Chateau D'Armor

by Rebecca Stratton

  “It is inevitable while you persist in annoying me!” Paul informed her shortly. “You have the gift of always doing the wrong thing, petite fouinarde; of always being in the wrong place!”

  “That’s only your opinion!” Jesamine told him, stung to rashness by an instinctive need to defend herself, then gasped aloud when his fingers closed about her chin suddenly and jerked her face up to him.

  “It is my opinion that matters eventually, ma fille,” he warned through tight lips. “Do not forget that, or it will be the worse for you, for be sure I can have you removed, from my home should I decide to!”

  “Don’t do that!” She was angry, but she was also tinglingly aware of the sensation he was having on her senses while he held her, and she knocked his hand away, her blue eyes bright and angry as she rubbed at the marks left by his fingers. “I’m here at the invitation of Monsieur d’Armor,” she reminded him, her voice small and unsteady, despite her efforts to steady it, “you seem to forget that!”

  “I am unlikely to forget, mademoiselle!” he retorted, and Jesamine stuck out her chin.

  “Oh no, of course!” she said. “You wouldn’t have me here at any price, would you?”

  Her hands were flexed tightly at her sides, and she was prepared for heaven knew what from him, certainly not for the short, harsh sound of his laughter. It glittered in his eyes, not as amusement, but bright and challenging as he looked down at her. “You mistake me, ma belle!” he told her flatly. “But you would have no time for probing and prying into things which do not concern you, if you were here at my invitation!”

  His meaning was obvious and she had no time to respond, even had she the words to do so, for he reached out and pulled her into his arms, impelling her against the unyielding hardness of his body with a force that knocked the breath out of her. With one large hand he held the back of her head, his fingers twined into her long hair, while the other bound her to him inescapably.

  Before she could even draw a breath, his mouth pressed hard on to hers, forcing her head back against his fingers, so fiercely demanding that it stunned her senses. Too dazed to do more than yield breathlessly in the first few seconds, she slowly realised how willingly she was letting herself respond to the assault on her emotions, and she began to struggle.

  Her hands beat at his chest and she tried to turn her face away from him, but that iron-hard hand with its spread fingers held her firm and her struggles slowly died. When he did release her at last, she was too breathless to do more than stand and stare at him, breathing heavily. Her cheeks were flushed and her parted lips still burned with the fierceness of his kiss, so that she put a hand to touch her mouth with her fingertips.

  A chaos of jumbled reactions stormed through her brain as she stood there looking up at him, and it seemed like an eternity before she could move. She was trembling like a leaf and her hands fluttered uncertainly as she let them fall at her sides—there were so many ways she could have reacted, and yet she could not yet bring herself to do anything.

  She should have made some form of protest, perhaps even a physical one, but instead she stood doing nothing, while he looked at her with a disturbing darkness in his eyes that she had never seen there before. He drew a breath, as if he was about to say something, but Jesamine did not stop to hear what it was. Instead she turned hastily and went hurrying through the green shadows of the chestnut trees, not even knowing for sure if she was going in the right direction, only anxious to be away from Paul, and the disturbing effect he had on her.

  It was more shock than surprise when Francois d’Armor made her the offer of working for him, and Jesamine stared at him for several seconds before she answered. “Work for you, Monsieur d’Armor?” she asked, and inevitably she looked across at Paul. “I—I don’t quite see how I can—I mean, what could I do?”

  The day before she had told him of her decision to leave, and she could not imagine why he would go to the lengths of offering her work with the idea of extending her stay even further. That unexpected and disturbing encounter with Paul in the chapel had decided her, and as soon as she got back to the house she had sought out her host and told him of her decision.

  Old Francois had said little at the time, but she thought he was not pleased by her decision, although he had expressed an understanding of the reasons she had given him. Perhaps he had some inkling of her real reason, for he had more than once made some quite pointed observations on his grandson’s attitude towards her. It was possible he could see how responsive she was to Paul’s undeniable attractions and had his own reasons for encouraging their relationship.

  Whatever they were Jesamine was wary of accepting anything that would bring her into continued contact with Paul. He was dangerous, as James had warned her, but she had only yesterday realised just how dangerous where she herself was concerned. Arrogant and ruthless, he would take anything he wanted, but it was doubtful if his own emotions could be touched very deeply.

  The old man’s bony fingers touched her hand lightly, reminding her that she had not yet given him an answer, and he smiled when she looked at him. “You have often expressed your alarm at the lack of security we have here,” he reminded her, “and I am not so old that I cannot take good advice, mon enfant! I have decided that the whole collection of objets d’art—everything—shall be listed, as you advised. Then perhaps we will take better precautions for their safety, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oh, monsieur, I’m so glad,” Jesamine told him, genuinely pleased that something was being done at last. “It’s something that really needs doing!”

  “I agree, ma chere, although I had not realised the urgency of the matter until you brought it to my notice.” He was smiling, and Jesamine wondered just what he had in mind. “So, Mademoiselle Arden, since you have concerned yourself with our treasures,” he said, “why should you not have the privilege of making the catalogue?”

  Jesamine stared at him for a moment unbelievingly. “You mean you want me to—you want me to do it?”

  “Who better?” the old man asked. “You will accept, nest-ce pas?”

  Jesamine took a moment or two to consider. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and never again would a chance like that come her way. But it was also a tremendous responsibility, and she was not sure whether her capabilities were up to such a mammoth task.

  Even if she did decide to gamble on her ability, there was still the question of staying on under the same roof as Paul d’Armor. It was impossible that she could ignore him, or her own reactions to him, and her heart was already hammering hard at her ribs when she contemplated such a situation going on indefinitely.

  “It’s very kind of you, Monsieur d’Armor,” she told him, still waveringly uncertain. “You must know I’d love to do it, but—”

  She looked swiftly across at Paul when his cool voice intervened suddenly. “But, Grandpere,” he said, “Mademoiselle Arden is a journalist. Is it likely that a reporter would be interested in working with antiques? Also I am sure that mademoiselle is anxious to return to her home after so long. N’est-ce pas, mademoiselle?”

  His obvious desire to see the last of her was something she found strangely hurtful, although she hastily quelled the feeling and responded instead to the challenge it offered. She looked at him down the length of her small straight nose, her blue eyes defying his opinion.

  “On the contrary, Pau—Monsieur Paul,” she informed him, “I’m very interested in the idea!”

  A tight smile recognised her slip of the tongue, and his eyes mocked her hasty cover-up. “Indeed—Mademoiselle Jesamine?” he said.

  She ignored him determinedly, turning once more to his grandfather. “I’d be delighted to try,” she told him. “I’m not an expert, but I think I know enough to list everything quite accurately. There’s one thing I must be sure of first, though.”

  “Mais oui?” Francois looked at her enquiringly, and she in turn sought Madame d’Armor’s attention.

  “I’d love to work here, but
I’ll do so only if you approve, madame,” she told her.

  “Moi?”

  The old lady looked so surprised that Jesamine felt a strange gentleness towards her suddenly. She was a proud and handsome woman, and initially she had given the impression that she was autocratic, but lately Jesamine had come to suspect that she was more often obedient to the whims of her strong-willed menfolk, for they seldom seemed to seek her opinion about anything.

  “Of course you, madame,” Jesamine told her with a smile. “You’re the one most concerned with the running of the house, after all. Another person on the staff concerns you as much as anyone, doesn’t it? Will it disturb you too much to have a stranger in your midst for a while longer?”

  Clothilde d’Armor said nothing for several seconds, and Jesamine wondered if she realised how closely her grandson was watching her. There was a curious gleam in his eyes that was oddly disturbing and she wondered what he was thinking.

  “I am certain you have the necessary—connaissance to do this work for my husband, Mademoiselle Arden,” the old lady said at last. “I would be pleased to have you here. Perhaps—” She hesitated briefly. “Perhaps when you are not engaged in your work we might discuss la cuisine, n’est-ce pas?”

  Her approval would have been enough, but to have added that unexpected request for her company sometimes, Jesamine found rather touching, and she smiled at her warmly before she turned back to her husband. “So, Monsieur d’Armor,” she told him, “I’d like to take the job—if you’re sure you trust me with all those beautiful and valuable things.”

  She was thinking of Paul’s remark that although his grandfather trusted her implicitly, he did not, and she wondered if the old man’s trust was as naive as his grandson insinuated. “Why should I not trust you, ma chere?” he asked, and Jesamine cast a swift glance at Paul.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t trust a stranger so readily,” she suggested. “Some would say you were taking a chance, monsieur!”

  As if he followed her meaning, Francois too glanced at his grandson, shaking his head. “Mon cher enfant,” he said, “if you had been inclined to steal from us you could have done so by now. You could have taken things from our home and returned with them to your own, with no one the wiser, as you well know. Non, ma chere, I have long considered myself an excellent judge of character, also—” he shrugged extravagantly, “are you not one of our family?”

  Jesamine did not commit herself on the matter of her kinship, not with Paul watching her, but she smiled at him, grateful for his trust. “I shall enjoy it enormously,” she said, “though it’s a big responsibility.”

  Francois winked an eye at her, and his smile was as mischievous as a child’s. “Mais oui,” he agreed. “It will also prove to be a long task, n’est-ce pas, ma chere?”

  It scarcely seemed possible that a week had passed since she started on her mammoth task of cataloguing the d’Armor collection, for she had yet to complete the contents of one room. Part of her time, of course, had been taken up with visits from Francois d’Armor, but mostly it was because Jesamine had not sufficient expertise to be confident. She could not tell at a glance the age and value of an article.

  Being less expert she needed to concentrate more thoroughly and take more time over each individual item, and she often wished she had access to her parents’ professional guidance. Not that she was unhappy with what she was doing, but she needs must be more painstaking.

  She had received a letter from James that morning, in answer to hers telling him about her new job at the chateau, and it was typical of James that he had stated in no uncertain terms that he thought her quite mad. Why, he demanded, did she have to put her head into the lion’s mouth?

  That last had made her smile to herself, although she supposed there was a certain amount of truth in what he said. But whatever reasons James might produce for not taking the job, they were far outweighed by the satisfaction and pleasure she got from it. Nothing else she had done so far in her life had given her as much satisfaction as making an orderly inventory of the valuable paintings, furniture and objets d’art that had, until now, been shamefully neglected.

  A glance at her wristwatch showed that there was still some time to go until lunch, and she put down the list she was making on the desk in front of her, running her fingers over the smooth beauty of its surface as she did so. Even the desk she was using for her work appeared on her list—an exquisite spindle-legged escritoire, beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  She stretched her arms above her head, then leaned back in her chair, enjoying a moment of relaxation with her eyes closed and her head tipped back, so that her long black hair hung like dark silk over the tapestried back of the chair.

  The sun was warm and she would like to have been out of doors this morning. Not that she had any complaints, but she was accustomed to being rather more active than she had been of late, and there was much to be lost if she relaxed her concentration for a moment.

  She heard nothing of the door opening, but opened her eyes hastily when a voice spoke from immediately behind her. “You are bored, mademoiselle?” Paul d’Armor asked.

  The desk was near to, and facing, one of the windows, and the dazzling sun outside meant that she was momentarily blinded when she turned into the room suddenly. She could discern only his outline, not the expression on his face, but she thought back to the opinion he had expressed—that she was not interested in working with antiques.

  “I’m not bored at all,” she denied. “I was just relaxing for a moment, that’s all.”

  “Ah!”

  It said so much, that brief, expressive sound, and she had no idea what it conveyed in this instance. Now that her eyes were more accustomed to the softer light she could see his features more clearly, and she looked at him curiously, trying to find a reason for his being there.

  “Did you want to use this room?” she asked.

  It was unlikely, she knew, for this small quiet salon at the back of the house was seldom used. It was one of the reasons she had chosen it for her first inventory, thinking she would be undisturbed, although the past week had proved how wrong she could be.

  Paul shook his head, seating himself carelessly on one corner of a lovely old Louis XV table, a liberty she viewed with some anxiety as well as disapproval. “I was looking for you, mademoiselle,” he informed her, and she blinked in surprise as she looked across at him.

  It irritated her sometimes that he still very formally addressed her as mademoiselle, and seldom with her name attached. She imagined the formality of it was intended to keep her firmly in her place and on no account would she suggest he used anything more familiar.

  He had come from the vineyards, she guessed, judging by the state of his clothes, and again she wondered why he was there, since it was too early for lunch. His grey slacks looked dusty and there was a dark patch of mud on the front of his shirt where it clung damply to his broad chest. His thick fair hair, too, was less than shinily clean as it usually was, and she was reminded of how hot it must be in the fields.

  There was the aura of hard labour about him, and he looked strong and earthy, and infinitely disturbing, so that she took a firm hold on her responsive senses. “Is something wrong?” she asked, and he smiled dryly, drawing one leg up to rest on the opposite knee while he quizzed her.

  “Must there be something wrong because I seek you out, mademoiselle?” he asked.

  Jesamine was uneasy, and she knew he recognised it, was probably aware of the reason for it. His tanned face glowed warmly from the heat outside, but his eyes were ice cool and glittered at her from below fair brows. Somewhere within her something urged her to smile and acknowledge the logic of what he said, but instinctively she lifted her chin, without really knowing she was doing it. Thinking she would feel less vulnerable if she was on her feet, she got up from the desk and stood beside it, looking across at him with evasive and uncertain eyes.

  “It’s rather unusual for you to come looking for me,
that’s all,” she told him. “What did you want with me—Monsieur Paul?”

  It was sometimes difficult for her to remember to put the formality of a title before his name, for she was unused to much formality in her more familiar working world. She saw the flick of his brow when he noticed that barely perceptible pause, and the grey eyes mocked her silently for a moment before he spoke, pinpointing the near-slip unerringly.

  “One day, mon enfant,” he told her in his deep, quiet voice, “you will forget yourself and call me Paul!”

  “And have you pull me up for it?” Jesamine retorted swiftly. “Oh no, monsieur!”

  “Pull you up?” He repeated the words as if he did not understand their meaning, but she guessed he knew well enough what was meant by them.

  “Your English is good enough to know what that means!” she said, and he laughed.

  “Ah, mais oui,” he agreed. “What I question is your certainty that I would—pull you up for using my name! I suspect the formality is meant to remind me that I should—how is it you say it?—keep off the grass, n’est-ce pas?” He gave her no time to recover from the explicit bluntness of the suggestion, but laughed softly and shook his head. “The letter you have received this morning from Monsieur Terril will have stressed the need for continued alertness, am I not right?”

  It would be too embarrassing to admit it to his face, and yet there seemed little point in denying it. “James knows by now that I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, Monsieur; Paul,” she said in a determinedly steady voice. “In any situation.”

  “You sound very confident,” he remarked, and swept a slow, searching gaze over her face as he spoke. “You are accustomed to—situations, mademoiselle?”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid!” She found his faintly smiling eyes too hard to bear and she turned her back to him suddenly and looked out of the window. Her heart was thudding hard in her breast and she stared out at the sunlit gardens, but saw nothing. “You still haven’t told me why you came looking for me—Monsieur Paul,” she reminded him over her shoulder.