Dawn Song by Sara Craven Read Free Book Online

this
    minute—break free from whatever thrall he was weaving around her...
    Then from the bottom of the staircase they heard Berthe calling, ' Monsieur
    Jerome—vous etes servi,' and the spell was broken.
    Jerome's smile was faintly crooked. 'One appetite at a time, mignonne.' He
    took her hand, and pressed a swift kiss into the palm, making her whole
    body shiver in delight—in shameful anticipation.
    She was trembling inside, her head light, her legs oddly weak. As she went
    down the spiral stair, she stumbled slightly, and his hand caught her,
    steadied her.
    'Take care,' he warned on a note of laughter, as if perfectly aware of the
    havoc he'd created. Which, of course, he was. He was a sophisticated man
    with a whole battery of sensual expertise at his command. And she was a
    total novice.
    As her untutored response to his kiss must have told him, she reminded
    herself bleakly. He'll think I'm a piece of cake—a pushover, she thought,
    gripping the narrow rail until her knuckles turned white. She needed to hang
    on. She couldn't afford any more slips, she told herself, swallowing. She also
    needed some food. It had been a long time— a lifetime—since breakfast.
    A good meal would put fresh heart into her. It would also allow her a
    breathing space to decide how to deal with this potentially disastrous
    situation.
    Downstairs, Berthe was placing a steaming tureen on the table, with a platter
    of bread next to it. She indicated with a jerk of the head that Meg and Jerome
    should sit at the table, and began to ladle the smoooth creamy concoction
    into pottery bowls, one of which she dumped in front of Meg.
    She'd had more graciously served food, Meg thought, with faint amusement,
    but she knew after just one mouthful that she couldn't fault the cooking. The
    soup was delicious with a delicate flavour she did not immediately
    recognise.

    'Tourain toulousain,' Jerome told her when she enquired. 'Garlic soup. You
    like it?'
    'It's fantastic,' she said honestly. 'Please tell Berthe so. I don't think she
    understands me.'
    'I'm afraid she does,' There was a touch of wryness in his voice. 'Berthe, you
    understand, has held a long and privileged position in my family. Sometimes
    she and Octavien take advantage of this. You must excuse them.'
    Maybe she could take advantage of it too, Meg thought; use Berthe's overt
    disapproval of her presence to make a strategic withdrawal at the right time.
    The soup was cleared away and replaced by a rich, meaty terrine,
    accompanied by a tomato salad, rich with virgin olive oil and fresh basil.
    'I thought you mentioned cassouletV Meg said wonderingly.
    He smiled at her. 'That is still to come.' He poured her red wine from an
    unmarked bottle. 'From my own vines,' he said.
    Meg was beginning to think she couldn't eat another mouthful when the
    cassoulet arrived, served in a big earthenware pot. It was a brown and
    bubbling mixture of haricot beans, sausage and minced bacon with garlic
    cooked in layers around a large joint of pork.
    Yet somehow she managed to demolish the plateful Jerome handed her with
    yet more bread, although she regretfully declined a second helping. She also
    refused more of the full-bodied, and, she suspected, lethally potent wine.
    The meal was rounded of with a tart, in which swirls of thinly sliced apple
    had been cooked under a light glaze.'I don't think,' Meg said reverently as
    she put down her fork, 'that I shall ever move again.'
    He laughed. 'Ah, but you will,' he said. 'You lack practice in eating, that's
    all.'
    'By the end of my stay I shall be like a barrel.'

    'That will depend on the length of your stay.'
    Of course, he thought she was here for a conventional vacation only. She
    wondered what he would say if she told him she was staying for a month.
    Not that she planned to tell him.
    Ships that pass in the night, she told herself resolutely, as coffee was placed
    on the table by the surly Berthe, who then withdrew.
    Meg watched her go with mixed