Run from the Wind

RUN FROM THE WIND Rebecca Stratton

Laura had heard so much about the little French village of St. Louis les Bigots from her Uncle John that she had always longed to visit it - and now here she was at last. But what was the mystery surrounding Uncle John, and what had he done to make the villagers hate his memory? And why was Laura so anxious to clear his name, particularly where Jean-Pierre Herve was concerned?

CHAPTER ONE LAURA DOUGLAS felt quite excited now that she was actually going to see the places she had heard so much about, perhaps even meet some of the same people, and she wondered, yet again, why she had not visited France before. She had a passing acquaintance with several European countries, but somehow she had never before got around to visiting the one nearest home. All the twenty-three years of her life she had heard so much about it from her uncle that she felt she knew the country around St. Louis les Bigots as well as she knew her own home village. It was only now, with Uncle John prematurely dead of a heart attack, that she had felt the inclination to go and see for herself the places he had so often mentioned. John Douglas, her father's eldest brother, had kept Laura amused for hours on end with tales about his wartime experiences in France, and she had never tired of hearing them. She had always adored Uncle John and, since she grew older, often suspected that there was some mysterious and romantic reason in his past why he had remained single to the end of his days. It was perhaps with the idea in the back of her mind of discovering such a reason that she had decided to take this trip, despite her father's lack of enthusiasm for the idea. The flight from London to Paris had been brief and uneventful, but Laura was glad at last to have the freedom of the road in the car she had hired for the duration of her stay. She was soon heading along a main motorway out of Paris in search of the little village of St. Louis les Bigots, and her spirits rose with every mile, as if seeing the places he had mentioned so often would in some way restore her uncle to her. It was a lovely sunny day, as warm and fresh as only early June can be, and Laura could think of nothing she would rather be doing at the

moment. It was something of a surprise to find such a rural setting so soon after leaving Paris, and the cooler cleaner air had an almost heady effect. The region was, she knew from her uncle, part of the ancient Ile de France, and it was proving every bit as enchanting as she had anticipated. Both sides of the road were skirted with dark cool forest with occasional vistas of steep sloping hills crowned with coronets of more trees, glimpsed at when the forest thinned. Sometimes concealing an ancient chateau, such as her uncle had told her of - the Chateau St. Clair, where the Herve family had lived for many generations and, as far as Laura knew, still did. She followed the instructions of a rather battered road sign and turned off the main road on to a narrower, winding lane that cut through the forest trees and sloped sharply downwards towards a village she could just discern, as yet half hidden behind the trees. The forest thinned here to wide meadows that spread lushly beside a winding river, twinkling and glittering in the sun, and Laura found it all enchanting. It was, she felt, little changed since her uncle had known it, although it was difficult to imagine German tanks rolling along this quiet country road. She came upon the village almost unexpectedly, around yet another bend in the road, its name embossed clearly on the large metal sign beside the road. A warm, sunny square, not yet dusty with summer dryness, but dappled with the shade of plane trees, just as she had heard it was, and little stone houses with brown roofs, huddled together as if for protection round a small Gothic church whose arrow-pointed steeple tried to pierce the pale blue sky. There was a warm, somnolent air about the whole place, and Laura smiled. She brought the car to a halt beside the road and looked around her. It was all so much as Uncle John had described it that she could

scarcely believe it, and somehow the familiarity of it gave her a feeling of relief. Looking at the little church with its ornate Renaissance carvings, mellow and ancient in the sun, she realized that one thing at least must have changed. Pere Auguste would no longer be cure, for he had been an old man in her uncle's time. He had been a great admirer of the courageous old man and often spoke of him. The hotel, Laura thought, should be close by. The Chase Hotel, the small local inn that had figured so prominently in her uncle's reminiscences, and she spotted it suddenly across the far side of the square, half hidden behind a screen of huge plane trees and calling itself the Hotel de la Ghasse. There was no one in sight when Laura left the car and ventured into the dimly cool interior of the little inn, but before she had time to do more than register a low, smoke-yellowed ceiling, tiled floor and a long, bare wooden table, a man appeared from the shadows at the back of the room and eyed her curiously. 'Mademoiselle?' Laura sought for the right words to make her inquiry in French, her very basic knowledge of the language made her self-conscious, but she made the effort. c]e voudrai rester dans votre hotel, monsieur— A gleam of understanding shone in the man's small sharp eyes and he nodded before she could go any further. 'You are English, mademoiselle? Frankly relieved, Laura smiled admission of the fact. 'I am,' she said. 'Is it possible that you have a room for me, monsieur?'

For a moment he scrutinized her with a frankness that began to annoy her, although it was impossible in the dimness of the room to say just what his impression of her was. Eventually he nodded, as if satisfied. 'Je crois que oui, mademoiselle. How long will you wish to stay?' Laura shook her head. 'I'm not sure,' she told him. 'But two weeks at least, perhaps longer.' The man's dark, suspicious eyes darted to the car parked in the sunny street outside. 'You have much bagages, mademoiselle?' 'Not very much,' Laura said. 'Only a couple of suitcases.' The landlord nodded, then bent mid produced a tattered book from somewhere beneath the table and opened it at a blank page, laboriously printing the date in the first column. 'You will please to sign the registre," he instructed. 'And I will carry your bagages from the auto.' Apparently she was not to be given the opportunity to see the room first and approve it, Laura thought, and smiled ruefully as she watched the short stocky figure of her host lumber out into the street for her cases. She must also find somewhere else to park the car, she realized. It could hardly stand out there in the street for the rest of her stay, and she mentioned the fact to the landlord when he returned with her luggage. For a second the man's dark and vaguely sinister face became thoughtful and he pursed his lips; apparently such a need had never before arisen, and Laura wondered how often the little inn had visitors. Then with a shrug of his heavy shoulders he started up the dark, narrow staircase, presumably expecting Laura to follow.

'There is space at the rear of the hotel,' he informed her. 'You may put your car there, mademoiselle.' Laura thanked him and followed him up the narrow stairs to a room that was surprisingly large for the size of the inn. It was simple and plainly furnished, but it was bright and seemingly clean and it smelled of sweet herbs. It also had a magnificent view across the valley behind the hotel, across those lush green meadows with their clusters of willows and poplar trees, and the bright, winding river that disappeared eventually somewhere in the darkness of the forest. It was a breathtakingly lovely spot, and not even the offhand manner of her host could still the sense of excitement that she felt as she looked out of the window. The landlord put down her cases and was regarding her a little less dourly, Laura thought, so she smiled. 'It's a beautiful view from here, Monsieur—?' 'Verdan,' her host supplied, and Laura felt a small flick of anticipation when she heard the name. 'Monsieur Frangois Verdan?' she asked, and noticed the swift look of surprise. 'I believe you knew my uncle. Monsieur Verdan - John Douglas.' Laura was not quite sure what kind of reaction she had expected when she mentioned her uncle's name. Surprise, perhaps, or a stunned silence for a moment, for Francois Verdan had been quite closely connected with her uncle all those years ago, but the silence was not so much stunned as wary and the man's sharp eyes were watching her closely. 'Jean Douglas is your uncle?' he asked, and Laura nodded slowly, uneasy for no reason that she could name. » 'He was,' she said quietly. 'He died two months ago.'

'Ah, oui?' Such calm acceptance of the fact troubled Laura even further, for she had expected a once close friend, from however long ago, to show some sign of surprise and regret at his passing. 'You knew him during the war,' she said. 'He's told me so much about this place, St. Louis les Bigots, and the people he knew here.' She smiled, hoping for a more favourable reaction. 'That's how I know your name, Monsieur Verdan. Uncle John spoke of you often.' Francois Verdan nodded his head, but there was no smiling response, and Laura's heart tapped nervously at her ribs as she regarded him. 'Why is it that you are here, mademoiselle?' he asked. The question took her by surprise and Laura looked uneasy for a moment. 'I - I'd heard so much about the place and the people,' she explained. 'I felt I'd like to come and see them for myself.' 'Ah!' Again the head nodded slowly, as if something had become clear suddenly. 'He - Monsieur Jean, he asked that you come here and - make the peace for him, n'est-ce pas? Laura frowned, looking at him suspiciously, a little annoyed that everything was so different from what she had expected. She had expected her identity to be recognized with more enthusiasm. 'No, of course not,' she said shortly. 'Why should my uncle have to - make peace, as you say? He knew you during the war, I know that, and he told me a lot about those days. I was very fond of my uncle and when he died I felt—' She sighed as she sought for a reason for her visit. 'I suppose in a way it's a sort of memorial to him,' she said, and felt a suspicious prickling at the back of her eyes when she thought of never seeing him again. 'I don't quite understand your attitude, monsieur' Again the landlord took time to think before he spoke, and Laura felt that her own stay at the inn was in the balance, but then he shrugged

and a faint suggestion of a wry smile touched the thick lips below a ragged moustache. 'It is past, mademoiselle, and perhaps it is best forgotten, n'est-ce pas?3 'I don't understand—' Laura began, but a large hand raised shoulder high, cut her short, and again Francois Verdan shrugged. 'Let it rest, mademoiselle. It is better so.' There was no future in arguing with him at the moment, Laura decided, so she merely pursed her lips to let him see she was far from satisfied, and let the matter drop. There would be plenty of time in the weeks to come, when he knew her better, perhaps when he trusted her more, to question his meaning. Obviously there had been more to her uncle's stay in St. Louis les Bigots than she had realized, and again her mind dwelt on the possible reason for her uncle's lifelong bachelorhood. Perhaps the answer to that could be found at the H6tel de la Ghasse.

Having washed, albeit in cold water, and changed her dress for a pair of white cotton jeans and a brief yellow blouse, Laura felt refreshed, but still more curious about her host's reluctance to discuss her uncle. She looked at her reflection in a small and slightly distorting mirror and nodded. She had always been more like her uncle than her father, being fairer and less heavy featured. Her hair was a light corn-gold colour that flattered small, regular features and huge grey eyes whose lashes were several shades darker than her hair. Her slender figure was curved just enough to lend interest to the tightly fitting jeans and loose blouse. She was feeling hungry after her journey, and although her host had said nothing about a meal, she decided to go in search of something,

hoping that perhaps if there was a Madame Verdan she might prove more amiable than her husband. A sample of the famous French cuisine she had heard so much about would be very welcome at the moment. The stairs were dark and narrow after the brightness of her bedroom and she groped blindly for a moment or two on the cool white walls either side as she made her way down the stairs. About half-way down there was a bend in the staircase, and it was as she approached this that she heard voices. One of them belonged to Francois Verdan, of that she felt pretty sure, but the other was also male, and it was when she heard her own name among the landlord's flood of French that she stopped short. The other voice interrupted, impatiently, and Laura stood for a moment on the curve of the narrow stairs, her heart tapping at her ribs, suddenly nervous for no reason that she could understand. The new voice was deeper than Francois Verdan's and, she sensed, more cultured. It lacked the roughness of the landlord's and she could detect an air of authority in its deep timbre too. It was when that same voice spoke her uncle's name that she made up her mind to carry on down the stairs and see who it was that was so interested in her arrival and in her uncle. The two men were standing not far from the foot of the stairs, in the cool dark room she had seen on her arrival, and she had barely time to register someone very tall and dark standing beside the stocky figure of the landlord when she missed her footing on the narrow stairs and went flying. 'Prenez garde, mademoiselle!' Strong arms broke her fall and held her for a breathless moment against the lean hardness of a masculine body, her face lay on the

smoothness of white silk that warmed her cheek with the touch of warm flesh through its thinness. There was a kaleidoscope of impressions all whirling around in her brain at the same time, and Laura instinctively curled her fingers round the arms that held her, her senses as disturbed as her balance. 'I - I'm sorry - thank you!' She looked up into the face of her rescuer and felt the colour flood warmly into her cheeks - a sensation that was quite new to her, for she was normally quite self-possessed. The man still held her for a moment while he studied her with dark, glittering grey eyes, then he put her away from him, carefully, as if he feared she might fall again, putting his hands into the pockets of the slim- fitting brown trousers he wore with the white shirt. His face was darker even than the landlord's and it had a kind of rugged leanness that gave him a devilish look, an impression further enhanced by a faint but definite scar that ran from his right eyebrow up into the thick black hair over his forehead. He was perhaps thirtyfive or six years old and quite the most devastating man Laura had ever seen. She put a trembling hand to her hair and smiled warily, but the response was a swift, provocative appraisal of her from head to toe, without even a hint of smile. 'You are unhurt, mademoiselle?' he asked, and Laura nodded, feeling she should have resented that quite insolent scrutiny he had subjected her to. 'Quite unhurt, merci, monsieur,' she assured him and he nodded briefly. 'Bon!' He looked at the landlord, a dark meaningful look in his eyes. 'Au revoir, Francois.' Another brief bob acknowledged Laura. 'Mademoiselle.'

Laura felt an inexplicable sense of disappointment as he turned and strode off into the sunshine outside, ducking his dark head to miss the low lintel on the door, and she stood for a moment after he had disappeared, then she shook her head and brought herself back to earth when she felt the landlord's small sharp eyes on her. A sudden roar as a car engine started made her jump and she listened as it retreated swiftly along the road and out of earshot. Whatever the landlord's opinion of her, curiosity she just had to know who he was, and she turned and looked at Francois Verdan inquiringly, sensing that strangely reluctant air about him again. 'That man,' she said, refusing to be put off. 'Who is he, Monsieur Verdan?' It was several seconds before she received an answer and then only very reluctantly, she suspected. 'That is Monsieur Herve,' he said at last. 'Jean-Pierre Herve, mademoiselle.' 'Jean-Pierre?' Laura exclaimed, then shook her head smiling ruefully. 'But of course, it's a long time since Uncle John was here, isn't it?' 'A very long time, mademoiselle,' Francois Verdan agreed. 'But memories are long. For some longer than others.' For Laura herself, she realized ruefully, for she had grown up with the picture of Jean-Pierre Herve as the very small boy her uncle remembered, nothing like the tall, devastating stranger who had caught her in his arms. 'I will call my wife, mademoiselle,' the landlord said. 'You will wish to eat.' He turned and disappeared into the nether regions of the house, leaving Laura with a whole lot of new surprises to ponder on. The Herve family had figured largely in her uncle's stories and she had always understood that he had been much more close to them than to anyone else in the village.' He had been sheltered by them in

the Chateau St. Clair, worked with them as a member of the same Resistance group, and yet Jean-Pierre Herve had heard both her name and her uncle's and said nothing to her about the acquaintance. Of course he might not remember her uncle himself, but surely he was familiar with his name from his family. There might prove to be much more to her uncle's wartime activities than she had thought, and Laura was determined to discover what it was. Also she would very much like to meet Jean-Pierre Herve again.

CHAPTER TWO THE big, old-fashioned bed proved every bit as comfortable as it looked and Laura slept deeply, awaking the following morning with an unaccustomed feeling of excitement curling in the pit of her stomach. It promised to be another lovely day again, and she hummed a tune to herself as she put on a light blue cotton dress with short sleeves and scoop neckline that would help her to tan, she hoped. There were some delicious smells coming from the kitchen and she was more than ready for the coffee and hot croissants fresh from Madame Verdan's oven, accompanied by some of the same lady's delicious homemade cherry jam. Madame Verdan proved to be much more amiable than her rather morose spouse, and Laura guessed that she was some ten or fifteen years younger than he was too. She was quite anxious to be friendly and chattered in her spasmodic English while Laura breakfasted. It was of Madame Verdan that Laura inquired the way to the Chateau St. Clair, thinking she would perhaps walk there if it was not too far, or drive if it was. She wanted to see it, just to say that she had seen the beautiful chateau that her uncle had so often mentioned with affection. It was while Madame Verdan was giving her direc- tions and assuring her that it was no more than 'un petit tour', that the landlord appeared, and his short, brusque instruction to his wife made her blink at him in surprise. 'Francois, je— she began, but her husband silenced her with one large hand, and turned to Laura. 'You wish to take a walk, mademoiselle?' he asked, and Laura looked from him to his wife curiously.

'I want to go and see the Chateau St. Clair,' she told him, anticipating some objection and wondering why on earth it should be so. 'Madame Verdan says there is access from some meadows further along the road from here, and that it isn't a very long walk. Is there any reason why I can't go and see it? I only want to look at it from a distance, see what it actually looks like after hearing so much about it.' Francois Verdan was shaking his head, his expression discouraging in the extreme. 'It would not be wise to go to the chateau, mademoiselle.' Laura frowned, growing rather tired of all this mysterious reluctance on the part of her host. 'I don't see what harm I can do by just going to look at it from a distance,' she insisted. 'I'm not thinking of visiting.' She looked at him steadily for a moment, wondering at the shifty gaze he hastily lowered, challenging him to give her a good reason for his advice. 'Is there some special reason why I shouldn't go near the chateau?' she asked, and the man looked taken aback for a moment, at the straight question. Then he shrugged his plump shoulders, conscious of his wife's curious gaze on him as well as Laura's. 'I suppose that if mademoiselle goes only as far as the river, there is no harm,' he allowed. Laura looked at him, her head in the air, her small chin thrust out defiantly. 'And if I do go further than the river?' she asked softly, and the landlord's small eyes glittered at her darkly for a moment before he turned away. 'It would not be wise, mademoiselle!' ***

It was much hotter walking in the sun than Laura had anticipated, and while there was shade for a good part of the way, there were patches where the trees thinned and she was in the full glare of the sun. It would have been better, she thought, if she had driven the car as far as the bridge that gave access to the meadows, and walked from there. The grass, when she gained the meadows at last, was much kinder to her feet too after the rough surface of the road, and she walked across the cool, lush field whose bovine residents eyed her with a certain interested speculation. Willow trees stood in clusters along the river bank, and plane trees too offered welcome shade, and she rested for a while in their shadows, feeling quite sleepy in the still, warm air. She could see the chateau quite well now among its retinue of tall trees and surrounded by some of the loveliest parkland she had ever seen. There were cool green lawns and splashes of colour where flowering shrubs bordered paths and walks and, leading from the river itself, an avenue of tall stately plane trees, as if at one time in its history there had been access from the water. Although all evidence of a pier or a landing- stage had vanished now. It was a breathtakingly beautiful sight, and Laura could well understand her uncle's love of the place. She could quite easily become attached to such a house herself, especially if she lived there for some time. Some distance along the bank she spotted a small wrought iron bridge leading from the meadow she was in over to the parkland, and the temptation to cross it was almost irresistible. She did resist it, however, but sighed at her own timidity. She could, she thought, walk along as far as the bridge without anyone complaining, and left the support of the big willow tree she had been resting under and walked along to where the little iron bridge spanned the river.

From this viewpoint, the chateau was even more easy to see and she stood for some time admiring it. Its round towers with their pointed slate roofs jutting towards the pale blue sky and the mellow stone of which it was constructed seemed almost to glow in the warm summer sunshine. Her mood was lethargic and she leaned back against one of the shading willows, gazing at the distant chateau, thinking about her uncle and the time he had spent there. Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught a hint of movement in the trees on the opposite bank and her heart started hammering at her ribs as she watched, waiting for someone to appear. It was some moments before she saw anything again, and then she caught her breath involuntarily when she recognized Jean-Pierre Herve. Her reaction to his appearance both surprised and appalled her and she unconsciously put a hand to her thudding heart. He wore blue jeans this morning, a most unexpected mode of dress for him, or so Laura felt, and a brilliant white cotton shirt open almost to the waist to catch what little breeze there was. He looked even taller than she remembered him yesterday, and, standing as he was in the shadow of the trees, his darkness was exaggerated to the point of looking dusky, only those deep grey eyes looking oddly at variance in so dark a visage. He stood for a moment on the far side of the river from Laura, but she wondered if this too was land belonging to the chateau. One hand was thrust carelessly into a pocket and the other supported a sporting gun that he held tucked under one arm. He moved suddenly and came quickly to the little bridge that spanned the river, and crossed towards her, while Laura still stood there, wondering if she could possibly think of an explanation for standing there and gazing at his home.

He came and stood quite close beside her, so that she was more than ever aware of the strong air of masculinity about him and the disturbing effect he had on her senses. 'Bonjour, mademoiselle!' The deep voice greeted" her softly, and Laura attempted a smile, although he gave no sign of one. 'Good morning, Monsieur Herve !' It would be as well, she felt, to let him know that she was fully aware of who he was. One black brow darted swiftly into the dark hair over his forehead and a small tight smile just touched his wide mouth. 'So,' he said, 'Verdan has told you who I am.' 'As he told you who I am,' Laura returned swiftly, and immediately bit her lip, doubtful if she was approaching him in quite the right way. Jean-Pierre Herve, she thought, would not take kindly to strange girls being too pert on such short acquaintance. 'I know your name, mademoiselle,' he said quietly. 'What I do not understand is your reason for coming here.' Laura hesitated to tell him, as she had Frangois Verdan, that her journey was by way of being a kind of memorial to her uncle, and she was more than ever aware of the effect of that calm, quiet voice with its barely accented English. There was so much about him that she found disturbingly attractive. The thick black hair that was not quite curly and which fell in a heavy swathe across half his forehead but did not conceal that faint scar above his right eye. The grey eyes, deep and steady and with a hint of arrogance in their depths. She found it increasingly hard to believe that he had grown from the little boy that her uncle had spoken of so often. However attractive she found him, though, she had no in-! tention of letting him quiz her so blatantly about her

reasons for being there, and she lifted her chin, her grey eyes challenging his right to question her. 'I am here on holiday, monsieur,' she told him. 'Also I hope to see some of the places that my uncle knew during the war. I presume there's nothing illegal in what I'm doing - even in France.' The dark grey eyes held hers steadily and she saw the way the tiny lines at the corner of his mouth tightened ominously, but his voice was still quiet and perfectly controlled when he spoke again. 'There is nothing illegal about your visit, I am sure, mademoiselle,' he informed her. 'But I am not so certain about its morality.' 'Its morality?? Laura stared at him for a moment, uncomprehendingly, then she slowly shook her head. 'I don't understand you,' she said. 'Why is everyone so - so reluctant to speak about my uncle? Why do I get nothing but veiled hints, suggestions that it was a long time ago and best forgotten? I just don't understand it.' 'It is possible that you do not,' he agreed, the dark eyes watching her steadily. 'My uncle was never reticent about the time he spent here in St. Louis les Bigots,' Laura said. 'Why should you and Monsieur Verdan be so anxious to forget it?' For a moment he said nothing, and Laura studied him surreptitiously through her thick lashes. A small frown drew at the black brows, wrinkling that faint but evident scar on his forehead, and she tried to remain untouched by the disturbing and dangerous aura of masculinity about him. There was something deep and stimulating about Jean-Pierre Herve that her senses responded to irresistibly.

'I think that your uncle cannot have told you everything, mademoiselle,' he said, and Laura blinked herself back to earth rapidly. 'I -I don't understand you,' she said warily. For a moment that wide mouth tilted briefly into a anile. "That too is possible,' he said. 'But I do not propose to tell you what your uncle saw fit to omit from his memoires, mademoiselle. Francois Verdan is right, it is best that some things are forgotten.' 'But I-' A raised hand cut her short, and his expression discouraged argument. He would not change his mind and enlighten her, she was certain of that, and she would be wasting her time trying to persuade him. "There are people still alive who could be hurt by your prying into the past, Mademoiselle Douglas, and I will not allow that to happen. Enjoy your holiday by all means, but do not attempt to arouse the past, it will only make yourself and others very unhappy.' It was a most unsatisfactory instruction and Laura could not bring herself to follow it without question, but there seemed little point in standing there arguing with Jean-Pierre Herve about it, for he was obviously firmly set against any further mention of her uncle or his years at the Chateau St. Clair. She felt that in some way her uncle had been maligned, unfairly almost certainly, and she could not let it rest there, but for the moment there was little she could do, and she looked up curiously at the dark, inscrutable face of the man before her, seeking some small sign of relenting, but found none. 'Very well, monsieur,' she said in a small, cool voice. 'I shall get my information elsewhere, since you seem so reluctant to tell me what happened here. I can only conclude that it is something you consider

so-so bad that you refuse to discuss it, and I feel I have a right to know what it was, if it concerned my uncle.' The dark grey eyes narrowed until they were half concealed by the thick lashes that surrounded them, and the arrogant black head was held back as he looked down his nose at her sternly. 'You will do well to take my advice, mademoiselle, and ask no more questions say no more about your uncle.' Laura's chin thrust out stubbornly, and her grey eyes sparkled with resentment. She had never taken kindly to being told what to do, and certainly not by an autocratic stranger who seemed to imply there was something better left undisturbed in her uncle's past. 'I don't like mysteries, Monsieur Herve,' she told him firmly. 'And I don't feel inclined to take your advice.' For a moment the dark eyes glittered at her angrily. 'You are obstinee, as your uncle was,' he remarked. 'But you will not again trespass on to my property, mademoiselle. You will keep your inquiries away from my home and my family.' Laura's cheeks flushed warmly and she clenched her hands tightly at her sides as she faced him defiantly. 'I'm sorry if I'm trespassing on your land,' she said. 'But I presume you have no feudal rights over the rest of the village!' It was not possible that she actually saw that brief gleam of laughter in his eyes, but she could have sworn that for a moment he found her defiance amusing. 'If I had such rights, mademoiselle,' he said softly, 'you would by now be either in my dungeons or my bedroom, more possibly the latter, since you are so—' The hand that had been concealed in a pocket described his meaning with expressive gestures in the air, and Laura turned hastily, glancing only briefly over one shoulder.

'Good-bye, Monsieur Herve,' she said, in a small, breathless voice. 'I won't bother you again.' 'Au revoir, mademoiselle!' The mockery in that quiet voice was unmistakable and the walk back across the meadow seemed endless to Laura, for she felt sure that Jean-Pierre Herve was still standing there watching her go, and her back was self-consciously stiff and defiant. She gained the road at last feeling not only frustrated in her search for the reason her uncle was not a welcome subject with those she had met so far, but humiliated too, by the way Jean-Pierre Herve had spoken to her. He was, without doubt, a dangerously attractive man, but to hear such a suggestion put so baldly into words was not only unexpected but infinitely disturbing. It seemed to have got much hotter since she started out and there were short stretches of road where the trees thinned and the sun made very warm walking, so that she wished she had brought the car and could drive back. Where there were trees, however, it was blessedly cool and she chose to rest for a few minutes in the shade of a cluster of poplars. It was cool and quiet and she thanked heaven for a traffic-free road, with a view across the fields that was quite enchanting and infinitely peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, that she instinctively frowned when she heard a car approaching from the direction she had just come. It came into view round a bend in the road, a bright blue, opentopped sports car being driven at a speed that was, to say the least, chancy on a road as narrow and badly surfaced as this, and she was not at all surprised to see that the driver, in the short glimpse she had, looked every bit as rakish as his car.

She had a fleeting impression of a black head, brown features and flash of white smile as he passed her, and a moment later the still air was further shattered by the shrill sound of brakes, hastily applied. The car was put into reverse and came back towards her at almost the same speed it had been travelling forward, pulling up beside her. 'Mademoiselle!' Bold black eyes swept over her with uninhibited approval and that white smile gleamed again in a brown face that was incredibly good-looking. He was little more than her own age, she thought, and he leaned over and opened the passenger side door, his intent obvious. 'Mademoiselle is English?' he inquired, and Laura smiled instinctively. 'I am,' she admitted. 'Although I can't think how you knew, monsieur.' Expressive hands left the steering wheel and spread wide in a gesture as meaningful as the shrug of his elegantly clad shoulders. 'Only English ladies have such exquises complexions, mademoiselle.' The flattery was supported by a gleam in the black eyes and he inclined his head inquiringly. 'May I offer my help perhaps, mademoiselle?' 'Oh, I don't think so, thank you,' Laura told him, feeling irresistibly drawn to that flattering gleam and to the gallant good looks of him. Besides which, the idea of driving back to the inn was not altogether unwelcome. 'I'm just out for a walk,' she explained, and again he smiled. 'The English also like to walk for pleasure,' he told her with every appearance of authority. 'But it is hot and tiring, mademoiselle. May I not assist you on your way?' 'I haven't very far to go now, in fact,' Laura told him, still wary of simply taking advantage of the offer, despite the temptation it offered.

'But it is hot, n'est-ce pas?' he asked persuasively. 'Please allow me to transport you to—?5 A dark brow questioned her destination. 'I'm staying at the Hotel de la Chasse,' Laura said, and saw his brows rise in surprise. 'So?' he said. 'I did not know that Francois Verdan had such a guest under his roof. You are on holiday?' 'For a while,' Laura said, wondering how much longer she would be at the hotel if she persisted in her inquiries about her uncle's past. It was possible, she thought, that Jean-Pierre Herve had quite a lot of influence with her host, and he would not be above using it to get Francois Verdan to tell her she could no longer keep her room. 'Then at least let me convey you as far as the hotel, mademoiselle.' The black eyes regarded her with a frank and open earnestness that she felt certain was assumed for the occasion. 'I am known to Verdan, your host.' Laura smiled, willing to be persuaded without too much effort. He was really a very attractive and pleasant man, and such a change from those she had met so far. True, Jean-Pierre Herve was devastatingly attractive, but he was hardly gallant and he made no effort to be charming. His attitude towards her had been frankly and bluntly medieval. 'Thank you, you're very kind,' she said, and slid into the seat beside her rescuer, the sun-warmed leather burning her through the thin cotton dress she wore. She turned in her seat and proffered a hand. 'I'm Laura Douglas.' 'Enchante, mademoiselle!' It was no surprise when he conveyed her hand to his lips and briefly kissed her fingers, and she decided that whoever he was, he was obviously a well-practised ladies' man. 'I am

Simon St. Just!' He gave the name a strongly French accent and announced it with something of a flourish. 'Monsieur St Just.' He seemed in no particular hurry to be on his way, despite the speed he had been travelling when he passed her first. One arm lay along the back of the seat behind her, and he leaned slightly forward so that she was immediately aware of some particularly powerful after-shave that tickled her nose pleasantly. 'You have not been in St. Louis les Bigots very long,' he said, and made it a statement, not a question. 'I arrived yesterday,' Laura admitted, and wondered how much else he knew about her: 'Ah!' The black eyes swept over her appreciatively again. 'I could not have been so blind as to have overlooked you, had you been here for longer, mademoiselle !' Laura responded to the flattery with a small, half- believing smile which seemed to serve as encouragement, for he leaned nearer still and the fingers of the hand on the seat behind her just touched her shoulder lightly. Whoever he was, Simon St. Just did not believe in letting opportunities pass him by. 'I hope that I may see you again,' he told her softly. Laura nodded, non-committally. She did not want to appear too encouraging at this stage, but at the same time she did not want to discourage him altogether. He was charming and attractive and very good-looking, and she would not mind in the least furthering the acquaintance, but she did not want to appear too easy a conquest. He was, she suspected, far too used to that.

'It's possible we'll meet again if you live close by, Monsieur St. Just,' she said. 'Mais oui!' He responded swiftly to the encouragement. 'I am staying at the chateau - very close by, mademoiselle!' Laura felt a sudden and disturbing suspicion at the back of her mind, and her fingers curled into her palms as she looked at him, frankly curious. 'The chateau?' she echoed. 'The Chateau St. Clair?' 'Oui!' The black eyes gleamed at her speculatively. 'You know of the chateau?' 'Oh! Oh yes, in a way.' She was uncertain just how frank she should be about her interest in the chateau, and she took a moment to consider. 'I've just been along the river bank to take a look at it, as a matter of fact,' she confessed. 'It's very beautiful.' 'Very.' His agreement was hardly enthusiastic and Laura was curious to know just where he fitted into the scheme of things. She remembered no mention of any St. Justs at the chateau in her uncle's time, but of course that was a very long time ago, as she had been reminded. 'I am only a guest there,' Simon St. Just explained. 'Maman lives at the chateau with my half- brother, and I come to see her on occasion.' 'Oh, I see.' Another little bit of the puzzle fell into place, or she thought she saw where Simon St Just fitted into it, and whether it was unforgivably inquisitive of her or not she just had to ask, but she chase her words carefully in case he conveyed them back to JeanPierre Herve. 'I've met Monsieur Herve,' she said. 'Is he your halfbrother, monsieur?'

He looked at her steadily for a moment and she dreaded to think what kind of thoughts were going through his mind. 'You know JeanPierre?' he asked. 'Oh no, not really,' Laura hastened to put matters straight. 'I'd heard of him before, but I'd never met him until yesterday.' 'You'd heard of him?' That had been a mistake, Laura realized, and the whole thing would probably start again now with Simon St. Just. Secretive evasions, advice to leave things alone and not to ask questions. 'I - someone I knew once knew the Herves,' she explained. 'A very long time ago, when Jean-Pierre - Monsieur Herve was a little boy.' 'Ah!' The black head inclined knowingly. 'During the great wartime adventure, oui?' He gave a short, derisive laugh, as if he resented not being a part of the adventure he poured such scorn on, and turned to start up the engine again. 'Oh, how they dwell in the past, these older ones, oui, mademoiselle? They will never let anything die, n'est-ce pas?' Since her own experience with his half-brother and with Francois Verdan had seemed to imply quite the reverse, Laura frowned curiously. 'On the contrary,' she told him, 'I've been advised to forget the reason I came here, and let bygones be bygones.' 'So?' He too looked curious. 'Why is that, mademoiselle? 'I wouldn't know,' Laura said shortly. 'I can't think why everyone is being so secretive about my uncle. He talked about them all so much.' 'Your uncle?'

'Yes, John Douglas - he was here for quite some time during the war. At the Chateau St. Clair in fact, and he knew the Herve family well, and François Verdan too.' 'Douglas.' He repeated her name, giving it its French accent and making it sound quite different. 'Of course, I did not recognize it as you pronounced it, mademoiselle!' Laura watched him, anxious to know why he should sound so enlightened suddenly. 'You know of him?' she asked, and Simon St. Just nodded. 'He knew Monsieur Herve when he was a very little boy, but neither he nor Monsieur Verdan will say anything about those days when my uncle was here, and I can't discover why.' Simon St. Just sat for a moment without saying anything, his goodlooking face oddly distant suddenly, lowered lids concealing whatever expression was in his eyes. 'I can tell you why, mademoiselle,' he said quietly, 'but then I think you would not wish to see me again.' He turned and smiled at her suddenly, his black eyes gleaming appreciatively at her. 'I would not like that to happen,' he said softly, and let in the clutch. 'Now I will return you to your hotel, and perhaps you will permit that I call on you tomorrow, n'est-ce pas?' She was still no wiser, Laura thought, but watching Simon St. Just's good-looking face from the corner of her eye as they drove along the narrow road back to the inn, she could foresee less difficulty in breaking his resistance than his half-brother's

CHAPTER THREE IT was just after breakfast the following morning when the landlord's wife, Madame Verdan, knocked on Laura's bedroom door while she was changing her shoes and informed her that there was someone to see her. She mentioned no name, nor did she specify the sex of the caller, but from the speculative look in her dark eyes Laura thought she saw her as another of Simon St. Just's conquests. No doubt he had quite a number of them, and villages being what they are the world over, they would be public knowledge, even though Simon St. Just spent only short periods of time at the chateau. Laura had no doubt at all that it was Simon St. Just who was waiting to see her, for he had said he would call on her and he was not the kind of man to have second thoughts on a matter concerning a presentable woman. She gave herself a critical scrutiny in the distorted mirror and felt quite satisfied with what she saw. She had put on a deep blue dress in a soft voile with a low- cut neckline that showed off her creamy throat and neck, and flat-heeled blue shoes that were pretty but practical enough for walking. Even an expert like Simon St. Just, she decided a little complacently, would be pleased with the way she looked. She was looking forward to seeing him again and she came down the narrow darkness of the stairs and turned the corner with a welcoming smile already on her face. The warmth of the smile froze on her lips when she saw the tall, darkly ominous figure of Jean- Pierre Herve standing in the centre of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, but she was disturbed to find the way her heart was hammering hard at her ribs at the sight of him. There was an arrogance and strength about him that made her respond in a way that alarmed her with its intensity, and she

wondered at such a reaction on such short acquaintance. He turned to face her as she came down the rest of the stairs and the deep grey eyes had a hard, unfriendly look that dismayed her, especially when she saw the tight, straight line of his mouth. He was angry, that much was unmistakable, and she thought she could guess his reason, although she was prepared to deny his right to decide whom his half- brother befriended. 'Mademoiselle - bonjour!' The greeting was brusque and brief and Laura returned it with a small uncertain smile. After their parting yesterday she was uncertain just how she stood with him, and it was obvious that he intended venting some of his anger on her, given the opportunity. It was with the idea of delaying the moment that she looked around the small, dim room and frowned curiously when she saw that they were alone. 'Madame Verdan said there was someone to see me, monsieur. I was—' 'You were expecting my brother,' he interrupted tersely, and tightened the clasp of his hands behind his back so that he pulled back his shoulders and revealed a glimpse of broad tanned chest in the vee of the open shirt. He wore cream-coloured trousers that clung to the long, muscular legs and made them look even longer, and the dark silk shirt he wore served only to make him look darker and somehow more ominous. He bobbed his dark head in a brief, mocking bow. 'I am sorry to disappoint you, mademoiselle!' 'Monsieur St. Just said he might come and see me today,' Laura admitted. Her heart was hammering away wildly in her breast and she had the silliest idea that he had done something to prevent his half-brother from calling on her. 'I'm sorry he can't come after all,' she said.

She had come no further than the foot of the stairs, and he still stood in the centre of the room, but now he came across and stood there towering over her, looking down that arrogant nose as if she was some lesser species of which he did not approve at all. 'My brother had to make some social call with our mother,' he told her. 'Oh, I see.' The glitter in his eyes seemed to confirm her suspicion that he had had a hand in preventing the visit of his brother, and his words went even further to confirm it. 'It is as well that I heard of his proposed visit to you first, mademoiselle,' he said. 'Such a visit would not be condoned by our family.' Laura looked at him coolly, unsure whether to be angry or merely treat his brutal frankness with cool unconcern. She studied the dark arrogance of his features through the thickness of her lashes and wished, yet again, that he did not hold such an irresistible fascination for her. It was difficult to treat him with the disdain she felt he deserved when her senses were so traitorously disturbed by him. 'Did you Contrive that social call with your mother?' she asked at last, uncaringly reckless, and he held her gaze steadily for a long moment before answering. A small pulse throbbed with fascinating steadiness at the base of his strong brown throat and she found it impossible to take her eyes from it, some deep and inexplicable excitement stirring in her that she fought to subdue. 'You may guess what you will, mademoiselle,' he told her. 'His mother needed Simon's company and she has, I think, first call upon him.' The steady gaze challenged her to argue. 'You can scarcely

claim to be heartbroken by his absence, surely, since you met only yesterday.' 'I'm not heartbroken, of course,' Laura agreed, hastily lowering her own gaze before that steely-eyed challenge. 'Just disappointed, that's all. I found Monsieur St. Just very charming and pleasant.' For a moment the wide straight mouth tilted into a wry smile, as if he had heard such an opinion many times before. 'Mais certainement,' he said quietly. 'Simon is very much the - enchanteur. He is also very susceptible to a beautiful face, mademoiselle, as you are probably very well aware.' 'I - I guessed Monsieur St. Just was something of - of a ladies' man,' Laura admitted, disliking this conversation in the extreme but seeing no way of ending it until Jean-Pierre Herve decided it. 'Which is no doubt why you have gone out of your way to meet him, hmm? Laura glanced up swiftly, her eyes wide and disbelieving, her pulses hammering hard at her forehead. Anger and surprise were fighting for precedence as she tried to find words to express how she felt. It was obvious that he suspected her of deliberately setting out to meet his brother with the intention of playing on his susceptibilities. 'You have no right to say that to me, Monsieur Herve,' she said in a tight little voice. 'You apparently know much less about your brother than you imagine, if you think I made the initial move. I was merely resting beside the road under the trees when he came along in his car and offered me a lift back here to the inn. It was none of my doing, and I resent you suggesting that it was!' The deep grey eyes watched her steadily for a moment longer, then one black brow flicked upwards, creasing that faint but distinctive

scar above his right eye. 'And you did not know who he was?' he asked. Laura shook her head vehemently, shaking back her corn-gold hair when it fell across her face. 'How could I know who he was?' she asked angrily. 'I didn't even know Simon St. Just existed until he offered me a lift and then introduced himself. Even then I didn't know he was related to you.' She stuck out her chin defiantly. 'Not that it would have made any difference if I had - I don't judge people on the characters of their families. I speak as I find, Monsieur Herve, and I find your half- brother charming and very attractive.' Jean-Pierre narrowed his grey eyes, his mouth tightening at the corners as he looked down at her, her head no higher than the top button on his shirt. 'And now that you know,' he said quietly, 'you will go out of your way to see him again. You would do it simply to defy me, would you not?' Laura slid her gaze from that fascinating pulse reluctantly and raised her eyes to look at him. 'I have no cause to defy you, Monsieur Herve,' she said, sounding far more self-possessed than she felt. 'Defiance would imply that you have the right to forbid me to do something, and you have no rights at all as far as I'm concerned!' For a moment he said nothing, then a small slow smile touched his wide mouth and the dark grey eyes glittered with ironic laughter. 'I remember Monsieur Jean,' he said softly. 'I was only a very small boy, of course, but I remember him surprisingly well, and you remind me of him.' 'I do?" Laura looked at him hopefully. 'He too had a fine temper, so I have been told,' he went on. 'To be forbidden to do something was to ensure that he would do it. So much I have been told, and I can believe it. He was defiant against

the Nazi, as you are defiant against me, as you would be against anyone who tried to advise you, I think.' They were the first words she had heard volunteered about her uncle, and for a moment Laura gazed at him, ignoring the slight to her own character, anxious to hear about her uncle, her own lighter grey eyes appealing. 'You - you remember my uncle?' she asked, and he nodded, reluctantly she thought. There are many who remember him, mademoiselle, but you will find few who are prepared to talk of him. It is best, as I said, that you forget your questions and either leave St. Louis les Bigots, or simply enjoy your holiday.' 'But why?' Having come so close to the answer Laura felt a choking sensation in her throat when she saw the subject dismissed yet again, and she looked up at him appealingly. 'Why will no one talk about him? I want to know, I have the right to know, and what's more I will know before I leave here!' She saw that again the wide straight mouth was tight and uncompromising, and she could sense the strength and determination that seemed to emanate from him as he stood there in front of her. He was much too close for comfort, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, the muscles in his arms taut and visible under the tanned skin, as if his fingers were clenched. 'You will not question anyone of my family, about your uncle's time there,' he said in a firm cold voice. 'Nor will you go near the chateau again. If you persist in this inquisition I shall take steps to ensure that your stay is far from pleasant!' 'But why?' Laura cried in desperation. To her dismay she realized that she was on the verge of making a complete fool of herself by crying. The frustration of trying to discover why her uncle was such

an unmentionable subject was driving her to distraction and she clenched her hands in front of her, her grey eyes glistening and bright with unshed tears. 'I - I loved Uncle John and I thought people here would - would remember him with affection. I don't understand all this - this evasion every time I mention his name. I loved him, and I want to know why you won't talk about him!' 'Mademoiselle Douglas—' 'Don't give me any more advice!' Laura interrupted bitterly. 'I'm John Douglas's niece and I'm proud of it! But I'm as stubborn as you say he was -1 don't listen to advice!' 'No matter how well meant?' Jean-Pierre asked softly, and Laura looked up at him through hazy eyes. 'Is it well meant?" she asked. 'Believe me, it is.' His deep voice was soft and quiet and Laura was sure she detected a hint of sympathy too, a suggestion that was almost too much for her self- control. She looked at him earnestly, her lower lip trembling, anxious to be believed. 'He was a good man,' she said huskily. 'I know he was.' He was so close, and one large hand was half extended, as it to offer consolation, although he said no words at all, and almost before she realized what was happening, Laura was enclosed by those strong brown arms. Her face lay against the smoothness of a silk shirt and she was disturbingly aware of the warmth of the broad tanned chest through its thinness. She closed her eyes as the tears forced their way between her lashes and rolled down her cheeks, pressing her face to the strong comfort of his warmth and nearness. The vibrance of that deep, quiet voice

fluttered against her ear when he spoke and she took a moment or two to realize the gist of his words. 'You would be much better to go home, mon enfant,' he said softly. 'There is nothing here for you but unhappiness.' Apart from the fact that she resented being addressed as a child, Laura's reactions to this unexpected situation were somewhat mixed. It was difficult to guess what emotion had prompted him to take her in his arms and console her after being so bluntly threatening, but the faint hope that he might be more forthcoming about her uncle came hopefully to mind. Mostly she was surprised at the sense of contentment she felt at being held so close to that lean hard body, and her reluctance to leave his arms. But he put her from him at last, his hands on her arms, his strong fingers working gently on her soft flesh. 'I - I Won't go home,' she said huskily. 'I'll stay on, as I planned.' He dropped his hands slowly, sliding them down her arms, and she dared not look up at that dark face with its deep grey eyes, or seek that small pulse that would be throbbing with rhythmic fascination at the base of his throat. 'So,' he said softly. 'You still persist!' 'Oh, don't you see?' Laura begged, looking up at last with wide, anxious eyes. 'I have to stay!' 'I see only that you are being very stubborn and very unwise, Mademoiselle Douglas,' he said quietly, and with that ominous tightness about his mouth again. 'It seems you will not be advised, not even for your own good!' He shrugged resignedly, then looked at her steadily for a moment with a glitter of warning in his eyes. 'But you will not trouble my family with your questions, mademoiselle. That I will not allow.'

'I don't want to trouble your family,' Laura denied, and for a moment he studied her with narrowed eyes. 'Not even my brother?' he asked, and Laura hastily looked down at her hands. 'I won't question him,' she said evasively. 'If - if he tells me anything without my asking then it won't be my fault, will it?" One hand reached out and lifted her chin with no pretence of gentleness, jerking her head up and forcing her to look at him. 'There is already the danger that Simon will mention your arrival to my mother,' he said harshly, his fingers digging into her so hard that she cried out in protest. 'If you cause her any unhappiness, mademoiselle, you will answer to me! Entendu?' She was obviously required to answer in the affirmative, but it was impossible to nod her head, so she bit her lip and blinked hard, hoping he would understand. He released her at last, and stood for a moment looking down at her as if he was still deciding whether or not to trust her, while Laura rubbed a hand over the marks his fingers had made. 'You hurt me,' she complained, and looked up swiftly when he laughed, softly and unexpectedly. 'You will not weaken my resolve by making me feel sorry for you, petite. I am not my half-brother, pretty faces do not influence me!' One black brow flicked upwards briefly. 'Of course if you would care to experiment and see how much you can change my mind, I have no doubt that I would enjoy the experience!' Laura stared at him wide-eyed, shaking her head vaguely and wishing she could think of something more constructive to do. 'You I have no intention of—'

'You disappoint me, mademoiselle,' he interrupted shortly. 'Au revoir.' He turned on his heel and was gone with the same suddenness as he had on their first meeting, leaving Laura with the same sense of deprivation, a feeling that both surprised and disturbed her.

Laura was uncertain just what her reaction was when she came downstairs a couple of days later to find Simon St. Just waiting for her. Madame Verdan had made no advance announcement this time, and his appearance in the small dim room was unexpected. It was obvious from his greeting, however, that it was her he had come to see. 'Mademoiselle Douglas!' He came across the room to meet her as she appeared round the bend in the stairs, taking her hand as she joined him and raising it to his lips. 'How delightful to see you again, and how charmante you look!' 'Thank you, Monsieur St. Just.' Laura looked at him curiously from beneath her lashes, noting again the incredibly good-looking face and the well-practised charm that was nevertheless very flattering and very good for her rather low spirits. She had half expected their acquaintance to be brought to an abrupt halt by the intervention of his autocratic half-brother, but apparently Simon St. Just was not as completely under his thumb as Jean-Pierre had implied. 'You are surprised to see me?' he asked, and Laura smiled, wondering what reason he would offer for his earlier non-appearance. 'I am rather,' Laura confessed. 'I thought you might have forgotten me.'

'Oh, mais non!' he denied fervently. 'How could I do so, mademoiselle?' His lips brushed lightly over her fingers again. 'You do yourself an injustice!' 'Not really,' Laura denied. 'Your half-brother doesn't approve of me being here, and — well, he's done his best to persuade me to leave.' She looked up at him directly. 'I thought he might have persuaded you not to see me again.' Simon's black eyes narrowed slightly and he looked not at all pleased. It was obvious from his expression that Jean-Pierre had at least tried to influence him, but his influence had not prevailed for very long. 'Did Jean-Pierre come here to see you?' he asked, and .Laura nodded. 'The day before yesterday,' she told him. 'I thought it was you who'd come to see me, but I found Jean-Pierre - Monsieur Herve here instead.' 'So that was why he asked me to accompany Maman to Paris!' His mouth had the same tight look for a moment that his half-brother affected, and for the first time Laura could see some faint resemblance between the two men. 'Ruse diable! He wished me out of the way while he came to see you and try to persuade you to leave.' He squeezed her fingers and his smile was firmly back in place in a moment. 'I am glad that you resist him, mademoiselle!' Laura thought back on how little resistance she had offered, especially to that unexpected hug of consolation, but she smiled and shook her head. 'I'm not easily turned from something I'm interested in, Monsieur St. Just, not even by your brother!' 'Simon!' He raised her fingers to his lips again, the kiss slow and lingering. 'Simon, s'il vous plait, mademoiselle,' he begged throatily.

There was little else that Laura could do but return the compliment, but she could not resist a smile of satisfaction when she thought how annoyed Jean-Pierre Herve would be if he could witness this present scene. 'Laura, s'il vous plait,' she said, and he laughed softly, a sound that sent a small chill of warning along her spine, although she told herself she was being foolish. Simon St. Just was a very easily recognizable type and she would be perfectly capable of handling him, should the need arise. He would be much more easy to cope with, she felt sure, than Jean-Pierre would be. 'It is that ridiculous war business, of course, that is troubling JeanPierre,' Simon said, with a shrug that tried to deny his involvement. 'He is afraid that your being in St. Louis les Bigots, and especially your asking questions, will cause gossip, and that Maman will hear of it.' Laura looked at him curiously. Her heart was hammering heavily at her ribs when she realized that she could be close at last to learning what it was that Jean-Pierre was so reluctant to speak about. 'But could my being here harm Madame Herve - Madame St. Just now, of course?' Simon nodded, and it was obvious from his frown that he saw himself close to being more involved than he wished in the secret his brother was so anxious to keep. 'Maman remarried after the war,' he told her. 'But my papa too was killed, by an auto.' He shrugged with Gallic resignation. 'I think Maman does not have very good luck with her husbands!' 'I'm sorry.' Laura saw her opportunity slipping away again if she did not do something about it. 'I - my uncle often mentioned Madame

Herve, as she was then. He called her Mignon and her husband Louis.' Simon nodded, with obvious reluctance, and again he shrugged, with seeming disinterest. 'I do not like to talk of those old times,' he said. 'I have heard it all so often when I was a little boy, and Tante Cecile talks of nothing else, even today! I see her as little as possible!' He looked at her with a half-defiant smile. 'You think I am - how is it you say? - hardhearted, oui?' he asked, and Laura shook her head. 'Mademoiselle Cecile Justin?' she asked. Simon looked wary. 'You have heard of her too.' 'Often,' Laura said. 'Although not in such - detail as he spoke of the others. I don't know why.' Simon laughed shortly, his black eyes watching her closely as he fondled the hand he held. 'Do you not, Lama? Can you not guess?' It took a moment only for his meaning to become clear, and then she shook her head, looking down at the hand he still held. 'I - I didn't realize,' she said. 'Poor Cecile.' 'For loving a man who did not love her?' Simon asked, with what she thought was unnecessary callousness. 'It has happened often before, ma chere, but not everyone becomes as Tante Cecile.' 'It must be a very traumatic experience just the same,' Laura insisted, looking at him reproachfully. 'You wouldn't understand, being a man.' 'Well, it is not an experience that you are likely to have to suffer,' he told her, raising her hand to his lips again. 'You will never, I think, grow insensie with unrequited love. You are much too beautiful!'

'Insensee?' Laura echoed, Mademoiselle Justin—'

bypassing

the

compliment.

'Is

'She is - how is it? Batty,' Simon declared with unfeeling bluntness, then shrugged his shoulders as if to throw off the very thought of his aunt and the jest of his family and their secrets. 'Come, ma belle Laura,' he said softly, kissing her fingers. 'We will go for a drive, n'est-ce pas?' We will forget yesterday and live for today!' Laura nodded vaguely. That could surely not be the secret that JeanPierre was trying to keep so dark. The fact that his mother's sister was a little unbalanced because she had loved John Douglas and not been loved in return. There must be something more than that, but at the moment she could see no-possibility of discovering what it was. She smiled at Simon suddenly, seeing no reason why she should not enjoy her holiday as much as possible, and he would do a great deal towards assuring that. 'I'll just fetch my handbag from my room,' she told him, and turned to go back up the narrow stairs to her room. She gave a small squeak of surprise as she turned the corner on the stairs and found her way blocked by the short stocky figure of the landlord, his little dark eyes darting swiftly from Simon to her and back again, so that she wondered how long he had been there and how much he had heard of their conversation. 'Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,' he murmured, and looked down at Simon again briefly. Simon, Laura noticed with a start, looked uneasy and rather disgruntled. 'Mademoiselle is going out?' 'Yes, I am,' Laura told him with a hint of defiance. She was pretty sure that Francois Verdan would tell Jean-Pierre anything he had managed to hear and she determined to let him know that she did not care one way or the other. 'Monsieur St. Just is taking me driving -1 don't know where we're going yet.'

He looked faintly discomfited, she thought and the small black eyes did not look at her when he spoke again. 'Mademoiselle will not be present for dejeuner?' he inquired, and Laura glanced at Simon, receiving an encouraging smile. 'Non, Francois,' he told the landlord with evident relish. 'Mademoiselle will not require dejeuner. We'll eat somewhat different, oui, Laura?5 'That would be nice,' Laura agreed with a smile. 'I won't be a moment, Simon.' The last, with its hint of familiarity, was also for the benefit of the landlord and she wondered just how much he really would relay to Jean-Pierre. His small eyes followed her progress as far as the top of the stairs, narrowed and curious, then he turned and continued on down. A few moments later from the top of the stairs Laura thought she heard the low sound of voices and was almost sure she heard the name Jean-Pierre among the faint gabble of French, wondering uneasily if she was misjudging Simon St. Just as well.

CHAPTER FOUR IT was a couple of days later, when Laura was walking along the same road where she had first met Simon. St. Just, that she heard a car coming along from behind her, and almost jumped out of her skin when the strident blast of a horn sounded almost on top of her. Startled at first, she smiled to herself when she thought she could identify the driver trying so blatantly to attract her attention. It would almost certainly be Simon, and she was not at all averse to the idea of having a ride back to the inn after -walking for far longer than she had intended. She turned swiftly, her corn-gold hair swinging out round her face, her grey eyes alight with a smile of welcome - a smile that quickly faded into an expression of blank surprise when she saw that it was Jean-Pierre Herve behind the wheel and not his half-brother. The long, sleek dark blue sports car shone opulently in the sun and Jean-Pierre's head was bare, his black hair disordered by the speed of his progress. He leaned back in the seat, his arms outstretched in front of him, his strong brown hands holding the wheel lightly, and Laura simply stared at him for a moment, undecided how to react. It was evident that he expected her to join him in the car, or why else would he have stopped? But she was not at all sure that she wanted a lift back to the inn, now that she realized who would be driving her, and she hung back, standing in the shadow of the trees, biting her lip in her indecision. A dazzlingly white shirt gave an almost primitive look to his dark, rugged features and she could see that faint but distinct scar on his forehead even from several feet away as he sat there tapping a hand on the wheel impatiently. She was appalled to feel the way her heart

was thudding heavily in her breast and the warm flush that coloured her cheeks under his scrutiny. 'Do you not wish to ride, mademoiselle?' he called out to her, and she recognized a hint of impatience in his deep voice, bringing herself back to earth with a swift shake of her head. It was quite incredible the effect this man could have on her, and instinctively she resented it. 'I - I was walking, actually,' she explained, and bit her lip again when he raised a brow at such an obvious answer. 'So much I can see, Mademoiselle Douglas,' he said in his quiet voice. 'But you are a long way from the hotel, and it is very hot. Will you not ride the rest of the way?' Neither fact could be denied, and Laura nodded briefly, standing by the open car door for a moment before she slid on to the sun-warmed seat beside him. 'I - I'm very grateful, Monsieur Herve,' she said. 'Thank you.' He inclined his head in brief acknowledgment and set the big car smoothly into motion again, with scarcely a glance in her direction. 'You often walk?' he asked, after a moment or two, and Laura nodded, unable to resist a smile when she remembered Simon's comment on the same fact. 'Monsieur St. Just remarked on the fact that the English like to walk for pleasure,' she told him, hoping that by being friendly she could induce him to soften that rather formidable reserve. 'Which is true, is it not?' he asked, as if she might be going to argue the point, and Laura nodded.

'I suppose so,' she allowed. 'It's healthy exercise and I enjoy it. Also it's possible to see a lot more of the countryside than you do from a car.' One black brow flicked upwards and a small wry tilt appeared at one corner of his mouth. 'Do you wish me to leave you on the road?' he asked. 'I assure you, I was thinking only of your comfort when I offered to drive you back, mademoiselle!' Laura glanced at him from the shadow of her long lashes, suspecting sarcasm. She was always so uncertain when she was with JeanPierre, whereas with Simon, even on such brief acquaintance, she felt she knew exactly where she stood. 'I was merely trying to explain our national fondness for walking,' she told him. 'I am glad of the lift back, monsieur.' 'I thought perhaps you were from your smile when you turned,' JeanPierre said quietly, and cast a swift, meaningful glance in her direction from the corner of his eye. 'Or was that smile perhaps because you were expecting my brother?' 'Of course I wasn't expecting Monsieur St. Just,' Laura denied hastily. 'When I heard the car-horn behind me - well, I did think it was Simon, but I wasn't expecting to see him.' 'Ah!' The denial seemed to give him some satisfaction and he nodded his head. 'So you smiled because you thought it was Simon and not because it could have been any man that happened along!' Laura turned and glared at him indignantly. 'Certainly not, monsieur, and you have no call to suggest such a thing!' Briefly the deep grey eyes turned again in her direction and he bobbed his head.' Then I apologize, mademoiselle.'

Laura said nothing. She was finding it difficult not to watch the way those large strong hands handled the steering-wheel with such consummate ease. A bend in the road threw her momentarily off balance and into contact with him, and she flinched as if she had been burned by the touch of his bare brown arm. Her heart was racing wildly and, almost without realizing it, she put a hand to rub the skin of her own arm at the point of contact, aware suddenly that he was watching her again with one brow raised and a cool appraising look in his eyes before he looked back at the road again. After that she would have sworn he did it deliberately, if it had been Simon and not Jean-Pierre, for she found it almost impossible not to have her arm constantly brushing against his as he drove, each contact no less disturbing than the first. 'How long do you intend to stay in St. Louis les Bigots, Mademoiselle Douglas?' he asked suddenly, and Laura stared at him for a moment. 'I - I don't quite know,' she said at last, and wondered why she did not dare inform him that it was no concern of his how long she chose to stay. Except, of course, that he could probably ensure she did not stay on at the inn, and there was nowhere else she could go in the village. 'I came for two weeks,' she said, 'but—' She shrugged, unwilling to restart the controversy that had sent him stalking angrily out of the inn a couple of days ago. 'You are welcome to stay as long as you like,' he said, with the air of granting her a privilege. 'Just as long as you do not cause trouble for anyone.' 'You mean by talking about my uncle?'

He nodded without turning his head, and so missed the sudden bright sparkle of anger in her grey eyes. 'Oui!' he said briefly. 'Monsieur Herve,' Laura said firmly, a bright flush on her cheeks as she turned and looked at him, 'I want to know why you, and others, will not talk about my uncle. Sooner or later, I'm convinced, someone will tell me why, and I mean to stay until they do!' 'Even if you get hurt yourself?' Jean-Pierre asked softly. Laura looked at him steadily from the shadow of her lashes and saw how tight and set his mouth was, despite the softness of the question. The scar above his right eye, too, appeared to throb as if he held some deep and disturbing passion in check. 'I've yet to be convinced of that,' Laura said quietly, and for a moment he turned his head and looked at her steadily. 'Then I hope you do not have to learn the truth of it the hard way, mon enfant,' he told her softly. They drove into the village and the sun-dappled square with its shading plane trees gave Laura a strange sense of familiarity suddenly, as if she had known it all her life. The little church with its arrow- pointed spire, set back among the trees and gathering the huddle of brown-roofed houses round it like a hen with chicks. The tiny inn, also half hidden by trees, with its invitingly open door giving a glimpse of the cool darkness inside. Laura had expected to be deposited at the inn's door and to see her Samaritan drive off, and she turned her head swiftly and inquiringly when he drove past. Jean-Pierre did change gear and reduce speed, but he drove right on round to the church and pulled up instead beside the wrought iron gates that guarded its entrance.

Laura looked at him curiously and something in his expression, in his whole manner, set her heart tap-tapping nervously at her ribs while her hands curled tightly into themselves. Without a word, Jean-Pierre got out of the car and came round to open the door for her, helping her to alight with one large hand firmly under her elbow, as if he thought she might turn and run. She offered no resistance, much to her own surprise, and made no murmur when they walked across the wide footway, squeezing up close to her escort when he opened only one of the iron gates and led her through into the churchyard. The little church with its elaborate Gothic design and its mellowed stone carvings looked friendly and reassuring as it reached up above its guardian trees to be touched by the sun, but in the churchyard it was cool and shaded and almost chillingly silent - a silence that seemed to Laura to have an air of expectancy about it, as if it had been waiting for them to come, and she shivered, catching JeanPierre's swift downward glance as she did so. 'You have not been here before?' It was a statement, not a question, and Laura felt that her nod of admission was superfluous. The graveyard was neat and well tended, but much too overcrowded, with old, crumbling stones and angels with broken wings that had weathered a lot of winters as well as German occupation. Not all the stones were old and crumbling, there were newer ones too, and Jean-Pierre led her to the side of the little church where, grouped under the shade of tall, rustling poplars, a low, neat railing in black iron enclosed a group of about a dozen graves. They were already weathered to some extent by the passage of years, but they were in good repair and each had a photograph of its occupant set in

the mellowed and elaborate stonework above the black writing engraved there. Laura drew back when she saw them, some inexplicable sense of foreboding clutching at her stomach until she felt chill and nervously uneasy. She experienced a feeling of being led back into the past where there were things she would rather not know, and she hung back against the relentless urge of Jean-Pierre's hand on her arm. He tightened his grip and turned her towards that small, silent square enclosed in its railings. 'Look at them, mademoiselle,' he told her, in a harsh, tight voice. 'Then you will know why the past is not something that the people of St. Louis les Bigots want to be reminded of!' His fingers dug into her arm quite cruelly hard, and at any other time she would have protested, instead she allowed herself to be pushed right to the barrier of the low railings until her toes touched the cool of the well trimmed turf. 'Look at the names, petite fouinarde! See if you recognize any of them from your uncle's memoirs!' Laura could have cried aloud at his insistence. It was a cruel and ruthless way to teach her a lesson, and she had not expected even Jean-Pierre to be so harsh in his determination to be rid of her. Distressed as she was, she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how she felt, and she snatched at her arm, pulling it from his iron grip with a movement so violent that she hurt herself. 'I see many names,' she told him in a small tight voice. 'And some of them are names that my uncle mentioned in the stories he told me, but I don't know if they're the same people! How could I? He knew very few of their surnames, as you must realize!' 'They are the same people he knew,' Jean-Pierre said in a flat hard voice. 'And their families arc still here in the village. The people you would remind of their loss! You will find few willing to speak of

those days to you, mademoiselle, and I cannot believe that you are so callous that you would open old wounds merely to satisfy your own curiosity!' 'Oh, but it isn't just to satisfy my curiosity!' Laura denied, recognizing a note of hysteria in her voice. She looked up at the dark, unrelenting features of the man beside her, then spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. 'Don't you see?' she begged softly. 'He's dead too. I was very close to him, he died while I was with him and I simply don't understand why no one will talk about him.' 'Non, ma petite!' He was adamant as he shook his head slowly back and forth and Laura knew there would be no way of making him see it as she did. 'You have a saying in your country, I think - let sleeping dogs lie, n'est-ce pas? Laura wanted to cry suddenly. It was a seemingly insoluble situation she found herself in, to come again and again up against this wall of reticence, and she could have cried with anger and frustration. Instead she shook her head and remained silent, her eyes roaming, unseeingly, over the carved names on those neatly grouped headstones. Then she caught her breath suddenly at the sight of what at first glance appeared to be a picture of Jean- Pierre set into one of the stones, and she stared at it with such intensity that he noticed and, following her gaze, nodded his head. 'My father,' he said, as she read the name of Louis- Jean Herve on the stone. 'And over there is my cousin, Pierre Herve. He was much older than me,' he added with frank simplicity, as if he needed to explain why he too was not in there with the others. Laura could suddenly stand the deathly stillness of the place no longer, and she clutched at Jean-Pierre's arm with a chilling sense of

panic, her fingers curled and digging into his brown, sun-warmed skin tightly. 'Please,' she whispered. 'Please take me away from here!' Jean-Pierre said nothing for a moment, but simply stood looking down at her, his dark grey eyes curious and a little puzzled. Then he took her arm as he had when they came into the churchyard and led her back along the path to the gates. There was less urgency in his hold on her now, and Laura wondered if he regretted bringing her there and what his real motive had been for doing so. The communal grief shared by so many families in such a small community was understandable and, as he opened the car door and handed her in, she took a moment to consider what terrible tragedy could have happened after her uncle left the village, to have left so many people bereft. It was unthinkable to ask Jean-Pierre about it, but she thought perhaps Simon might be more forthcoming if she asked him, some time in the future when she knew him a little better. Her preoccupied silence, she realized, did not go unnoticed, and when they eventually pulled up outside the little inn on the opposite side of the square, Jean-Pierre turned in his seat and looked at her for a moment with steady grey eyes. 'I had not meant to hurt you,' he said softly, and Laura's heart gave a swift skip of excitement at the gentleness in his voice. 'You didn't hurt me,' she said, husky-voiced, and hastily avoided his gaze. That strong, irresistible aura of masculinity made her aware of him as she had never been of any other man, and she tried to consider coolly why it should be so. The white shirt he wore was open at the neck, and she watched in a kind of bewildered fascination the small pulse at the base of the strong brown throat.

There was a strong, firm curve to his jaw and the wide, expressive mouth could look both ruthless and gentle. She already knew how comforting those strong arms could be and she found herself wishing that she could comply with his wish to simply enjoy her holiday, then quietly go back home - preferably for good, although she would never see him again. If only she did not become so ridiculously ineffectual whenever she was near him, she could better let him know that, while she had been undeniably affected by what she had seen in the churchyard, it could make no difference to her wanting to know why no one she had met so far would talk to her about her uncle. She brought herself sharply back to earth when she realized he was watching her, shaking back the fine silkiness of her hair and hastily looking down at her hands rather than meet his eyes. 'I - I know why you took me to the church, Monsieur Herve,' she said, and her voice still sounded betrayingly husky. 'And I'm very sad that all those people that my uncle knew were - were killed. I'm very, very sorry, and I know my uncle would have been too if he had known. He liked the people of St. Louis les Bigots, they were his friends.' Jean-Pierre said nothing for a moment, but the dark grey eyes had a deep, unfathomable look and he ran one large hand through his black hair in a gesture that was as much despair as resignation. Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and put a hand under her chin, raising her face to look at him, his wide mouth no longer ruthless and cruellooking but tilted into a faint smile as he studied her with a slow careful scrutiny that brought the colour to her cheeks. 'You are very young,' he said softly at last. 'So very young to think that you know so much about things that happened before you were even born.'

'I'm not so very young,' Laura whispered, conscious that his gaze rested on her mouth with a speculative intensity that sent shivering chills along her spine as she sought to steady her voice. 'And there are things that I - I believe even if I wasn't here at the time.' Jean-Pierre sighed deeply and the fingers holding her chin moved caressingly to and fro on her soft skin. Then he shrugged suddenly and bent his head to brush his mouth lightly, almost teasingly, against hers. 'Do not raise ghosts, ma petite,' he said softly, his breath warm on her lips. 'I beg of you do not raise the ghosts of St. Louis, for I do not want to be angry with you.' Laura controlled her racing heart as best she could when he leaned one arm along the back of her seat and the warmth of his body played havoc with her senses as he touched her neck briefly with the very tips of his fingers. She lifted her face and looked at him from the deep shadow of her lashes. 'Should I be afraid of your anger, Monsieur Herve?' she asked softly, and the arm behind her tensed suddenly, his dark brows drawn into a snail frown. 'You should be afraid of my anger, mon enfant,' he told her, his voice more firm again and a hint of anger about the wide mouth. 'Leave these people in peace, mademoiselle! Do as I say!' 'Not as you ask?' Laura suggested, unable to resist the jibe, and the hand cupping her chin tightened its grip suddenly and without warning. 'Take care, little fighter!' he warned softly. 'I can see that I should have taken sterner measures with you when you first came prying to the chateau! Perhaps I should have confined you to my dungeon and tamed you before I sent you home!' He released his grip on her and absently soothed the marks made by his fingers. 'You will seek trouble, I think, and I wish to avoid that at all costs - so, what am I going to do with you, hmm?'

'You can't do any—' Laura began, but he was shaking his head and a long finger silenced her with its pressure on her lips. 'I shall have to - how is it you say? Keep an eye on you, n'est-ce pas? Make sure that you do not do anything I would not like you to do!' 'You have no right to talk like that!' Laura declared indignantly, knocking away the finger that held her silent. 'And I won't be spied on - you have absolutely no right to watch me, Monsieur Herve!' 'Alas!' He sighed deeply, and the deep grey eyes swept over her in a long slow appraisal that made her heart skip wildly. 'I have no time for such pleasant duties myself, but while you are in the company of my brother I shall know what you are about, I think!' Laura stared at him for a moment, forgetting that they were sitting out in the street in full view of anyone who happened to come by, and probably under the eagle eye of the inquisitive François Verdan too. She could not believe that he really meant to use Simon as a source of information about her movements. 'You wouldn't dare!' she declared huskily. 'You wouldn't use Simon to spy on me!' 'Non?' He leaned across her and opened the car door, the movement bringing him in such close contact that she felt again that sensation of having been touched by fire, and her hands and legs were trembling as she got out of the car and stood for a moment looking at him, her grey eyes clouded with doubt. 'Monsieur Herve—' She was not at all sure what she wanted to say, and she felt bereft of words under the speculative scrutiny of those disturbing eyes. 'Oui, mademoiselle?' he asked softly, and waited for her to answer.

Laura sought for words to explain. She hated to have him at -odds with her, and yet hated herself for caring so much what he wanted. He was a stranger; granted he was a very mature and attractive man, but she had known him such a very short time that it should not matter to her what he wanted her to do. One brown, muscular arm lay along the shiny top of the car door and she focused her gaze on it rather than meet his eyes, feeling suddenly small and unreasonably stubborn when she knew she had no reason to feel like that. 'I - I'm glad you showed me the - the churchyard,' she said at last. 'I mean, it's very sad and they - I'm sorry.' She spread her hands in that gesture of helplessness again and saw the corner of his mouth tilt into an understanding smile. 'I had hoped it would serve a purpose,' he told her. 'I hope I do not prove to be wrong.' He raised one hand in a brief, careless salute and the big shiny car roared off through the village, leaving her yet again with that strange sense of deprivation at his sudden departure.

CHAPTER FIVE SEVERAL times during the following few days after her eventful meeting with Jean-Pierre, Simon St. Just came to the inn to take her driving, and Laura wondered if his brother realized quite how often he saw her. It troubled her a little because of his threat to use Simon to keep track of her activities, but now that she was beginning to know Simon better, she doubted if he would be a party to such a scheme, certainly not knowingly. She was nothing loth to spend time with him, for he was gallant and charming, the very embodiment of what English girls see as the typical Frenchman. He did not mention the matter of her uncle's connection with the Herve family again after that first time, and Laura was grateful for it in a way, although she guessed that if he chose to, even Simon could enlighten her on the subject closest to her heart. She enjoyed their outings enormously, driving round the countryside in Simon's car and finding all sorts of enchanting little villages and grand chateaux tucked away in the tree-bedecked landscape. Melun, Fontainebleau and Versailles had been no more than names to her until now and she was content to let Simon be her guide for the rest of her stay if he was as willing as she was. It was when she was alone at night in the silence of her bedroom that her conscience sometimes pricked her for neglecting to make the inquiries she had promised herself to make, but she consoled herself that there was still plenty of time even if she was well into her second week in France. There was no one to say she could not stay on for several more weeks - except Jean-Pierre, of course, and she guessed he must by now be thinking he had persuaded her to have second thoughts.

She had become so accustomed to being driven around by Simon that when he telephoned one day and said that he could not see her, she felt quite at a loss. She could always go for a ride on her own, of course, but somehow that did not have the same appeal as seeing the sights with Simon. She felt quite disgruntled as she came down the narrow stairs at the inn and suffered Francois Verdan's usual suspicious scrutiny, noticing the way his bushy brows rose at the sight of her alone for once. Laura had long since begun to suspect that a good deal of the landlord's interest in her comings and goings arose purely from his own curiosity, although she had no doubt that Jean-Pierre got him to keep an eye on her as well. She went out into the street with the idea of fetching the hire car from the yard at the back of the inn and taking herself for a ride, but as she was about to turn the corner into the yard, a car drew up behind her in the street, and the strident summons of a horn made her turn swiftly, thinking that Simon had been able to make it after all. Once again she was startled to see not Simon, but Jean-Pierre looking at her from behind the wheel, and she stood quite still for a moment under the scrutiny of those deep grey eyes, trying to cope with the sudden and alarming increase in her pulse rate. Her face was shadowed by the overhanging trees and she looked cool and enchantingly feminine in a light sleeveless dress of pale blue linen, cut low enough in the neck to allow the sun to make more of the golden tan she had already acquired. The gesture of tossing back her hair from her face was unconsciously provocative and so was the way she looked at him steadily from the dark shadow of her lashes, trying, for all her apparent coolness, to control the wildly beating heart that pounded away under her ribs. No

matter how she tried, it was impossible to remain unaffected by the sheer masculine attractiveness of him. Jean-Pierre got out of the car in one smooth, swift movement that was as graceful and uninhibited as that of a great cat, and he came across to join her in the shade of the tree. He put a hand to rest on the tree behind her, one brown arm forming a barrier between her and the street, a hint of a smile in his dark eyes as he looked down at her, barely as high as the top button of his shirt. An aura of strength and excitement emanated from him as he stood so close to her that their bodies almost touched, and she felt a dryness in her mouth that made her lick her lips in another unconscious gesture. 'Good morning, Monsieur Herve,' she ventured, and was appalled at the breathless sound of her own voice. Jean-Pierre smiled slowly and in a way that was infinitely disturbing. 'Bonjour, mademoiselle.' He inclined his head and the gesture brought him so close that Laura felt her pulses leap in alarm. 'I - I was just going for the car,' she told him, wondering what on earth he wanted with her this morning, if indeed his business was with her. It was possible he had attracted her attention merely to pass the time of day, but she thought not. 'You had hoped to go somewhere with Simon today, I think,' he said, and Laura nodded. For a moment he held her reluctant gaze, then flicked one eyebrow upwards in query. 'You are disappointed?' Laura glanced up through her lashes at the strong dark features that were so much more devastating in their effect than mere good looks, still trying to guess his reason for being there and for questioning her about Simon.

'I'm naturally sorry that Simon can't drive me,' she said cautiously. 'But he's a perfectly free agent, he doesn't have to act as my chauffeur.' 'No, of course he does not,' Jean-Pierre agreed gravely, and studied her for a moment longer, his dark head bent over her attentively, the warmth of his extended arm brushing her own bare shoulder and playing strange tricks with her self-possession. 'However, since you are accustomed to having the company of a guide,' he went on, 'I am here to offer myself in Simon's place. If you will permit me, mademoiselle.' Had it been anyone other than Jean-Pierre, Laura would have taken the quiet manner for humility, but with Jean-Pierre such a thing was unthinkable. 'Oh, there's no need for that at all !' she exclaimed hastily, too startled by the unexpectedness of the offer to think of the impression she was giving by wording her refusal so bluntly. He drew both brows together in a frown and she realized, too late, her lack of tact. 'I see! Tres bien, mademoiselle - excusez-moi!' He bobbed his head in a brief and very formal bow and would have turned and walked back to his car, but with a sudden sense of urgency Laura put out a hand, her fingers curled over the tanned muscular strength of his bare arm. She withdrew her hold almost at once, for the touch of him ran through her like fire. 'Monsieur Herve! Please!' He turned back and for a moment the grey eyes regarded her steadily. She could even have said there was a hint of wry amusement in their depths, however sober the expression on his face. 'I'm - I'm sorry, but you misunderstood me,' she said. 'It's - it's very good of you to think about me.' For a moment he said nothing, but then he bobbed his head again briefly and almost smiled. 'You are a visitor to our village,

mademoiselle,' he told her gravely. 'We must see that you enjoy your stay.' It was too much to resist, and Laura looked up through her lashes at him, aware again of the way her heart was racing and of that strange curling sensation in her stomach. 'Do you provide such personal service for all visitors to your village, Monsieur Herve?' she asked softly, and met with a cool look of speculation that made her hastily lower her own eyes. There are very few visitors to St. Louis les Bigots,' he said quietly. 'And such as there are are hardly as familiar with us as you are, mademoiselle. Claiming to know so much about us from your uncle you surely expect something more than the casual attention afforded to the more ordinary traveller.' 'Oh yes! Yes, of course.' Laura thought she had seldom felt so petty and childish and, while she resented his tone, she could not do other than agree with the reasonableness of his answer. 'Is there something in particular that you would like to visit?' he asked, and Laura sought frantically for a place not too far away. 'Simon said something about a chateau,' she ventured, grasping at the first name that came to mind. 'The Chateau de la Poupee. Is that too far?' 'You would like to go there?' he asked, without really answering her question, and Laura nodded. 'I'd like to go very much, if it isn't too far,' she said, and immediately thought of what Simon would have to say about her going there with Jean-Pierre when he had said he would take her himself.

The prospect of spending so much time in Jean- Pierre's company was a little daunting too, but in the circumstances there was little else she could do but accept his offer gracefully, although it did cross her mind again to wonder what had prompted him to make the gesture. The fact that he had said she was rather a special sort of visitor had not altogether convinced her. He saw her into the car in a silence that she found a little unnerving, but when she murmured her thanks he replied with a soft-voiced, 'Plaisir,' then slid into the seat beside her. As he did so she experienced that same disturbing sensation of curling in her stomach and clenched her hands tightly together in her lap, despairing of her own vulnerability where Jean-Pierre Herve was concerned. They drove out of the village in a direction that she had driven once or twice with Simon, but driving with Jean-Pierre she was much more aware of her companion and less able to give her attention to the passing scene. There were so many things that she seemed to notice about him that she never did with Simon. The deft and confident way he handled the fast car, the strong aura of sensuality about him and the long, muscular legs that fitted closely in light grey trousers. The way his strong dark throat rose from the soft whiteness of his shirt collar, and the rugged, dark and almost stern profile he presented as he gave his whole attention to the road. He would be a hard man to cross, she felt, and gave a small and oddly pleasurable shiver as she turned her head away in another attempt to appreciate her surroundings. There were cool dark woods along both sides of the road where in spring bluebells grew, and which now had the still, slightly somnolent air of summer, with clearings here and there where abandoned cars stood deserted at the roadside while their owners explored the quiet depths of the wood. It was rich, fertile and

beautiful country and it was hard for her to believe that it was within such easy distance of the bustling capital. Even when they had left the side roads for a while, the panorama was still one to wonder at in the rich, warm fullness of summer, and Laura felt quite relaxed and contented suddenly. There was no earthly reason why she should not enjoy both the journey and the company of her escort, whatever his motives for bringing her. They had been driving for about twenty minutes or so when JeanPierre briefly turned his head and raised a quizzical brow at her. 'I understand that you have been wise enough after all to take my advice,' he said. 'I am very glad to hear it is so, mademoiselle.' Laura glanced at him, suddenly suspicious again. 'On what matter, monsieur?' she asked quietly, being deliberately obtuse, for she knew well enough what he referred to. Jean-Pierre recognized her considered vagueness with a slight frown. 'I think you know on what matter, Mademoiselle Douglas,' he said shortly. 'You have refrained from mentioning your connection with John Douglas in the village and I am glad that you decided to behave sensibly.' It was quite the wrong way to handle Laura and her frown showed him as much. A warm flush of resentment coloured her cheeks as she turned her head and looked at him through her lashes. 'I haven't said anything about my uncle in the village, monsieur,' she told him stiffly, 'simply because I haven't had the opportunity. I've been driving with Simon a lot lately and I haven't had the chance to talk to people.' 'I am very glad Simon has so much sense,' he told her bluntly, and Laura stared at him suspiciously, wondering if her very willing escort was after all doing his half-brother's dirty work for him. 'Whatever

your reasons, mademoiselle, I am pleased that you have behaved in the sensible way.' 'I've done no such thing!' Laura denied, unaware of having said anything contrary, until she saw a hint of amusement stir one corner of his mouth into mobility. 'I - I mean,' she hastened to explain, 'that I don't consider it being sensible to let sleeping dogs lie, as you advised. I still mean to discover why it is that you don't want me to talk about him to anyone in the village.' Jean-Pierre sighed deeply, and she could see the white tenseness of his knuckles where they stood out sharply in the brown hands that gripped the wheel so firmly. 'Then it seems I was wise to come and seek you out today,' he said, and Laura looked at him for a long moment with wide, suspicious eyes, a small uneasy flutter under her ribs. 'Why did you come?" she asked, husky-voiced, not really wanting him to answer, for she feared he would give her the wrong one. Say something she did not want to hear. 'To make sure that you did not - how is it? - get into mischief while Simon was away for the day.' He did not smile when he said it, and Laura, with a heavy heart, was bound to believe every word of it, however reluctantly. Her eyes sparkled angrily with resentment, and she fought with the bitter sense of humiliation when she realized she had indeed been in a fool's paradise, thinking he had any but his own reasons for taking her out in Simon's place. He had told her, days ago, that he meant to keep an eye on her, and it seemed he was being as good as his word, even to the extent of sparing some of his precious time to escort her out for the morning. If Simon could not be there to keep her occupied he would take on the

chore himself, and make quite sure she did nothing he did not approve of. Laura's hands were clenched tightly together and she wondered how much longer she could refrain from telling him exactly what she felt. 'Take me back!' she demanded suddenly, and Jean-Pierre turned his head swiftly to look down at her, momentarily startled, she guessed, by her vehemence. 'Pardon? he murmured, and his brief moment of confusion was some small satisfaction to Laura, although not much. 'Take me back!' she repeated firmly, trying to stop her voice from trembling. 'I refuse to be spied on by you or Simon, Monsieur Herve! It's - it's mean and despicable!' She felt horribly close to tears, for she had no alternative but to admit to herself that, although she had suspected from the start that he had some ulterior motive for standing in for his half-brother, in her innermost heart she had hoped his unexpected gesture had been made simply because he did not want to see her disappointed. Jean-Pierre made no move to stop the car as she said, but still drove along at speed. Not that she had really expected him to stop just because she told him to, for one did not issue instructions to a man like Jean- Pierre Herve, especially if one happened to be small, female and in no position to enforce the order. 'I will not turn back, folle enfant,' he said in his deep quiet voice, and 'there was a hint of such sternness about his mouth that Laura knew there was no hope of him changing his mind. 'We will go to the Chateau de la Poupee as we arranged.' 'As you arranged!' Laura retorted, angrily frustrated and wishing she had had the sense to see his reason before she consented to come.

'Mais non, the choice was yours,' Jean-Pierre reminded her, dangerously soft-voiced, and Laura bit her lip, foreseeing a morning rife with angry words and bitter silences instead of the bright, egoflattering kind of excursions she was used to enjoying with Simon. 'You've spoiled it for me now,' she told him, mildly sulky. 'Now I know you only brought me because you wanted to make sure I wasn't talking to anyone in the village." Surprisingly she saw his mouth tilt for a moment into a wry smile. 'It is for your own good, mademoiselle,' he assured her smoothly, and Laura clenched her hands even more tightly at the faintly patronizing tone. 'Monsieur Herve,' she said slowly, and struggling with a rising temper, 'I am not a child, and I'd be obliged if you'd remember it!' For a brief, heart-stopping moment those deep grey eyes were turned on her, sweeping swiftly and intensely over her from the top of her golden head to the toes of her light blue shoes and returning to linger on the low neckline of the blue dress, his lips pursed expressively. 'I am fully aware that you are a woman, Mademoiselle Douglas,' he told her quietly while Laura fought with a sudden quiver of emotion that made her shake like a leaf. 'But you are not only feminine,' he went on, 'you are also tenacious, and such a combination can be very - dangerous, I think!' 'Dangerous for whom, monsieur?' Laura asked softly, and had the satisfaction of seeing him frown. Twice this morning she had had the satisfaction of seeing him disconcerted, but the swift dark drawing of his brows boded ill for any further attempts at retaliation. He said nothing more for quite some time and when at last he did speak he did not look at her, but kept his eyes on the road ahead. 'You do not wish to believe me, Mademoiselle Douglas, that is plain,'

he said, 'but I do not wish to see you hurt, and, as I have said so many times to you, you will be hurt if you insist on raising the subject of John Douglas.' Laura sat looking down at her hands, more lightly linked now and opened to reveal the palms, wishing desperately that she understood his insistence. 'I - I do believe you about that,' she said at last. 'And and I appreciate your concern for me, Monsieur Herve, but - I simply don't understand your reasons.' 'Will you not trust me?' The plea was brief and quite unexpected, and Laura stared at the proud dark profile for several moments without speaking. All manner of wild, unlikely things were whirling about in her brain until at last she shook her head slowly to clear it. 'I - I wish I could,' she whispered. 'You must try!' Briefly a large brown hand readied down and covered her own restless ones in her lap, the warm smooth touch of his palm bringing chaos to her emotions when he squeezed her fingers gently. She said nothing more, for there seemed nothing more she could say at the moment, and Jean-Pierre drove in silence. It was some time before Laura began to notice her surroundings again, became more able to appreciate the countryside around her, although she was no less conscious of the man beside her. How could she be with that strong, lean body so close beside her and the large brown hands that guided the big car through the quiet lanes, one arm brushing against hers every so often? There was tall forest on both side of them with only brief glimpses of the panorama that lay beyond. Promises of vistas, breathtaking in

their beauty, of caves and great boulders with heather carpeting the forest itself. There was much she would like to have explored, but she fought shy of asking Jean-Pierre to stop and allow her to roam through the cool darkness of the forest. The Chateau de la Poupee was not one of the better known tourist attractions, and there seemed to be very few other people about when they parked the car and walked up to the chateau. Walking beside Jean-Pierre along a beautiful, tree-lined approach road, she was reminded of the one at the Chateau St. Clair, although she did not say as much to her companion. She could not think why it had not occurred to her before to realize just how tall he was, and there was a strangely protective air about the way he seemed to arch his long, muscular body towards her that gave her a sense of being guarded. Swinging along, her right arm came into contact with him suddenly and she glanced swiftly upwards, her eyes wide, almost wary, as if she feared his reaction. The touch of that smooth tanned skin was like fire, and the breathtaking thud of her heart against her ribs made her mouth suddenly dry so that she licked her lips, quite unconscious of the gesture. 'Would you like to see the gardens first?' Jean-Pierre asked, and she nodded. 'Yes, please,' she said, venturing a smile at the grave face above her. These old chateaux always seem to have such beautiful gardens, don't they? Simon's promised that he'll take me to see some more before I go.' 'You speak of going?' He asked the question softly, and Laura hastily denied to herself the anxiety of it.

'I have to go some time,' she said. 'And I've almost had my two weeks.' He did not reply, but the small, slightly crooked smile that just touched his mouth both puzzled and disturbed her when she chanced a brief glance. It was apparent that something pleased him, and she suspected it was the fact that she was so near the end of the second week of her stay and would, according to plan, be going back to England within the next few days. She could do nothing about the hurt she felt when she realized he would be glad to see her go, for, while it was true that there was still much she wanted to discover, the prospect she faced most unwillingly was of never seeing Jean-Pierre Herve again once she left. The gardens were terraced, laid out with exquisite artistry, with sweeps of lush trees concealing small hidden waterfalls and tiny lakes with fountains playing. There were stone seats in the shade of weeping willows, and fat stone urns on square bases doing nothing but look decorative. Further down, the formality of an Italian garden offered neatly intersecting paths and incredibly orderly curlywig shapes of low growing shrubs and flowers with not a leaf out of shape. Little white statues of nymphs guarded the four corners of the garden, with bowed heads and modestly crossed arms. Laura, never long out of temper, began to really enjoy herself and to voice her pleasure at what they saw, and as they walked back along the wide straight path up to the chateau she remarked on the smallness of the place in comparison to others she had seen. 'It's really quite tiny,' she said, pausing at the top of a flight of stone steps to admire the graceful, pointed turrets of the diminutive building. 'It's like a—'

'A doll's house?' Jean-Pierre suggested with a brief smile. 'Mais naturellement, that is what it means!' 'Oh, of course!' Laura laughed, shaking her head over her own slowness. 'I know that much French, I should have realized.' She stood for a moment, her head to one side, looking at the pretty little chateau sitting in the sunshine amid its lovely gardens and trees. 'I wonder why it was built so much smaller than the rest.' Jean-Pierre sat on the stone parapet that divided one terrace from another, and bent his dark head to light the cigarette he held between his lips. When it was drawing to his satisfaction he looked at Laura for a moment with a strangely speculative look in his grey eyes. 'Would it shock you to learn that it was built by a seventeenthcentury nobleman for his - cocotte?' he asked softly. 'Not in the least,' Laura declared with a shrug, and added lightly, 'Anyone I'd know about?' 'I should think it unlikely,' Jean-Pierre told her with a wry kind of smile tilting that expressive mouth at one corner. 'He was a certain Due de St. Clair.' One black brow darted upwards, disturbing the distinctive scar on his forehead. 'An ancestor of mine!' 'Oh! Oh, I see!' 'He also built the Chateau St. Clair, of course.' He went on, either ignoring or not noticing her surprise at his noble origins. 'I-I thought, when we came along the approach road, that it reminded me of the one at the Chateau St. Clair,' Laura admitted, and sent a hasty glance through her lashes. 'Is it the same as the big one inside?' He shook his head, a hint of smile still touching his mouth. 'Non,' he said.

It was very rash of her, of course, but she could not resist letting him know that Simon had told her something about the Chateau St. Clair. 'The way Simon describes the chateau where you live it sounds very beautiful,' she said. 'And just as it was when my uncle was there.' He shrugged carelessly. 'It is possible,' he said. 'I regret that you will not have the opportunity to judge for yourself, mademoiselle.' 'I - I suppose not,' Laura said, foreseeing dangerous ground if they ventured too far on the subject of the Chateau St. Clair. 'Definitely not, mon enfant,' Jean-Pierre said firmly but quietly. 'Even Simon would not dare to bring you there without my permission, and that he will never have!' 'Thank you!' Laura sounded bitter, her lower lip trembling at his harsh rejection of the very idea of her ever visiting his home. 'You're very hospitable!' She was angry because he had raised the old contentions and spoiled her pleasure again by reminding her that she was not a welcome visitor. Why could he never allow her to enjoy his company as she did Simon's? Instead of, deliberately it seemed, provoking her by making harsh and unrelenting judgments. She said nothing more for the moment, but stood beside one of the fat stone urns, tracing its garland of leaves that was as cool and unyielding as the man beside her, her mouth showing pouting reproach. 'You did not think that I would relent after this - outing, did you?" he asked quietly, and the dark grey eyes were narrowed against the rising smoke from his cigarette. 'You do not know me very well, mademoiselle!'

'I wonder anyone does, when you're so-so discouraging!' Laura retorted bitterly. 'What puzzles me is how you and Simon can possibly be brothers!' 'Half-brothers,' Jean-Pierre corrected her quietly. 'And I am sorry if you find me discouraging, but no matter how much pleasure it would give Simon to show you the inside of my home, I will not have your disturbing influence upsetting my family. I shall not breathe easily until you are on your way back to England, Mademoiselle Douglas:' Laura swallowed hard and her eyes were bright with an odd blend of anger and regret. Anger because he would not tell her why her influence should be disturbing to his family, and regret because yet again she was on the brink of arguing with him about the same old subject. She gave a long deep sigh and walked on past him, along the smooth wide path to the little chateau. It was no use trying to regain her earlier enjoyment, the mood was past, the moment gone when she could walk tranquilly beside Jean-Pierre in the peaceful gardens and forget their differences. 'I've seen all I want to see,' she told him in a husky, unsteady voice when he rose leisurely from the parapet and followed her. 'I'd like to go back now, if you don't mind.' 'And if I do mind?' Jean-Pierre asked softly. 'Then I'll hitch-hike back to St. Louis les Bigots!' Laura retorted swiftly, and walked on, only a small niggle of doubt at the back of her mind about his response to her ultimatum.

CHAPTER SIX WITH her originally planned two weeks already gone, Laura was still no nearer to knowing why it was that the subject of her Uncle John was so taboo in the village, and she had already written to her family and informed than that she had decided to stay on, at least for another couple of weeks. She did not give them her true reason for the change of plan, but-said that she was enjoying her stay in the village and wanted to see more of the surrounding countryside, which was quite true. She had been out with Simon once or twice since her visit to the Chateau de la Poupee with Jean-Pierre, but she had kept discreetly quiet about the inevitable disagreement she had had with his halfbrother. He was, Laura thought, not a little jealous of Jean-Pierre, although she could not think why he should be when he had so many advantages in his own right. Last night he had been most apologetic because some matter of great urgency needed his attention in Paris, he said, something he was bound to handle himself and must go the following day. Laura remembering his last absence and the way that Jean-Pierre had hastily stepped in to prevent Laura being left with time enough on her hands to what he termed get into mischief, decided to nip any more such moves in the bud by taking out her own car very early in the morning. There were places she could drive to enjoy the peace and quiet, although she had to admit that she would miss Simon's attentive and very flattering company. He was an unfailing, gallant, and she wondered what kind of a husband he would make if he ever settled down to marriage. Not that she had designs on him herself in that direction, but she could not help considering the idea.

Francois Verdan watched her leave the little inn with his customary curiosity, and nodded his head briefly in a parting bow, his small black eyes sharply speculative. It occurred to Laura as she walked into the sunny street that he was probably wondering which of the half-brothers she was seeing that day, and smiled to herself when she imagined his surprise as he saw her drive off alone in the hire car. The sun was blisteringly hot when she left the cool interior of the inn and she was glad she had not decided to walk any distance. The car had an open top that allowed her to take advantage of the breeze she created as she drove along and with no special destination in mind, she left the village on the south side and took the narrow road that passed the Chateau St. Clair. She turned her head as she passed the impressive gates and glanced down the tree-lined drive that was exactly copied in the approach to the diminutive chateau built by Jean-Pierre's noble ancestor for his mistress. A brief smile crossed her mouth as she remembered how he had expected her to be shocked at the idea of a seventeenth-century nobleman having a mistress. There was no doubt that the Chateau St. Clair was a big and impressive place and Jean-Pierre must be a very wealthy man to afford its upkeep, for she could not imagine him ever accepting help from his mother, no matter how well she had married a second time. Dark forest fringes bordered the road here as it seemed to in most of this part of the country, with the cool darkness of the trees parting suddenly to reveal vistas of hills and meadows that spread out lushly green around some lazily meandering river that glittered brightly in the scorching sun. Even driving along in the shadows of the trees, the occasional glimpses of meadowland and river were like glimpses of Arcadia, poplars and willows combining to make clusters of shade along the

river bank. It looked fresh and bright and very tempting and Laura thought longingly of how cool the water would be. She had not driven very far, but that did not matter; the thought of sitting beside the river in the shade of those sentinel-straight poplars was too much for her. She drove the car on to the wide grass verge beside the road, and found a gap in the rather thin fence that she could get through, even though she scratched her leg slightly on a rough edge. The grass, as she expected, was cool to her sandalled feet and she walked across the field as if she had all the time in the world. The brief, sleeveless green dress she wore was light and cool and drifted round her as she walked, in the light breeze that blew off the river. Her head was bare and she lifted her face to the breeze, tossing back the long corn-gold of her hair in a sudden sense of peace and contentment. It was something of a surprise to be able still to see the chateau in the distance, but she was safe enough here. It was much too far away to be anything to do with the Herve estate, and she felt sure Jean-Pierre would have no jurisdiction over her here. As she expected, the shade of the poplars was in just the right place for her to sit on the river bank and make the most of it, and she took off her sandals and sat hugging her knees, gazing across the water and the intervening meadows to the distant and half-hidden turrets of the chateau. If only she had the courage to go along that long avenue of trees and get a closer look at it! Without disturbing the occupants, of course. It would be unforgivable of her to invade their privacy, especially when it had been made so clear to her that her presence was definitely not desired.

She sighed, and turned her head swiftly when she heard a soft sound of laughter just beside her. She had heard no one approach, but the turf would deaden footsteps, and she had been preoccupied. It would have been easy enough for someone to come from the direction of the road without her seeing or hearing them, with the sun coming from the opposite direction, and no shadows cast. The woman who laughed looked down at her with dark, quizzical eyes and shook her head slowly. 'Pauvre enfant,' she said softly. 'C'est l'amour, n'est-ce pas?' Laura smiled, a little startled by her sudden appearance, but nothing loth to share her peaceful idyll with someone else. She looked a pleasant enough woman, quite good-looking in a rather old-fashioned way with dark, grey streaked hair and deep-set black eyes in a thin face. Her complexion was pale but quite good for a woman of her age, for she must have been about fifty or more, and the dress she wore was a brightly coloured silk and rather long with old-fashioned square shoulders that Laura had seen only in photographs. 'I'm afraid I don't speak French,' Laura said, smiling an apology. 'I'm sorry - je ne parle pas francais.' She had a smattering of the language, but she did not want to risk getting involved with someone who spoke the language as rapidly as the natives did and find herself stumbling clumsily over basic tourist phrases. 'Ah, you are English!' The dark eyes gleamed for a moment, as if the knowledge pleased her, then she indicated the spot beside Laura where the shadow of the poplar made a patch of shade. 'May I join you, mademoiselle?'

'But of course,' Laura told her. 'I don't even know if I have any right to be here, but it looked so cool and inviting from the road that I took a chance and walked across.' 'Ah, mais oui, you will not be unwelcome to sit here,' the woman assured her. 'It is so lovely here, I am always happy to come and sit beside the river and just - think.' 'It's so peaceful,' Laura said, watching the woman sit on the ground beside her, with an infinite grace, her long slim legs curled up under her like a woman many years younger, one hand reaching out to pluck a long grass and put it to her lips, nibbling at it with excellent teeth that gleamed whitely when she smiled. 'You like France, mademoiselle?' 'I like it very much, as much as I've seen of it,' Laura said. 'I've done quite a bit of driving around in the past few days, but one really needs to walk to see any country properly, I think.' 'Ah, the English love to walk for pleasure!' Laura remembered Simon saying much the same thing on their first meeting and she smiled acknowledgment of the fact as she had then. 'Yes, I suppose we do,' she allowed. 'But you too like walking, madame, if you come here often.' For a moment the bright black eyes narrowed and the thin, graceful hands were extended so that Laura could see there was no ring on any of the fingers. She had automatically assumed that the woman was married, although she could not have said why. There were surely as many unmarried women in France as in England. 'I'm sorry, mademoiselle,' she said hastily. 'I didn't notice you weren't wearing a ring.'

There was a small tight smile on the pale face for a moment. 'It is expected that a woman of fifty-six years would be a wife, n'est-ce pas? she asked, and there was a harshness in the voice that jarred on Laura's nerves. Obviously she had been most indiscreet in making that simple mistake. The matter of her single status seemed to be a sore point with the woman. 'Not at all,' Laura denied. 'I have an aunt who is single and several years older than you are, mademoiselle. It's quite commonplace really.' 'Mon Dieu!' the woman exclaimed with such fervour that Laura wondered if she was ever to do the right thing with this newfound acquaintance. 'Only the very young could be so - insensible!' 'I'm very sorry, mademoiselle, I had no intention of sounding insensible, unfeeling!' She was getting a bit tired of apologizing and had already decided that perhaps it would be better if she left this strangely volatile woman to her own devices. After all, she was accustomed to coming here alone, she had said so, and Laura was a trespasser. But then the rather vague smile returned almost as quickly as it had faded, and a thin hand reached across and covered one of Laura's, its coldness surprising her. 'Non, mon enfant, please do not look so contrite. I am foolish, perhaps to be so - so sensitive, but—' The hands spread wide in an apologetic shrug. 'You will forgive me, non?' 'There's nothing to forgive,' Laura assured her, not sorry to be able to stay and enjoy the peace and beauty of the river and the surrounding meadows. She made a wry face and smiled ruefully. 'I suppose the young are inclined to be a bit unfeeling about things that matter to older people.'

'It is natural,' her companion sighed. 'Do not be sorry to be young, mon enfant, it can be such a happy time if one does not become involved.' Again the long thin hands made vague gestures in the air, and Laura frowned for a moment over her meaning. 'With other people's lives, you mean?' she asked. 'It isn't possible not to, though, is it?' 'Alas!' A great shuddering sigh shook the slender body visibly and Laura began to wonder who she could possibly be. Obviously she was someone who had suffered a great deal and been shattered by the experience, and yet in a way she had a strangely placid air about her, perhaps resigned, would be a better choice. The bright black eyes were looking at her again and Laura smiled encouragingly. For all her odd behaviour she felt an instinctive liking for the woman as well as a vague sort of pity. 'You are staying close by here?' the woman asked, and Laura nodded. 'Fairly close,' she said. 'I'm staying in the village of St. Louis les Bigots, actually, a couple of miles up the road here. At the inn - the Hotel de la Chasse.' 'With Francois Verdan?' The black eyes were narrowed now and sparkled like chips of jet. 'He is a rogue, that man, but a brave one!' 'You know Monsieur Verdan?' Laura could not tell why, but some vague, uneasy suspicion was stirring in her breast and she sought hard to discover what it was. There was nothing so very extraordinary about the woman and yet faint warning bells were ringing persistently in her brain. 'Mais oui,' her companion said. 'I have known Francois Verdan all my life! He was a very good friend in - in the old times. The old

times when—' She shook her head as if to dismiss some memory that was too disturbing to be faced, and put a hand to her forehead, smoothing vaguely at a wisp of hair that had strayed from the smooth sweeps either side of her pale face. But yet again the moment of agitation passed and she looked up at Laura curiously. 'How did you discover the inn, mademoiselle? It is most unusual for tourists to stop there, and Francois very seldom takes visitors. You were' just passing, perhaps, and saw it, n'est-ce pas? It is very attractive to look at.' 'Something like that,' Laura answered, deliberately vague. She could not have said what prompted her to be so evasive, why she did not introduce herself as she would normally have done. But she thought it best to withhold both her name and the reason for her being in St. Louis les Bigots and staying at the inn. A deep and disturbing suspicion held her quiet, but she could not explain it. 'You like our petite village, oui?' 'Very much,' Laura said truthfully, and would have enlarged upon her liking, but at that moment she saw someone approaching from her right and instinctively her fingers curled into her palms when she recognized Jean-Pierre's dark arrogance striding across the meadow towards them. His sudden appearance and his obvious intention of joining them in the shortest possible time confirmed her suspicion as to who the strange woman beside her was. It was possible to tell, even from his stride, that he was angry, and Laura sighed inwardly at the inevitability of it. Sooner or later, whenever she met Jean- Pierre Herve he was angry about something, and this time she guessed it was because of the company she was in. He would never believe that she had had no idea who the woman was, nor that she would meet her there.

The woman beside her was watching his approach with much less trepidation, indeed she was smiling and waving as he came nearer. 'Bonjour, Jean-Pierre!' she called in her light, soft voice, and he waved one hand briefly, but there was a tight grim look about his mouth that Laura noticed with dismay. He was wearing slim-fitting cream trousers and a silk shirt of the same colour, open at the neck and half-way down to that broad tanned chest, and Laura's eyes went instinctively to that throbbing pulse spot at the base of the brown throat, She resisted the urge to stand up as he approached, and stayed where she was, hugging her knees close to her chin, her gold-coloured hair tossed back over her shoulders. In fact he ignored her completely for the moment and took the older woman's hands gently in his, helping her to rise and shaking his head at her in mild reproach. 'Tante Cecile, tu as encore fais des vdtres,' he scolded softly, and she laughed. 'Mais non, mon cher!' She glanced down at Laura and smiled. 'But we will speak English, Jean-Pierre,' she said. 'Mademoiselle is from England!' It was just as she had suspected - the woman was Cecile Justin. The aunt that Simon had described, rather unkindly, as batty. The woman he had implied had been in love with her uncle, John Douglas, and she was more than ever thankful that she had not introduced herself by name. Cecile Justin, if not as unstable as Simon had implied, was at least slightly unbalanced, and for the first time Laura could see Jean-Pierre's reasons for keeping her presence in the village a secret from his family. Jean-Pierre's dark eyes were boring down at her now, and Laura kept her own gaze lowered as she got slowly to her feet, an effort that was assisted suddenly and unexpectedly by a pair of large hands that

lifted her half off her feet, and dug hard into her arms. 'Mademoiselle and I have met, Tante Cecile,' he said quietly, while Laura brushed non-existent grass from her dress with hands that were dismayingly unsteady, hastily slipping the sandals on to her bare feet. 'Ah! You have?" There was a wealth of meaning in the rather coy glance that she passed from one to the other, and Laura could feel the colour that warmed her cheeks, wishing he was not watching her in that steady, speculative way. 'Several times,' he said. 'Elle est belle, mon cher,' his aunt said softly, and Jean-Pierre inclined his head briefly in acknowledgement of the fact. 'Mademoiselle is very lovely,' he agreed softly, and for a moment the deep, unfathomable eyes held Laura's steadily, until her pulses were racing wildly, completely out of control as she called herself all kinds of a fool for being so easily affected by him. 'Mademoiselle is also on property she has been forbidden access to,' he added, and Laura blinked her surprise. 'Oh, but I didn't realize,' she said, and gazed at him reproachfully, only half believing. 'I'd no idea this land belonged to the chateau as well!' . 'No?' he asked softly, and she felt the colour in her cheeks again as she faced him defiantly. 'No!' she insisted. 'If I had, Monsieur Herve, I wouldn't have come here, I can assure you!' The deep grey eyes glittered at her until she lowered her gaze again and found that disturbing little pulse in his throat. 'And now that you

do know, mademoiselle,' he said quietly, 'I presume we shall not see you here again.' 'Oh, mais non, Jean-Pierre!' Cecile Justin put her hands on his arm, an anxious expression on her pale face. 'You must not quarrel so! Tell Mademoiselle that you did not mean that, s'il to plait, mon cher!' It was obvious that she saw them as a pair of quarreling lovers, and for a moment Laura appreciated the idea, wondering how he was proposing to get out of a situation that could be embarrassing to say the least. 'Tante Cecile—' he began, one hand on his aunt's arm, firmly insistent that she turn in the direction of home, 'I will take you home now. Come!' 'Non!' his aunt insisted, equally firmly, resisting the persuasive hand on her arm. 'I will not go until you have - how is it you say? Kiss and make up with your belle-amie!' For a moment Jean-Pierre looked down at her, judging how safe it would be to push too hard, Laura guessed, and felt her own heart hammering breathlessly hard at her ribs when she considered the possibility of the older woman getting her way. It was no real surprise to find herself not at all averse to the idea of being kissed by Jean-Pierre. His deep, unfathomable eyes turned to Laura again, and he too looked as if he was speculating on the prospect. 'Perhaps Mademoiselle would not welcome my kisses, Tante Cecile,' he said quietly, and Laura curled her hands into her palms when his gaze rested for a moment on her mouth with an intensity that made her heart skip wildly. 'Oh, but of course your kisses would be welcome!' his aunt insisted. 'Did I not find le pauvre enfant sighing like the wind when I came

upon her?' She waved thin, impatient hands at him. 'Vas, Jean-Pierre! I will not depart until you have made the peace!' Jean-Pierre's broad shoulders shrugged lightly and he looked down at Laura again, a faint hint of a smile on the firm straightness of his mouth and glistening in the dark grey of his eyes. 'Mademoiselle?' he queried softly. 'It is for my aunt's sake, comprenez?' Laura glanced swiftly at the older woman and saw the bright glittering eyes that betrayed her unbalanced mind. If, as Simon had suggested, John Douglas's rejection of her love was responsible for her being as she was, then Laura felt a sense of responsibility and she could not find it in her heart to see her so cruelly disappointed again. So she told herself as she nodded her head in agreement, and heard Cecile Justin's murmur of approval, her own wishes did not come into it. Jean-Pierre reached out for her and Laura went willingly enough, her eyes and the expression in them half hidden by the thick fringe of her lashes as his hands slid slowly round her waist. The palms were warm and firm on her skin through the thin material of her dress, and his fingers incredibly strong as he drew her close against him. Laura had been in his arms twice before. Once when he had caught her so propitiously when she fell on the stairs at the inn on her very first day, and again when he had held her so consolingly after making threats that he would spoil her stay if she persisted in asking about her uncle. Neither time had she lifted her face as she did now, fully aware of those dark grey eyes and the firm, almost cruel straightness of his mouth. Now she was required to lift her mouth to him and she suddenly felt shy and very vulnerable as she was drawn to him, irresistibly. The brown, muscular arms seemed possessed of an incredible strength as they held her tightly against his own hard body, but the

touch of his mouth on hers was unexpectedly gentle at first. As light as it had been when he had merely brushed her lips once before. A light, teasing touch, with his breath warm on her lips and no hint of emotion in the gesture. Then suddenly, it was different. It was as if something uncontrollably savage took possession of him and she was crushed in his arms so tightly that she could feel every muscle in that hard body straining her to him with an urgency that was exciting, irresistible and almost frightening in its intensity. His mouth had a cruel fierceness that parted her lips and brought a soft sound of protest from her, even while she responded to him, as willingly as if they really were lovers. She was aware of nothing at the moment but the strong arms that held her and the fierce demands of his mouth, her more usual reticence completely swept away by the sheer strength and excitement of him. Something in her recognized that this was what she had been waiting for, been longing for ever since their first meeting, and it would have shocked her if she had realized her own reactions, but the sensuous, disturbing maleness of him aroused in her the most incredible responses and she cared for nothing but the excitement of the moment. Slowly and reluctantly she came to earth, relinquishing the experience unwillingly. 'Jean-Pierre!' She whispered his name against the mouth that only very reluctantly let her go, and for a brief moment he held her there, her head tipped back, in the tight circle of his arms while his deep grey eyes glittered with something so deep and disturbing that she shivered. His breathing was harsh and not quite under control and Laura curled her fingers against his chest, looking for that tiny pulse that now throbbed with betraying fierceness at the base of his throat. The faint

scar over his right eye seemed so much more evident and there were small tight lines at the corners of his mouth that told of emotions held tightly under control. It was not a handsome face, nor even good-looking in any conventional way, it was too rugged and full of character for that, but it held an irresistible fascination for Laura, and she realized suddenly how easily she could fall in love with him. The fact that she had met him no more than half a dozen times in her life seemed not to matter, nor that he had treated her with a kind of threatening disdain until now. Cecile Justin stood alone on the river bank, her hands tightly together, as if the scene might have reminded her of her own folly, and Laura wondered, briefly, if Jean-Pierre remembered she was there. He held her a moment longer, looking as if he was seeing her for the first time, the pulse at the base of his throat throbbing with an increased urgency. Then abruptly his hands slid from her waist and he bent his dark head briefly to brush her forehead with his lips. 'For appearances,' he whispered as he drew back, and Laura felt the warm rush of colour to her cheeks at his matter-of-factness. Cecile Justin, she noticed vaguely, was smiling her satisfaction and nodding her head. 'Of course, monsieur,' Laura replied with equal quietness. 'I understand perfectly.' Her quietness, she thought, puzzled him and for a moment longer he looked down at her steadily, his deep, dark eyes speculative, but with no hint now of the expression that had disturbed her so, only a moment since. 'We must hope that Simon would understand too,' he said softly.

'Oh, but—' Laura started to object, but he stemmed her objection firmly and effectively and she wondered if it amused him to think that she and Simon were on such intimate terms that his half-brother would care about his kissing her. 'Merci, mademoiselle,' he whispered, so that his aunt was unaware of the formal way he addressed her. 'Thank you for your - co-operation!' • 'Jean-Pierre,' his aunt told him, her bright black eyes glinting. 'Now that you have made friends again with your belle-amie you should see that she returns safely to the hotel. I can find my way home quite easily alone.' 'Oh no, mademoiselle!' Laura cried hastily, not looking at Jean-Pierre for fear he should think of taking that advice too. 'Please - I have a car, I can drive myself back when I'm ready.' Cecile Justin would have argued, Laura thought, but this time JeanPierre would not take no for an answer, and he took her arm firmly, turning her towards the distant chateau. 'You will come home with me, Tante Cecile,' he said. 'Laura will find her own way back to the hotel, as she says. Allons, done!' His use of her christian name was, Laura supposed, inevitable in the circumstances, but it gave her a strange sense of intimacy to hear him use it and she glanced at him through her thick lashes as he turned to go. 'Au revoir, mademoiselle,' Cecile Justin called out, her nephew's hand firmly on her arm. 'I am so pleased to have met you!' Jean-Pierre did not even turn his head again, and Laura felt a tingle of annoyance that he was so ready to dismiss her without even a formal good-bye, and she gazed after the tall, straight back reproachfully.

'Au revoir, Jean-Pierre!' she called softly, and refused to lower her gaze when he turned again and looked at her with a slight frown drawing at his black brows. There was a deep, dark unfathomable look in the dark grey eyes that quickened her pulses and aroused a strange curling sensation in her stomach and she suddenly realized that she was smiling at him in a way that could have been construed as provocative. The thick brown lashes that fringed her half-closed lids could not completely conceal the look that challenged him to simply walk off and leave her, and the soft, sensual look of her mouth almost asked to be kissed again. It surprised him, she thought, and rather unexpectedly seemed to anger him too, for there was an ominously tight look about his mouth again, as if he resented her familiarity, and was responding to her intimate good-bye only for the sake of appearances. 'Au revoir, ma belle-amie,' he said quietly.;

CHAPTER SEVEN SIMON ST. JUST was less uncaring than Laura had expected when he heard about her meeting with his half- brother and his aunt, and especially at the outcome. Cecile Justin, he told her, had been quite excited to meet Jean-Hare's lovely girl-friend, and had talked of little else for hours after she returned to the chateau. Madame St. Just, his mother, on the other hand, had been both puzzled and curious about her, since she knew nothing of her elder son's mysterious romance with such a young and lovely girl as her sister described. She had, of course, questioned Jean-Pierre about it, Simon said, and Laura could well imagine how much he had disliked that, but he had been annoyingly vague on the subject, merely dismissing the whole thing as a figment of his aunt's imagination. His mother, Simon insisted, was not completely satisfied with the explanation by any means. Simon himself had had no difficulty at all in recognizing Laura from his aunt's description but had, very wisely, said nothing. He was annoyed, in fact, Laura learned, because he had hoped in time to be able to introduce her to his family home himself, something that his aunt's meeting with her, and Cecile Justin's description of her as Jean-Pierre's 'belle-amie' had made much more difficult. As he drove them along the narrow road out of the village one afternoon, shortly after the incident, he looked faintly sulky, Laura thought, and guessed that Simon was not accustomed to being thwarted in anything he wanted. 'It is all because of that - that foolishness about the wartime,' he complained. 'Jean- Pierre does not want Maman to know about you, and now Tante Cecile has made her curious. Why cannot the whole - betise be made open, and then we should know what to do?'

'It is rather a mess,' Laura agreed thoughtfully. It had only just occurred to her again that it was his mother that Jean-Pierre had been so anxious should not know of her existence. For a while she had forgotten that fact and taken into account only his aunt's unfortunate love-affair with John Douglas that Simon had hinted at. She was quiet for quite some time, pondering on what other reason Jean-Pierre had for keeping her identity a secret, and watching the tree-lined road flash past as Simon drove at his usual breakneck speed. She was not afraid of speed, but driving as Simon did gave her very little opportunity to see much of the countryside. 'Are you hungry, ma cherie?' he asked suddenly, and Laura blinked for a moment before nodding her head. 'I am rather,' she confessed, and laughed, looking at him through the thickness of her lashes. 'What have you in store for me today?' Simon gave her a brief, beaming smile over his shoulder, his black eyes glinting mischievously. He was never out of temper for very long. 'A surprise, ma belle Laura! We shall have our dejeuner partie de campagne genre, n'est-ce pas? A picnic,' he explained laughing when he saw her puzzled frown. 'You know I don't speak much French,' Laura complained with a reproachful glance at his good-looking profile. 'But you insist on using it and trying to confound me.' 'Confound you?' Simon echoed. 'What is that, cherie?' 'What I've just done to you!' Laura retorted. 'Saying things I don't understand.' 'Oh, pardonnez-moi, ma belle,' he smiled. 'I will try not to do it again - I promise!'

He drove the car up on to a wide grass verge bordering the road and backed by the cool, dark shade of trees, cutting the engine and leaving them in a momentary void of silence. Then he turned in his seat and smiled at her, his black-eyed gaze moving slowly over her face and down the slender column of her throat to the low-cut neck of her dress, his eyes lingering where the smooth skin was shadowed and curved just above the plunging vee of pale blue cotton. 'Does this suit you, ma belle?' he asked softly, and Laura nodded. Her intuition was sending shivers of warning along her spine and she did not look at him when he returned his gaze to her face and tried to catch her eye. 'It's very nice, Simon,' she said. 'Is this where we're going to have our picnic?' 'If it is where you would like to have our picnic, ma cherie,' Simon told her softly. One long forefinger traced the soft curve of her cheek and slid gently down to her shoulder, moving aside the soft cotton dress. 'But it will be nice if we go into the trees a little way, n'est-ce pas? There it will be more—' His shoulders shrugged meaningly, his bottom lip pushed out seductively as he bent his dark head and pressed his lips to the warm, scented skin of her shoulder. 'You are very beautiful, Laura,' he whispered. 'I want you to myself.' Laura laughed, a little shakily because her senses were playing her tricks and she kept remembering how Jean-Pierre had kissed her. That nonsense about her feeing Jean-Pierre's 'belle-amie' had been purely for his aunt's benefit, of course, but somehow the memory of it refused to be shaken off and she felt rather as if she was misbehaving behind his back. Her hands set firmly against his chest kept him at a safe distance, but she thought Simon would not be content with that arrangement for very long. Already one black brow expressed surprise at her apparent

reticence. 'I thought we were going to have a picnic,' she told him. 'I really am hungry, Simon.' 'Ah, Laura, adorable!' His black eyes glistened reproachfully, his face as close to hers as he could get it for her hands on his chest. 'I too am hungry; for you, ma Belle! Do you have no pity for me, to think only of food when I would make love with you?' She should have known this would happen, Laura told herself ruefully. Sooner or later Simon was bound to think the time was right for the final assault and never once think that she would have any objections to being swept off her feet by a man as attractive and charming as Simon St. Just, but, rather annoyingly, that memory of Jean-Pierre's kiss refused to be dismissed and she felt self-conscious and rather guilty. 'You did promise me a picnic, Simon,' she told him, in as light a voice as she could muster. 'And I feel it's a bit early in the day to - to make love to me.' 'Early in the day?' He looked at her suspiciously. 'I do not understand you, Laura.' 'I think you do,' Laura told him, smiling to take away any suggestion that she would be averse to the experience at any other time. 'It's - it's so public here, Simon. I mean close to the road and - and in broad daylight, it's just not the right time or place.' 'Non? His disappointment was obvious, also he looked faintly sulky again, and Laura sighed inwardly at the idea of possibly having been too harsh in her refusal. Then he shrugged his eloquent shoulders and drew back, his black brows drawn closer together as he turned in his seat and opened the car door. 'Then we will eat our dejeuner, and perhaps you will feel more kindly towards me when you have had some of Jean- Pierre's best champagne!'

Laura eyed him for a moment doubtfully, imagining Jean-Pierre's reaction to having his cellar raided for the benefit of someone he urgently wanted out of the way. 'Does he know you've taken it?' she asked, and Simon shrugged, a small tight smile reminding Laura of his brother. 'Je ne sais pas!' His eyes glittered at her challengingly. 'Does it matter that he knows or does not know, ma chine? I wanted only the best for you, and this is the best - whether Jean-Pierre knows or not, we should enjoy it!' Laura eyed him doubtfully once again, her heart beating alarmingly fast as she looked up at the good- looking face with its challenging black eyes. There could surely be few more persuasive men than Simon St. Just, and probably Jean-Pierre wouldn't miss just one bottle of champagne from his vast cellars. 'Then let's enjoy it,' she said, and laughed, feeling a little light-headed already, without even having tasted the champagne. The rest of the picnic Simon provided was well up to the standard of the vintage champagne he produced with a flourish and a wicked smile, and she set out delicious lobster and salad on the low table covered with a crisp cotton cloth, her hunger more evident than ever. It was a marvellous meal and far more luxurious than the lemonade and sandwich picnics she remembered from earlier summers. There was a delicious mayonnaise sauce with the lobster, and a freshly baked, long baguette with butter and ripely soft Brie cheese; and to finish with, mouthwatering little pithiviers or almond cakes, the whole washed down with the rest of Jean-Pierre's best champagne. When she had drunk the last drop in her glass Laura sighed deeply and leaned back on her hands, her eyes briefly closed in satisfaction.

When she opened them again it was to see Simon smiling at her with one expressive black brow raised queryingly. 'You have eaten well and now you feel more - raisonnable, oui? he asked. Laura smiled. 'I don't think I was unreasonable before I ate, was I?' she countered. 'After all, you did promise me a picnic, and you did ask me if I was hungry.' 'And you preferred homard and champagne to me!' Simon retorted, his black eyes glistening as he reached over to take one of her hands in his. 'And how do you feel now, ma cherie?' He raised her fingers to his lips, pressing them firmly to his mouth. 'Do I not deserve to be rewarded for giving you such a good dejeuner, huh?' 'I suppose you do,' Laura agreed, uncertain how far she could cope with Simon now that it came to the point. She had seen him as an easily recognizable type and thought she would know how to handle him in just such a situation as this. Now that she was faced with the prospect as a reality, she was not so sure. He got to his feet with a lazy, slow grace that was in itself seductive, and Laura felt her hands close into small tight balls on her lap as she looked up at him. "Then reward me, ma belle Laura,' he said softly, and reached down to take her hands and draw her to her feet. His arms were strong and he drew her so close that she instinctively spread her hands over the soft silk shirt he wore, and immediately curled her fingers again when the vibrant warmth of his body through the thin material reminded her again of Jean-Pierre. His mouth had a smoother, more persuasive firmness than his brother's, and Laura hated herself for comparing them. He kissed her expertly but with only as much fervour as was necessary to convince her of his ability as a lover. There was none of that urgent, hungry fierceness that had swept away her inhibitions when Jean-Pierre

kissed her, and somewhere in the back of her mind she registered a vague kind of disappointment. 'Laura! Mon petit choux? He buried his face in the softness of her corn-gold hair, his mouth warm and caressing on the smoothness of her neck and throat. 'Simon!' Something in her voice must have given him a clue that all was not going as he planned and he raised his head, a slight frown marring his good looks as he gazed down at her. 'What is wrong, Laura?' he asked, and she shook her head, her eyes downcast, unable to tell him just what it was that made her so reluctant to allow herself to be swept along as he obviously expected her to be. 'Nothing's wrong,' she denied, and one finger traced the buttoned flap on his shirt pocket. 'Mais oui, something is wrong, I know,' he insisted, and put a hand under her chin to raise her face to him, that he might better see her expression. 'What have I done to displease you, ma petite? How can I make you understand how it is I feel about you?' 'You can't possibly feel anything very serious about me,' Laura told him with a faint smile: 'And I'm sorry if I disappoint you, Simon. I I'm afraid I'm not very good at being passionate to order.' 'Mon Dieu!' Simon breathed piously, gazing down at her with a dark angry look now that his prowess had been, in his reckoning, belittled. 'Is that what you call it when I try to kiss you? Do you think so little of me that you speak of making love to me as if it was - oh, mon Dieu!'

'I wasn't belittling you at all,' Laura denied, hastily, trying to make him see that she could not, as he apparently could, simply summon emotion as easily as changing her clothes. 'I - I simply can't be as - as loving as you want me to be, Simon. Not - not just like that!' 'If you cared for me at all, you would not find it so difficult,' Simon told her, sulky again, and looking down at her as if he was seeing her in a new light. 'I was mistaken in you, cherie. I thought that you cared for me as I do for you.' 'I probably do,' Laura retorted swiftly and unthinkingly. 'You can't possibly be serious about me in such a short time, Simon, it isn't reasonable.' 'Reasonable!' He raised his eyes to heaven, an angry glitter in their blackness when he looked down at her again. 'What is reasonable about being in love? It is - mouvemente, extravagant, one should jeter son bonnet par-dessus les moulins.' He smiled, rather cruelly, she thought. 'You are a little mouse, I think, ma belle Laura. Un petit souris, oui?' Laura felt herself shrinking inwardly at the way he was scolding her, and the unfairness of his attack stung the more because she could not quite understand herself any more than Simon could understand her reaction. 'You're not being fair, Simon,' she told him in a small husky voice, and he laughed shortly, lifting his expressive hands shoulder high and raising his black eyes to heaven once more. 'Fair!' he echoed mockingly. 'Why should I be fair when you treat me like something - oh, mon Dieu, why should I care what you do?' Laura felt small and vulnerable suddenly, standing there beside the quiet, tree- lined road, and she looked up swiftly when Simon laughed again. 'Are you so - so cautious with Jean- Pierre?' he asked bluntly. 'It did not sound so, the way Tante Cecile told about it!'

'Simon!' Laura stared at him, appalled to feel the warm colour that flooded her cheeks at the mention of that unforgettable few minutes in the river meadow. Simon, however, was in no mood to be lenient. His pride had been hurt and he would not let her off as easily as that, especially when he saw that betraying colour in her face. 'Hah!' he said triumphantly. 'So! You are Jean-Pierre's - woman!' 'Simon!' She shook her head vehemently, staring at him in dismay, fearing that her own rising anger might lead her into some indiscretion that she would regret later. 'I'm nothing of the sort, and you should know better than to suggest such a thing!' Again he laughed harshly. 'I know better that you will not be so for very long, ma belle!' he told her. 'Jean-Pierre never keeps his women long, he grows tired of them, you understand, and then he does not see them again. You, he will perhaps grow tired of more quickly because you are the family of Jean Douglas and the Herves have a great hatred of that man!' Even at such a moment Laura was alert to anything that concerned her uncle, and she found her heart hammering at her ribs with relentless force as she looked up at Simon's angry, good-looking face. Perhaps in such a mood he would be less unwilling to keep the secret that she so badly wanted to learn. 'I don't see why they should hate my uncle so much,' she said. 'Why do they, Simon?' 'Huh!' He raised his eyes to heaven again, and Laura's pulse rate increased rapidly when she realized that at last she was going to learn what it was that made John Douglas's name unmentionable in the village of St. Louis les Bigots. 'With Louis Herve dead, and his nephew too, and his son with a scar that he will carry to. his grave, all

because Monsieur Jean betrayed them? Do you not expect them to hate him, petite idiote? For a second Laura simply stared at him, her grey eyes huge and unbelieving, her face suddenly pale under the golden tan, then she shook her head, slowly at first and then with increasing vehemence. Her hands were clenched at her sides and her eyes now sparkling with anger and tears. 'No, no, I don't believe you!' she cried huskily. 'I just won't believe you, Simon! You're wrong, you must be wrong! You must!' Her brain was spinning wildly, remembering those graves in the little churchyard, the soft-voiced hope of Jean-Pierre that she would not be hurt. But she simply could not accept Uncle John as a traitor. Louis Herve, a good friend of her uncle, but he had not known he was dead, or he would surely have said so. In her mind's eye she saw again that faint but distinct scar above Jean-Pierre's right eye and shivered when she thought of how he must feel about the man he thought responsible for his being marked like that. 'Laura!' Simon's hate had died as swiftly as his other moods passed, and he looked at her with eyes that begged forgiveness, his hands reaching out for her. But Laura shook her head slowly. 'Tell me it isn't true, Simon, please,' she begged. 'Say you were only playing a rather cruel joke on me - please!' Simon shrugged his eloquent shoulders and she could tell from his expression that he regretted not being able to confess he had been lying. Perhaps it even crossed his mind to do so, just to please her, but eventually he shook his head, slowly and regretfully, his black eyes sympathizing with her position and sorry that he had been the cause of her distress.

'I wish I could say it was not true, cherie,' he told her softly. His hands on her upper arms drew her closer to him, but Laura shrank back as if he had struck her and she saw the slight shrug of resignation that recognized her reason. 'I am truly sorry that I told you the truth,' he said. 'I truly am sorry. I hope you will forgive me, Laura.' For a moment Laura said nothing, then she looked up at him, studying the good-looking face with its slightly full mouth and the deep black eyes. A face so different from his half-brother's and, despite its good looks, much less fascinating. 'Does - does JeanPierre really hate the memory of my uncle?' she asked. 'He never sounds as if he hates him somehow, more as if he - regrets what he did, but can understand why he did it' Simon looked at her steadily for a moment and created one of those rare moments when he reminded Laura of his brother. 'I don't think he actually hates him,' he said with uncharacteristic seriousness. 'But Maman does, and he would not like her to see you or to know that you are here. Maman remembers better, I expect,' he explained. 'It is so with Tante Cecile too. She remembers, and it is because she remembers that she loved him that she feels as if she is perhaps in some way to blame too.' Laura listened to him without interrupting, but her mind still refused to accept her beloved Uncle John as the traitor he had apparently been dubbed by the Herve family and heaven knew how many of the village people as well. Those who were old enough to remember. 'I - I just can't accept it,' she told Simon at last. 'I can't, Simon. I knew him so well, spent so much time with him, listened to him talk about those days as if they were - if not happy, at least days when he lived among his friends, people he liked and trusted with his life.'

'As they trusted him,' Simon reminded her softly, and Laura shook her head. 'He would have given something away, he would have to, if he had done as you say he did. He couldn't have talked so - so easily, without pause or hesitation.' She looked at Simon's good-looking face, sober with sympathy and understanding, her eyes wide and appealing. 'I can't believe it, Simon, and I mean to prove them all wrong before I leave the village.' 'But how?' He frowned down at her, shaking his head. 'It happened over thirty years ago, Laura. No one will change something they have believed for so long, ma cherie, you must see that.' 'Someone must,' Laura insisted, her small chin set stubbornly. 'Someone knows who really gave them away to the Germans - I only know it wasn't Uncle John!' 'You do not want it to have been your uncle,' Simon told her gently, and reached out a hand again to touch her cheek. This time he was not repulsed, and Laura sighed as she leaned her face against the broad palm for a moment. 'I can't even convince you, it seems,' she said reproachfully. 'But I mean to convince you all before I'll leave St. Louis les Bigots.' 'Jean-Pierre as well?' Simon asked softly, and his black eyes watched her face steadily as she answered, first flicking a swift glance at him through her lashes. 'Most of all Jean-Pierre,' she told him. 'Then perhaps when I've convinced him he can convince your mother.' Simon shook his head, as if the enormity of her task looked insurmountable to him. 'It will not be possible for even Jean-Pierre to

persuade Maman to forgive Jean Douglas,' he told her. 'Maman has hated for so long, cherie, that she would feel - bereft without it, entendu?' 'I think I understand,' Laura said. 'But if she hears the truth, Simon, she'll surely have to accept it, won't she?' He shrugged, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to his side so that he could kiss her left ear gently. 'Let us hope so, mon petit choux,' he said softly.

CHAPTER EIGHT IT must have been imagination, Laura told herself, that made her see that strange glint of speculation in Francois Verdan's small black eyes. He could not possibly know what she and Simon had been talking about. He was standing at the end of that long bare wooden table when she went in, and there were several villagers sitting there, drinking wine and talking. Conversation ceased when she came in and several pairs of curious eyes looked across at her as she began to climb the narrow dark stairs to her room. 'Bonsoir, mademoiselle!' The landlord's voice followed her, and she turned at the bend in the stairs to look down at him, his sallow face shadowed in the dim coolness of the room. 'Good evening, Monsieur Verdan,' Laura said. 'It's been another lovely day, hasn't it?' He ignored the comment on the weather and gave her a long meaningful look, a small half smile on his face. Playing to the gallery, Laura thought, and looked down at him with a hint of hauteur in her manner, resenting his attitude. 'Will you be wanting diner, mademoiselle?' he inquired, and Laura nodded. 'If you please, monsieur.' For a moment his small black eyes held hers, almost like a challenge. 'Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,' he said. 'Will Monsieur St. Just be joining you this evening?' The meaning of that suggestive smile was clear to Laura at last, and she felt the colour in her cheeks when she felt all eyes on them. It was obvious that Francois Verdan had been discussing her and

Simon with his cronies, and a sudden chill of anger made her curl her hands tightly as she looked down at the landlord's smugly curious face. 'I shall be eating alone as I usually do here, Monsieur Verdan,' she told him quietly. 'I don't think it's necessary for you to know whether or not I'm seeing Monsieur St. Just later in the evening. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go and change ready for dinner.' She was rather pleased with the way she made her exit, and she could tell from the silence that hung over the small but interested company that things had not gone as they expected. Then, when she sat down on the edge of her bed a few minutes later and really considered the task she had set herself, the enormity of it dismayed her. It was not even certain if many of the villagers spoke English, and judging by the ones she had seen downstairs, not many of them would be willing to answer her questions even if they did. Laura ate her solitary dinner and found herself some half an hour later sitting at the table in the back room of the inn with Madame Verdan for company. Madame's friendly eyes looked at her curiously, and when Laura looked up and caught her eyes, she smiled inquiringly. 'Mademoiselle is not 'appy?' she asked, and Laura shrugged uneasily. 'Not exactly unhappy, Madame Verdan,' she said. 'I - I have something to do that might prove more difficult than I can cope with, that's all.' 'Oui?' She looked down at her folded hands briefly. 'If I could perhaps be of assistance, n'est-ce pas? she offered, and Laura smiled, shaking her head.

'Oh no, I don't think you can, madame, thank you,' she told her. 'You're not really old enough.' As she expected, the reference to her age puzzled Madame Verdan, and she looked at Laura for a moment, frowning her confusion. 'Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,' she said. 'I do not understand. How is it that I am not old enough?' Laura smiled, wishing that this friendly woman could be of help, for she was the only really friendly person, apart from Simon, that she had met so far. 'I mean, madame,' she explained, 'that I'm trying to discover what happened here during the last war, with my uncle and the Herve family. What really happened, not what everyone believes,' she added. Her gaze and the backward tilt of her head defied the woman to insist that what Simon had told her about her uncle was the truth. Madame Verdan, however, showed no sign of being as certain as that about anything. She cast a sideways glance at the beaded curtain between the room they were in and the one where her husband and his customers sat. 'It is unwise to ask questions on such a matter, mademoiselle,' she told her. 'As Frangois told you, no good can come of it.' 'That was before I knew what kind of accusations had been made about my uncle,' Laura said firmly. 'And now that I know what you all think about him, I'm more determined than ever to have the truth brought out.' 'The truth, mademoiselle?' The kindly brown eyes looked at her, as if she felt pity for her predicament but could see no solution to it. 'Will you not accept that what the people here say is the truth?'

Laura shook her head firmly, her mouth set tight in refusal. 'No, I won't,' she declared. 'I know Uncle John couldn't have done a thing like that, madame, but I mean to find out who did!' 'But, mademoiselle—' 'It's no good, Madame Verdan,' Laura insisted quietly, and smiled as she reached out a consoling hand. 'I know you mean well, but you weren't there, so you can't know the truth for yourself, and you didn't know my uncle - I did!' Madame Verdan sighed resignedly and shrugged her ample shoulders. 'It is as you wish, naturellement, mademoiselle,' she said quietly. 'But it would be more wise if you did not ask of the - the wrong people.' 'The wrong people?' Laura looked at her curiously. 'What do you mean by the wrong people, madame? 'Oh—' Again Madame Verdan's ample shoulders shrugged uneasily. 'I think of Jacques Monetais, mademoiselle, he was there when they go to Chateau St. Clair. He escaped, but his brother and his cousin both were killed. He is a man of - how is it you say - humeur, he will not answer your questions, I think.' 'Bad-tempered?' Laura guessed, and her companion nodded. A nagging sense of cold fear curled in Laura's stomach when she thought of how a man like Jacques Monetais would feel if John Douglas's niece started asking him questions about that night, and she shivered. 'I suppose he would be very bitter,' she acknowledged thoughtfully, and Madame Verdan nodded. ''Mais oui, he is a bitter man, and he would grow very angry, I think.'

'Of course, I can see how the people must feel who lost someone that night, but don't you see, madame. I feel as if I've lost my uncle all over again when I hear these things about him. He was a good man and I loved him. I don't know what actually happened then, but I do know that John Douglas didn't betray anyone. He couldn't, and I mean to prove it.' She had not heard a sound behind her, but Madame Verdan was on her feet and her eyes looked darkly wary so that Laura turned in her chair and looked behind her. Francois Verdan stood in the partly open curtain, his eyes flicking swiftly from Laura to his wife and back again, then he came and stood beside Laura at the table. 'Mademoiselle Douglas,' he said in his harsh, uncultured voice, 'I would be pleased if you would not question my wife on matters which do not concern her, s'il vous plait.' Laura stared at him defiantly for a moment, then it began to occur to her that she was perhaps being unfair to his wife and she inclined her head briefly in agreement, looking at Madame Verdan with an understanding smile as she got up from the table. 'I'm sorry if I've caused you any trouble, madame,' she said quietly.' Please forgive me.' Madame Verdan said nothing, but with her husband watched Laura depart, and Laura guessed that before very long Jean-Pierre Herve would be hearing about her latest indiscretion. She sighed deeply, but there was nothing she could do about it.

The following day Laura made no special arrangement to see Simon, but he had said that as far as he could remember he had not committed himself to anything and that he would probably be down

to see her some time during the day. Such a vague promise left Laura with the choice of staying in all day until Simon chose to call, or of going out for a walk and hoping to be back in time to see him if he did come. In view of the fact that it was another lovely day and she felt far too restless to stay indoors by herself all day, she decided on a walk. It would give her time to think about what she must do, and how she could go about discovering the truth about her uncle without incurring the wrath of too many of the villagers. The easy, untroubled pace of her life until now seemed such a long way off, and she thought longingly of the days when she had known nothing about St. Louis les Bigots except what her uncle had told her. In the very short time she had been in the village she seemed to have experienced one disturbing incident after another, not least of which was meeting Jean- Pierre Herve and discovering that far from being the small boy she had always visualized him as, he was a strong, dark and disturbingly fascinating man who could play havoc with her senses. She smiled at her own reflection speculatively, remembering Simon's angry accusations about her being Jean-Pierre's woman, as he had worded it. The idea was not one that displeased Laura at all, if she was honest with herself, but then she recalled that Simon had also told her that Jean-Pierre never kept his women for very long, but soon grew tired of them. His prowess with other women was something she did not like to consider and she shook her head with a frown as she turned away from that oddly distorting mirror. It was too warm to wear trousers and she had put on a brief, sleeveless dress of rose pink linen that flattered both her colouring and her excellent figure. She lifted her corn-coloured hair from her neck and tied it at the back of her head with a pink scarf that matched her dress, leaving the long ends floating down over her shoulders.

She could hear voices as she started downstairs and she instantly recognized one of them as Jean-Pierre's, experiencing that strange curling sensation in her stomach again when she heard it. He was talking to Francois Verdan and she thought she caught her own name there somewhere in the rapid flood of French, but that was only to be expected after yesterday, when the landlord had caught her soliciting his wife's help. They must have heard her on the stairs, she thought, for the voices were stilled as she turned the corner and came down into the room that was empty except for the two of them. It was too early in the day yet for there to be any customers. She saw the slight but definite inclination of Jean-Pierre's black head towards the curtained partition into the back room, and a second later Verdan turned and went through it, the coloured beads rattling to softly behind him. JeanPierre, she thought wryly, was obviously a man born to be obeyed. He turned as she came across the room and Laura could have sworn that there was a glow of warmth in those deep grey eyes as he looked down at her. 'Good morning, Monsieur Herve,' she said with unusual meekness, and saw one black brow rise in comment of it. Her heart was hammering away relentlessly at her ribs, and she could feel the blood racing through her body and making her glow from head to foot with a kind of apprehensive excitement. No other man, she was prepared to admit, could have such an effect on her, and she wondered whether she was glad about it or not. He always looked so incredibly tall whenever she was close to him, and this morning the fact that he was clad in navy blue from top to bottom furthered the impression. His expensively shod feet were planted firmly apart, as they usually were when he was standing, and his hands were in the pockets of hip-hugging trousers that fitted so well his legs appeared even longer than they were.

The shirt he wore was silk, as it most often was, open at the neck and as far down as the broad expanse of chest, and instinctively Laura's eyes went to that vulnerable spot at the base of his throat where a pulse throbbed under the smooth tanned skin. 'Bonjour,' he said quietly, and one brow flicked up into the hair that fell across his forehead. 'You are being very formal this morning, Laura.' Laura felt the colour that flooded into her cheeks and put up a hasty hand to try and hide it from him, her eyes swiftly lowered rather than meet his. She was remembering their last parting, and the provocative way she had behaved. Looking at him so invitingly and calling him Jean-Pierre. 'I - I thought that with Mademoiselle Justin not being here—' she began, and bit her lip. 'I mean it was only done for her benefit, wasn't it, surely?' He said nothing for a moment and at last she felt obliged to look at him, meeting a speculative and quite disturbing half smile, that also glittered in his eyes. 'I was vain enough to suppose that that last - au revoir was for me alone,' he said softly. 'If I misunderstood your very - inviting look, I apologize, mademoiselle!' Laura had never felt so gauchely uncertain in her life before, and she would almost have believed that he was doing it deliberately to embarrass her, only she did not see Jean-Pierre taking his revenge in any such petty way. If ever he sought revenge, as for what had happened to him and his father, it would be something swift and terrible, she thought, and ventured again to look up at him. 'I'm sorry about the way I behaved,' she told him, in a small, husky voice. 'I don't know what came over me, but I apologize, Monsieur Herve.'

'You would prefer that we remain on more formal terms?' he asked softly, and Laura frowned slightly, wary of him again. 'I - I don't know,' she said. 'I don't mind in the least if you call me Laura - Simon does.' "Then why should I mind if you call me Jean- Pierre?' he countered with a smile. 'Unless, of course, your English tongue finds it too cumbersome to pronounce.' 'Oh no, of course not, I like it very much,' Laura hastened to assure him. She was a little preoccupied, wondering why he had come to the inn this morning, and she did not really notice what she was saying until it was too late. 'I just thought you might not care for it, with you being so much ol—' She stopped there, her eyes wide and horrified at the near-slip she had made, and she was not at all surprised to see a frown drawing at his black brows. The deep grey eyes looked down at her with a glitter in their depths that made her quake inwardly, and even the smile that just touched his wide straight mouth was not in the least humorous. 'So, mon enfant,' he said softly, reaching out with one hand to touch her cheek with his finger-tips. A gentle, stroking gesture that felt at once sensual and oddly menacing. 'You consider me too old to be called by my christian name by a petite ;ike you, eh?' 'Oh no, I didn't say that!' Laura protested, and wished she could do something to recall that unfortunate unfinished sentence. It wasn't as if she had meant it at all, for she would never consider Jean- Pierre too old for anything, and she could not think what on earth had possessed her to imply it. 'But you did,' Jean-Pierre insisted softly, and the twist of his mouth, she thought, looked cruel as he continued to stroke her cheek gently with his finger-tips. 'No doubt you think me old because I knew your

uncle all those years ago,' he went on relentlessly. 'N'est-ce pas, ma petite?' 'I didn't mean it like that!' Laura objected. 'I didn't truly, Jean-Pierre, I just - I just wasn't thinking. I only meant to say that you're - some years older than me and that you might not like me to use your christian name, that's all I meant!' 'So?' She raised her eyes and looked at him steadily, as steadily as her thudding pulses would allow, and she knew she was much too anxious that he should believe her. She was possibly being a little provocative again too, looking at him like that, but somehow she found it difficult to control her behaviour whenever she was with him. 'Please believe me,' she begged, and almost involuntarily leaned her cheek against the strong, stroking fingers, and closed her eyes. He did nothing for a moment, then he withdrew his hand slowly, reluctantly she thought, and felt a twinge of disappointment that he was being so wary of her. 'I will believe you,' he said quietly. 'And you are quite right, of course, whether you meant it that way or not. I am quite a number of years older than you and Simon and I have no right to behave with you as I would with—' A brief shrug of his broad shoulders completed the sentence, and Laura hastily dropped her eyes again. She did not want to think of what he meant. 'Oh, but I've no complaints about - about the way you've behaved to me,' she assured him. 'Please don't think that, Jean-Pierre.' Again he was silent for several seconds, then he slowly shook his head and looked down at her steadily. 'I came to say that I am sorry you have learned about your uncle,' he said, slowly and carefully, as

if he chose his words. 'I did not want you to know of it, Laura. It is distressing for you and it can serve no purpose now.' His concern, she knew, was genuine, but she was not so ready to accept the popular version as he seemed to suppose. 'Simon told me what you all believe to be true,' she said. 'But I refuse to accept it as the truth and I intend to find out what really did happen.' 'So,' he said softly, 'Simon was right, n'est-ce pas? You do mean to go on - probing into what is over and finished? I know well enough what happened, Laura, I was there.' Her eyes automatically went to the faint scar above his right eye, and she bit her lip, the sight of it affecting her more deeply now that she knew how he had got it. 'Simon said you - you were hurt that night,' she said, and he nodded, one long finger going instinctively to his forehead, gently stroking the scar, reminding himself, she guessed. 'I was left for dead,' he said with a bluntness that chilled her. 'But, fortunately, little boys are tough. I was only four years old when it happened, and I was stunned enough to lie still, which is why there is at least one male member of the Herve family left - only one.' 'Your father - died, I know,' Laura said softly, and he nodded. 'I'm sorry about it, Jean-Pierre.' It was difficult to find the right words to fit the moment. Offering sympathy for something that had happened long before she was born was rather bizarre in a way, but she meant it quite seriously, for she knew how much it affected him, and he nodded as if he understood just how she felt. 'Just the same,' she added, 'I refuse to believe that Uncle John had anything to do with it.' Jean-Pierre looked at her steadily for a moment before he spoke. 'I am sorry, Laura,5 he said quietly. 'But who else do you suggest was

to blame? We never saw Monsieur Jean again after that night. He escaped to England.' 'Oh! Oh, I didn't realize that.' Laura felt a sudden cold sense of uncertainty and she bit her lip hard. 'Didn't you know he was going?' she asked, and Jean- Pierre shook his head. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. 'How much did he tell you about his escape that night, Laura?' he asked. Laura took time to think, to get it exactly right, as Uncle John had told it to her many times. 'It had been arranged that he should leave,' she said slowly and carefully, choosing each word, 'because' the Germans were suspicious. Louis Herve, your father, knew about him leaving. He arranged it.' 'Papa?' Jean-Pierre stared at her for a moment, then he swept one impatient hand through the thick blackness of his hair and turned away from her for a moment, his dark grey eyes thoughtful. 'Is that what he told you?' he said quietly, and Laura frowned. 'I happen to believe him,' she said firmly. Jean-Pierre turned and looked at her again, his eyes steady and with a hint of pity in their depths as he reached out a hand again and touched her cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers. 'But of course you believed him,' he said softly. 'You did not know any differently, mon enfant!' Laura clenched her hands at her sides, seeing this as the first of many battles that lay before her if she went on with her quest. 'I believe it because I knew my uncle,' she declared. 'I doubt if you even remember him, you were too young!'

'A moment since I was too old,' Jean-Pierre remarked tersely. 'Now it seems I am too young! You are not consistent, mademoiselle!' 'And you're stubborn and - and pig-headed!' Laura retorted. 'I'll prove you're wrong, you see! And when I do, Jean-Pierre, I'll expect you to apologize humbly!' 'Mon Dieu!' His eyes blazed with anger and for a moment Laura trembled before it, then he reached out for her, gripping her upper arms tightly, his fingers digging into her Soft flesh. 'Insolente, obstinee petite mule! I will not apologize to you, not for anything! Do you hear me?' The heat of his anger burned into her as she was held close to his hard muscular body and she did not even try to escape, although her heart was beating like a wild thing in her breast at the sensation of mingled fear and excitement he aroused in her. His eyes blazed down at her, glittering like coals, and his mouth was a taut straight line that looked cruel and unrelenting. 'You're hurting me!' Her objection sounded light and breathless in the face of such violent emotion and for a moment he held her by her arms, looking down at her as if he was undecided what to do with her, then he bent his head suddenly and brought his mouth down on hers with a force that was almost an assault. The fierceness of it parted her lips and his arms crushed her so close to him that she could feel the strong, erratic beat of his heart as if it beat in her own breast. Laura did not move, except to put her hands up to his broad shoulders, feeling the incredible warmth and strength of flesh and muscle through the dark silk shirt as he strained her to him, holding her mouth with a fierce, angry hunger until her head spun with the need to draw breath. Then his mouth slid slowly down her throat

until his face was buried in the softness of her hair. Strong white teeth nipping lightly at her ear before he pressed his lips to her neck. 'Jean-Pierre!' She whispered his name softly, feeling as if she was surfacing after a long spell under water, pressing her body as close as she could get to his lean strength, nothing loath to encourage the ruthlessness of his arms about her. His strong hands burned her flesh through the cool linen dress and yet again she was swept along, ready and willing to relinquish her natural inhibitions to the fascination of Jean-Pierre. But suddenly she was no longer in his arms, and he stood several inches away, running one hand through his thick black hair, his back half-turned to her, and a deep shuddering breath ran through his body as he fought to regain his composure. Laura stood looking at him, small and trembling, her heart still pounding with the excitement he had aroused in her, gazing at him with wide and only half- believing eyes, unable to see him properly because he stood between her and the little window that looked out on to the street. His sudden and unexpected desertion of her was puzzling, and she wondered if she had, yet again, read more into his actions than he had meant there to be. It would be foolish to pretend that she was unaware of her own attractions as a woman, but she dared not assume that she was sufficiently mature or experienced to attract a man like Jean-Pierre Herve, except as a mere passing fancy, and she curled her fingers into palms that were moist and warm as she tried hard to distinguish his features in the dim atmosphere of the little room, and with his face in the shadows.

'I should not have done that to you, Laura,' he said at last, so quietly that she barely heard the words, and she noticed, vaguely, that his accent was much more pronounced than usual. 'I apologize.' The temptation to smile was too much to resist, no matter how bereft she was feeling at being so suddenly rejected. 'You said you never would,' she reminded him softly, and he turned his head and looked at her for a moment over his shoulder, then slowly the wide mouth tilted into a brief smile of acknowledgment. 'I did,' he agreed quietly. 'But only about - that other matter. This—' He spread his broad, strong hands in a gesture that was almost an appeal. 'I should not treat you so, cherie, I am sorry.' 'Oh, please don't be!' Laura begged huskily. 'I mean,' she explained when he turned and looked at her again with a hint of surprise in his eyes, 'I mean - I was as much to blame as you were, and - and you don't have to blame yourself.' 'You are too generous,' he told her seriously, and Laura bit her lip, suspecting he was mocking her and wishing she could see his face more clearly and judge his expression, but he had his back completely to the window now, and she could tell nothing from the darkly shadowed face above her. 'You will be - sensible about this other matter?' he asked after a few seconds, and she looked up at him hastily, a small suspicious frown drawing at her brows. 'If you mean about finding out who really—-' 'I mean about disturbing long-forgotten things,5 Jean-Pierre interrupted swiftly. 'It can do no one any good, Laura, and it could cause much - how is it? Soulevement - upset, oui?' Laura looked at him steadily, wanting his support more than anything, her eyes appealing for his understanding but knowing in

her heart that he would never see it her way until she brought him the proof he refused to believe existed. 'You think I should go on letting everyone think that Uncle John was a - a traitor?' she asked, with a hint of bitterness in her voice, and he held her gaze for a moment. Then, with a light shrug of his shoulders, he ran his hand through his" hair again, in a gesture of despair and impatience. 'I think that you should not try to run away from the truth,' he said, and Laura frowned. 'I'm trying to run after it,' she argued, her mouth set firmly, refusing to even consider his argument. 'You're running away,' Jean-Pierre insisted quietly. 'Refusing to accept what everyone here has known and believed for over thirty years.' The deep grey eyes looked down at her with a hint of compassion, as if he could guess exactly how she felt, for all he could not agree with her. 'You must face up to it sooner or later, Laura, you cannot run from the truth any more than you can run from - from the wind. It follows you, no matter how much you try and escape it. Much better to leave things as they are, petite.' The soft, quiet voice, the expression in his eyes were almost too much for her, but Laura was determined and if it concerned her uncle, she would not yield an inch. 'I'm sorry; Jean-Pierre,' she said adamantly, and met the now steady and condemning gaze with a thudding heart. She hated to have to go against him, yet again, but he would see it no other way and she had no choice. 'I -1 can't just leave it,' she said. 'You must see that.' 'I think you mean you will not,' he told her with harsh bluntness. 'And I see only that you are being very foolish if you insist in going on with this.' 'I'm sorry.'

She did not look at him, but she knew he was looking down at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable, his mouth set firm. 'Tres bien!' he said shortly, and turned on his heel suddenly, ducking his head as he went through the low doorway, not once turning his head. 'Adieu, mademoiselle!' There was such an air of finality about that 'adieu' that Laura bit her lip hard as she watched him go off into the sunshine with a long, angry stride. She had a sinkingly cold feeling in her stomach and her eyes were dark with unhappiness as she lightly touched her lips with one finger, where only minutes before he had kissed her so fervently. Even his kiss, she thought, had been given in anger.

CHAPTER NINE LAURA found that even starting her quest was much more difficult from what she had anticipated, for she . had no idea who to speak to first, and she found the prospect of simply walking up to complete strangers and telling them her name and what she wanted to know almost too dismaying to contemplate. She had left the inn and walked along the quiet of the village street with every intention of speaking to the first elderly person she saw and asking them if they remembered, or had ever known John Douglas, or Monsieur Jean, but her nerve failed her and she eventually gave up and went back to the inn, although she disliked giving up so soon and admitting defeat, even to herself. If only she could have seen Simon it would have been a help, she felt, for she would at least have had someone to take her mind off her problems. But Simon was taking his mother to Meaux for the day and would not be back until late evening. Eventually she fetched the hire car from the car-park at the back of the inn and drove out of the village, along the road she had taken once before on her own. The tall, soldier-like poplars that lined the road cast long, straight shadows like the bars of a cage, or, in places, where they clustered together in groups, made shapes like dusty clouds on the roadway, and she succumbed at last, driving the car on to the wide grass verge beside the road. She got out and sat for a while in the cool shade, her expression thoughtful, twirling a stem of grass between her teeth, and frowned suddenly, gazing at the plucked grass, her lips pursed. It had reminded her of someone else she had seen recently, doing just that same thing - nibbling a piece of grass. The gesture had then seemed oddly out of character, a curiously youthful trick for an older woman.

Her heart thudded hard at her ribs when she contemplated the idea of Cecile Justin, gazing at the single stem of grass between her fingers, then she got to her feet suddenly, her mind made up. If anyone could help her find the truth it was Cecile Justin, for she must have known John Douglas as well as anyone in St. Louis les Bigots, if she had been in love with him, as Simon claimed. The Frenchwoman had said that she often came and sat by the river, and it was possible that she would be there today if she could manage to avoid her elder nephew, although what Laura would say or do when she met her again, she had no real idea. She squeezed herself through the same gap in the fence that she had found the first time she came, giving a momentary thought as she did so to the possible effect of her questions on the disturbed mind of the strange, unworldly woman she had met only once before. She dared not even think what Jean-Pierre would say or do if ever he discovered that she had questioned his aunt, but she shrugged off the thought of that uneasily. It was all in a good cause, she told herself, and thrust out her lower lip determinedly as she walked across the cool smoothness of the meadow towards the river. As on the first occasion when she had ventured across this way, the first thing that struck her about her surroundings was the blessed coolness and the air of peace and tranquillity. It was quiet, with the stillness disturbed only by the soft chatter of birds in the trees, and the drowsy sound of bees, with the river, when she got nearer to the water, making its own little murmur of sound. As she had then, she took off her sandals and sat on the river bank in the shade of the poplars, hugging her knees and wondering if she really would be able to speak to Cecile Justin any more easily than she had to the people in the village, should she happen to put in an appearance.

She did not have long to wonder if the older woman would come or not, for she suddenly saw her in the distance, a tall, thin figure in a strangely old-fashioned dress, coming along from the direction of a flimsy-looking structure of wood and iron that she had not noticed on her last visit. It appeared to be nothing more than two planks and a handhold iron rail that spanned the width of the river and gave access to the field she was in, presumably serving the same service, less elegantly, as the little brought iron bridge on the other side of the chateau's state. The bridge that Jean-Pierre had crossed to join her when she had gone to look at the chateau for the first time, and been so summarily advised not to do so again. There was no mistaking that the woman coming towards her was Cecile Justin, and already she had one hand raised in a greeting that Laura acknowledged with an odd feeling of regret in her heart. Although she had seen Jean-Pierre's aunt only once before Laura felt a strange sense of protectiveness towards her, and she knew as she watched her come closer that she would not have the necessary callousness to risk hurting her further with questions about her uncle. She sighed deeply and could raise only a faint, wry smile when she realized her own weakness. Cecile Justin was incredibly graceful, she noticed, and still walked with the easy unselfconsciousness of a young girl, despite her claim to fifty-six years. It was easy to imagine that she must have been quite a handsome girl in her youth, when John Douglas knew her, and Laura took a moment to wonder why he had not loved her in return. 'Mademoiselle!' she cried delightedly as soon as she came within hailing distance. Her dark eyes beamed a welcome and she was so obviously glad to see her that Laura felt another twinge of conscience for her original intention. 'It is so agreable to see you again!' she said,

and looked at Laura for a moment with her head on one side in an oddly coquettish manner. 'But you are alone again, n'est-ce pas? Her shaking head and pursed lips obviously implied criticism for Jean-Pierre, and Laura could foresee herself being the one who would be answering questions. 'I like to be alone sometimes, Mademoiselle Justin,' Laura told her, and the older woman nodded understanding. 'Ah, oui, that is comprehensible,' she said. 'It is good to sit here and and think.' 'It's so lovely here,' Laura agreed, her eyes watching the pale thin face with its dark eyes and air of vulnerability. There was no sign that she knew who Laura was and she realized that it was most unlikely that either of her nephews would have thought it advisable to tell her. It was, now she had seen her again, even more unthinkable that Laura herself could tell her. Cecile Justin's dark eyes looked at her curiously as she sat down on the grass beside her, curling her feet under her like a girl, as she had done on that first occasion, one slim hand pushing back a stray wisp of hair from her forehead. 'I hope that you have not quarrelled with Jean-Pierre again,' she said with a mock frown. 'To quarrel sometimes can be - how is it? - plaisant - when one is in love, but I fear that Jean- Pierre is a man who likes too much his own way, hmm?' 'Oh, but, mademoiselle— Laura began, but Cecile Justin proved that she had one thing at least in common with her autocratic nephew, she gave her no time to finish, but reached across and covered Laura's two hands with one of her own, looking up into her face for a moment.

'You have not quarrelled again with Jean-Pierre, have you, ma petite?' she asked. 'I will scold him if he has made you unhappy again!' 'Oh no, please, mademoiselle,' Laura said hastily. 'I'd rather you didn't say anything to Jean-Pierre about seeing me again, he - he might get the wrong impression if he knew you'd seen me fitting out here on my own again.' 'Ah!' Cecile Justin tapped the side of her nose knowingly. 'He would not—' She laughed softly, as if at some secret joke, her eyes bright and curious as she looked at Laura's uneasy expression. 'But you have not - what is it you say? - fallen out, huh?' Laura shook her head. She could not imagine Jean- Pierre doing anything as undignified as falling out with her, the had simply walked off and left her in no doubt about his opinion of her and her stubbornness. 'No, mademoiselle, we haven't quarrelled,' she said with a smile. 'I -1 just wanted to be alone for a while, that's all, and it's so lovely here - I thought no one would mind if I came again.' 'Mais non, certainement, come as often as you would like, ma chere!' Cecile told her, and Laura smiled her gratitude, although she doubted if Jean- Pierre would agree. 'Thank you, mademoiselle.' They sat in complete silence for a moment, and Laura watched the sun on the smooth, unruffled surface of the river, but she could feel Cecile Justin's bright black eyes on her, and she guessed she was seeking in her unreliable mind for her name. Probably thinking she had heard it and forgotten it. 'Why does Jean-Pierre not bring you to the chateau?' she asked suddenly, and Laura stared at her for a moment, her heart in her mouth as she sought for an answer. She had not visualized Jean-

Pierre's women-friends being welcome at the chateau and she foresaw difficulties in that direction. 'Oh, I don't think we're - I mean I don't think Jean- Pierre feels that our relationship is really close enough for me to Visit his home,' Laura explained, choosing her words carefully. Remembering their last meeting and what Simon had told her about his aunt's reaction to it, she had a pretty good idea that every word she uttered would be relayed to the rest of the family, including Jean-Pierre. Cecile laughed softly, shaking her head, her bright eyes approving what she saw. 'Ah, but you are not as—' expressive hands conveyed more than words. 'You are different from the ones that they say JeanPierre favours,' she said quietly. 'He will bring you to see us, I think, and poor Mignon, his mama, will give thanks to le bon Dieu that he has at last made a choice!' She leaned forward and put a slim gentle hand on Laura's cheek, a sad sweet smile on her pale face. 'You are very young, ma chere, but you are the right choice for Jean-Pierre, I think.' Laura shook her head earnestly, seeing this as very dangerous ground, and certainly not wishing to have this part of their conversation carried back to Jean- Pierre. He would be furious about such a misunderstanding and no doubt see Laura as partly to blame for it. 'Mademoiselle Justin, you don't understand,' she said. 'I - I'm not Jean-Pierre and I have nothing like that between us. We - we just know each other, that's all. There's nothing else, I assure you, certainly not what you suggest!' But she might just as well not have spoken, Laura realized a moment later when she looked at Cecile Justin, for her bright, dark eyes were strangely distant and it was obvious that she was off in some world of her own. 'Oh, how I remember,' she said softly, her hands clasped

together until the knuckles showed white, a faint smile on her pale face. lMon cher Jean!' Laura's spine tingled and she leaned forward, almost without realizing she was doing it. 'Jean?' she asked softly, and Cecile Justin looked at her vaguely for a moment. 'They died,' she said in a small, hushed voice that sounded as if she would burst into tears at any moment. 'They were not meant to die never, never!' 'Mademoiselle!' Laura took the two thin hands in her own in a strangely gentle gesture, afraid that the older woman would break if she touched her too roughly. There was an odd air of fragility about her and not for anything would Laura have hurt her, but she was so close now, and the temptation was so great that she was not sure she could resist it. Cecile Justin looked at her for a moment as if she had never seen her before, then she frowned. 'I do not know your name, mademoiselle,' she said then, in a low, slightly husky voice, and Laura remembered how like her uncle she had always been considered. 'What is your name, mademoiselle? What are you doing here? We do not have tourists here!' 'I'm on holiday, mademoiselle,' Laura reminded her gently. 'Don't you remember?' For a moment the bright dark eyes looked at Laura with an air of puzzled confusion, then she put a hand to her forehead. 'You remind me - your eyes, mademoiselle, you are so like Jean. I cannot say how it is, but-' There was no other way, Laura realized. She had no alternative but to admit who she was, and she took the two restless hands in her own,

as gentle as she knew how. 'John Douglas was my uncle, Mademoiselle Justin,' she said softly. 'My name's Laura Douglas.' For a moment she thought Cecile Justin would faint. There was even less colour in her cheeks and her eyes had a blank, distant look that appalled Laura as she sat there holding her hands still. 'Non/' The harshness of the cry made Laura pull back and she felt a flutter of fear in her heart as Cecile Justin got to her feet, clumsily and with none of the youthful grace she usually displayed. 'I'm - I'm sorry, mademoiselle,' Laura apologized. 'I didn't want you to know, I wouldn't have told you, but—' Cecile Justin was in no state to listen to reasonable explanations, however, and she snatched her hands from Laura's with another cry, stepping back when Laura too got to her feet. 'Allez-vous-en!' she cried, waving her hands agitatedly, as if she was shooing Laura away. 'Mademoiselle Justin, please!' The entreaty was in vain, for Cecile Justin was beyond reason and she simply turned from Laura and ran along the river bank. Across the sunny meadow and along the narrow plank bridge while Laura watched her go, her heart thudding heavily in fear in case she should miss her footing and fall into the river in her agitation. The very situation she had sought to avoid had occurred, and it had been none of her seeking, although Laura doubted if that was the way Jean-Pierre was going to see it. What Jean-Pierre thought was of the utmost importance to her at the moment, and Laura stood there for a long time, watching the thin, ghost-like figure of Cecile Justin stumbling across the meadows on the farther side of the river, towards the chateau, almost hidden in its guardian trees. Almost without her realizing it a warm trickle of tears

ran down her cheeks and drew a haze over the sight of the fleeing woman.

It was something of a surprise to see Simon the next morning, for Laura had felt sure that everyone at the chateau would ostracize her from now on, except to advise her to leave the village and never come back, and she welcomed him with a small, wary smile as he turned to greet her. She had put on a dark green nylon jersey dress with long sleeves, feeling that it matched her sober mood much better than one of her more usual light ones. She must have looked as woebegone as she felt too, for Simon pulled a wry face at her as she came down the stairs and came across to kiss her cheek lightly, his fingers squeezing hers encouragingly. 'Courage, ma cherie!' he encouraged her. 'I do not like to see you look so sad!' Laura looked up at him hopefully, although for him to be in ignorance of the facts would simply mean that the dreaded moment would be delayed. 'Haven't - haven't you seen your aunt since she came back to the chateau?' she asked, and Simon shrugged, raising her fingers to his lips and kissing them gently. 'I have seen her,' he said. 'I have also heard her, ma petite, but so far Jean-Pierre has not.' He looked down at her with one black brow raised inquiringly. "That is what you are concerned for, n'est-ce pas?' he asked softly, and Laura felt the colour warm her cheeks as she bit her lip. 'He - isn't he at home?' she asked, and Simon shook his head.

'Not yet, cherie.' Laura said nothing for several moments. It was all too easy to remember that both Simon and Cecile Justin had mentioned the affairs that Jean-Pierre kept so discreetly away from his home and his family. It was quite usual, she supposed, that he would seek that kind of consolation in moments of stress, but she found the idea of him being with another woman made her both angry and disturbingly jealous. It was quite ridiculous for her to feel the way she did, for she had known Jean-Pierre Herve such a little time that it could only be infatuation for a very attractive man, older than herself, that she was experiencing. Nothing more, certainly not love. 'I see,' she said at last, and in such a way that one of Simon's black brows shot upwards in comment and he lifted her chin with one hand and kissed her gently on her mouth. 'I do not think you do see, cherie,' he told her, a small, and annoyingly understanding smile on his lips. 'Where do you imagine he is, huh?' 'Oh, I don't know!' Laura declared shortly, and turned herself away from him, feeling the colour in her cheeks. 'I know Jean-Pierre has other - interests. He doesn't spend all his time at the chateau.' She looked at him over her shoulder, unable to resist a sly little dig. 'And he is a Frenchman, after all!' To her chagrin he laughed aloud at her malice, shaking his head at her in mock reproach. 'And so am I, cherie,' he said. 'Would you blame us for that?' 'Oh, I'm not blaming you - or Jean-Pierre,' Laura told him, a sparkle of anger in her eyes. 'And I know it's supposed to be your - your national sport, isn't it?' She was growing rash in her anger, and it was

not Simon she was angry with really, it was the thought of JeanPierre with some other woman that drove her on to further indiscretion. Vive I'amour! Isn't that what you say?' 'Something like that,' Simon agreed with a smile, refusing to become as angry as she was herself . 'But you are much too angry about something that does not involve you, mon petit choux, are you not?" Taking time to think coolly for a moment, Laura looked at him, her grey eyes searching his face for the meaning of his words. 'I - I suppose I am,' she admitted after a while. 'But when you said that Jean- Pierre—' She stopped there and shrugged, as if it did not concern her what or where Jean-Pierre was or did. Simon's smile was all too knowing, and she clenched her hands at her sides, as she faced him. 'This time, ma belle,' he said softly, 'he is in Paris on business, not with a—' He shrugged meaningly. 'He will be angry when he returns, I think.' 'He'll be furious,' Laura said with rueful certainty, but she could have hugged him for relieving her mind on one point at least. She looked up at him after a moment. 'I - I suppose your mother knows about me now, Simon?' 'I am afraid so, cherie,' Simon replied, and hugged her close for a moment, kissing her mouth gently. 'That is why I am here - because I could not bear two women behaving as if you were somehow is it you say? Some monstre! It is stupide to dwell on things that happened so long ago! As if they can matter now, after so long!' Laura smiled at him, grateful for his support, but unable to agree with him entirely. 'I can see their point of view, Simon, in one way,' she said. 'I know it was a long time ago that Uncle John was here, but I'm as anxious to learn the truth as if it was yesterday.'

For a moment Simon looked down at her curiously and in that shrewdly questioning look she could detect a brief resemblance to Jean-Pierre. 'Did you ask questions of Tante Cecile?' he asked, and Laura looked at him reproachfully. 'No, Simon, of course I didn't question her ! You should know I wouldn't.' He smiled wryly, one dark brow flicking upwards in brief comment. 'I could not be so sure, ma petite, that you would not! You are very determined, and you would defend your uncle to the death, I think!' Laura sighed deeply. She had no wish for Madame St. Just to be upset by her presence in the village, in fact nothing had been further from her mind, when she came to St. Louis les Bigots, than to cause anyone any unhappiness, but the damage had been done now and she regretted it deeply. It would have been so much less disturbing if she could have first discovered the truth about her uncle's hasty departure from the chateau that night, and then made herself known to Madame St. Just. Jean-Pierre's inevitable reaction to her rashness troubled her too, and she stood for a moment looking down at her clasped hands, wishing desperately that she could recall those few emotional moments when she had impulsively told Cecile Justin who she was. Jean-Pierre, she told herself, would never forgive her. 'I want to unearth the truth about Uncle John,' she told Simon earnestly, 'but not at the expense of your family's peace of mind, Simon. I wish I hadn't told your aunt who I am, but there's nothing I can do about it now, and I honestly believe that she'd already guessed that I was someone related to Uncle John. She said how much like him I was, and she asked me my name.' She looked up at Simon appealingly, knowing that he would be much more forgiving and understanding than Jean-Pierre would, for he was not so closely

involved. She sighed again and shook her head. 'There was nothing else I could do but tell her who I was, Simon.' Simon reached out and touched her cheek gently with one hand, a gesture that inevitably reminded her of Jean-Pierre, so that she instinctively closed her eyes for a second. 'Of course there was nothing else you could do, ma cherie,' he said softly. 'It is all such a a - how is it you say?' He sought for words to convey his meaning and Laura followed his reasoning easily enough, although she did not agree with his decision. 'It's not just a storm in a tea-cup, Simon;' she told him quietly, and her voice was husky with emotions that could all too easily get out of hand. 'It affects too many people, too deeply, to be dismissed like that.' 'But it makes me very angry that you should be blamed for something that happened so many years before you were born,' Simon declared firmly, and his good-looking features were set into an expression of sternness that sat strangely on him, so that Laura smiled faintly as she shook her head. 'I don't think they exactly blame me for what happened all that time ago,' she said. 'Only for refusing to believe that my uncle was a traitor. It's my raising the past that they resent - Jean-Pierre, your mother and—' She shrugged uneasily. 'I can't really blame them in a way, it must have been a very unhappy time for them. Something they don't want reminding of.' Simon too shrugged, a much more Gallic gesture that conveyed a great deal more than words, and his black, expressive eyes gleamed down at her for a moment before he reached out and drew her close to him. 'I will not allow anyone to make you so unhappy,' he said firmly. 'You look at me with such sad, beautiful eyes, mon choux, it makes me sad too. Mon dieu, why should we have to suffer for those

times? Let Jean- Pierre and Maman live in their precious wartime days, cherie, you and I will forget all about it and go somewhere and enjoy ourselves, n'est-ce pas?' Laura smiled after a second or two, although it was a small wan smile that did not reach her eyes as she traced the outline of his shirt pocket with one finger, her eyes hidden by the long sweep of her lashes. 'I wish I could forget all about it, Simon,' she said quietly. 'But it's not as easy as you seem to think.' 'Oh, Laura! Ma belle!' He hugged her closer and his mouth brushed lightly and caressingly against her forehead and her eyes. 'For me you will try to forget and be happy again, huh?' He held her away from him briefly and pulled a wry face. 'I am so tired of seeing long, gloomy faces and of hearing nothing but the wartime days, ma petite!' He kissed her on the very tip of her nose. 'Come, cherie, I will drive you to a place you have not been before, somewhere very special. We will eat and drink and then—' His black eyes rolled expressively to convey the rest of his meaning, and Laura smiled despite herself. 'I'm certainly ready to eat and drink,' she told him, and Simon pulled another rueful face at her careful exclusion of the rest of his suggestion. His arms tightened around her, pressing her to him, and he nuzzled the softness of her neck, his voice muffled by her hair. 'When you have eaten and drunk plenty of good wine, and when you learn the surprise I have for you, mon petit choux,' he whispered against her ear, 'then we will see if you are still unwilling to do as I ask!' They drove much further from the village than they had ever gone before and Laura wondered if Simon did have some specific destination in mind. Very often he did not when they came for a drive, but she felt sure he had been hinting at something definite

when he had promised her a surprise, and some little tingle of anticipation curled inside her as they sped on, past signposts that pointed towards Paris, Pontoise and Goumay. It was when they turned off the main highway on to a narrow, treebordered lane that Laura realized they had been travelling for just two hours, and she smiled at Simon curiously when he turned his head and cocked a querying brow at her. 'You are curious, cherie?' he asked softly, and Laura nodded. 'We've driven a long way,' she said. 'Much further than we've ever been before; you must have a good reason.' 'I have.' He turned the car into what looked like the entrance to a private estate and she looked at him again, a small frown drawing at her brows when he drove on down the length of a tree-lined carriageway, then applied the brakes and cut the engine, turning in his seat to smile at her. 'Where are we?' she asked, and he looked at her for a moment, enjoying her mystification. "This is the Chateau du Rocher,' he fold her, knowing full well that she was none the wiser, and he smiled, putting a finger under her chin and lightly kissing her lips. 'It is a restaurant,' he informed her. 'A very good one, ma petite' Laura looked up at the impressive towers and jutting turrets of the chateau and frowned doubtfully. It looked every bit as grand as the Chateau St. Clair and just as private. 'It looks much more like a private residence, Simon,' she said. 'Are you sure you haven't made a mistake?' 'Quite sure,' he informed her with confidence, and came round to help her from the car. 'It was once the home of the Due de St. Georges.'

He shrugged. 'Now it is one of the most exclusive restaurants in France.' 'I see.' Her reticence was obvious and she hung back a little on the hand that slid under her elbow, very conscious suddenly of the inexpensive simplicity of her frock and the informality of Simon's dress, but he seemed unperturbed and tugged at her arm when she lingered. 'What is wrong, Laura?' he asked. 'Is it that you are feeling - how is it? Little?' He seemed to find the idea unexpectedly amusing, but Laura did not and she still hung back. 'We're not exactly dressed for a place as grand as this, Simon,' she told him. 'Can't we go to somewhere a little more - more informal?' Simon stopped in the vast and impressive doorway of the chateau and looked down at her with a challenging lift in one black brow. 'So—' he said, 'you do feel - out of place?' 'Not in the way you mean,' Laura denied, following his meaning easily enough. 'It's just that I'd rather go somewhere more in keeping with the way I'm dressed. I'm not being snobbish, Simon, but it stands to reason that anyone coming here to eat will not only be wellto- do, but look it too, and I'm not dressed for caviar and smoked salmon, any more than you are.' 'Ah! I see!' His black eyes glittered for a moment with laughter. 'You think we shall be - how is it? Thrown out, oui?' 'I think we might very well be,' Laura replied shortly. 'We might well be refused admission dressed as we are.' Simon bent his head and kissed her lightly beside her mouth, the laughter still in his eyes. 'Mais non, chirie, do not worry! Paul

Meisair is my cousin, he will not throw us out, he will welcome us. I have not seen him for many years!' The owner?' Laura guessed, and felt only a little less apprehensive at the idea of being given a meal merely - on the strength of family ties. 'The owner,' Simon agreed, and lifted her chin with one finger, planting a firm, lingering kiss on her mouth. 'Does that not comfort you, mon petit choux?' 'Not really,' Laura admitted frankly, that tingling sense of anticipation niggling at her again. 'Simon, why did you really bring me here?' He said nothing for several seconds as they stood in the open doorway of the chateau, with, once or twice, people crossing the huge tapestried hall inside, and Laura thought he looked more thoughtful than she had ever seen him. He had promised her a surprise and she suddenly knew without doubt that whatever was in store for her was here, at the Chateau du Rocher. He looked down at her and smiled suddenly, a wry, half-wary smile that had the effect of making her heart beat even more rapidly as she met his eyes. Then he shrugged lightly, obviously uneasy, and she waited for him to go on. 'I was, perhaps, a little rash,' he said at last, speaking slowly, as if he chose every word carefully. 'But I was trying to do something to - to help, Laura. I have just recently learned something and I thought you should know in the circumstances. You see, cherie— His hesitation was unbearable to Laura, watching him so anxiously, and she put a hand on his arm, urging him to come to the point, to say whatever it was he was hesitating over. 'What is it, Simon, please?"

His shoulders shrugged again, more eloquent than words, and Laura almost held her breath. 'As you see, we are very much closer to the coast here,' he told her, and Laura nodded impatiently. 'It was Jacques Meisair, Paul's father, who helped your uncle to escape that night, cherie.'

CHAPTER TEN LAURA had thought herself so hungry when she arrived at last at their destination that she expected to enjoy her meal as she always did after a long drive, but all thought of food and drink was banished from her mind by Simon's announcement that she was to meet one of the men who had helped her uncle to escape that fateful night all those years ago.; Jacques Meisair and his son Paul were related to Simon on his father's side, but the relationship was somewhat more distant than the cousins Simon claimed them as. But however distant the relationship it made no difference to the very warm welcome they received and both their host and his father proved to be very charming men. Paul Meisair, the owner and manager of the Chateau du Rocher, eyed Laura with dark-eyed, Gallic speculation and teased Simon, discreetly, about settling down and having a family of his own. It was a suggestion that Simon laughed off with a shrug, but he gave Laura a sly wink as he did so, and she guessed that he was not averse to giving his relations something to think about. Old Jacques Meisair was a little hard of hearing and also had very poor sight, but he was a gallant old man with beautiful manners, and was genuinely pleased to see his young, if distant, cousin again. 'You have neglected us for too long, Simon,' he told him, as their excellent meal came to an end. 'But we will forgive you for staying away so long now that you have brought Mademoiselle Douglas to see us, eh, Paul?' The old man gave her surname its British pronunciation, but Laura wondered if he would have recognized it in its French form. It was quite possible, of course, that he had never known her uncle as anything other than Monsieur Jean, his code-name, in which case the Douglas part of it would mean nothing to him. Somehow she had to

bring the conversation round to the matter that was so near to her heart at the moment, and she wondered if she could rely on Simon to help her do so. Jacques Meisair raised his glass to her and she smiled across the table at him, but her eyes betrayed something of the anxiety she felt to ask him about his connection with her uncle. 'Salut, mademoiselle,' he said softly. 'May you stay with us for many months to come!' 'I'd like to, Monsieur Meisair,' Laura told him. 'But I was supposed only to stay two weeks and I've been here three already. I was hoping—' She glanced at Simon, seeking his support. Simon took the initiative smoothly from her, his good-looking face sober and thoughtful. He did not, Laura noticed, look directly at Jacques Meisair when he spoke. 'Laura,' he said quietly, 'is the niece of John Douglas, cousin Jacques - Monsieur Jean.' 'Ah!' For a moment the old man was silent and Laura saw yet another blank wall facing her. Then he raised his head suddenly and smiled slowly, a small wry smile. 'Your face had a certain - familiarity, mademoiselle,' he said quietly. 'You are, I think, much like your uncle to look at, n'est-ce pas?' 'I am supposed to be like Uncle John,' Laura agreed. 'He died a little while ago, Monsieur Mei- sair.' 'Tragique!' the old man sighed, shaking his hea:d. "He was a young man, mademoiselle!' He looked at her with soft, kindly eyes. 'Does that explain that appeal in your eyes, mon enfant?' he asked softly. 'I - I was very fond of him,' Laura said. Her voice felt choked in her throat and her hands were trembling so that she held them tightly together on the table in front of her. 'I - I understand from Simon that

you helped my uncle escape from France, monsieur, do - do you remember him? 'Naturellement!' the old man replied gravely. 'He was an easy man to remember, and one had heard much of him.' Laura raised wide and appealing eyes to him, wondering if he could possibly realize how important this was to her. 'You - you liked him, monsieur?' 'I liked him,' Jacques Meisair agreed quietly. 'He was a very brave man, and he would have been a dead one if he had not got away that night.' 'Monsieur,' Laura clasped and unclasped her hands nervously, 'do you - do you believe my uncle betrayed his friends to the enemy? Do you believe he could do such a thing, Monsieur Meisair?' It was a plea that had her heart in it, and she knew that the old man realized how important it was to her to have the right answer, probably much better than Simon did or his own son, but her heart sank like a cold, heavy stone within her when he hesitated for several seconds before he answered her. His hesitation had been enough, but he was shaking his head too, and Laura could have cried aloud. 'How does one know a man well enough to decide such a thing, mon enfant?' he asked gently. 'I knew him only by the deeds he had done, but I met him only once, the night I helped him along to the next step of his journey to the coast and safety. I would have trusted my life to such a man as I judged him to be, but how could I know him so well as to answer you with the certainty that you hope for, mon enfant? 'I - I see.' She did not look at Simon because she knew that she would see pity for her in his eyes, and could not bear any more pity than the old man opposite her had given. Thank you, monsieur.''

'Oh, ma chere, how I wish I could have - consoled you!' The old man reached out for her hand and closed his gnarled fingers over hers, his sympathy almost too much for her self-control, and she bit back the tears that threatened only with difficulty. 'What can I say to you?' Laura raised her eyes, determined not to make a fool of herself by crying. 'It makes no difference to my own convictions, monsieur,' she told him quietly. 'I know my uncle couldn't do anything so despicable, but I was - I was hoping that you could have been the first to share my conviction.' She swallowed hard and, after a moment, managed to go on. 'I - I'd like to hear what happened when he came here that night, monsieur,' she said. 'If you don't mind talking about it.' 'Mais non, naturellement! There is little enough I can tell you, mademoiselle. I received word, through the usual sources, that someone would be coming along the escape route the following night and would arrive in about two days. Travelling was very difficult those days, you will understand. It is about one hundred and sixty kilometres from St. Louis les Bigots to this point in the route and one could not be sure just how long it would take. Monsieur Jean was lucky, he arrived in only two days.' Laura leaned forward, anxious to miss nothing that could be of use. 'How did you learn he was coming, monsieur?' she asked. 'I mean, who told you he would be coming? Was it Monsieur Herve?5 'Louis Herve?' He shook his head. 'Mais non, mademoiselle. I never knew who told me. The message would come along the line and I must prepare, that is all I knew.' 'Oh, I see.' Laura saw yet another hope fade, for if she could have produced proof that Louis Herve had sent the message about her uncle's escape it would surely have convinced Jean-Pierre and his mother. The obvious did not even occur to her at the moment.

Jacques Meisair shook his head sadly, sensing her bitter disappointment. 'I am sorry, mon enfant,' he said with his gentle courtesy. 'But do you not think that I would have cleared the name of such a man as Monsieur Jean was reputed to be, if it was within my power?' 'Oh yes, yes, of course you would have,' Laura said with a wan smile. The bitter disappointment she felt was almost unbearable and she almost wished she had not come. 'I was expecting too much,' she admitted, after a moment. 'I'm sorry to have dragged you into my my probing, Monsieur Meisair, please forgive me.' The old man's dimmed, dark eyes looked at her for a moment shrewdly, then he too smiled ruefully. 'You are of Monsieur Jean's blood, mademoiselle,' he said softly. 'You will not give up very easily, I think.'

It seemed appropriate to Laura, somehow, that the lovely sunny weather they had started out in should have changed so soon to rain and dark overcast skies. It suited her own mood of gloomy disappointment and she stared out of the car windows at the downpour that almost obliterated the landscape. Something of her disappointment, she guessed, was shared by Simon, for she thought he had had high hopes of the visit to his distant cousins. He should have known, of course, as she herself should have, that if her uncle's name could have been cleared so easily, it would have been done long ago. She had not properly thanked him either, she suddenly realized, for driving her nearly a hundred miles so that she could try and piece together something of the jigsaw that had been her uncle's last few

days in France. It was not his fault that the quest had been fruitless and she should not make him suffer her own bitter mood. She turned and looked at his good-looking face for a moment before putting a gentle hand on his arm, and when he tamed and looked down at her briefly, she smiled. 'Thank you, Simon,' she said softly. 'I'm very grateful.' 'It did no good,' Simon said ruefully, and pulled a face. 'I had thought to be of help, cherie.' 'I know you did,' Laura consoled him. 'And that's why I'm grateful because you tried to help instead of simply accepting the story that everyone else believes.' For a moment he was silent, and she thought how much more he was like Jean-Pierre when he was in a sober and thoughtful mood. 'Perhaps it is easier for me not to believe it, cherie,' he said slowly. 'I was not - involved as others were.' He was defending his family, she realized, and for a moment stopped to think that perhaps his helping her was much more of a chore than she appreciated. He had been brought up to believe that her uncle was the cause of his mother's being widowed the first time and for the deaths of many of his compatriots, and yet he had helped her, tried to produce evidence that his family and his countrymen were wrong and she was right. 'Just the same,' Laura said softly, 'I'm very grateful, Simon, and I'd I'd like you to know that.' 'Bon!' He turned and gave her one of his black-eyed, suggestive smiles, seeking to restore normality instead of the gloom that had enveloped them ever since they left the Chateau du Rocher. 'Now I think you will have to be very - nice to me, huh?'

'I'm always nice to you,' Laura retorted with a smile, deliberately misunderstanding. 'Ah, petit sans-cceur!' he scolded softly. 'You know too well what I mean, mon choux!' 'I do,' Laura agreed, and laughed again, then almost immediately sobered when she remembered something else that She had yet to face. 'Your aunt,' she said briefly. 'I'd forgotten about her, Simon. Jean- Pierre will be furious about me telling her who I was, and if your mother knows about me too—' She sighed deeply and Simon gave her a swift glance over his shoulder, his black eyes speculative. 'I think, chirie,' he said after a moment, 'that you are more concerned about Jean-Pierre being angry with you than about anything else, n'est-ce pas? 'Not at all,' Laura denied hastily, hoping he had not noticed the warm colour in her cheeks at the implication of his words. 'I just don't—' 'I do not think,' Simon went on, ignoring her attempts at denial, 'that I will ever persuade you to be as nice to me as I would wish while Jean-Pierre is here.' 'I don't think there's any chance of his being anything but absolutely furious with me for the rest of his life,' Laura declared with certainty, and sighed. 'If only your cousin could have—' She shrugged resignedly. 'I suppose I was counting too much on there being someone who could tell what really happened,' she said. 'If I could have come back with some sort of proof, no matter how little, I could have convinced Jean-Pierre, I'm sure I could.' 'I too am sure that you could,' Simon agreed unexpectedly, and laughed shortly when Laura looked at him, swiftly curious. 'He is only too willing to be convinced by you, ma chine,' Simon went on.

'He will be angry only because your presence here has upset our mother and disturbed poor Tante Cecile even more. It is not you he is angry with, cherie, but the circumstances that make it impossible for him to be anything else.' For a moment Laura's heart leapt hopefully in her breast and she put a hand to steady its wild beating, then once again sighed deeply. 'It doesn't alter the fact that he'll be angry enough to get Frangois Verdan to evict me from the inn,' she said. 'He'll make sure I don't stay on in St. Louis les Bigots, Simon, he's said as much, more than once, and he means it.' 'Perhaps.' Simon shrugged non-committally. 'We shall soon see, ma chere, we are almost back.' The dark coolness of the forest had a grim desolate look in the pouring rain, with the branches of the trees dripping like falling tears. The cars that had been parked at the roadside had gone, their owners long since fled from the deluge - and Laura wondered how she would ever face Jean-Pierre's inevitable anger. They drove into the little village at Simon's usual breakneck speed and drew up outside the inn, its door now closed, instead of standing open with hospitable invitation as it more normally was. The sight of it gave Laura a momentary sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as her imagination saw Jean-Pierre's influence already at work, and herself locked out in the street in the pouring rain. Simon was frowning as he peered through the windscreen at another car parked only a few feet ahead of them, and Laura followed his gaze curiously, her teeth biting into her lip when she recognized the vehicle as Jean-Pierre's. Evidently she was to be dispatched without delay, and he had even come to the inn to do the job himself rather than delegate it to the landlord.

'Jean-Pierre,' Simon said softly, and shrugged. 'Ah well - courage, ma petite, I will come in with you, and lend - how is it? - support - n'estce pas?' 'Oh no, you really don't have to, Simon,' Laura said, her eyes on the closed door of the inn, and hoping fervently that he would not take her at her word. To her relief he seemed to have every intention of doing as he said. He leaned across and kissed her lightly beside her ear, then opened his own door and came round in the drenching rain to open hers. 'Allons!' he cried, and pulled her by one arm round the car and across the narrow footpath to the door of the inn. Somewhat to Laura's surprise it opened at a touch and she found herself, a second later, standing in the familiar dim room, now illumined by a small lamp, and dripping water from her hair. In the gloom she was not sure at first whether anyone else was in the room or not, then she saw the familiar and menacing form of Jean- Pierre. His hair was much wetter than her own and he stood with his hands behind his back, his shoulders drawn together until the broad tanned chest showed in the opening of a soft blue shirt. The shoulders of his shirt too showed darker in patches where it had got wet, and he looked like some dark, angry figure of vengeance to Laura's apprehensive gaze. Simon too stopped for a moment and looked at his half-brother, glancing back briefly at Laura to see that she had not already fled, then he said something in rapid French, much too rapid for Laura to follow as she stood there just inside the door with her pale, rainspattered dress looking idiotically inadequate for the weather outside. Jean-Pierre said nothing for a moment, then when he did answer, he spoke in English. His quiet, deep voice more harsh than its usual

timbre, his dark grey eyes on Laura as he spoke. 'Tante Cecile,' he said bluntly, 'has gone!' Neither of his listeners said a word for several seconds, then Laura slowly shook her head. She could feel the colour drain out of her face and she looked at Jean-Pierre with wide unbelieving eyes. 'Gone?' she echoed in a small, tight voice. 'Oh no!' 'But where?' Simon asked, his English much more strongly accented than usual. 'Ma foi! Where can she have gone?' He looked out of the small window at the pouring rain and the black, overcast skies. 'In this! Mon dieu, but she is mad!' 'Silence!' Jean-Pierre told him harshly. 'I came to find you, that you may help in the search for her. You have been gone for hours!' 'We've been to Fontuen,' Simon told him, seemingly ready to accept the brusque order to keep quiet, without question. Jean-Pierre's eyes switched briefly again to Laura, as if he guessed the reason for their journey, but he did not remark on it, there were more important things to think about at the moment. 'Now that you are returned,' he told Simon, 'you will help us to search for Tante Cecile.' l

Mais oui, naturellement' Simon said without hesitation, and turned to Laura, but her eyes were on Jean- Pierre, big and appealing, although she knew only too well that the appeal would fall on stony ground. So far he had made no accusations, said nothing about her indiscretion, about her being the cause of Cecile Justin's despairing flight, but she knew what bitter anger was in his heart, for it showed in his deep grey eyes each time he looked at her.

'Please,' she ventured in a small husky voice. 'Can't - can't I help to search for Mademoiselle Justin?' Simon said nothing, but looked at his half-brother, letting him take the initiative since she seemed to be asking the question of him. JeanPierre looked at her for a moment in silence and somewhere in the harsh condemnation she caught a faint hint of regret, so that she was reminded of what Simon had said to her in the car, about him not wanting to be angry with her, but having no choice because of the circumstances. She held his gaze for far longer than she would have done at any other time and felt the rapid, breathtaking beat of her heart as she waited for his decision. 'I think that you have done enough for the moment, mademoiselle,' he said coolly. 'It is bettor that you remain here, where there is no chance of my aunt seeing you again. Simon!' He turned back to his brother, and Laura bit back the tears that threatened to start at any moment. His harsh rejection was almost more than she could bear. Simon put a gentle hand to her face and bent his head briefly to kiss her cheek. 'Courage, ma cherie,' he whispered. 'All is not lost!' She could only guess at his meaning, but she was too utterly miserable to care about anything at the moment, except that JeanPierre would probably never even see her again, let alone speak to her or give her the opportunity to explain and apologize. Simon went out through the low doorway into the rain, and Laura heard his car start up a second later, but Jean-Pierre still stood there in the shadowed room, his tall body held unnaturally stiff, the long muscular legs straight and firm with his feet apart. He said nothing for a moment, then he came across and stood in front of her, so that she was painfully aware of his nearness, of that same warm, exciting air of virility that could affect her so alarmingly.

After a long moment of scrutiny by those deep grey eyes he sighed softly and put out a hand to touch her cheek, and Laura barely held her tears in check at the gentleness of the gesture. 'You are so young,' he said softly, and quite without the condemnation she had expected. 'Much too young perhaps to realize the effect you can have.' 'Jean-Pierre—' She looked up at him, the misery in her eyes now backed by a small glimmer of hope, but he was shaking his head slowly. 'You must realize that now you cannot stay here any longer,' he said quietly. 'It would not be possible.' Laura stared at him for a moment, some of her old contrariness raising its head and showing for a moment in her eyes. 'I won't—' she began, but was silenced by a finger pressed gently over her lips. 'The men are out searching for Tante Cecile,' he told her. 'When they learn why she has gone, ma petite, it will not be safe for you here. The family is—' He shrugged. 'You understand!' 'I understand,' Laura said bitterly. 'And don't worry, I'll go, but—' Again she appealed to him. 'Give me - let me know first what happens to Mademoiselle Justin. Please, Jean-Pierre!' He gazed down at her for a moment in silence. 'Does it matter to you?' he asked, and Laura flinched as if he had struck her. 'How could you ask that?' she whispered. 'Do you take me for some kind of - of—' Her words faded away in a half strangled sob and she bit her lip hard to stop herself from crying. For a moment she thought he would take her in his arms as he had done once before when she was in need of comfort, and her heart hammered relentlessly at her ribs as he put a gentle hand to her face

again, his fingers gently stroking her soft skin, his eyes deep and unfathomable as they all too often were. 'Laura!' he said softly, then withdrew the caressing fingers as if the touch of her burned him. 'I must join the search again,' he said in a firm harsh voice. 'Adieu, mademoiselle!' His departure, swift and sudden, was reminiscent of other times when he had gone off abruptly and left her feeling oddly bereft, only this time there was more than a faint sense of deprivation. Her heart felt so cold and heavy that she put a hand to her breast and closed her eyes on the sensation of utter loneliness his going left.

CHAPTER ELEVEN IT was unbelievably hard for her to simply have to wait for someone to come and tell her that they had found Cecile Justin, and Laura supposed that it would inevitably be Simon who came, for he had shown plainly enough where his sympathies lay and let his brother know that he had no intention of laying the blame unconditionally at Laura's door. At first she had sat down in the kitchen with Madame Verdan for company, and she had at last managed to persuade the landlady to tell her a more full Version of the happenings at the chateau on that fateful wartime night. The fact that Francois Verdan had joined the search for Cecile Justin had, Laura guessed, had something to do with her hostess's willingness to talk to her. That and the fact that she had once or twice indicated that she shared Simon's view of the past, rather than her husband's and his contemporaries'. The trouble, she said, had started only about an hour after John Douglas had left, and there had been time only to push the women to safety in a concealed cellar. Jean-Pierre, a lively four-year-old at the time, had somehow eluded the efforts to find him and he had been in the yard with the men when the German soldiers, arrived. It was a dark night and a machine gun sprayed indiscriminately among the men, killing twelve of them and injuring others. The little boy had been stunned by the shot that had seared across his forehead and had also been left for dead. So much Madame Verdan knew from her husband's account. He himself had been wounded and left for dead, but such was the rush for departure by the Germans the following day, with the Allied armies on their heels, that there had been no rounding up of the wounded. Madame Herve had buried her husband and stayed on in the chateau to raise her son, and remember with bitterness the man whose actions

she considered had made her a widow. A bitterness that was shared by many others, for who else but the absent Englishman could have been the informer? Even Laura, reluctant as she was, could see their reasoning, although she still refused to believe it. She sat in her room for some time, curled up on the soft feather bed, her head resting on the ornately carved headboard, her eyes closed, until at last she had fallen asleep. It was dark when she opened her eyes again, and she could hear voices downstairs, raising her head to listen. Not that she could hear any words from her room, but if someone had returned from the search it was possible that Cecile Justin had been found, and she was anxious to know how she was. She got up from the bed, stiff and a little chilly, for her sleeveless dress had been warm enough for the sunshine in which she had set out for her drive, but it was not warm enough for the more chill atmosphere that the rain had brought. The voices sounded closer now, as if they were at the foot of the stairs, and for a moment Laura's heart turned over when she remembered Jean-Pierre's threat that, if the men of the village learned of Cecile Justin's reason for running off, it would not be safe for her to stay in the village. The voices did not sound loud and angry enough for a mob bent on vengeance, though, and there seemed to be no more than two men, so she took her courage in both hands and opened her bedroom door. She peeped out first, and then went to the top of the narrow dark stairs and listened again. The French was too rapid for her to follow, but she caught her own name and she recognized Simon's voice. He sounded as if he was arguing with Frangois Verdan. 'Simon!' She called to him from the head of the stairs, then Hurried down when she heard him move, presumably to come up to her. He stood with the landlord in the centre of the small dimly lit room. Laura had

never seen any more than that one small electric lamp alight in the inn, and she guessed that Frangois Verdan was one of the thriftiest of Frenchmen. 'Laura, cherie!' Simon came towards her with his hands outstretched, a smile on his good-looking face as he greeted her with a kiss. 'I came to tell you that we have found Tante Cecile, cherie, but this paysan— he jeered at the landlord, who flushed a dark angry red at the insult - 'he did not think it right that I should wake you.' He looked down at her, still fully clothed, and nodded his apparent satisfaction. 'I told him that you would not yet have retired.' 'I've been dozing on the bed,' Laura admitted, but did not bother to explain her meaning when she saw his puzzled frown. 'How is Mademoiselle Justin?' she asked, while from the corner of her eye she saw the landlord disappear through the bead curtain into his private quarters to join his wife. Simon shrugged eloquent shoulders, and she thought she detected a genuine look of pity in his eyes for the aunt he had so often referred to so scathingly. 'She is very sick,' he said with simple directness. 'It is - pneumonie - she is not strong, you understand, and—' Again those expressive shoulders said far more than words could, and the shrug gave Laura a sudden sickening sense of shock when she realized that she had been responsible for the incident. 'They have sent for the cure - Pere Dominic.' 'The priest?' Laura looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. 'Oh, Simon! I don't - I don't know what to say, what to do! It was my fault, it was all my fault! Jean-Pierre's right! I shouldn't have made myself known to her, I should have gone away and never seen her again! It would never have happened if I'd done as Jean-Pierre wanted me to!'

'Laura! Laura, mon cher enfant!' He took her in his arms, offering the comfort that Jean-Pierre had denied her earlier, holding her close to his chest, her face pressed to the soft material of his jacket that was faintly damp from the still falling rain outside. 'Do not blame yourself,' he begged. 'It is not your fault that Tante Cecile was - is insensee; such a thing could have happened at any time, ma belle!' 'Jean-Pierre didn't think so!' Laura sobbed miserably against his chest, and Simon gave a great sigh that stirred the hair on the top of her head. 'Jean-Pierre,' he said quietly, 'seems to matter a great deal to you, ma cherie. I suspect that you are in love with him, huh?' 'I - I don't know,' Laura said, her voice catching in her throat, hearing it put so bluntly. 'I - I think I am, but he won't - he'll never come near me again now, especially if your aunt - Oh, Simon, what am I going to do?' 'What can you do, cherie?' Simon asked softly, and kissed her lightly beside her left ear. 'You are a very beautiful woman, and if you cannot make my so - stupide brother see what he will lose by sending you away - then I too will have nothing more to do with you!' 'Simon!' She looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes, bright and misty with tears, and he kissed her again, this time with much more fervour and on her mouth. It was a warm, lingering kiss that made her catch her breath. 'Naturellement,' he murmured softly against her mouth, 'if you will stay with me, ma cherie, I will be very - nice? - to you, huh?' Laura smiled despite the depth of her misery, and she raised her head again to look at him steadily for a long moment. 'You're very nice, Simon,' she told him in a voice that was still husky with tears. 'You're

really very much nicer than you let anyone know, and I wish I could fall in love with you.' She tiptoed and kissed his lips lightly. 'Thank you,' she whispered.

It was quite early the following morning when Laura woke, and her first conscious thought was that today she must do something about making plans to return home. Simon had promised that he would let her know how his aunt was before she went, and she had almost resigned herself to the fact that she was unlikely ever to see Jean Pierre again. She lay for a moment looking at a long streak of sunshine that sprawled across the wall of her room, admitted by a gap in the curtains, and bit her lip on any further feeling of self-pity. Whatever had happened she had brought on herself by being rash, and she could not blame anyone else. She would have liked to be able to clear Uncle John's name before she left, but that was impossible now, although she had already thought of other ways of achieving it by employing someone more qualified to make the inquiries for her. Reluctantly she got out of bed and walked across to the window, pulling back the curtain and looking out at the now familiar panorama. The morning was as bright and sunny as yesterday had been, and for a moment she found it hard to believe that it had been only yesterday that she had set out with Simon to drive a hundred miles to see his cousins - only to be disappointed. The river glistened in the sunshine, and the willows and plane trees cast cool shadows across its surface as it meandered across the meadows, more lush than ever after yesterday's rain. She would never forget St. Louis les Bigots, and not only because of her uncle and Jean- Pierre either. She had grown genuinely attached to the little village and its beautiful surrounding countryside. Perhaps, one day—

She sighed and turned away from the window, letting the curtain fall on the scene outside. Francois Verdan bade her a very curt 'bonjour when she came down for her breakfast, but Madame Verdan's smile was more encouraging and she thanked heaven for two allies at least. She ate less than she had at any time during her stay, and got up from the table with Madame Verdan's worried eye on her. She would go for a walk, she told her hostess, and left the inn with no special destination in mind. It did not occur to her at the time to wonder if Simon would be coming to tell her how his aunt was, she was so absent- minded. It was some time before she realized that she was heading in the direction of the road that passed the chateau and she bit her lip in dismay when she remembered what had happened the last time she came this way. She would not see Cecile Justin today either by accident or design. But she could not get the woman off her mind. The sun was not as hot as it had been yesterday, but it was warm enough for her to seek the shade of the poplars along the narrow road, sitting on the low fence for some time with a stem of grass between her teeth in the gesture that reminded her yet again of Cecile Justin. She threw the grass away from her and after a moment's hesitation climbed over the fence into the meadow as she had before. The grass was cool and soft through her sandals and the sun made her narrow her eyes while she crossed the open meadow, seeking the shelter of the tall poplars on the river bank. As she had done previously, she curled up with her knees high under her chin and her arms encircling them, a distant and thoughtful expression darkening her grey eyes, listening to the soft murmur of

the water and shivering suddenly when an unexpected light wind fluttered across her bare arms and stirred her golden hair at the nape of her neck. She heard no one approach over that sound-deadening turf, and was only conscious that she had been there for over an hour when she looked at her watch. The plank and iron bridge from the chateau was out of her sight facing the way she was. 'Laura!' Swiftly she turned, her eyes wide and startled, then hastily scrambled to her feet when she met Jean- Pierre's dark gaze. She had thought herself safe from his detection with his aunt to occupy his time, but here he was looking down at her and seeming more taller than ever as he towered over her. He offered his hands and without a word she allowed him to help her to her feet, keeping her eyes downcast and unable to produce a reasonable excuse for being there. 'I - I know I have no right to be here,' she said in a small, soft voice, and raised her eyes to look at him again. 'How - how's Mademoiselle Justin?' she asked. Jean-Pierre shook his head. 'She died a little over an hour ago,' he said softly. Laura felt tears in her eyes and realized that they were as much pity for her own conscience as for the dead woman. She had met Cecile Justin only twice, but she had felt a strange liking for her that was something more than mere pity for her mental state. 'I'm sorry,' she said simply, and Jean-Pierre reached out for her hands again, his strong fingers holding hers tightly, a curiously luminous look in his dark grey eyes.

'I have to say - we have to say that we are sorry,' he told her quietly, and Laura looked at him for a moment in mystification. 'Marie Verdan saw you come this way,' he added when she did not speak, and as if he thought she required an explanation for his finding her. Laura shook her head slowly. 'I - I don't understand, Jean-Pierre. I - I was - it was my fault that Mademoiselle Justin went off like that. I feel responsible for - for—' The tears could not be held back any longer and she felt the first warm trickle down her cheek hastily lowering her eyes as if it would stop him from seeing that she was crying. 'Laura! Don't cry, je t'implore, ma petite mei!' His voice was so deep and soft that Laura felt her heart turn over at the sound of it, but he did not move to take her into the comfort of his arms and she stood there, small and unhappy while he looked down at her with his dark grey eyes anxious. 'I have to explain, Laura,' he said. 'Please will you listen to me? Laura nodded, her heart was doing all manner of strange things and she wished she could be less aware of the nearness of him, and the remembered warmth of his arms about her. It was impossible that he could forgive her, now that Cecile was dead, it was impossible, and yet— She looked up at the dark, rugged features and saw the slight downward tilt to the straight mouth, longing to touch it, persuade it into a anile or even the more familiar sternness. He moved away, leaned against one of the poplars, and for a moment he stood there, looking at the swift flowing river, as if he too was remembering things. Tante Cecile spoke to me before she died,' he said at last, and for a very brief moment, the dark grey eyes held a hint of their usual brightness. 'She - she knew more than I gave her credit for.'

He did not explain his meaning, but went on, his voice low and quiet so that Laura moved closer, but not only to catch his words. 'Laura, did you know that Tante Cecile was - that she was once in love with Monsieur Jean?' Laura nodded, beginning to see something that should have been plain to her all along. 'Yes,' she said. 'Simon told me that was what had made her - unstable.' Jean-Pierre was shaking his head. 'Non, ma cherie,' he denied softly. 'It was not her love that made her unstable but her hate.' 'I - I don't think I understand,' Laura whispered, but was almost sure she did. Jean-Pierre was silent for a long moment and Laura watched his dark, thoughtful features with a depth of intensity even she did not realize. His almost stern profile, the wide straight mouth, the faint scar above his right eye, his features were as familiar to her as her own too much more dear to her. In that silent moment while she waited for him to go on with what he was telling her, she admitted for the first time to herself that she was deeply and hopelessly in love with Jean- Pierre. 'My father and Tante Cecile knew that Monsieur Jean had to get out quickly,' he told her. 'No one else knew, and Tante Cecile wanted him to take her with him - she was in love with him, and she wanted to go with him.' 'I can understand that,' Laura said softly, and realized when he looked at her that her own feelings were plain in her eyes. He looked away hastily and for a moment she experienced the cold shock of rejection. 'Not even Maman knew that he was in love with her and not Cecile,' he said in a cool, flat voice, and Laura looked at him again, her eyes wide with surprise.

'Madame Herve?' He nodded. 'He said nothing, of course, Monsieur Jean was not such a man to steal another man's wife, - and especially not so in the circumstances, but Cecile knew, and she wanted revenge - for his not loving her and going without her, and for his loving her sister.' 'Poor Cecile!' Laura spoke softly, her own feelings forgotten briefly in her pity for the jealous, foolish woman who was now dead, and who had had so many deaths on her conscience for the past thirty years. Jean-Pierre looked startled at her expressed pity and his dark grey eyes sought hers as he asked, 'You can pity her, ma petite.' Laura nodded, hastily turning her own gaze again. 'She was in love,' she said simply. 'A woman will do many things when she is in love, and - she didn't mean that all those people should die.' He was looking at her with an intensity that she could not much longer resist. 'You would do as much for the man you love?' he asked softly, and Laura nodded. 'I would,' she said firmly. 'I know it's wrong, and it was a wicked thing to do, but women in love don't stop to think about the consequences of their actions.' To her surprise a low soft chuckle greeted her adamant statement and she looked up hastily. 'Do you know all about how a woman in love feels, ma petite mie?' he asked softly, and Laura lifted her chin. It was plain in his voice what he expected, what he wanted her answer to be, and she took her courage in both hands, risking a rejection, her grey eyes bright and shining as she looked at him. 'I

know,' she said simply, and Jean-Pierre reached out his arms for her, drawing her close against the firm warmth of his body. 'And do you know that I am too old for you, mon enfant?' he teased gently, his mouth against the soft skin of her neck. 'Did you not tell me so yourself?' 'Oh, Jean-Pierre!' She put up her arms to encircle his neck, pressing her lips to that small pulse at his throat. 'You shouldn't remind me of things like that, it isn't fair!' The dark grey eyes held a glowing warmth that tingled through her whole body. 'And do you know that I love you?' he asked softly. Laura smiled, a rather sad, nostalgic smile that misted her eyes. 'Tante Cecile said you did,' she told him gently. 'And Simon seems convinced of it too.' 'And you, ma cherie?' 'I know I love you for as long as I live,' Laura told him simply. 'If you'll love me for just a little while, I'll be happy, Jean-Pierre.' 'For my whole life,' Jean-Pierre murmured against her throat. His hands were hard and firm through her thin dress and he drew her closer until the softness of her body was moulded to his lean hardness, that strong, exciting maleness stirring her to responses she would never have believed herself capable of as his mouth demanded her complete surrender. He looked down at her after a long time and his eyes had a deep dark glow that had never been there before, while his arms still held her close. 'You are like no other woman I ever knew,' he told her in a voice husky with emotions that threatened the present quietness of his manner, and Laura shivered at the promise it held. 'Will you

marry me, ma petite? I promise that I will never again—' His broad shoulders shrugged off past indiscretions, and Laura reached up and pulled his black head down to her, pressing her lips to that faint scar on his forehead. 'I hope you never want to,' she said softly.