by Sara Craven
‘When I woke you were gone, cherie.’ He clicked his tongue in a kind of amused reproach. ‘And here you are, entertaining another man.’
‘I don’t think Mr Newson is particularly entertained,’ Helen said coolly. ‘Besides, he’s just leaving.’
The older man’s face was unpleasantly flushed. ‘So this is your saviour?’ He nearly spat the word. ‘He doesn’t look to me as if he’s got two pennies to rub together, but I’m sure you’ve had him checked out.’ He glared at Marc. ‘She’s a fast worker. I’ll give her that. Up to yesterday she was supposed to be engaged to someone else, only he’s dumped her. Now here she is with you.’ Trevor Newson gave Helen a smile that made her skin crawl. ‘So, where did you find this one, love?’
‘She did not,’ Marc said curtly. ‘I found her. And you are offending my fiancée, monsieur. Perhaps you would like to go, before I throw you out.’
‘You and whose army?’ Trevor Newson blustered. He was more heavily built than his opponent, but he was flabby and out of condition when compared with Marc’s toned muscularity. ‘But I’m leaving anyway.’ At the door, he turned. ‘This is going to cost you a fortune, my friend. I just hope you find she’s worth the expense. Not many women are.’
As soon as he had gone Helen eased herself from Marc’s arm and walked over to the window.
She said, ‘Do you usually come downstairs half-dressed?’
‘I had just finished shaving. You have some objection?’ He sounded amused again.
She shrugged. ‘It’s—not very dignified.’ She paused. ‘And it made that awful man think…’
‘That we had slept together?’ Marc supplied cordially, as she hesitated again. ‘But you can hardly deny that you spent most of the night in my arms, ma mie.’
‘No,’ Helen said between gritted teeth. ‘I—can’t.’
‘But you wish so much that it were otherwise, hein?’ He walked over to her. Turned her to face him, a hand under her chin, so he could look down into her eyes. ‘So,’ he said softly, ‘you have agreed, after all, to make the ultimate sacrifice to save this house. For a while I thought your aversion to me might prove too strong.’
She bit her lip and stared down at the floor. ‘So did I.’ Her voice was bitter.
‘I think I owe Monsieur Newson some thanks,’ he said reflectively. ‘If he had not come here this morning, your answer to me might have been different.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It would.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Don’t you have any compunction about what you’re doing—what you’re forcing me to do? And all for a whim.’ She shook her head. ‘If you really want a house, there are so many others you could buy. So many women probably falling over each other to marry you.’
‘But you are unique, cherie,’ he said lightly. ‘You do not profess undying love. You make it clear that you want only my money. I find that—refreshing.’
‘And I,’ she said in a low voice, ‘find it degrading.’
He tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Never-theless, Hélène,’ he said quietly, ‘the bargain is made between us, and it will not be broken.’ He dug a hand into the pocket of his jeans and produced the little velvet box. ‘Now, give me your hand.’
She watched numbly as the ruby slid over her knuckle into its symbolic resting place. So beautiful, she thought, watching the slow fire that burned in its depths, and yet so totally meaningless.
He said, ‘Will you give me a kiss, or do I have to take it from you?’
Swallowing nervously, she raised her mouth to his with reluctant obedience. But instead of the passionate onslaught she’d expected—and feared—Marc was gentle with her, his lips moving on hers with a strange, almost mesmerising sweetness, the tip of his tongue probing her defences softly and sensuously. Coaxing her, she thought, her mind reeling, to a response that she dared not risk—even if she wished…
She stood rigid in the circle of his arms, shakily aware of the heat of his naked skin through her clothes. Willing the kiss to end. Praying that she would escape unscathed.
At last, with a rueful sigh, he lifted his head, watching her through half-closed eyes.
‘You lack warmth, cherie,’ he told her wryly. ‘But that will change once you have learned a little about pleasure.’
She stepped back from him, wrapping defensive arms round her body. ‘Is that really what you think?’ She invested her tone with scorn.
He laughed then, running the back of his hand teasingly down the curve of her stormy face. ‘Yes, petite innocente, I do.’ He paused, glancing at his watch. ‘And now, hélas, I must dress and tear myself away from you back to London.’
‘You’re leaving?’ She was genuinely astonished. ‘Now?’
‘Pourquoi pas?’ He shrugged. ‘After all, I have what I came for—and I have to prepare for an early meeting tomorrow.’ He took the hand that wore his ring and kissed it. ‘But I shall return next week. In the meantime my architect will be here, with his team, to begin restoration work on the house.’
His tone was brisk and businesslike, making her see the dynamism that drove him. See it, and resent it.
Monteagle, she thought, doesn’t belong to you yet, monsieur.
She bristled defiantly. ‘I have my own local people, thank you.’
‘And now you will also have Alain.’ He grinned at her. ‘So, don’t give him a hard time, cherie. He might wound more easily than I do.’ He paused. ‘One more thing,’ he added casually. ‘The number of your bank account, if you please.’
She gasped. ‘Why should I give you that?’
‘So that I can transfer some money for you.’
She said coldly, ‘I have funds of my own, thanks. I don’t need any charity.’
‘And I am not offering it. But there will be incidental expenses once the work starts that you cannot be expected to meet.’ He smiled at her. ‘Also you have your trousseau to buy. I intend to begin the arrangements for our wedding tomorrow. I suggest a civil ceremony before witnesses at the end of next month.’
Helen’s heart was thudding again. ‘But you said there was no hurry,’ she protested. ‘That—that you’d wait…’
‘I think,’ he told her softly, ‘that I have been patient enough already. And last night has kindled my appetite, ma mie.’ His smile widened as he looked down into her outraged, apprehensive eyes. ‘So, be good enough to write down your account number for me, and I will go and leave you in peace.’
Quivering with anger, she obeyed, handing over the slip of paper with open resentment.
Marc walked to the door, then turned slowly, letting his eyes travel down her body.
‘On the other hand,’ he said softly, ‘I still have the memory of how you felt in my arms last night. And I could even now be persuaded to stay.’
He watched her eyes widen in sudden shock, and went on silkily, ‘But it is a matter entirely for you to decide, mon amour. Although I promise you would find the bed in my room more comfortable than that penance of a sofa.’
The words were thick in her throat. ‘I’ll have to take your word for that, monsieur. Goodbye.’
She turned back to the window, hardly daring to breathe until she heard the door close quietly behind him.
Monteagle is safe, she whispered to herself. And that’s all that matters. All that I can allow to matter, anyway.
The cost to herself—well, that was different, and she would have to find some way to endure it.
God, but he was so sure of her, she thought, digging her nails painfully into the palms of her clenched fists. So convinced he could seduce her into passionate surrender. But he would have to think again.
‘You may own Monteagle, monsieur,’ she whispered under her breath, resolution like a stone in her heart. ‘But you’ll never possess me—and that I swear, by everything I hold dear.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
LOTTIE looked silently at the ruby lying on the table between them.
She said, ‘That’s costume jewellery, and this whol
Helen shook her head. ‘Wrong.’ Her voice was husky. ‘I really am engaged to Marc Delaroche. He—proposed last night. I accepted this morning.’
Lottie stared at her open-mouthed. She said, half to herself, ‘This can’t be happening. Twenty-four hours ago you considered yourself engaged to Nigel.’ Her voice rose. ‘And now you’re going to be married to someone you’ve known a matter of days?’
‘You made me have dinner with him,’ Helen defended. ‘You practically twisted my arm.’
‘Yes,’ said Lottie. ‘Because I thought it would do you good to go out with someone lethally attractive who clearly fancied you. But that was when I thought you were both sane.’
She sat back in her chair, her worried gaze resting on Helen’s pale face. ‘Are we talking serious rebound from Nigel, here? Or are you telling me that love at first sight actually exists?’
‘Love has nothing to do with it.’ Helen drew a deep breath. ‘The truth is that he’s absolutely crazy about Monteagle and is willing to spend whatever it takes to restore the place to its old glory. Only it can’t be completely his—unless, of course, I’m part of the package.’ She shrugged. ‘And that’s it.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Lottie said helplessly, and relapsed into frowning silence. At last she said, ‘Helen—just sell him the place, and save yourself a lot of heartache.’
‘I’ll never sell Monteagle, and he knows it. I made it clear enough at that damned committee meeting. He also knows I’m desperate.’ Helen shrugged again, aiming for insouciance. ‘I—can’t afford to refuse.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s a business arrangement. What they call a marriage of convenience, I suppose.’
‘Ah,’ Lottie said blandly. ‘Then presumably, as you’re still virtual strangers, the deal does not include sex.’ Her gaze drilled into Helen’s. ‘Or does it?’
Helen looked down at the table. ‘We—we haven’t settled the final details yet.’
‘Now I know you’re kidding,’ said Lottie derisively. ‘I saw him look at you, remember? And, while Simon and I may have been apart for a while, I still recognise old-fashioned lust when I see it. And, as you’re not in love with him, how will you deal with that when payback time arrives? Are you really that sophisticated?’
Helen stared at the burn of the ruby lying between them. She said, half to herself, ‘I—I’ll cope somehow. Because I have to.’ She forced a smile. ‘What would you do in my place?’
‘Sell,’ said Lottie. ‘And run.’ She paused. ‘Or you could try closing your eyes and doing exactly what you are told. That could be interesting.’
‘You mean lie back and think of England?’ Helen’s laugh had a hollow ring. ‘Or Monteagle?’
‘I doubt whether Marc Delaroche will let you think about anything but him,’ Lottie said drily. ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned.’
After Lottie had gone, Helen lingered in the kitchen, washing the cups and glasses they’d used, and recorking the barely touched bottle of wine.
Daisy can use it to cheer up tomorrow’s chicken casserole, she thought.
The housekeeper had taken Helen’s halting news in her stride. ‘So, Mr Marc, is it?’ she’d said thoughtfully. ‘Well, I wish you happiness, my dear. Things often turn out for the best.’
Mrs Lowell was the only other one on Helen’s need-to-know list, because she’d have to explain why there’d be no more guided tours.
I’ll go round to the Vicarage tomorrow, she told herself.
As she walked through the hall the telephone rang, and in spite of the lateness of the hour she found herself reaching for it.
‘Hélène?’ His voice reached her huskily across the miles, making her start.
She steadied herself, trying to ignore the frantic drum of her heart. ‘Marc? What do you want?’
‘All the things I cannot have, because you are so far from me.’
She could hear the smile in his voice and stiffened, loading her tone with frostiness. ‘I mean why are you calling so late.’
‘To wish you bonne nuit,’ he said. ‘And sweet dreams.’
‘Oh,’ she said, nonplussed. ‘Well—thank you.’
‘And to tell you that, to my sorrow, I will not be with you next week after all. I have to fly to New York.’
‘I see.’ She knew she should feel relieved at the news, if not be dancing in the streets. Instead, suddenly, there was an odd flatness. ‘It was—good of you to let me know.’
There was a pause, then he said softly, ‘You could go with me.’
‘To New York?’ An unbidden quiver of excitement stirred inside her, and was instantly quelled. She said stonily, ‘Of course I can’t. It’s quite impossible.’
‘Why? You have a passport?’
‘Somewhere, yes.’
‘Then I suggest you look for it, ma mie,’ he told her drily. ‘You will certainly need it for our honeymoon.’
‘Honeymoon?’ She was beginning to sound like an echo, she told herself with exasperation. ‘But surely there’s no need for that,’ she protested. ‘It—it’s not as if it is a real marriage…’
‘You will find it real enough when the time comes, cherie.’ His words were light, but she thought she detected a note of warning. ‘And we are certainly having a honeymoon—although it can only be brief because of my work commitments.’
He paused. ‘An old friend has offered us his villa in the South of France. It stands on a headland above St Benoit Plage, and all the bedrooms have views of the Mediterranean. What do you think?’
‘You seem to have made up your mind already,’ Helen said. ‘So what does it matter?’
She thought she heard him sigh. ‘Then consider again about New York, Hélène. After all, how long is it since you had a holiday?’
‘I went skiing with the school in my last spring term,’ she said. ‘That’s what the passport was for.’ She paused. ‘But I can’t just leave here. I have things to do—responsibilities. Besides…’ She halted awkwardly.
‘Besides, spending time alone with me in America, or anywhere, is not your idea of a vacation?’ His voice was faintly caustic. ‘Is that what you were about to say?’
‘Something of the kind, perhaps,’ Helen agreed woodenly.
‘I suppose I should find your candour admirable, ma mie,’ he said, after a pause. ‘However, one day soon—or one night—we shall have to discuss your ideas in more detail.’
His tone sharpened, became businesslike. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you use some of the money I shall deposit in your account to begin recruiting extra staff for the house and grounds.’
‘But there’s no need,’ Helen protested. ‘We can manage quite well as we are.’
‘It is not a question of managing, ma chère,’ Marc told her crisply. ‘Monsieur and Madame Marland are no longer young, bien sûr, and at some point will wish to retire. In the meantime they will be glad of help, especially when there is entertaining to be done or when you are away.’
‘But I’m never away,’ she protested.
‘Until now, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But that will change. You will be my wife, Hélène, not merely my housekeeper. Perhaps I have not made that sufficiently clear. When my work takes me abroad there will be times when I shall require you to go with me.’
Her voice rose slightly. ‘You expect me to be your—travelling companion?’
‘My companion,’ he told her softly, ‘and my lover. Sleeping with you in my arms was so sweet, cherie, that I cannot wait to repeat the experience.’
‘Thank you.’ She kept her voice stony, telling herself that the faint quiver she felt inside was anger. Hating the fact that she was blushing.
She took a steadying breath. ‘Have you any more orders for me, or may I go now?’
He laughed. ‘If I gave orders, Hélène, you would be coming with me to New York.’ He gave her a second to consider that, then added more gently, ‘Sleep well, mon ange—but think of me as you close your eyes, hein?’
She murmured something incoherent, and replaced the hand-set.
His unexpected call had shaken her, and raised issues she’d not wanted to contemplate. Questions of autonomy, among others.
It was disturbing that he seemed to want her to share his life at all kinds of levels she hadn’t imagined. Starting with this—this honeymoon in the South of France. Exercising his power by taking her from her own familiar environment to his own domain, she thought, and shivered.
Slowly, she went up to her room. She took off his ring and placed it in the box which also housed her grandmother’s pearls—bestowed on her for her eighteenth birthday, and the only other real valuable that she possessed.
Jewellery like the ruby didn’t go with her lifestyle, and its non-stop cleaning and gardening. Nor would she take on extra staff, as he’d decreed. The arrival of his tame architect and his work crew was quite enough of an invasion of privacy, making her feel as if her personal hold on Monteagle was being slowly eroded.
But that wasn’t all of it, she thought, looking down at her bare hand. There was still part of her in rebellion against the decision that had been forced on her. And she didn’t want to admit to anyone, least of all herself, that both she and Monteagle would soon belong to Marc completely. Or display the symbol of that possession.
Think of me. His words came back to haunt her as she slid into bed and pulled the covers over her.
Oh, but he’d made sure of that, she thought bitterly. Turned it into an essential instead of a choice. Placed himself at the forefront of her mind each time she tried to sleep, making himself impossible to dismiss.
And when sheer fatigue overcame her, her sleep was restless and patchy, scarred by dreams that she burned with shame to remember in the morning. Dreams so real that when she woke she found herself reaching for him again across her narrow bed, before shocked realisation dawned.
She turned over, furious and humiliated, burying her heated face in the pillow.
‘Damn him,’ she whispered feverishly. ‘Oh, damn him to hell.’
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