Read Online Rendezvous (9781301288946) by Susan Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Carroll
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tolerate for more
than ten minutes at a time."
He clapped Charles on the back, keeping
their final farewell light. But as soon as he saw Charles out the
door, the grin faded from Sinclair's lips. He found himself doing
something he had never done before.
Striding to the window, he brushed back
the lace curtain and peered through the dirty panes. He watched
Charles trudge down the cobbled street until he lost sight of
Chuff's stocky form in the rumble of carriages and other
pedestrians scurrying along the walkway. It was almost as though he
never expected to see Charles again.
Sinclair let the curtain fall, stepping
back from the window. What was wrong with him? He was letting his
brother's dark fears color his own mood.
"What an old woman you're getting to
be, Carrington," Sinclair muttered. But he was forced to admit that
he too carried an inexplicable apprehension about this latest
assignment. Yet he had taken far greater risks in his life. What
made this time so different?
Maybe it was the woman, Sinclair
thought, his mind once more envisioning Isabelle Varens's gold hair
and all too seductive curves. A woman like that could be a man's
undoing. Sinclair had seen it happen to others of his sex many
times, but he had always guarded his own heart too well. Maybe he
was long overdue for a fall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The manor house known as Maison Mal du
Coeur perched in solitary grandeur upon a hill overlooking the sea.
Outlined against the starless midnight sky, the mansion appeared
stark in the simplicity of its classical design, its only ornament
the balustrade at the roofline, each corner surmounted by a stone
urn.
No outbuildings nestled close by, no
line of trees sheltered Mal du Coeur. The white stone walls seemed
to hurl defiance at the breakers crashing upon the pebbled beach
far below, daring Poseidon, great god of the sea, to do his
worst—buffets of wind, maelstroms, tidal waves—Mal du Coeur would
withstand them all.
Slipping along the path that led to the
gardens at the rear of the house, Belle paused to gaze upward at
the massive walls looming over her. The hood of her cloak fell back
and the night wind tangled strands of her hair about her face.
Belle brushed the tendrils aside, her eyes fixed upon the
moon.
Partly obscured by a mist of clouds,
the crescent hung in the sky like some ghostly scimitar suspended
above Mal du Coeur.
Belle shivered, overcome by the same
strange brooding sensation she had had when first glimpsing the
mansion from the carriage. She had no idea what to expect from this
meeting with Merchant tonight, but she had the feeling that in some
way it would prove momentous, one of those events that would
drastically alter the course of her life.
She would have dismissed such notions
as nonsense, an irritation of the nerves, if she had not
experienced such premonitions before, premonitions that had proved
all too true. That long-ago evening in Paris, in the suite of rooms
she and Jean-Claude had rented-had she not somehow sensed that
something was terribly wrong? The intimate supper her maid had laid
upon the table had long ago turned cold before Jean-Claude had
burst into the room. He had never been late before. . .
Lifting the hem of her gown, Belle
continued along the path, hardly noticing the garden ahead of her
with its low lying hedges and rosebushes set in a symmetrical line.
The wind rustling the leaves, the distant roar of the sea all faded
before the insistent clamor of voices from her past.
"You deceived me," she heard
Jean-Claude accuse. “You have been doing so since the day we were
wed, the hour we first met."
Then her own voice, pleading, "Please,
Jean-Claude. I always meant to tell you the truth. I wanted to. Oh,
how I wanted to, but I was afraid of losing you. I beg you to
forgive me."
But her words were lost in the raw
anguish of his cry. "You betrayed my trust, the one thing left in
all this madness I had to believe in—our love, what we shared
together. It has all
than ten minutes at a time."
He clapped Charles on the back, keeping
their final farewell light. But as soon as he saw Charles out the
door, the grin faded from Sinclair's lips. He found himself doing
something he had never done before.
Striding to the window, he brushed back
the lace curtain and peered through the dirty panes. He watched
Charles trudge down the cobbled street until he lost sight of
Chuff's stocky form in the rumble of carriages and other
pedestrians scurrying along the walkway. It was almost as though he
never expected to see Charles again.
Sinclair let the curtain fall, stepping
back from the window. What was wrong with him? He was letting his
brother's dark fears color his own mood.
"What an old woman you're getting to
be, Carrington," Sinclair muttered. But he was forced to admit that
he too carried an inexplicable apprehension about this latest
assignment. Yet he had taken far greater risks in his life. What
made this time so different?
Maybe it was the woman, Sinclair
thought, his mind once more envisioning Isabelle Varens's gold hair
and all too seductive curves. A woman like that could be a man's
undoing. Sinclair had seen it happen to others of his sex many
times, but he had always guarded his own heart too well. Maybe he
was long overdue for a fall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The manor house known as Maison Mal du
Coeur perched in solitary grandeur upon a hill overlooking the sea.
Outlined against the starless midnight sky, the mansion appeared
stark in the simplicity of its classical design, its only ornament
the balustrade at the roofline, each corner surmounted by a stone
urn.
No outbuildings nestled close by, no
line of trees sheltered Mal du Coeur. The white stone walls seemed
to hurl defiance at the breakers crashing upon the pebbled beach
far below, daring Poseidon, great god of the sea, to do his
worst—buffets of wind, maelstroms, tidal waves—Mal du Coeur would
withstand them all.
Slipping along the path that led to the
gardens at the rear of the house, Belle paused to gaze upward at
the massive walls looming over her. The hood of her cloak fell back
and the night wind tangled strands of her hair about her face.
Belle brushed the tendrils aside, her eyes fixed upon the
moon.
Partly obscured by a mist of clouds,
the crescent hung in the sky like some ghostly scimitar suspended
above Mal du Coeur.
Belle shivered, overcome by the same
strange brooding sensation she had had when first glimpsing the
mansion from the carriage. She had no idea what to expect from this
meeting with Merchant tonight, but she had the feeling that in some
way it would prove momentous, one of those events that would
drastically alter the course of her life.
She would have dismissed such notions
as nonsense, an irritation of the nerves, if she had not
experienced such premonitions before, premonitions that had proved
all too true. That long-ago evening in Paris, in the suite of rooms
she and Jean-Claude had rented-had she not somehow sensed that
something was terribly wrong? The intimate supper her maid had laid
upon the table had long ago turned cold before Jean-Claude had
burst into the room. He had never been late before. . .
Lifting the hem of her gown, Belle
continued along the path, hardly noticing the garden ahead of her
with its low lying hedges and rosebushes set in a symmetrical line.
The wind rustling the leaves, the distant roar of the sea all faded
before the insistent clamor of voices from her past.
"You deceived me," she heard
Jean-Claude accuse. “You have been doing so since the day we were
wed, the hour we first met."
Then her own voice, pleading, "Please,
Jean-Claude. I always meant to tell you the truth. I wanted to. Oh,
how I wanted to, but I was afraid of losing you. I beg you to
forgive me."
But her words were lost in the raw
anguish of his cry. "You betrayed my trust, the one thing left in
all this madness I had to believe in—our love, what we shared
together. It has all
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