an idealist.’
‘But then,’ Meg said sedately, ‘you didn’t expect to meet me at all.’
‘No?’ He was smiling again. She felt his charm touch her like a caressing hand. ‘You don’t think it was fate rather than the storm which brought us together?’
Meg, uneasily aware of an unfamiliar trembling in the pit of her stomach, managed a laugh. ‘I’m English, monsieur. I tend to blame the weather for everything.’
He laughed too. ‘And in France, mademoiselle, we say that the marguerite always turns to the sun. Remember that.’ He paused. ‘And there just ahead of us is the auberge.’
A sudden surge of disappointment rose up inside her, and was ruthlessly crushed. Was she out of her mind, letting a complete stranger get to her like this? He’d rescued her, and she’d always be grateful for that, but she wasn’t even sure she liked him, for heaven’s sake. He was an unknown quantity, and she had enough problems ahead of her without taking him into the reckoning.
It was probably second nature to him to flirt with every girl he came across, she thought. She just wasn’t used to his kind of man, or any other for that matter.
The Auberge du Source du Beron was a comfortable rambling building, probably a converted farmhouse, set at the rear of an enclosed courtyard.
Jerome Moncourt drove under an arched gateway into the courtyard, and stopped. Meg straightened her shoulders, and held out a hand, with a determined smile. ‘Well, thank you again, and goodbye.’
‘You are very eager to be rid of me,’ he commented, his mouth twisting sardonically.
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’
‘You must allow me to judge for myself.’ Jerome Moncourt left the car, and walked round to the passenger door to assist Meg to alight. ‘Go and see if they have a room,’ he directed, smiling faintly. ‘I will bring your cases.’
Wide glass doors flanked by tubs of brilliant flowers opened on to a tiled reception area, where the patronne gave Meg a pleasant if harassed welcome.
Yes, there was a room, which she would be happy to show mademoiselle, but there was also a problem. Because of that devil’s storm, there was no electricity. Until the supply could be restored, there would only be lamps or candles. As for the dining-room—madame made a gesture of despair.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Jerome Moncourt said over Meg’s shoulder. ‘Mademoiselle is dining with me.’
Meg felt sudden swift colour invade her face, as madame, putting her troubles aside for a moment, lifted her eyebrows in a roguish and wholly approving assessment of the situation in general and Jerome Moncourt in particular. She then became brisk again. If monsieur would be so good as to transport the luggage to mademoiselle’s room—Millot, whose task this was, being totally engaged in filling lamps—she would be forever grateful.
‘D’accord.’ Jerome smiled at her. ‘But first I must ask if the storm spared the telephone. We need to report an accident.’
The phone system apparently was in full working order. Jerome lifted an eyebrow at Meg. ‘Do you wish me to contact the authorities—deal with the formalities for you? It would perhaps be easier, no matter how good your French…’
Meg said a shy ‘Thank you’ and allowed madame to conduct her up the wide wooden staircase to a room at the back. The ceiling was low, and the floor uneven, but the furniture gleamed with polish, and the wide bed was made up with snowy linen and a duvet like a drift of thistledown. In one corner, a door opened on to an immaculate shower-room hardly bigger than a cupboard.
The small square window set deep in the thick stone wall stood open to admit the return of the sun, and the air, still cool after the rain, was heavy with the scent of lavender. Meg drew one deep enraptured breath. Madame gave a satisfied nod, and returned to her duties downstairs, closing the door behind her.
Meg stayed at the window. It had been quite a day, and it wasn’t over yet—unless, of course, she wanted it to be. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Things like this don’t happen to me, she thought with bewilderment. But then I’m not myself any more. I’m supposed to be Margot. Perhaps I’ve taken over her life as well as her name. But can I carry it off?
She heard the door open, and Jerome enter with her luggage. Her heart began to thud, and her mouth went dry.
‘Another car will be delivered to you in the morning,’ he said, hoisting her cases on to the slatted wooden rack provided for the purpose. ‘You will have to complete an accident report, but you have me as a witness, so there should be no difficulty.’
She kept her back towards him, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I—I’m very grateful.’
‘Grateful enough to be my guest at dinner tonight?’ He was standing behind her, so close that she could feel the warmth from his body.
She stared at the view as if she was trying to memorise it. Behind the auberge’s small walled garden, the ground rose sharply. It was a wild and rocky landscape, studded with clumps of trees. A stream, presumably from some underground spring, had forced itself between two of the largest boulders, splashing down in a miniature waterfall, its passage marked by the sombre green of ferns.
‘The source of the Beron,’ Jerome said at her shoulder. She nodded jerkily, and after a pause he said, ‘You do not, of course, have to accept my invitation.’
She knew that. Knew, too, that it would be safer—much safer to refuse politely, and, with sudden exhilaration, that she had no such intention.
As she turned to answer him, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the window-panes, his face dark and watchful, his mouth grimly set. She gasped, and her head came round sharply. But it must have been some trick of the light, because he looked back at her casually, even with faint amusement.
He said softly, ‘Put me out of my misery, Marguerite. May I return for you here at eight?’
She said, ‘Yes—I’d like that.’
And wondered, once she was alone, whether that was really true.
MEG TOOK A LONG, luxurious shower, then spent some considerable time deciding what to wear that evening. In the end she fixed on a simple honey-coloured cotton dress in a full-skirted wrap-around style. She fastened gold hoops into her ears, and sprayed on some of her favourite Nina Ricci scent.
She studied her appearance frowningly in the cheval mirror, from the shining tumble of hair, framing a slightly flushed face, and hazel eyes strangely wider and brighter than usual, down to her slender feet in the strappy bronze sandals, then shook her head.
I feel like the old woman in the nursery rhyme, she thought—’Lawks-a-mercy, this be none of I.’
It was daunting to realise that if Jerome Moncourt had come strolling into Mr Otway’s
