A Bride Worth Waiting For. Caroline Anderson

it gently, sending shivers up her spine while his eyes locked with hers.

      ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ he murmured, then after an age he bent to press his lips to her hand—but not the back. Oh, no. He turned it over and pressed his lips firmly and devastatingly to the palm, then folded her fingers over to enclose the kiss and straightened up to meet her eyes again, a slow, sexy grin teasing at his mouth.

      He wasn’t the only one who was enchanted. Annie could hardly think straight for the rest of the meal, dishing up for the family and the skilled staff. The grape-pickers had their own catering arrangements in the bunkhouse, and her job was to help Madame Chevallier to cook for the permanent staff who ran the vineyard. And if she didn’t want to lose her job, she’d better concentrate on what she was doing.

      Finally they were all served and seated, and she took her own meal and went and sat in the only space left. Which just happened, by a curious coincidence, to be next to Etienne Duprés.

      ‘You must be new here; I haven’t seen you,’ she said, but he shook his head.

      ‘I have been away—en vacances. On holiday?’

      She nodded. ‘I wondered.’

      ‘So you have been thinking about me. Bon,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘And you must be new here.’

      She nodded again. ‘I’m here for the harvest. I’m sorry, my French is dreadful—’

      He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m sure we understand what is necessary,’ he said, and his eyes locked with hers again, their message unmistakeable.

      ‘You’re outrageous,’ she told him, blushing, and he laughed, not a discreet chuckle but the real thing, throwing back his head and letting out a deep rumble of a belly-laugh that had all the others smiling and nodding and ribbing him.

      ‘No, mademoiselle, I only tell the truth.’

      And he was right, of course. She could understand enough of the muddle of his French and English to know precisely what he was trying to say to her, and he seemed to be able to understand English better than he could speak it, so between them they managed.

      After all, it didn’t take much facility with the language to walk side by side along the rows of vines in the setting sun, and to pause under the spreading branches of an old oak tree and exchange slow, lingering kisses.

      That was all they ever did, and then he’d sigh and turn back to the path and wrap his arm around her, tucking her into his side and shortening his stride to hers as they strolled back to the farmhouse. On her nights off he took her to the village and they sat in the bar and talked in their halting French and English until late, then he walked her home, pausing to kiss her under the tree.

      She learned that he was an estate manager, that he’d trained in Australia and California, that he had been brought in to supervise the production of the exclusive and very expensive wine produced here. She told him she had trained as a cook, but was going to run a tearoom—a café—called Miller’s, with a friend in a village in Suffolk on her return.

      He seemed interested, so she told him about Liz Miller, and about their plans and how Liz was getting it off the ground now and how they’d share it when she got home, and he grinned and promised to come and visit her. ‘To take tea—in Miller’s, a very English tearoom. I shall look forward to this. After the harvest,’ he promised, and she believed him.

      She learned to tease him, and he teased her back. One evening as they sat in the bar she reached out a hand and ran her fingertip down the bumpy and twisted length of his nose. ‘What happened to it?’ she asked, and he laughed.

      ‘I was—pouf!’ he said, making a fist and holding it to his nose and grinning.

      ‘You had a fight?’

      He nodded, blue eyes laughing.

      ‘Don’t tell me—over a woman?’

      The grin widened. ‘Mais oui! What else is there to fight about?’

      She chuckled. ‘And did you win?’

      ‘Bien sur! Of course. I always win the lady.’

      ‘And was she married, this lady?’ she asked, suddenly needing the answer to be no, and he frowned, serious for once.

      ‘Non. Of course not. I would not do that. I am—how do you say it? A gentleman.’

      And he was. He walked her home, kissed her lingeringly, sighed and handed her in through the door like the gentleman he said he was, then wandered off, whistling softly under his breath.

      A week later, one cold October night, he seemed different. Distracted, somehow, and for once not focusing on her with that strange intensity, as if she was the centre of his world. At least not then, not in the bar, but later on the way home he drew her off the path, away from the farm buildings and up into a little wood, then he turned her into his arms and kissed her in a way he’d never kissed her before.

      His body was strong and lean and full of coiled energy, warm and hard under her hands, his heart pounding against her chest, a strange urgency about him. He’d always been playful before, but that night there was no time for play. He kissed her as if he’d die without her, touched her as if she was the most precious thing in the universe. They made love then for the first and last time, on a bed of fallen leaves under the stars, and in his arms she found a happiness she’d never even dreamed of.

      She’d been totally innocent, but he’d been so gentle, so thorough, so—incredible—that she’d felt no pain, only joy and an unbelievable rightness.

      Afterwards he walked her back, kissing her once more as he left her at the door of the farmhouse, his touch lingering.

      Struck suddenly by some sense of evil, she pulled off her ring and gave it to him, pressing it into his hand.

      ‘Here—have this. It was my grandmother’s. It’s a St Christopher. It will keep you safe.’ And she reached up and kissed him again. ‘Take care, my love,’ she whispered, and his arms tightened for a second before he let her go.

      He murmured something. She didn’t really catch it. It sounded curiously like, ‘Au revoir,’ but why would he be saying goodbye? So final, so irrevocable. It sent a shiver through her, and after she went to bed she lay and thought about it.

      She must have misheard. It could have been ‘Bonsoir’, although even she knew that meant good evening and not goodnight. And anyway, he usually told her to sleep well. But ‘Au revoir’? Until we meet again? That seemed too final—not at all like goodnight. It puzzled her, but she convinced herself she must have heard it wrong, until the following day when she went down to make breakfast and found Madame Chevallier in tears.

      A chill ran over her, and she hurried to her side, putting her arm around the woman who’d become her friend. ‘Madame?’

      ‘Oh, Annie, ma petite—je suis desolée. I’m so sorry.’

      ‘Pardon? Madame, what is it? What’s happened?’

      ‘Oh, mon Dieu. C’est terrible. Etienne—il est mort! Dead—et Gerard aussi. Oh, mon Dieu!’

      Panic flooded her. Panic and the first terrible, overwhelming crush of grief. She sucked in a huge lungful of air, then another, fighting off the pain. ‘No. You’re wrong. You’re lying! He can’t be dead!’

      But Madame shook her head and wept, her whole body shaken with sobs, and Annie realised it must be true.

      ‘No…Dear God, no.’

      She looked outside and saw the gendarme talking to Monsieur Gaultier, both of them shaking their heads in dis-belief, and she ran out past them, up to the place where he’d taken her in his arms and made love to her with such passionate intensity just a few short hours before. Such exquisite joy—

      ‘Etienne, no. You can’t be dead,’ she wept, falling to the soft, sweet earth where she’d lain with him