Prelude to Heaven (5 page)

She yanked her skirt from his grip. “Oh, leave me be, Gaspard,” she snapped, slamming her bottle of wine down in front of him and striding away. Her mother followed her, sending Alexandre a frown over her shoulder. The mother’s disapproval, he concluded cynically, no doubt added to his attraction in the daughter’s eyes.

He returned his attention to the girl, watching her back as she walked toward the kitchens, her long black hair swinging between her shoulder blades, and he felt a hint of regret. He hadn't had a woman in a very long time, and Lise was a pretty girl. She could be his for the taking any time she could escape her mother's careful supervision. But she was right about him. Celibate as a monk. Over three years now. What the hell was he waiting for?

He leaned down and grabbed the sack at his feet. In it were the bread, butter, and olive oil he'd come into the village to obtain, as well as the packet of sable paintbrushes he had ordered from Marseilles. Swinging the sack over his shoulder, he tossed a few coins on the table. Eyes bored into his back as he moved toward the door, and the men crowding around the doorway parted silently to let him through. No one spoke to him or smiled a farewell. He left the tavern and made the long, lonely trek back to his château.

By the time he reached home, it was dark, but the moon was out, lighting his way as he crossed the courtyard. In the distance, a wolf howled. An owl hooted softly. Somewhere nearby, a rodent scurried through the weeds. The sound of his boot heels tapping against the flagstones mingled with the chirping of insects and the other sounds of the night. But when he climbed the back stairs and entered the kitchen, he found the château as dark and silent as a tomb.

“Mademoiselle?” he called, but there was no answer. Wondering where the woman might be, he set the sack on the worktable, lit a lamp, and left the kitchen to go in search of her. He went upstairs first, thinking she might have gone to bed, but she was not in her room.

As he descended the stairs, the thought crossed his mind that after his uncompromising answer of this morning, she might have left. The idea of her out alone at night disturbed him more than he cared to admit, and he hastily began searching the rooms on the ground floor. “Mademoiselle?” he called again, but only the echo of his own voice answered him.

She wasn't well enough to leave yet, he thought, crossing the armory and opening one of the double doors leading into the salon. That room, too, was dark and silent.

Despite all his resolutions to the contrary, he was becoming truly concerned, his mind conjuring up visions of her in any number of desperate situations as he continued to search for her. “Foolish woman,” he muttered, turning to go down one of the corridors. “If she's gone off by herself at night...”

Alexandre paused at the lamplight spilling through the open doorway at the end of the passage. She was in the library. He quickened his steps and strode down the corridor, relief replacing the worry he had felt only moments before. “Mademoiselle, why didn't you answer when I...”

He stopped in the doorway. She was there, curled up on one end of the dusty leather sofa, sound asleep. An open book from the shelves behind her had fallen from her hand to the floor. Her other hand rested on her abdomen.

Alexandre set the lamp he was carrying on the table beside the door and moved into the room, careful not to make a sound. He picked up the book from the floor and glanced at the title. She'd been reading Aristotle, in Greek. He frowned, his gaze moving from the book to the sleeping woman, then back to the book. What was a common English miss doing reading Greek philosophy? It appeared there was more to the petite mademoiselle than he'd first thought. He set the book on the table before returning his thoughtful gaze to her.

Light fell softly over her, but it could not soften the thin, shadowed planes of her face. It could not disguise her troubled, hunted look. It could not hide the fear that enveloped her like a black cloak. Tenderness, a feeling he'd thought long dead within him, stirred to life. No woman could look more in need of protection and help than this one.

He bent over her, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her head. He lifted her from the sofa, hoping not to wake her.

Her whole body stiffened, even in sleep. “No,” she mumbled. “No, no.”

“Shh...” he commanded softly, turning toward the door, cradling her in his arms, savoring the forgotten luxury of human contact.

“Put me down,” she said, fully awake now, her hands pushing against his chest. “Let me go.”

He should have complied, but he found he didn't want to. Instead, his arms tightened protectively as she began to struggle in earnest. “Stop twisting about, mademoiselle,” he ordered and paused by the door. “Pick up the lamp.”

She did as he bid her, holding the oil lamp in her hand as he carried her down the corridor into the wide entrance hall, but though her struggles subsided, he could feel her apprehension like a tangible thing, and her voice, when she spoke, shook a little. “Where are you taking me?”

“My sofa is not for sleeping,” he told her as he began to ascend the stairs. “That is what beds are for. You, mademoiselle, should be in one.”

“This isn't necessary. I can walk. You needn't make such an effort.”

“You don't weigh enough for it to be an effort, mademoiselle,” he answered. They were at the top of the stairs now, and he turned toward his bedchamber, the one she'd been sleeping in since her arrival. “It seems I need to feed you better.”

She did not answer, but she was rigid in his arms, and when he set her down inside his bedchamber, her feet had barely touched the floor before she was scrambling backwards, out of his reach, one hand holding the lamp, and the other clutching at the collar of her dress.

Astonished, he stared, realizing that she was actually afraid of him. Perhaps she had already heard the rumors about him. Perhaps she knew of Anne-Marie and what had happened here.

No, if she did, she would never have come here in the first place. But a woman could have other fears. It was clear this woman did.

“Go to sleep, mademoiselle,” he said and turned away. He left the bedchamber and walked further down the corridor to the one he was now using. As he lay in bed, he watched the breeze tease the moonlit curtains at the open window and thought about her. He thought about the frightened cries she had uttered in her delirium whenever he touched her and how she had slapped his hands away. He thought about the way she jumped back whenever he came close. He thought about how her eyes watched him with suspicion. He wondered again why she was so afraid. Could she somehow sense what he was, what he had done?

He knew she only stayed because she had no choice. He knew she was afraid of him. And he found himself wishing that she weren't.

When Tess came downstairs the next morning, Monsieur Dumond was gone. In the kitchen, she found a loaf of bread, a sausage, butter, and cheese set out on the table for her. Tucked beneath the bread was a note. Written in bold black letters were the words, “Eat. I will return at sunset. Dumond.”

Tess ate a bit of the bread and cheese and decided to explore the house and grounds in a search of ways she could be useful here. If Dumond was to be persuaded to let her stay, she would like to give him as many reasons as possible to do so.

It was a beautiful morning, and she began her explorations outdoors. The château was perched high on a craggy cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. On the landward side, the sloping hills to the left were covered with deserted, overgrown vineyards. The hills to the right led through forests of chestnut trees and pines, interspersed with meadows of wildflowers and lavender. Having passed the vineyards on her journey here, Tess did not go that way. Instead, she wandered around the grounds of the château itself.

The courtyard was bordered on two sides by the main house. Along the other two sides ran crumbling stone walls, one of which had completely fallen down. She stepped through a huge gap in the other wall where an archway had once stood and took the first path, leading her past the garden where she’d collapsed a few days earlier to a group of outbuildings. Made of stone and timber, with crumbling tile roofs or ramshackle wooden ones, they were badly in need of repairs.

Opposite the outbuildings was a pasture, choked with weeds, where a goat stood grazing. The animal was tethered to gnarled, dead tree, for the fence surrounding the pasture was in very poor condition, with many gaps where the goat could easily escape. The berry brambles that grew wild beside the pasture were a tangled mass of canes.

One of the outbuildings was a henhouse with a fenced pen. Although the fence wasn't falling down like the one that surrounded the nearby pasture, it looked about to. She noted the strip of linen handkerchief that held two pieces of the fence together and wondered if there were nails and a hammer anywhere about, for she might be able to effect some repairs. Someone had to, for if the fence fell, the chickens would be lost to foxes, dogs, and heaven only knew what else.

Tess continued to follow the path, past another pen, the barn, and the stables. The path continued on, winding down sharply to the sea, but Tess followed it no farther. Instead, she changed direction, heading down another path that curved between untrimmed boxwood hedges through overgrown rose gardens and potagers. This chateau must have been a beautiful place at one time, but now it seemed a deserted, melancholy place, rather a fitting home for the man who owned it.

After a midday meal of more bread and cheese, followed by a short nap, Tess explored the upper floors of the chateau itself. Most of the rooms were easily accessible, but two, located side by side at the end of a long corridor, were locked. She couldn’t help wondering why, but an image of Dumond’s black, unreadable eyes came into her mind, and knew she’d probably never learn the reason from him.

Every room she entered seemed musty and undisturbed, every room but one—Alexandre's studio. It was located at the very top of the only tower in the château and consisted of one huge room, exactly square, with tall windows in all four directions. Tess paused at the top of the spiraling corner staircase and caught her breath, appreciating at once that for an artist, this was the perfect place for a studio. The windows let in the light, no matter what the time of day.

She walked slowly to the center of the room, stepping around tables littered with pots of paint, brushes, sketchbooks, and charcoal. Below the windows, sheet-covered canvases leaned against the walls of whitewashed stone, but not a single painting or sketch adorned the limited wall space. There was no need. The view was adornment enough.

Tess turned slowly in a circle, taking a moment to admire the incredible views of sea, cliffs, vineyards, and distant village before turning her attention from the view outside to what lay within. Although far from tidy, this room seemed to be the only one in the chateau without a thick layer of dust, cobwebs, and neglect. In the far corner, by one of the windows facing the sea, was an easel holding a half-finished painting in oils. Tess walked over to study it.

A burning sea of orange and blue and black raged around the barely discernible white sails of ships engaged in battle. Columns of smoke and plumes of fire swirled upward into a gray sky. Though not complete, the painting conveyed clearly the pain and passion of war. Anger seemed to emanate from the canvas. Tess admired it, but she wasn't certain she liked it.

Still, she discovered that there were other paintings much more to her liking hidden beneath layers of linen sheeting. An airy landscape, all pinks and greens and blues. A still life of wine, cheese, and grapes that was so French, she smiled. A portrait of a woman in a blue dress.

Curious, Tess pulled it out from the paintings leaning against the wall to study it more clearly. A lovely girl, with milk-white skin, blue eyes, and spun-gold hair stared back at her. There was so much laughter and joy in the girl's expression, so much life to her that Tess could almost imagine her breathing or opening her mouth to speak. Who was she?

Tess stepped back from the painting and glanced down at the blue muslin dress she wore, comparing it to the one in the portrait. No, it wasn't the same gown, but it was of a similar color and style and conveyed a similar taste in dress. She had wondered about the clothes Alexandre had given her and who they belonged to. Now she knew.

But who was this girl? A sister? A wife? And where was she now?

Suddenly feeling as if she had intruded on something very private, Tess wrapped the portrait back in its linen sheeting and returned it to its place among the others. Then she left the studio, hoping without knowing why that Alexandre would not be able to discern she had been there.

She wandered back downstairs and after a bit more exploring, she returned to the kitchen, where she sat down at the table and wondered what she’d seen that might help her demonstrate her usefulness here. The problem was that the château was in such disrepair that strong, able-bodied workmen were really what the place needed. Tess gave her rounded abdomen a rueful glance. She in no position to do much, at least for the present, and Dumond certainly had no inclination to make repairs.