Dawn Song. Sara Craven
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to her shame, burst into tears.
He muttered something else under his breath, then swung into the seat beside her, flinging the discarded cape into the back of the car, before reaching into the glove compartment for a packet of tissues and a silver flask.
‘Here,’ he said curtly, unscrewing the flask’s stopper. ‘Drink this.’
It was cognac. She gasped, and choked, feeling the spirit spread like fire through her cold and shaking body. She dabbed at her face with a tissue. ‘My car,’ she whispered. ‘My car.’
‘You insured the car when you hired it,’ he reminded her. ‘It can easily be replaced. But not so your life.’
‘No.’ She shuddered uncontrollably, then lifted the flask again, taking a fierce, searing swallow, fighting back the remaining tears, and feeling the trembling dissipate slowly.
‘I think you have had enough.’ There was a faint smile in his voice as he gently detached the flask from her grasp.
When she was sure she was in control of her voice, she said, ‘All—all my things were in the boot. I—I know it’s silly to mind…’
‘I’ll get them.’ He took the Renault’s keys from her unresisting fingers.
‘No.’ Meg grabbed at his arm. ‘Leave them, please. Don’t risk it…’
‘It’s all right.’ His voice was gentler. He pointed back towards the wreck. ‘See, the boot was hardly touched.’
‘But there might be another landslide.’ There were still lightning flashes in the overcast sky, and thunder was grumbling around in the distance like some outraged but unseen giant. Meg could visualise more rocks, raining down on him, crushing him like the Renault.
She found she was looking at him, seeing him properly for the first time in the sullen light which penetrated the car. She knew that he was tall, and she’d had first-hand experience of the whipcord strength of his body during that headlong dash from the Renault, but that was the extent of it. Now she saw that he was quite young—not more than the early thirties at a guess, although she was no judge of such things. She assimilated a mass of unruly black hair, and a thin olive-skinned face, the lines of nose, mouth and chin strongly, even arrogantly marked. And dark fathomless eyes under heavy lids.
‘I think the worst is past.’ He shrugged again. He slanted a smile at her. ‘Besides, I lead a charmed life.’
She could believe it. Nevertheless, she sat rigidly, staring ahead of her, not daring to look back, waiting for the clatter of falling stones and the cry of agony which seemed inevitable. But there was nothing but the rush of the water in the swollen river, and somewhere near by the shrill song of a bird announcing that the storm was over.
It occurred to her that he was taking a long time. She turned her head, peering back, and saw him standing at the rear of the Renault, very still, as if he’d been turned into a rock or a tree himself.
Maybe the boot was jammed, and he couldn’t open it, she thought. But it seemed she was wrong, because almost at once he headed back towards the Citroën he was driving, striding out with a travel bag in each hand. She heard them thud as he transferred them to his own boot.
When he rejoined her, he looked preoccupied, his brows drawn together in a frown. She sensed a tension in him that she’d not been aware of before, as if he was angry about something, and trying to hide it.
Perhaps he’d only just realised that his act of gallantry had saddled him temporarily, at least, with an unwanted passenger, Meg thought with a certain compunction. Well, she could hardly blame him for resenting the disruption of his journey. Now it was her turn to reassure him.
She drew a careful breath. ‘You’ve been very kind,’ she said, ‘and I hate to impose on you further, but I do need a lift to the Auberge du Source du Beron. I can get a room there—arrange something about the car too, with any luck.’
He seemed deep in thought, but at her words he turned his head and looked at her.
‘You have a reservation at the auberge?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Well, no,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s where I was heading before the storm. It’s been recommended to me.’
‘It’s very popular with tourists. You’d have done well to book in advance, I think.’ His frown deepened. ‘You have no alternative plan?’
‘Nothing definite,’ Meg returned. She could hardly ask him to drive her all the way to Haut Arignac, she thought. The accident had been a severe set-back, admittedly, but she was still reluctant to arrive at the château a minute before she had to. She summoned up a ghost of a smile. ‘I’ll just have to risk there being a room.’
He gave her another long look. He said softly, ‘It is not always wise, mademoiselle, to take risks—so far away from home.’
There was an odd note in his voice, an undertone of warning—even menace, she thought, a faint frisson of alarm uncurling down the length of her spine. Or was it just the shock she’d suffered playing tricks with her imagination?
It had to be that, because suddenly he smiled at her, charm softening the autocratic firmness of his mouth, and dancing in his eyes.
He wasn’t exactly handsome, Meg thought, blinking under the onslaught, but, dear God, he was frighteningly attractive. The kind of man she’d never thought to meet. And she would be so glad to get to the auberge and see the last of him, because, the spirit of adventure notwithstanding, some unsuspected female instinct told her that this man represented more danger than any landslide she might encounter.
She saw his smile twist slightly, as if he’d guessed the tenor of her thoughts, and was amused by them. He said softly, ‘En avant. Let’s go.’ And started the car.
It was not a pleasant journey, although it had stopped raining and the storm had rumbled its way into some far distance, allowing a watery sun to make an apologetic appearance.
Her companion was quiet, Meg found, if not positively taciturn, but that was probably because he had to concentrate so hard on driving. It was perilous stuff. The road was littered with fallen debris, and several times they even had to stop the car to move rocks and tree branches which were actually blocking the road.
‘Is it always as bad as this?’ she asked, as he came back to the car, dusting his hands on his jeans.
‘I have known worse.’ He glanced sideways at her as he restarted the car. ‘It has been alarming, your introduction to France?’
‘How did you know that? That it’s my first time here?’ Meg pulled a face. ‘From my bad French, I suppose.’
He shrugged. ‘It was just a guess. I didn’t know it at all. And your French is very good,’ he added drily. ‘Remarkably so.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because so many of your countrymen do not bother with our language,’ he said, after a slight pause. ‘They assume that if they shout loudly enough and slowly enough we will understand them.’
Meg gave a rueful nod. She’d heard much the same from her night-school teacher, a Frenchwoman married to a Brit. ‘I think it’s to do with being an island race, and not feeling part of Europe. Maybe things will improve once the Channel Tunnel is open.’
‘Perhaps.’
There was a further silence. He drove well, Meg thought, using the powerful capacity of the car without flourish, the lean brown hands in effortless control of the wheel.
He was simply dressed, but his denim jeans bore a designer label, and the plain white shirt, its cuffs turned back to reveal sinewy forearms, had an expensive silky sheen. His only adornment was a classic gold wrist-watch with a brown leather strap.
It was difficult to know what to make of him, Meg thought, observing him under her lashes.