The skin stretched over his hard-boned aquiline features had been burnished to teak by an equatorial sun you didn’t feel in France. In the twilight she made out burning-blue eyes. They were scrutinizing her beneath black brows and a head of short-cropped black hair.
She’d never met a more fiercely handsome man.
For an insane moment she could visualize him in shining armor as he knelt before Guinevere with the heavens shining down on him. Then he spoke in a deep, grating voice, shattering the illusion into a thousand pieces.
“You’re trespassing,” he said, first in French then in heavily accented English.
His underlying note of hostility caught Andrea off guard. This was no young disguised prince who’d mastered the art of chivalry. There was no “Bonsoir,” or “Je m’excuse,” or “Je regrette,” that he’d frightened her.
This dangerous man, probably in his mid-thirties and aggressively male, glared at her as if he had something personal against her.
Unless he’d been able to make out the title on the front of her book, she couldn’t understand how he knew to speak English to her. She gripped it tighter. “Actually I have permission to be here,” she explained in a low tone.
His eyes narrowed to slits before he relieved her of her camera case. The action had been too lightning quick for her to prevent it. He wound the strap around one masculine wrist with its sprinkling of dark hair, making it impossible for her to take it from him. Not that she would have tried. Instinct told her he knew moves she’d never dreamed of.
“No one has permission to be here. Whoever you are, I suggest you be on your way.”
“The groundskeeper told me where I could take pictures of the wildlife.”
His jaw hardened. “You can redeem your camera from the security guard at the gate in the morning. If you’re lying, then I wouldn’t come around here again if I were you.”
He raked a brazen gaze over the mold of her face and body one more time, reminding her she was a woman, with feminine curves. But unlike other men, he seemed to find no pleasure in the fact. Indeed, quite the opposite.
“Remember you’ve been warned,” he added before moving with stealthlike grace until he’d disappeared in the foliage.
Still trembling from the combination of his chilling tone and intimate appraisal that missed nothing, it took a minute for her to find her legs before heading back to the Château Du Lac. She shouldn’t have stayed out here so long. Night was fast closing in, making it difficult to see her way through the dense undergrowth.
The groundskeeper of the château who’d provided her with a quickly drawn layout of the vast Du Lac estate, hadn’t indicated he’d hired another man to patrol the area at night. In fairness to him, he probably wouldn’t have imagined her staying out after sunset to take photographs.
But of course that wasn’t what she’d been doing just now. There was something about reading Lancelot’s story in the very forest where he’d grown up that had appealed to the fanciful side of her nature. That is until the poet’s words had struck a chord, disturbing her at her deepest level where she hated to admit her marriage wasn’t all it should have been.
Adrenaline from her unexpected encounter with the forbidding stranger kept her heart rate accelerated. By the time she reached the gravel driveway leading up to the front entrance of the early thirteenth century château, weakness had attacked her. She’d been forced to stop to catch her breath.
After running through the thick forest in her haste to return, the imposing three-story structure with its rounded towers came as an enchanting surprise. The lights from inside brought out the deep red of the garnets embedded in the schist rock from which it had been constructed. It was like stumbling upon a rare treasure glowing in the heart of a dark wood.
A large, well-trained staff kept the château and gardens immaculate, yet she saw no cars. If it weren’t for the gleam radiating from the windows you wouldn’t know anyone was about.
Tonight nothing seemed real. Maybe her head was too full of Lancelot and broken dreams. It was possible she’d only imagined her confrontation with the audacious man whose unforgettable looks had managed to jolt her body to react.
His unexpected presence had jerked her senses awake from their frozen prison where a plethora of emotions had lain dormant these past few months. Andrea didn’t appreciate being forced to deal with her feelings yet. In fact she resented him for intruding on her already precarious state of mind.
Before this incident she’d been able to remain in her temporary comfort zone, carried along by the plan that had brought her back to this mystical province. Taking pictures didn’t require thinking, only doing.
After letting herself inside the ornate entrance hall, she hurried up the grand staircase to her apartment on the third floor. Henri, the head of the house staff, had told her the front door would remain unlocked until 10:00 p.m. every night. Till then she could come and go as she pleased by orders of Geoffroi Malbois, the Duc Du Lac, who’d been born and raised in this château.
At present the trim, distinguished looking owner was battling pneumonia. He’d come down with it following a nasty case of the flu, yet he’d been kind enough to insist she stay on.
Through his housekeeper Brigitte, Andrea learned he’d instructed his guest be put in the rarely used green room. The second the older woman unlocked the door, its special significance became apparent.
Against the light green background of the ceiling and walls, the life-size figures of Lancelot and Guinevere had been immortalized. A fourteenth century artist had depicted their secret trysts for each month of the year. The glorious colors were still vibrant, as if he’d just painted them.
The first night Andrea lay down on the massive round bed, she kept moving in different positions to study the two beautiful lovers. She remembered thinking no living man could match Lancelot’s splendor.
But as she walked in the bedroom tonight, she carried the image of the intrusive stranger with her. It was an image she couldn’t seem to get out of her head despite the epitome of manhood staring her in the face everywhere she looked.
First she would change, then go downstairs for a roll or something. The thought of a meal didn’t appeal. If the Duc’s condition hadn’t worsened, she’d check in on him to say good-night. He’d urged her to visit him in the evenings, but she’d have done it anyway.
Andrea had never met a kinder, more accommodating person. Miserable as he felt, he exuded exceptional warmth. To an extent that particular quality had been missing from her marriage, but she hadn’t realized it so much until she’d spent a little time in the presence of her host.
He didn’t stand on ceremony and had insisted Andrea call him Geoff. Having taken particular interest in her husband’s project at Easter, he’d wanted to help her any way he could. Even though the Duc was ill right now, he’d told her to make herself at home for as long as she wanted.
From their talks she’d learned he led a busy social life and was active in civic and ecological affairs. He had a son from his first marriage who lived away. The stepdaughter from his second marriage, which had failed, lived with him when she wasn’t traveling. Evidently he didn’t suffer from lack of company. According to Henri there were always visitors coming
