Dawn Song
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘IT’S THE PERFECT SOLUTION. You can go in my place.’

Margot Trant’s airy remark was followed by a silence that could have been cut by a knife.

Meg Langtry cleared her throat. ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said slowly. ‘You want me to go to the south of France next month and stay at your godmother’s château, pretending to be you.’ She paused, giving her stepsister a long, steady look. ‘Those are the basic elements of the scenario?’

‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ Margot demanded. ‘The old bag wants someone to keep her company for four weeks while her regular slave has a well-deserved break. As long as someone turns up claiming to be Margot Trant, what problem can there possibly be?’

‘Oh, none of course,’ Meg returned with terrible irony. ‘The fact that we don’t even look alike is quite immaterial.’

Margot shrugged. ‘I’m blonde—you’re brunette.’ She gave Meg’s simply styled fall of brown hair a disparaging look. ‘That can be easily fixed. As for the rest—Tante’s practically blind—that’s why she needs a companion. You’ll just be a blur.’

‘Always my ultimate ambition,’ Meg murmured.

Margot leaned forward. ‘Oh, come on, Meg.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘You could do it easily. You’ll have no job to worry about once that grotty second-hand bookshop you work for closes at the end of the week. And I can’t possibly get away. You must see that.’

‘Why not?’ Meg countered. ‘I thought Parliament “rose” in the summer. Surely Steven would give you leave.’

‘Probably, if I asked him.’ Margot’s pretty face was suddenly intense. ‘But he’s just on the point of asking Corinne for a divorce. I simply can’t afford to be away at this juncture.’

‘I see,’ Meg murmured drily. However distasteful she might personally find it, this was what her stepsister had been working towards, ever since she’d got the job as secretary to Steven Curtess MP, the young back-bencher who was being tipped for junior ministerial rank in the next government.

‘And Godmother has no right to summon me like this—right out of the blue,’ Margot went on petulantly. ‘Good God, I haven’t seen her since I was nine.’

‘I wondered why I’d never heard of her.’

Margot hunched a shoulder. ‘She’s my great-aunt, actually—Dad was her favourite nephew, and I was named for her. So we’re all three of us called Margaret,’ she added triumphantly. ‘Isn’t that convenient?’

‘Amazing.’ Meg shook her head. ‘But irrelevant. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to write and tell her that you can’t get away?’

‘No, it would be extremely stupid,’ Margot snapped. ‘She has no children, and no other living relative as far as I know. And a château in the Languedoc isn’t to be sneezed at as an inheritance. It’s imperative I keep on the right side of her.’ She gave Meg a suddenly limpid smile. ‘Or that you do, on my behalf.’

‘No way.’ Meg bit her lip. ‘Ethical considerations aside, we’d never get away with it.’

‘Of course we would. Margot Trant is sent for. Margot Trant, presumably, turns up on the appointed day. And you’re far better suited to running round after some dreary old lady than I’d ever be. Keep her sweet for me, and I’ll be eternally grateful.’

‘That’s just the incentive I need, of course,’ Meg said levelly. She pushed back her chair. ‘You’re the total limit, Margot. Do your own dirty work.’

‘Oh, are you going?’ Margot inspected a fleck on her fingernail. ‘I thought the bookshop closed on Wednesdays.’

‘It does. I’m spending the day with Nanny Turner, as I usually do.’

‘Of course, in that sweet little cottage of hers—or should I say ours?’

There was a pause. Meg’s eyes narrowed. ‘Brydons Cottage is Nanny’s for life,’ she said. ‘My father made that clear before he died.’

‘Yes, but not in writing, sweetie. There’s nothing legally binding. Oddly enough, Mummy was looking into it all the other day. Some friends of hers, the Nestors, are looking for a weekend place, and Brydons would be ideal.’

Meg stared at her. ‘You’re not serious? Nanny adores that cottage.’

‘I bet she does,’ Margot said acidly. ‘It’s a very desirable property.’

‘But she’d have nowhere else to go.’

Margot’s face was a mask of malice. ‘There’s always Sandstead House. Mummy has friends on the Social Services Committee. I’m sure they could pull a few strings.’

Meg drew a shaken breath. ‘It would kill her to be in a home. She’s terrific—firing on all cylinders. She can look after herself.’

‘Then the choice is yours.’ Margot spoke with cool finality. ‘Go to the Languedoc in my place, and I’ll persuade Mummy that it would be a betrayal of your father’s memory to turn Nanny out.’

‘That would make a difference?’ Meg asked wrily.

‘Oh, yes, she was awfully fond of him, even if she didn’t go a bundle on Nanny and her bossy ways,’ Margot said with insouciance. ‘Besides, I’m the blue-eyed girl at the moment, and I know I can talk her round if I want. Mummy’s dying to have a son-in-law in the government.’

And to hell with Corinne Curtess and the children, presumably, Meg thought grimly.

‘I’ll even get her to put something in writing about Nanny’s tenure if you get through the month with Godmother none the wiser,’ Margot wheedled. ‘I need your help, Meg. I’ve got to stay here and keep the pressure on Steven.’

‘If I do this,’ Meg said icily, ‘it will be for Nanny’s sake—not to further your affair with a married man.’

‘Oh, don’t be so bloody pompous.’ Margot stretched luxuriously. ‘You’ll be getting a whole month abroad in France, all expenses paid, at the height of the season. What more could you want?’ She sent Meg a complacent smile. ‘I’ll even lend you my car to drive over to Nanny’s. You’ll need to practise your driving for France.’

Meg set her teeth. ‘I haven’t said I’m going yet.’

Margot’s smile became almost cat-like. ‘But you will,’ she said. ‘Or poor old Nanny becomes homeless. It’s up to you.’

A fortnight later, Meg, much against her better judgement, was on her way.

She’d intended to stick to her guns, but seeing Nanny Turner bustling round her cosy home, happily oblivious to the threat posed by Iris Langtry’s friends, had made her rethink her position.

Iris herself was not too pleased with the bargain that had been struck, but accepted it grudgingly.

‘Margot deserves a chance of happiness,’ she sighed. ‘And Steven is such a fine man. His wife’s one of these very domestic women, I understand. He needs someone to work alongside him, and boost his political career.’

If that was how he saw Margot, it was little wonder the country was in such a hell of a state, Meg thought uncharitably, as she made her unwilling preparations for the trip. Certainly no one could ever have described her stepsister as ‘domestic’. She could barely boil water.

One unexpected bonus was the acquisition of some new clothes, which Iris insisted on paying for.

‘You’re supposed to be my daughter,’ she cut short Meg’s protests. ‘You can’t go looking as if you’ve dressed at War on Want.’

The new hair colour, too, had been an unexpected success. Meg’s own natural shade had been softened to a dark blonde, and subtly highlighted.

She was almost too busy to mourn properly over the closure of the bookshop where she’d worked for the past eighteen months, following the proprietor’s retirement, or to worry about where she’d work once her French escapade was safely behind her. For the moment, she had enough problems to contend with.

To her surprise, her employer, Mr Otway, had nodded approvingly over her trip. ‘Ah, the Languedoc. Land of the troubadours. And of the Cathars,’ he added.

‘Cathars?’ Meg questioned.

‘Religious sect in medieval times. Believed all life was basically evil, and a constant search for the light. Condemned, naturally, as heretics by the established church who launched the Albigensian Crusade against them.’

Mr Otway sniffed. ‘Not just a holy war, of course. The whole of the Languedoc was made up of rich states, independent of the King of France. He hated Raymond of Toulouse, the greatest of the southern lords, envied him his wealth, and the beauty and culture of southern life. Decided to use the Cathars as an excuse to move against him, and grab his possessions, all in the name of religion.

‘But you’ll love the Languedoc,’ he went on more cheerfully. ‘It’s a passionate land—a place of extreme contrasts. Warm laughter, and bitter tears. Faithful love and implacable hatred.’ He paused. ‘Fierce sun and violent storms. The full force of nature unleashed.’ He grinned maliciously at the look of apprehension on Meg’s face. ‘It will do you good,’ he said with severity. ‘Shake you out of a rut you’re far too young to occupy.’

‘But I’ve been happy,’ Meg protested.

‘No, you’ve been content—a very different thing. But I guarantee, child, you won’t be the same person when you return from the Languedoc.’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘No, not the same person at all.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘I predict you’ll never settle for mere contentment again. And drink “a beaker full of the warm south” for me,’ he added.

‘Warm south’ was putting it mildly, Meg thought, as she sat in a traffic jam outside Toulouse airport, feeling the perspiration trickling down between her breasts.

The car she’d hired was like an oven already, and she was only at the start of her journey to Haut Arignac. She’d arrived in France two days earlier than she was actually expected, with the intention of doing some sightseeing before joining the De Brissot household as Madame’s dame de compagnie.

It would also give her a chance to practise her French. She’d been the star pupil at school, and gone on to improve her fluency at evening classes. But there’d be no opportunity to try out her skill at the Château Haut Arignac, as Margaret de Brissot had been told during the preliminary correspondence that ‘Margot’ spoke no French.

‘Quite useful really,’ her stepsister had commented offhandedly when Meg protested at the arbitrary decision. ‘If anyone asks awkward questions, you can just play dumb.’

‘I don’t want to play anything,’ Meg said bitterly.

She felt wretchedly guilty about the charade she was undertaking. She was setting out to deceive an elderly, nearly blind woman, and for what? To further her stepsister’s ruthless determination to break up her lover’s marriage. And to hurt some unknown and presumably unsuspecting woman and her children along the way.

Even the knowledge that Nanny’s occupancy of Brydons Cottage would be secure couldn’t alleviate her profound misgivings about the whole affair, and her unwilling role in it. Damn Margot and her sordid affair, she thought, drumming her fingers on the steering-wheel.

Then, as if a drain had been unblocked somewhere, the traffic moved off, and Meg realised she was on her way. She proceeded with a certain amount of care, at first, accustoming herself to the unfamiliar road conditions, as well as the novelty of having a vehicle totally at her own disposal. But it didn’t take her long to realise she was on good roads, with far less volume of traffic to contend with than in England, and she began to relax.

The sky above her was brilliant blue, but as she drove east she could see clouds building over the high ground in the far distance, fluffy and unthreatening at first, but increasing in mass and density with alarming suddenness.

By the time she stopped to buy food for lunch, the skies were a lowering grey, and she cast an anxious glance upwards as she made her way back to the car from the alimentation, with her baguette, sliced ham, demi-kilo of peaches and sedate bottle of mineral water.

She’d planned to have a picnic in some quiet spot. She’d deliberately chosen a route away from the main thoroughfares, so that she could travel at her own pace—discover, she hoped, the real France.

Now it looked as if she might be about to discover some real French weather as well, although it was still very warm, if not downright clammy, and those threatening clouds might yet blow over.

But as a smattering of rain hit the windscreen she decided reluctantly to shelve her plans for an alfresco meal, and concentrate on finding somewhere to stay that night. A helpful girl at the syndicat d’initiative in the last town she’d passed through had recommended a small auberge at the head of the Gorge du Beron, and even marked it on Meg’s map.

She found herself following a winding road into a valley flanked by steep rocky banks which soon grew high enough to call themselves cliffs. The road ran alongside a river, relatively shallow, but flowing fast over its stony gravel bed. Presumably this was the Beron, at whose source she would find the auberge.

And the sooner the better, she thought with dismay, as more water arrived suddenly, descending like an impenetrable curtain from the sky, its arrival announced by a flash of lightning and a resoundingly ominous crack of thunder.

Meg swore under her breath, turning her windscreen-wipers full on, but it was wasted effort. They couldn’t cope with the sheer force of the rain flinging itself at the car. And she dared not drive blind on such a tortuous road, she thought, applying her brakes and easing the car as close as possible to the side of the road where the rocky overhang seemed to offer a degree of shelter.

Who could have expected such a change in the weather? she wondered dispiritedly, although Mr Otway had warned her that these orages were common in the Languedoc, and it was safer to stay in one’s vehicle than risk being struck by lightning.

She felt cold suddenly, and reached for a jacket from the rear seat, pulling it round her shoulders with a slight grimace. A glance at the river sent another chill through her. It was rising alarmingly rapidly, the gravel banks almost covered now, and the water lapping greedily at the side of the road itself, already awash in several places.

Not a good place to have stopped, after all, she realised in dismay. But she had to stay where she was now, until the rain eased a little at least. The storm was directly overhead now, thunder and lightning occurring almost simultaneously. Meg felt as if she was peering through a wall of water. Maybe it would have been better to have arrived on the appointed day, and been met at the airport as Madame de Brissot had originally suggested.

Or would it? That was the straightforward—the sensible course of action she’d been following for most of her life.

Don’t be so boring, she chastised herself mentally. Where’s your spirit of adventure? The car rocked suddenly as if caught in a violent gust of wind, and Meg shivered in spite of herself, then cried out in fear as her driver’s door was wrenched open, filling the car with cold, sodden air.

For a dazed instant she thought the storm itself was responsible, then she saw the dark, caped figure framed in the doorway, staring in at her, and shrank back in her seat. She wanted to scream, but her vocal cords seemed paralysed with fright.

‘Are you quite mad?’ His voice was low-pitched, vibrant, and almost molten with rage. ‘Do you want to be killed? Move this car now—at once.’

No spirit conjured up by the storm, but an all too human and angry male. He spoke in French and Meg replied automatically in the same language, her heart thumping violently in mingled alarm and relief.

‘What gives you the right to order me about?’

‘The right of someone who obviously knows this country better than you,’ was the crushing retort. ‘It isn’t safe to park under a rockface in conditions like this, you little fool. There are often landslips. Your car could be buried, and you with it. So move. Quickly.’

However unpleasant he might be, he seemed to know what he was talking about, Meg realised uneasily. Perhaps she’d do well to accept his arrogant and unwelcome advice.

‘Where do you suggest I park, then?’ she asked, coldly.

‘There is a safer place two hundred metres further on. Follow my car, and I will show you. And hurry,’ he added grimly.

Her door slammed shut again, and he disappeared. A moment later, Meg saw the dim shape of a car overtake hers and halt some distance ahead of her, hazard lights blinking. Reluctantly, she turned the key in the ignition, but instead of the usual reassuring purr into life from the engine she was greeted with a profound and ominous silence.

Oh, no, Meg groaned inwardly, and tried again. And again. But the wretched engine stubbornly refused to fire.

‘What’s the matter now?’ Her caped crusader, his temper apparently operating perfectly on all cylinders, reappeared beside her.

‘What does it look like, you prat? The blasted car won’t start,’ Meg flung back at him in a savage undertone, while she searched for the appropriate and slightly more diplomatic phraseology in French.

‘So you are English?’ he remarked, switching effortlessly to her language. ‘I should have guessed.’

His tone bit with contempt, and Meg stiffened in annoyance. Of course, he would have to be bilingual, she thought, feeling faint colour rise in her cheeks at the memory of her schoolgirl rudeness.

‘What’s the problem with the car?’ he continued. ‘Has it given trouble before?’

‘It’s hardly had the chance,’ she said wearily. ‘I only rented it today. But now the engine’s dead. I suppose some water’s got into the plugs, or the carburettor.’

He muttered something under his breath which Meg chose not to hear.

‘Leave it here, then,’ he ordered peremptorily, raising his voice above the crashing of the rain, ‘and come with me.’

‘I can’t just abandon the thing,’ Meg protested. ‘It doesn’t belong to me. And besides…’ she hesitated ‘… I don’t know you from Adam.’

‘Sit here much longer, mademoiselle, and you may make the acquaintance of the original Adam—in Paradise.’ His tone was caustic. ‘You have more to fear, I promise, by remaining where you are than from accepting my assistance, such as it is.’

He paused. ‘And rape, be assured, is the last thing on my mind in these conditions. Now get out of the car before we both drown.’

Meg obeyed unwillingly, flinching as the water soaked up through the thin soles of her sandals. Reaching his car was going to be like fording the river itself. She’d be drenched before she’d gone a couple of metres. She wondered glumly what Madame de Brissot’s reaction would be if her new companion arrived at Haut Arignac with double pneumonia.

There was a swift impatient sigh beside her, and she found herself suddenly enveloped in his cape, held with disturbing force against his body under its voluminous folds, as she was half led, half carried to the other vehicle. Her nostrils were assailed by a tingling aroma of warm, clean wool, coupled with the individual and very masculine scent of his skin. She was aware too of the tang of some expensive cologne.

‘Thank you,’ she gasped with irony, as she was thrust without particular ceremony into the passenger seat.

‘Pas du tout,’ he returned. ‘Now let’s get out of here. It’s always been a danger spot.’

Even as he spoke, Meg heard a sound like a low groan, followed by a strange rushing noise. She craned her neck, staring back down the gorge, and saw, with horrified disbelief, a tree come sliding down, roots first, from the heights above, and land with a sickening crash on the roof of her little Renault. It was followed by a deluge of earth and stones, bouncing off the bodywork on to the road, like a series of miniature explosions. A few even reached the other car, where they both sat stunned and immobile.

The silence which followed was deafening by comparison. And, as if finally satisfied with its efforts, the rain began to ease off.

CHAPTER TWO

MEG’S COMPANION WAS the first to move, to break the profound hush.

He said quietly, ‘Et voilà,’ and shrugged.

‘Oh, God,’ Meg breathed almost inaudibly. ‘Oh, dear God.’

The driver’s side had sustained the most damage, she realised numbly. The crumpled roof was practically resting on the seat, and the windscreen had been shattered by a large branch.

And up to a moment ago she’d been sitting there—right there. If he hadn’t come along when he did—made her get out… Her mind closed off in shock, refusing to contemplate the undoubted consequences. She tried to speak—to thank him properly this time, and instead, to her shame, burst into tears.

He muttered something else under his breath, then swung into the seat beside her, flinging the discarded cape into the back of the car, before reaching into the glove compartment for a packet of tissues and a silver flask.

‘Here,’ he said curtly, unscrewing the flask’s stopper. ‘Drink this.’

It was cognac. She gasped, and choked, feeling the spirit spread like fire through her cold and shaking body. She dabbed at her face with a tissue. ‘My car,’ she whispered. ‘My car.’

‘You insured the car when you hired it,’ he reminded her. ‘It can easily be replaced. But not so your life.’

‘No.’ She shuddered uncontrollably, then lifted the flask again, taking a fierce, searing swallow, fighting back the remaining tears, and feeling the trembling dissipate slowly.

‘I think you have had enough.’ There was a faint smile in his voice as he gently detached the flask from her grasp.

When she was sure she was in control of her voice, she said, ‘All—all my things were in the boot. I—I know it’s silly to mind…’

‘I’ll get them.’ He took the Renault’s keys from her unresisting fingers.

‘No.’ Meg grabbed at his arm. ‘Leave them, please. Don’t risk it…’

‘It’s all right.’ His voice was gentler. He pointed back towards the wreck. ‘See, the boot was hardly touched.’

‘But there might be another landslide.’ There were still lightning flashes in the overcast sky, and thunder was grumbling around in the distance like some outraged but unseen giant. Meg could visualise more rocks, raining down on him, crushing him like the Renault.

She found she was looking at him, seeing him properly for the first time in the sullen light which penetrated the car. She knew that he was tall, and she’d had first-hand experience of the whipcord strength of his body during that headlong dash from the Renault, but that was the extent of it. Now she saw that he was quite young—not more than the early thirties at a guess, although she was no judge of such things. She assimilated a mass of unruly black hair, and a thin olive-skinned face, the lines of nose, mouth and chin strongly, even arrogantly marked. And dark fathomless eyes under heavy lids.

‘I think the worst is past.’ He shrugged again. He slanted a smile at her. ‘Besides, I lead a charmed life.’

She could believe it. Nevertheless, she sat rigidly, staring ahead of her, not daring to look back, waiting for the clatter of falling stones and the cry of agony which seemed inevitable. But there was nothing but the rush of the water in the swollen river, and somewhere near by the shrill song of a bird announcing that the storm was over.

It occurred to her that he was taking a long time. She turned her head, peering back, and saw him standing at the rear of the Renault, very still, as if he’d been turned into a rock or a tree himself.

Maybe the boot was jammed, and he couldn’t open it, she thought. But it seemed she was wrong, because almost at once he headed back towards the Citroën he was driving, striding out with a travel bag in each hand. She heard them thud as he transferred them to his own boot.

When he rejoined her, he looked preoccupied, his brows drawn together in a frown. She sensed a tension in him that she’d not been aware of before, as if he was angry about something, and trying to hide it.

Perhaps he’d only just realised that his act of gallantry had saddled him temporarily, at least, with an unwanted passenger, Meg thought with a certain compunction. Well, she could hardly blame him for resenting the disruption of his journey. Now it was her turn to reassure him.

She drew a careful breath. ‘You’ve been very kind,’ she said, ‘and I hate to impose on you further, but I do need a lift to the Auberge du Source du Beron. I can get a room there—arrange something about the car too, with any luck.’

He seemed deep in thought, but at her words he turned his head and looked at her.

‘You have a reservation at the auberge?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Well, no,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s where I was heading before the storm. It’s been recommended to me.’

‘It’s very popular with tourists. You’d have done well to book in advance, I think.’ His frown deepened. ‘You have no alternative plan?’

‘Nothing definite,’ Meg returned. She could hardly ask him to drive her all the way to Haut Arignac, she thought. The accident had been a severe set-back, admittedly, but she was still reluctant to arrive at the château a minute before she had to. She summoned up a ghost of a smile. ‘I’ll just have to risk there being a room.’

He gave her another long look. He said softly, ‘It is not always wise, mademoiselle, to take risks—so far away from home.’

There was an odd note in his voice, an undertone of warning—even menace, she thought, a faint frisson of alarm uncurling down the length of her spine. Or was it just the shock she’d suffered playing tricks with her imagination?

It had to be that, because suddenly he smiled at her, charm softening the autocratic firmness of his mouth, and dancing in his eyes.

He wasn’t exactly handsome, Meg thought, blinking under the onslaught, but, dear God, he was frighteningly attractive. The kind of man she’d never thought to meet. And she would be so glad to get to the auberge and see the last of him, because, the spirit of adventure notwithstanding, some unsuspected female instinct told her that this man represented more danger than any landslide she might encounter.

She saw his smile twist slightly, as if he’d guessed the tenor of her thoughts, and was amused by them. He said softly, ‘En avant. Let’s go.’ And started the car.

It was not a pleasant journey, although it had stopped raining and the storm had rumbled its way into some far distance, allowing a watery sun to make an apologetic appearance.

Her companion was quiet, Meg found, if not positively taciturn, but that was probably because he had to concentrate so hard on driving. It was perilous stuff. The road was littered with fallen debris, and several times they even had to stop the car to move rocks and tree branches which were actually blocking the road.

‘Is it always as bad as this?’ she asked, as he came back to the car, dusting his hands on his jeans.

‘I have known worse.’ He glanced sideways at her as he restarted the car. ‘It has been alarming, your introduction to France?’

‘How did you know that? That it’s my first time here?’ Meg pulled a face. ‘From my bad French, I suppose.’

He shrugged. ‘It was just a guess. I didn’t know it at all. And your French is very good,’ he added drily. ‘Remarkably so.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because so many of your countrymen do not bother with our language,’ he said, after a slight pause. ‘They assume that if they shout loudly enough and slowly enough we will understand them.’

Meg gave a rueful nod. She’d heard much the same from her night-school teacher, a Frenchwoman married to a Brit. ‘I think it’s to do with being an island race, and not feeling part of Europe. Maybe things will improve once the Channel Tunnel is open.’

‘Perhaps.’

There was a further silence. He drove well, Meg thought, using the powerful capacity of the car without flourish, the lean brown hands in effortless control of the wheel.

He was simply dressed, but his denim jeans bore a designer label, and the plain white shirt, its cuffs turned back to reveal sinewy forearms, had an expensive silky sheen. His only adornment was a classic gold wrist-watch with a brown leather strap.

It was difficult to know what to make of him, Meg thought, observing him under her lashes. He didn’t slot into any obvious category, either social or professional. But then, she was no expert, she reminded herself wrily. Her experience of men was minimal, unless you counted Mr Otway, or Tim Hansby who collected books on military history, and who’d invited her once to London with him, on a visit to the Imperial War Museum.

Meg had enjoyed the museum more than she’d anticipated, but Tim, devoted only son of a widowed mother, would never be more than a casual friend. He still lived at home, and Meg pitied any girl who might fall in love with him, because Mrs Hansby was grimly determined to preserve the status quo.

Whereas her companion today didn’t look as if he could be tied to any woman’s apron strings. But appearances could be deceptive. He might well have a shrewd-eyed wife, and a brood of children, and tonight, over dinner, he’d tell them how he’d rescued a lone English tourist from the storm, making it amusing—minimising their narrow escape.

And later, his wife would ask when they were alone, ‘What was she like—this English girl?’ and he’d smile and say,

‘Ordinary—I barely noticed her…’

As he glanced towards her, Meg realised she’d allowed a tiny sigh to escape her, and hurried into speech.

‘Is it much further to the auberge?’

‘About a kilometre. Do you find the journey tedious?’

‘Oh, no,’ she denied hurriedly. ‘But I realise that you must have things to do—other plans. I feel I’m being a nuisance.’

‘You are wrong. It is my pleasure to do this for you. Besides, by taking this road, I pass the auberge anyway, so it works out well for us both.’ He paused again. ‘My name is Jerome Moncourt,’ he added with a touch of formality. ‘May I know yours in return?’

Her lips parted to say Meg Langtry, but she hesitated, the words unspoken. She’d come here to be Margot, after all, she thought guiltily, and she’d almost forgotten. But, she supposed, the deception had to start somewhere. So why not practise her new identity on this stranger? After all, she was never going to see him again. Yet, at the same time, she was reluctant to tell a downright lie. I’m not the stuff conspirators are made from, she thought with a stifled sigh.

She forced a smile. ‘Let’s just say—Marguerite,’ she temporised. It was a half-truth, after all, and, with luck, it might be all she’d need.

‘The name of a flower,’ he said softly. ‘And of a famous French queen. You’ve heard, perhaps of La Reine Margot who was born Marguerite de Valois and married Henri of Navarre? She held court at Nerac in Gascony, and was one of the famous beauties of her age. She was what they used to call une dame galante.’

‘Meaning?’ Meg had moved with slight restiveness when she heard the name. Margot, she thought. Of course, it would be. She couldn’t get away from it.

Jerome Moncourt shrugged again. ‘That she enjoyed adventures—particularly with men other than her husband,’ he returned. ‘Her affaires were notorious.’

‘Then she couldn’t have been very happy with this Henri of Navarre.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, he was not faultless, either. Maybe that is why he is one of the kings that France remembers with affection. Un vrai brave homme.’

‘And of course in those days all marriages were arranged,’ Meg said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose they could be forgiven for straying if they were tied to someone they didn’t care about.’

‘But what if the marriage had been for this thing we call love?’ His voice was cynical.

‘Then there’d have been no excuse,’ Meg said firmly.

‘I am surprised to hear you say so.’

‘Why?’ Meg found herself bristling slightly.

Jerome Moncourt hesitated momentarily, then lifted a shoulder. ‘Oh—because that is no longer a fashionable point of view. Easy marriage, easy divorce. That is the modern creed.’

Meg shook her head. ‘I don’t believe that,’ she said. ‘Divorce is never easy. Someone’s always hurt—left behind, especially when there are children.’

He flicked her a swift sideways glance. ‘I did not expect to meet with an idealist.’

‘But then,’ Meg said sedately, ‘you didn’t expect to meet me at all.’

‘No?’ He was smiling again. She felt his charm touch her like a caressing hand. ‘You don’t think it was fate rather than the storm which brought us together?’

Meg, uneasily aware of an unfamiliar trembling in the pit of her stomach, managed a laugh. ‘I’m English, monsieur. I tend to blame the weather for everything.’

He laughed too. ‘And in France, mademoiselle, we say that the marguerite always turns to the sun. Remember that.’ He paused. ‘And there just ahead of us is the auberge.’

A sudden surge of disappointment rose up inside her, and was ruthlessly crushed. Was she out of her mind, letting a complete stranger get to her like this? He’d rescued her, and she’d always be grateful for that, but she wasn’t even sure she liked him, for heaven’s sake. He was an unknown quantity, and she had enough problems ahead of her without taking him into the reckoning.

It was probably second nature to him to flirt with every girl he came across, she thought. She just wasn’t used to his kind of man, or any other for that matter.

The Auberge du Source du Beron was a comfortable rambling building, probably a converted farmhouse, set at the rear of an enclosed courtyard.

Jerome Moncourt drove under an arched gateway into the courtyard, and stopped. Meg straightened her shoulders, and held out a hand, with a determined smile. ‘Well, thank you again, and goodbye.’

‘You are very eager to be rid of me,’ he commented, his mouth twisting sardonically.

‘Oh, it’s not that,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’

‘You must allow me to judge for myself.’ Jerome Moncourt left the car, and walked round to the passenger door to assist Meg to alight. ‘Go and see if they have a room,’ he directed, smiling faintly. ‘I will bring your cases.’

Wide glass doors flanked by tubs of brilliant flowers opened on to a tiled reception area, where the patronne gave Meg a pleasant if harassed welcome.

Yes, there was a room, which she would be happy to show mademoiselle, but there was also a problem. Because of that devil’s storm, there was no electricity. Until the supply could be restored, there would only be lamps or candles. As for the dining-room—madame made a gesture of despair.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Jerome Moncourt said over Meg’s shoulder. ‘Mademoiselle is dining with me.’

Meg felt sudden swift colour invade her face, as madame, putting her troubles aside for a moment, lifted her eyebrows in a roguish and wholly approving assessment of the situation in general and Jerome Moncourt in particular. She then became brisk again. If monsieur would be so good as to transport the luggage to mademoiselle’s room—Millot, whose task this was, being totally engaged in filling lamps—she would be forever grateful.

‘D’accord.’ Jerome smiled at her. ‘But first I must ask if the storm spared the telephone. We need to report an accident.’

The phone system apparently was in full working order. Jerome lifted an eyebrow at Meg. ‘Do you wish me to contact the authorities—deal with the formalities for you? It would perhaps be easier, no matter how good your French…’

Meg said a shy ‘Thank you’ and allowed madame to conduct her up the wide wooden staircase to a room at the back. The ceiling was low, and the floor uneven, but the furniture gleamed with polish, and the wide bed was made up with snowy linen and a duvet like a drift of thistledown. In one corner, a door opened on to an immaculate shower-room hardly bigger than a cupboard.

The small square window set deep in the thick stone wall stood open to admit the return of the sun, and the air, still cool after the rain, was heavy with the scent of lavender. Meg drew one deep enraptured breath. Madame gave a satisfied nod, and returned to her duties downstairs, closing the door behind her.

Meg stayed at the window. It had been quite a day, and it wasn’t over yet—unless, of course, she wanted it to be. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Things like this don’t happen to me, she thought with bewilderment. But then I’m not myself any more. I’m supposed to be Margot. Perhaps I’ve taken over her life as well as her name. But can I carry it off?

She heard the door open, and Jerome enter with her luggage. Her heart began to thud, and her mouth went dry.

‘Another car will be delivered to you in the morning,’ he said, hoisting her cases on to the slatted wooden rack provided for the purpose. ‘You will have to complete an accident report, but you have me as a witness, so there should be no difficulty.’

She kept her back towards him, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I—I’m very grateful.’

‘Grateful enough to be my guest at dinner tonight?’ He was standing behind her, so close that she could feel the warmth from his body.

She stared at the view as if she was trying to memorise it. Behind the auberge’s small walled garden, the ground rose sharply. It was a wild and rocky landscape, studded with clumps of trees. A stream, presumably from some underground spring, had forced itself between two of the largest boulders, splashing down in a miniature waterfall, its passage marked by the sombre green of ferns.

‘The source of the Beron,’ Jerome said at her shoulder. She nodded jerkily, and after a pause he said, ‘You do not, of course, have to accept my invitation.’

She knew that. Knew, too, that it would be safer—much safer to refuse politely, and, with sudden exhilaration, that she had no such intention.

As she turned to answer him, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the window-panes, his face dark and watchful, his mouth grimly set. She gasped, and her head came round sharply. But it must have been some trick of the light, because he looked back at her casually, even with faint amusement.

He said softly, ‘Put me out of my misery, Marguerite. May I return for you here at eight?’

She said, ‘Yes—I’d like that.’

And wondered, once she was alone, whether that was really true.

CHAPTER THREE

MEG TOOK A LONG, luxurious shower, then spent some considerable time deciding what to wear that evening. In the end she fixed on a simple honey-coloured cotton dress in a full-skirted wrap-around style. She fastened gold hoops into her ears, and sprayed on some of her favourite Nina Ricci scent.

She studied her appearance frowningly in the cheval mirror, from the shining tumble of hair, framing a slightly flushed face, and hazel eyes strangely wider and brighter than usual, down to her slender feet in the strappy bronze sandals, then shook her head.

I feel like the old woman in the nursery rhyme, she thought—’Lawks-a-mercy, this be none of I.’

It was daunting to realise that if Jerome Moncourt had come strolling into Mr Otway’s bookshop during the past eighteen months he probably wouldn’t have given her a second look. She still wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to have dinner with him. It wasn’t the wisest move she’d ever made. After all, she knew nothing about him but his name, and that could well be an invention.

Oh, stop being paranoid, she admonished herself impatiently. Just because you’re playing a part, it doesn’t mean everyone else is too. And she could not deny that he’d fallen over himself to be helpful, but there could well be another side to him, she thought, remembering that unnerving, frozen glimpse she’d caught of his reflection, and that other moment, earlier in the day, when she’d felt his anger in the car reach out to her like a tangible thing.

Perhaps he was one of those people whose moods changed in seconds, or, more likely, maybe she was just imagining things. I just don’t know any more, she thought, turning away from the mirror. But the invitation had been made in madame’s presence which seemed to suggest it was above-board. And at least she wouldn’t dine alone on her first evening in the Languedoc. She felt a swift glow of excitement.

She caught up her bag, and the book on the history of the Cathars that Mr Otway had given her on parting, and went downstairs to wait for him. In Reception, madame was conducting a full-blooded argument by telephone, illustrated by gestures, with some hapless representative of the electricity company, but she smiled at Meg and motioned her to go through to the courtyard.

The sun was back in full force, bathing the whole area in syrupy golden light, and Meg sat at one of the small wrought-iron tables which had been placed outside, sipping a pastis, and reading.

It was difficult to comprehend on this beautiful evening, and rather depressing too, that the Cathars had believed the world to be the devil’s creation, and man and all his works intrinsically evil. To escape damnation they had pursued a strict regime of prayer and abstinence, including vegetarianism, and the leaders of the cult, known as the Perfect Ones, also advocated celibacy in marriage.

Presumably the majority of their followers had decided to be not quite so perfect, otherwise Catharism would have died out in a generation, Meg thought.

From a modern viewpoint, their creed seemed eccentric rather than dangerous, yet armies had been sent to wipe them off the face of the earth. A bit like taking a sledgehammer to swat a fly.

Probably, as Mr Otway had said, it was greed for the riches of the South which had sent the Crusaders south, ravaging the vineyards and looting the cities, and religion was just the excuse.

She knew, before his shadow fell across the open page, that Jerome had arrived. She’d become aware of the stir at the adjoining tables, of the raised eyebrows and murmured asides as women turned their heads to watch him cross the courtyard.

‘Bonsoir.’ This evening, he was wearing well-cut cream trousers and a chestnut-brown shirt, open at the neck, while the mane of dark hair had been controlled, but not tamed.

Perhaps that was a clue to his personality, she found herself thinking as she shyly returned his smile of greeting. That under the expensive clothes and civilised manners there was a streak of wildness, waiting to explode. She wondered if he was an artist, perhaps. If so, he was a very successful one. The watch, the car, everything about him spelled out serious money.

If he’d noticed the interest his arrival had caused, he gave no sign of it, as he pulled out a chair and sat down, signalling to the hovering waiter to bring him a drink. She approved of his seeming unawareness of his own attraction. And he wasn’t just attractive, either, Meg acknowledged wrily. For the first time in her life, she’d encountered a man who possessed a powerful sexual charisma that transcended ordinary good looks, and she wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

‘You looked very serious just now,’ he observed, adding water to his pastis. ‘You are not suffering from delayed shock, I hope?’

Meg shook her head, wrinkling her nose slightly. ‘Actually I was thinking about man’s inhumanity to man.’

‘A sad thought for such an evening.’ He glanced at her book, his brows lifting. ‘Land of the Cathars,’ he read aloud. ‘You are interested in the history of the Languedoc?’ he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

‘Why not?’ Meg lifted her chin. Just because she’d delayed leaving her car at his command, it didn’t make her a complete idiot, she thought crossly.

He looked at her for a long moment, the expression in the dark eyes unreadable, then he shrugged. ‘As you say—why not?’ he agreed. ‘You are a creature of surprises, Marguerite.’

‘Not just me,’ she reminded him, feeling oddly defensive. ‘Neither of us knows the least thing about the other.’

‘So tonight,’ he said softly, ‘will be a journey of discovery, hein?’

She bit her lip. That had altogether too intimate a ring, she thought uneasily. And his dark gaze had begun its journey already, travelling in silent appraisal down from her face to the rounded curves of her breasts under the cling of the cross-over bodice.

Meg, about to draw a deep, indignant breath, checked the impulse. It would have totally the wrong effect in the circumstances, she told herself tersely. Perhaps Monsieur Moncourt was completely au fait with the effect he had on women, after all, she thought with angry derision, and was confident of an easy seduction. Payment, maybe, for helping her out. Well, don’t count on a thing, she assured him in grim silence.

This was the kind of game that Margot would enjoy, she realised. A sophisticated advance and retreat, spiced with unspoken promise and sexual innuendo, from which at the end she would walk away. Or not, as she chose.

And perhaps, just for one evening, it would do no harm to play the game herself—or at least learn some of its rules. Maybe this is my day for living dangerously, she thought.

Jerome Moncourt finished his drink and glanced at her empty glass. ‘Shall we go?’ he said. ‘I hope your adventure today has given you an appetite?’

‘My first experience of French cooking.’ Meg smiled brightly as she pushed her chair back. ‘I can’t wait.’

The sun was beginning to set in a blaze of crimson as they drove out of the valley.

‘Oh, how wonderful.’ Meg craned her neck. ‘It’s going to be a fine day tomorrow.’

He smiled. ‘No more storms,’ he said teasingly, and she shuddered.

‘I hope not.’

‘You were unlucky,’ he said. ‘It is more usual for the storms to come at night. Sometimes as you drive you see the lightning playing round the hills, like a gigantic silent spotlight. We call it the éclairs de chaleur. Then suddenly a fork will streak to the ground, and the world goes mad. As you saw.’

‘I did,’ she said ruefully. ‘Don’t you have any gentler form of son et lumière for the tourists?’

‘Perhaps the dawn would suit you better,’ he said. ‘That trace of pure clear light in the sky that drowns the stars, before the sun even lifts its head over the horizon.’

‘You sound like a poet,’ Meg said, stealing a sideways glance. ‘Is that what you are?’

He laughed. ‘No, I regret, nothing so romantic, although my grandfather was deeply interested in the poetry of the region—the songs of the troubadours and those that followed.’

‘Did he write himself?’

Jerome shook his head. ‘He lived on the land in a mas which belonged to his family. Grew his own vines. Adopted the simple life.’

‘It sounds—good.’

‘I think it was, for a time. Unhappily, even the simple life can become complicated, and eventually he returned to Paris.’

‘And do you—lead the simple life too?’

‘When I can.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘But most of the time I’m an architect. I used to work in Paris, but our business expanded quite remarkably, and now I am based in Toulouse.’

‘Back to your roots.’

‘As you say. I work mainly as a consultant, advising on the preservation and restoration of old buildings—houses, usually, which have been allowed to become derelict during the drift from the land to the cities, but which are now in demand again.’

‘Actually, I think that’s quite as romantic as poetry,’ Meg said thoughtfully. ‘Repairing the fabric of history.’

His smile widened. ‘And actually I agree with you, but I don’t tell my clients, or they would expect me to work for love and not for money.’

‘Are you working on a project at the moment?’

‘In a way, although I’m officially on leave.’ He didn’t seem to want to enlarge on the subject, so Meg left it there.

‘Do you miss Paris?’ she asked, after a pause.

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t miss any city,’ he said flatly. ‘My family chose to live there. I did not.’

‘Were they from this part of the country originally?’

‘Yes. Our roots have always been here. My grandfather was the first to move away completely, in fact.’

‘Was he never tempted to return?’

Jerome shrugged. ‘My grandmother was a Parisienne,’ he said tonelessly. ‘She had no taste for the country.’

‘But you’ve come back.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To the country of my heart. The place where I belong.’

It must be good to have such certainty, Meg thought rather wistfully. She wasn’t sure where she stood in the scheme of things. She still lived at her late father’s house, but it had been totally transformed to Iris Langtry’s taste, and Meg felt like an outsider there most of the time. And she no longer had a job to hold her. So, she supposed, the world was her oyster now. Maybe it was time she found where she belonged. Put down some roots of her own.

In the meantime, she was beginning to wonder where they were going. She’d presumed he was taking her to some local restaurant where the electricity was still functioning, but they were still travelling purposefully, the Citroën eating up the kilometres. She wished she’d been watching the signposts, so that she could have followed their route on the map she had in her bag.

‘You would like some music?’ He seemed to have noticed her slight restiveness.

‘No,’ she denied quickly. ‘I like to watch the scenery, and talk. But you must stop me if I ask too many questions.’

‘You’re unlikely to ask anything I won’t wish to answer.’ The dark eyes flickered towards her, then returned to the road. ‘Can you say the same, Marguerite?’

‘Of course,’ she said stoutly, crossing her fingers metaphorically. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’

‘A woman without secrets,’ he said musingly. ‘Unbelievable.’

She laughed. ‘No, I just lead an uncomplicated and rather boring life.’ Or I did, she thought.

‘Yet you travel alone through choice, and have a deeper interest in this region than the average tourist. That is hardly dull. I think you have hidden depths, Marguerite.’

There was a note in his voice which made her heart leap in sudden ridiculous excitement. She said rather breathlessly, ‘But then they say that everyone’s more interesting on holiday.’ There was a brief silence.

‘Tell me,’ he said softly, ‘why you were so reluctant to answer when I asked you to dine with me? There is a man in England, perhaps, who might cause—complications?’

Meg stared ahead of her. Tim Hansby? she thought with a kind of desperate amusement. She said shortly, ‘There’s no one.’

‘Vraiment?’ Jerome Moncourt sounded sceptical. ‘I cannot believe there is no one you care about.’

She shrugged, pride making her reluctant to admit that up to now she’d occupied a fairly undistinguished place on the shelf—that there were only two people she really cared about, she realised with a pang. A retired second-hand bookseller, and the elderly woman who’d taken the place of her mother, and given her the affection and comfort that her father, dazed with grief at the loss of his young wife, had been unable to bestow. For whose sake she was here in the first place. She swallowed. Not a lot to show for her twenty years, she thought. Although this was not the time to start feeling sorry for herself.

And what the hell? she argued inwardly. It’s nothing to do with him if I prevaricate a little. Although why she should wish to appear marginally more interesting than actual reality was something she didn’t want to examine too closely, she thought, biting her lip.

‘Does it make any difference?’ she challenged. ‘An invitation to dinner hardly constitutes a major breach of faith.’

She took a breath. ‘For all I know, you could be married.’

‘Would it matter if I was?’ he tossed back at her.

That sounded like hedging. Her heart plummeted in a dismay as acute as it was absurd.

‘I think it might matter a hell of a lot to your wife,’ she said curtly.

‘Then it is fortunate she does not yet exist.’ There was a note of mockery in his voice, mingled with something else less easy to decipher.

‘Fortunate for her, anyway,’ she muttered, self-disgust at the relief flooding over her making her churlish.

He clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘That’s not kind. You don’t think I’d make a good husband?’

‘I can’t possibly tell on so brief an acquaintance.’ Meg kept her tone short. She knew he was laughing at her, even though his expression was serious, almost frowning.

‘But you have an ideal? What qualities should he possess? Would you require him to be faithful?’

Meg twisted the strap of her bag in her fingers. ‘I’d want him to love me, and only me, as I’d love him,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose that takes care of most things.’

‘It is certainly sweeping,’ Jerome said, after another pause. ‘And if, in spite of that love, another woman intervened—tried to take this paragon away from you—what would you do then? Make the sacrifice? Let him go?’

‘No,’ she said, fiercely. ‘I’d fight for him with everything I had.’

‘You would be ruthless?’ his voice probed softly. ‘Use any weapon?’

‘Of course.’ She hesitated uncertainly. ‘Why do you ask me all this?’

‘Because I wish to know, ma petite,’ he said softly. ‘It is part of that journey of discovery I mentioned—to find that you would fight like a tigress for love.’

Again that odd note in his voice. Meg felt herself shiver. He noticed at once. ‘You are cold?’

‘Oh, no.’ She forced a smile. ‘Hungry, perhaps.’ She thought of her picnic lunch, crushed in the car.

‘You’ve been patient long enough. Now you shall be fed.’ He turned the car suddenly off the road, and on to a track leading downhill. Meg braced herself as the Citroën swayed and jolted over stones and deep ruts.

‘There’s actually a restaurant down here?’ she gasped. ‘I hope there’s another road out, or people’s meals won’t stay down for long.’

‘Not a restaurant.’ Ahead of them, bathed rose-pink in the sunset, there was a straggle of buildings, a chimney from which smoke uncoiled lazily in the still evening air.

‘Then where are we?’ They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, she realised with alarm. And isolated too. There were no other cars around that she could see, so it couldn’t be a very popular establishment.

‘This is my house.’ The mockery was back, full force. ‘The family mas I was telling you about.’

He paused. ‘I decided, ma belle, that we would dine at home tonight. Enjoy our mutual discoveries in private.’ He let that sink in, then added silkily, ‘I hope you approve?’

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