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Tower Of Shadows
Sara Craven
Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller.DESTINATION: FRANCEATTRACTIONS: GREAT FOOD, WINE, ROMANCE…AND ROHAN SAINT YVESHere, in the fragrant province of Perigord, lay the mystery of Sabine's past – the scandal and secrecy of her mother's banishment, and of her father's true identity. And in the vineyards of her ancestors, also lay a future ripe for the taking with Rohan Saint Yves, a man Sabine discovers can love as fiercely as he hates…



Tower of Shadows
Sara Craven


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER (#u9cb651ca-5d14-549f-9b7c-c006134b606c)
TITLE PAGE (#ucf780173-59dd-5cf2-9b92-b57834b68b0d)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#uafb8c952-e07d-5fa1-9eaf-88a6ae1d667d)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
ENDPAGE (#litres_trial_promo)
COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u69667606-4c53-536a-86e9-e9c7056c6238)
SABINE opened the front door with her latch-key and walked into the hall. She stood for a moment, looking round her, waiting for the onrush of some emotion—nostalgia, maybe, or regret. But all she felt was a strange emptiness.
The house, she thought, was like a vacuum, waiting for the personalities of its new owners to fill it.
There’s nothing for me here, she told herself. But then, after Maman died, there never really was.
She wished she hadn’t come, but Mr Braybrooke had been most insistent.
‘You and Miss Russell must meet to discuss the division of the contents. There are still clothes, I understand, and personal items which will need to be disposed of.’
Something in Sabine recoiled from the idea.
She said, ‘I suppose—a charity shop.’
‘By all means. But surely there will be keepsakes—small pieces of furniture, perhaps, that you will wish to have?’
Sabine shrugged. ‘Just Maman’s jewellery. She stated in her own will it was to come to me when Dad died.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure he would have wanted me to have anything else. There were times during these last couple of years when I felt he hated me. That’s why, in the end, I stayed away.’
Mr Braybrooke looked pained. ‘But you were Mr Russell’s only child, my dear, and you must not doubt that he loved you, even if he didn’t always make it perfectly apparent.’
Sabine sighed. ‘Be honest, Mr Braybrooke. He left the house, his only tangible asset, jointly to my aunt and myself. I imagine you had to fight like a tiger to secure me even that half of his estate.’ She looked at him, brows lifted. ‘That’s so, isn’t it?’
His expression changed to embarrassment. ‘I really cannot reveal private discussions with a client.’
Sabine nodded. ‘I knew I was right,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s all right, Mr Braybrooke. I’ve managed to come to terms with it all. I think Dad was the kind of person who could only love one person in his life. He loved Maman, and when she died she took everything. I must have been a constant reminder of her, and he couldn’t bear it.’
Mr Braybrooke looked at her for a long moment. Then he said gently, ‘I don’t think, my dear, that your father was always very wise.’
Standing silent in the hall now, Sabine let herself feel once more the pain of Hugh Russell’s rejection of her. Her hands curled slowly into fists, the nails scoring the soft palms until she winced, and let them relax again.
Then squaring her shoulders, she crossed to the drawing-room door, and threw it open.
‘So you came.’ Aunt Ruth was occupying the wing chair beside the empty grate, her hands busy with the inevitable piece of knitting. Across the room, Sabine could sense her hostility, and wondered how much influence she’d exerted over her brother in those last years.
She said quietly, ‘Not by choice, but the house has to be cleared. I see that. When is the sale due to be completed?’
‘On Friday.’ Ruth Russell’s lips were compressed into their usual taut line. ‘I’ve prepared an inventory of the furniture, and ticked those pieces to which I’m particularly attached.’
‘That’s fine. We can send the remainder to a saleroom.’
Miss Russell stared at her. ‘There’s nothing you want?’
Sabine glanced round the once familiar room. She had her own flat now, light and bright and filled with the things she herself had carefully chosen. She had her own life. She wanted no hang-ups from the past to shadow the future. And yet…
She said, ‘Only Maman’s jewellery, thank you.’
‘That absurd name.’ Miss Russell’s face showed a sudden, unbecoming flush. ‘Take her trinkets. I don’t want them.’
‘No,’ Sabine said meditatively. ‘You never liked her, did you?’
‘Hugh could have married anyone.’ This was clearly an old and bitter theme. ‘Instead he chose a foreigner—a girl with no background—no class.’
‘The French had a revolution once,’ Sabine pointed out mildly. ‘It was supposed to wipe out that kind of thinking, and replace it with liberty, equality and brotherhood.’ She looked pointedly at the busy hands. ‘A lot of knitting went on then, too.’
‘You are—insolent.’
‘Yes,’ Sabine agreed wearily. ‘But I tried being polite for a long time, Aunt Ruth, and it got me nowhere. Your dislike for Maman was handed down to me, wasn’t it? I often wondered why. I was your brother’s child, after all.’
‘Oh, no, you were not.’
The words were uttered with such venom that Sabine’s head jerked back in shock. She felt as astonished as if the older woman had got out of her chair suddenly, and struck her across the face.
She said, faltering a little, ‘What did you say?’
‘I said you were not my brother’s child.’ The words seemed squeezed between the compressed lips. They were staccato with a violence and bitterness which Sabine, stunned, guessed had been suppressed for years. ‘Your mother—that precious Maman you speak about with such reverence—was nothing but a common slut. She was already pregnant when Hugh met her. She was living as au pair with the Drummonds—such a nice family—and he went there to dinner. Mrs Drummond was distraught when she realised Isabelle’s condition. She turned her out of the house, and rightly so—contaminating innocent children.’ Her breath rasped harshly.
‘She was over six months gone, when he married her,’ she went on. ‘I begged him on my knees not to do it, but he was besotted with her. He’d never shown the slightest interest in any other woman—any decent woman. Oh, no, he chose her. And everyone knew—everyone was laughing about it.’
Sabine found it difficult to breathe. She tried to speak calmly. ‘You’re lying. I know you are. I’ve seen my birth certificate. My father was Hugh Oliver Russell, however much you may wish to disown the connection.’
‘Of course, his name is there. He registered the birth. He claimed you—took responsibility for you. There was no one else to do so. He’d married her, so he accepted the shame of you. She made him do it.’
Sabine’s legs were weak suddenly. A chair, she thought. She had to get to a chair otherwise she would collapse on to the floor. She walked somehow to the other side of the fireplace and sat down.
There was no point in argument and denial. She knew that now. Because Ruth Russell was speaking the truth at last, with a furious conviction that left no room for doubt. And although she felt she was being torn apart inside, at the same time the older woman’s brutal candour was welcome, because it finally answered so many unhappy questions.
She’d thought she’d failed Hugh Russell in some way, or that she was intrinsically unlovable. Now she knew it wasn’t so. It hadn’t really involved her personally at all. It was what she represented to him.
Perhaps he’d always secretly resented giving his name to another man’s child, she thought sadly. Maybe the fact that she’d remained the only one had rankled with him too.
She said, ‘I wish he’d told me this himself.’
‘He never would. He was too loyal to her.’
Sabine lifted her chin. ‘Did he know—who my real father was?’
Ruth Russell shook her head. ‘She would never say. In all those years, she refused to speak about it—to give even a clue.’
‘Although I’m sure you never hesitated to badger her about it,’ Sabine said evenly.
‘We had a right to know whose bastard we were fostering.’
‘That’s certainly one way of looking at it,’ Sabine agreed. She took a breath. ‘In the circumstances, I presume you want me to remove all Maman’s things from the house.’
‘I wanted him to do it after she died. To get rid of everything—every trace of her. But he wouldn’t. In spite of what she’d done—even when she was dead—he went on loving her—the blind, stupid fool.’ Tears were running down Ruth Russell’s face.
‘I know,’ Sabine said gently. ‘And for that reason I shall always love his memory.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll make a start upstairs. Goodbye—Miss Russell. There’s very little reason for us to meet again.’
‘None at all.’ The tone was like a knife, severing any tenuous bond that might remain between them.
Sabine wryly decided against any attempt to shake hands, and left the room.
She was still dazed by the revelations of the past half-hour as she went up the stairs. She’d come to perform an unpleasant but routine chore, and suddenly, virtually in the twinkling of an eye, her entire life had been turned upside-down, and all its certainties challenged.
If she shared no blood tie with Hugh Russell, she found herself debating the morality of claiming any part of his estate at all. She would have to talk to Mr Braybrooke about it.
But she wouldn’t think about that now. She would concentrate on the job in hand instead, and get it done as quickly and cleanly as possible.
During Isabelle Russell’s lifetime, she and her husband had shared the big front bedroom. After her death, he’d moved out into one of the back rooms, and Aunt Ruth—although she supposed she’d have to stop thinking of her in that way—had taken the other.
Fourteen-year-old Sabine had remained in the roomy attic which had been hers since nursery days. It had always been a much loved and private domain. Often, in those anguished and bewildered days as Miss Russell began to impose a new regime, it had become a sanctuary.
Eventually, Sabine had been glad to escape altogether to university, where she’d read Modern Languages. Vacations had proved such a strain that she stopped going home at all in the end, applying for any holiday jobs which offered accommodation. After obtaining her degree, she decided against teaching, opting instead for a career as a freelance translator. So far, she hadn’t regretted it.
She was thankful too that she’d struggled to exist on her grant, and what she earned in vacations, without making too many extra demands on Hugh Russell. She’d been well aware that Ruth Russell grudged her every penny.
To her I was always an outsider—an interloper, she thought, as she opened the door of the master bedroom. At least I know why now.
Miss Russell had a morbid fear of sunlight fading carpets and furnishings, so the curtains were half drawn as usual. Sabine wrenched them apart, and opened the windows for good measure, letting the brightness of the June day flood into the room. Then she looked around her.
It was like taking a step back into the past, and for a moment a little shiver ran down her spine. The bed had been stripped, of course, but apart from that everything seemed much the same. Too much the same. She could almost imagine the door opening and Isabelle coming in to sit down at the dressing-table with its pretty antique tortoiseshell and silver toilet set, humming softly as she loved to do.
What was the song which had always been her favourite as a child? Sabine hummed the tune, then sang the words under her breath. ‘Auprès de ma blonde, il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon Auprès de ma blonde, il fait bon dormir.’
A most unsuitable thing to teach a child, Miss Russell had always said disapprovingly. But it had just been part of Isabelle’s patient determination to make Sabine as bilingual as possible.
‘You have French blood. You must take pride in speaking our beautiful language,’ she had told the little girl more than once. And songs, even faintly risqué ones about blondes, had been part of the learning process.
Isabelle had been blonde herself, of course, her eyes as dark as brown pansies, in startling contrast to her pale hair and creamy skin.
Sabine had inherited her mother’s fair hair, and wore it sleekly cut in a similar straight bob, swinging almost to her shoulders. She was the same medium height too, with the lithe slenderness which had also characterised Isabelle. But her eyes were greyish-green, and her oval face had charm, rather than the outright beauty which her mother had possessed.
She had always tried to emulate Isabelle, too, in buying the best clothes she could afford, and keeping them in pristine condition, making sure she was well-groomed at all times.
Ruth Russell had claimed her sister-in-law had no class, yet Isabelle could achieve the kind of casual chic which made every other woman around her look dowdy. Probably that had been one of the things which Aunt Ruth, who had little dress sense, so disliked about her.
She stood absently fingering the jars and brushes on the dressing-table. Even when Hugh Russell’s attitude towards her had begun to change it had never occurred to her to doubt her parentage for a moment. She’d always believed in the strength of her parents’ marriage, the power of its mutual affection. Now she had to face the fact that it could all have been a sham.
Isabelle had loved another man—had given herself to him with disastrous consequences—and here was Sabine, the living proof, the cuckoo in the conventional Russell family nest.
She wondered if Hugh Russell had ever hinted that his wife should have her baby adopted. According to Miss Russell, Isabelle had forced him to treat her child as his own—had even made it a condition of their marriage.
He had loved her, Sabine thought, but how had she felt about him? Was it love or simply gratitude because he had offered her a safe haven? She would never know.
Biting her lip, Sabine walked over to the wardrobe, and flung open its door. They were still hanging there on their plastic covers—the classic suits, the dateless dresses, with the shoes, always plain courts, racked neatly beneath them.
She lifted down the big suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and, placing it on the bed, began to fill it, folding the garments as carefully as Isabelle would have done.
At times, a faint remembrance of the scent her mother used to wear drifted up from the folds of the clothing. That was the most personally evocative thing of all, Sabine thought, wincing, and she could understand why Hugh had always shied away from clearing out his wife’s things. It was interesting too, she realised, that he’d never allowed his sister to dispose of them either.
But then, he wouldn’t have wanted to see Isabelle’s treasured possessions grimly thrust into bin-bags and left outside for collection.
It took nearly an hour for her to empty the wardrobe and dressing-table. She didn’t hurry, using the time to do some serious thinking. It occurred to her for the first time that there were a couple of curious anomalies in her childhood.
Firstly, although Isabelle had kindled her love for foreign languages by teaching her their own native tongue, at the same time she’d been strangely reticent about her own life. When Sabine asked about France and French life, Isabelle had talked exclusively about Paris where she’d trained as a commercial artist. For that reason, Sabine had always assumed that her mother was a Parisienne by birth.
But assumptions, as she’d discovered that day, could be dangerous, and Isabelle had never actually stated where she was born. She’d never spoken about family either. Sabine had asked if she had any grandparents in France, or any other uncles and aunts. It seemed unjust if she was saddled with Aunt Ruth alone, but Isabelle had said there was no one, adding, ‘Hélas.’
The other odd thing, she realised, was that they’d never been on holiday to France. Nor could she recollect that it had ever been suggested they should do so. It was as if the subject had been taboo.
Yet they’d been to Spain, Italy and Greece time after time, and surely it would have been natural for Isabelle to want to show off the country of her birth.
Why did I never think of this before? she wondered blankly. Presumably because I was too young, and because life was so full in other ways that I never had time or any real reason to question it.
She’d left the top dressing-table drawer until last. It still contained a handful of cosmetics, and, at the very back, her mother’s suede jewellery case. Sabine extracted it gently. Her mother had been quite specific about it. ‘My jewellery case and all its contents to my daughter Sabine’, her will had read, with the added proviso that the bequest should only take place after Hugh Russell’s own death. Maman’s perception had probably told how impossible it would be for him to part with any of her things in his lifetime.
In fact, there was very little inside the case, just her watch, a few pairs of earrings, and her cultured pearl necklace. The tray didn’t fit very well, she noticed, and when she lifted it out she discovered why. Under it was a small flat package wrapped in yellowing tissue paper.
Sabine removed the paper carefully, trying not to tear it, feeling in many ways like an intruder. An oval silver medallion and chain slid into her hand, and she studied it, frowning. She knew all Isabelle’s small store of jewellery, and she’d certainly never seen this before, although she had to admit it was a beautiful thing. Moreover, it looked old, and by its weight in her hand could also be valuable. And equally clearly, concealed in the base of the box, it had not been for public view.
There was some kind of engraving on the medallion, and she took it over to the window for a closer look. The design wasn’t very clear, but she could just make out a building shaped like a tower, she thought, tracing the outline with her fingertip, and beneath it a flower which might or might not be a rose.
Sabine looked at it for a long moment, aware of a faint stirring in her consciousness, some elusive memory, fleetingly brought to life. But as she reached for it, tried to bring it into sharper focus, it was gone. Just another unanswered question, she acknowledged with a small sigh, as she re-wrapped it.
She was about to replace it when she noticed that the satin lining in the bottom of the case had been torn away from one edge, and stitched back into place with large clumsy stitches.
Not Maman’s style at all, she thought, frowning. I wonder when that happened?
She ran her fingers over the base, finding an unexpected bulkiness. There was something there—under the lining. She found a pair of nail scissors and cut the stitches.
The something was an elderly manila envelope, secured with a rubber band.
Slowly Sabine opened it, and emptied the contents on to the dressing-table. A latch-key attached to a ring in the shape of a small enamelled owl fell out first to be followed by a thin folder of photographs, a picture postcard, a label from a wine bottle, and, lastly, some kind of official document in French.
It was a mixed bunch, she thought wonderingly. Rather like that game where you had to memorise so many objects on a tray.
She picked up the document, and spread it open. Her heart seemed to be beating very slowly and loudly as she looked down it. She read it carefully twice, but her conclusion was the same both times. It was some kind of title deed to a house in France. A house called Les Hiboux, sited in the département of the Dordogne, which she knew was in the south-west, near a community called Issigeac. Not that it meant a thing to her.
‘My jewellery case and all its contents to my daughter Sabine’.
All its contents.
She felt cold suddenly, and pushed everything back into the envelope. She would look at the rest later. For now, she had enough shocks to assimilate, she thought, as she put the case into her bag, and took a last look round.
She left the envelope on her dining table while she prepared her evening meal. Everywhere she went in the flat, she seemed to catch sight of it out of the corner of her eye. It was not to be ignored.
She’d called at the library on her way home and borrowed some books on the Dordogne. She glanced through them as she ate. The actual region where the house was situated was called the Périgord, and it was divided up into the White, the Green and the Black. Les Hiboux was in the Périgord Noir, which was called that, apparently, because of all the trees, particularly oaks, in the area. It was also a major tourist centre.
Issigeac, she discovered, was south of Bergerac, and on the edge of its wine-growing area.
Part of the Périgord’s fame, she read, rested on its cuisine, which included wild mushrooms, pâté de foie gras, and the ultimate luxury of truffles. Walnuts were another speciality, cultivated for salad oil, and also for a strong local liqueur.
She made a pot of strong coffee, and reached for the envelope. Les Hiboux, she thought, as the owl keyring fell into her hand. Hibou was French for owl. She put it to one side, and opened the folder of photographs.
There weren’t many, and they were all black and white. She studied them, frowning. They were just ordinary, rather amateurish snapshots. There were a couple of two children, a girl barely past the toddler stage in a sunbonnet and ruffled dress, and a much older boy, all arms and legs and ferocious scowl, staring pugnaciously at the camera. Maman had given the impression she was an only child, she thought, but was that the truth? Did she have relatives—a real family down in the south-west of France?
The other shots showed a man, standing alone outside some tall stone building. They were blurred and his features were indistinct, but Sabine got the impression that he wasn’t particularly young. She glanced at the back of each print, hoping for a name or a date or some other clue, but there was nothing. The man and the children remained anonymous.
She looked at the postcard next, her brows lifting in delight. It depicted a castle in a fairy-tale—a sprawl of golden stone topped by a high, sloping roof, and embellished with turrets. Sabine turned the card over. ‘Le Château La Tour Monchauzet’ the printed legend uncompromisingly informed her, with no further elaboration.
The wine label repeated the same words in a floridly ornate script overprinted on a picture, which Sabine recognised instantly. It was a simple drawing of a square tower, standing in splendid isolation like an accusing finger pointing at the sky. And at its base, as if tossed to the ground from one of the tower’s high windows, was a highly stylised rose.
It’s the same design as the medallion, she thought, with a little lurch of excitement. A tower and a rose. There’s definitely something familiar about that—something I recognised before. One of the stories, maybe, that Maman told me when I was small. Oh, why can’t I remember? I need to know.
They were a motley collection—these remnants of her mother’s past, she thought, as she began to put them back in the envelope. The deed to the house and the key she could understand—just. But what was the significance of the rest of it?
Well, there was only one way to find out. She was overdue for some leave, and she could go to France and make some enquiries.
But should she? Isabelle might have left her the case, but she’d hidden these things away, making sure they wouldn’t be discovered at least while her husband was alive. Clearly she hadn’t wanted Hugh to know she owned any property in her native country, but why conceal such an important fact? It made no sense—no sense at all.
Perhaps Isabelle hadn’t wanted them found at all, had intended her secret, whatever it was, to die with her.
But that can’t be true, Sabine thought, or she’d have burned the lot, and put the key down the nearest drain. No, for good or ill, they were intended for me. And now I have to make a decision.
Les Hiboux. Owls. Birds of ill-omen.
She shivered suddenly, and her arm caught the folder of photographs, knocking it on to the floor. The prints spilled on to the carpet and as Sabine bent to retrieve them the young boy’s face seemed to glare directly up at her, challenging and inimical. And she pulled a face back at him.
She said aloud, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I hope you’ve mellowed. Or that we never meet. Because you could make a nasty enemy.’

CHAPTER TWO (#u69667606-4c53-536a-86e9-e9c7056c6238)
SABINE brought the car to a halt at the side of the road. She looked across the valley to the thick cluster of trees on the hill opposite, and the tantalising glimpse of pointed grey roofs rising above them in the sunlight. And below the trees, covering the hillside, there were the vines, row upon row of them, like some squat green army.
The Château La Tour Monchauzet, she thought swallowing. Journey’s end.
I don’t have to do this, she told herself. I could just look—take a photograph perhaps, and then travel on. Put the past behind me, and treat this as an ordinary holiday.
She could, but she knew that she wouldn’t. With Mr Braybrooke’s astonished help, she’d managed to ascertain that as Isabelle Riquard’s only child, Sabine was legal heir to Les Hiboux.
A house in France was a luxury she couldn’t afford, but she needed to visit it at least once—to make a reasoned decision about the future of her unexpected inheritance. She’d flown to Bordeaux the previous day, and rented a car at the airport. She’d taken her time, driving down to Bergerac, conscious of the left-hand drive, and unfamiliar road conditions.
‘Driving in France is bliss,’ everyone had told her. ‘Marvellous roads, and half the traffic.’
So far she had to agree. The route from Bordeaux to Bergerac had been straight and fast, and presented her with few problems. And she’d been charmed with Bergerac itself. She’d booked in to a hotel on the Place Gambetta, had a leisurely bath to iron out the kinks of the journey, then followed the receptionist’s directions to the old part of the town, a maze of narrow streets where old timbered buildings leaned amiably towards each other.
Although there were plenty of tourists about, mainly British, German and Dutch, Sabine had judged, she had no sense of being in a crowd. There seemed to be space for everyone.
In one square, she’d found a statue of Cyrano de Bergerac, his famous nose sadly foreshortened, probably by vandals, but otherwise much as Rostand had envisaged him.
There were plently of bars and restaurants to choose from, but Sabine had already mentally opted for a simple meal. She was too much on edge to plunge whole-heartedly into the delights of Périgordian cuisine, she’d decided ruefully.
She had found a traditional-style establishment, full of oak beams and dried flowers, which specialised in meat grilled on an open fire in the restaurant itself. She’d ordered a fillet steak, accompanied by a gratin dauphinois and green beans, and while this was being prepared sipped the apéritif suggested by the patronne, a glass of well-chilled golden Monbazillac wine. It was like tasting honey and flowers, she had thought, beginning perceptibly to relax.
To her disappointment, she had not been able to find a Château La Tour Monchauzet vintage on the wine-list, but the half-bottle of Côtes de Bergerac that she chose instead more than made up for it.
Once she’d made her decision to come to the Dordogne, Sabine had read up as much as possible on the area, and she knew that Bergerac wines had been overshadowed in the past by the great vignobles of Bordeaux.
Bordeaux had not taken kindly to competition from what it dismissed as ‘the hinterland’, and had even insisted at one point on Bergerac wines being shipped in smaller casks, thus forcing the Bergerac vignerons to pay more tax on their exports, the money being levied per cask. But that kind of dirty trick had been relegated firmly to history, and now Bergerac wines had a recognised and growing share of the market.
Before she set off the following morning, she’d visited the Maison du Vin, which was housed in a former medieval monastery. Sabine had been guiltily aware of the click of her sandal heels on the flags of the ancient cloister, and was tempted to tiptoe instead, in case she upset the sleeping spirits of the long-departed monks with such frivolous modernity.
But inside the old building she had found the staff reassuringly up to date, and smilingly efficient.
They had provided her with a local map, pin-pointing the exact location of the Château La Tour Monchauzet, and explaining she should take the Villereal road out of Issigeac, but only for a short distance. Then there would be a signpost. But, they had warned, it was not certain she could tour the château or its vines. It was owned by the Baron de Rochefort and his family, and visitors had not been encouraged for some time, as the Baron did not enjoy the best of health. Perhaps it would be wise to telephone first.
However, in the same area, they had added, there were other vignerons, who would be happy to show her the wine-making process, using the most modern and scientific methods, and allow her also to taste their products without obligation. They had given her a list.
She was also looking for a house called Les Hiboux. Well, that was more difficult. For serious exploration of the neighbourhood, they recommended a series of small-scale maps, available from any Maison de Presse. The house she sought, if long-established, could well be marked. If not, she could make enquiries at one of the local mairies.
Sabine had to admit that the château, tucked among its encircling trees, had the look of a place which actively discouraged visitors. If she hadn’t been looking out for the signpost, she could easily have driven past without even realising it was there.
But now it was decision time. Did she turn off on to the single track road across the valley, or take the easy option and drive on towards Villereal?
She glanced at the passenger-seat beside her. The tip of the envelope was just protruding from her bag.
She was probably making a big fuss about very little, said a small voice inside her. Perhaps Isabelle had simply visited the château once as a guest, in the old days, before the Baron became ill, and had kept the postcard and label as souvenirs of a happy day. A nice, comfortable thought, she told herself wryly. Only it didn’t explain how the medallion came to be in her mother’s possession.
Well, there was only one way to find out, she thought, resolutely re-starting the engine.
The road she found herself on was single-track, and twisting. The stream in the bottom of the valley was spanned by a narrow bridge, and she squeezed the car across it, and started up the hill on the other side. The vines spread away on both sides of her, and she could see people working among them, moving slowly along the ranks of greenery.
As she rounded the final corner, the trees were in front of her, a dark and impenetrable barrier hiding the house completely. The road itself ran beneath a tall archway, the gates of which were standing open. One of the high stone pillars carried a large, new-looking sign, showing the château’s name, with the now familiar emblem of the tower and the rose beside it.
Underneath was a smaller board which said curtly, ‘Privé’.
Well, she’d been warned not to expect the welcome mat, Sabine thought, as she drove under the arch. The drive up to the château was deeply shadowed by the trees, and Sabine found the gloom trying after the brilliance of the sunshine on the open road. As she peered ahead of her, something shot across the road in front of the car, forcing her to brake sharply. It was probably only a rabbit, but it had still unnerved her slightly, and she pulled off the drive and parked on the grass.
She leaned against the steering-wheel, resting her forehead on her folded arms. She was nervous of her own shadow today—strung taut as a wire. The problem was she had no real idea of what she was going to say or do when she got to the château. Or was she simply going to drive up to the front door and announce herself?
‘Good day, messieurs, dames,’ she rehearsed silently. ‘I am the daughter of Isabelle Riquard.’
Very impressive, she thought. She could just see the raised eyebrows, the exchange of bemused glances, and the shrugs which said, So what? before they politely but firmly showed her the door. Maybe she should have listened to the girl at the Maison du Vin and phoned ahead.
She opened the car door and got out, stretching. It was cool under the trees, and she could hear birds singing. The wood seemed to be beckoning to her, but she resisted the temptation. The last thing she needed was to be found trespassing in the Baron’s private grounds.
She was just about to get back in the car, when she heard another vehicle coming up the hill fast. Sabine had an ignominious impulse to run and hide somewhere. Then she took a deep breath, telling herself not to be such a fool, and stand her ground. If this was one of the family, she might have some explaining to do quite soon, but they couldn’t eat her, for heaven’s sake. She leaned against the bonnet of the car and waited.
With a snarl, a small Peugeot rounded the corner and headed towards her. Sabine pinned on a polite smile, and aimed it straight at the oncoming vehicle’s windscreen. Then, just as if the world had frozen and stopped for a moment, she saw the woman in the driving seat, face white, eyes glassy with shock, the mouth stretched in a grimace which looked like terror.
Sabine cried out in horror as the Peugeot swerved crazily, and plunged off the road. There was the sound of crunching metal as it hit one of the trees a glancing blow and came to a rocking halt.
For a moment Sabine couldn’t move. It had all been so fast, she could hardly believe what had happened. All she could think of was the panic on the other woman’s face when she’d seen her.
I was just standing there, she thought dazedly. I did nothing to cause that. Nothing.
But there was the Peugeot, its wing crumpled beyond recognition, and still inside was the driver, slumped over the wheel.
‘Oh, my God.’ Power returned to Sabine’s limbs and she dashed frantically across the road, and tugged at the driver’s door. It came open at once, and she leaned in, trying to disentangle the unconscious woman from her seatbelt. She’d obviously hit her head during the impact because there was a small trickle of blood on her forehead.
Sabine got the seatbelt off at last, and heaved and dragged the woman, arms and legs trailing, clear of the car. Fortunately, she was petite and thin, almost to the point of emaciation, but all the same Sabine needed all her strength to struggle with her to the grass on the opposite side of the road.
She wasn’t a young woman, either. Her hair, drawn back from her face into a chignon, was iron-grey, and there were deep lines around her nose and mouth.
She had the most ghastly pallor, Sabine thought, racing to fetch her jacket from the car and put it under the older woman’s head as a pillow. As she did so, the colourless lips moved in a faint moan.
At least she’s not dead, Sabine thought, relief flooding through her. She leaned close to the woman’s ear and said urgently, ‘Don’t move, madame. I’m going to get help.’
She jumped into her own car, hands fumbling with the ignition key. It started finally at the third attempt, and Sabine was almost weeping as she threw it at the hill. After the next corner, the road divided, and Sabine took the right-hand fork. Almost at once, the road levelled out, and she beat her fist on the steering-wheel in frustration.
‘The château’s at the very top of the hill,’ she wailed to herself. ‘This can’t be the way.’
She was looking for somewhere to turn when she suddenly realised there were buildings ahead of her. Not a house, but barns or storage areas of some kind. Oh, let there be someone around, she prayed silently, as she made the car fly the last few metres.
Directly ahead of her, three men stood in a group talking. At the sound of her approach, their heads swivelled towards her as if pulled by strings, their expressions transfixed by astonishment and alarm. If she hadn’t been so upset, it would almost have been funny.
Sabine tried to brake, stalled instead, and tumbled out of the car. ‘Please,’ she said between sobbing breaths. ‘Please come with me. There’s been an accident. A lady has been hurt.’
One of the men strode over to her. Sabine had a confused impression of height and strength, and an anger so powerful that she felt scorched by it.
His hand closed on her arm, bruising her, and she cried out in pain.
‘Who are you?’ A voice like steel and ice. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘That doesn’t matter now. You’ve got to help me. Someone’s injured.’
He swore violently under his breath, and Sabine found herself being propelled without gentleness into her own passenger-seat. He slotted himself in behind the steering-wheel, and started the car first time. Bastard, she thought. Know-all.
‘Show me.’
‘It was just before the fork.’ In spite of the heat of the day, her teeth had begun to chatter. ‘I was standing on the grass—just standing there. She—saw me, and—and—ran into a tree. I—I didn’t believe it.’
‘No?’ There was a kind of savage irony in his voice, and the dark eyes seared her. ‘I do.’
The damage to the Peugeot looked even worse as they approached, and Sabine groaned under her breath. The driver was sitting up, holding a hand groggily to her head.
‘How did she get there?’ Sabine was asked with a curtness that threatened to remove a layer of skin.
‘I put her there. I suppose I shouldn’t have moved her, but I was worried about the petrol tank—the car exploding.’
But he was already out of the car, ignoring her faltering explanation. He went down on one knee beside the older woman. ‘Tante Héloise.’ His voice had gentled quite magically. ‘Keep still, and try to be calm. Jacques has gone to call an ambulance.’
‘No.’ A thin hand gestured in agitation. ‘It isn’t necessary. I bumped my head, that’s all. I don’t wish to go to the hospital. Just take me to the house.’
‘You should have treatment. There may be some concussion.’
‘No, Gaston must not be worried.’ Her voice was stronger, more forceful, and she was struggling to get up. ‘Take me home, and send for Dr Arnaud if you must.’
As he helped her up, her gaze went past to him to Sabine, who was just getting out of the car to offer her assistance. The returning colour drained out of her face again, and she looked on the point of collapse.
‘Mon Dieu!’ she said, her voice hoarse and strained. ‘Isabelle.’
Sabine flinched, but she kept her tone low, controlled. ‘You are mistaken, madame. My mother is dead.’
The woman cried out, and sagged against the man holding her, pressing her face against his arm. He turned his head and glared at Sabine. It was a look she recognised instantly, although it was the first time she’d seen it in the flesh. He was the young boy in the photograph, but over six feet now, with broad shoulders and lean hips. The scowl too had gained at least another twenty years of maturity. It had a lethal edge now which cut her to the bone. She knew she didn’t deserve such scorn, but she felt herself shrink back, just the same.
‘Get in the car, mademoiselle.’ Contempt scored every word. ‘Haven’t you done enough harm today? You’re not wanted here. Go, and don’t come back.’
She was trembling all over, holding on to the car door for support, despising herself for her own weakness. Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘I would—only I don’t think I can drive just yet.’ She lifted her chin, glaring back, refusing to allow herself to be bested completely. ‘Or do you want to sacrifice another tree?’
For a long moment their glances clashed like swords, then there was a shout behind her, and she turned to see the two men he’d been talking to and a short stout woman in a dark overall running towards them.
‘Jacques.’ One of the men was singled out with an imperative finger, which was then stabbed at Sabine. ‘Take her wherever she wants to go. Only get her off this estate now, you understand? Before more damage is done,’ he added in an undertone.
It was unjust and degrading to be hustled away like this, Sabine thought. She’d had a shock herself. She’d rescued this woman—his aunt presumably—from her crashed car, and gone for help. So much for gratitude—and the much vaunted French hospitality, she thought almost hysterically as Jacques, his face expressionless, indicated that she should resume her seat in the car.
She looked back, and saw that Tante Héloise was being led away on the arm of the stout woman.
He was examining the damage to the Peugeot, and didn’t even glance in the direction of the departing car.
She sank back into her seat, still trembling. She hadn’t expected to be greeted with open arms, but the reception she’d actually received had shaken her to the core. Isabelle must have left a legacy of frightening bitterness behind her in this place in order to set off a reaction like that.
She found it totally incomprehensible. She tried to remember Isabelle objectively—wondering how she would have regarded her if they had simply met as strangers, but all she could call to mind was her mother’s warmth, and gentleness and capacity for love, and a slow anger began to build in her. She could excuse Ruth Russell to a certain extent. She was a jealous and overly possessive woman who would have loathed anyone her brother had married.
But there was no defence to be made out for the people she’d met today. The small voice inside her, urging her to cut her losses and go back to England, leaving the residents at the Château La Tour Monchauzet to stew in their own rancour, was being overwhelmed by a furious determination to vindicate her mother’s memory at all costs.
I’m not going to hang my head and run, she told herself. Nor will I be treated like—a pariah. They may have driven my mother away, but they won’t get rid of me so easily.
Jacques slowed the car for the bridge. ‘Where do you wish to be taken, mademoiselle?’ he asked with chill formality. ‘You have arranged accommodation?’
She’d noticed an attractive country hotel on her way through Issigeac, and thought she might as well return there. Her lips parted to tell him so, and then she heard herself say, to her own amazement, ‘Take me to Les Hiboux, please.’
His head jerked round to look at her, and he missed a gear change. ‘Les Hiboux?’ he repeated. ‘But that is an empty house.’
She said coolly, ‘Which I believe belonged to my mother, Isabelle Riquard.’
‘Why, yes, but—’
‘I intend to use it,’ she cut across him flatly. ‘Is it far from here?’
Jacques would normally, she guessed, have an open, cheerful face, on the borderline of good-looking, but now he looked distinctly glum.
‘No, not far. But M’sieur Rohan would not wish…’ He hesitated in turn. ‘It would be better, mademoiselle, for me to take you to the nearest syndicat d’initiative. Someone there will be able to arrange a room for you. It would be wiser, believe me.’
She could guess the identity of M’sieur Rohan only too well, and steel entered her voice. ‘And I prefer to stay at Les Hiboux. If you won’t take me, then stop the car here, and I’ll find my own way.’
His mouth tightened. ‘The patron, mademoiselle, instructed me to drive you wherever you wished to go. And that is what I shall do.’
Jacques called this Monsieur Rohan ‘the boss’, but surely that didn’t mean he was the Baron de Rochefort? The girl at the Maison du Vin had said the Baron was in poor health, and this—Rohan looked capable of strangling tigers with his bare hands.
The thought of him—the way he’d looked at her, and spoken—made her start to shake again, but this time with temper. She looked out of the car window, struggling to regain her composure.
In other circumstances, this would have been a pleasant drive. Freed from the necessity to concentrate on the road, she could have admired the sweep of the rolling scenery of broad fields dotted with cattle, and tree-crowned hills. There were a few houses here and there, some clearly centuries old, their stones weathered to a cream, and pale sand, dark shutters closed against the power of the south-western sun. Others were distinctly modern, looking sharp and raw against the soft colours of their rural backdrop, but all were built with the steeply sloping roofs and heavy timbering that she’d already come to recognise as typical of the region. She remembered reading that all kinds of property, as well as building land in the Dordogne area, was being snapped up by the British and the Dutch.
But the only real sign of activity she could see were the tractors, at work in some of the fields, cutting hay. Certainly, they’d passed no other vehicles.
It was totally tranquil, utterly serene, stamped with an ageless certainty and stability, and, for the first time, Sabine realised what poets had meant when they sang of ‘La Douce France’.
I belong here, she thought fiercely. They won’t send me away.
They had turned on to a side-road now. In the fields on both sides, the grass grew high, interspersed with the crimson splash of poppies. They passed a grey stone workshop selling agricultural machines, a small garage with two petrol pumps, and a war memorial surmounted by a statue of Christ on the cross.
They turned again on to an even narrower track, its tarmac pitted and holed, with grass growing down the centre of it. Far ahead of her, Sabine could see a cluster of buildings, obviously a farm, but on her left, set back from the road across an expanse of roughly cropped grass and stones, was a smaller property, whitewashed walls, and earth-red tiles, standing alone.
She did not need Jacques’s laconic, ‘We have arrived, mademoiselle,’ to tell her that this was Les Hiboux. Somehow, she already knew.
The house presented a defensive, almost secretive face to the world, she thought, as they approached. Fronting the road was a long wall bisected by a low archway, and terminated by a structure like a squat tower, surmounted by the usual pointed roof. As far as she could see, the rest of the house seemed to be single-storeyed. She reached for her bag, her hand closing on the bunch of keys, as Jacques brought the car to a halt.
They both got out, and he looked at her, his pleasant face serious, even concerned. ‘You wish me to come with you—to make sure all is well?’
‘Thank you, but no.’ She needed to be alone for this. ‘How—how are you going to get back to the château? Do you want to borrow the car and return it later?’
‘There is no problem,’ he assured her. ‘By the road, it seems a long way, but I need only to walk a kilometre across the fields beyond the farm. It is nothing.’
Following his indication, Sabine realised with a hollow feeling that all they’d done was skirt the hill where the château stood; that Les Hiboux in fact stood beneath La Tour Monchauzet, but on its other side—and still in its shadow.
I could have done without that, she thought, and the short-cut past the farm.
‘M’sieur Rohan will wish to know where I have brought you, mademoiselle,’ Jacques said uncomfortably. ‘He will not be pleased to know you are here, but I cannot lie to him.’
‘Then tell him the truth,’ Sabine said with bravado.
Jacques’s brow became increasingly furrowed. ‘He is a good man, mademoiselle—all the world would tell you so—but he has had to be strong—to bear everything on his shoulders. It has not been easy—and he does not like to be crossed.’
She thought, I knew that before I met him.
She shrugged, forcing a faint smile. ‘I’ll take my chance.’ And paused. ‘Before you go, can you tell me where I can get supplies? Without being disloyal to M’sieur Rohan, of course.’
There was a palpable hesitation, then he sighed. ‘There is an Intermarché in Villereal, mademoiselle. Now goodbye—and good luck.’
He sounded convinced she would need it, Sabine thought as he trudged off. She looked up at the hill, but the château was invisible from this angle behind its enshrouding of trees. But it was there, just the same, like prying eyes peering round the corner of a thick curtain.
And he was there too. She was starkly aware of it. A man it was not wise to cross, whose angry scorn had already bruised her. And a man to whom she had just thrown down a deliberate challenge.
She said again, ‘I’ll take my chance,’ and walked towards the archway.

CHAPTER THREE (#u69667606-4c53-536a-86e9-e9c7056c6238)
SABINE didn’t know what to expect. This had been her mother’s house, after all, and Isabelle had left it over twenty-two years ago, and not been back since.
She was half anticipating having to fight her way through a jungle of undergrowth to reach the front door. But she was totally mistaken. A neat flagged area confronted her, flanked by the wall of some storage building on one side and the length of the house on the other. There were narrow flowerbeds in need of weeding on both sides, and in the sheltered corner between the store and the wall a tall rose lifted imperious petals like flames.
Beyond the store, the garden opened out into an untidy sloping lawn, with trees and shrubs, and the flags narrowed to a terrace. Sabine saw that the arched motif had been repeated in the french windows all the way along the front of the house and the stout wooden entrance. The rooms seemed bare, she thought, peering in through the dusty panes. Directly in front of the door was a small ornamental pool, with a fountain, although, naturally, it wasn’t playing at the moment.
Once again Sabine had the curious sensation that time had stopped and run back.
But she was just being over-imaginative, she chided herself. Some kind soul had just been keeping the garden under reasonable control—that was all.
She tried the key in the lock. To her surprise, it turned easily, and she stepped inside. She found herself in a large square hall, with a pair of half-glazed doors ahead of her leading directly into the kitchen, and wooden double doors to her left, giving access to the rest of the house.
She tried these first. The room she entered ran the width of the house, with windows at both ends. She opened them and threw back the shutters, letting light flood in. The floor was tiled in a deep terracotta shade, but there was no furniture apart from a black enamelled stove standing in one corner on a raised hearth.
There were two doors in the far wall, and she opened each in turn. One was bare, but the other contained a range of old-fashioned fitted wardrobes, and a vast wooden bedstead, the head and footboards elaborately carved.
Sabine stared round her. The house smelt damp, of course, and there was a thin layer of dust everywhere, but there was none of the squalor and decay she had feared.
She went into the kitchen. A big scrubbed table stood in the middle of the room, and a vast dresser almost filled one wall. There was an old-fashioned sink under the window, and a new-looking electric cooker, with cupboards on both sides. A stable-type door led to the rear garden.
A further door led off to the right, with a tiled passage taking her to the bathroom, and another large square room at the end, which was probably the dining-room. From this a spiral staircase led upwards to a similar-sized room with windows on all sides, and Sabine realised she must be in the tower she’d noticed on the way in.
The tower and the rose, she thought as she descended cautiously. I can’t seem to get away from them.
She went slowly back to the kitchen. Only two sounds disturbed the silence—a fly buzzing desultorily against the window, and a tap dripping into the sink.
Well, at least that meant the water was turned on. She tried the light switch by the door, and discovered there was power too. That was odd, she thought, when the house was unoccupied. But it made it habitable, for which she was grateful. She would have hated it if she had to admit defeat, and crawl off to a hotel somewhere. She’d included a sleeping-bag in the luggage she’d brought with her, so she could manage.
She unloaded the car and carried everything in, dumping it all in the middle of the salon. Then she retrieved her map, plotted the route to Villereal, and made a list of what she wanted to buy.
Villereal was charming, and busy too, with its narrow streets and central square with a timbered-covered market. But exploration would have to wait. She had more pressing matters in hand. And the supermarket Jacques had mentioned was sited on the outskirts of town, she discovered.
Cleaning materials were the first priority, and enough china, cutlery and glassware for her own use. It was doubtful, she told herself wryly, whether she would be doing any entertaining.
After that, she could have fun. She wandered round the aisles, filling up her trolley with cheese, sliced ham and wedges of terrine, lingering over the huge butchery section, where the cuts of meat looked so different from those she was used to.
Finally she chose a plump boiling fowl, in deference to that great Gascon King of France, Henri Quatre, whose ambition it had been to see that all his subjects were well fed enough to have a chicken in their pot each week, and had made La Poule Au Pot a loved and traditional name for restaurants. Perhaps, she thought, her poule au pot, made as Maman had taught her, would make her feel less of an alien.
Her choice made, she went back for vegetables to accompany it, recklessly adding a demi-kilo of the huge firm-fleshed tomatoes, as well as nectarines, oranges and a punnet of strawberries to her collection. Her last purchase should have been bread—she picked a flat circular loaf rather than a baguette—but she succumbed to temptation and bought one of the plastic containers of the local vin ordinaire, amazingly cheap and good for its price, and several bottles of water too.
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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