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  The kettle began to sing and she heard Alain de Beaunes setting out cups and a jug of cream. He made tea, a habit her father had acquired during his years in England, and when it was ready he handed her a cup.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took the tea reluctantly, and he stood looking down at her with obvious impatience.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he demanded at last.

  Deciding there was no point in antagonizing him further, Ryan looked up and said, in his own language: ‘You know what I am going to do, monsieur.’

  ‘Do I?’ His curious tawny eyes were cold.

  ‘I explained this morning. I—I have no intention of staying here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?’ She almost choked over the words. ‘Monsieur, my father may have been a Frenchman, and I must accept that things are done differently in his country, but I am English! I have no intention of—of satisfying some – some crazy notion my father dreamed up!’

  ‘Why is it crazy? I would suggest it is a most sensible solution to your problems.’

  Ryan unfastened her coat. Suddenly she was hot. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I disagree.’

  Alain de Beaunes seated himself on the settle opposite, legs apart, hands hanging loosely between. For such a big man he moved sinuously, and she tried to avoid the temptation to watch him.

  ‘Ryan,’ the way he said her name was curiously alien in intonation. ‘Ryan—what do you intend to do if you go back to England? You have no job, I know you have no money—’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know you know that!’

  His eyes darkened with quickly suppressed anger. ‘I do not deny that I found your sudden dependence on a father you had not seen for more than ten years less than admirable, nevertheless, I am prepared to admit that your presence here brought him a certain amount of satisfaction in those last few days.’

  ‘Am I supposed to thank you for that?’ Ryan was insolent.

  Ignoring her outburst, he said: ‘You are young, Ryan. Very young. But as you grow older you will learn that the world can be a very cold and unfriendly place to someone with neither home nor job nor money.’

  Ryan forced herself to look into the fire. ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘Will you?’ She was conscious of his eyes upon her. ‘Tell me, please, how do you intend getting back to England? As I understood the situation, your father told me you had used most of what you possessed to get here.’

  Ryan’s head jerked round. ‘I—’ She broke off with a little gesture. ‘I’ll borrow the money.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘You’re not offering, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head.

  Ryan pressed her lips together. ‘I—I’ll speak to Abbé Maurice—’

  ‘Abbé Maurice has barely enough to live on. Priests do not earn comfortable salaries here. They do not live in detached houses, and buy new cars every year.’

  Ryan stared at him. ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she retorted sarcastically.

  ‘I have been in England. I have read books. I am not entirely the barbarian you would like to think I am.’

  Ryan flushed then, but the heat of the fire could be held responsible for the darkening of colour in her cheeks. ‘I’ll manage somehow,’ she insisted.

  Alain de Beaunes shrugged. He got up and went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of red wine. He uncorked the bottle, found a glass, and brought them both back to his seat near the fire. Pouring some of the ruby liquid into the glass, he held it up to the light for a moment, examining it intently, before nodding his satisfaction at its clarity. Then he raised the glass to his lips and drank some of the wine. Its bouquet drifted across to Ryan, rich and fruity, his lips reddened for a moment before he licked them clean.

  When he lowered his glass, he looked again at Ryan. ‘This wine has matured with age, little one, as all things do. Once it was rough and bitter—as you are. Now it is rich and full-bodied.’

  ‘Spare me your similes, monsieur.’ Ryan shifted irritably. ‘I should have never have come here. I should never have written to my father.’

  ‘And do you think if you had not written to your father that this situation would not have arisen? I assure you, it would.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your father did not make his will during these few days that you have been in France. His decision was made some time ago.’

  ‘And you knew of it?’ Ryan was aghast.

  Alain de Beaunes hesitated. ‘Not—entirely, no.’

  Ryan shook her head. ‘And you believe that—that had my aunt still been alive—and I still been living in England—that—that my father would have made the same stipulation?’

  ‘I know he would.’

  Ryan got unsteadily to her feet and walked dazedly across the room. ‘But—why? Why?’

  ‘It was what he wanted.’

  ‘And you had no—objection?’

  ‘Let us say I—did not care, one way or the other.’

  Ryan felt sick. It was as much with emptiness as anything, but the nausea that filled her was equally upsetting. ‘I—I can’t marry you, monsieur,’ she got out thickly. ‘Please, let us say no more about it.’

  Alain de Beaunes regarded her impatiently. ‘There is no one in England, is there?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then what is your objection?’

  ‘I’ve explained—’

  ‘All you have said is that you cannot marry me. No—that you would not marry me! That you believe I took advantage of your father in accepting a partnership with him when I had nothing to offer but my strength.’

  Ryan took a deep breath. ‘Half the vineyard is yours, monsieur. Is that not enough for you?’

  ‘And half—should you refuse to accept your share—will belong to Gaston Aubert, your father’s greatest rival. Is that what you want, English miss?’

  ‘Of course it’s not what I want.’ Ryan shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. ‘But your acceptance of your share does not involve entering into a marriage with a—with someone you—you—’

  ‘Despise?’ He finished the sentence for her. ‘Oh, yes, I am aware of your aversion for me, mademoiselle. However, your feelings do not enter into it so far as I am concerned. I am concerned only for the vineyard. I know your father depended on you understanding his feelings in this.’

  ‘Then why did he do it?’ she burst out hotly.

  Alain de Beaunes finished his wine and rose to his feet, towering over her. She was quite a tall girl, but he was so much bigger, so much broader, that he dwarfed her.

  ‘You are either being very obtuse, or very stupid,’ he said coldly. ‘Consider the situation. Whether you like it or not, your father needed me. He was not strong. He had been ill for many years. Doctors had warned him he should give up working altogether. But this he could not do. The vineyard was his inheritance, it was his life. Your mother, so he said, could not accept this. She was a cold, foolish woman, more fitted to afternoon bridge clubs than working in the fields. Oh—’ this as she would have protested, ‘—this is my interpretation, not his. Your father always spoke most regretfully about your mother. So—this is the position. When your father knows he is dying, what is he to do? No matter what you may have been told, he never stopped thinking about you. He used to talk to me of his little girl, and of how, some day, he hoped you would come to the valley and share his delight in cultivating the vines to make some of the finest wines of the district. But, being the man he is, he feels loyalty to me. He cannot leave me the vineyard, that would not be right. You are his flesh and blood, his heir. But he would not—he could not hand it to someone who knew nothing of the vine, of the grape, someone who might sell—to the Auberts.’ He shrugged. ‘He is still very much a Frenchman, your father. He knows that the marriage of convenience is still the most successful marriage there is. He tries to—manipulate us, no?’

  Ryan had listened to him in silence, but now she turned awa
y. ‘You cannot manipulate people, monsieur.’

  ‘Can you not?’ Alain de Beaunes voice contained a trace of mockery. ‘So you intend to leave?’

  ‘Of course.’ She swung round on him angrily. ‘Did you think that what you have just told me would change my mind?’

  He ran his long fingers through the heavy straightness of his hair. ‘I thought it might have done,’ he conceded.

  ‘Well, it hasn’t.’ Ryan’s lips moved tremulously. ‘I—I’m sorry, of course. I understand your difficulties—’

  ‘You! You understand nothing!’ His voice was harsh now.

  ‘I do not wish to enter into another argument with you, monsieur—’

  ‘Do you not?’ His lips twisted. ‘Then that is unfortunate, because I cannot stand by and watch you destroy everything your father and his father before him ever worked for without making some effort to show you how selfish you are being.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for a share of the vineyard!’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Then why did you come here?’

  ‘I came to see my father.’ Ryan was trembling now. ‘And—and in any case, you said yourself, it would have made no difference—’

  Alain de Beaunes swung away from her as though afraid if he remained near her he would strike her. Ryan watched him nervously, and then said: ‘Why couldn’t he have left me half the vineyard without that condition?’

  ‘And what would you have done then?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘I—I don’t know.’

  Alain turned to face her. ‘Shall I tell you? You would have sold it. Without ever coming here to see it for yourself.’

  ‘You don’t know that!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t I?’ His lips curled. ‘I think I do. I think your father knew you were half your mother’s daughter, after all.’

  ‘Don’t you dare slander my mother!’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you think she treated your father abominably?’

  Ryan’s breathing was swift and shallow. ‘You know nothing about it.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ he mocked again. ‘I know what your father told me. He was a sick man before he returned to France.’

  Ryan stared at him unbelievingly. ‘Wh-what are you saying?’

  ‘Don’t you know? Didn’t your mother tell you? Your father developed a heart condition almost two years before he left England.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s the truth. And the climate did not help. Wet summers, cold winters; he was a prey to bronchial complaints, complaints which weakened the muscles of his heart.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Ryan couldn’t allow herself to believe him. Her mother could not have permitted her father, a sick man, to return to France alone knowing that he might die at any time!

  Alain hunched his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, it is the truth,’ he asserted firmly. ‘I am sorry if it destroys the image you have of your mother, but quite frankly your father’s last wishes are all that concern me.’

  Ryan sought one of the wooden chairs that flanked the kitchen table, and sat down rather heavily. Her legs no longer felt strong enough to support her, and the sickness she had felt turned to a dull throbbing in her temples. Could it be true? Could it be proved? Surely Alain de Beaunes would not risk telling her something like this knowing that her father’s doctor could refute it if it was not true.

  She looked up at him unsteadily, her pale cheeks and hollowed eyes eloquent of the shock she had suffered. ‘I—I never knew.’

  ‘I believe you.’ His tone was less aggressive, but without sympathy.

  Ryan shook her head helplessly. ‘How—how could she?’

  ‘That’s what I asked myself, many times.’

  Ryan pressed her palms together. ‘I—I need time to think.’

  ‘About what?’

  She glanced up at him piteously. ‘You know about what.’

  He shrugged and turned away. ‘I have things to do. Life goes on, even in the face of death. You’ll let me know your decision, of course.’ Sarcasm had crept in to his tones.

  Ryan closed her eyes against the sight of him. Then she opened them again and said: ‘I—I have to do it, don’t I?’

  ‘That’s for you to decide.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ She gazed at him desperately. ‘What—what did you mean by—by a marriage of convenience?’

  ‘Exactly what it says. I have no interest in a child, mademoiselle.’

  Her cheeks burned. ‘I’m not a child, or the situation would not arise.’

  ‘Maybe not in years, but in experience…’

  ‘And—and are you experienced, monsieur?’

  She didn’t know what made her ask the question, except that she sensed he would have no small knowledge of her sex. He regarded her disconcertingly for a while, and then said: ‘As much as any man who has already had one wife.’

  Ryan gasped. ‘You—you have a wife, monsieur?’

  ‘I had,’ he corrected expressionlessly. ‘My wife died almost ten years ago.’

  ‘Almost ten years ago!’ Ryan found it hard to take in. Ten years ago she had been a child…

  ‘I am forty years of age, mademoiselle. Old enough to be your father, I admit. Perhaps you had better regard our relationship in that light. With luck, you could be a widow before you are my age.’

  Ryan sucked in her breath on a sob. ‘Don’t say such things!’

  ‘No?’ He moved his shoulders indifferently. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps I will live my three score years and ten. Perhaps even a little more. Who knows? A life sentence, mademoiselle, is it not? I am sorry, but I did not make the rules. Your father did that.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  RYAN’S room was at the head of the twisting flight of stairs which led to the upper reaches of the house. It was not a large room and towards the eaves the ceiling sloped a little, but it was a comfortable room and when she had first seen it, Ryan had been delighted with it. The uneven floorboards were covered with fluffy wool rugs, the bed-spread was a rich folkweave, and the curtains were patterned with sprigs of lilac. If the furniture—the iron-posted bedstead, the heavy tallboy, the mahogany wardrobe and dressing table, were a little outdated, they nevertheless shone from frequent polishings, and the room smelt sweetly of freshly laundered sheets and bees-wax.

  On the morning following her father’s funeral, Ryan stood by the window of her room, looking down the sweeping length of the valley. She could see the river, the terraced hillside, the houses huddled at its base, the reaching spire of the church of St. Augustine, and the distant mountains where the snow could always find a resting place. In summer when the snows receded to the high plateau, the goatherds sought the lush pastures that had been hidden all winter long, and the air echoed with the sound of goat bells, but now it was almost time for the snow to come again and Ryan shivered at the prospect.

  Still, the rain had departed and the morning was fresh and clear, if a little chill. Ryan had been dressed since the first grey fingers of light probed her bedroom curtains, but she had delayed the moment of going downstairs and confronting Alain de Beaunes. The evening before had a curiously unreal quality about it, and although she had slept almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, she had been awake early, lying staring into the darkness, trying not to feel afraid of the future.

  But it was impossible for her not to do so. The idea of marrying a man she had known little more than a week was a terrifying prospect, particularly as that man inspired no confidence inside her. He was so much older, so much more experienced, so big and powerful, so much a man in every sense of the word. She had seen the broad strength of his shoulders, the hair-covered skin of his chest which narrowed to a flat stomach, the muscles bulging against the taut cloth which covered his thighs; how could she believe him when he said theirs would be a marriage of convenience only, that he had no interest in her? Once they were married, she would have no defence against him except his word.

  A disturbing
shivering sensation ran down her spine and into her legs. Married! Married to Alain de Beaunes! She would be Ryan de Beaunes; Ryan Ferrier, no longer. It was an incredible prospect!

  The church bells were ringing out the hour and she glanced automatically at her watch. It was nine o’clock. She would have to go downstairs and face her future husband. She caught her breath on a gulp. If it was not so deadly serious, it would be laughable.

  A slim figure in denim jeans and a chunky green sweater, her chestnut dark hair confined with an elastic band, she descended the winding staircase and reached the panelled hall. A smell of freshly ground coffee emanated from the direction of the kitchen, and Ryan’s spirits rose when she thought that perhaps Berthe had returned.

  But when she opened the kitchen door, it was not the plump housekeeper who was bending over the fire, but Alain de Beaunes, his tanned skin contrasting sharply with the curious lightness of his hair. Dressed in close-fitting corded pants and a thick black sweater, his trousers pushed into tall black boots, he had obviously been outside, and he exuded an aura of virile good health.

  ‘Good morning, Ryan,’ he greeted her easily, as though nothing had changed since the previous day. ‘I was just about to bring you some coffee upstairs.’

  Ryan closed the door and leaned back against it. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ she managed, picturing her own alarm at the image of him entering her bedroom. He would dwarf its less than generous proportions.

  He shrugged, and indicated the percolator on the stove. ‘Help yourself,’ he directed. ‘I am afraid there is no fresh bread, but perhaps tomorrow…’

  Ryan crossed the room rather awkwardly, and reaching down a mug from the dresser poured some of the strongly flavoured liquid into it. She added cream and sugar and stood cradling the cup in her two hands, watching him adding wood to the already blazing logs. Then she licked her lips and said: ‘When is Berthe coming back?’

  Alain straightened and looked round at her, brushing his palms over the seat of his pants. ‘Berthe is not coming back,’ he replied flatly.