Chateau D'Armor

by Rebecca Stratton

  Jesamine laughed. It was useless trying to convince him that James was anything other than in love with her, but she was becoming a little concerned with the fact that her emotional situation was the hub of the conversation. “Neither James or I are in love as far as I know, Monsieur d’Armor,” she told him firmly. “We’ve worked together for some time now, but there’s never been any suggestion of anything—we are just friends, that’s all.”

  “So!” His shrug suggested he was still to be convinced, but would refrain from voicing his doubts for the sake of politeness. “You surprise me, ma chere! Let us hope that our own young men will prove less disappointing in the cause of l’amour, hmm?”

  His meaning was obvious enough for Jesamine to glance swiftly and instinctively at Paul, directly opposite, and she was appalled to find herself looking straight into those steely grey eyes that mocked her with laughter. “Oh, I’m not too concerned about that, Monsieur d’Armor,” she assured the old man breathlessly, and hastily looked away again. “I don’t have much time for—l’amour when I’m working!”

  “But you are not now working, mon enfant,” the old man reminded her gently, and she instinctively followed the direction of his gaze again, without realising what she was doing.

  She felt a strange curling sensation in her stomach when she saw the smile on Paul’s mouth and again met the mockery in his eyes. Perhaps she had been too rash after all and should at least have let James stay within call. That look of Paul d’Armor’s was infinitely disturbing, and she despaired of her own weakness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE first two weeks of her holiday had passed so quickly that Jesamine found it hard to believe it could have been so long. Francois d’Armor was an excellent host and seemed genuinely to enjoy her company. He was, as she had remarked, a gifted raconteur, and she spent a considerable part of her time with him during those two weeks, listening to his stories or looking at the treasures he seemed to lay so little store by.

  Both Jesamine’s parents were in the antique business, so that she had a fair idea of the value of the many beautiful things she was shown, and she wondered if her hosts had. Neither Monsieur nor Madame d’Armor seemed to realise just how much wealth, in the form of objets d’art, they had under their, roof.

  Old Francois confessed one day to having no idea exactly what there was, and certainly not how great their value would be on present-day markets. It was an admission that appalled Jesamine when she recalled how carefully everything in her parents’ stock was itemised and catalogued. The collection housed in the Chateau d’Armor must be worth many times that of her parents’ business, and yet no one had any idea of its value or even, in some cases, of its existence, until it was brought to notice by a visitor like herself.

  She had no difficulty at all finding common ground on which to meet her host, but it was rather more unexpected to find that she had a mutual interest in cooking with Madame d’Armor. It delighted her to think that there was some subject on which she could converse with the old lady at length without coming up against that unnerving barrier of difficult pauses that had hitherto marked their conversation.

  She did not really expect to see much of Paul during week-days, and her assumption was proved correct. He was out of the house for most of the day, and often disappeared in the evenings as well. During her first week-end there he had driven off early on Saturday morning and not returned until Sunday evening, and when he came back Jesamine thought she noticed a certain air of tension.

  It was nothing specific, but as well as that suggestion of strain she noticed that neither of his grandparents asked him if he had enjoyed his week-end away, and the combination of circumstances led her to speculate on the reason. The most likely cause, she thought, was that he had spent the week-end with a woman friend of whom they did not approve. She had no proof that her speculation bore any resemblance to the truth, but it would come as no surprise if it had.

  He was a virile and very attractively mature man, and it would hardly be surprising if he was to go off for an occasional week-end with one of his paramours. She had even suggested to him herself that he was no stranger to affaires de coeur and he had not denied it. What did surprise and dismay her was to discover how much she disliked the idea. His grandparents’ concern was understandable, for as far as she knew, Paul was the sole heir to their considerable fortune and they must by now be concerning themselves about a wife and family for him, but her own concern was inexplicable and she did her best to dismiss it.

  She had been at the chateau a little over two weeks, and she mused as she came downstairs one morning to breakfast that perhaps it was time she thought about going home.

  She had set no time limit on her unexpected holiday, but it had already been generously long and she would hate to outstay her welcome.

  There was a great deal she would miss when she left, more than she had found the first time, two weeks ago, when she had announced her intention of leaving. She felt quite unbelievably at home in the lovely old chateau and its beautiful gardens, and it was marvellous to have daily access to so many lovely and precious things, even though she still concerned herself with the haphazard precautions for their safety. Perhaps another week would not be thought too long. She would mention it at breakfast this morning, and perhaps leave next week-end.

  The big hall was deserted as she came downstairs, and she paused, as she sometimes did, beside a favourite painting that hung on the staircase wall. She had noticed it first quite early on in her stay, while she was writing the story of Charles Louis Vernais, but she had little time then to spare for any other than the central subject of her story. Now it was possible for her to take a more leisurely interest and she found the subject of the other portrait, if anything, even more intriguing than Charles Louis himself.

  The ever-knowledgeable Brigitte had informed her that the portrait depicted an earlier Comte d’Armor than Charles Louis, Raoul Amadis Vernais, and it had not taken her a long to decide that this particular gentleman bore an even closer resemblance to Paul d’Armor.

  Dressed in the elegant flattery of dark green velvet and with his hair powdered, he looked out at her with the same bold, challenging look in his eyes, but his features were more rugged and earthy than those of Charles Louis and the likeness to Paul therefore even greater. Possibly owing to his hair being powdered, he looked more fair, but whatever the reason Jesamine found him irresistibly fascinating.

  She should have remembered that the pair of light sandals she was wearing had heels that were not as firmly fixed as they might have been. They were pretty and she had chosen them because they flattered her slim feet and ankles, and she did not anticipate doing any walking that morning. But having put them on she had promptly forgotten about them or to make allowances for their insecure heels, and her forgetfulness proved her undoing.

  She turned from the portrait of the green-coated gallant too suddenly for the unsteady heels to cope, and the heel of her left shoe gave way under her so suddenly that she felt a sensation of helplessness as she started to fall down the wide marble stairs. Her cry of surprise was brief and hardly audible, for she had barely time to realise what was happening, but her hands reached out wildly for something to cling to and save herself.

  Instead of the white marble balustrade, however, her fingers encountered the smoothness of some woven material, something soft and yielding, that pulled apart in her hands to expose the solid warmth of a human body beneath it. She was not hurt, but she was brought up short and the breath knocked out of her when she collided with something only slightly less yielding than the cold marble, and a pair of strong arms held her close for a moment against a broad masculine chest.

  Another second or two and she realised that the fabric she clung to so tightly was a blue denim shirt that in her desperate effort to save herself she had pulled open down the whole length of its front, scoring the tanned flesh beneath it with her nails. Angry red marks that looked as if they had been made by the claws of a cat.


  “Petite minette!”

  The voice would have identified the owner of the arms if nothing else had, and Jesamine felt her heart begin to thud wildly in her breast as she struggled to stand on her own feet. She looked up at Paul d’Armor, stunned for a few seconds, but hardly surprised to see laughter glittering in his eyes as he looked down at her, noting her flushed cheeks.

  His hair, usually so tidily brushed, fell in a thick, disordered swathe across his forehead, as if his efforts to save her from a fall had been more hasty than studied, and the red scratches across his chest gave him a curiously savage look, so that she renewed her attempts to break the hold of his arms on her. He held her at arm’s length, fully aware of her anxiety to stand alone, but refusing to release her until he saw fit.

  “You should trim your claws, petite minette,” he told her, and laughed softly when her eyes questioned the name he gave her. “Little pussy,” he explained. “See how you scratched me when I caught you in my arms!”

  “I’m sorry!” She felt alarmingly breathless and fought hard to control her trembling limbs. “I could feel myself falling,” she explained, “and I—grabbed.”

  “I saw that you were falling, and I too—grabbed,” he told her. His eyes still glittered with that disturbing laughter and added to her uneasiness, and she wished that, just for once, she could face him without feeling so horribly naive.

  “I’m glad you were there,” she said. “I’d have gone all the way down the stairs if you hadn’t been!”

  “Almost certainly,” he agreed calmly, “and you see what my reward is, mademoiselle!”

  He indicated the scratches on his chest, but Jesamine spared only a brief glance, for there was something infinitely disturbing about that hard tanned body in such close proximity. He still held her, his large strong hands spanning her slim waist, and the warm palms through her thin dress suggested actual contact with her skin, so that she shivered.

  “I’ve said I’m sorry!”

  She was on the defensive and her retort was sharper than she perhaps intended, but it seemed impossible for her to react coolly towards him, especially in this sort of situation. Putting her hands over his, her fingers tingled at the touch of their tanned strength, but she managed to ease them from her waist, then stepped back carefully on the stair.

  “You do not feel—tremblante?” he enquired, and Jesamine hastily shook her head without really knowing what he meant.

  “I’m perfectly all right, thank you,” she told him. “But you’d better get Brigitte to put something on those scratches in case they—”

  “Pshaw!” He dismissed her concern with a careless hand. “I have been scratched before!”

  “Oh!” She was not quite sure what to make of what seemed to her to be an extremely provocative remark. “Just the same,” she insisted, “scratches can become infected.” His eyes glittered with amusement and he elevated one fair brow. “You think yourself so deadly, mademoiselle?” he asked.

  Jesamine refused to be drawn into anything so blatantly provocative and she stepped to one side without answering, meaning to walk past him and return to her room. She could go nowhere until she had changed her shoes and she was anxious to leave his disturbing company as soon as possible.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said in a voice that was dismayingly small and breathless, “I’ll have to go and change my shoes. I can’t wear these now the heel’s broken.”

  “Neither can you safely walk upstairs in them,” Paul informed her and, before she could do anything about it, he had lifted her into his arms and was carrying her back up the stairs.

  “Put me down!”

  Her hands pushed in vain at the broad chest and she could feel the warmth of colour that flooded into her cheeks. If someone should see them—and she thought particularly of Madame d’Armor, heaven knew what they would think. Things were certainly easier between her and the old lady lately, but she would surely view the present situation and its implications with suspicion.

  Paul merely smiled; a small and rather ironic smile that recognised her fears and mocked her for them. “You do not weigh very much, mademoiselle,” he remarked, and laughed, a soft, deep sound that rippled through both their bodies.

  The grey eyes in the rugged brown face were much too close for comfort and she hastily avoided them as she put her hands again to his chest in an effort to make him put her down. “I can perfectly well walk, monsieur,” she insisted. “Will you please let me stand on my own feet!”

  There was a stunning excitement about being in his arms that alarmed her, and she could feel her heart beating so hard that it made her head spin. He had made no move to refasten the denim shirt and she was pressed close to the bold masculine warmth of his body as he carried her, so that she closed her eyes briefly, despairing of her own weakness.

  First one sandal and then the other clattered on to the marble stairs as she made another effort to wriggle free of those inescapable arms, but to no avail. He did not put her down, only swore softly in French when she almost caused him to miss his footing on the stairs.

  “Zut! Would you have us both with our necks broken, petite idiote?” he demanded.

  The gallery was deserted— cool and shadowed with the morning sunshine that came in through the windows at either end and he dumped her unceremoniously on to her feet, then stood looking at her with a gleam of exasperation in his eyes, as if he resented her struggles to be free of him. Some form of thanks as due, she supposed, but it was difficult to know just what to say.

  “Thank you, monsieur!”

  She smoothed down her dress with hands that trembled like leaves, and she did not even try and look at him. She knew her face was flushed and that she stood even shorter beside him without her shoes, and she stood for a moment looking down at her bare feet on the dark red carpet with a curious sense of anticipation curling in her stomach.

  She did not need to glance up to know that he was watching her, she could feel his gaze as unmistakably as if she met it directly, and she shivered inwardly at some unfamiliar excitement. “How long have you been with us now, mademoiselle?” he asked, and she was so surprised by the question that she looked up, swiftly and almost involuntarily.

  The grey eyes were direct and steady, and she thought that disturbing glint of laughter still lurked there somewhere. “In all?” she said. “Almost exactly three weeks.”

  “So long?” An arched brow expressed surprise, although she was left in doubt whether he considered her stay already too long, or had not realised the time had passed so quickly.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, once more studying her bare toes, “I thought I’d tell Monsieur d’Armor this morning that I’ll make this the last week of my holiday, and go home next week-end. I’ve had two weeks’ holiday, just over.”

  “You have no more time to spare?” he suggested. “Or is it that you tire of the quiet life, Mademoiselle Arden?”

  It was a challenging question, but Jesamine refused to be drawn by it and simply gave him a straightforward answer. “I’ve enjoyed myself very much,” she said, “but I think three weeks is quite long enough to impose on anyone’s hospitality, however willing one’s host is.”

  “And your host is willing, mademoiselle!” The tone of his voice was such that Jesamine ventured another upward glance. “Grandpere is not averse to the company of a lovely young girl,” he assured her with a hint of cynicism. “Especially one who listens to his histoire with every appearance of enjoyment!”

  “Oh, but I do enjoy listening to his stories,” she insisted, and ventured further. “I think he really has enjoyed having me here, though, hasn’t he?”

  His mouth curved into a suggestion of a smile that was reflected in his eyes. “Naturellement,” he said, “and Grand’mere too. By expressing an interest in la cuisine, mademoiselle, you have charmed her to your side also!”

  “And you don’t like that!” She spoke impulsively, guessing that would be his reaction. Although she alr
eady regretted having been so outspoken, it was too late to go back now. “You still resent me staying on here, don’t you?” she said.

  “Resent you?” He echoed her words softly, and the look in his eyes shivered along her spine like ice. “Did Grandpere not suggest that if I did not welcome your presence here, I am not the man he believes me to be?”

  Old Francois’s meaning had been unmistakable, but she did not like being reminded of it, particularly at this moment, and the flush in her cheeks warmed anew. “Monsieur—” she began, but Paul’s shaking head silenced her, and he went on as if she had not spoken.

  “And have you not already decided that I am exactly the kind of man he thinks me?” he asked, soft-voiced.

  A frank speculative gaze travelled slowly over her features for a moment, then a large hand reached out and slid beneath her long dark hair. It cradled her head, resting on the nape of her neck, and the long hard fingers stroked her soft skin in a sensual caress that shivered through her.

  “Monsieur Paul—”

  Her voice trembled uncertainly in the shadowy silence, and he was half smiling. Smiling in a way that brought a tremulous uncertainty to her whole body, and yet she could not look away. She was drawn irresistibly closer without even realising it was happening, and the grey eyes held hers steadily.

  “The difference between us, ma belle,” he said, “is that Grandpere trusts you—I do not!”

  “Trusts me?” Jesamine wanted so much to move away from the influence of that hypnotic and sensual caress, but somehow she had not the power to do so. “I don’t — I don’t understand why you should distrust me,” she told him in a small breathless voice. “What is it that you’re so afraid I’ll find out?”

  The caressing fingers tightened suddenly and became iron hard, holding her firm in their grip while he looked down at her with narrowed eyes that held the coldness of grey steel. “I am afraid of nothing, mademoiselle,” he said, “but I do not like ghosts!”