Chapter Fourteen

Ned put aside the letter with a grimace. Two hundred years ago, a cousin of the Morvans at the court of Louis XIV had taken an unpleasant delight in the humiliation of the Princesse de Conti at the hands of Clermont and Mlle. de Choin. Pettiness and spite were the same in all centuries, and were no help at all to his efforts to learn about the construction of the chateau.

And if there was a family treasure, no one wrote about it.

In need of fresh air, he opened the window of the muniments room and leaned out. For a change, the sun was shining. It felt almost warm on his face. Soothing after still another disturbed night filled with dreams dominated by visions of Marguerite. Dreams he did not want and should not have.

A movement caught his eye and he looked down to see a figure in a black cloak crossing the causeway—and leaving the castle. That was Marguerite’s cloak, he was sure of it. Where was she going? She hadn’t said anything this morning about leaving the chateau. As far as he could recall, she had said nothing to indicate that she wasn’t going to spend the afternoon battling the dust and grime in the deserted rooms.

To be fair, Delphine could be expected to avoid doing any of the work, and Tony had declared himself busy with correspondence. Marguerite could hardly be blamed if she had decided to leave the drudgery behind as well.

In which case, there was no reason for him to feel obliged to continue the hunt for floor plans or comb through ancient gossip looking for references to a possible treasure.

After a week of this, he needed fresh air and exercise too. Anything to blow the cobwebs from his head.

But where was the blasted woman going? Was she meeting someone? She had never mentioned any friends in the area. Not that she was under any obligation to keep him apprised of her acquaintance. Still, why would she bother to keep an acquaintance secret? Unless it was a less than respectable acquaintance.

He hurried down the staircase of his tower, turning over possible reasons for her secrecy, because it was deliberate secrecy. He was convinced of that, and he was increasingly annoyed by this secrecy. Why should she keep secrets from him? He had never given her any reason to distrust him, had he?

There had been no mail for her recently. He probably should not have noticed that, but he had, so it was unlikely that anyone had appointed a meeting. At least not formally. Such an appointment did not have to be made through the mails. A servant could have passed a message to her privately. That would be the appropriate way to arrange a romantic tryst.

The thought was remarkably unpleasant. The knot in his gut bore a distinct resemblance to jealousy. He knew he had no right to such an emotion, but his rights did not matter at the moment. The idea that she might be, somehow, less than he thought was disturbing. He would not have believed her to be someone who would indulge in a tawdry affair—and one conducted in secret could not be anything but tawdry.

Soon he was on the causeway himself, though not soon enough to see which way she had gone. Still, the choices were limited. When she came to the fork at the top of the hill, she could take the route he had followed when he arrived. As he recalled, that would lead her through mile after mile of forest before she reached anything resembling a human habitation. Pleasant enough, perhaps, on a warm summer day. But in November? Despite the sunshine, the day was chilly.

Besides, she had been walking like someone with a destination, not someone out for a stroll. Of course, now that he thought about it, she always moved like someone with a destination. Delphine might float about the garden, a charming butterfly lighting first on one plant then on another, with no reason other than the whim of the moment. Did Marguerite ever permit herself to indulge a whim? Did she even have whims? He could not imagine it.

So she would not be off for a casual stroll through the forest. When she came to the fork, she would choose the other road, the one that led down to the village of Morvan. He had yet to visit the village himself, so it would be easy to claim that he was simply exploring the area when he turned in that direction. Should anyone ask, he was not following Marguerite.

Not that anyone would ask.

But just in case anyone did.

It was a longer walk than he had expected, and Ned was decidedly irritated by the time he reached the village. The sight of it did little to improve his mood. It was far from attractive. Gray stone buildings huddled behind gray stone walls. On one side, a few lanes led down to the harbor, where a handful of boats in need of paint languished on the shore, with the gray sea stretching beyond them out to the horizon. On the other side, a few more lanes led to fields covered with gray stubble. Over it all hung the aroma of dead fish.

There must be inhabitants in this place—occasional bits of smoke drifted from a few chimneys—but none were visible.

The village did not simply lack charm. It exuded a grim hostility.

What on earth had possessed Marguerite to walk all this way to such a miserable place? A gust of wind sped through an alley from the harbor and tried to snatch his hat. He pulled it firmly down and turned up his collar in defiance of the sudden chill. Where could she have gone?

The largest building in the village—the only one of any notable size—was the church. Built of the same gray stone as all the other buildings, it boasted a bell tower with a peaked roof soaring well above the other buildings in the town, but its unwelcoming doors were firmly closed.

The one open door he could see belonged to what was apparently the village shop. At least it had a window that displayed some dusty jars and a box of smocks. There was also a small yellow sign, a rare spot of color, affixed to the wall bearing the word poste. Like village stores in England, this one also served as a post office. Was that what had brought Marguerite here? That made no sense—mail was delivered to the chateau every day. There was no need for her to walk all this distance for a letter.

Yet that had apparently been her purpose, for there she was, a tall figure in black, stepping out of the shop. He felt a sudden spurt of irritation at her gloomy garb. He knew she was in mourning, but did it have to be such unbecoming mourning? Did every dress she wore have to be stiff and ugly, draining her face of color? Did she have to pull her hair back so tightly that it looked painful and then hide it under that hideous cap?

Why did he care? He shook his head in disgust at himself. It was no business of his that she deliberately set out to hide her beauty.

She stood just outside the door of the shop looking down at the envelope in her hand and turning it over carefully as if she mistrusted it. What the devil was she doing getting letters that she had to collect in secret? Not a letter she was eager to receive, from the look of her. Or perhaps it was only that she feared that it might say something she did not want to hear.

Was it a letter from a lover? The knot in his gut tightened and twisted uncomfortably. A faithless lover? Why else would she be so hesitant to open it? Or an unacceptable lover, who had to be kept secret?

But there was another possibility. Tony. An inner chill seized him. Was she somehow plotting against Tony? Did she know something about the treasure? She said her brooch was a family heirloom, and the old vicomte seemed to recognize it. Did it have something to do with the treasure? Was she trying to steal it?

Or was he simply trying to find a respectable excuse for his feelings?

Secrets. There were too damned many secrets swirling around her. They were infuriating, all these secrets.

So intent was she on the envelope that she did not even notice his approach.

“If you open it and read it, you will know what it says.” He had intended that to be a bland, indifferent comment. Even to his ears it sounded snappish.

She stumbled back, stuffing the letter in the pocket of her cloak and staring at him with frightened eyes. “What…” She licked her lips and tried again. “What are you doing here?”

He raised his hat politely, then stepped to her side and took her arm. “Merely taking the air.”

Her lips tightened, and she tried to pull away. Unsuccessfully. “You followed me—how dare you!”

He did not bother to answer. She tried to pull away again, but he did not allow it. Instead he drew her toward one of the lanes. If there was going to be a scene, it was not going to be enacted in the middle of the village, deserted though it seemed to be.

“Let go of me!” When she could not pull her arm free, she swung the other at him. It landed a ridiculously ineffective blow on his chest. He drew her around a corner.

The lane he led her into was little more than an alley between two high stone walls. It promised privacy if nothing else. One end led to the empty beach, and he blocked the end leading back to the main street.

She seemed to realize that there was no escape for her and stopped struggling. He in turn let go of her arm.

She rubbed the spot where he had held her and glared at him. “What do you mean by this assault?”

“Hardly an assault.” He ignored the way she was rubbing her arm. There was no way he had held her tightly enough to hurt her. Had he? He would not believe it. “I simply want to be assured that these secrets of yours do not in any way threaten Tony.”

“Threaten Antoine?” She looked absolutely flabbergasted. “Are you mad? What could I possibly do to threaten him? And why would I? I did not even know he existed until a few months ago.” She turned away from him, still rubbing her arm, and tilting her chin up. This gave him a splendid view of her profile, her absolutely perfect profile.

He had an unpleasant feeling churning in his gut. A new and different feeling. The kind of feeling that said he was making a serious mistake; that he was making a fool of himself. He forced himself to ignore it and seized her arm, swinging her around to face him. “Do not pretend that you are not hiding something, you and your aunt and Delphine. If it does not affect Tony, why all the secrecy? Why are you sneaking down to the village for your letters? What are you hiding?”

“Why, you pompous, arrogant…aristocrat! You think that your title gives you the right to spy on me? To poke and probe into my private affairs?” Tears of fury filled her eyes, and she beat at his chest with her fists. “You have no right. No right. Not you and not any aristocrat. None of you has any right to control me.”

She was going to hurt her hands, beating at him that way. He was wearing too much clothing for her blows to have any effect on him. She was going to… He couldn’t think. He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a shake. When he opened his mouth to say something, all he could manage was, “Don’t.”

In the silence that fell between them, she stopped beating at his chest and looked up at him. The silence stretched out and wrapped itself around them, isolating them. He could not move. Then her hand moved, ever so hesitantly, and she reached up to cup his cheek.

His arms slid down to wrap around her, pressing her against him as his mouth came down on hers.