A Place of Storms by Sara Craven Page A

going to make was choked off in her throat. Then his mouth came down on hers, and all protest was useless.
    When at last he let her go she was trembling so much that she felt she wanted to faint, or be sick. She had been kissed by him in mockery. Now she had been kissed in anger, if one could call that brutal, unrelenting assault on her mouth a kiss. If he wanted her to feel degraded, then he had succeeded, she thought, lifting her hand instinctively to her bruised and swollen lips. And the worst of it was she knew that if she had sensed the slightest glimmer of genuine passion from him, as opposed to violent anger, then she would not have been able to stop herself from responding to it. The briefest sign from him that this was not solely punishment, and her lips would have parted for him voluntarily.
    'When you're ready,
mademoiselle
. Gaston will be waiting for us.' With insulting casualness, he brushed some leaves from her hair, his fingers tightening round one silken chestnut strand until she was forced to look up at him. His voice roughened. 'Don't provoke me again, Andrée.'
    He took her arm and began to walk her along the path again.
    When they arrived back where the car was parked, Gaston was waiting with a Land-Rover. Andrea stood in silence while the dress boxes were transferred from one vehicle to the other, and then she climbed into the passenger seat beside Gaston while Blaise drove the hired car back to the garage it had come from. She was glad of Gaston's phlegmatic company. If he noticed her bruised mouth and generally dishevelled appearance, he gave no sign, seeming content to whistle unrecognisable tunes through a gap in his front teeth.
    The return journey to the chateau was quite a different matter. Andrea was obliged to sit squashed between the two men while Blaise drove, and she was acutely conscious of his proximity. What desultory conversation there was related solely to farming matters, and was conducted in French across the top of her head—as if she was a bale of hay, she thought indignantly, flexing her shoulder muscles.
    She was cramped and uncomfortable when the Land-Rover finally came to rest in the courtyard, and she climbed down stiffly ignoring Blaise's hand outstretched to assist her.
    'Do you wish Gaston to carry your purchases up to your room?' He detained her peremptorily.
    It would have given her the utmost pleasure to tell him precisely what he could do with all of them, but she did not dare risk another explosion of his wrath, so she thanked him coldly and walked on ahead.
    She found Madame Bresson in the kitchen looking harassed. She had been cleaning a mound of silver, and washing glasses she had unearthed from one of the large cupboards, and Andrea realised with a shock of dismay that these preparations must be for the guests who would presumably be returning to the chateau after the wedding for some kind of reception. She had imagined the whole affair would be so much more private, and she tried rather stumblingly to explain this to Madame Bresson. But Madame obviously did not comprehend, and began to reassure Andrea, under the apparent impression that she was simply suffering from bridal nerves. Andrea excused herself at last, claiming that her day in Clermont had exhausted her, which was not so very far from the truth, and that she would forgo dinner, and have an early night instead. She had half expected Madame Bresson to protest, but the housekeeper obviously saw nothing strange in her decision.
    The boxes containing her dress and veil and other things were piled neatly on the bed, and Andrea surveyed them moodily as she kicked off her shoes. Much as she wanted to ignore them, she knew she would have to take that lovely gown out of its wrappings and hang it up. It didn't deserve to spend a night in creases. She put it away in the wardrobe on a padded hanger, and laid the coronet and veil along her dressing table, glancing at herself with sudden self-criticism in the mirror as