“I’ve never seen anything so peaceful,”

Rosalie said, staring out of the carriage window at the wide slate-blue expanse of the Loire River. “From what I remember of my geography lessons, I expected it to be fiercer, more turbulent.” Underneath her head she felt Rand’s shoulder flex as he leaned to get a closer look of the scene.

“The Loire varies from place to place,” he said, his eyes turning a bright shade of gold as the rich light of the sun crossed his face. “In Nantes it’s as congested with traffic as the Seine  . . .  at Orleans it’s a docile stream barely a few feet deep. Just when you’re convinced the Loire is tame and gentle, it begins to rage.” Rand’s mouth twitched as he added, “As unpredictable as a woman.”

“As fickle as a man, you mean,” she rejoined immediately, uncertain as to whether or not he was making jest of her. Rand laughed, enjoying the signs of her returning  temper.  Lately  he  had  taken  an  apparent delight  in  baiting  her,  in  the  manner  of  one  who provokes a kitten to take tiny-clawed swipes at him. Mireille, who was sitting on the seat opposite them, spoke as she peered out of her window. Wisely she had pretended ignorance of the mildly testy exchanges that had been going on ever since they had left Paris.

“Vraiment,” Mireille said, “the Loire is unpredictable —sometimes it floods the vineyards, the valleys  .  .  . some of the more stupid peasants think it is a punishment from God. Nearer the ocean the river becomes big and deep, and I do not like it so much there. But at Touraine it is regal, it is aristocratic—avec les châteaux, and the trees . . .  It looks rather dry for this time of year, don’t you . . . ?” Quickly the girl’s words trailed off as  she  discovered  that  Rand  was  eyeing  her  in  a speculative  manner.  Rosalie  merely  appeared  to  be surprised.

“Mireille,” Rand said slowly, “appears to be exceptionally well-traveled for a chambermaid.”

Flustered, the girl turned away from the window and stared down at her hands. “I have been all over France with Guillaume.”

Rosalie felt a mixture of protectiveness and compassion for the small girl, for she knew exactly how it felt to be alone. Mireille had no parents and no one to take care of her. All that she had said about her brother was that he was away on a new job and that she had left a note at the hotel in Paris concerning her plans. When

they had pressed her for more information about him, her expression had become guarded, almost as if she were  bent  on  forgetting all  about  him.  Mireille was certainly an interesting puzzle, for she had talents and capabilities far above those of any average girl of her age and position. Not only could she read and write, but also she had a lightning-quick mind and had picked up an unconventional mixture of knowledge during her short lifetime.

“Mireille,  where  are  you  from?  Where  were  you born?” Rosalie asked.

The girl shook her head. “I don’t know. And Guillaume says he does not remember anything about it. One year we spent a long time in Touraine, though, so I suppose you could say I’m from Touraine.” “And what did you do there?” Rosalie questioned

further, smiling gently as the girl adopted a whimsical expression and shrugged.

“Anything, mademoiselle. I can do anything.” Mireille suddenly  beamed  at  them  both,  a  wide  smile  that indicated supreme pleasure with the world in general, and then she looked out the window again. “I have no doubt of it,” Rosalie said in an aside to

Rand, and he grinned in agreement.

“As long as she pleases you, love.”

The endearment was meaningless, offhand. It wrung a response from her receptive nerves effortlessly. Love. The only other time he had called her that had been during a moment of passion, and she felt startled at the intimacy  it recalled. The word sounded soft coming from his lips, slipping through the pores of her skin like an airy caress. Quietly Rosalie eased herself into the crook of his arm, soaking up the nearness of him as the carriage rolled past the Loire.

How much simpler her life would have been if she had been able to choose whom and when she would love.  She  could  have  picked  a  kind,  uncomplicated man,  someone  who  would  have  fit  easily  into  the pattern of her life—perhaps a junior clerk at a bank, or a baker or tailor. Someone whose kisses were agreeable, not devastating . . . someone who would beg instead of bully  .  .  . someone whose looks were pleasant rather than sensually disturbing. She had never bothered to imagine  the  problems  of  loving  someone  like  Rand Berkeley. How much better it would have been to set her sights on a man who would make life steady, not mixed-up and painful, wild and sweet. She would not have  chosen  someone  who  would  have  turned  her world upside down. Rand was the stuff of which her dreams had once been made, but how wrong she had been to dream with such ambition!

Slowly  her  mind  wandered  to  the  subject  of  the Château  d’Angoux  as  she  realized  that  they  would reach it in an hour or two. Somewhere in the jumble of sleepiness  and  troubled  thoughts  was  a  twinge  of excitement at the prospect of seeing the château, for it might  provide  a  few  more  revelations  about  Rand’s past. Once she recovered her health completely, Rosalie was  determined  to  find  out  more  about  Helene d’Angoux and Rand’s heritage, about the recent and farreaching histories of the people who had lived there. She did not know how things stood between her and Rand now, for the former pattern of their relationship seemed to have dissolved in the past two days. So far it had not been reassembled. Perhaps at the château she would be able to discover what remained and what was gone, and how the two of them would go on from there.

As  they  drew  closer  and  closer  to  the  d’Angoux estate, the fertile green land became gently sloped, and the road pulled away from its parallel course with the Loire.  Languidly  a  dark  shape  broke  through  the horizon, causing Rand to tense slightly.

“That’s  it,”  he  said,  and  Mireille  jumped  to  the window,  her  tiny  fingers  curling  around  the  edges. Huge  walls  and  cylindrical  towers  surrounded  the château,  as  well  as  a  shallow  moat  that  had  been partially filled in and bridged over, now serving an ornamental  rather  than  useful  function.  Treetops, flowering ivy, and fluffy pale roses swayed lazily over the edges of the walls.

“Sang, how many towers are there?” Rosalie asked, unable to see the mass of them clearly through the halfopen iron gate.

“Eight,”  Rand  said,  bracing  an  arm  against  the windowframe to prevent her from pitching forward as the hired carriage jolted to a halt in front of the gate. Mireille  was  thrown  backward  against  the  velvetupholstered seat. Undaunted, she glued herself to the window once more.

“Mademoiselle, look at the gate!” she exclaimed, and Rosalie  leaned  forward.  As  Rand  withdrew  his  arm from  in  front  of  her  the  back  of  his  hand  brushed accidentally  against  her  breast.  They  both  froze  instantly. The immediacy of Rand’s desire washed over him without mercy. He inhaled sharply, wanting her uncontrollably, images filling his mind: the pliant firmness of her flesh in his hands, in his mouth, anywhere, everywhere. The inward rush of air dried his lips of their moisture.

Rosalie could feel her nipple contract immediately, suddenly  aching,  tingling  in  unquenchable  arousal. Every  nerve  was  thrown  into  instant  confusion,  her pulse heavy and rapid as if her blood had thickened into melted silver. She knew that her body’s reaction to him was unconcealed by the thin cambric of her dress. Cheeks flaming in embarassment, Rosalie blindly focused on the sight outside the carriage.

“Look at what, Mireille?” she murmured. “At  the  d’Angoux  coat-of-arms,”  the  young  girl

replied in fascination. “Engraved on the gate—a young man holding a shield . . . and a rose.”

“A rose?” Rosalie repeated, swallowing hard as she became aware that Rand was staring at her intensely. “But isn’t that a sign of royalty?”

“The d’Angouxs have a few ties with royalty,” he answered  in  a  carefully  casual  way,  “albeit  in  the distant past. In the twelfth century Geoffrey of Anjou married the daughter of England’s Henry I, and later their son became Henry II. In the 1400’s the daughter of Rene d’Anjou joined Henry VI in marriage—”

Gratefully Rosalie seized on the subject, eager to set her mind on something besides her awareness of him. “But I don’t see,” she interrupted, “how marrying the offspring of various Henrys entitled the d’Angoux to put a rose on their shield.”

As his gaze moved from the vivid blue of her eyes to the wide curve of her mouth, Rand suddenly forgot everything he had been about to say. He had never imagined being so hungry, so starved for the assuagement of a woman’s flesh, so needful of her caress, her sweetness.  It  took  a  massive  effort  to  collect  his thoughts and continue.

“The rose was won in battle. In the fifteenth century, Philippe d’Anjou defeated two powerful families in the struggle for the right to rule Brittany. And if that alone didn’t give him the right to take the rose as a symbol of royalty, he took to wife a sixteen-year-old maiden soon after the battle was over. An English bride—her name was Rosemonde. The English Rose, they called her, and it was said that he valued her above all else.” Rosalie hastily took her eyes away from him as the

carriage edged carefully past the gate and started up the long drive to the château.

“What is the Berkeley coat-of-arms?” she asked. “A shield, a wolf, and a birch tree. That’s why Randall is such a common name in the Berkeley family, given to every firstborn son. It means shield-wolf . . .  a   shield that  makes  the  warrior  who  carries  it  invincible  in battle.” Even though Rosalie’s head was turned away from him, she could feel his eyes upon her as he said softly,  “Hence  the  Berkeleys  are  usually  certain  of getting what they fight for.”

“Until their overconfidence leads to defeat,” Rosalie said stubbornly. Each tiny hair on the back of her neck quivered as he laughed, the sound delicious, masculine, warm.

“Hasn’t happened in centuries.”

The Château d’Angoux was unquestionably one of the loveliest structures she had ever seen. The oldest part of it was a castle, complete with bulky, steadfast towers and rigid walls. Then, rising out of the stone and stability of the castle was the more modern part of the château, designed in a Gothic style of dainty elegance, complete  with  crenellation,  cone-topped  towers,  and finely arched windows. The whole of it perched among miles of gardens and wooded forests, tiny ponds and a profusion   of   roses,   azaleas,   rhododendrons,   and chrysanthemums.

“Oh, how beautiful it is,” Rosalie said, and Rand’s mouth twisted sardonically.

“The  only  monument  the  d’Angoux  family  has  to offer to its name. There are no more men to carry on the line.”

“It’s so full of. . .” Grace? Romance? Rosalie searched dreamily for the exact words to use.

“Self-conscious grandeur,” Rand suggested, and she gave him a withering look before returning her attention to the gorgeous spectacle of the château. The gravel drive  passed  through  two  more  sets  of  gates,  then wound artfully by small ponds and clusters of trees before taking a more direct route toward the château. All of the land surrounding the structure was carefully tended,  the  trees  and  flowers  so  well-balanced  and harmoniously  placed  that  it  betrayed  a  history  of meticulous landscaping and refurbishing. Rosalie began to see what Rand had meant by describing the estate as self-conscious,  for  it  did  indeed  seem  to  stand  in awareness  of  its  own  magnificence.  Underneath  the leafy  fronds  and  the  careful  ornamentation  it  was evident that the château had once been a fortress, a tough, impenetrable giant, and the resilient strength of it still remained, although its edges had been softened by whimsical decoration.

The entrance to the château was dignified and grand, framed by half-columns that edged a wide portico. Four wings branched off from the central building. Strange, how the classical Roman style of it matched the Gothic tone of the rest of the structure. It could have easily been  a  jarring  combination  of  styles,  yet  something, perhaps its simplicity, blended all into a harmonious whole. The carriage stopped and Rosalie felt a quick flutter of nervousness intrude on her curiosity. So many new places, so many new things she had seen since meeting Rand, whereas before, her life had been the same year in and year out. Mireille took it all in with apparent  ease,  for  her  life  had  been  nothing  but constant change.

“It looks very quiet for such a big château,” Mireille remarked.

Rand nodded briefly before unfolding his arm from behind Rosalie. “Right now we have only a small staff,” he  replied,  opening  the  carriage  door  before  an  approaching footman could reach them. “But in the village there are a number of people who know the ways of the house . . . reserve forces, so to speak. We’ll need a few of them while we’re here.” Then he smiled at her, adding, “unless you would prefer to help with the cooking and dusting?”

“If my cooking will please you and mademoiselle, then so be it,” Mireille said, her fatalistic shrug indicating that the possibility of her cooking pleasing either one of them was highly doubtful. Rosalie giggled, her eyes twinkling as she regarded the pair of them.

“Don’t tease her, Rand,” she reproved, and he closed his mouth in obedient silence, the golden hazel eyes gleaming with a peculiar light as he threw her one last glance. Then he swung agilely out of the carriage to speak with the driver of the hired vehicle.

“His  temper  is  improving,”  Rosalie  observed  in  a whisper.

“He  is  happy  that  you  are  better,”  Mireille  said wisely.

“Do you really think so? Sometimes it doesn’t seem as if . . .” Under the scrutiny of those bright chocolate-hued eyes,  Rosalie  didn’t  finish  her  sentence,  wondering exactly  how  much  the  girl  understood.  Surely  my feelings for him must be as obvious as a beacon, she thought. Was Mireille, young as she was, someone she could  trust?  Her  ponderings  were  interrupted  as  a middle-aged  footman  of  gentle  appearance  helped them both out of the carriage, his band steady under her weak grasp. The traveling had exhausted Rosalie, and she became irritated with herself as she realized that her strength was far too easily depleted this soon after her illness.

Feeling  vaguely  removed  from  the  scene  as  she stepped  down  from  the  vehicle,  Rosalie  stood  there blinking tiredly. Although Mireille was looking around in  lively  curiosity,  she  remained  firmly  by  Rosalie’s side,  reminding  Rand  of  a  little  watchdog  as  he approached the pair.

“Our arrival is unexpected,” he said, offering his arm to Rosalie and leading her up the wide steps to the doorway. “It will probably take a minute or two for them to prepare the rooms.”

As the front doors were opened Rosalie let out a soft, admiring exhalation, forgetting everyone around her as she took in the magnificence of the château’s interior. Balustraded galleries edged the second floor, rich with tapestries  and  artwork,  while  statues  of  fantastical creatures perched in corners, above arches and doorways.  The  colors  were  pale and delicate: light blue, cream, lavender, mint, while thick rococo encrustations of  gold  glimmered  on  the  walls  and  ceiling  in lavishness and abundance.

“It  used  to  be  quite  elegant,”  Rand  said  dryly. “Simple,  restrained,  tasteful.  But  during  one  of  my mother’s last visits here she decided to redecorate . . . again.”

Rosalie  nodded  speechlessly,  wondering  how  on earth anyone could live comfortably in such resplendence. The château seemed to be less of a home than a beautiful work of art. It was breathtaking to view, but how could anyone live here?

“Don’t worry,” Rand said, cupping a comforting hand over her elbow. “Most of the rooms are a little less overwhelming.  Oh this woman who is approaching—she and her husband are the caretakers of the château. Since they are both highly respected in the village,  we’ll  hope  that  she’ll  be  considered  an acceptable chaperon for you. Ah, Madame Alvin?” He turned to speak to a pleasant-visaged, rotund woman, who advanced toward them with a bewilderingly rapid stream  of  French.  Her  expression  was  exceptionally kind if slightly worried, her neatly kept hair a silvery color  of  brown,  her  clothes  and  apron  scented  of cleanliness and starch—a clean, toasty, motherly smell that  was  immediately  comforting.  In  her  increasing exhaustion Rosalie could not follow most of the conversation  that  ensued,  comprehending  only  a  few  of Rand’s words. He seemed to be describing her as “my little  cousin  from  England,”  explaining  that  she  had been visiting relatives in Paris when a fever had struck, and  that  they  were  here  for  her  to  recuperate.  He finished with the brief introduction, “. . . Rose, may I present Madame Alvin . . . Madame Alvin, Miss Rosalie Berkeley.”

“Berk—” Rosalie began to say, stunned, and Rand smiled down at her gently, his expression brotherly as he prodded her in the side.

“Yes, I know how tired you are, petite cousine . . .  a few minutes, and I’m certain Madame Alvin will have a room for you.”

Cousin Rosalie Berkeley. It was not a role that would be easy for her to slip into.

“We  have  one  already!”  Madame  Alvin  said,  her sympathy  and  concern  turning  into  a  whirlwind  of activity. “Eleazar, get the bags from outside, and do not drag those big feet! Ninette, show mademoiselle and her

compagne  the  rooms  upstairs,  then  fetch  your  sister from the village to help with the cooking. And, Jereme, the trunks outside are . . . Where is that boy? Eleazar, find  him  and  tell  him  that  we  need  his  uncle  to butler   ”

Rosalie raised her eyes to the long, limitless line of stairs that led to the second floor. Ninette, a large blond girl close to her own age, indicated that they led to the bedchambers, and Rosalie stumbled forward with feet that had turned leaden, determined to retain at least a shred or two of her independence from Rand.

“Stubborn  little  fool,”  she  suddenly  heard  a  low masculine voice next to her ear. “No doubt you intend to try the stairs without asking for any help at all. Are you planning to carry your own trunks up, as well?” Rosalie made no reply, her face pale from the toll the

journey had taken. Rand picked her up easily, his arms hooked  securely  beneath  her  back  and  knees.  “Ah, pauvre  mademoiselle . “   she  heard  Madame  Alvin exclaim, and everything passed in a rush over her head as she rested her cheek submissively against Rand’s shoulder. He carried her up the stairs as the maid led the  way,  his  breath  warm  against  her  cheek  as  he glanced down at her.

How strange, Rosalie mused absently, that fate had forced her to depend on Rand so much and so often . . . she who had longed for freedom and independence he  a  man  whom  few  trusted,  who  had  the reputation  of  loathing  responsibility.  What  impelled him to take care of her and protect her?

He carried her into a bedchamber shaded in gold and pastels, the counterpane on the small canopied bed a pale pink hue. Rosalie could do no more than cast a weary glance around the exquisite room to take in the details . . . the gilded dressing table, the ornate mirrors, the walls painted with whimsical pictures of clouds, cherubs, and dainty foliage.

“Where are you going?” she asked as the comforting folds of the bed surrounded her.

“My room is down the hall,” he said, pulling the light covers over her. “Mireille is being settled in right next door. You’ll feel better after you sleep for a while, love.” Bewildered by his tenderness, Rosalie found that her arms were still entwined around his neck. Slowly she released him and slid her hands under the covers, her eyes closing. She looked so absurdly helpless against the large lace-edged pillows that Rand could not resist staying with her one more minute, the mattress giving slightly as he sat by her.

“Are you going to rest also?” she asked. “I have some things to take care of.”

“What  kinds  of  things?”  she  persisted,  and  Rand smiled.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said, his tone gentle. “I won’t stray far from you.” As he spoke, he stroked the satin  tendrils  of  hair  away  from  her  face  with  a whisper-light touch, letting them curl around his fingers and then tucking them behind her ears.

“What will you be doing?” Rosalie questioned sleepily, relaxing deeply under the caress of his fingertips.

“Waiting for you to wake up, of course. And making some decisions.”

“About me?” she whispered, feeling him trace the delicate line of her jaw, the vulnerable turn of her neck. “No decisions about you,” Rand replied, his voice full

of low, subtle inflections that her mind was too tired to analyze. “How can I?” His thumb brushed against the pulse in her neck, then drifted to the clustered nerves near her shoulder and massaged until her muscles were soft and loose. “My dilemma is that of the miner who finds a diamond in a pile of rocks. Never having had such a possession before, he’s afraid of losing it. He is besieged  by  questions:  what  kind  of  setting  does  it require . . . and how should he guard it? And how does he keep himself from becoming a miser?”

Dropping  off  to  sleep,  Rosalie  barely  heard  his words. She wondered much later if she had felt the soft brush of his mouth against her cheek, the stroke of his breath  against  her  skin,  the  sweetness  of  a  lover’s whisper in her hair. Or had it been only a dream that had stolen over her like a reluctant summer sunset? Rosalie slept in undisturbed peace, finally wakening a few hours later when evening had already settled. Mireille was there as she opened her eyes, bustling into the room with a bed tray that contained an enticing selection of food.

“Mademoiselle,  would  you  like  some  supper?”  she entreated. As Rosalie smiled and rubbed her eyes, the girl  set  the  tray  on  a  gilded  table.  “Monsieur  de Berkeley  said  that  you  would  eat  up  here  tonight,” Mireille  informed  her,  plumping  up  the  pillows  for Rosalie to lean against and rearranging the covers as she sat up. “They are so busy organizing the château . . . new people have arrived from the village, a butler, a man to clean the knives and boots, a girl to help the cook, and another to help open up more rooms.”

“So you’ve been investigating everything?” Rosalie asked, receiving the bed tray with pleasure. “What is this?”

“Blanc  manger  d’un  ckapon—very  good  for  a  sick person. A capon breast milled with ground almonds, and those little things on top are pomegranate seeds.”

Rosalie took a tentative bite and found it to be the most delicious dish she had ever tasted. Nestled on the gold-edged plate next to the capon was a sparse handful of mushrooms sautéed with cream and scallions, and there were also two small milk rolls, to be spread liberally with butter.

“For dessert I will bring you a strawberry cream,” Mireille announced, and Rosalie laughed.

“I doubt that I’ll be able to eat dessert after this.” “Monsieur said you must eat everything.” “Everything?” Rosalie repeated doubtfully. “I  don’t suppose you would—”

“Monsieur  said  I  must  not  eat  anything  for  you,” Mireille said virtuously.

“Monsieur  is  extremely  fond  of  dictating  orders,” Rosalie grumbled, thinking that Rand needed to eat just as much as she did. “I hope he had a large dinner. A very large one.” The girl nodded, settling on the corner of the bed as Rosalie picked up a three-pronged fork.

“Vraiment, he did, after going to the stable to see the horses. The stable is made to hold forty horses, Ninette told me, and in the old days it was packed with them.” “How  many  now?”  Rosalie  questioned  around  a savory mouthful.

Mireille  tilted  her  head  thoughtfully.  “Ah,  let  me think . . . only five. Monsieur de Berkeley said to Monsieur Alvin—the caretaker and gardener, who is also husband  to  Madame  Alvin—that  we  need  another stableboy, because he wishes to buy more horses . . . the ones in the stable now are not fast or spirited enough for him to ride.”

“That sounds like him,” Rosalie agreed, taking a sip of watered-down wine. “Rand’s idea of riding is probably to risk his neck by racing the wind and jumping every hedge and fence in sight.”

“If  you  wish  to  ride  after  you  are  better,  I  will accompany you,” Mireille offered, and the hopefulness was  so  transparent  in  her  voice  that  Rosalie’s  lips twitched.

“If you’re certain you wouldn’t mind—”

“Oh, no, I would not mind at all! And also,” Mireille continued, apparently encouraged by Rosalie’s acquiescence, “there are beautiful gardens around the château, and even a maze that Monsieur Alvin keeps clipped! If you wish, I will accompany you on afternoon walks.”

“A pleasant suggestion,” Rosalie agreed.

“And I will also accompany you to the fair in the village this month, which Ninette told me about. After I ask Monsieur de Berkeley for permission, of course—”

“Monsieur  doesn’t  own  me,”  Rosalie  interrupted, suddenly annoyed at Mireille’s assumption that Rand had the right to approve or disapprove of her activities. “We don’t need his permission.”

“But he is your cousin, your guardian, yes? He must be told of these things or . . . or he will become very angry with me,” Mireille pointed out. Rosalie’s expression softened immediately. The last thing she would wish on anyone, especially Mireille, was Rand’s anger. One scowl from him was enough to chase someone’s wits under the bed! “Besides, I do not think he would say no to anything you wanted.”

“No?” Rosalie questioned, her voice dry. “Unfortunately he has very particular ideas about what he thinks I should do.” And so far her attempts to manage Rand had been met with varying degrees of success. He was not an easy man to manipulate.

“Je suis d’accord,” Mireille said, nodding vigorously. “You are right, he is a strong-willed man.” Suddenly her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “But when you smile at him, mademoiselle”—she lifted her tiniest

finger and waggled it—”his will is no stronger than this!”

Rosalie gave a smothered laugh and broke one of the soft white milk rolls, shaking her head in dismay.

“I wonder if it was wise of Rand to pick you as my companion,” she said, chuckling quietly before spearing a tiny mushroom with a three-pronged fork.

“A  pair  of  brown  geldings,  an  old  brown  match horse, a chestnut mare, and a bay,” Rand listed the contents of the stable thoughtfully, the sinewy, muscular length of his legs stretched out in front of him as he lounged negligently in the frail, elaborately ornamented chair. He had come to Rosalie’s bedchamber after an early-morning ride, finding her at the beginning of a leisurely paced breakfast. She was an enchanting sight, her paleness erased with the warm flush of a long sleep and  recent  awakening.  “The  bay  can  work  up  to  a respectable speed, but the others are too old and wellfed to be of much use.” He chuckled suddenly, his goldtinged eyes focused on a distant memory. “I don’t recall many details about the old marquis except for his love of horses. I wonder if he knows somehow that his fortyhorse stable is currently being warmed by five roundsided nags who swish at flies for exercise.”

Rosalie  laughed,  pulling  apart  a  croissant  and spreading a crumbling bit of it with fresh honey.

“You plan to augment the ranks of the d’Angoux stables soon?” she inquired.

“I’m going to visit some of the more prominent local landowners today. Perhaps there’ll be a few prospects. In any event, it’s customary here for the new residents of the district to pay first calls.”

“Really? They’re not going to make the first move and welcome  us?  And  I  thought  the  French  were  so hospitable. It makes more sense the way we do it in England, the other way around.”

“I would rather that no one came to visit for a few weeks,” Rand replied, stroking his lean cheek absently. The shadow of bristle made him appear darker than usual, and vaguely unscrupulous. “The reason we’re here is to find some peace, not to play host to a gaggle of curious callers.”

“Oh  .  .  .” Rosalie stopped chewing in mid-thought, then forced herself to swallow. “Do you think anyone knows . . . about the gossip . . . ?”

“About  the  rumors  concerning  Brummell’s  daughter?” Rand clarified, and then shook his head. “You’ll discover  shortly  that  this  little  province  is  an entire world,  insulated  from  Paris  just  as  much  as  it’s insulated  from  Japan.  Local  affairs  are  the  concern here—local news, local gossip. Now, in England, you’ve been a gossipmonger’s dream, but here . . . well, you won’t make the local circuit for quite a while.”

“Thank  you,”  Rosalie  said  dryly.  As  she  washed down  the  croissant  with  hot,  milky coffee,  her  eyes brightened with a pleasant idea. “Then that means I can accompany you when you visit—”

“You can rest and relax in bed for a while longer,” Rand  corrected,  his  voice  containing  that  autocratic note that sorely tempted her to disobey him. “And if you’re feeling stronger, you can have Mireille accompany you on a tour through a wing or two of the château. There  are  paintings,  sculptures,  and  amusements enough to keep you occupied for a while.” Smothering her vaguely outraged reaction to his tone

of  command,  Rosalie  contrived  to  keep  her  reply appropriately mild. Rand would not be won over by her stubbornness as quickly as sweetness.

“Will I see you for lunch?” she asked, sounding more wistful than she would have preferred. However, she was satisfied to hear that his voice was noticeably softer than before.

“Not  today.  But  I’ll  be  back  in  time  for  supper tonight.” As Rand stood up, his riding boots gleamed with an ebony sheen in the morning light, hugging his calves and emphasizing well-hewn thighs in a way that any decent woman would probably ignore. As matters were, Rosalie could not help noticing how magnificent he was in riding clothes, how tousled and masculine he appeared with his gold-brown hair mussed and his face unshaven. “If you need anything, tell Mireille or Madame Alvin,” he said, and Rosalie smiled at him.

“I never dreamed I’d have my own companion,” she said, licking a tiny spot of honey off her forefinger. “I should be at home, running to fetch Elaine’s morning tea, and instead I’m lolling in an ostentatious château in France, trying to decide how best to spend my leisure time.”

As  the  thick  braid  of  sable  hair  trailed  over  her shoulder and down to her waist, as her rich blue eyes shone  with  feline  contentment,  Rand  stared  at  the appealing picture she made. Still so innocent, so serene. He wanted to crush her slender silken body in his arms and  hold  her  like  that  for  days,  inhaling  her  scent, hearing every breath she took and every beat of her heart.

“You should be at home safe with your mother,” he said thickly, and Rosalie glanced up in surprise at the change in his tone. “Deciding which color your hair ribbon should be, which boy to dance and flirt with at the next ball.”

“I . . .” she started to say, confused by his mercurial mood, and then she decided to smile again. “Have a good day,” she said. Her smile faltered as Rand ignored her words and left abruptly, his thick, straight brows drawing together as he closed the door with absolute control.

He leaned against the wall in the outside hallway as soon as the latch clicked, closing his eyes and taking a deep, even breath.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, his hands clenched into tight, solid fists. “God help me, I can’t read your mind, Rosalie, and I don’t know what you want. I’m wrapped around those little fingers, wanting to jump every time you beckon and call . . . damn, but you’re hard on a man’s pride.”

Sometimes she was a strong woman with mettlesome spirit,  sometimes  she  was  frail  and  in  need  of  his strength—her changeability was part of what fascinated Rand about her, but it also made him wary. For a while he had to establish a safer distance from Rosalie, for he was far too vulnerable to her capricious moods, and it was apparent that she needed time to think.

“I think,” Mireille said, her elfin features wrinkling in concentration, “we think . . . you think . . . they think .  he think . . .”

“He thinks,” Rosalie corrected, turning the pages of the English book in search of another verb to conjugate. They sat in the small sunny garden at the back of the château near the glass-paneled doors that opened from a magnificent sitting room. Chairs and cushions had been set out for them by Monsieur Alvin so that they could study outdoors in complete comfort. The breeze was warm and pleasant, permeated with the fragrance of flowers, grass, sunlight, summer. “Mireille, you are a wonder. I’ve never met anyone with a memory like yours. Try this one—the verb ‘to be.’ I am, you are, we are—”

“—they are, he are,” Mireille supplied triumphantly, and Rosalie suppressed a quick urge to laugh.

“No—”

“He am?”

“He is,” Rosalie said, her voice colored with no small amount of sympathy. English was not as easy to learn as French, not by half. Mireille sighed in disgust, her dark brown eyes glowing with animation.

“The English language . . . is like the English people: elle n’est pas raisonable.”

“No, it doesn’t make much sense,” Rosalie agreed, closing the book while smiling at her petite companion. “I think that is enough for today.”

“I can do more,” Mireille said stubbornly. “What is this?” she asked, picking up the nearest object within reach.

“A book,” Rosalie replied. “And this?”

“A stone. And that is a door, that is a tree . . .” “And this?”

“A  flower,”  Rosalie  said,  taking  the  blossom  from Mireille’s tiny hand and examining it reverently. She had never seen such a spectacular rose. Its petals were luxuriant and profuse, fragile and pale, shaded with yellow near the center. The stem and leaves were glossy and dark green. Its perfume was sweet, mild, intoxicating. “A very beautiful flower.”

“A  Gloire  de  Dijon  rose,”  a  new  voice  joined  the conversation. The two women turned to see the stout form of Monsieur Alvin as he returned from pruning and clipping the flowering ivy. He was not quite so wide in girth as Madame Alvin, but his smile was just as pleasant, his eyes twinkling with the satisfaction of a man who was at ease with his life and his work. He was the general caretaker of the château in the absence of the proprietor, but his main love and talent was gardening. “Beyond the maze there is another thicket of them, shaded with pink and not yellow, and they are not as large as these. They do not have the protection of a wall, as these do. Gloire de Dijon roses need protection .

. they are strong and sturdy at the base, but their petals are delicate. They need shelter from the wind and the elements in order to grow full and beautiful.”

“Yes,  I  understand,”  Mireille  said,  her  little  grin taking  on  a  mischievous  quality  as  she  glanced  at Rosalie. “Don’t all of Monsieur de Berkeley’s roses need protection?”

“Mireille,”  Rosalie  said pointedly,  “you  are a  little cat.” Although she spoke in English, Rosalie knew from Mireille’s widening grin that she understood the gist of the statement.

Unfortunately, as day followed day and week followed week, Mireille had much less cause than she had originally  thought  to  tease  Rosalie  about  Rand.  The truth was, Rand was seldom with them. He was gone most of the time, overseeing matters concerning the management and upkeep of the château. There were many concerns that had been put off year after year— repairs, bills and obligations that had finally accumulated  in  a  pile  that  the  Alvins  were  not  capable  of dealing with. He seemed to enjoy the challenges that were presented to him, but Rosalie sensed that something was constantly bothering him. He would come in sometimes  after  hard,  long  rides,  his  hair  and  skin damp with sweat, his face taut with frustration. He refused  most  of  the  time  to  meet  her  eyes,  yet  his conversation and his smiles were easy, glib, automatic. His attitude toward Rosalie became less and less that of a lover, more that of the fictitious cousin. He seemed bent on erasing any lingering traces of closeness between  them,  never  seeing  her  alone  except  for  the minute or so each morning when he stopped by after riding to inquire dutifully after her health. Each night Mireille, Rosalie, Rand, and the Alvins shared the dinner table together, for in some aspects the château  was  run  with  notable  informality.  But  even then Rosalie could not speak to Rand about anything other  than  the  commonplace,  because  after  the  last course was done most of the residents of the château retired at nine o’clock. There was never an opportunity for her to share a private moment with him. To her disgruntled surprise Rosalie realized eventually that he seemed to prefer it that way! She alternated between resenting him and wanting the special intimacy they had once known, but to all appearances Rand did not seem to miss their closeness. At first she was bewildered,  then  desperate  for  his  attention,  then  dully resigned to the fact that she was not going to get it. Despite  her  dissatisfaction  with  personal  matters, Rosalie’s health improved rapidly. In a miraculously short time she bloomed with vigor again, a condition she credited almost entirely to Madame Alvin’s cooking. She had never eaten so well before. Everything was fresh and carefully prepared, seasoned and garnished with the vegetables and herbs and spices that grew in the sprawling garden behind the château. There were smoked ham rubbed with salt, cloves, and anise, turkey stuffed with raspberries, fried sole and roasted meats of every variety. Each meal was preceded by a delicious soup, such as potage à la Monglas, made with truffles and  mushrooms,  or  à  la  Crecy,  with  sweet  orange

carrots . . .  or pumpkin soup, Rosalie’s favorite because it was served in a hollowed-out glazed pumpkin. Next came  the  entremets,  a  dish  that  was  served  between

courses. Usually it consisted of light, pungent concoctions such as ember-roasted truffles, pineapple cream, or tiny souffles. Desserts were always varied and abundant: Orleans pudding, a smooth custard layered with crushed biscuits . . . apricot fritters and marzipan tarts cunningly  shaped  like  hearts  .  .  .  heavenly  pastries composed of layer upon layer of flaky dough filled with delicate creams and fruits.

Rosalie noticed that Mireille was also benefiting from the food and the extra sleep. She was becoming less an unnaturally poised child and more a rowdy, healthy girl,  her  feet  barely  touching  the  floor  as  she  raced around  the château and the  grounds.  Together  they walked through the grounds, talking excessively and never running out of conversation material. But they never discussed Rand or the obvious fact that Rosalie longed to reawaken his former interest in her, until finally one morning Rosalie broached the subject glumly while Mireille was twisting and pinning her hair at her bedchamber dressing table.

“Mireille, it’s not going to work,” she said, sighing as she met the girl’s eyes with her own disconsolate blue gaze. “It’s useless to try to attract his attention. You might as well let my hair alone and lay out sackcloth for me to dress in. The kinds of feelings he had for me in Paris are completely gone. The way he talks to me now, the way he looks at me . . . absolutely different from then. Dieu, he is so damned kind and brotherly that I

want to choke him!”

“Oh, mademoiselle . . . “  Mireille said, her smile very wry  as  she  set  down  the  lacquer-backed  brush  and leaned a hip against the table. “How can it be,” she asked, fixing Rosalie with a steady gaze, “that I am fifteen and you are twenty, when I am so much older than you? How can you not see what is so obvious to me and everyone else here?”

“And what exactly do you see?”

“Perhaps it is true, that love makes one blind . . .  if so, I hope I never fall in love, for vraiment, it makes such

fools of men and women! Of course monsieur wants you! He does not in the least think of you as a brother would . . . don’t you ever turn quickly and surprise the look in his eyes? When your head is turned, ma foie, how he stares at you.” Mireille’s voice lowered, and she went to close the door. When she returned, Rosalie’s head was bent.

“What more can I do?” she asked, her voice almost quivering with pained eagerness. “I hang on to every word of his, I smile at him, I touch him, and he pulls away so politely . . .  he must know how I feel, for he is

perceptive and hardly inexperienced!”

“Mademoiselle,  I  do  not  know  what  has  happened between  you  and  him.  I  know  you  a  little.  I  know nearly nothing about him. But I can say without doubt that he is waiting for you.”

“Waiting? For me to do what?” Rosalie asked blankly. “To decide what you want from him, and what he is to you, and he will approach you only when you have made up your mind, C’est ça. It is very simple.” A long silence reigned in the room, and slowly Rosalie lifted her eyes to Mireille’s. As the girl read the doubt in Rosalie’s blue gaze, she sighed and made the motion of hitting her own head with a spread palm. “Bah!” she exclaimed. “I have said too much.”

“No,”  Rosalie  said  quickly,  “you  haven’t.  I  need someone to help me think through this. I can’t quite believe that Rand might still want me as he once did.” ” I  saw him in Paris,” Mireille said quietly, “when he

thought you might not wake up ever again. He was fou,

and that is no exaggeration.”

“Fou?” Rosalie repeated, frowning curiously. It was a word she had not come across before.

“Mmmmn . . .” Mireille bit her lip as she considered how to explain it. “Yes, fou—when things are not right

in the head or the heart. When something is wrong with the thinking . . . ”

“Crazy,” Rosalie said, and her eyes became round as she stared at the small maid. “Rand was—”

“Yes. Completely.”

“Well, I am fou right now. Completely. Because my heart does know what I want from him, and my head tells me all the reasons why it is wrong. Ever since I met him, my thinking and my feelings have been at crosspurposes, pushing me toward him, pulling me away from him.”

“And you wonder why he is cool to you?” Mireille pointed out gently.

“Are you suggesting that he has avoided me because he’s protecting himself?”

“Mais oui.”

“Then how do I—?”

“I am the wrong one to give advice,” Mireille said, suddenly standing up and brushing at imaginary dust on her skirts. Rosalie groaned and leaned her forehead against her hands.

“The problem seems so complicated, but it’s ridiculously simple. My heart wants him for forever but my mind tells me that I can’t have him that long, and so it would be better not to have him at all. Isn’t the solution self-evident?”

“Yes,”  Mireille  said,  and  suddenly  she  looked haunted. It was an odd expression for the face of a little sprite to wear. Her eyes turned dark with memories of a short  but  complicated  past,  which  she  refused  to confide in anyone. “Yes, the answer would be easy for me to choose, mademoiselle. Happiness blows away as

easily as feathers in a strong wind. It is not solid and complete  . . .  it  comes  in  little  pieces.  Collect  them when you can. It is worthless to spite the bits and pieces that you hold because of all that you cannot have.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosalie whispered. “I must seem very selfish to you.”

“No.” Abruptly the glimmer in Mireille’s eyes disappeared, and she picked up the brush to resume arranging  the  locks  of  long,  gleaming  hair.  Abruptly  she changed  the  subject.  “I  heard  in  the  kitchen  this morning that Jereme saddled one of the horses in order for Monsieur de Berkeley to visit Monsieur Lefevre, the local  tax  collector.  He  should  be  back  early  this afternoon. If you wish, you can see him then.” “A tax collector? I thought Rand had taken care of the

unpaid taxes weeks ago, when he came here to put the château up for sale.”

“I have heard that Monsieur Lefevre is a very bad man, a greedy man. After Monsieur de Berkeley sold the  d’Angoux  land  to  the  tenants  who  worked  it, Monsieur Lefevre raised the land taxes. But the peasants cannot afford to pay him more.”

“Why  would  Lefevre  do  that?”  Rosalie  wondered aloud,  frowning.  “Rand  told  me  that  land  taxes  are already  heavier  on  the  peasantry  than  on  the  rich landowners. You can’t squeeze blood out of a stone.”

“The peasants have no voice. This far from Paris the local men of importance can do whatever they want.

The villages are their own kingdoms. Last night a group of peasants came to the château to ask Monsieur de Berkeley to speak to Lefevre on their behalf, since he is the highest-ranking man living in the district now, and they remember his kindness in selling the land to them at such a low price.”

“I didn’t hear a thing—”

“We had already retired,” Mireille said, and then gave a smug little smile. “But I know everything that goes on here because Madame Alvin is a talkative woman. And what she doesn’t reveal, Ninette or Eleazar tells me.”

“Rand certainly didn’t mention anything about it to me,” Rosalie said, folding her arms and staring at the mirror in disgruntlement. “But then, he probably wants me to turn my attention to some other matters that I’ve put  off  for  a  long  time.”  She  felt  a  quake  of apprehension   in   her   stomach,   and   determinedly squelched it. “Mireille . . . after you finish my hair, I need some time alone. I have . . .  a letter to write, and I don’t know how long it will take.”

The floor was littered with crumpled attempts, each one more difficult to begin than the last. Rosalie refused to leave her desk until the job was done. She had never envisioned herself in such a ludicrous position. How could she write a letter asking her mother if she were indeed  her  mother?  Would  Amille  be  hurt  by  her questions, would she be angered by them? And how did she feel about the fact that Rosalie was living under a man’s protection in France? Maman . . .  it is not that I have abandoned the rules of morality you tried to teach me,  Rosalie  thought,  wishing  that  she  could  talk  to Amille face-to-face instead of writing a stilted message. But,  Maman,  you  never  told  me  what  to  do  when something else seems more important. I have not been deluded by love, or passion  .  .  . it’s just that I have begun to realize there is no happiness in safety. I have to take chances.

When the letter was done, she folded and sealed it carefully, tucking it into a stocking bag and tying the purse to the waist of her jade-green gown. Suddenly she noticed that because of the hours spent in the sunny garden, her skin had warmed from its usual fairness to a light peach color. “Good Lord,” she said, examining her  face,  arms,  and  bosom  critically  in  the  thickly ornamented mirror, “I’ll get as brown as Rand if I’m not careful.” The sun had also illuminated her cheeks with bright pink crescents, causing her to sigh in dismay. “Brummell’s  daughter,”  she  muttered,  inspecting  her nose to see if it had also been reddened by the sun. “If that’s what I am, I’ve inherited the faults and none of the perfections.” Slowly she raised a slender hand to her neck, touching the place where her gold circlet had so often hung on a ribbon. An odd chill ran through her as she realized that the father she had once cursed for not being  alive  might  be  in  Calais  that  very  moment. George Brummell—George Belleau . . . if they were one and the same, then how could Amille have kept the knowledge from her? “Maman,” Rosalie said, reaching inside the stocking purse to feel the edge of the letter with  her  fingertips,  “how  could  you  be  the  former governess to my real mother?” With a quick shiver she released the letter and went to call for Mireille. Rosalie followed Mireille’s more forthright pace into

the  stable  with  a  more  cautious  step,  for  it  was unfamiliar territory. The stable smelled good, of hay, horses, leather, and feed, and she peered curiously at the spacious interior. She had never seen so many horse stalls. Even with Rand’s recent purchases, only a small fraction were actually occupied. Jereme, a red-haired youth of eighteen, sat on a small stool in the act of carving nameplates for the new additions to the stable. At the entrance of the two women he stood up with a start and whipped off his hat.

“Mademoiselle Berkeley,” he murmured, nodding his head in a gesture of respect, and then his pale brown eyes flickered to her companion with a great deal more familiarity. “. . . el Mireille.”

“Hello,”  Rosalie  said,  her  lips  tilted  upward  in  a vaguely inquiring smile. It was apparent that something had occurred between her companion and Jereme, for Mireille pointedly ignored the boy, her little nose lifting in the air as she brushed by him. “These  are  the  horses  Monsieur  de  Berkeley  purchased,”  the  maid  informed  Rosalie.  “They  are  very handsome, aren’t they? . . . This is Whisper, and this is Linnette. The empty place is for Diamond, a big black one that monsieur has taken on his visit to Monsieur

Lefevre.”

“Lefevre . . .” Jereme joined the conversation eagerly, making a pretense of spitting on the ground after the name left his lips. “The whole village hates Monsieur Lefevre. I do not believe he will make any agreement or bargain  with  Monsieur  de  Berkeley  or  anyone  else. Lefevre is too—”

“Monsieur  de  Berkeley  has  had  vast  experience negotiating  with  disagreeable  officials,”  Rosalie  said reassuringly, reaching out a hand to stroke Whisper’s soft muzzle.

“With  respect,  mademoiselle,  not  with black-hearted men who like to squeeze every franc out of a little village and fill their own pockets with it.”

“He runs a large shipping enterprise and has dealt very capably with stubborn customs agents who detest English imports,” Rosalie replied. “I don’t think Monsieur Lefevre will present any difficulty to him.”

“I hope you’re right,” Jereme murmured doubtfully. Mireille  stamped  her  tiny  foot  with  characteristic impatience. “Of course she’s right, idiot! Anyone who has ever stepped a foot out of the village would know that  a  customs  agent  is  ten  times  more  difficult  to reason with than a little nothing of a tax collector!” Rosalie grinned at her companion’s worldly-wise air and  sought  for  a  way  to  change  the  subject,  since “Jereme was beginning to look distinctly offended. She clicked her tongue lightly to the aging chestnut horse beside Whisper. “Who is this?” Rosalie asked, unable to make out the blunted lettering on the nameplate. “Revenant,” Jereme answered.

Rosalie chuckled.

“In English his name is Spook, Mireille. I wouldn’t recommend trying to ride him until we discover how he earned it.”

As Mireille began to reply, her attention was caught by a tiny movement in the corner of an unoccupied stall and she flew toward it with an exclamation of delight.

“Mademoiselle! Oh, come here and see!”

In  the  stall  four  kittens  tumbled  over  each  other, lively bundles of gray fur that swatted and pounced at each other, then peered at the approaching visitors with bright round eyes.

“How  sweet,”  Rosalie  crooned,  her  eyes  gleaming with  pleasure.  She  crouched  beside  Mireille  without hesitation,  her  skirts  billowing  on  the  hay-sprinkled ground.  Scooping  up  one  of  the  wriggling  bodies, Rosalie stroked her fingers over the downy fur and discovered the tenuous vibrations of a purr against her palms. The thought suddenly occurred to her that she was behaving with a notable lack of dignity. No lady would squat in a stable to coo over such a discovery— but how soft the kitten was, how trusting and fragile. Wonderingly she fit her palm over the entirety of its tiny head, chuckling at the miniature ears, the wispy strands of whiskers. As she held it against her neck, clasping the little animal in a gentle hold, it scrabbled for a more secure position and accidentally caught at her skin with one frail claw. Still she did not release the purring  kitten,  settling  it  against  her  shoulder  and standing up as she heard the multiple thuds of approaching hoofbeats.

Framed  in  the  wide  entrance  to  the  barn,  Rand dismounted from a huge horse that gleamed like ebony. The horse’s large, sensitive nostrils were quivering from a  fast-paced  ride,  his  great  sides  expanding  and contracting with deep breaths. Large, shining hooves pawed nervously at the ground in his unwillingness to stop so suddenly.

“Cool him down well, Jereme,” Rand said, the low baritone of his voice carrying even though he spoke softly. Rosalie stared at him in absorption, hugging her arms around herself as she drank in the sight of him. So many times she had seen him in the most expensive evening clothes, cool, unruffled, and perfectly handsome, yet nothing or no one could compare with him as he looked right now, exuding unvarnished masculinity from every pore.

The sleeves of his simple white shirt were rolled up to just above the elbows, revealing powerfully sculptured forearms and wrists. The garment clung to him in damp patches, especially to the flatness of his midriff and the broad, rock-solid surface of his back. As Rand turned  to  hand  the  reins  of  the  horse  to  Jereme, Rosalie’s gaze skimmed admiringly over his tall, broadshouldered form, detecting the subtle changes that had occurred in him since they had come to the château. He had gained back the weight that he had lost during her illness in Paris, regaining that muscular sturdiness that made  him  appear  so  invulnerable.  Riding  breeches were adhered by perspiration to the tough, strapping lines of his thighs, hips, and the lean surface of his buttocks.

The sun had infused his skin with renewed color so that it shone with a rich shade of tan. Conversely, his hair was several shades lighter, soaked liberally with the molten glitter of gold. Walking with a limber stride to a nearby well, he bent to rinse his arms, face, and neck of the effects of the long ride. Not many men possessed his type of lusty vitality, of that Rosalie was certain. She would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to  want  him.  The  kitten  mewed  in  protest  at  her tightening grip, and hastily Rosalie let it down.

Rand  walked  into  the  stable  then,  drops  of  fresh water flying everywhere as he shook his head to get the excess out of his hair. He stopped short when he saw Rosalie standing there.

“I thought I saw someone in here,” he said, his hazel eyes traveling over her slowly.

“I wanted to speak with you . . .” Rosalie began, her voice fading away as Rand frowned and, walked over to her.

“You’ve got a scratch,” he said, looking down at the thin line of red that marred the pearly smoothness of her shoulder.

“Oh, that’s nothing, I don’t even feel it now,” she began, flinching as his hand brushed dangerously close to her breast. “It’s from . . .” She found that she could barely speak as his hand settled at her waist. Rand’s head  lowered  an  inch  as  he  bent  to  hear  her  more clearly.

“What?” he asked, his breath moist and cool from the fresh well water. His nearness was so overwhelming that Rosalie could only lift her head to stare at him mutely. They both became tense and still with anticipation, a delicious excitement burgeoning in the silence between them.

table.

. |.

“I

|.

.  It’s  nothing,”  Rosalie  finally  managed  to

|

whisper,  her  eyes  round  and  as  blue  as  sapphires, searching for what was hidden in the depths of his hazel gaze. She had never wanted him so desperately. Rand’s fingers tightened at her waist. He took a shallow breath and started to say something—she would never know what, for just then he noticed the shuffling in the nearby stall.

“Mireille,” Rand said wryly, and Rosalie’s hand flew up to her cheek, for she had completely forgotten about her companion and the kittens. “I see you’ve acquired some new charges to look after,” Rand commented, his eyes filled with sudden laughter.

Mireille  gathered  up  an  apronful  of  kittens  and bobbed a curtsy to him. “Bonjour, monsieur. How did it

go with Monsieur Lefevre?”

“Very  well.  He  can,  on  occasion,  be  made  to  see reason.”

Mireille threw him a brilliant grin, her brown eyes snapping with satisfaction. “That is not his reputation, monsieur. You must be a remarkable opponent for him to change his mind about matters of the purse.” “I’m not surprised,” Rosalie stated matter-of-factly. “It

is  never  pleasant  to  be  on  the  opposite  end  of  a disagreement with Monsieur de Berkeley.” Rand smiled at her. Reluctantly his hand slid from

her waist and he stepped away as if he were striving to place a necessary distance between them. “You wanted to talk to me?” he asked.

Rosalie  nodded,  fingering  the  top  of  her  stocking purse.  “Yes.”  Slowly  she  pulled  out  the  letter  and handed it to him. “I wanted to give this to you. Can you . . . would you mail it as soon as possible?” There was a long silence as Rand read the name and the address on the  finely  milled  paper.  His  eyes  rested  on  her thoughtfully,  narrowing  slightly  as  he   read  the combination of emotions that played across her delicate features. Her eyes were bright with frustrated desire, her mouth tender as she smiled tremulously. “It’s time I was more honest,” she whispered. “I’d like to start with this letter. And I’d like to be more straightforward with you.” She wanted to say more but would not dare with Mireille there.

“Mireille,” Rand said, still staring at Rosalie, “why don’t you go find the kittens’ mother?” His voice was husky as he added, “Take your time about it. And if Jereme starts to come back with Diamond, tell him the horse needs to be walked another ten minutes.”

“Out,   monsieur,”   Mireille   murmured   dutifully, scampering  out  of  the  stable  with  an  expression  of unholy glee.

Rand smiled, his manner suddenly lazy and comfortable as he looked down at Rosalie.

“There’s no need to send her away,” Rosalie said, experiencing a small, unexpected measure of discomfort at the realization that she was alone with him for the first time in what seemed to be weeks. “I’ve said all that I intended to—”

“For what I have in mind,” Rand said, pressing her backward until she was trapped in the corner of the stable, “I thought you’d prefer some privacy.”

She began to stammer, flustered as he held her fast and lowered his mouth to hers. His arms went around her to shield her from the rough planking of the wall. She felt the unyielding strength of his body against hers .  a large body that could crush hers easily, yet all his power was held in check. She opened her mouth to his, craving  the  taste  of  him,  suddenly  drunk  with  the sensation of his tongue mating with hers. Making a tiny moan of protest as he lifted his head, Rosalie wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on the tips of her toes to bury her face against the warm column of his throat. She loved him. She could not resist his touch, nor her own unconquerable desire to please him, to touch him tenderly.

“My  sweet  Rose,”  Rand  whispered,  then  laughed breathlessly at the feel of her seeking mouth on his skin. “Wait a minute . . . don’t do that. God, you’re so small . . .”

He hooked his foot around a low stool and pulled it to  the  corner,  swinging  her  up  onto  it  in  one  easy motion. Now their eyes were at the same level. Rosalie clutched at him as she felt the tiny stool wobble. “I’ll  fall,”  she  whispered,  and  he  shook  his  head slightly while sliding his arms around her back. “Not if you hold on to me.”

She stood quietly, leaning into him as she accepted the love play of his mouth. He caught at her top lip gently, then her bottom lip, tasting the corners, delving inside  in  a  soft,  knowing  way  that  made  her  knees weaken. Over and over he kissed her, his kisses light and searching, his fingers threading through her hair and cradling her scalp in order to position her head. She loved being held by him. She tasted the salt of his skin and savored the flavor of him, she let her fingers wind through his wet hair, she felt the thud of his heartbeat against her breasts and thought that she would die if only to have him fill her with his own flesh just one more  time.  His  hand  slipped  intimately  inside  the bodice of her gown, cupping a breast. As the soft peak responded to his touch by contracting against his palm, Rosalie sucked in a quick breath of much-needed air, her mind swimming in a rush of pleasure. Suddenly aware that it was possible for someone to

hear her or walk in and see them, Rosalie jerked her mouth away from his and fought to pull his hand out of her gown.

“Rand,” she gasped, “what if someone comes in and sees  you  making  love  with  your  ‘little  cousin  from England?”

“It’s not at all unusual for first cousins to become involved  with  each  other,”  Rand  said,  ignoring  the fluttering of her hands as he cupped her breast more possessively. “A little scandalous, perhaps—”

“And if I were your cousin,” Rosalie panted, “you would have more regard for me than to do this in a stable!” As she tried one last time to remove his hand from her bodice, the stool wobbled dangerously, and she wrapped her arms more tightly around him. “Rand, I’m going to break my neck! Rand  .  .  .” Her protests began to fade away as his lips touched hers delicately, the light pressure much more erotic than a bruising kiss could  have  been.  “What  if  someone  sees?”  she murmured helplessly, her eyes closing. His mouth was warm and sweet as he kissed her once more, and then all   Rosalie   cared   about   was   the   consummate movements of his lips on hers.

“It has driven me mad to watch you these past few weeks,” Rand said, his mouth sliding down to the tiny scratch  on  her  shoulder.  The  feathery  stroke  of  his tongue soothed her skin, leaving a tingling streak of dampness as he moved on to the base of her throat. “So pristine, dressed so immaculately, every hair in place I’ve wanted to do this . . .” His hand gathered up the thin material of her skirt, then slipped underneath to  find  the  smooth  contours  of  her  thigh,  the  soft roundness  of  her  buttocks.  Her  thin  underclothes provided no barrier to his invading hand. Impatiently he brushed them aside, intent on reaching the bare, quivering flesh underneath.

“Rand!” she gasped, her eyes flying open to cast a glance  around  the  empty  stable.  The  entire  scene seemed slightly askew, faintly blurred. “What if someone . . . what if—?” He pressed his mouth between her breasts, his breath now touching her flesh with the heat of steam. She sighed, tilting her head back as she felt his sensitive fingers slide between her thighs in a slow, satin caress. Her entire body felt light and weightless, anchored by his possessive arms. He stroked her so softly,  his  fingertips  measuring  her  responses  and focusing on the tiny nerves that softened and expanded in pleasure.

“Rose, how I need you,” he murmured, and as he discovered  the  silky  dampness  of  her  delicate  flesh, Rand groaned as if in pain.

Rosalie arched against him, her face flushing as her pulse increased to a rapid pounding. “I didn’t know if you wanted me any longer,” she said, her voice hushed,  her  lips  parting  as  he  stole  another  warm, languorous kiss from her. Exquisite sensations spilled through her, their melted richness easing the hungry dryness of need.

“Not want you?” Rand repeated softly, and his lips slid over the incredible smoothness of the skin underneath her jaw. “Little fool . . . I’ve told you before that you’re mine. Yes, I want you . . .  I want to feel you tight around me, holding me inside your body, your arms locked around my neck. I want you to look at me with a different expression in your eyes than when you look at anyone else . . .  I want you to turn to me for anything you need, for comfort, for help, for pleasure—” “I  already  do,”  she  whispered,  and  the  teasing movements  of  his  fingers  stopped  as  he  caught  his breath, his gold-green eyes locking with hers. “Please. . . don’t stop,” Rosalie panted, feeling like a rope that had been drawn too tightly, beginning to unravel. Rand gathered her closer, his low, hungry murmur

searing her oversensitive ears. “I won’t stop, sweet . . . I know exactly what you need.”

Suddenly the passionate revelry was shredded by the sound of a girl’s scream.

“Mireille,” Rosalie breathed, her desire cooling rapidly as she wondered what had happened. In a split second Rand rearranged her clothing and

swung her down from the stool. The slumberous gleam in his eyes had been instantly replaced by alertness, and he cast a brief warning glance at her. “Stay here,” he said, leaving through the stable door at an easy, loping pace.