Authors: Sara Craven
as Rohan walked in, a towel knotted round his hips, carrying two
cups.
'Do you have to go?' She watched in disappointment as he reached
for his clothes.
'Of course.' He slanted a sardonic brow-at her. 'A
vigneron's
day
begins early, my love. As it is, I've stayed longer than I intended.'
He finished his coffee, and knelt on the bed to kiss her deeply and
lingeringly. 'I'll see you at the chateau tonight for dinner.' He
paused. 'You hadn't forgotten you were invited?'
'No, of course not, but can't —won't I see you before that?'
'So greedy?' he teased, caressing one pink-tipped breast.
'I didn't think I was,' she said wryly, and he laughed.
'I'm flattered, but it's better that we wait until tonight, believe me.
Quite apart from the vines, I have a heavy day ahead of me — a lot
of serious talking to do. Matters that affect us both.'
'Such as?' She frowned a little.
'I'll explain everything tonight,' he said. He touched her cheek.
'Don't worry about it. You have a busy day too, remember.
Monsieur Pallon is bringing your furniture.'
'So he is,' she said slowly. The laughter had gone from Rohan's
face. He was preoccupied suddenly, at a distance from her, and she
wanted him back. She needed the new-found intimacy of the night
translated into daytime terms.
At the same time, she recognised she was being unreasonable.
Their commitment to each other was made, after all, and she
couldn't expect Rohan to jettison every other aspect of his life in
her favour.
She looked up at him, forcing a smile. 'Off you go, then, and I'll —
see you tonight.'
'Yes.' He took one last kiss, frowning slightly. 'We'll spend the
whole of tomorrow together, I promise.'
Reluctantly Sabine unclasped her arms from his neck. 'I'll cook
you a meal.' She grinned at him. 'Something English.'
She slipped on a robe and went to the door to wave goodbye to
him. It was a grey morning, she thought with a shiver, the sky
heavily overcast with cloud which had appeared out of nowhere
during one night. But at least it would be cooler for shifting
furniture around.
By the time Monsieur Pallon's van arrived, it was raining, and the
delivery of the furniture took place almost on the run. Sabine
concentrated solely on making sure the appropriate pieces got into
the right rooms. The fun of choosing the exact position for each
item, and making the final adjustments, could wait until she was
on her own.
It was mid-afternoon before she had Les Hiboux sorted to her
approximate satisfaction. She was clammy with sweat, and her
arms and shoulders ached with tugging and heaving. Old Hercule's
stuff had been built to last, she reflected ruefully as she turned on
the shower.
She dressed in clean jeans and a shirt, and drove to Villereal to
shop for the following day. It was still raining, and the washed and
windless air, such a contrast to the heat of the previous days,
struck a distinct chill as she dashed to the Intermarche. She'd
already decided what she was going to cook for Rohan — home-
made tomato soup to begin with, then
le rosbif
with all the
trimmings, although she was going to cheat on the dessert and buy
one of the beautifully glazed
tartes aux pommes
from a
patisserie.
As she drove back, she reviewed her scanty wardrobe in her mind's
eyes, wondering what would be appropriate for dinner at the
chateau.
Whatever she chose, it couldn't compete with the
couturier clothes worn by the
Baronne
or Antoinette, she thought
with a grimace.
Not that any amount of designer labels would or could reconcile
her to the prospect of meeting Antoinette again. She was frankly
dreading any further confrontation with the other girl. Unlike
Rohan, she wasn't convinced that Antoinette could be so easily
dismissed from their lives. It was something they needed to talk
about. It was, maybe, one of the serious topics that Rohan was
already discussing today, trying to smooth the path to her
recognition as his future wife.
She still found it hard to assimilate the way her life had changed so
drastically in the course of a mere few days. She'd come to
investigate the past, and discovered her own future instead.
She parked the car and hoisted the plastic carriers from the boot,
perching the flat, be-ribboned
patisserie
box on top. She saw the
note as soon as she got to the door. It had been left on the terrace
this time, anchored down by a stone. No envelope either, just a slip
of paper, folded in two, containing a brief typewritten message. 'I
must talk to you before tonight. Meet me at the tower at five
o'clock. R.'
She gave herself a small mental hug. It was just what she needed
—to see him, to have the reassurance of him before she faced the
evening at the chateau.
Not that the wording of the message was particularly reassuring,
she admitted, as she put her provisions away. Perhaps there'd been
some trouble — some kind of scene he wanted to warn her about.
If so, she would simply invent a diplomatic headache, and stay
away from La Tour Monchauzet altogether. She'd suffered enough
traumas and indignities already, she thought grimly.
The rain had subsided by the time she was ready to set out, so she
only needed to knot a sweater round her shoulders. But the woods
were dank and damp, and every icy, unexpected drip on to her hair
or down the back of her neck made her regret having left her
umbrella behind long before she reached the tower.
She was early for their rendezvous, but Rohan had still arrived
before her, apparently, because the massive door was slightly
open. She squeezed round it and called to him, but there was no
answer, and she frowned a little, as she stood looking round her.
She'd been so sure she would find him there. . .
It occurred to her suddenly that she found the cloak-and-dagger
element in all this vaguely disturbing, and totally unnecessary. If
Rohan needed to have a private word with her, why hadn't he
arranged to see her at the house instead? For one thing, it would
have been warmer, she thought, wriggling her shoulders
defensively and wishing she'd brought a jacket. The interior of the
tower was like a refrigerator. Maybe Rohan had thought so too,
and gone for a walk, rather than hang around waiting, and getting
frozen.
And there was still something about the place's atmosphere that
she found unnerving. It was the last place in the world she would
ever have chosen for a tryst, as she would tell him when he turned,
up.
She untied the sleeves of her sweater and began to pull it on over
her head, aware as she did so of a faint muffled sound behind her.
She emerged from the confines of the turtle-neck, and turned
quickly, shaking her hair into place, her lips parting in a smile—
And stopped right there. Because the noise she'd heard wasn't
Rohan's arrival at all. It had been the door swinging shut behind
her, closing her alone into this claustrophobic space.
And as her stomach muscles constricted, and her throat tightened
in swift, unsteading alarm, she heard the unmistakable grating of a
key in the huge lock.
She was a prisoner.
THE important thing, of course, was not to panic. This was clearly
a very bad joke, by some misguided person, or it was a mistake.
Someone had seen the open door, and fastened it up in a fit of
misplaced zeal. Either way, having hysterics wouldn't help.
Sabine decided to take several slow, deep breaths instead. Then
she walked to the door, and tried to open it, just in case the sound
of the key had been a figment of her over-active imagination. But
the huge timbers refused to budge. She took another breath and
yelled, 'Hi, there!' at the top of her voice, banging on the door with
both fists as she did so— And heard the sound die away into a
profound and unresponsive silence. Whoever had shut the door
had gone.
Sucking bruised knuckles, she retired to the sagging sofa, and tried
to think. It had to be a mistake, she thought. Only Rohan, after all,
knew of their meeting, and crude practical jokes just weren't his
style. So she was a victim of understandable human error. The
tower was off limits, after all, and someone was just ensuring that
the
Baron's
orders were carried out to the letter.
All well and good. Because there was really nothing to worry
about. Any moment now, Rohan would be arriving to keep their
appointment, and her problem would be over.
Restlessly, she glanced at her watch. Any moment now. . .
An hour later, she'd stopped thinking in those precise terms, and
was trying to tell herself he'd been detained. A phone call, she
thought, or some visitor. Anything could have happened. She
shivered. It was a long way to sunset, but the air in the tower
seemed to be getting colder by the moment. She was becoming
bitterly uncomfortable.
She wished she'd brought the note with her. She was beginning to
wonder if she'd misread it—got the time all wrong. Yet the couple
of typewritten lines had been plain enough, with little room for
error.
Her train of thought stopped right there, and she sat up suddenly,
as a number of things occurred to her all at once. Firstly, how
could she be sure that note had actually come from Rohan?
Anyone could have typed that message and his initial, she realised
with dismay. In fact, she wasn't even sure she'd told Rohan she
knew where the tower was located, let alone that she'd been there.
All she'd done was show him that photograph of Fabien, she
remembered restively.
No one knew she'd actually been here —except possibly. . .
She paused. '
Isabelle's daughter'.
The recollection of those
whispered words came rushing back to haunt her. Except—
someone who might have watched her— followed her. . .
Sabine bit her lip, sinking her teeth into the soft inner flesh. It
wasn't the kind of possibility she wanted to contemplate, she told
herself firmly. She was being melodramatic. Allowing her
imagination to run away with her again. There had to be a
perfectly simple explanation to all this — if only she could think
what it was.
In spite of everything, her mind kept returning to Antoinette —
seeing her face as it had been during their last confrontation in
Monpazier, twisted with bitterness and hate. It was not a memory
she cherished. But was the other girl really capable of this kind of
spite? And, if so, what did she hope to gain by it?
Because I'll be found—sooner or later, Sabine thought. I may be
hungry, thirsty and chilly, but I'll be found. And then she'll have
some explaining to do. Only that wasn't much consolation at the
moment, she admitted, as she began to walk up and down, flapping
her arms to drive away the permeating cold.
Hungry, she thought, suddenly. Of course. That was her salvation.
When she didn't arrive for dinner at the chateau, they would
institute a search. And someone would think of the tower—
eventually.
The problem was making her presence known to any search party.
The walls and door were so thick that she wasn't sure her cries
would be heard. And the windows on the ground floor at least
were too high to reach, otherwise she could have sacrificed her
sweater to hang out like a flag of distress. Except she'd probably
freeze without it.
Time crawled past. She could tell by the angle of the light that it
would soon be sunset, and the prospect of being here in the dark
appalled her. Already, she'd heard all kinds of rustlings and
scufflings from the floor above. Little as she relished the idea, she
supposed she would have to go up there before the light went
altogether—see if there was some kind of signal she could make to
advertise her presence.
She went up the narrow stone stairs with infinite care, reflecting
that the last thing she needed was to slip and sprain something, and
peered cautiously around her. A bird, a pigeon perhaps, took