never had'. Philippine's words came back to her. Her heart
missed a beat. And she, of course, was the almost forgotten goddaughter. Or
so madame supposed, at least. A girl summoned out of the blue to this
particular place, at this particular time. But for what reason?
'I want you to be friends. It is important to me'.
Meg swallowed. Perhaps she was being over- imaginative, but could there
be a deeper purpose behind madame's invitation than even Margot had
figured out?The son she'd never had, and the girl she'd lost touch with
brought together under one roof—as Tante had just exulted. Thrown
deliberately into each other's company for four long weeks under the hot sun
of Languedoc. Was this madame's secret plan—a romantic dream to
re-create the past, and ensure that the heritage of Haut Arignac continued
into another generation?
If so, it was total madness—doomed to failure for any number of reasons,
the primary one, of course, being Meg's already deeply regretted imposture.
And another was the 'old friend' who'd phoned him at the mas. There'd been
no mistaking the warmth in his voice. There was clearly a deep bond of
affection tying him to this other woman.
But how much did Jerome himself know of Tante's scheme—if indeed it
existed outside her imagination? And, if he knew, was he really prepared to
accept an arranged marriage to a stranger in order to become master of Haut
Arignac? Having first cold-bloodedly swept her off her feet into love with
him, she reminded herself shakily.
Yet what did she really know about him? From the very beginning, he'd
been an enigma—a dark figure conjured up out of the storm, and with the
same destructive elemental power.
She'd always expected that love, if and when it came to her, would be a
gentle thing, born from friendship, nurtured by shared interests—not this
sweeping, headlong torment of heartache and desire, which he, God help
her, didn't even share. That was the bitter truth she had to hang on to, at all
costs, regardless of any other considerations.
His kisses—his caresses—had not been for her at all, but 'Margot Trant'.
And while she remembered that she could keep herself safe.
Quietly, she put the book back down on the table beside the bed, and tiptoed
from the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MEG finished her coffee and polished off the last few crumbs of the
citron -flavoured biscuit served with it. It had been pleasant to sit here in the
shade of the awning provided by the street cafe, and watch the world go by,
but now it was time to move on, and meet Jerome, as arranged, outside the
south door of the cathedral.
She stifled a sigh, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement deep inside her.
There had been no way to avoid his company today. She had put in a bid for
independence at dinner the previous night, but Madame de Brissot had been
adamant that he should accompany her to Albi—'For this first occasion, my
dear.'
And Jerome had enjoyed her discomfiture. Immediately after dinner, he had
bidden them goodnight, and departed, and Meg had carefully not allowed
herself to speculate where he might be, or in whose company, during the
oddly quiet evening which followed.
She had still been seething as she took the road from Arignac earlier that
morning, operating the elderly but beautifully kept Citroen with punctilious
correctness.
Eventually, Jerome had said with dangerous politeness, 'If you wish to reach
Albi today, ma belle, I suggest you stop behaving as if I were your
moniteur— and drive.'
The transaction over the hire car had been quickly and amiably completed,
with Meg even being congratulated on her fortunate escape.
What escape? she thought grimly. Out of the frying-pan, into a roaring fire.
During the course of a restless night, she'd debated whether her best plan
might not be to bring the whole charade out into the open, before more harm
was done.
But the thought of the inevitable repercussions deterred her.
missed a beat. And she, of course, was the almost forgotten goddaughter. Or
so madame supposed, at least. A girl summoned out of the blue to this
particular place, at this particular time. But for what reason?
'I want you to be friends. It is important to me'.
Meg swallowed. Perhaps she was being over- imaginative, but could there
be a deeper purpose behind madame's invitation than even Margot had
figured out?The son she'd never had, and the girl she'd lost touch with
brought together under one roof—as Tante had just exulted. Thrown
deliberately into each other's company for four long weeks under the hot sun
of Languedoc. Was this madame's secret plan—a romantic dream to
re-create the past, and ensure that the heritage of Haut Arignac continued
into another generation?
If so, it was total madness—doomed to failure for any number of reasons,
the primary one, of course, being Meg's already deeply regretted imposture.
And another was the 'old friend' who'd phoned him at the mas. There'd been
no mistaking the warmth in his voice. There was clearly a deep bond of
affection tying him to this other woman.
But how much did Jerome himself know of Tante's scheme—if indeed it
existed outside her imagination? And, if he knew, was he really prepared to
accept an arranged marriage to a stranger in order to become master of Haut
Arignac? Having first cold-bloodedly swept her off her feet into love with
him, she reminded herself shakily.
Yet what did she really know about him? From the very beginning, he'd
been an enigma—a dark figure conjured up out of the storm, and with the
same destructive elemental power.
She'd always expected that love, if and when it came to her, would be a
gentle thing, born from friendship, nurtured by shared interests—not this
sweeping, headlong torment of heartache and desire, which he, God help
her, didn't even share. That was the bitter truth she had to hang on to, at all
costs, regardless of any other considerations.
His kisses—his caresses—had not been for her at all, but 'Margot Trant'.
And while she remembered that she could keep herself safe.
Quietly, she put the book back down on the table beside the bed, and tiptoed
from the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MEG finished her coffee and polished off the last few crumbs of the
citron -flavoured biscuit served with it. It had been pleasant to sit here in the
shade of the awning provided by the street cafe, and watch the world go by,
but now it was time to move on, and meet Jerome, as arranged, outside the
south door of the cathedral.
She stifled a sigh, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement deep inside her.
There had been no way to avoid his company today. She had put in a bid for
independence at dinner the previous night, but Madame de Brissot had been
adamant that he should accompany her to Albi—'For this first occasion, my
dear.'
And Jerome had enjoyed her discomfiture. Immediately after dinner, he had
bidden them goodnight, and departed, and Meg had carefully not allowed
herself to speculate where he might be, or in whose company, during the
oddly quiet evening which followed.
She had still been seething as she took the road from Arignac earlier that
morning, operating the elderly but beautifully kept Citroen with punctilious
correctness.
Eventually, Jerome had said with dangerous politeness, 'If you wish to reach
Albi today, ma belle, I suggest you stop behaving as if I were your
moniteur— and drive.'
The transaction over the hire car had been quickly and amiably completed,
with Meg even being congratulated on her fortunate escape.
What escape? she thought grimly. Out of the frying-pan, into a roaring fire.
During the course of a restless night, she'd debated whether her best plan
might not be to bring the whole charade out into the open, before more harm
was done.
But the thought of the inevitable repercussions deterred her.
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