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  “How difficult for a woman to resist such a setting.” Serenity took a deep, consuming breath. “A moonlit garden outside a Breton château, the air filled with perfume, a handsome man with poetry on his lips.”

  “Hélas!” Yves gave a heavy sigh. “I fear you will find the strength to do so.”

  She shook her head with mock sorrow. “I am unfortunately extremely strong, and you,” she added with a grin, “are a charming Breton wolf.”

  His laughter broke the night’s stillness. “Ah, already you know me too well. If it were not for the feeling I had when we met that we were destined to be friends and not lovers, I would pursue my campaign with more feeling. But, we Bretons are great believers in destiny.”

  “And it is so difficult to be both friends and lovers.”

  “Mais, oui.”

  “Then friends it shall be,” Serenity stated, extending her hand. “I shall call you Yves, and you shall call me Serenity.”

  He accepted her hand and held it a moment. “C’est extraordinaire that I should be content with friendship with one like you. You possess an elusive beauty that locks into a man’s mind and keeps him constantly aware of you.” His shoulders moved in a Gallic shrug which said more than a three-hour speech. “Well, such is life,” he remarked fatalistically. Serenity was still laughing when they re-entered the château.

  The following morning, Serenity accompanied her grandmother and Christophe to Mass in the village she had viewed from the hilltop. A light, insistent rain had begun during the pre-dawn hours, its soft hissing against her window awakening her until its steady rhythm had lulled her back to sleep.

  The rain continued as they drove to the village, drenching leaves and causing flowers in the cottage’s neat garden to droop heavy-headed, lending them an air of a colorful congregation at prayer. She had noticed, with some puzzlement, that Christophe had maintained a strange silence since the previous evening. The Dejots had departed soon after Serenity and Yves had rejoined the group in the drawing room, and though Christophe’s farewells to his guests were faultlessly charming, he had avoided addressing Serenity directly. The only communication between them had been a brief—and, she had imagined—forbidding glance, quickly veiled.

  Now, he spoke almost exclusively to the countess, with occasional comments or replies made directly to Serenity, polite, with a barely discernible hostility which she decided to ignore.

  The focal point of the small village was the chapel, a tiny white structure with its neatly trimmed grounds an almost humorous contrast to its slightly apologetic, crumbling state. The roof had had more than one recent repair, and the single oak door at the entrance was weathered and battered from age and constant use.

  “Christophe has offered to have a new chapel built,” the countess commented. “But the villagers will not have it. This is where their fathers and grandfathers have worshipped for centuries, and they will continue to worship here until it crumbles about their ears.”

  “It’s charming,” Serenity decided, for somehow the tiny chapel’s faintly dilapidated air gave it a certain steadfast dignity, a sense of pride at having witnessed generations of christenings, weddings, and funerals.

  The door groaned in apology as Christophe opened it, allowing the two women to precede him. The interior was dark and quiet, the high-beamed ceiling adding an illusion of space. The countess glided to the front pew, taking her place in the seats which had been reserved for the Château Kergallen for nearly three centuries. Spying Yves and Geneviève across the narrow aisle, Serenity threw them both a full smile and was rewarded with an answering one from Geneviève and a barely discernible wink from Yves.

  “This is hardly the proper setting for your flirtations, Serenity,” Christophe whispered in her ear as he assisted her out of her damp trenchcoat.

  Her color rose, making her feel like a child caught giggling in the sacristy, and she turned her head to retort as the priest, who seemed as old as the chapel, approached the altar, and the service began.

  A feeling of peace drifted over her like a soft, down-filled quilt. The rain insulated the congregation from the outside, its soft whispering on the roof adding to the quiet rather than detracting from it. The low drone of Breton from the ancient priest, and the light rumble of response, an occasional whimper from an infant, a muffled cough, the dark stained glass with rivulets of rain running down its surface—all combined into a quiet timelessness. Sitting in the well-worn pew, Serenity felt the chapel’s magic and understood the villagers’ refusal to give up the crumbling building for a more substantial structure, for here was peace, and the serenity for which she had been named. A continuity with the past, and a link with the future.

  As the service ended, so did the rain, and a vague beam of sunlight filtered through the stained glass, introducing a subtle, elusive glow. When they emerged outside, the air was fresh, sparkling from the clean scent of rain. Drops still clung to the newly washed leaves, glistening like tears against the bright green surfaces.

  Yves greeted Serenity with a courtly bow and a lingering kiss on the fingers. “You have brought out the sun, Serenity.”

  “Mais, oui,” she agreed, smiling into his eyes. “I have ordered all my days in Brittany to be bright and sunny.”

  Removing her hand, she smiled at Geneviève, who resembled a dainty primrose in a cool yellow dress and narrow-brimmed hat. Greetings were exchanged, and Yves leaned down toward Serenity like a conspirator.

  “Perhaps you would care to take advantage of the sunshine, chérie, and come for a drive with me. The countryside is exquisite after a rain.”

  “I’m afraid Serenity will be occupied today,” Christophe answered before she could accept or decline, and she glared at him. “Your second lesson,” he said smoothly, ignoring the battle lights in her amber eyes.

  “Lesson?” Yves repeated with a crooked smile. “What are you teaching your lovely cousin, Christophe?”

  “Horsemanship,” he responded with a like smile, “at the moment.”

  “Ah, you could not find a finer instructor,” Geneviève observed with a light touch on Christophe’s arm. “Christophe taught me to ride when Yves and my father had given me up as hopelessly inadequate. You are so patient.” Her cocker spaniel eyes gazed up at the lean man, and Serenity stifled an incredulous laugh.

  Patient was the last word she would use to describe Christophe. Arrogant, demanding, autocratic, overconfident—she began silently listing qualities she attributed to the man at her side. Cynical and overbearing, also. Her attention wandered from the conversation, her gaze lighting on a small girl sitting on a patch of grass with a frisky black puppy. The dog was alternately bathing the child’s face with enthusiastic kisses and running in frantic circles around her as the child’s high, sweet laughter floated on the air. It was such a relaxing, innocent picture that it took Serenity a few extra seconds to react to what happened next.

  The dog suddenly darted across the grass toward the road, and the child scrambled up, dashing after it, calling the dog’s name in stern disapproval. Serenity watched without reaction as a car approached. Then a cold draft of fear overtook her as she observed the child’s continuing flight toward the road.

  Without thought, she streaked in pursuit, frantically calling in Breton for the child to stop, but the girl’s attention was riveted on her pet, and she rushed over the grass, stepping out in the path of the oncoming car.

  Serenity heard the squeal of breaks as her arms wrapped around the child, and she felt the rush of wind and slight bump of the fender against her side as she hurled both herself and the girl across the road, landing in a tangled heap on its surface. There was absolute silence for a split-second, and then pandemonium broke loose as the puppy, which Serenity was now sitting on rather heavily, yelped in rude objection, and the child’s loud wails for her mother joined the animal’s indignation.

  Suddenly, excited voices in a mixture of languages joined the wailing and yelping, adding to Serenity’s dazed, befuddled s
tate. She could find no strength to remove her weight from the errant puppy, and the girl struggled from her now-limp grasp and ran into the arms of her pale, tearful mother.

  Strong, hard arms lifted Serenity to her feet, holding her shoulders and tilting back her head so that she met Christophe’s dark, stormy eyes. “Are you hurt?” When she shook her head, he continued in a tight, angry voice: “Nom de Dieu! You must be mad!” He shook her slightly, increasing the dizziness. “You could have been killed! How you missed being struck is a miracle.”

  “They were playing so sweetly,” she recalled in a vague voice. “Then that silly dog goes tearing off into the street. Oh, I wonder if I hurt it; I sat right on it. I don’t think the poor animal liked it.”

  “Serenity.” Christophe’s furious voice and the vigorous shaking brought her attention back to him. “Mon Dieu! I begin to believe you really are mad!”

  “Sorry,” she murmured, feeling empty and light-headed. “Silly to think of the dog first and the child later. Is she all right?”

  He let out a soft stream of curses on a long breath. “Oui, she is with her mother. You moved like a cheetah; otherwise, both of you would not be standing up babbling now.”

  “Adrenaline,” she muttered and swayed. “It’s gone now.”

  His grip increased on her shoulders as he surveyed her face. “You are going to faint?” The question was accompanied by a deep frown.

  “Certainly not,” she replied, attempting to sound firm and dignified, but succeeding in a rather wavering denial.

  “Serenity.” Geneviève reached her, taking her hand and abandoning formality. “That was so brave.” Tears swam in the brown eyes, and she kissed both of Serenity’s pale cheeks.

  “Are you hurt?” Yves echoed Christophe’s question, his eyes concerned rather than angry.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” she assured him, unconsciously leaning on Christophe for support. “The puppy got the worst of it when I landed on it.” I just want to sit down, she thought wearily, until the world stops spinning.

  Suddenly, she found herself being addressed in rapid, tearful Breton by the child’s mother. The words were slurred with emotion, and the dialect was so thick she had difficulty following the stream of conversation. The woman continually wiped brimming eyes with a wrinkled ball of handkerchief, and Serenity made what she hoped were the correct responses, feeling incredibly tired and faintly embarrassed as the mother’s hands grabbed and kissed with fervent gratitude. At a low order from Christophe, they were relinquished, and she retreated, gathering up her child and melting away into the crowd.

  “Come.” He slipped an arm around Serenity’s waist, and the mass of people parted like the waves of the Red Sea as he led her back toward the chapel. “I think both you and the mongrel should be put on a short leash.”

  “How kind of you to lump us together,” she muttered, then caught sight of her grandmother sitting on a small stone bench, looking pale and suddenly old.

  “I thought you would be killed,” the countess stated in a thick voice, and Serenity knelt in front of her.

  “I’m quite indestructible, Grandmère,” she claimed with a confident smile. “I inherited it from both sides of my family.”

  The thin, bony hand gripped Serenity’s tightly. “You are very impudent and stubborn,” the countess declared in a firmer voice. “And I love you very much.”

  “I love you, too,” Serenity said simply.

  Chapter Seven

  Serenity insisted on receiving her riding lesson after the midday meal, vetoing both the suggested prescription of a long rest and the prospect of summoning a doctor.

  “I don’t need a doctor, Grandmère, and I don’t need a rest. I’m perfectly all right.” She shrugged aside the morning’s incident. “A few bumps and bruises; I told you I’m indestructible.”

  “You are stubborn,” the countess corrected, and Serenity merely smiled and shrugged again.

  “You have had a frightening experience,” Christophe inserted, studying her with critical eyes. “A less strenuous activity would be more suitable.”

  “For heaven’s sake, not you, too!” She pushed away her coffee impatiently. “I’m not some mid-Victorian weakling who subsides into fits of vapors and needs to be coddled. If you don’t want to take me riding, I’ll call Yves and accept his invitation for the drive which you refused for me.” Her fine-boned face was set, and her chin lifted. “I am not going to go to bed in the middle of the day like a child.”

  “Very well.” Christophe’s eyes darkened. “You will have your ride, though perhaps your lesson will not be as stimulating as what Yves intended.”

  She stared at him for a moment in bewilderment before color seeped into her cheeks. “Oh, really, what a ridiculous thing to say.”

  “I will meet you at the stables in half an hour.” He interrupted her protestations, rose from the table, and strode from the room before she could formulate a suitable rebuttal.

  Turning to her grandmother, her face was a picture of indignation. “Why is he so insufferably rude to me?”

  The countess’s slim shoulders moved expressively, and she looked wise. “Men are complicated creatures, chérie.”

  “One day,” Serenity predicted with an ominous frown, “one day he’s not going to walk away until I’ve had my say.”

  Serenity met Christophe at the appointed time, determined to focus every ounce of energy into developing the proper riding technique. She mounted the mare with concentrated confidence, then followed her silent instructor as he pointed his horse in the opposite direction from that which they had taken on their last outing. When he broke into a light canter, she copied his action, and she experienced the same intoxicating freedom as she had before. There was, however, no sudden, exciting flash of smile on his features, no laughter or teasing words, and she told herself she was better off without them. He called out an occasional instruction, and she obeyed immediately, needing to prove both to him and herself that she was capable. So, she contented herself with the task of riding and an infrequent glance at his dark, hawklike profile.

  Lord help me, she sighed in defeat, taking her eyes from him and staring straight ahead. He’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I’ll end up a crotchety old maid, comparing every man I see to the one I couldn’t have. I wish to God I’d never laid eyes on him.

  “Pardon?” Christophe’s voice broke into her silent meditations, and she started, realizing she must have muttered something aloud.

  “Nothing,” she stammered, “it was nothing.” Taking a deep breath, she frowned. “I could swear I smell the sea.” He slowed his mount to a walk, and she reined in beside him as a faint rumble broke the silence. “Is that thunder?” She gazed up into a clear blue sky, but the rumble continued. “It is the sea!” she exclaimed, all animosity forgotten. “Are we near it? Will I be able to see it?” He merely halted his horse and dismounted. “Christophe, for heaven’s sake!” She watched in exasperation as he tied his mount’s reins to a tree. “Christophe!” she repeated, struggling from the saddle with more speed than grace. He took her arm as she landed awkwardly and tied her mount beside his before leading her farther down the path. “Choose whatever language you like,” she invited magnanimously, “but talk to me before I go crazy!”

  He stopped, turned, and drew her close, covering her mouth with a brief, distracting kiss. “You talk too much,” he stated simply and continued on his way.

  “Really,” she began, but subsided when he turned and looked down at her again. Satisfied with her silence, he led her on, the distant rumbling growing nearer and more insistent. When he stopped again, Serenity caught her breath at the scene below.

  The sea stretched as far as she could see, the sun’s rays dancing on its deep green surface. The surf rolled in to caress the rocks, its foam resembling frothy lace on a deep velvet gown. Teasingly, it flowed back from the shore, only to roll back like a coquettish lover.

  “It’s marvelous,” she sighed, reveling in
the sharp salt-sprayed air and the breeze which ruffled her hair. “I suppose you must be used to this by now; I doubt I ever could be.”

  “I always enjoy looking at the sea,” he answered, his eyes focused on the distant horizon, where the clear blue sky kissed the deep green. “It has many moods; perhaps that is why the fishermen call it a woman. Today she is calm and gentle, but when she is angry, her temper is a magnificent thing to see.”

  His hand slid down her arm to clasp her in a simple, intimate gesture she had not expected from him, and her heart did a series of somersaults. “When I was a boy, I thought to run away to the sea, live my life on the water, and sail with her moods.” His thumb rubbed against the tender skin of her palm, and she swallowed before she could speak.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  His shoulders moved, and she wondered for a moment if he remembered she was there. “I discovered that the land has its own magic—vivid-colored grass, rich soil, purple grapes, and grazing cattle. Riding a horse over the long stretches of land is as exciting as sailing over the waves of the sea. The land is my duty, my pleasure, and my destiny.”

  He looked down into the amber eyes, fixed wide and open on his face, and something passed between them, shimmering and expanding until Serenity felt submerged by its power. Then, she was crushed against him, the wind swirling around them like ribbons to bind them closer as his mouth demanded an absolute surrender. She clung to him as the roar of the sea swelled to a deafening pitch, and suddenly she was straining against him and demanding more.

  If the mood of the sea was calm and gentle, his did not mirror it. Helpless against her own need, she reveled in the savage possession of his mouth, the urgent insistence of the hands which claimed her, as if by right. Trembling, not with fear, but with the longing to give, she pressed yet closer, willing him to take what she offered.

  His mouth lifted once, briefly, and she shook her head against the liberation, pulling his face back to hers, lips begging for the merging. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his shoulders at the force of the new embrace, his mouth seeking hers with a new hunger, as if he would taste her or starve. His hand slipped under the silk of her blouse to claim the breast which ached for his touch, the warmth of his fingers searing like glowing embers against her skin, and though her mouth was conquered, his tongue demanding the intimacy of velvet moisture, her mind murmured his name over and over until there was nothing else.