Bride of Desire
Sara Craven

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

Title Page

About the Author

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Endpage

Copyright

PROLOGUE

IT WAS always the same dream. A long, deserted beach, stretching out into infinity. Straight, firm sand under her bare feet. No twists, no turns. No rocks or other place of concealment anywhere. Near at hand, the hiss and whisper of the sea’s rising tide.

And suddenly, behind her, the steady drumming of a horse’s hooves, pursuing her. Drawing closer all the time, relentless—inescapable. Preparing to ride her down …

Not daring to look over her shoulder, she began to run, going faster and faster, yet knowing as she did so that there was no escape. That her pursuer would follow her always.

She awoke gasping, sitting bolt upright in the big bed as she stared into the darkness, dry-mouthed, her heart pounding to the point of suffocation and her thin nightdress sticking to her sweat-dampened body.

And then she heard it—the low growl of thunder almost overhead, and the slam of rain against her window. No tidal race or galloping hoof-beats, she recognised shakily. Just a storm in the night—the inevitable climax of the mini-heatwave of the past few days.

She sagged back against the mound of pillows, suppressing a sob.

A dream, she told herself. Triggered by the weather. Nothing more. Only a dream. And one day—one night soon—it would let her go. He would let her go. And she would know some peace at last. Surely …

CHAPTER ONE

AS ALLIE came down the broad curving staircase, she paused for a moment to look at the view from the big casement window on the half-landing.

There was nothing new to see. Just the grounds of Marchington Hall in all their formal splendour, unfolding over immaculately kept lawns down to the gleam of the lake in the distance. To her right, she could just glimpse the mellow brick walls of the Fountain Court, while to the left dark green cypresses sheltered the Italian Garden.

But on a day like this, when the air seemed to sparkle after the rain in the night, the vista made her heart lift. It even made her feel that being forced to deal with all the petty restrictions and irritations of life at the Hall might be worth it, after all.

Worth it for Tom’s sake anyway, she thought. I have to believe that. I must. Because there is nothing else …

Her throat tightened suddenly, uncontrollably, and she made to turn away. As she did so, she caught sight of her own reflection, and paused again. She looked like a ghost, she thought soberly. A pale, hollow-eyed, fair-haired phantom, without life or substance. And as tense as if she was stretched on wire.

Part of that, of course, was down to last night’s storm. Part, but not all.

Because it also had to do with the ongoing battle over the upbringing of her fourteen-month-old son, which, in spite of her best efforts, seemed to be turning into a war of attrition.

She’d just been to visit him in his nursery, to make sure that he hadn’t been woken by the thunder, but had been faced by the usual confrontation with Nanny, looking disapproving over this disruption to Tom’s routine.

‘He’s having his breakfast, Lady Marchington.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Allie had returned, counting to ten under her breath. ‘In fact, I’d like to help feed him. I’ve said so many times.’

‘We prefer to have as few distractions at mealtimes as possible,’ Nanny returned with regal finality.

And if I had the guts of a worm, Allie thought grimly, I’d stand up to the boot-faced old bag.

But behind Nanny’s portly and commanding frame, she knew, stood the outwardly frail figure of Grace, the Dowager Lady Marchington, her mother-in-law, known irreverently in the village as the Tungsten Tartar.

Any overt clash with Nanny led straight to ‘an atmosphere’ in the nursery, and also resulted in Allie becoming the target of the elder Lady Marchington’s icy displeasure. An experience to be avoided.

Anything for a quiet life, she’d told herself as she’d left the nursery, closing the door behind her. And, my God, was this ever a quiet life.

She supposed that for Tom’s sake she wouldn’t have it any other way. He was Hugo’s heir, she reminded herself stonily, so she should have known what to expect.

Besides, on the surface at least, the Hall had all the necessary elements to supply him with an idyllic childhood.

But I’d just like to be able to enjoy it with him, she thought rebelliously. Without Nanny standing guard as if I was a potential kidnapper instead of his mother.

He said his first word to her, not me. And it wasn’t Mama either, which hurt. And I missed the moment he took his first step, too. It’s as if I don’t feature in the scheme of things at all. I gave him birth, and now I’m being sidelined. It’s a ludicrous situation to be in.

Most of her friends were young marrieds, struggling to cope with child-rearing alongside the demands of their careers. They must think that, apart from the tragedy of being widowed at twenty-one, she’d pretty much fallen on her feet.

After all, she had a large house to live in, a staff to run it, and no money or childcare problems.

Besides, some of them clearly thought that the premature end of her marriage was a blessing in disguise too, although they never said so openly.

And if they did, Allie thought, sighing, could I really deny it?

She walked slowly across the hall and, drawing a deep breath, entered the dining room. Grace Marchington was seated at the head of the table—although ‘enthroned’ might be a better description, Allie thought as she fielded the disparaging glance aimed at her denim skirt and white cheesecloth blouse, closely followed, as usual, by the glance at the watch—just pointed enough to be noticeable.

‘Good morning, Alice. Did you sleep well?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but picked up the small brass bell beside her place and rang it sharply. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Windom to bring some fresh toast.’

Allie took her seat and poured herself some coffee. ‘I’m sorry if I’m late. I popped in to see Tom on my way down.’

‘Not a terribly convenient time, my dear, as I think Nanny has mentioned to you.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Allie said. ‘She has.’ She fortified herself with some coffee. ‘So, perhaps she could suggest when it would be more appropriate for me to visit my own son. Because somehow I always seem to get it wrong.’

Lady Marchington replaced her cup in its saucer in a measured way. ‘I’m not sure I understand you, Alice.’

Allie took a breath. ‘I’d like to see Tom first thing in the morning without it being regarded as an unreasonable request. In fact, I’d love to be there when he wakes up, so that I can sort out his clothes and bath him, and then give him his breakfast. That’s surely not too much to ask.’

‘Are you implying that Nanny is incapable in some way of supplying Tom’s needs? May I remind you that she was entrusted with the care of Hugo as soon as he was born.’

‘I do realise that, yes,’ Allie said wearily. I’ve never been allowed to forget it.

‘And I’m sure you also recall that there was a time, after Tom’s birth, when Nanny’s presence became indispensable?’

The dagger between the ribs …

‘Yes, I had postnatal depression for a while.’ Allie kept her tone even. ‘But I got over it.’

‘Did you, my dear? Sometimes I wonder.’ Her mother-in-law gave her a sad smile. ‘Of course, you are still grieving for our beloved boy, which may account for the mood swings I sometimes detect. But I’m sure Dr Lennard would be happy to recommend someone—a specialist who could help you over this difficult period in your life.’

Allie’s lips tightened. ‘You think that wanting to look after my small child means I need a psychiatrist?’

Lady Marchington looked almost shocked. ‘There are many different levels of therapy, Alice. And it was only a suggestion, after all.’

As if signifying that the matter was closed, she turned her attention to the pile of post which had been placed beside her, as it was every morning. And, as she did so, Allie suddenly spotted the pale blue envelope with the French stamp, halfway down, and stifled a small gasp.

A letter from Tante Madelon, she thought, and felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Was that the real reason for last night’s dream, and not the storm at all? Why she’d heard all over again the sibilant rush of the incoming tide and the thunder of the pursuing hoofbeats? Because somehow she’d sensed that all the memories of Brittany she’d tried so hard to bury were about to be revived?

Her heart was thumping against her ribs, but she knew there was no point in claiming the letter. That wasn’t the way the system worked. All the mail delivered to the Hall came to Grace first, to be scrutinised before it was handed out to staff and family alike.

And if she thought you were taking an undue interest in any item, she was quite capable of taking the day’s post to her private sitting room and letting you seethe quietly for half a day, or even twenty-four hours, before handing it over with the mellifluous words, ‘I think this must be for you.’

‘It’s madness,’ Allie had once told Hugo heatedly. ‘Your mother is the ultimate control freak. Why don’t you say something?’

But he’d only looked at her, brows raised in haughty surprise. ‘Mother’s always dealt with the mail. My father preferred it, and I don’t see it as a problem.’

But then Hugo had seen very little as a problem, apart from the utter necessity of providing a son and heir for his beloved estate. That, in the end, had been the driving force—the obsession in his ruined life. Two ruined lives, if she counted her own, and she tried hard not to do that. Bitterness, after all, was futile, and damaged no one but herself. Regret, too, altered nothing.

But was she still mourning her late husband, as her mother-in-law had suggested? In her innermost heart, she doubted that. The suddenness of his death had certainly been an acute shock, but she suspected her reaction was largely triggered by guilt because she’d never really loved him.

For a long time she’d felt numb—too emotionally paralysed even to feel relief that the nightmare of their marriage had ended—but that had been over and done with long ago.

Slowly and carefully, she’d begun to find herself again, and somehow she had to move on from that—to regain the here and now, and stop allowing Grace to treat her as some kind of cipher—even if it did end with blood on the carpet.

How to go about it, of course, was not so clear, she told herself ironically. Because her mother-in-law seemed to hold all the winning cards.

In those tragic crowded weeks after Hugo had died with such shocking suddenness and Tom had been born, Allie herself had temporarily descended into some bleak, dark limbo.

It was then that Grace Marchington had effortlessly reassumed the role of mistress of the house. In fact, Allie could see, looking back, that she’d never really been away.

I was just the temporary usurper who gave Hugo the son he’d craved, she thought. And after that I was supposed to retire into well-deserved obscurity, while Grace and Nanny pursued the task of turning Tom into a tintype of Marchington Man.

But that’s not going to happen, because I won’t let it.

She realised, however, that she needed to conserve her energies for the battles she had to win—and Grace being anally retentive over a bunch of letters was not the most important. A minor irritation at best.

So, for the time being, she sat and ate the toast that Mrs Windom had brought, and never gave a second glance at the mail that Grace was examining with such torturous slowness. It might only be a small victory, but it counted.

She looked instead at the picture on the wall in front of her. It was a portrait of Hugo that his mother had commissioned for his twenty-fifth birthday, two years before the accident. Lady Marchington had not been altogether satisfied with the result, saying it was a poor likeness. But Allie wasn’t so sure about that. The artist had given Hugo credit for his undoubted good looks, but also hinted at a slight fleshiness about the jaw, and a peevish line to the mouth. Nor had he made any attempt to conceal that the crisply cut dark hair was already beginning to recede.

It was Hugo, she thought, as he would have become if his life had taken a different path. If there’d been more time …

And suddenly superimposed on it, she realised, her heart bumping, was another face—thinner, swarthier, with a beak of a nose and heavy-lidded eyes, as blue and cold as the sea. And a voice in her head whispered a name that she’d tried hard to forget—Remy …

‘This seems to be yours, Alice.’

She started violently as she realised that LadyMarchington, lips faintly pursed, was holding out the blue envelope.

‘I presume it’s from your French great-aunt,’ the older woman added. ‘I hope it isn’t bad news.’

‘I hope so too,’ Allie said lightly, ignoring the hint that she should open it instantly and divulge the contents. ‘But at least she’s alive.’

She heard the hiss of indrawn breath, and braced herself for a chilling rebuke over inappropriate levity, but instead the dining room door opened to admit the housekeeper.

‘Excuse me, your ladyship, but Mrs Farlow is asking to speak to you on the telephone. A problem with the Garden Club accounts.’

‘I’ll come.’ Lady Marchington rose with an expression on her face that boded ill for the unfortunate Club treasurer. And for Allie, too, if she was still around when her mother-in-law returned.

As soon as she was alone, Allie went quickly across to the French windows and let herself out on to the terrace. A few minutes later she was pushing open the wrought-iron gate into the Fountain Court. It was one of her favourite places, with its gravelled paths, the raised beds planted with roses, just coming into flower, and the tall, cascading centre-piece of ferocious tritons and swooning nymphs from which it took its name.

It was an odd thing to find at an English country house, she had to admit, but it had been designed and installed by a much earlier Sir Hugo, who’d fallen in love with Italy while on the Grand Tour, and had wanted a permanent memento of his travels.

Allie loved the fountain for its sheer exuberance, and for the cool, soothing splash of its water which made even the hottest day seem restful. She sat on one of the stone benches and opened Tante’s letter. She read it through swiftly, then, frowning, went back to the beginning, absorbing its contents with greater care.

It was not, in fact, good news. The writing was wavery, and not always easy to decipher, but the gist of it was that all was far from well with her great-aunt.

It seems that this will be my last summer at Les Sables d’Ignac. However, I have had a good life here, and I regret only that so long has passed since we were together. You remind me so much of my beloved sister, and it would make me truly happy to see you again, my dearest child. I hope with all my heart that you can spare me a little time from your busy life to visit me. Please, my dear Alys, come to me, and bring your little boy with you also. As he is the last of the Vaillac blood, I so long to see him.

My God, Allie thought, appalled. What on earth could be wrong with her? Tante Madelon had always given the impression that she was in the most robust of health. But then she hadn’t seen her for almost two years—and that was indeed a long time.

She realised, of course, that her great-aunt must be in her late seventies, although her looks and vigour had always belied her age. In fact, to Allie she’d always seemed immortal, only the silvering of her hair marking the inevitable passage of time.

Soberly, she thought of Tante as she’d seen her last. The older woman’s pointed face had been drawn and anxious, but the dark, vivid eyes had still been full of life. Full of love for this girl, her only living relative.

‘Don’t go back, ma chérie,’ she’d urged. ‘There is nothing for you there. Stay here with me …’ Her voice had died away, leaving other things unsaid.

And Allie had replied, stumbling over the words, her head reeling, her emotions in shreds, ‘I—can’t.’

Now, she took a deep breath to calm herself, then slowly re-read the postscript at the end, the words running down the page as if the writer had been almost too weary to hold the pen.

Alys, I promise there is nothing that should keep you away, and that you have no reason to fear such a visit.

In plain words, Tante was offering her assurance—the essential guarantee that she thought Allie would want. Telling her, in effect, that Remy de Brizat would not be there. That he was still working abroad with his medical charity.

Only it wasn’t as simple as that. It wasn’t enough. He might not be physically present, but Allie knew that her memory—her senses—would find him everywhere.

That she’d see him waiting on the shore, or find his face carved into one of the tall stone megaliths that dotted the headland. That she’d feel him in every grain of sand or blade of grass. That she’d hear his laughter on the wind, and his voice in the murmur of the sea.

And, in the fury of the storm, she would relive the anger and bitterness of their parting, she thought, as she’d done last night. And she shivered in spite of the warmth of the morning.

Besides, she had too many memories already.

Her breathing quickened suddenly to pain. Words danced off the page at her. Please, my dear Alys, come to me …

She closed her eyes to block them out, and heard herself repeat aloud—‘I can’t.’

Then she crushed the letter in her hand, and pushed it into the pocket of her skirt.

She got to her feet and began to wander restlessly down the gravelled walk, forcing herself to think about other things—other people. To build a wall against those other memories.

Turning her thoughts determinedly to the Vaillac sisters, Celine and Madelon. During the Second World War, their family had sheltered her grandfather, Guy Colville, an airman forced to bail out on his way home. He’d broken his leg during his parachute descent, but had managed to crawl to a nearby barn, where Celine Vaillac had found him.

The Vaillacs had nursed him back to health, and risked their lives to keep him hidden and fed, eventually enabling him to be smuggled north to the Channel coast and back to England in a fishing boat. It was part of family folklore, and a story she’d never tired of hearing when she was a child.

She thought how romantic it was that Guy had never forgotten the pretty, shyly smiling Celine, and how, as soon as the war ended, he’d returned to their rambling farmhouse with his younger brother Rupert, to make sure that she and her family had all survived relatively unscathed, and discover whether Celine shared similar memories of their time together.

That first visit had been followed by others, and, to Guy’s surprise, Rupert had insisted on going with him each time. When eventually Guy had proposed to Celine, and been accepted, his brother had confessed that he too had fallen in love with her younger sister, Madelon, a vivacious imp of a girl, and suggested a double wedding.

It was a real fairy-tale, Allie thought wistfully, but the happy ending had been short-lived—for her grandparents at least. Celine had always been the fairer of the two, and the quieter. A girl slender as a lily and ultimately as delicate. Because what should have been the straightforward birth of her first child had developed unexpected and severe complications which, tragically, she had not survived.

Guy had been totally devastated, firstly by the loss of his adored wife, and by having to learn to cope with a newborn motherless son. He had naturally turned to Rupert and Madelon, who’d provided him with the deep, steadfast support he needed, in spite of their own grief. Ironically, they themselves had remained childless, pouring their affection and care into the upbringing of their nephew, forming unbroken ties into Paul Colville’s adult life.

So, Tante had been an important part of Allie’s background from the moment she was born. It had only been when both Guy and her husband had died that she’d finally decided to return to Brittany, renting a house in Quimper for a while. Allie and her father Paul had visited her there on several occasions, although her mother had never accompanied them, making the excuse that she was a poor sailor, who found the ferry crossing a nightmare.

Looking back, Allie always suspected that Fay Colville had resented her husband’s deep affection for his French aunt, and that it had been jealousy rather than mal de mer that kept her in England. She’d also openly disliked the fact that Allie had been christened Alys, rather than the Anglicised Alice that she herself always used.

Fay had become a widow herself by the time Tante had found herself a cottage by the sea in place of the family farm, which had been sold long ago, and was now a complex of gîtes. Even then, she had rejected each and every offer of hospitality from Madelon Colville, but she’d objected almost hysterically when Allie had suggested she should visit her great-aunt by herself.

‘Are you mad?’ she’d stormed. ‘What will Hugo think?’

Allie lifted her chin. ‘Does that matter?’

‘Oh, don’t talk like a fool.’ Fay glared at her. ‘You don’t seem to have a clue how to keep a young man interested.’

‘Perhaps because I suspect it’s only a passing interest,’ Allie told her coolly.

‘Nonsense. He’s taken you down to the Hall, hasn’t he? Introduced you to his mother?’

‘Yes,’ Allie agreed reluctantly.

‘Well, the invitation must be a sign that she approves of Hugo’s choice.’

‘And what about my own views on Hugo’s choice? Supposing I don’t approve?’

‘That,’ her mother said sharply, ‘is not funny.’

But I, thought Allie, wasn’t joking.

Her attitude to Hugo Marchington had always been ambivalent. At first she’d been convinced she was falling in love, carried away by the sheer glamour of him. She’d frankly enjoyed dining in top restaurants, being whisked off to polo matches, race meetings, regattas, and all the other leading events in the social calendar.

But, as weeks had become months, she’d realised that she simply did not know her own mind. And if he was indeed planning to ask her to become engaged to him, as she’d suspected, she had no real idea of what answer to give him. Which, by then, she should have done.

Naturally, she’d been flattered. Who wouldn’t have been? In previous eras Hugo would have been considered the catch of the county, because he was rich, handsome, and he could be charming.

Yes, she thought. That was the sticking point. Could be—but wasn’t always. In fact he’d sometimes revealed the makings of a nasty temper, although he had invariably been contrite afterwards.

And, in spite of all the assiduous attention he’d paid her, she hadn’t been altogether convinced that his heart was in it. He might, in fact, have been behaving as he was expected to do.

At the beginning of their relationship he’d made a couple of serious attempts at seduction, which Allie had fended off just as seriously. He hadn’t repelled her physically—but nor had he stirred her blood to the point of surrender. His kisses had never made her long for more. But she’d been aware that could have been due to an element of emotional reserve within herself, which, in turn, gave her an aura of coolness that some men might find a challenge.

At any rate, she’d known that giving herself in the ultimate intimacy would have implied a level of commitment that she had simply not been prepared for. Or not with Hugo Marchington—not yet. Although she had supposed that might change eventually.

In view of her lukewarm attitude, she’d been genuinely surprised when, instead of writing her off as a lost cause sexually, and looking for a more willing partner, he’d continued to ask her out.

I wonder, she’d thought, if his mother’s told him it’s time he settled down, and I’m handy and reasonably presentable, but not so devastating that I’ll ever outshine him.

Having met Lady Marchington, she had quite believed it. She had also believed that she genuinely ticked enough of the right boxes to be acceptable. And her mother’s Knightsbridge address would have raised no eyebrows either.

All the same, in her lunch hours at the private library where she’d worked as an assistant, she had found herself scanning the job columns for work that would take her away from London.

Maybe I should have obeyed my instincts and moved. Even gone back to college, perhaps, and improved my qualifications. And somehow persuaded my mother that it would be a good thing.

But if I had there would have been no Tom, and, in spite of everything, the thought of him not being here—never having been born—is too awful to contemplate.

Allie brought her restless wanderings to a halt, and gazed around her, assimilating once again the full baroque splendours of the Fountain Court.

I love it, she told herself wryly. But I don’t belong here. I never did. The Hall is not my home, but it has to be Tom’s. Some good has to come out of all this unhappiness.

He belongs here. I made that decision, and I have to remain for his sake.

But I have to find something to do with my own life. I’m edgy all the time because I feel confined at the Hall—claustrophobic. I have no actual role to play, so I spend my days just—hanging around. It’s boring, and it’s not healthy either.

And I won’t think of the life I might have had if I’d done as Tante Madelon begged and stayed in Brittany, because that was never an actual possibility—always just a dream. And a dangerous dream at that.

Because, once again, she realised, there was a sound echoing in her head—the sure, steady beat of a horse’s hooves coming behind her, just as she’d heard them so many times over the past months, sleeping and waking. Following her—getting closer all the time.

She said aloud, ‘It’s just my imagination playing tricks, nothing else. Imagination—and more guilt.’

She went slowly back to her bench, her great-aunt’s letter like a lead weight in her pocket, and sat down. Although all she really wanted to do was put her hands over her ears and run.

But I’ve already done that—twice, she thought, her throat closing. And now, God help me, I have to live with the consequences.

All of them …

And if that means facing up to my memories, and exorcising them for ever, then so be it.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE’D fainted, she remembered, sliding from her chair at the breakfast table one morning under Grace’s astonished eye. That was how it had all begun. And it hadn’t been the family’s usual doctor who’d answered the summons to attend her ladyship, but a locum, young, brisk, and totally unimpressed by his surroundings.

He’d insisted on seeing Allie alone, questioning her with real kindness, and eventually she’d realised he was suggesting she might be pregnant. And suddenly she’d found herself crying, and unable to stop, as she told him how utterly impossible that was, or ever could be. And of the constant pressure she’d been under during her four months of soulless marriage, both from Hugo and his mother, to somehow bring about a miracle and give him the child he craved.

‘He doesn’t believe any of the consultants.’ Her voice had choked on a sob. ‘He says it’s my fault. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what he expects me to do.’

Confronting Hugo and Grace, the doctor had announced that Lady Marchington had been under a great deal of stress since the wedding, and was in dire need of a complete break, well away from the Hall and its environs.

‘A holiday,’ Grace had pondered aloud. ‘Somewhere in the sun, perhaps, where they have good facilities for wheelchairs.’ She gave the interloper an icy smile. ‘It is, after all, my son who has suffered the real trauma here.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t made myself clear.’ The doctor was a stocky man, with sandy hair and a pugnacious expression with a built-in ice deflector. ‘Lady Marchington actually needs to get away from all that. Build up her resources. Surely she has friends or family she could go to—somewhere she could relax in undemanding company for a while?’

‘I have a very dear great-aunt in Brittany,’ Allie said quietly, looking back at him, aware of Grace’s barely suppressed fury at the word ‘undemanding’. She drew a breath. ‘She would have me to stay with her, I know.’

‘Ideal.’ He nodded. ‘Walks on the beach, congenial surroundings, platters of fruits de mer, and plenty of sleep. That’s what I prescribe. Worth a ton of tranquillisers or sleeping pills.’

‘You may as well go,’ Hugo told her bitingly after the doctor’s departure. ‘God knows you’re of little use here.’

‘And perhaps while you’re away,’ Grace added with steely annoyance, ‘you can consider what you owe to the Marchington name, and come back in a more amenable frame of mind to attend to your duties as Hugo’s wife.’

But I’m not his wife. The words screamed in Allie’s brain. Because he’s not physically capable of being my husband. We all know this, so why must we go on with this terrible pretence? Why do I have to lie beside him in bed, being punished by his anger for something that isn’t anyone’s fault—just a tragic reality.

She wanted to cry again, but this time with the sheer relief of knowing that she was going to escape it all—just for a little while, although eventually she would have to come back …

‘Dearest girl, you look like a ghost,’ was her great-aunt’s concerned greeting on her arrival at Les Sables d’Ignac. ‘And there are deep shadows under your eyes. Are you not sleeping?’

‘Well, Hugo does tend to be a little restless. And life has been pretty hectic since the wedding.’ She managed a laugh. ‘I seem to be public property. People want me to join committees—open things. And Hugo’s mother is so much better at that kind of stuff. It all gets—a bit much sometimes.’

There was pause, then Tante said gently, ‘I see.’

But please don’t see too much, Allie begged under her breath. Or ask questions that I can’t answer.

The house was just as she’d remembered, its living room occupying the entire ground floor, where a comfortable sitting area, with two large sofas, flanked a fireplace with a wood-burning stove and was divided from the kitchen area at the far end by a large dining table, covered in oilcloth and surrounded by four high-backed chairs.

She found herself chatting almost feverishly during the evening meal, describing Marchington Hall itself, and its history, recounting anecdotes about some of Hugo’s most interesting ancestors, while Tante listened, delicate brows slightly lifted, sometimes offering a faint smile, but more often not. She made her own polite enquiries about Fay’s health, and Hugo’s progress, accepting the halting replies without further comment.

And when the meal was over, she announced quietly but firmly that Allie should have an early night, and shooed her upstairs. The window in her room was open, its shutters folded back, so that the filmy drapes moved in the breeze from the sea. Allie could hear the splash and hiss of the tide, the rhythm of its ebb and flow producing a faintly soporific effect.

She undressed swiftly, and put on her cotton nightdress. Her final act was to remove her wedding ring and place it in the drawer of the bedside cabinet.

Alice, Lady Marchington, belonged in England, she told herself. Here, for these few precious weeks, she was going to be Alys again. She would live entirely in the present, closing her mind against the recent past and forbidding herself to contemplate the future, although she was aware there were decisions that would have to be made. But somehow—somehow—she would build up the strength to do what she had to do in order to survive.

She slid under the crisp white covers of the bed, stretching luxuriously, rediscovering the pleasures of space and privacy, guiltily grateful not to encounter Hugo’s bulk beside her. And not to be made to endure the frustration of his fruitless, angry demands.

She fell asleep almost at once, and woke to the pale, sunlit sky of early morning. The wind had freshened in the night, and beyond the cliff-edge the waves were tipped with white. She could taste the salt in the air, and felt her heart lift.

She showered swiftly, dressing in cut-off grey linen pants with a white shirt knotted at the waist, thrust her feet into red canvas shoes, and made her way noiselessly out of the house.

A walk, she thought, to make sure she was properly awake, and then she’d drive into Ignac and pick up the bread and some breakfast croissants at the boulangerie.

The bay immediately below the house was a wide crescent of pale sand, backed by a jumble of rocks and boulders and reached by a scramble of narrow steps hewn out of the stone of the cliff-face. It wasn’t the easiest access in the world, which helped maintain the bay’s privacy—the holidaymaking crowds in this part of Finistere preferring beaches that were more readily available.

Allie had never chosen to bathe here on her visits. She was not a strong swimmer, and was wary about getting out of her depth because of the strong offshore currents.

Now, she picked her way across the pebbles, then slipped off her shoes, tucking one into each pocket when she reached the sand.

The wind whipped at her hair, sending it streaming across her face, and she laughed aloud and began to run. ‘I feel free,’ she shouted at a surprised gull, and performed a series of improvised pirouettes, leaping into the air. ‘Wonderfully, gorgeously free.’

And, as she did so, she heard the drumming of hooves not far behind her. She turned swiftly and saw a powerful chestnut horse approaching fast along the beach. On its back was a man, hatless, his dark hair dishevelled, wearing riding breeches and a crimson polo shirt.

Allie stepped backwards, realising with vexation that he must have heard her bellowing at the sky, and seen her whirling about like some poor man’s dervish. As he passed, she caught a glimpse of swarthy skin in need of a shave, and an impatient sideways glance from eyes as coldly blue as the sea itself.

He called something to her, but his words were carried away by the wind, and she nodded, lifting a hand, pretending that she’d heard. Probably making some sarcastic comment on her dancing, she thought.

He’s going in that direction, she noted mentally, as horse and rider disappeared round the curve of the cliff into the next bay. So—I’ll go the other way.

She turned, and began to wander in the opposite direction, picking up shells as she went, eventually reaching another cove, narrower than the one she’d left, and sheltered by the steepness of the cliff.

Allie found a flat boulder and sat down, with her back to the wind, aimlessly shifting her shells into various patterns, and wishing that her life could be so easily rearranged. The question she had to ask herself was—how long could she go on living with Hugo? Especially when being treated as some kind of scapegoat in this ludicrous pretence of a marriage.

She’d been emotionally blackmailed into becoming his wife, standing beside his hospital bed as he begged her not to leave him. Told her that he needed her—depended on her.

Manoeuvred and manipulated by his mother, and hers, too, she hadn’t known which way to turn. Had been warned that she could be risking his chance of recovery if she walked away. Except there was no chance, and everyone knew it. Especially the medical staff.

So I let them convince me, she thought drearily. Told myself I was necessary to him, and, even if I didn’t love him, I told myself I could at least have compassion for all that strength and vigour, destroyed for ever by a stupid collision on a polo field. That I couldn’t—let him down.

At the time, she reflected bitterly, it had seemed—easier. But how wrong she’d been.

Shuddering violently, Allie swept the shells off the rock into oblivion, almost wishing that she could go with them. Because there was no pattern to her life, and no solution either. Just endurance. Because, however unhappy she might be, Hugo was in a wheelchair, requiring permanent nursing, and she still couldn’t abandon him. She’d have to go back.

But she would at least make the most of this all too brief release. She glanced at her watch, realising it was time she was getting back to the house. She was getting hungry, and besides, Tante would be wondering where she was.

She jumped down from her rock and turned, her hand going to her mouth, stifling a cry. While she’d been sitting there, daydreaming, the sea had been coming in—not gently, but in a strong, steady rush, as she knew it sometimes did along this coast. Tante had warned her about it in the past, insisting that anyone staying at the house must always check the tides before using the beach.

But I didn’t. I didn’t give it a moment’s thought. I assumed it was on the ebb …

She looked at the waves, already encroaching at each end of the cove, cutting off her retreat whichever way she turned, and felt sick with fear. There was seaweed on the boulders behind her too, indicating how far the sea could reach.

Oh, God, she thought, I must do something. I can’t just stand here, watching the water level rise.

She realised she might have to swim for it, although she knew she’d be struggling even if the sea was like a millpond. On the other hand, if she wasted any more time, she risked being washed against the jut of the overhanging cliff, she realised, swallowing a sob in her throat.

Then, suddenly, there was rescue.

The horse seemed to come from nowhere, eyes rolling, head tossing as it galloped through the waves, urged on by its rider. As they reached the strip of sand where Allie stood, transfixed, the man leaned down, hand extended, spitting an instruction at her in a voice molten with fury.

She set a foot in the stirrup that he had kicked free, and found herself dragged up in front of him, left hanging across the saddle, with her head dangling ignominiously, his hand holding her firmly in place by the waistband of her trousers.

She felt the horse bound forward, and then there was water all around them, the salt spray invading her eyes and mouth, soaking the drift of her hair, chilling the fingers that were gripping the girth until they were numb.

She could feel the fear in the chestnut’s bunched muscles—sense the anger in the air from its rider—although he was talking constantly to his mount, his voice quiet and reassuring.

She was scared and aching, every bone in her body shaken as the horse plunged on. She closed her eyes against the dizziness induced by this headlong dash, praying that he would not stumble. That the drag of the sea would not defeat him.

She never knew the exact moment when the almost violent splashing of the water stopped, but when she next dared to look down, she found herself staring at sand, and the beginnings of a rough track leading upwards.

Then the horse was being pulled up, and her rescuer’s hold on her was suddenly released. She raised a dazed head, realising that he was dismounting, and then she herself was summarily pulled down from the saddle, without gentleness, and dumped on the stones.

She sank to the ground, coughing and trying to catch her breath. She felt sick and giddy from that nightmare ride, aware too that her clothes were sodden, and her hair hanging in rats’ tails.

She looked up miserably, tried to speak and failed, silenced by the scorching fury in the blue eyes, and the battery of fast, enraged French that was being launched at her without mercy.

As he paused to draw breath at last, she said in her schoolgirl’s version of the same language. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’ Then she put her face in her hands and burst into tears.

He swore murderously. She could interpret that at least. Then there was a taut silence, and a clean, if damp, handkerchief was thrust between her fingers.

‘You are English?’ He spoke more quietly, using her language, his voice clipped, the accent good.

She nodded, still not trusting her voice.

‘Mon Dieu.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet you come here to a dangerous shore—alone, and at such an hour, to stroll as if you were in a London park? Are you quite insane?’

She lifted her head. Looked up at him as he stood, soothing his horse with a paradoxically gentle hand.

He was slightly younger than she’d thought, probably in his early thirties, but no friendlier for that. She assimilated a beak of a nose, a formidable chin with a cleft, and a strong mouth with a sensual curve to its lower lip. And his eyes were truly amazing—a colour between azure and turquoise, fringed by long lashes. And brilliant now with the temper he was trying to control. But more, she thought, for the horse’s sake than hers.

She said huskily, ‘I should have been more careful, I know. But I was thinking about—something else.’

He gestured impatiently. ‘But I warned you to go back. Why did you ignore me?’

‘I—didn’t hear what you said—not properly.’

He muttered something else under his breath. ‘You are no doubt accustomed to people shouting at you,’ he added contemptuously. ‘And have learned to disregard it.’

Allie sank her teeth into her lower lip. Yes, she thought, but not in the way you imagine.

‘Again, I’m sorry.’ She wiped her face with the handkerchief, detecting a faint fragrance of some masculine cologne in its folds.

‘I did not believe it when I looked down from the top of the cliff and saw you there in the Cauldron,’ he said harshly. ‘We call it that because when the tide is full the water seems to boil over the rocks.’

Allie shuddered. ‘I didn’t know. I—I’ve never gone that way before.’ And I wouldn’t have done so this time if I hadn’t been trying to avoid you …

‘I was almost tempted to leave you,’ he went on. ‘Instead of risking my life, and my even more valuable horse, to come to the aid of a stranger and a fool.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, don’t spare me. Please say exactly what you think,’ she invited, with a trace of her usual spirit.

‘I shall,’ he told her brusquely. He added, ‘Roland, you understand, does not care for the sea.’

Then perhaps you should have left me. It would have been one answer to my problems …

The thought ran like lightning through her head, but was instantly dismissed as she contemplated the shock and grief that Tante would have suffered if the sea had indeed taken her.

Besides, when faced with it, oblivion had not seemed nearly so desirable, and she knew she would have fought to survive.

She swallowed. ‘Then Roland’s a true hero.’ She got slowly to her feet. ‘And—thank you for having second thoughts,’ she added with difficulty. She smoothed her hands down her wet trousers, and stopped as a sudden realisation dawned. ‘Oh, God, I’ve lost my shoes. They were in my pockets.’

‘I hope you do not expect me to go back for them,’ he said with asperity.

‘Oh, no,’ Allie returned, almost poisonously sweet. ‘I think saving my life places me under quite enough obligation to you for one day.’

‘Or perhaps not,’ he said slowly. ‘Where are you staying, mademoiselle?’

For a moment, this form of address threw her. Then she remembered her discarded wedding ring. He would naturally assume she was single, and she should put him right instantly. But …

‘Why?’ she asked, still edgy. ‘Are you hoping to be rewarded for bringing back the stray?’

The firm mouth curled. ‘You mean there are people who would pay to have you returned to them? Incroyable. However, I hope it is not too far,’ he added smoothly. ‘It could be an uncomfortable journey in bare feet.’ He watched the variety of expressions that flitted across her face with an appreciation he did not bother to disguise. ‘Or would you prefer to ride back to your accommodation on Roland?’

Neither, she thought. I’d much rather the past hour had never happened. I wish I was back in my room at Les Sables, turning over to sleep again.

‘Please make up your mind, mademoiselle.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I am not a tourist. Unlike you, I have work to go to.’

One day, she promised herself. One day, I’ll think of something to say that will wipe that smirk out of your voice.

Except that presupposed they would meet again, which was the last thing she wanted—to keep running into a man who regarded her as a bedraggled idiot.

She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I think I’d better accept your offer. As long as Roland has forgiven me for his unexpected dip.’

‘He has a nature of the most amiable.’ He cupped his hands. ‘Put your foot here,’ he directed, and as she nervously complied he tossed her up into the saddle as if she were thistledown, then began to lead Roland up the slope. ‘You had better tell him where he is to take you,’ he added over his shoulder.

She said unhappily, ‘I’m staying with Madame Colville at Les Sables.’ She could just imagine Tante’s reaction when she turned up, barefoot on the back of a strange horse, looking like a piece of sub-human flotsam. She added unwillingly, ‘I’m her great-niece.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I did not know she had such a relation. But then she is my father’s patient, not mine.’

She frowned. ‘Patient? You mean you’re a doctor?’

‘You find it hard to believe? Yet I assure you it is true,’ he said. He made a slight inclination of the head. ‘Remy de Brizat at your service.’

As she hesitated, he added, ‘Now you are supposed to tell me your name, mademoiselle. Or is it a secret?’

Not a secret, she thought. But not the whole truth either, which is very wrong of me. But perhaps this is my morning for behaving badly. And anyway, we’re unlikely to meet again, so what harm can it really do?

She said, quietly and clearly, ‘I’m called Alys, monsieur. Alys—Colville.’

‘Alys,’ he said reflectively. ‘A charming name—and French too.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘In England, I’m plain Alice.’

At the top of the slope, he halted Roland and stood looking up at her, his smile faintly twisted. ‘You are wrong,’ he said softly. ‘You could not ever be plain—anything.’

There was an odd, tingling silence, then he added briskly, ‘Now, move back a little, Alys, if you please, so that Roland can take us both.’

She did as she was told, feeling awkward, and hoping the exertion would explain the sudden surge of colour in her face. Remy de Brizat mounted lithely in front of her.

‘Hold on to me,’ he instructed. ‘The medical centre in Ignac opens in one hour, and I must be there.’

Reluctantly, she put her hands on her companion’s shoulders, then, as the big horse moved off, she found herself being thrown forward, and hastily clasped her arms round his waist instead.

‘Ça va?’ he queried over his shoulder, as Roland’s stride lengthened into a canter.

‘I think so,’ Allie gasped, clinging on for grim death, and heard him laugh softly.

It wasn’t really that far, she realised, as the grey stones of Tante’s house came into view. If she’d been wearing shoes she would have walked it easily, and saved herself the embarrassment of being forced to hug her unwanted rescuer, let alone be forced to travel with her face pressed against his muscular back.

When they reached the cottage, he insisted on dismounting and lifting her down.

‘Thank you,’ Allie said stiffly, trying not to overbalance. ‘For—everything. I—I owe you a great deal.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Dr de Brizat.’

His brows rose. ‘Not Remy?’

‘It’s hardly appropriate,’ she said, in a tone borrowed wholesale from Grace. ‘After all, we’re hardly likely to see each other after this.’ She added pointedly, ‘I don’t intend to dice with death a second time.’

‘Very wise, ma belle.’ He took her hand and raised it swiftly to his lips, making her start at the casual intimacy. The pressure of his mouth and the graze of his unshaven chin against her fingers was an experience she could have well done without. ‘Because tradition says that now I have saved your life it belongs to me, and I think you should live it to the full, and that I should help you to do so.’

He swung himself back into the saddle and grinned down at her. His teeth were very white against the darkness of his skin. ‘And eventually,’ he told her softly, ‘you will call me Remy. I promise it. Au revoir,; ma chère Alys.’

And, with a word to Roland, he cantered off, leaving Allie staring after him, aware of the sudden, uncomfortable flurry of her heartbeat.

As she went into the cottage Tante was just coming downstairs, trim and elegant in black tailored trousers and a white silk shirt, her silver hair confined at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon bow.

‘My ears are playing tricks on me,’ she complained. ‘I thought I heard a horse outside …’ She stopped, her eyes widening in alarm as she surveyed Allie. ‘Mon Dieu, chérie—what has happened to you?’

Allie sighed. ‘I stupidly let myself get cut off by the tide,’ she admitted. ‘In a place called the Cauldron.’

‘Alys.’ Tante sat down limply on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘People have drowned there. You could have been one of them.’

Allie forced a smile. ‘Except that your doctor’s son came riding by, and gallantly carried me off across his saddle bow.’ She stretched, wincing. ‘I’m now a walking bruise.’

‘It is no joking matter. You could have lost your life.’

‘But I didn’t. I’m simply minus a pair of shoes.’

Tante shuddered. ‘You must never take such a chance again.’

‘Believe me,’ Alice said grimly, ‘I don’t intend to.’

‘And it was Remy who saved you?’ Tante made the sign of the cross. ‘I shall go to see him, thank him for giving you back to me.’ She brightened. ‘Or, better, I shall invite him to dinner.’

Allie shifted restively from one bare foot to another. ‘Is that strictly necessary? I did thank him myself, you know.’ After I’d taken a hell of a tongue-lashing.

Tante pursed her lips. ‘Madame Lastaine, who keeps house for the doctors at Trehel, is no cook,’ she stated decisively. ‘Remy will be glad of a good meal, le pauvre.’

‘He seemed perfectly fit and healthy to me,’ Allie said coolly.

Tante gave her a long look. ‘Dear child, you seem—put out. Is it possible that you are blaming Remy in some way, because he did not let you drown?’

Allie bit her lip. ‘Naturally, I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean I have to like him. Or that I have any wish for another encounter,’ she added clearly, tilting her chin. ‘And I hope his patients don’t expect to receive any sympathy when they go to him.’

Tante’s brows rose. She said mildly, ‘I have never heard of any complaints about his attitude since he returned to Ignac. Au contraire. He is said to be skilful, and well-liked.’

Allie paused on her way to the stairs. ‘He’s not always worked here, then?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

‘After he qualified he worked for a medical charity, firstly in Africa, then in South America. But it was always understood that he would one day fulfil the wishes of his father and grandfather and join the practice in Ignac.’ Tante’s smile was bland. ‘I have always found him both charming and considerate. However, I shall not invite him here against your wishes, chérie.’

‘Thank you.’ Allie hesitated, her fingers beating a tattoo on the stair-rail. ‘I just feel we’re—better apart, that’s all.’

‘D’accord.’ Tante’s gaze shifted from her great-niece’s flushed face to her restless hand. ‘I notice that the sea took more than just your shoes, ma mie,’ she remarked. ‘It seems that your wedding ring, too, has gone.’

Allie’s colour deepened. ‘Not—entirely. It’s upstairs. I—I simply decided not to wear it, that’s all.’

‘Ah,’ Madelon Colville said meditatively. ‘I am interested that you found that a simple decision.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Allie took a deep breath. ‘I took it off because I wanted to find the person I used to be—before my marriage. Somewhere along the way she seems to have vanished, but I really need to have her back.’ She lifted her head. ‘To be—Alys Colville again. Even if it’s only for a little while.’ She hesitated, sighing. ‘But I suppose that’s impossible. Everyone round here—all your neighbours—friends—will know I’m married. You must have mentioned it.’

‘I told no one, mon enfant,’ Tante said quietly. ‘It was not news I ever wished to share. I have always believed that mistakes in one’s family circle should be kept private. And I had known for some time—long before his tragic accident—that you did not love this man. Your letters made it clear.’

‘But I hardly mentioned him.’

Tante’s smile was kind. ‘Exactly, chérie.’ She paused. ‘When I received the invitation to your wedding I wrote to your mother, begging her not to allow you to ruin your life. Saying that such a marriage would have profound difficulties, even if you adored each other.’

She shrugged wryly. ‘Her reply was very angry. She said that I knew nothing about it. That you were devoted to your fiancé, that my interference was not needed, and it would be better for everyone if I stayed away.’

‘She said you’d decided the journey would be too much for you.’ Allie bit her lip. ‘Oh—I should have known …’

‘Well, that is all in the past now. It matters only that you are here now, ma chère. And if you wish to be Alys Colville again—then that is how it shall be.’

She became brisk. ‘Now, go and change, and I will try to repair the damage the sea has done to those expensive clothes.’

Allie turned obediently, then paused. She said in a low voice, ‘Am I crazy—to pretend like this?’

‘Not crazy,’ her great-aunt said slowly. ‘But perhaps—not very wise.’

Allie’s smile was swift and bleak. ‘Then I’ll just have to be very careful, too,’ she said, and made her way to her room.

CHAPTER THREE

THE sun had gone behind a cloud, and Allie got up from the bench, shivering a little.

She’d sat there long enough, she thought, tormenting herself with her memories. Now it was time to go back to the house and draft a letter to Tante, explaining why any return to Les Sables was impossible for her—now or in the future.

I can’t do it, she told herself with anguish. Because, even now, the pain of that time is still too vivid and too raw.

She entered the house through a side door, and went straight upstairs. After Hugo’s death, and in spite of Grace’s protests, she’d moved out of the master suite she’d reluctantly shared with him into this smaller room at the back of the house. It wasn’t as grand and formal as some of the others, and she liked its creamy-yellow walls, and the warm olive-green curtains and bedcover. Over the months it had become her refuge.

She sat down at the small writing table that she’d bought at an antique fair, and drew a sheet of paper towards her. She sat for a moment, tapping her pen against her teeth and staring out of the window in front of her, as she tried to come up with an excuse that her great-aunt would find even feasible, let alone acceptable.

Her room overlooked the vegetable garden, and the now-deserted stableyard. After the accident, Hugo’s hunters had been sold, along with his polo ponies. Except, of course, for poor little Gimlet, who’d broken both forelegs in that terrible crashing fall in the final chukka, and had had to be put down on the field there and then.

‘He was the lucky one,’ Hugo had said with scalding bitterness when they’d told him. At that time he’d seemed to recognise the full extent of his injuries, Allie thought unhappily. It was later that he’d come to believe in his own self-will rather than the prognosis from the medical experts.

Sighing, she wrote the date. Well, it was a start, she told herself wryly, then paused as there was a swift tap on her door. It opened instantly to admit her mother-in-law.

‘So there you are,’ she commented. ‘Mrs Windom has brought in the coffee. Are you coming down?’

‘Later, perhaps. I’m replying to Tante Madelon’s letter.’

‘Ah.’ Grace paused. ‘Did she have anything particular to say?’

‘She’s not well,’ Allie told her quietly. ‘She’d like me to visit her—and take Tom with me.’

‘No,’ Lady Marchington said, swiftly and sharply. ‘You can’t possibly go to Brittany, and even if you did consider it you certainly couldn’t take Tom. It’s out of the question, Alice, and you know it.’

Allie found herself reeling back mentally under the onslaught.

Of choice, she wouldn’t have mentioned Tante’s letter, or its contents, precisely because she knew what the reaction would be. And because she had no intention of going.

Yet now she found herself bristling furiously, as a spirit of angry rebellion suddenly surged up inside her. This, she thought, is the last damned straw. I’ve had as much of her interference in my life as I can stand. I’m not living under a dictatorship, and it’s time I made that clear.

She said coldly, ‘I wouldn’t be allowed to take my own child on holiday to visit a close relative? Is that really what you’re saying?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Then you’d better suspend your disbelief.’ Grace’s expression was grim. ‘I have no intention of permitting my grandson to be whisked out of the country—and to France, of all places.’

‘Why not? Was one of the Marchington ancestors killed at Agincourt?’ Allie tried to speak lightly, in spite of the anger building inside her.

‘Don’t be flippant,’ Grace snapped. ‘What I’m saying is that our lives are not going to be turned upside down at the behest of one arrogant old woman. I simply won’t permit it.’

‘Please don’t speak about Tante like that,’ Allie said icily. ‘The invitation came to me, and I’ll deal with it as I see fit.’ She paused, steadying her breathing. ‘I’m not a child. I’m twenty-two years old, and I don’t need your permission, or anyone else’s for that matter, to stay in Brittany with the woman who practically brought up my father.’

She met Lady Marchington’s furious gaze in open challenge. ‘Anyway, why shouldn’t I go? Give me one good reason.’ If you dare …

Spots of colour burned in the older woman’s face. ‘Tom’s far too young for a journey of that nature.’

‘A night on a ferry and a couple of hours by car?’ Allie’s tone was derisive. ‘Babies far younger make similar trips every day.’

‘But Tom isn’t just any child. He’s the Marchington heir. You have your position to consider. And his.’

Allie’s gaze remained stony. ‘And is that your only objection? Because Tom isn’t just a Marchington. He has Colville and Vaillac blood too. And it’s entirely natural that Tante should want to see him, especially as she’s in bad health. After all, he’s the last of her line, too.’

Grace’s mouth hardened. ‘Breton peasant stock. Hardly anything to boast about.’

‘They’re brave, and strong, with good, loving hearts,’ Allie returned icily. ‘That would be enough for most people.’

‘Now you’re just being difficult.’

‘Under the circumstances,’ Allie said, ‘that is almost amusing. Only I don’t feel like laughing.’

‘Alice—for heaven’s sake. There was enough talk last time when you simply—disappeared, for weeks on end, leaving poor Hugo to cope alone.’

‘Hardly alone. He had you, his nanny, a full-time nurse, and all the staff to look after him. I was pretty much surplus to requirements—except in one respect, of course.’

She paused. ‘And I came back. As I always intended. Was there more talk then? Or did I redeem myself because at last I was doing my duty by my brave, disabled husband, and giving him the child he’d been demanding with such monotonous regularity?’

There was another taut silence.

‘Sometimes,’ Grace said, ‘you sound so hard, Alice.’

‘Do I?’ Allie’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I wonder why?’

‘And I’m hurt that you should be making this kind of decision without consulting me.’

You, thought Allie, wouldn’t be hurt even if I hammered a stake through your heart.

‘As soon as that letter arrived I knew exactly what that woman would want,’ Grace added angrily.

‘Oh, come on,’ Allie defended. ‘You talk as if Tante’s always demanding attention, and that’s simply not true.’

‘Oh, she’s more subtle than that,’ her mother-in-law said derisively. ‘Your mother warned me, of course, that she was a born manipulator.’

Well, the pair of you should know, Allie countered silently.

‘Well, let’s agree to disagree over that too, shall we?’ she suggested quietly.

‘And French houses don’t have proper damp-proof courses.’ Grace tried a new tack. ‘Tom might catch a chill.’

Alice leaned back in her chair. ‘He doesn’t stay still for long enough. And I don’t want him wrapped in cotton wool all the time. He’s a little boy, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Yes, he is, and I’m not sure you realise just how important he is to the future of the Marchingtons.’

‘On the contrary. I’ve had it drummed into me that he is the future of the Marchingtons, God help him.’ Alice said shortly. ‘Before, during and after he was born, God help me.’

There was a silence. Then Lady Marchington said, ‘Alice, listen—please.’ She looked older suddenly, and weary. Almost scared. ‘You can’t possibly go back to that place. It would be madness.’

There were two heartbeats of silence as Allie looked back at her. Her voice was even. ‘In what way—madness?’

Her mother-in-law put up a hand to smooth her already immaculate hair. ‘Well—perhaps madness is a slight exaggeration. All the same, you must see why you shouldn’t go back there. And I’m sure your mother would agree with me.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Allie returned quietly. ‘But it makes no difference to my decision.’

Lady Marchington took a deep breath. ‘If Madelon genuinely wishes to see Tom, perhaps—arrangements could be made for her to come to England.’

‘Except that it isn’t right to uproot someone of her age,’ Alice said quietly. ‘Particularly when she’s unwell, and I’m young and healthy and can make the trip perfectly easily.’

What am I saying? Why am I making all these arguments for a case I’d already decided to lose? Because it’s too late to say so. Because, by this totally unwanted and unwarranted intervention, Grace has backed me into a corner, and if I’m ever to establish any independence for myself I cannot give way over this issue. And, as a result, I now have to go back to Les Sables d’Ignac, even though it’s the last thing I want in this world.

I have to. There’s no choice now. It’s make or break time …

Oh, God, why couldn’t she have kept quiet? Given me the chance to find some kind of valid excuse for staying away. For escaping this nightmare?

‘Plymouth to Roscoff overnight,’ she added with a shrug, forcing herself to sound casual. ‘Then a leisurely drive down to Les Sables. Tom will love it.’

‘You can’t take Tom,’ Grace said harshly. ‘If you insist on going, it must be alone.’

‘You mean that after deserting my husband on the last visit, I should desert my son this time?’ Allie asked ironically. ‘Imagine the gossip that would cause. And I don’t choose to feature as a neglectful mother. Besides,’ she added squarely. ‘It would give me the chance to really be with Tom for once. To spend some real quality time with him on my own, so that we can get to know each other properly.’

‘On your own? But you’ll have to take Nanny.’

When hell freezes over …

Aloud, ‘Thank you,’ she said politely. ‘But I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m perfectly capable of driving my own car, and caring for Tom like any other mother. In fact, I’ll love it. Besides,’ she added practically, ‘Tante has no room for another guest at the cottage, and it’s the holiday season over there.’

I want my life back, and I want my child back too, she thought. And if this is the only way, then I’ll take it.

Grace clearly realised she had lost the advantage, and her mouth was a slit. But her voice was composed again. ‘I see. So, when are you thinking of going?’

‘I thought—as soon as I can get a ferry booking.’ Allie looked back at her calmly, just as if her stomach wasn’t tying itself into knots at the prospect. She added, ‘I think I’ll pass on the coffee. Tante will be waiting for my reply.’

Grace nodded. ‘Then clearly there’s nothing more to be said.’ She gave a small wintry nod, and left the room.

The ferry was crowded, and it seemed to take an age before her deck was cleared and Allie was able to drive down the ramp into the busy port of Roscoff.

It was a clear, bright morning, but the crossing had been a choppy one. Tom had not liked the motion of the ship, and had proclaimed as much all night long. He’d not been sick, just angry and frightened—and probably missing Nanny’s confident, capable handling, Allie acknowledged exhaustedly. And for the first time she wondered if Grace and her mother had been right. She was too inexperienced, and he was too young for such a trip.

But, as she’d waited restlessly to be called to her car, she’d seen umpteen other babies, much younger than hers, who seemed perfectly relaxed and cheerful about the whole experience.

It’s all my own fault, she told herself, for not insisting on looking after him myself from Day One, and to hell with postnatal depression. Other women manage, and I could have done, too. Well, from now on things are going to change. Permanently.

She couldn’t pretend it would be easy. Nanny had greeted the news of the trip in ominous silence, and the days leading up to departure had been cloaked in an atmosphere that could only have been cut by a chainsaw.

But, when Allie had taken no notice, she’d been forced to accept the situation.

It might not be a very worthy triumph, thought Allie, but for someone who’d been consistently ignored since Tom was born, and made to feel incompetent and ungrateful when she protested, it was eminently satisfying.

She got well free of Roscoff and its environs, then stopped at a tabac in a convenient village, ordering a café au lait and a croissant, while Tom had milk, and made himself agreeably messy with a pain au chocolat.

She gave him a perfunctory wipe down to remove the worst of the crumbs, then strapped him back into his safety seat with his favourite blue rabbit. Before they’d gone half a mile, the combination of the previous restless night and warm food caught up with him, and he fell peacefully and soundly asleep, leaving Allie to concentrate on her driving.

Last time she’d come this way, she’d pushed the car swiftly, almost recklessly, aware of little but her own wretchedness, but now she had precious cargo on board, and her control was absolute. She slotted some cool jazz into the CD player, and headed steadily south towards Ignac, knowing that she would easily reach Tante’s house by lunchtime.

Tom slept for an hour and a half, and then woke, grizzling. Allie parked on the wide verge at the side of the road, changed him quickly, gave him a drink, then let him play on the rug she’d spread on the grass. Propped on an elbow, she watched him, smiling, as he carefully dismembered a large leaf.

He turned his head and saw her, according her the sudden vivid grin that lit up his face, before stumping energetically in her direction, grabbing her shoulder to steady himself.

‘Who’s my wonderful, clever boy?’ she praised, hugging him. And who certainly isn’t going to be bow-legged through walking too soon? she added silently, recalling a recent bone of contention at home.

They stayed for another sunlit half-hour before Allie decided they should be on their way again. Tom made a token protest as he was strapped into his baby seat, but she soon tickled him into good humour again, nuzzling her face into his neck so that he laughed and grabbed at her hair.

An hour and a half later, Ignac began appearing on the signposts. She saw the name with a sense of relief, because it had been a long time since she’d undertaken so long a drive. Although so far it had been an easy, even enjoyable journey, with only moderate traffic to contend with in places.

The joys of midweek travel, she thought. Most of the holidaymakers arrived at the weekend, and are now relaxing at their hotels and gîtes, leaving the roads open for me, bless them.

‘Courage, mon brave,’ she told Tom, who was beginning to be restive again. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Mentally, however, she was already bracing herself, unsure of what she might find when she reached Les Sables.

Tante disliked the telephone, regarding it as something to be used only in the direst emergencies, and the letter expressing her delight at Allie’s visit, and confirming the suggested arrangements, had been in the same wavering hand as before.

Not for the first time, Allie wished there was someone she could confide in about her worries. Someone who also cared about Tante.

Once there was, she thought—and stopped right there, her lips tightening. She could not let herself remember that—even though every landmark—every direction sign in the last hour—had been battering at her memory with their own poignant reminders.

But what else could she have expected? she asked herself with a sigh. Those few brief weeks with Remy had given her the only real happiness she’d ever known. How could she even pretend she’d forgotten?

Tante had warned she would find Ignac much changed, but apart from the new villas, all white and terracotta in the sunlight, which had sprung up like mushrooms on the outskirts, the little town seemed much the same.

Its church was ordinary, and Ignac didn’t possess one of the elaborately carved calvaries which were among the great sights of the region, but its busy fishing harbour bestowed a quiet charm of its own.

The narrow streets were already crammed, with parked cars on both sides, and as she negotiated them with care she realised that the town square ahead was a mass of striped awnings.

‘Of course,’ she said aloud. ‘It’s market day. I certainly forgot about that.’

The market was drawing to its close, the stalls being swiftly dismantled, rails of clothing and boxes of household goods being put back in vans, although last-minute shoppers still lingered at the food stalls, hoping for bargains.

But we, she thought, always came early to buy …

She forced her attention back to the road ahead, braking gently as an old lady stumped out on to the pedestrian crossing just ahead, waving her stick to signify her right to priority. She was accompanied, apprehensively, by a younger couple, and as she reached the middle of the crossing she stopped suddenly, and turned to upbraid them about something, using her stick for emphasis. The other woman looked at Allie, shrugging in obvious embarrassment, as all efforts to get the senior member of the party moving again ended in stalemate.

She wants to have her say, and she wants it now, Allie thought, reluctantly amused. And, until it’s over, we’re going nowhere.

People were pausing to watch, and smile, as if this was a familiar occurrence.

He seemed to come from nowhere, but there he was, joining the trio on the crossing, a tall, lean figure, dark and deeply tanned, casual in cream jeans and an open-necked blue shirt. He was carrying two long loaves of bread, and a plastic bag that Allie knew would contain oysters. He transferred it to his other hand, before he bent, speaking softly to the old lady, while his fingers cupped her elbow leading her, gently but firmly, to the opposite pavement.

For a moment it looked as if she might resist, then the wrinkled face broke into an unwilling grin and he laughed too, lifting her hand to his lips with swift grace. Then, with a quick word and a shrug to her grateful companions, he was gone again, vanishing between the remaining market stalls as quickly as he’d arrived.

Allie sat and watched him go, her hands gripping the wheel as if they’d been glued there. She thought numbly, But it can’t be him. It can’t be Remy because Tante said—she promised—that I’d have nothing to fear.

Nothing to fear …

An impatient hooting from the vehicles behind brought her back to the here and now, and she realised, embarrassment flooding her face with colour, that the total shock of seeing him had made her stall the engine. She restarted carefully, and set off, waving an apologetic hand to the other drivers.

She threaded her way out of town and on to the narrow road which led to Les Sables, before yanking the wheel over and bringing the car to an abrupt halt. She sat for a moment, her whole body shaking, then flung open the car door and stumbled out, kneeling on the short, scrubby grass while she threw up.

As she straightened, her head swimming, her throat and stomach aching, she heard Tom’s frightened wail from the car, and dragged herself to her feet in instant contrition.

‘It’s all right, darling, Mummy’s here.’ She found a packet of wipes in the glove compartment and hastily cleaned her face and hands, before releasing Tom from his harness and lifting him into her arms. She sat down on a flat boulder a few feet away from the car, and held him close against her, patting him and murmuring soothingly while she waited for her heartbeat to settle. And she tried desperately to make sense of what had just happened. But failed.

There is nothing that should keep you away …

The words were indelibly printed on her brain. Unforgettable.

The wording of Tante’s letter had suggested—had seemed to promise—that Remy was still far off in South America. So how could he possibly be there in Ignac, charming tough old ladies into compliance, buying food from the market, clearly as much at home as if he’d never been away?

She should have told me the truth, she thought passionately. Should have warned me that he was here. Except that if she had nothing would have dragged me here, and she knew it.

Perhaps, she thought, Tante doesn’t know he’s come back. Maybe it’s a temporary thing—some kind of furlough—and she hasn’t heard.

But she discounted that almost at once. Her aunt’s house might be secluded, but it wasn’t in limbo. Every piece of gossip, every item of local news, found its way to her sooner or later.

Besides, Remy’s father, Philippe de Brizat, was Tante’s doctor—and his father before him, for all she knew.

Of course the news of Remy’s return would have been shared with her.

Anguish stabbed at her. It seemed unbelievable that her beloved and trusted great-aunt should have deliberately set out to deceive her like this. Unless she knew that the first time she did so would also be the last.

She must, Allie thought sombrely, be really desperate to see me again—to see Tom—even to contemplate such a thing.

Her immediate instinct was to turn the car and drive back to Roscoff. Get the first possible return sailing. But, apart from all the other considerations, that would mean returning to the Hall with her tail between her legs, losing any advantage she’d gained in her belated bid for independence.

I could still visit Tante, she thought, but make it a brief visit—not stay for the ten days as planned. That should be safe enough.

After all, France is a big country, and Brittany’s not its only region. Plus, it’s still early enough in the year for there to be hotel vacancies. I could take Tom exploring the Auvergne, or the Dordogne. Even go as far as the Côte d’Azur.

Anywhere, she resolved, as long as it was far—far away from Remy de Brizat. Because Tante was so terribly wrong, and she had everything to fear from encountering him again.

Her arms closed more tightly around Tom, who wriggled in protest, demanding to be set down.

She held his hands, steering him back to the car as he paced unsteadily along, face set in fierce determination.

‘I know the feeling,’ she told him as she lifted him back into his seat for the short drive to Les Sables. ‘And from now on, my love, it’s you and me against the world.’

The house stood alone, grey and solid against the slender clustering pine trees behind it. Allie eased the car along the track, remembering her father’s concern that Tante should have chosen such an isolated spot.

‘It wouldn’t do for me,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘The silence would drive me crazy.’

Tante had laughed gently. ‘But there is no silence, mon cher.

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