Goddammit!”  Rand  snarled,  his  grip

biting as he held her away from him and kept her at arm’s length to take a quick and thorough inventory of her  condition.  “If  that  dress  wasn’t  half-burned  off already, I would lift your skirts and thrash you for an hour!”

Before she could reply, he shook her roughly, and Rosalie gritted her teeth to keep them from clacking together. Then Rand was still, holding her so close that they were eye-to-eye. “I told you to stay at the château! It is dangerous for you to be here! Damn you!” She was subjected  to  another  vigorous  shaking,  and  Rosalie thought dazedly that her bones would start to rattle together if he didn’t stop soon. She decided to throw in a word or two on her own behalf.

“I wasn’t planning to get this close to the fire—”    she began.

“To      hell  with  your  plans!  I  look  around  the  first moment I have to rest, and I find you lit up like a candelabrum!”

Rosalie  opened  her  mouth  to  answer  and  found herself  being  shaken  again.  Unfortunately  it  seemed that  Rand  planned  to  continue  the  pattern  for  a considerably long time, and she threw her arms around his neck to make him stop.

“Why?  Why  did  you  disobey  me  again?”  he  demanded, and she cut through the haze of his rage with a few soft words.

“Because I love you,”

Rand froze, staring at her as if he did not trust his ears. His grip loosened as his fingers became lax with surprise. “You  .  .  .”he began to repeat, and the hard edge of anger fled from his expression. It was almost more than one man could bear, to be afraid for her and infuriated with her at the same time, and then to be overcome with a wave of love so intense that he could not speak. Suddenly his mouth was on hers, his hand framing  the  side  of  her  face  and  pressing  her  head against his shoulder. She parted her lips, accepting the plundering of his tongue, the blood surging fast and hot through her veins in response. It seemed that he kissed her for hours, and when he lifted his head she felt as though she was floating.

“I’m still going to thrash you,” he whispered, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. Everything around them—the fire, the crowd, the smoke—was forgotten in the wonder of momentous discovery.

“I  love  you,”  Rosalie  repeated,  discovering  with delight  that  her  statement  elicited  a  new  surge  of warmth to gentle his expression.

His mouth twitched wryly as he contemplated her small face. “You think you’ve found a magic phrase to calm my temper,” Rand said huskily. “I’ll admit, it does much to soothe the ire  .  .  . but I intend to keep my word, and you won’t escape completely free for having ignored my wishes.”

“I was afraid that something might happen to you,”

she said in a small, apologetic voice. “When I saw the roof of that cottage collapse I thought that you might have been inside. I wanted to die.”

He  understood  exactly  how  she  felt,  more  than anyone else could. His fingers played lightly at the nape of her neck, tranquilizing the tightened nerves there. As  Rosalie  allowed  her  head  to  rest  against  his shoulder, Rand murmured in a soothing tone, “I know, sweet. But have you stopped to think that all of that, including the damage done to your gown, would have been avoided had you listened to me before? Tonight you’ve aged me another ten years, fleur, and at this rate

I don’t have much longer to last.”

“Please take me home,” she whispered, drifting in the warm pleasure she derived from the sensitive touch of his hands. “I want to make love with you.”

Rand’s mouth curved in a reluctant smile, his eyes gleaming with tiny golden lights. “God. You have a hell of a way of ending a lecture, my love.”

Rosalie sat in front of the fireplace in her bedchamber, staring absently into its vivid depths as she curled her feet more tightly underneath her silk-clad form. She held a lacquered brush in her hand and drew it through her newly washed hair, brushing over and over again until the warm length of it formed a lustrous curtain around her shoulders and back. The wavering light and the rhythmic motion of the hairbrush served to calm her overwrought nerves, for it had been a trying night. After riding home alongside Rand and Guillaume, she had  been  subjected  to  an  impassioned  lecture  from Madame Aivin and reproachful glances from Mireille. A steaming bath had followed, as well as a thorough scrubbing to rid her hair and skin of soot and smoke.

There had been no word of good night from Rand, an optimistic sign, for Rosalie guessed that when all of the residents of the château retired he might come to her room. Wistfully she tilted her head and brushed the sable waves over one shoulder, preparing to braid them into a thick skein.

“Leave it loose.”

The soft request came from the doorway, and Rosalie turned to face the visitor as the door closed with a quiet sound. Rand stood there in a wine silk robe, leaning back against the portal as he regarded her steadily. His hair was damp and freshly cropped, the singed ends shorn off to reveal a shine of pure amber. A log in the fireplace crumbled with a rustling sound, giving off a brief flash of white-gold light that played over his face and eyes with a peculiar luminescence. Rosalie caught her  breath  as  she  stared  at  him,  knowing  that something  was  different  about  him  but  unable  to identify  it.  For  an  instant  he  seemed  like  a  sleek, handsome stranger, and she was motionless as his hazel gaze swept over her. Then he smiled slowly, and she flew to him with an incoherent sound, suffused with love for him. Rand enveloped her in his arms, smiling against her hair as she stood on her toes to accommodate his height.

“I assumed you’d be asleep,” he said in a muffled tone, lacing his fingers in the silky curtain of hair that provided a constant temptation to him.

“I’m not tired at all.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” he replied, his smile tinged with wryness as he lowered his head to kiss her.

His mouth slanted passionately over hers, and the next thing Rosalie was aware of was that she was lying by him on the bed with no memory of how they had gotten there. He made no move yet to undress her, but his hands wandered over her with unhidden curiosity and more than a touch of possessiveness. “I love you,” he whispered, and Rosalie flushed with the surge of joy that his words elicited.

“I’ve loved you,” she replied softly, “since the first night in Paris. We were dancing, and your arms were around me  .  .  . and suddenly I realized that I didn’t want it to end.” She lifted her eyes to meet his, and Rand answered her unspoken question without hesitancy.

“That first time I left you,” he said, his voice low and quiet, “when I came here to break up the d’Angoux holdings . . .  I couldn’t stop thinking about all that I had told you that morning. I had no idea of what had prompted me to tell you that much about my past. I was irritated by the fact that I kept thinking about you, and even more by the realization that I couldn’t wait to get  back  to  the  Lothaire.  My  mind  was  filled  with countless schemes to get you into bed—but as well as wanting your desire, I wanted your trust, your affection . things I had never asked from anyone before. I felt as if you belonged to me, and I went a little bit insane each time you denied me.” The firelight shone on his golden skin with a candescent warmth, his thick lashes casting a shadow on the cleanly molded edges of his cheekbones.  “You  have  such  little  hands,”  he  murmured, lifting one of them and examining her dainty palm before pressing a kiss there. “It stunned me to realize that you held my entire world in them.” Rand’s thoughtful smile faded as he looked into her eyes. “Why did you refuse when I proposed to you?” he asked slowly, and Rosalie frowned, turning her face to the side. In silence she struggled to find the right words to express herself.

“Sometimes  I’m  overwhelmed  by  you,”  she  whispered. “You’re all I could ever want. But . . . we’re so different. My life has been quiet, sheltered . . . and I know my own heart—”

“And you think I don’t know mine?” Rand raised himself on an elbow, staring down at her intently.

“You’re used to excitement, variety. I was afraid of being merely a novelty to you . . . interesting but temporary.”

“Dammit, Rose,” he said, his expression edged with exasperation, “a novelty? I asked you to marry me. If that isn’t a declaration of long-lasting intentions, I don’t

know what is.”

“You know as well as I do what marriage means to a member of the aristocracy,” she said levelly. “Especially one as highborn as you. After producing a suitable beir, I had no guarantee that you wouldn’t install me in the country and proceed to forget about my very existence. Considering the disparity between your disposition and mine, I thought it very likely that you would tire of me

and the quiet life that—”

“A  quiet  life,”  Rand  said  grimly,  “is  something  I would welcome, but I don’t consider it very likely. Not when  I  haven’t  had  a  moment’s  peace  since  first meeting you. Somehow I can’t picture our married life together descending from the level of ‘tumultuous’ until we’re  both  in  our  seventies.  Especially,”  he  added meaningfully,  “if  you  persist  in  dashing  into  every dangerous situation that I try to keep you out of.” “It has nothing to do with trust,” Rosalie said in a rush, endeavoring to placate him. “Especially not what I did tonight. I trust you completely. Truly, I wish I could

follow your requests to the letter—”

“If only,” Rand said to the room at large, “the wish were supported by deed as well as sentiment.”

“—but I couldn’t stay here any longer. You wouldn’t sit here and do nothing if you were afraid I was in danger, would you?”

It was an effective point. Rand stared at her contemplatively, his mouth twisting.

“You’re going to continue using your own judgment when you decide it’s necessary,” he stated, one eyebrow lifting in inquiry.

“I . . .  I can’t behave any other way,” Rosalie admitted, tracing a fingernail on the stitching of his robe and averting her gaze from his.

“What  about,”  he  inquired  softly,  “in  an  extreme case, if I asked you to do something without questioning why?”

She looked at him directly, her voice steady and firm. “Then I will trust you enough to do whatever you ask,” she vowed. “You can depend on that. But would the  reverse  hold  true?  If  I  ever  asked  you  to  do something for me without questioning it, would you?” He half-smiled, a glint of admiration lightening his

hazel eyes.

“Of course, mon coeur.”

The pact was made. Rand’s answer was heartening to Rosalie, for she began to see that he was willing to treat her as a partner, someone he would trust as well as love. Most women were not so fortunate, for most men would not tolerate the kind of debates and discussions that  she  engaged  in  with  Rand.  After  a  moment  of pleasurable reflection, she dared to ask something else. “I have always been determined,” she said, “that the

man I married would want me for forever . . . only me, and no other women.”

“I will want you until every stone and brick of this château has crumbled into dust. You were meant for me, and I have no desire for any other woman.” Rand pulled her body closer to his, his large hands molding her  buttocks  and  pressing  her  to  the  hard,  burning length of his manhood. “This,” he murmured huskily,

“is  all  because  of  you,  and  of  late  has  promised  to become a permanent condition. Sweet, we could spend the  rest  of  the  night  deciding  on  stipulations  and provisions of our marriage, but since we have the rest of our lives to do that, I have an alternative to suggest.” Rosalie’s  temperature  seemed  to  escalate  several degrees as he shifted her hips against his. Her skin had become  oversensitive  and  hungry  for  his  slightest touch, her breathing shallow and fast as she struggled to accommodate an overload of messages. She wanted to be rid of the soft, clinging material of her gown, which was an unwanted barrier between her skin and his hands. She wanted to feel his hard, naked flesh against  hers,  for  nothing  in  the  world  seemed  as glorious as the multitude of differences between their bodies, rough and soft, aggressive and yielding, strong and pliant.

“Yes,” she said, trapped in the brilliant color of his eyes, the indescribable mixture of hues that blended together in darkness overlaid with light. “Whatever you were going to suggest, I’ll agree to it.”

“Ah . . . wait,” he said with a sudden chuckle, “I’d better take advantage of your mood, since I don’t know when you’ll be so amenable again. Put my heart at ease, petite fleur. . . tell me you’ll agree to be my wife.”

“Yes, I will,” she answered breathlessly, her mouth seeking his. “Yes.”

With a smothered groan he kissed her, his desire careening out of control. She sighed in mounting desire, pulling at the slick material of Rand’s robe until the brawny lines of his shoulders emerged, and her hands splayed  lovingly  over  the  smooth-muscled  expanse. The hair at the nape of his neck was much shorter than before, the newly shorn locks like thick silk against her fingertips.

Wanting  him  fiercely,  Rosalie  wrapped  her  arms around him and arched against the lean firmness of his body.  The  robe  parted,  and  the  only  barrier  that remained between them was the filmy layers of her gown. Impatiently she fumbled with the silken knots that held the garment in place, but desire had made her clumsy. Panting with frustration, Rosalie began to pull the sheer material upward over her thighs, aided by Rand’s  questing  hands.  He  inhaled  sharply  as  he encountered the bareness of her hips and realized that she wore nothing underneath the gown. Rosalie’s slender legs parted as she lifted her hips, a gasp escaping her throat in the moment that her naked loins brushed against his. The searing heat of his masculinity pressed against  the  delicate  cradle  between  her  legs  like  a brand. She felt the warmth and power of him, the slight throbbing of his flesh that drove her wild with the need to feel him inside her, yet he held himself back, refusing to enter her.

“Why are you waiting?” she asked, her voice sounding strangely low and throaty to her own ears. She knew that Rand wanted her as much as she wanted him, for he was gasping and flushed, and he was full and heavy against her dampening flesh.

“Not like last time . . .” he muttered. “Not with your skirts  bunched  around  your  waist,  as  if  we  had no time—”

“Please, I don’t care,” she begged, her hair tangling over her face and neck as she writhed underneath him. “I just want you to—”

“Shhh. We have all night,” he said soothingly, pulling away slightly as his fingers went to the knotted ties of her  gown.  Rosalie  swallowed  convulsively  and  then closed  her  eyes,  forcing  herself  to  be  patient  as  he worked  at  the  tiny  silken  ribbons.  Her  thundering heartbeat slowed a little as she waited, but it was with intense relief that she felt him undo the last of the knots and spread the gown open. The wine-colored robe and the nightgown were thrown to the floor, the edges of the garments fluttering like moth wings.

Rand looked down at Rosalie, pulling her hair away from her face and spreading it carefully over the pillow. The sable locks formed a thick, luxuriant spill, glistening with deep colors that seemed to burn within each strand. The tender paleness of her breasts gleamed with a pearly sheen in the firelight, causing Rand’s breath to shorten considerably. He lifted a warm hand to the perfect  curves,  fitting  his  palm  to  the  young,  sweet flesh, stroking the peaks with the tip of his index finger until  they  responded  to  his  touch  and  contracted. “You’re  so  unbelievably  beautiful,”  he  said  huskily. “When I try to remember you as you are now, I become desperate with wanting . . . and yet the memories are poor imitations of the reality. No dream, no thoughts, no memory could ever do justice to you.” His hand moved over her breast in one more exquisitely textured caress before sliding down to the soft line of her waist. “So small, so feminine,” he whispered, lowering his lips to her breast, “so sweet . . .”

She  gave  a  thin  cry  as  his  hot,  devouring  mouth covered  her  nipple,  his  tongue  flickering  artfully around the excited nerves and sending sparks through her body in a violent rainfall. She opened her thighs at the touch of his hands, feverishly straining to lure him closer.

“Is this your retribution for what I did tonight?” she asked fitfully, tracing the hard, wide muscles of his upper arms and gripping the  tops  of  his  shoulders. “Making me wait until I die with hunger for you?”

“You’ll recompense me for all I went through,” he said, his voice sounding like a lazy purr as he tasted the smooth valley between her breasts, “by forgoing a night of  sleep.  And  although  we’ll  both  be  exhausted tomorrow, I promise we’ll be too sated to care.” His fingertips seemed to have an acute sensitivity to the most  inflamed  points  of  her  body,  wandering  from nerve to nerve and drawing incredible sensations of pleasure up from her skin. One by one the connections between her thoughts were severed, leaving her only with the capability to respond to him like a mindless creature.  Rand  knew  exactly  how  to  pleasure  her, stroking firmly in some places, brushing as softly as cats’  whiskers  in others, muffling  her pleading  cries with his kisses and showing her how to please him in return. They drew nearer to a wavering precipice, their bodies  flexing  and  smoothing  and  gathering  against each other. Several times Rosalie waited in confusion and  anticipation  for  him  to  possess  her,  for  it  was obvious that she was ready for him. Still he held back, choosing  instead  to  tease her  with  sinuous  caresses. After  long  minutes  of  the  refined  torture,  Rosalie reached the limit of her endurance.

“Enough,” she gasped, tired and aching with the need for relief. “I can’t bear it any longer, I don’t know how you can.”

In response his hands grasped her hips firmly, and Rosalie realized with shock that he was turning her onto her stomach. Her breasts were flattened as she lay on the mattress, her face turned to one side as she endeavored to look at him. An odd, excited chill chased over her skin as Rand kissed the nape of her neck and nibbled  lightly  at  the  fragile  hollows  of  her  spine. Although she had never imagined it before, instinctively Rosalie sensed what he was about to do, and she quivered in nervous expectation. Rand’s velvety voice teased her ears, dark and erotic whispers that filled her mind with vivid, earthy pictures. Smoothly his fingers slid between her and the mattress, splaying under her hips and lifting her upward. Her knees folded underneath her body, and she was hazily aware of the friction of his hard, lightly furred chest against her back. “Rand?” she asked dazedly, her mind swimming as

she heard the taut flow of his breathing, and then she sobbed  as  he  thrust  into  her,  large  and  potent,  the sensation stringent and forceful as it rampaged through her body. His arms were braced on either side of her, and she clung to his wrists tightly, filled by his driving power until there was no separation between her flesh and his. And although his passion was violent it was also  loving,  for  she  was  dimly  aware  that  her satisfaction  was  paramount  to  him,  and  that  every movement was designed to increase her rapture. The sensations welled inside her until she gave herself up to them helplessly, arching against him as she was transfixed by shattering bliss. His hand reached underneath her body to stroke her, furthering the sweet gratification as long as possible. Rosalie felt him surge inside her  hotly,  and  Rand  pulled  her  hips  more  tightly against his as he shuddered with the white heat  of fulfillment.

It took a long time for Rosalie to recover herself, her mind and body drugged with a pleasant weakness that wound around her like velvet fleece. Turning to face Rand, she pressed her face against his shoulder and was enclosed in his embrace, the safest haven she would ever know. She was not aware of falling asleep, but she knew when she opened her eyes again that hours had passed by. Stretching and yawning, she luxuriated in the  mingled  warmth  of  their  bodies  and  snuggled against Rand. As she lifted her gaze upward she saw that he was clear-eyed and awake, and evidently had been watching her for some time.

“It’s dawn,” he said, stroking the soft skin along the side of her face with his thumb. He was fascinated by the tumbled beauty of her, her face tinged with the pink of the frailest seashell, her tender and well-kissed lips, and  the  eyes  of  a  blue  so  rich  and  deep  that  they approached the shade of midnight. Drowsily she smiled at  him,  her  gaze  taking  on  mysterious  depths  that caused his heart to skip a beat. She seemed to have some secret knowledge that pleased her greatly, and he wondered what silent thoughts were going through her mind.

Rosalie brushed her mouth over his heart, searching and finding his steady pulse, her tongue touching his skin until she sensed that his heartbeat had increased to a faster rhythm. Raising herself up onto her elbows, she climbed halfway onto his large body with the graceful precision of a cat, her hands delicately placed to steady herself as she bent her head to his throat.

“Rose  .  .  .” he began with a husky laugh, but his amusement disappeared rapidly as she licked and nibbled at the base of his neck. Her weight, slight though it was, served to press his wide shoulders flat against the mattress, the soft peaks of her breasts brushing against his  chest.  In  a  matter  of  seconds  his  desire  for  her catapulted to an excruciating level. His lashes lowered as he felt the insistent, nagging desperation sweep over him in an unruly tide. He was hard and hungry for her, and his hands came up to her elbows as he prepared to pull her under him.

“No,” she said, and he let go of her, momentarily surprised by the firmness of her voice. What game had she decided to play? he wondered, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. Bestowing a promising halfsmile   on   him,   Rosalie   pulled   the   pillow   from underneath his head and tossed the downy cushion to the floor. Completely prone, Rand gave her a measured look, his eyes full of curiosity, desire, and perhaps even a touch of frustration. He slid his hands behind his head and continued to watch her, deciding to wait a minute or two in order to discover what she intended. Rosalie resumed her slow, careful attentions, her lips wandering up to the rim of his ear and back down his neck again. She felt her own excitement increase, for it was a novel sensation to feel his powerful body so still under her ministrations, all of his strength and masculine urges held in check, leaving her free to explore him unhindered. Kissing his lips warmly, Rosalie touched her tongue to the corner of his mouth, smiling as she felt his chest rise and fall with a deep gasp. His hands came  on  either  side  of  her  face  as  he  kissed  her hungrily,  a  soft  purr  vibrating  in  his  throat  as  her tongue  slipped  inside  his  mouth.  He  began  to  say something, but the low sound of his voice faded abruptly as he felt her fingers trace over the well-sculptured side of his waist and stroke over his abdomen. The tip of her tongue left a moist, warm trail over one flat male nipple, then the other, and suddenly Rand could not remember ever aching with such need in his life.

“I’ve got to have you now,” he rasped impatiently, and Rosalie pulled away before he could reach her, turning the covers further down the bed. He was a splendorous sight, lean and perfectly made, each part of his  form  etched  with  grace  and  masculine  vitality. Bending over him, she pressed her mouth to the taut surface of his midriff and left a downward trail of kisses along his skin, pausing at the tightly knit flesh of his abdomen and feeling him shiver as she pressed her teeth there in a small crescent. Her hair trailed over him silkily, as soft and precious as rivulets of mercury. The tinge of passion illuminated Rand’s cheekbones. His eyes were closed, his skin tightly drawn over the strong,  elegant  lines  of  his  face.  Suddenly  Rosalie reached the object of her quest, and as her mouth and tongue tentatively caressed his throbbing masculinity, he  reached  a  plane  of  sensation  that  he  had  never dreamed possible. Biting his lip, he clenched his trembling hands, a hoarse sound issuing from his throat as he felt the whispery warmth of Rosalie’s wondering sigh against him. Rand’s mind went blank, and he was driven so mad with desire that he barely remembered what happened afterward. He gathered her in his arms with a punishing grip, his arms as tight as steel bands around her. Rosalie gasped at his unanticipated reaction, her gentle reverie interrupted rudely as he flipped her over onto her back, his grip so tight that she could barely  breathe.  He  ignored  her  indignant  protests, pushing  into  her  with  one  greedy  shove,  huge  and demanding. Then Rosalie groaned, arching against him repeatedly as he rode her hard and fast. Helplessly she exploded  in  his  arms,  just  before  his  low  growl  of ecstasy vibrated in her ears.

table.

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Clad in a demure white-and-salmon-striped gown, Rosalie sipped at the remaining coffee in her china cup. She was extremely grateful that Rand had devoured breakfast  quickly  and  left  to  go  riding,  for  she  had found  it  difficult  to  face  him  this  morning  without flushing uncontrollably.

Although everyone behaved as if it were an ordinary day, she sensed that many speculative looks had been cast in her direction. She had no doubt that Guillaume and other residents of the château community had seen and reported her extraordinary behavior at the site of the  fire,  including  the  demonstrative  kiss  she  had shared  with  Rand.  Mireille  was  unexpectedly  quiet, asking no questions but seeming to be very content . . . and  Madame  Alvin  seemed  to alternate  between  an approving tone of voice and a suspicious one. They all knew that there was much more to Rosalie’s relationship with Rand than had previously been revealed— but  no  one  was  certain  to  what  extent  they  were involved, or in what way. Rand’s attitude was a cross between amusing and maddening. In the past hour, after coming downstairs and making some mundane remark  about  having  a  hearty  night’s  sleep,  he  had treated Rosalie as if she were an indifferent acquaintance. However, every now and then he would make a double-edged comment, timing his remarks so that they invariably  caused  her  to  choke  on  her  coffee  and croissant.

After  he  had  gone,  Rosalie  and  Mireille  finished breakfast, spreading the last of the hot rolls with fresh butter  and  eating  them  leisurely.  Mireille  excused herself for a few minutes, and after the girl left, Rosalie stood up from the table to walk over to the window. Guillaume passed by with an armload of dead primings from the rosebushes. He was whistling in a carefree manner, his eyes slanting with the intimation of a smile, just as Mireille’s did when she was happy. Rosalie noticed with concern that there was a heavy white bandage swathed about his upper arm, and she went  to  the  sitting-room  doors  to  meet  him  as  he walked by.

“Lady angel,” he greeted her, his smile dazzling in its cheerfulness.

“I did not notice last night that you were hurt.” “You were occupied with many other thoughts, all of them more pressing than my little burn.” She  refused  to  accept  his  facetious  attitude,  her

expression retaining a touch of seriousness. “Burns are dangerous if they are not well-tended, Guillaume. Was it properly—?”

“Mira saw to it,” he said with a slight shrug, taking care that he did not drop any of the clippings he held in his  arms.  “She  is  very  good  at  such  things—I  have sworn many times that her touch is magic. Have you ever seen the little bundle she keeps in her room?—all kinds of foul herbs, oils, and pungent salves.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Then Monsieur de Berkeley hasn’t mentioned anything about it to you?”

“No,  he  hasn’t,”  Rosalie  replied,  wondering  why Guillaume  seemed  so  inordinately  interested  in  her answer. “Why would he know anything about Mireille’s talent at healing?”

“There is no reason why he should,” Guillaume said quickly, and his dark eyes smiled into hers. “I am just making a poor effort at conversation, mademoiselle.” “Guillaume . . . please don’t work hard today,” Ro

salie said. “Be very careful of your arm, and if it starts to bother you, come in right away.”

“But what if monsieur—?”

“Monsieur  might  have  been  too  preoccupied  this morning to remember your arm, but I am certain that he wouldn’t want you to exert yourself.”

“You are very kind, mademoiselle,” Guillaume said, and  his  wide  smile  faltered  as  he  looked  into  her innocent blue eyes. “The kindest woman,” he added, “that I have ever met.” He looked at her in a manner that made Rosalie feel flattered, bashful, and faintly uneasy.

“I have many faults,” she said softly. “I’m far from being an angel, Guillaume.”

He stood there in indecision, usually so facile with words, struck dumb by the sweet compassion in her face. He did not deserve even one smile from her, much less her concern, yet even knowing that did not stop him from bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a reverent kiss to her fingertips.

“You  have  no  faults,”  he  said,  releasing  her  hand gently, “except that you trust too easily, jolie ange.” With that he left her, the sun playing over him so that his hair shone like a raven’s wing. Thoughtfully Rosalie walked back into the sitting room, shaking her head as she wondered if he had been trying to tell her something.

The foils flashed in the sunlight, scissoring together and then clicking apart. Guillaume’s face was set in concentration as he parried Rand’s smooth attack, his injured arm serving to balance his movements while the good  one  wielded  the  blade  efficiently.  Guillaume cursed under his breath as his triple feint was blocked, for  he  realized  then  that  through  a  series  of  subtle maneuvers Rand had led him from one engagement to another with the ease of a puppeteer.

“What was that?” Rand inquired, flashing a sudden grin as he sought to find an opening in the other man’s weakening defense.

“A commentary on your performance, monsieur. Or perhaps on my own—I am not certain which.”

Rand chuckled. He enjoyed fencing with Guillaume because it presented an unusual challenge. Guillaume was not always a fair player, and whether it was from a lack of classical training or practiced cunning, he bent the rules slightly. It took a great deal of concentration to form an adequate defence to such unorthodox moves, forcing  Rand  to  switch  from  automatic  and  reliable methods to equally inventive ones.

The  exchange  was  halted  by  the  appearance  of Rosalie. Out of the corner of his eye Rand could see the tenseness of her body and the way she had wound her hands in the folds of her skirts. Rand held up his left hand ina commanding gesture, stilling his foil after the last block and glancing at her white face.

“Some mail has arrived,” she said, her eyes dark as they fastened onto his. “A man brought it up from the village. Do you have some francs to give him—?” “Yes,” Rand interrupted, his voice deliberately calm.

He knew why she was so agitated—the answer to her letter must have arrived from England. He knew also that she did not want to open Amille’s letter alone. “Guillaume, we’ll continue this later.”

“Certainement,”  Guillaume  said,  his  gaze  traveling from one to the other of them in subtle curiosity. He took  the  foil  from Rand  and  flicked  the  rubber cap absently,  watching  as  the  other  man  “went  into  the château.

Rosalie waited in her room, sitting down on the edge of the bed and clasping her hands in her lap until Rand closed the door.

“It’s from Amille,” he stated bluntly, handing her one of the two letters in his hand and reserving the other for himself. “Shall I stay here while you read it?”

“Please,” she murmured, her hands trembling as she broke the wax seal. “You received one also. Who . . . who sent it?”

“My brother, Colin.”

“Oh.”  Rosalie  paused,  taking  a  deep  breath  and closing her eyes as she gathered her courage. The paper that she clutched in her hands held the secrets of her past, her birth, her heritage, and the information that it contained was of such importance that she was almost afraid to read it. She thought briefly of Amille writing it, and suddenly Rosalie missed her so much that she felt a physical ache inside her chest.

“Rose  .  .  .” Rand’s voice intruded on her building tension and anxiety. “What is written in that letter will not change anything. You will still be the same woman, with the same talents and strengths, and I am extremely grateful to whoever fathered you. And whether you’re the daughter of Beau Brummell, Georges Belleau, or Father Christmas, I will love you just the same.” She  nodded  silently,  bending  her  head  over  the

folded parchment and opening it carefully. She spread it over her lap as she read, her eyes becoming wet with tears at the first sight of Amille’s familiar handwriting.

My dearest Rosalie . . .

She turned away from Rand as she read the letter slowly, only pausing halfway through it to take the handkerchief that he handed to her wordlessly. Rand leaned against the wall and watched her, crossing his long legs and folding his arms. His eyes rested on the center of her narrow shoulders, and he stifled the urge to go over to her again, knowing that she had to face the  contents  of  Amille’s  letter  by  herself,  without intermediaries.  Giving  her  time  to  absorb  whatever secrets Amille had brought to light, Rand opened his own letter from Colin, scanning it and then rereading it with an odd expression on his face.

Rosalie blew her nose noisily, looking up at him with blurry vision.

“Well?” he asked softly.

table.

. |.

“She

|.

.”  Rosalie  cleared  her  throat  and  wiped

|

underneath her eyes with her fingers. “She wasn’t my natural mother.” Suddenly she half-smiled at the odd sound  of  those  words,  and  she  looked  upward  to contain the fresh, welling tears of emotion. Her forehead creased as she leveled a brilliant, glimmering gaze at him. “She was Lucy Doncaster’s governess. Lucy was my real . . . I’m Lucy’s daughter.”

Rand nodded slightly, leaning his head back until it rested  against  the  wall.  His  eyes  remained  on  her intently.

“Your father?” he prompted, and Rosalie sighed in something approaching disbelief.

“Brummell. It’s all true—Amille’s story corresponds to his exactly. Something in me cannot quite comprehend that Beau Brummell is my father. Brummell,” she repeated, as if to convince herself, “the favorite of the regent,  the  center  of  London  society,  the  eccentric dandy—”

“He’s a man,” Rand interrupted quietly, “a man, like any other.”

“According  to  the  letter,”  Rosalie  said,  drying  her eyes before locating a certain passage, “he was the ‘most handsome, shallow, and charming man Lucy had ever met.’ Amille writes that he was fond of Lucy but that he didn’t have the capability to love deeply. She implies that he was too self-centered.”

“It seems quite likely,” Rand said dryly.

“And then the story becomes a little foggy,” Rosalie continued, lifting the handkerchief to blow her nose once more. “There is a paragraph about the Earl of Rotherham. Have you ever—?”

“No, I’ve never met him or heard much about him. He is a reticent sort.”

“Lucy was promised to him, but even after her affair with Brummell had ended, she showed no inclination to marry the earl. It says here that ‘she was frightened of Rotherham’s obsession with her.’ I wonder exactly what  it  was  that  frightened  her.  In  any  event,  she conceived a child by Brummell. How strange it is . . . that I can’t think of that child being me,” Rosalie said, pausing in wonder. “I suppose I’ll get used to it.” “Your existence was kept a secret from outsiders?” “Yes . . . I . . . was born in France, where Amille and

Lucy went to escape from the gossip and rumors, and also  from  Rotherham,  whose  obsession  with  Lucy apparently hadn’t decreased.”

“Did he know about Lucy’s baby?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Once more Rosalie scrutinized the letter. “Amille doesn’t really explain. She writes  that  Lucy  was  very  frail  emotionally  and succumbed easily to depression after her affair with Brummell. She never really recovered from losing his love, and she killed herself a month or two after I was born. I wonder . . .  I wonder what my life would have been like had she lived.”

“It  is  possible,”  Rand  said  thoughtfully,  “that  she would have given Amille most of the responsibility for your care and upbringing anyway.”

“She was just a child herself,” Rosalie said, nodding pragmatically. “I feel . . .  so sorry for her.” She sighed, bending the corner of the parchment with her fingertip and  letting  it  flick  back.  “After  Lucy  died,  Amille decided to keep the child a secret. She told the Doncasters that the baby had died also, and then she took on a new  name  and  new  position,  inventing  a  fictional husband to make her situation seem more respectable. And  that  is how  I  grew  up  as  the  daughter  of the Winthrops’  governess.”  Rosalie  looked  at  Rand  with eyes as round as saucers. “How odd chance is,” she said. “If there hadn’t been a fire in the theater that night and I hadn’t met you, I would probably still be living with the Winthrops, never having found out any of this.”

“You don’t think Amille would have eventually told you?”

“It says right here: she felt there was no reason to. She  feels  that  only  trouble  will  come  out  of  the knowledge that I am Brummell’s daughter, and she says near the end . . . Oh, my.”

“What?”

“I didn’t really read this part before. How unlike her it is. She has heard the rumors that I am staying with you, and she urges me to stay under your protection as long as possible.”

“May I see the letter?” Rand asked, his tone sharpening. She handed it to him, and he scanned the last few sentences. He relaxed slightly but continued to frown. Amille had not written anything that would explain the drugging in Paris, yet it bothered him that she seemed so  concerned  about  someone  lending  protection  to Rosalie. “I’ll be glad,” he murmured, “when we are back in England. I would like to speak with Amille . . . there are a few things she will be able to explain further.”

“Back  in  England,”  Rosalie  echoed.  Suddenly  she noticed something strange about his expression, and her  preoccupation  with  the  letter  and  its  contents disappeared to the back of her mind. She stood up from the bed, walking over to him slowly. “What’s wrong?” she murmured. “The news is bad?”

“Yes,” Rand said, and it tore at Rosalie’s heart to see the shadowed bitterness in his hazel eyes.

“How soon do we have to go back?” she inquired, reaching out to stroke his arm.

“Two days, no longer than that.”

“Rand,” she asked gently, somehow already knowing the answer, “what was in your letter? What did Colin write to you?”

There was an odd look about him as he stared down at  her.  His  face,  Rosalie  noticed  absently,  was  pale underneath the tan of his skin.

“My grandfather passed away,” Rand said. She laid her head on his chest and slid her arms

around him, offering silent comfort. Rand did not shed a single tear, but he held her tightly, and something about the desperation of his grip betrayed his sense of loss. They stayed together for long minutes, swaying slightly. Finally Rosalie sensed the lessening of his grief, and it was then that she spoke with a watery sigh, her voice unsteady.

“This means that you’re the Earl of Berkeley . . . Dieu, did I really promise to marry you?”

“It’s too late to back out.”

“Where did I put my handkerchief? . . . Lord, it’s been a day for startling news.”

Reluctantly Rand released her, finding that his pain was greatly dulled by the fact that she was there to offer as  much  solace  as  he  needed.  He  leaned  his  back against the wall once more, taking pleasure in the sight of her as she hunted for the handkerchief and dried the last of her tears away.

“My grandfather badgered me incessantly about my bachelor status,” Rand murmured. “My only regret is that he didn’t live to see what a perfect woman I found to wed.”

Rosalie  suddenly  chuckled.  “Perfect  woman?”  she questioned. “With an unequaled crop of debutantes to pick from this year and scores of rich, eligible society women  longing  to  accept  your  name,  you  chose  a woman  with  the  most  singularly  creative  bloodlines imaginable.”

“Not one word more,” Rand warned, his eyes warm as he beheld her. “This is the one subject, sweet Rose, on which I won’t allow you to question my taste.” She smiled and went back to him, needing suddenly

to have him hold her again.

Much later, Rosalie left the letter on her writing desk and went to tell Mireille about their imminent departure. There was much organization and packing to be done. She found to her surprise when she returned to her room that evening that the letter from Amille was gone. After checking every inch of the room without a clue as to its disappearance, Rosalie went to the library in search of Rand. He sat at a mahogany table, drafting several pieces of correspondence.

“I’ve been thinking . . .” Rand said, blotting a letter deftly. “There is no one to whom I’d particularly like to sell  the  château.  There  have  been  some  offers,  but nothing quite suitable.”

“Is there really a need to sell it right away?” Rosalie asked, filled with inner delight as she realized that he had become attached to the d’Angoux estate in the same way that she had. Rand shook his head, his mouth lifting at one corner in a lazy half-smile. “It might be enjoyable,” Rosalie commented, “to come back every now and then for a spell of privacy.” They exchanged a long intimate glance, which Rand finally broke with a soft inquiry.

“When you came in, you looked as though there was something you wanted to ask—”

“Oh, yes. I can’t find the letter from Maman. I thought perhaps that you had it.”

“No, I don’t.” Rand frowned and stood up from the table, stretching his broad shoulders and flexing his fingers. “I’ll help you look for it.”

They went upstairs and into Rosalie’s room, a breeze catching at the door and closing it gently behind them. As  Rosalie’s  mouth  fell  open  with  surprise,  Rand located the letter underneath her desk and held it up for her to see.

“It must have been blown from the desk to the floor,” he said.

“This is very odd,” she replied, her forehead creasing in a perplexed manner. “I looked under the desk—I looked everywhere, and it wasn’t here.” She took the letter from him and gave it an accusatory glance.

“I  think,”  Rand  said,  looking  down  at  her  with dancing gold-green eyes, “that you intended to lure me up to your bedchamber.”

“I didn’t! I—” she began in an indignant tone, and suddenly found her mouth occupied with his.

“Didn’t  you?”  he  murmured  against  her  lips.  His head moved over hers, turning so that her mouth was helpless  against  his  invasion,  and  Rosalie  forgot  all about the letter, her arms lifting as her fingers laced through his hair.