Sara Craven - Tower Of Shadows

Driving back to the house through the small back-roads was more difficult than she’d anticipated, and she took a couple of wrong turnings. She could have cried with relief when at last she passed the war memorial with the crucifix and realised the next track led to the farm.

And the house no longer seemed to be on the defensive, she realised as she parked the car. The late afternoon sun lent a warmer, more welcoming glow to its washed stones, and that exterior wall wasn’t a barrier, but a promise of security. She thought, I’ve come home.

It took several journeys to unload her provisions from the boot. She put everything away in the kitchen cupboards, then went out to lock the car. It was probably unnecessary, she thought, but old habits died hard.

Then she saw him.

In fact, it was impossible to miss him. He was standing in the archway, hands on hips. Sabine halted, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice rang with defiance.

‘That’s what I came to ask you.’ He strolled forward, and Sabine fought down a prickle of apprehension.

‘That’s close enough,’ she said sharply.

His brows rose mockingly. ‘Do I make you nervous?’

‘You make me angry.’

‘And you,’ he said, ‘make me curious. Tell me, Mademoiselle Riquard, what possessed you to come here?’

‘My name is Russell,’ she said tightly. ‘And my reasons are my own affair.’

‘Russell,’ he repeated slowly. ‘So, Isabelle found another fool to marry her in England. Your French is excellent, but that is where you come from—isn’t it?’

‘I’m not ashamed of it,’ she retorted, taut with anger over his reference to her mother. ‘Anyway, we’re all Europeans now—aren’t we?’ she mimicked his own phrasing.

‘And that’s why you’ve come—for international reasons?’ His tone was openly derisive. ‘I ask your pardon. I thought there might be some—personal motive.’

Sabine shrugged. ‘I admit I was—curious too.’

‘And has your curiosity been satisfied?’

‘Not by any means,’ she returned crisply.

He said quietly, ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘How much would it cost, mademoiselle , to buy that satisfaction?’

The heat of the windless afternoon lay on her like a blanket, but suddenly she felt deathly cold. She said huskily, ‘I—don’t understand.’

‘It is quite simple. I would like you to leave, preferably today, but by tomorrow at the latest. And I am willing to pay whatever price you ask—within reason.’

She gave a small uneven laugh. ‘Just like that? You must be completely mad.’

‘I am altogether sane, I assure you. And I hope you’ll give my offer serious consideration.’

‘It’s not worth considering,’ she said. ‘It’s an insult.’

‘You don’t yet know how much I am prepared to offer.’ He looked at her grimly. ‘Your presence here, mademoiselle , is intolerable. Surely you can see that.’

‘I see nothing of the kind, and I’ll leave when I’m ready,’ Sabine said grittily. She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘Anyway, I may decide to stay. I’m a freelance. I can work anywhere, especially now.’

‘If this is a ploy to force up the price, you’ll be disappointed,’ he said harshly. ‘Contrary to what your mother may have told you, the de Rochefort family is no longer a well from which you can draw money like water.’

‘My mother never mentioned anything about your family,’ she denied hotly. ‘And, having met some of you now, I can’t honestly say I blame her. I’d have wanted to wipe you out—forget all about you, too.’ She paused. ‘And, for the record, I wouldn’t touch one centime of your rotten money.’

He shrugged. ‘Then I will have to try other methods.’

She stared at him. ‘What do you propose to do? Evict me from my mother’s house? You have no right.’

‘Legally, perhaps no,’ he said softly. ‘But the moral grounds are a different matter. Your mother, mademoiselle , left a trail of devastation behind her when she departed from our lives. I was only a boy of ten at the time, but it left its mark on me too. I do not propose to allow this to happen a second time—with you.’

‘You can do exactly as you please,’ she said thickly. ‘But I will not listen to any more of your rotten insinuations about my mother. I loved her, and when she died I felt as if every light in the world had dimmed.’

For a moment, he was granite-still. The he said icily, ‘You were not alone in that. My stepfather, whom I loved dearly also, had a complete breakdown when she left—when she abandoned him as she did.’ His face was bleak. ‘Presumably she never told you that either? No, I thought not.’ He shook his head. ‘If she never spoke of us, mademoiselle , believe me, it was through shame.’

‘I’ve heard enough,’ Sabine flung at him. ‘If Maman ran away, it was because she had good and sufficient reason.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You ordered me off your land a few hours ago. Now I’m telling you to go, and don’t come back. I am not for sale, not now, not ever.’

He took a step towards her, and she bent swiftly and snatched up a stone from the flowerbed beside her.

‘Go.’ Her voice rose. ‘I said get out of here.’

He raked her from head to foot with one long, contemptuous look, then turned on his heel, and strode away under the arch and out of sight.

The tension drained from her, and she sagged limply against the front doorpost. She realised she was still gripping the stone, and dropped it with a little horrified cry. What the hell had she thought she was going to do with it—throw it at him?

She couldn’t have. She wasn’t violent—or hysterical. She’d never behaved in her life as she’d just done, and she couldn’t understand or justify her reactions.

She wasn’t a total dummy where men were concerned. She was reasonably attractive, and outgoing, and normally she had little difficulty in establishing cordial relationships in both her working and social life. She’d always had boyfriends, although so far she hadn’t been tempted to engage in any serious commitment. Casual encounters that ended in bed had never been her scene, and in today’s sexual climate they were not simply tacky, but positively dangerous.

Usually, she met people halfway, and tried not to make snap judgements about them. She hoped they would make the same allowances for her.

But this man—this arrogant de Rochefort creature—galled her as no one had ever done before. It wasn’t just the terrible things he’d implied about Isabelle, although, God knew, they were bad enough. It was his totally unwarranted attitude to herself.

He seemed to have hated her on sight, yet he knew nothing about her, except that she bore a passing physical resemblance to Isabelle. And on such flimsy grounds she’d apparently been tried and sentenced. It was just assumed that she had some ulterior motive in coming here, and she wasn’t allowed to defend herself. The injustice of it numbed her.

The worst her mother could be charged with was running away. And was it any wonder she’d fled, if she’d been subjected to the same bullying and threats by an earlier generation of de Rocheforts? Sabine thought hotly. That—arrogant brute had implied that her mother had taken his family for a ride financially, yet, according to Ruth Russell, Isabelle had been pregnant and penniless, reduced to working as a mother’s help when Hugh met her. The two stories contradicted each other.

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