriating Serenity all the more. “I will send Bridget to you.” The astringent politeness of his tone caused Serenity to glance quickly for something more solid to hurl at him. “You do seem to require assistance.”
“Don’t you dare send anyone!” she shouted as he turned for the door, and he faced her again, inclining his head at the order.
“As you wish, Mademoiselle. The state of your attire is your own concern.”
Detesting his unblemished f
ormality, Serenity found herself forced to provoke him. “I’ll see to my own packing, Cousin, when I decide to leave.” Deliberately, she turned and lifted a garment from the heap. “Perhaps I’ll change my mind and stay for a day or two, after all. I’ve heard the Breton countryside has much charm.”
“It is your privilege to remain, Mademoiselle.” Catching the faint tint of annoyance in his tone, Serenity found it imperative to smile in victory. “I would, however, not recommend it under the circumstances.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Her shoulders moved in a small, elegant shrug, and she tilted her face to his in provocation. “That is yet another inducement for remaining.” She saw both her words and actions had touched a chord of response as his eyes darkened with anger. His expression, however, remained calm and composed, and she wondered what form his temper would take when and if he unleashed it.
“You must do as you wish, Mademoiselle.” He surprised her by closing the distance between them and capturing the back of her neck with strong fingers. At the touch, she realized his temper was not as far below the surface as she had imagined. “You may, however, find your visit not as comfortable as you might like.”
“I’m well able to deal with discomfort.” Attempting to pull away, she found the hand held her stationary with little effort.
“Perhaps, but discomfort is not something sought by a person of intelligence.” The politeness of Christophe’s smile was more arrogant than a sneer, and Serenity stiffened and endeavored to draw away again. “I would have said you possessed intelligence, Mademoiselle, if not wisdom.”
Determined not to surrender to slowly growing fear, Serenity kept both eyes and voice level. “My decision to go or stay is not something I need to discuss with you. I will sleep on it and make the suitable arrangements in the morning. Of course, you can always chain me to a wall in the dungeon.”
“An interesting alternative.” His smile became both mocking and amused, his fingers squeezing lightly before they finally released her. “I will sleep on it.” He moved to the door, giving her a brief bow as he turned the knob. “And make the suitable arrangements in the morning.”
Frustrated by being outmaneuvered, Serenity hurled a shoe at the panel which closed behind him.
Chapter Three
The quiet awoke Serenity. Opening her eyes, she stared without comprehension at the sun-filled room before she remembered where she was. She sat up in bed and listened. Silence, the deep, rich quality of silence, broken only by the occasional music of a bird. A quiet lacking the bustling, throbbing city noises she had known all of her life, and she decided she liked it.
The small, ornate clock on the cherry writing desk told her it was barely six, so she lay back for a moment in the luxury of elegant pillows and sheets and wallowed in laziness. Though her mind had been crowded with the facts and accusations her grandmother had disclosed, the fatigue from the long journey had taken precedence, and she had slept instantly and deeply, oddly at peace in the bed which had once been her mother’s. Now, she stared up at the ceiling and ran through the previous evening again in her mind.
The countess was bitter. All the layers of practiced composure could not disguise the bitterness, or, Serenity admitted, the pain. Even through her own anger she had glimpsed the pain. Though she had banished the daughter, she had kept the portrait, and perhaps, Serenity concluded, the contradiction meant the heart was not as hard as the pride.
Christophe’s attitude, however, still left her simmering. It seemed he had stood towering over her like a biased judge, ready to condemn without trial. Well, she determined, I have my own share of pride, and I won’t cower and shrink while my father’s name is muddied, and my head put on the block. I can play the game of cold politeness, as well. I’m not running home like a wounded puppy; I’m going to stay right here.
Gazing at the streaming sunlight, she gave a deep sigh. “C’est un nouveau jour, Maman,” she said aloud. And, slipping from the bed, she walked over to the window. The garden spread out below her like a precious gift. “I’ll go for a walk in your garden, Maman, and later I’ll sketch your home.” Sighing, she reached for her robe. “Then perhaps the countess and I can come to terms.”
She washed and dressed quickly, choosing a pastel-printed sundress which left her arms and shoulders bare. The château remained in tranquil silence as she made her way to the main floor and stepped out into the warmth of the summer morning.
Strange, she mused, turning in a large circle. How strange not to see another building or cars or even another human being. The air was fresh and mildly scented, and she took a deep breath, consuming it before she began to circle the château on her way to the garden.
It was even more astonishing at close range than it had been from her window. Lush blooms exploded in an incredible profusion of colors, scents mixing and mingling into one exotic fragrance, at once tangy and sweet. There were a variety of paths cutting through the well-tended arrangements, smooth flagstones catching the morning sun and holding it glistening on their surface. Choosing one path at random, she strolled in idle contentment, enjoying the solitude, the artist in her reveling in the riot of hues and shapes.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” A deep voice broke the quiet, and Serenity whirled around, startled at the intrusion on her solitary contemplations. Christophe approached her slowly, tall and lean, his movements reminding her of an arrogant Russian dancer she had met at a Washington party. Graceful, confident, and very male.
“Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte.” She did not waste a smile, but greeted him with careful cordiality. He was casually dressed in a buff-colored shirt and sleek-fitting brown jeans, and if she had felt the breeze of the buccaneer before, she was now caught in the storm.
He reached her and stared down with his habitual thorough survey. “You are an early riser. I trust you slept well.”
“Very well, thank you,” she returned, angry at having to battle not only animosity, but also attraction. “Your gardens are beautiful and very appealing.”
“I have a fondness for what is beautiful and appealing.” His eyes were direct, the dark brown smothering the amber, until she felt unable to breathe, dropping her eyes from the power of his.
“Oh, well, hello.” They had been speaking in French, but at the sight of the dog at Christophe’s heels, Serenity reverted back to English. “What’s his name?” She crouched down to ruffle the thick, soft fur.
“Korrigan,” he told her, looking down at her bent head as the sun streamed down, making a halo of pale curls.
“Korrigan,” she repeated, enchanted by the dog and forgetting her annoyance with his master. “What breed is he?”
“Brittany spaniel.”
Korrigan began to reciprocate her affection with tender licks on smooth cheeks. Before Christophe could command the dog to stop, Serenity laughed and buried her face against the animal’s soft neck.
“I should have known. I had a dog once; it followed me home.” Glancing up, she grinned as Korrigan continued to love her with a moist tongue. “Actually, I gave him a great deal of encouragement. I named him Leonardo, but my father called him Horrible, and that’s the name that stuck. No amount of washing or brushing ever improved his inherent scruffiness.”
As she went to rise, Christophe extended his hand to assist her to her feet, his grasp firm and disturbing. Checking the urge to jerk away from him, she disengaged herself casually and continued her walk. Both master and dog fell into step beside her.
“Your temper has cooled, I see. I found it surprising that such a dangerous temper exists inside such a fragile shell.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” She twisted her head, giving him a brief but level glance. “Not about the temper, but the fragility. I’m really quite sturdy and not easily dented.”
“Perhaps you have not yet been dropped,” he countered, and she gave her attention to a bush pregnant with roses. “You have decided to stay for a time?”
“Yes, I have,” she admitted and turned
to face him directly, “although I get the distinct impression you’d rather I didn’t.”
His shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug. “Mais, non, Mademoiselle. You are welcome to remain as long as it pleases you to do so.”
“Your enthusiasm overwhelms me,” muttered Serenity.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” Letting out a quick breath, she tilted her head and gave him a bold stare. “Tell me, Monsieur, do you dislike me because you think my father was a thief, or is it just me personally?”
The cool, set expression did not alter as he met her stare. “I regret to have given you such an impression. Mademoiselle, my manners must be at fault. I will attempt to be more polite.”
“You’re so infernally polite at times it borders on rudeness,” she snapped, losing control and stomping her foot in exasperation.
“Perhaps you would find rudeness more to your taste?” His brow lifted as he regarded her temper with total nonchalance.
“Oh!” Turning away, she reached out angrily to pluck a rose. “You infuriate me! Darn!” she swore as a thorn pricked her thumb. “Now look what you made me do.” Lifting her thumb to her mouth, she glared.
“My apologies,” Christophe returned, a mocking light in his eyes. “That was most unkind of me.”
“You are arrogant, patronizing, and stuffy,” Serenity accused, tossing her curls.
“And you are bad-tempered, spoiled, and stubborn,” he rejoined, narrowing his gaze and folding his arms across his chest. They stared at each other for a moment, his polite veneer slipping, allowing her a glimpse of the ruthless and exciting man beneath the coolly detached covering.
“Well, we seem to hold high opinions of each other after so short an acquaintance,” she observed, smoothing back displaced curls. “If we know each other much longer, we’ll be madly in love.”
“An interesting conclusion, Mademoiselle.” With a slight bow, he turned and headed back toward the château. Serenity felt an unexpected but tangible loss.