“Let him go his own way and he’ll come back to you.”
“You think so?”
He met her gaze. “Only a fool wouldn’t come to you if you wanted him.”
Hot color scorched her cheeks and her chest suddenly tightened. She found her hand was trembling as she hastily set the wineglass down on the table beside her. “Shall we go in to supper?”
“No.”
“What?”
His lips lifted at one corner in a lopsided smile. “I thought I could go through with this, but I find I can’t. In the past I’ve played many roles, but I won’t play the gracious departing guest. I believe I’ll say my good-bye now.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’ll miss you, Catherine of Vasaro.”
She gazed at him wordlessly as he turned her hand over and lingeringly pressed his warm lips to her palm.
Intimacy. Warmth. Tenderness.
She couldn’t breathe; being close to him was like being in the enfleurage room too long, intoxicating, heady, sweet.
He raised his gaze to her face as he slowly lifted her palm to his cheek. “And I want you.” He felt her stiffen and shook his head. “Oh, I know I can’t have you. I’ve always known that since that first night at the abbey. But, if I stay here, someday I’m going to forget and try to make love to you.” He held her gaze as he kissed her palm again. “And it would be love, Catherine.”
He didn’t allow her to answer but turned and left the salon.
She stared after him in bewilderment. Love?
She realized now that she had firmly kept herself from thinking of love as well as lust in connection with François in these past weeks. All through the years love had always meant her blind worship of Philippe. Could what she was feeling for François be love too?
And what of lust? She had never felt this deep, primitive awareness when she was with Philippe. She did not flinch from François’s touch. In truth, she seemed drawn to him in a physical manner.
The tomb.
But François was different from those men. Perhaps the act that had so defiled her would be different too.
She turned and slowly walked from the salon and up the stairs. She couldn’t countenance the thought of food either. She was bewildered and saddened and yet there was a tiny ember of hope burning in the darkness. She must think and sort out her emotions before morning.
Before François left Vasaro.
An early morning fog lay over Vasaro, swathing the lushness of the blooming fields in a vaporous white veil.
“François!”
François turned as Catherine hurried toward him across the stable yard. She still wore the yellow satin gown she had worn last in the salon, and wisps of brown hair escaped the confines of her braid.
She stopped before him, out of breath. “Don’t go.”
He went still, his gaze on her face.
She took a step nearer. “Please. I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here with Michel and me. I thought about what you said all night.” She moistened her lips. “I don’t know if I love you, but I do feel something…extraordinary when I’m with you. I want you to stay with me and we can see.… Would it be so terrible to give me time to get accustomed to the idea?”
“No, it wouldn’t be terrible at all,” he said gently. “It would be sweet and warm and all that’s wonderful. But nothing could come of it, Catherine.”
“Will you…embrace me?”
“Catherine…”
“It’s not much of a favor to ask.” She took a step nearer until she was only inches away. “I don’t think I’ll be afraid. I believe it will be different with you. But I won’t know unless you hold me.”
He pulled her gently into his arms and she lay quietly against him. His body was warm and strong and yet the strength brought not fear but a sense of security. “It’s really quite nice, isn’t it?” Her voice was trembling as she pressed closer to him. “Rather…sweet.”
