said quietly downstairs. ‘I only wish she was not considered a necessity. But the doctor insisted I should have help.’
The doctor… But which one did Madelon Colville mean? After all, there were three generations of de Brizats living at the big stone house at Trehel. It could hardly be the grandfather, Georges, who had retired under protest a few years before and must now be nearing his eighties, so it had to be Philippe still—or his only son, Allie thought, biting her lip savagely. And that was something she couldn’t ask.
She wished that Madame Drouac spoke even a little English, so that, among other things, she could establish exactly what was wrong with her great-aunt. Because, when she’d tried a little tactful probing, Tante had merely waved a languid hand and said that she had good days and bad ones.
‘But today is nothing but good, because you are here,’ she’d added.
On the other hand, Allie thought wryly, the language barrier between the housekeeper and herself meant she didn’t have to answer any awkward questions about her previous stay.
She towelled herself dry, and slipped on her robe again. Back in the bedroom, she combed her damp hair into place, reluctant to use her dryer in case she disturbed Tom.
In spite of her weariness, she knew she would not sleep. She was too tense, and her brain was buzzing. She knew that for her own peace of mind she should have stayed away. That she should not have let herself be provoked into accepting such a dangerous invitation. But could she really regret what she’d done, when Tante was so clearly overjoyed to see her?
And, anyway, it was far too late for repining.
The box was unlocked at last, and all her personal demons had come swarming into the open. And somehow they had to be faced. Whatever the personal pain they might bring in their wake.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE knelt on the bed, resting her arms on the window ledge, staring down at the bay where it had all begun.
Not very wise…
That was what Madelon had told her in warning, she thought, and it was probably the understatement of the decade. But how could I know where it would lead? After all, I only wanted some time to myself—to think, and make some decisions. And I didn’t wish to be cross-examined, however kindly, over where my husband was, or why he wasn’t with me.
I just—needed some peace.
I never meant there to be more to it than that. And I certainly never intended to deceive anyone, or cause any hurt.
Plus, I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
But then no one actually asked me to do so—or not until it was so much too late.
She stopped herself right there. She could play with words and motives for ever, but nothing could actually justify what she’d done. She’d desperately needed to be honest, and instead she’d crashed in flames. And she could blame nothing and no one but herself.
Yet here she was, two years on, knowing that she could not afford to be completely frank. That there were still things that could not be said.
A widow with a child, she thought. That was all anyone needed to know.
And although Remy might be back in Ignac, that did not necessarily imply they would meet.
On the contrary, she told herself with resolution, she would go out of her way to ensure they didn’t.
I dare not risk it, she thought. For all kinds of reasons…
Sighing, she swung herself off the bed, pulling on shorts, a vest top and sandals, then went over to the cot. Tom was still fast asleep, chubby arms tossed wide, and her heart lurched as she looked down at him.
When Tante was gone, he would be all she had left to love. But he made all the agony of the past seem somehow worthwhile. She smoothed the damp, dark curls with a gentle finger, but he did not stir, so she tiptoed from the room and went slowly downstairs. The living room was empty, so presumably Madame Drouac had returned to her own abode for the afternoon, and the sun was streaming in through the open door at the rear.
Allie, drawing a deep, unsteady breath, walked out into the walled garden beyond.
The wind had dropped, and there were just a few faint streaks of high cloud, motionless against the baking blue of the sky.
She sat down on the grass, her back against the solitary ancient apple tree, and stared upwards, shading her eyes with her hand. So many days like this, she thought, breathing in the scent of earth and sun-warmed grass. So many memories jarring her mind again. Splintering her inner calm. Waiting inexorably to be dealt with.
Closing her eyes, Allie, slowly and reluctantly, allowed herself to surrender to the pull of the past.
In the days following her ruthless and spectacular rescue by Remy de Brizat, she’d made a conscious decision to keep well away from the beach, even though Tante had supplied her with a tide table and told her to learn it by heart.
But, in her heart, Allie knew that the rise and fall of the sea wasn’t the principal danger to be encountered.
The weather had turned intensely hot, giving her a good excuse to remain quietly in the seclusion of the garden, sunbathing and reading, as she felt her inner tensions begin to slip gently away. Or most of them, anyway.
One morning, over breakfast, Tante had mentioned that she was driving to Quimper later, to visit her accountant. ‘Some papers to do with tax, chérie, and so boring. But you are welcome to come with me, if you wish.’
Allie had decided she did not wish. She’d waved goodbye to Madelon, then taken her rug and cushion into the garden and stretched out face downward, unclipping her bikini top with a languid hand as she did so. But the hum of insects, the whisper of the leaves, and the distant murmur of the sea had failed for once to have their usual soporific effect. She’d felt oddly restless, and even the thriller she’d been reading had palled, its plot descending, she had decided, into sheer absurdity.
She’d tossed it aside, pillowed her head on her arms, and closed her eyes, making a deliberate effort to relax her whole body, commencing with her toes, then working slowly upward. Any moment now, she’d promised herself, she would feel completely calm.
‘Bonjour, Alys.’
For a shocked second, she thought she’d dozed off and was actually dreaming, but one startled sideways glance revealed battered espadrilles and, rising out of them, a pair of long, tanned and totally masculine legs.
‘You?’ She almost sat up, remembering just in time her loosened top. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wished to make sure that the events of the other morning had left no lasting trauma.’ He grinned down at her, totally at his ease, casual in shorts and a cotton shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist.
‘And is this how you normally make house calls?’ It was difficult, she found, to glare at someone effectively when you were forced to lie prone, and all they could see was your profile. ‘Just—march in without knocking or asking permission?’ And half-dressed?
‘No,’
