thing on my mind in these conditions. Now get out of the car before we both drown.’
Meg obeyed unwillingly, flinching as the water soaked up through the thin soles of her sandals. Reaching his car was going to be like fording the river itself. She’d be drenched before she’d gone a couple of metres. She wondered glumly what Madame de Brissot’s reaction would be if her new companion arrived at Haut Arignac with double pneumonia.
There was a swift impatient sigh beside her, and she found herself suddenly enveloped in his cape, held with disturbing force against his body under its voluminous folds, as she was half led, half carried to the other vehicle. Her nostrils were assailed by a tingling aroma of warm, clean wool, coupled with the individual and very masculine scent of his skin. She was aware too of the tang of some expensive cologne.
‘Thank you,’ she gasped with irony, as she was thrust without particular ceremony into the passenger seat.
‘Pas du tout,’ he returned. ‘Now let’s get out of here. It’s always been a danger spot.’
Even as he spoke, Meg heard a sound like a low groan, followed by a strange rushing noise. She craned her neck, staring back down the gorge, and saw, with horrified disbelief, a tree come sliding down, roots first, from the heights above, and land with a sickening crash on the roof of her little Renault. It was followed by a deluge of earth and stones, bouncing off the bodywork on to the road, like a series of miniature explosions. A few even reached the other car, where they both sat stunned and immobile.
The silence which followed was deafening by comparison. And, as if finally satisfied with its efforts, the rain began to ease off.
MEG’S COMPANION WAS the first to move, to break the profound hush.
He said quietly, ‘Et voilà,’ and shrugged.
‘Oh, God,’ Meg breathed almost inaudibly. ‘Oh, dear God.’
The driver’s side had sustained the most damage, she realised numbly. The crumpled roof was practically resting on the seat, and the windscreen had been shattered by a large branch.
And up to a moment ago she’d been sitting there—right there. If he hadn’t come along when he did—made her get out… Her mind closed off in shock, refusing to contemplate the undoubted consequences. She tried to speak—to thank him properly this time, and instead, 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
