her profound misgivings about the whole affair, and her unwilling role in it. Damn Margot and her sordid affair, she thought, drumming her fingers on the steering-wheel.
Then, as if a drain had been unblocked somewhere, the traffic moved off, and Meg realised she was on her way. She proceeded with a certain amount of care, at first, accustoming herself to the unfamiliar road conditions, as well as the novelty of having a vehicle totally at her own disposal. But it didn’t take her long to realise she was on good roads, with far less volume of traffic to contend with than in England, and she began to relax.
The sky above her was brilliant blue, but as she drove east she could see clouds building over the high ground in the far distance, fluffy and unthreatening at first, but increasing in mass and density with alarming suddenness.
By the time she stopped to buy food for lunch, the skies were a lowering grey, and she cast an anxious glance upwards as she made her way back to the car from the alimentation, with her baguette, sliced ham, demi-kilo of peaches and sedate bottle of mineral water.
She’d planned to have a picnic in some quiet spot. She’d deliberately chosen a route away from the main thoroughfares, so that she could travel at her own pace—discover, she hoped, the real France.
Now it looked as if she might be about to discover some real French weather as well, although it was still very warm, if not downright clammy, and those threatening clouds might yet blow over.
But as a smattering of rain hit the windscreen she decided reluctantly to shelve her plans for an alfresco meal, and concentrate on finding somewhere to stay that night. A helpful girl at the syndicat d’initiative in the last town she’d passed through had recommended a small auberge at the head of the Gorge du Beron, and even marked it on Meg’s map.
She found herself following a winding road into a valley flanked by steep rocky banks which soon grew high enough to call themselves cliffs. The road ran alongside a river, relatively shallow, but flowing fast over its stony gravel bed. Presumably this was the Beron, at whose source she would find the auberge.
And the sooner the better, she thought with dismay, as more water arrived suddenly, descending like an impenetrable curtain from the sky, its arrival announced by a flash of lightning and a resoundingly ominous crack of thunder.
Meg swore under her breath, turning her windscreen-wipers full on, but it was wasted effort. They couldn’t cope with the sheer force of the rain flinging itself at the car. And she dared not drive blind on such a tortuous road, she thought, applying her brakes and easing the car as close as possible to the side of the road where the rocky overhang seemed to offer a degree of shelter.
Who could have expected such a change in the weather? she wondered dispiritedly, although Mr Otway had warned her that these orages were common in the Languedoc, and it was safer to stay in one’s vehicle than risk being struck by lightning.
She felt cold suddenly, and reached for a jacket from the rear seat, pulling it round her shoulders with a slight grimace. A glance at the river sent another chill through her. It was rising alarmingly rapidly, the gravel banks almost covered now, and the water lapping greedily at the side of the road itself, already awash in several places.
Not a good place to have stopped, after all, she realised in dismay. But she had to stay where she was now, until the rain eased a little at least. The storm was directly overhead now, thunder and lightning occurring almost simultaneously. Meg felt as if she was peering through a wall of water. Maybe it would have been better to have arrived on the appointed day, and been met at the airport as Madame de Brissot had originally suggested.
Or would it? That was the straightforward—the sensible course of action she’d been following for most of her life.
Don’t be so boring, she chastised herself mentally. Where’s your spirit of adventure? The car rocked suddenly as if caught in a violent gust of wind, and Meg shivered in spite of herself, then cried out in fear as her driver’s door was wrenched open, filling the car with cold, sodden air.
For a dazed instant she thought the storm itself was responsible, then she saw the dark, caped figure framed in the doorway, staring in at her, and shrank back in her seat. She wanted to scream, but her vocal cords seemed paralysed with fright.
‘Are you quite mad?’ His voice was low-pitched, vibrant, and almost molten with rage. ‘Do you want to be killed? Move this car now—at once.’
No spirit conjured up by the storm, but an all too human and angry male. He spoke in French and Meg replied automatically in the same language, her heart thumping violently in mingled alarm and relief.
‘What gives you the right to order me about?’
‘The right of someone who obviously knows this country better than you,’ was the crushing retort. ‘It isn’t safe to park under a rockface in conditions like this, you little fool. There are often landslips. Your car could be buried, and you with it. So move. Quickly.’
However unpleasant he might be, he seemed to know what he was talking about, Meg realised uneasily. Perhaps she’d do well to accept his arrogant and unwelcome advice.
‘Where do you suggest I park, then?’ she asked, coldly.
‘There is a safer place two hundred metres further on. Follow my car, and I will show you. And hurry,’ he added grimly.
Her door slammed shut again, and he disappeared. A moment later, Meg saw the dim shape of a car overtake hers and halt some distance ahead of her, hazard lights blinking. Reluctantly, she turned the key in the ignition, but instead of the usual reassuring purr into life from the engine she was greeted with a profound and ominous silence.
Oh, no, Meg groaned inwardly, and tried again. And again. But the wretched engine stubbornly refused to fire.
‘What’s the matter now?’ Her caped crusader, his temper apparently operating perfectly on all cylinders, reappeared beside her.
‘What does it look like, you prat? The blasted car won’t start,’ Meg flung back at him in a savage undertone, while she searched for the appropriate and slightly more diplomatic phraseology in French.
‘So you are English?’ he remarked, switching effortlessly to her language. ‘I should have guessed.’
His tone bit with contempt, and Meg stiffened in annoyance. Of course, he would have to be bilingual, she thought, feeling faint colour rise in her cheeks at the memory of her schoolgirl rudeness.
‘What’s the problem with the car?’ he continued. ‘Has it given trouble before?’
‘It’s hardly had the chance,’ she said wearily. ‘I only rented it today. But now the engine’s dead. I suppose some water’s got into the plugs, or the carburettor.’
He muttered something under his breath which Meg chose not to hear.
‘Leave it here, then,’ he ordered peremptorily, raising his voice above the crashing of the rain, ‘and come with me.’
‘I can’t just abandon the thing,’ Meg protested. ‘It doesn’t belong to me. And besides…’ she hesitated ‘… I don’t know you from Adam.’
‘Sit here much longer, mademoiselle, and you may make the acquaintance of the original Adam—in Paradise.’ His tone was caustic. ‘You have more to fear,
