“That’s not necessary, monsieur,” she said. “We have plenty of wine. Thank you.”
“I insist. I’ll send it over. Again, I apologize for yesterday, and I thank you for your help this evening. I bid you good night. Mademoiselles,” he said including all of them as he offered a shallow bow before walking away.
Serena and her friends followed his departure with their eyes, noticing him snag a waiter, give him some coins, and nod toward their table.
Then her friends turned their curious stares upon her.
“It was nothing,” she insisted.
“You said you didn’t know him,” Felicity said, accusingly.
“I don’t. He walked into me in the street and knocked me over. That’s all.”
She didn’t like Felicity’s reproving look.
“That’s all,” Serena repeated, wondering why she felt she owed an explanation. Probably because the disaster at Vauxhall still haunted her. While some manners and etiquette were different here in Paris than back home, she didn’t want to gain an unwarranted reputation as someone who knew strange men, particularly not Englishmen! More than that, in the current climate of unrest, she wished to appear as an ordinary citizen and avoid incurring Felicity or Guillaume’s suspicion.
Nevertheless, the English monsieur had a tempting smile and lovely brown eyes that made her wish she’d been on the Vauxhall path with him that fateful night in London. She wouldn’t have run away at his touch or his kiss.
Chapter Three
What a ridiculous strokeof bad luck!Malcolm couldn’t believe he’d called his contact a prick-head. However, as he entered the vast round building of the Halle aux Vins two days later, he was determined to make amends. Besides, all his cards had turned up aces anyway, considering he’d spoken with the fiery-haired mademoiselle once again. Her stunning green eyes and sweet lips already haunted his dreams and had been worth ruining his first meeting.
Hopefully, Monsieur Christoff would have cooled down in the meanwhile.
Strolling through the various vendors, Malcolm followed instructions on where the correct stall was located. The smell of so much wine in one place was cloying, but this was where Christoff worked for Cerise Winery, and it was now the only way to contact him.
Spotting him, although the man no longer wore the red kerchief that had been his identifier, Malcolm strode toward the table surrounded by barrels with the Cerise brand scorched into each one. He tried to plaster a conciliatory expression on his face, but being extremely tall, he often appeared as though he was looking down on people in a supercilious way, when he intended no such thing.
Besides, a misunderstanding due to language shouldn’t be of any importance compared to what they were trying to achieve. Christoff ought to realize that, but these Gauls had high passions and hot tempers, and they could hold a grudge like no other. Of utmost concern to all the Parisians should be what Bonaparte might do to anyone who’d welcomed the return of the Bourbon king.
There were grudges and then there were grudges!
One of the reasons the generals who’d pledged allegiance to King Louis XVIII were now embracing Bonaparte’s cause was undoubtedly a desire to save their own skins. But if they survived Napoleon, after Malcolm helped get rid of the emperor as he hoped to do, then these same men would have to survive the purge that followed the king’s second restoration. Politics was a nasty business.
“Monsieur Christoff,” he greeted him. “I hope you are well. I bring you a gift.” On Randall’s recommendation, he’d bought a container of expensive tobacco, which he now withdrew from his pocket and handed over.
