mean to, I just found myself here...’
‘Found yourself
here!’ He laughed harshly. ‘You are no different from the others, after all.
You tantalise a man, lead him on and then your courage deserts you...’
‘That’s not
fair! You said you had something to ask me. What is it? Ask it and let me go
back to my friends.’
‘Friends, are
they? I wonder.’ He shrugged, then smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose they are more your
style than an unknown Frenchman without a name.’
‘You seem to
have two names,’ she snapped. ‘Though I wonder if either of them is real?’
He looked at
her sharply. ‘I was wrong, I should not have asked you to meet me. I am sorry.
Let me take you back.’
‘I would rather
go alone.’
‘Yes, of
course. Adieu, ma petite .’ He bent over her and his lips, brushing her
hand, sent a shiver through her. ‘I doubt we will meet again.’
‘No,’ she
agreed. Why did the prospect of never seeing him again fill her with such
despair? She didn’t want to leave him but she knew if she stayed there would be
no repairing her tattered reputation. And he had changed; his voice and manner
were rough, as if he could not keep up the pretence of being a gentleman any
longer and must revert to his roots. What were his roots? She turned back
towards him. ‘Mr Saint-Pierre...’
He saw the
bleak look in her eyes, felt her sway towards him and caught her in his arms. Sacre
Dieu! What had possessed him even to think of confiding in her? She
deserved her comfortable little corner in the life of the Danburys, might even
be happy as Mark’s wife. If only he could be sure of that, he would go back to
France and leave well alone. Now he realised the only way he could retrieve the
situation was to make light of it, pretend to a flippancy he was far from
feeling, make her think he had wanted her alone only to flirt with her. ‘I
shall be as my lady wishes,’ he said. ‘But first I intend to claim recompense...’
‘Recompense?’
Her voice was a thread of a whisper. What was the matter with her? Could she be
falling in love, in love with someone she knew nothing about and, what was
worse, a probable enemy of her family? The idea was preposterous.
‘For losing you
to another.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her lips, gently at first,
light as a butterfly, and like a butterfly her heart fluttered beneath his
hand. The pressure of his mouth on hers grew harder, more demanding until her
lips were forced to part. She tried to think coherently, but could not; she was
drowning in a sensuous delight which took no heed of time and place, carrying
her helplessly to heights she had never even dreamed of and depths she never
knew existed. She rode a see-saw, a whirlpool, a carousel. She did not want it
to stop.
Suddenly he was
wrenched from her and Mark’s voice, venomous with anger, hissed, ‘Go back to
the others, Maryanne, and leave him to me.’
She could not
move and watched in horror as Mark let fly with a clenched fist. Adam put up a
hand as blood poured from his nose, but he did nothing to defend himself. Mark
stood with feet apart and hands raised in a belligerent attitude. ‘Come on,
man, fight if you have any guts. I demand satisfaction.’
Adam smiled.
‘Here and now? Is that wise?’
‘No!’ Maryanne
cried, trying to put herself between them. ‘Please, don’t fight.’ She turned to
Mark. ‘It was truly nothing, please forget it.’
‘Forget it? He
has insulted you. I demand satisfaction.’ He turned back to Adam. ‘If you will
not fight me now, name your seconds.’
‘I have no
quarrel with you,’ Adam said, mopping up the blood with his handkerchief. ‘And
if the lady does not wish to shed your blood...’
‘My blood!’
Mark was puce with fury. ‘It will not be my blood that is shed.’
‘I assure you,’
Adam said, with a calmness that only aggravated the other’s anger, ‘I can well
take care of myself.’
Maryanne
believed that. She tried once again to interpose
‘Found yourself
here!’ He laughed harshly. ‘You are no different from the others, after all.
You tantalise a man, lead him on and then your courage deserts you...’
‘That’s not
fair! You said you had something to ask me. What is it? Ask it and let me go
back to my friends.’
‘Friends, are
they? I wonder.’ He shrugged, then smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose they are more your
style than an unknown Frenchman without a name.’
‘You seem to
have two names,’ she snapped. ‘Though I wonder if either of them is real?’
He looked at
her sharply. ‘I was wrong, I should not have asked you to meet me. I am sorry.
Let me take you back.’
‘I would rather
go alone.’
‘Yes, of
course. Adieu, ma petite .’ He bent over her and his lips, brushing her
hand, sent a shiver through her. ‘I doubt we will meet again.’
‘No,’ she
agreed. Why did the prospect of never seeing him again fill her with such
despair? She didn’t want to leave him but she knew if she stayed there would be
no repairing her tattered reputation. And he had changed; his voice and manner
were rough, as if he could not keep up the pretence of being a gentleman any
longer and must revert to his roots. What were his roots? She turned back
towards him. ‘Mr Saint-Pierre...’
He saw the
bleak look in her eyes, felt her sway towards him and caught her in his arms. Sacre
Dieu! What had possessed him even to think of confiding in her? She
deserved her comfortable little corner in the life of the Danburys, might even
be happy as Mark’s wife. If only he could be sure of that, he would go back to
France and leave well alone. Now he realised the only way he could retrieve the
situation was to make light of it, pretend to a flippancy he was far from
feeling, make her think he had wanted her alone only to flirt with her. ‘I
shall be as my lady wishes,’ he said. ‘But first I intend to claim recompense...’
‘Recompense?’
Her voice was a thread of a whisper. What was the matter with her? Could she be
falling in love, in love with someone she knew nothing about and, what was
worse, a probable enemy of her family? The idea was preposterous.
‘For losing you
to another.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her lips, gently at first,
light as a butterfly, and like a butterfly her heart fluttered beneath his
hand. The pressure of his mouth on hers grew harder, more demanding until her
lips were forced to part. She tried to think coherently, but could not; she was
drowning in a sensuous delight which took no heed of time and place, carrying
her helplessly to heights she had never even dreamed of and depths she never
knew existed. She rode a see-saw, a whirlpool, a carousel. She did not want it
to stop.
Suddenly he was
wrenched from her and Mark’s voice, venomous with anger, hissed, ‘Go back to
the others, Maryanne, and leave him to me.’
She could not
move and watched in horror as Mark let fly with a clenched fist. Adam put up a
hand as blood poured from his nose, but he did nothing to defend himself. Mark
stood with feet apart and hands raised in a belligerent attitude. ‘Come on,
man, fight if you have any guts. I demand satisfaction.’
Adam smiled.
‘Here and now? Is that wise?’
‘No!’ Maryanne
cried, trying to put herself between them. ‘Please, don’t fight.’ She turned to
Mark. ‘It was truly nothing, please forget it.’
‘Forget it? He
has insulted you. I demand satisfaction.’ He turned back to Adam. ‘If you will
not fight me now, name your seconds.’
‘I have no
quarrel with you,’ Adam said, mopping up the blood with his handkerchief. ‘And
if the lady does not wish to shed your blood...’
‘My blood!’
Mark was puce with fury. ‘It will not be my blood that is shed.’
‘I assure you,’
Adam said, with a calmness that only aggravated the other’s anger, ‘I can well
take care of myself.’
Maryanne
believed that. She tried once again to interpose
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