Chapter Twenty
Serena watched MadameLucie clean the blood from the tiles with vinegar, just as if they were common red wine stains. The housekeeper’s little dog, Mignon, lay nearby watching everything.
Shuddering again, unable to stop doing so, she took another sip of the brandy madame had given her and tried to make sense of the past half hour.
How could her small part in all this have turned deadly?She never would have guessed she could pull the trigger. When she’d drawn her gun at the Tuileries, it had been only to frighten off Guillaume and Jean-Paul. Everything had still seemed like an exciting adventure, especially when she and Malcolm had escaped the guards together.
Yet Felicity’s brother had dropped to the floor, his eyes fluttering closed as he’d died. But she couldn’t let Guillaume murder Malcolm. The Englishman had her heart firmly in his grasp, and thus hers would have stopped beating along with his. Surely, she would be forgiven for saving his life.
When the door opened again, Michel entered, looking gray in the face and barely able to make it to the divan, where he collapsed and closed his eyes.
“I just need to sleep,” he muttered to her, his hand clasping his stomach.
She and Madame Lucie exchanged worried glances. He didn’t stir when they examined him for wounds, but she discovered his hair was matted with dried blood. Hopefully, when he awakened, he would feel better. She doubted they could move him upstairs, even with Malcolm’s help, so she covered him with a quilt and let him be.
How much time had passed, she didn’t know, but it seemed to be hours. Madame Lucie had started dinner in the warm and welcoming kitchen in the back of the manor, overlooking the vineyard. Gently rolling hills surrounded them, and she’d always thought it as lovely as any piece of English countryside. Wisteria climbed the sides of the house and lilacs lined the wide dirt and stone drive. Much appreciated apple and pear trees shaded each of the verandas, one at the front and one at the side of the house. And all around them, a sea of grapevines drank in the brilliant sunlight and gave back the very best wine, as it had done for decades.
Wafting through the house was the mouth-watering scent of Madame Lucie’scoq au vin. As a cook, she rivaled any in Paris. But Serena had no appetite, seated on a soft chair beside the divan, watching Michel, unable to set foot outside for fear of seeing Guillaume’s body.
Finally, the door opened, and a sweaty, dirty Malcolm appeared.
Uninjured, healthy, hale, and perfect. Regardless of the consequences, she rose from her chair and launched herself into his arms.
They clamped around her, holding her against him. Close to tears, she bit her lip to stop herself and wrapped her arms around his middle, laying her cheek against his chest. Silently, they remained locked together until finally, she looked up at him.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I am not hurt,” she told him.
“I meant how do you feel?”
She didn’t want to talk about that. Not yet. She’d killed a man. Turning away, she gestured to Michel, now snoring on the long beige divan.
“I’m concerned for him.”
“He probably will have a bad headache and be unsteady on his feet for a few days,” Malcolm guessed. “And he might have a broken rib.”
All bad news, but not as bad as it could be, she thought. She wanted to ask Malcolm where he’d buried Guillaume, but she couldn’t get herself to put it into words. That Felicity’s brother was now a body was absurd. That he was under the ground at her grandparents’ vineyard seemed impossible.
“Why are you here?” The question had plagued her since he’d burst through the door.
He hesitated. “That should be obvious. I’m not on a tour of France’s wineries. I came to find you.”
“But why?” she pressed. “Aren’t you needed in Paris?”
“I can’t go back to the Tuileries as a baker.” He gave her a wry smile as they recalled their last time there together. “In fact, my usefulness is in question at the moment. In any case, I had to make sure you were safe.”
“Thanks to you, I am.” She still had a journey to the coast, but for the time being, Serena felt perfectly secure.
“You’ve come a long way and then...” She didn’t want to mention how he’d spent time digging and burying, so she said nothing more.
“I could use a bath, both to clean up and to cool off,” Malcolm agreed. “It’s hotter here than in Paris. I feel more like a raisin than a grape.”
She could almost smile at his little joke.
