Chateau D'Armor

by Rebecca Stratton

  “You have worked hard with Grandpere’s tresors,” he said. “It is time that you escaped for a while, n’est-ce pas?”

  He sounded perfectly serious about it, and she believed he was, but it was rather deflating to think that pity for her lack of social life had been his reason for asking her out. “Is that why you asked me out to dinner?” she asked impulsively, and he laughed shortly, startling her with his

  “Mais non, petite,” he denied firmly. “I do not ask pretty girls to dine with me because I feel sorry for them! You flatter me if you think me so soft-hearted!” She said nothing, but felt strangely light-headed as she eased herself more comfortably against the deep leather seat. A few seconds later he turned his head again, looking over his shoulder at her, and she could only guess at the expression in his eyes, for it was too dark to judge now. “You did not believe that I would ask you for such a reason, did you, Jesamine?” he asked, and she turned her head lazily to look at him.

  “I wasn’t sure,” she confessed.

  Paul laughed, a short impatient sound, as he handled the big car round another bend in the road. “You will be quite sure before this evening is finished, ma belle!” he promised. “But first we will be civilised and have dinner, huh?” He laughed again, but this time more softly, and she found her hands curling tightly over the little purse she carried.

  It was not the moment to question his meaning, even had she needed to, so she remained silent. Instead she looked out of the window at the lights that twinkled from houses down in the valley among those endless vineyards, and the river gleaming like pewter in the moonlight as it wound its way to the estuary and the sea. She would need all her will power if she was to remain firm against falling head over heels in love with him—and he was not going to make it easy for her.

  It was quite late when they drove into Nantes, but she had grown accustomed to the French habit of dining late and it was more excitement than hunger that stirred her pulses as they drove through the well lit streets. What did concern her to some extent was the possibility of meeting someone he knew, and she particularly had his women friends in mind.

  He had never made any secret of his taste for feminine company, and various remarks of his grandfather’s had served only to enlarge on a reputation he had hinted at himself. It was not as if she was a child, or even a naive girl, but she felt as if she was being torn in two directions at once. She could not forget the delirious excitement of being in his arms earlier that same evening, for it had been like nothing she had ever known before and her senses still tingled when she thought about it. At the same time common sense told her that if she was to keep control on the situation she must not let the same circumstances occur again.

  To Paul she would be just another affair and, as she glanced at him from the corners of her eyes, she felt a sudden wild urge to get away from him before she made an utter and complete fool of herself. If only she had gone back with James when he wanted her to, or had let him stay within call—but it was too late now. Too late to wish James was close by, and too late to regret having come out with Paul and, shaking her head over her own folly, she looked again out of the window.

  Nantes was built on the estuary of the river Loire and the streets alongside the river itself might have been in another world. Fine old houses that had once been occupied by wealthy merchants overlooked the river and had walled gardens that scented the night air with the scent of roses and carnations.

  The great castle, once the home of the Dukes of Brittany, loomed over the whole city and dominated it completely, reminding her that the notorious Gilles de Rais had once lived there too. He was, she recalled, the original Bluebeard, and in her present situation it was an uneasy recollection. The wind was much more fresh this much closer to the sea, and it tickled her bare arms with cool fingers as she walked the short distance to the restaurant with Paul.

  There was a bar, straight off the street and quite crowded with people, though Paul got served quickly enough. He handed her a glass of champagne which she took without comment, although such extravagance would have been remarkable at home, and seated himself beside her with his long legs casually crossed one over the other.

  “Ma belle Jesamine!” he said, and raised his glass to her, his grey eyes bright and challenging.

  Hastily avoiding his eyes, she made her own toast a silent one, but sipped her champagne thankfully—she was going to need some Dutch courage before the evening was out, and champagne was as pleasant a way as any to gain it. Her heart was hammering hard at her ribs and she wished she could feel as cool and controlled as she wanted to be.

  “You are very quiet, ma chere,” he said, looking at her steadily over the rim of his glass. “What is troubling you?”

  Jesamine shook her head, but it was plain he did not believe her, and after a second or so he reached out and lightly touched her bare arm with his forefinger, stroking it slowly downwards in a shivering caress that brought a new urgency to her heartbeat. “There’s nothing troubling me,” she told him. “Why should there be, Paul?”

  The grey eyes searched her face, slightly narrowed but with an unexpected gentleness in their depths as he placed his hand over her arm, the strong fingers pressing into her soft skin. “You are not a child, I know that well enough, cherie,” he said, too quietly for anyone sitting close by to hear, “but sometimes I feel that you regard me with the suspicion of a child who does not understand what is going on.”

  How she was expected to react, Jesamine had no idea, but her instinctive reaction was to look at him with the same sombre darkness in her blue eyes that she had seen reflected in her mirror earlier on. “Maybe I am a little suspicious, she allowed, “but if I am it’s because—” She shook her head slowly, seeking the right words. “I know your reputation, Paul,” she went on in a small husky voice, “both you and your grandfather have left me in little doubt about it, but I’m not prepared to—to join the ranks as one of your—casual affairs. I’m sorry,” she added, hastily and breathlessly, when he did not reply, “but I had to say it!”

  It surprised her that he did not immediately flare into anger as she expected, but instead he merely sat beside her sipping his champagne and his eyes were hidden by lowered lids as he gazed down into his drink. “So, now you have said it,” he told her, then looked up suddenly and straight into her eyes, and his own had a curious and unfamiliar expression that she did not recognise. “You will now perhaps tell me, ma chere, why it is that you are here with me when you feel so strongly about—joining the ranks?”

  “Paul, I didn’t—”

  A long finger placed firmly over her lips silenced her, and he was shaking his head. “I do not wish to hear, after all,” he told her, and laughed shortly before tossing off the last of his champagne. “I do not like to have my appetite spoiled before an excellent meal. Come, cherie, at least pretend that you like me enough to eat dinner with me, hmm?”

  He slid off the bar stool and put a hand under her arm, his fingers gripping tightly, and Jesamine tried not to let a sudden and inexplicable tearfulness become embarrassingly obvious. If only he knew how wrong he was, but—She stopped short suddenly and stared, so that Paul looked down at her curiously.

  “Jesamine?”

  She licked her lips as he turned and followed her gaze, and in that moment James spotted her and came hurrying through the crowded bar towards them, his perennially boyish features beaming a smile, and with eyes only for her. Glancing hastily at her companion, she saw his brows contract into a frown. “It seems Monsieur Terril grows tired of waiting for you to return, and has come to find you,” Paul observed in a flat cool voice, and the hand under her arm tightened its hold imperceptibly as James joined them.

  “Jess!” He bent and kissed her with a boisterousness that was both unexpected and embarrassing, then he held her at arms’ length and looked at her critically, still ignoring Paul. “You look great,” he told her. “Prettier than ever and—blooming!”

  Jesamine’s smile was
a little tight and uncertain. She was not sure whether she welcomed James’ sudden appearance or not, even after her earlier regrets, and when she glanced again at Paul it was evident that he resented the intrusion. “James,” she said, her gaze unconsciously appealing as she looked at Paul, “you remember Monsieur Paul d’Armor, of course?”

  James extended a hand. “Monsieur d’Armor!” The greeting was as short as it politely could be, and Paul for his part merely inclined his head in the briefest of bows. “You’re dining here?” James asked, and Jesamine hesitated, wondering if it had to be inevitable that James joined them for dinner.

  Paul, however, already had the matter in hand. “Unfortunately, Monsieur Terril,” he said, “we cannot ask you to join us. Our table is for two only, you understand, and the popularity of this restaurant—” He shrugged, ostensibly with regret. “It is not possible to make room for an extra one!”

  James knew when he was being rebuffed and his normally friendly blue eyes had an icy glitter of dislike as he nodded his head. “Oh, sure,” he said, “I understand! But you’ll come and have a drink with me, won’t you? I’m so—stunned at seeing you here, Jess, I need a drink!”

  “Paul?”

  She looked up into that implacable face and knew he was going to refuse, even before he spoke. Her heart was thudding hard at her ribs while the grey eyes held hers for a moment and she could not even guess what was going on behind them. But he was shaking his head firmly.

  “Our regrets, monsieur,” he said, coolly polite, “but we have dinner waiting for us.” He would have turned away with that, and taken Jesamine with him, but James was not quite so easily deterred.

  “Hey now, wait a minute,” he insisted, “I’d like a couple of words with Jess! I was going to call you in the morning, love,” he told her. “I’d like to take a look around while I’m here this time, and I’d like you to come with me.” He looked at Paul, narrow-eyed and challenging. “Is it O.K. if I pick you up about ten in the morning?”

  “About ten?” She was aware of the pressure of those hard strong fingers on her arm, and she licked her lips anxiously as she glanced up once more from the corner of her eye.

  “I presume your boss won’t object,” James said, looking directly at Paul, and Jesamine shook her head.

  “I’m sure Monsieur d’Armor won’t mind,” she assured him. “Paul isn’t my boss,” she added, catching his look, “his grandfather is, and he’s a kindly man— he’ll understand.”

  ‘Good!” James nodded. “Then I presume he won’t mind if I pick you up from the chateau—O.K.?”

  “Oh, yes.” She was not sure what Monsieur d’Armor would say to James collecting her for a day’s outing, but she thought he would not mind too much.

  “Fine!” He took her hand in his, a small and rather rueful smile on his mobile mouth. “And you’re sure you won’t have that drink?” he asked.

  “Non, merci, monsieur!” Paul’s firm voice answered for them both, and the hand under her arm urged her to hurry. There was simply no point in trying to resist, even had she wanted to. “You will excuse us,” he said. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Terril—perhaps we will meet again!”

  “More than likely,” James agreed, “if I’m coming to pick up Jess in the morning! Oh, incidentally,” he added, as if the thought had only now come to mind, “I was talking to a man the other day who was at the Sorbonne before the war, he said he knew a girl there called d’Armor—would that have been any relation of yours, do you think?”

  For several seconds Paul said nothing, nor did he move, but he looked at James with narrowed eyes that glittered like ice in that tanned, rugged face, and Jesamine shivered. It was as if someone had run an icy finger down her spine, and she held her breath while she waited for Paul to reply to what she was certain James had intended as a dig at the man he disliked so much.

  “It is possible, Monsieur Terril,” he said coolly at last. “By tradition our family are educated at the University of Paris—I was myself.”

  “And your—mother too?” James insisted relentlessly, while Jesamine curled her hands tightly, her heart thudding anxiously at her ribs.

  She knew James did not like Paul, mostly because he did not trust him in proximity to herself, but she was appalled to think that he could raise a subject as delicate as this in such a public place, and at such a time. She looked at him reproachfully, but he carefully avoided her eyes and she guessed he was already regretting his impulsive malice.

  “My mother was also at the Sorbonne, monsieur,” Paul agreed with a coolness that surprised Jesamine. “And now, if you will excuse us—we would like to have dinner. Bonne nuit, monsieur!”

  Firmly holding her arm, he steered her in the direction of the restaurant, and she looked up at him, wondering how on earth she could convince him that she had not once suggested to James that he find out what he could about Louise d’Armor. She licked her lips anxiously as they made their way through the crowd and sought words to counteract the heavy silence that was between them.

  “Paul.” He looked down at her, and she took courage from the fact that there was more curiosity than anger in his eyes. “I—I knew nothing about that,” she told him in a slightly breathless voice. “I’d no idea James would— come out with anything so—” She drew a deep unsteady breath. “I know how you resent anyone asking about your moth—your family, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking James to find out anything, I mean I wouldn’t—”

  “I know, ma chere.” His quietness surprised her, and his smile even more. “I resent questions about my family simply because I do not consider our private affairs any concern of any but ourselves,” he told her. “There is nothing sinister in our reticence, merely a desire for privacy—something to which we are entitled, I think you will agree.”

  “Yes, of course!”

  The grey eyes looked down at her steadily, and the wide mouth hinted at a smile. “Then let us not speak of it again, petite, hmm?” he suggested.

  In the doorway of the restaurant she could see across to the bar, and she could see James still standing there, having that drink Paul had so resolutely refused to share with him. And she wondered why James had seen fit to so nearly ruin her evening—although at the back of her mind, she thought she knew.

  With a morsel of crepe suzette on her fork and balanced midway between her plate and her mouth, Jesamine looked up and caught Paul’s eye on her. There was a flutter of sensation in the region of her heart as she hastily put the pancake into her mouth, then looked across at him again as she swallowed it and reached for her wine glass.

  “He does not like me, your James,” he said calmly, and so unexpectedly that Jesamine stared at him without answering. “It is understandable, naturellement,” he added without waiting for her to comment. “He is jealous because you are with me and not with him, where he thinks you should be!”

  Jesamine shook her head. She had long since put James and his unexpected lack of tact to the back of her mind, and instead given all her attention to her companion and her dinner in that order. Now the subject had been abruptly brought to light again and she was not at all sure that she liked it. She had expected Paul to let it lapse gratefully, in view of his usual reticence on the subject of his family, but she thought James himself was foremost in his mind at the moment, not his unfortunate gaffe.

  She carefully put down her fork but did not look at him, instead she toyed with the stem of her empty wine glass. “I wish you wouldn’t—you and your grandfather—keep labouring under the delusion that James is—in love with me,” she said, her voice curiously husky. “He isn’t, I know he isn’t.”

  “You lack perception if you think so,” Paul told her confidently. “Though I do not believe that you return his love, ma chere, and perhaps that is why you remain so—blind to his feelings.”

  “I like James,” she said, twirling the glass between her fingers and watching it shine in the light rather than look at him as she spoke. “I like him a great deal, but I don’t lo
ve him, and I—I hope he doesn’t love me. I wouldn’t like to hurt him.” She put down her glass and rested her elbows on the table in front of her, looking at him at last simply because she wanted to impress him with what she was saying. “Now can we please not talk about James?” she said.

  He held her gaze steadily for several seconds, his own grey eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he smiled, a wry, lop-sided smile that pulled at one corner of his mouth. “I do not believe you welcomed his sudden appearance,” he said, as it if was something he wanted to be true, and Jesamine shook her head.

  “I don’t know whether I did or not,” she confessed.

  For a moment he was silent, then he shook his head and a trace of that smile still remained. “Tres bien, ma chere,” he said, “we will not talk of James again.”

  Several glasses of champagne had induced a mood that was less suspicious of anything he said than she usually was, and when she saw his eyes watching her some time later, she smiled, her own susceptible emotions responding to him.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, and Paul laughed, shaking his head slowly.

  “How do I look at you, ma chere?” he countered.

  “I don’t know, sort of—” She shrugged, a little flutter of sensation curling in her stomach as she sought refuge in twirling the champagne glass in her fingers again. Her hands felt strangely unsteady as she held the slender stem, and she knew her cheeks were flushed with warm colour. “I think I’ve had too much champagne,” she said with an unsteady little laugh, and covered her glass with one hand when he picked up the bottle again. “No,” she said. “No more, Paul, please!”

  His eyes travelled slowly over her face and came to rest on the tremulous softness of her mouth, then he shook his head and refilled his own glass. “Are you so afraid of becoming insensible, petite?” he teased, and his accent, she noticed a little hazily, was becoming more pronounced.

  Combined with that deep, soft voice it was seduisant, she thought, recalling her limited French, then brought herself hastily back to earth as she avoided his gaze. “I don’t intend getting drunk,” she informed him. “I’m not used to so much champagne—we’re not brought up on it, you know, like French children are!”