Dawn Song. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ book on the history of the Cathars that Mr Otway had given her on parting, and went downstairs to wait for him. In Reception, madame was conducting a full-blooded argument by telephone, illustrated by gestures, with some hapless representative of the electricity company, but she smiled at Meg and motioned her to go through to the courtyard.

      The sun was back in full force, bathing the whole area in syrupy golden light, and Meg sat at one of the small wrought-iron tables which had been placed outside, sipping a pastis, and reading.

      It was difficult to comprehend on this beautiful evening, and rather depressing too, that the Cathars had believed the world to be the devil’s creation, and man and all his works intrinsically evil. To escape damnation they had pursued a strict regime of prayer and abstinence, including vegetarianism, and the leaders of the cult, known as the Perfect Ones, also advocated celibacy in marriage.

      Presumably the majority of their followers had decided to be not quite so perfect, otherwise Catharism would have died out in a generation, Meg thought.

      From a modern viewpoint, their creed seemed eccentric rather than dangerous, yet armies had been sent to wipe them off the face of the earth. A bit like taking a sledgehammer to swat a fly.

      Probably, as Mr Otway had said, it was greed for the riches of the South which had sent the Crusaders south, ravaging the vineyards and looting the cities, and religion was just the excuse.

      She knew, before his shadow fell across the open page, that Jerome had arrived. She’d become aware of the stir at the adjoining tables, of the raised eyebrows and murmured asides as women turned their heads to watch him cross the courtyard.

      ‘Bonsoir.’ This evening, he was wearing well-cut cream trousers and a chestnut-brown shirt, open at the neck, while the mane of dark hair had been controlled, but not tamed.

      Perhaps that was a clue to his personality, she found herself thinking as she shyly returned his smile of greeting. That under the expensive clothes and civilised manners there was a streak of wildness, waiting to explode. She wondered if he was an artist, perhaps. If so, he was a very successful one. The watch, the car, everything about him spelled out serious money.

      If he’d noticed the interest his arrival had caused, he gave no sign of it, as he pulled out a chair and sat down, signalling to the hovering waiter to bring him a drink. She approved of his seeming unawareness of his own attraction. And he wasn’t just attractive, either, Meg acknowledged wrily. For the first time in her life, she’d encountered a man who possessed a powerful sexual charisma that transcended ordinary good looks, and she wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

      ‘You looked very serious just now,’ he observed, adding water to his pastis. ‘You are not suffering from delayed shock, I hope?’

      Meg shook her head, wrinkling her nose slightly. ‘Actually I was thinking about man’s inhumanity to man.’

      ‘A sad thought for such an evening.’ He glanced at her book, his brows lifting. ‘Land of the Cathars,’ he read aloud. ‘You are interested in the history of the Languedoc?’ he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

      ‘Why not?’ Meg lifted her chin. Just because she’d delayed leaving her car at his command, it didn’t make her a complete idiot, she thought crossly.

      He looked at her for a long moment, the expression in the dark eyes unreadable, then he shrugged. ‘As you say—why not?’ he agreed. ‘You are a creature of surprises, Marguerite.’

      ‘Not just me,’ she reminded him, feeling oddly defensive. ‘Neither of us knows the least thing about the other.’

      ‘So tonight,’ he said softly, ‘will be a journey of discovery, hein?’

      She bit her lip. That had altogether too intimate a ring, she thought uneasily. And his dark gaze had begun its journey already, travelling in silent appraisal down from her face to the rounded curves of her breasts under the cling of the cross-over bodice.

      Meg, about to draw a deep, indignant breath, checked the impulse. It would have totally the wrong effect in the circumstances, she told herself tersely. Perhaps Monsieur Moncourt was completely au fait with the effect he had on women, after all, she thought with angry derision, and was confident of an easy seduction. Payment, maybe, for helping her out. Well, don’t count on a thing, she assured him in grim silence.

      This was the kind of game that Margot would enjoy, she realised. A sophisticated advance and retreat, spiced with unspoken promise and sexual innuendo, from which at the end she would walk away. Or not, as she chose.

      And perhaps, just for one evening, it would do no harm to play the game herself—or at least learn some of its rules. Maybe this is my day for living dangerously, she thought.

      Jerome Moncourt finished his drink and glanced at her empty glass. ‘Shall we go?’ he said. ‘I hope your adventure today has given you an appetite?’

      ‘My first experience of French cooking.’ Meg smiled brightly as she pushed her chair back. ‘I can’t wait.’

      The sun was beginning to set in a blaze of crimson as they drove out of the valley.

      ‘Oh, how wonderful.’ Meg craned her neck. ‘It’s going to be a fine day tomorrow.’

      He smiled. ‘No more storms,’ he said teasingly, and she shuddered.

      ‘I hope not.’

      ‘You were unlucky,’ he said. ‘It is more usual for the storms to come at night. Sometimes as you drive you see the lightning playing round the hills, like a gigantic silent spotlight. We call it the éclairs de chaleur. Then suddenly a fork will streak to the ground, and the world goes mad. As you saw.’

      ‘I did,’ she said ruefully. ‘Don’t you have any gentler form of son et lumière for the tourists?’

      ‘Perhaps the dawn would suit you better,’ he said. ‘That trace of pure clear light in the sky that drowns the stars, before the sun even lifts its head over the horizon.’

      ‘You sound like a poet,’ Meg said, stealing a sideways glance. ‘Is that what you are?’

      He laughed. ‘No, I regret, nothing so romantic, although my grandfather was deeply interested in the poetry of the region—the songs of the troubadours and those that followed.’

      ‘Did he write himself?’

      Jerome shook his head. ‘He lived on the land in a mas which belonged to his family. Grew his own vines. Adopted the simple life.’

      ‘It sounds—good.’

      ‘I think it was, for a time. Unhappily, even the simple life can become complicated, and eventually he returned to Paris.’

      ‘And do you—lead the simple life too?’

      ‘When I can.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘But most of the time I’m an architect. I used to work in Paris, but our business expanded quite remarkably, and now I am based in Toulouse.’

      ‘Back to your roots.’

      ‘As you say. I work mainly as a consultant, advising on the preservation and restoration of old buildings—houses, usually, which СКАЧАТЬ