‘Let me go!’ The words burst out of her in a scream.
‘Allie. Stop fighting!’ Sylvain was panting from exertion. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘I’m going to go and wait for Christopher,’ she sobbed irrationally. ‘If you’re going to Isabelle, I’ve got to warn him.’
Muttering something in French – she didn’t know the words but she was pretty sure he was swearing – he held her so close she could feel his breath against her ear.
‘I won’t tell, OK?’ he said. ‘I won’t tell Isabelle. Now please. Stop this.’
Instantly, she stopped fighting, and after a second he loosened his hold on her. Pushing wet hair out of her eyes, she searched his face for signs of deception.
‘Promise me,’ she said, raising her voice to be heard above the rain. ‘Swear you won’t tell anybody.’
‘You have my word.’ His eyes never wavered. ‘Now please.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come back inside.’
She believed him.
Suddenly exhausted, she allowed him to take her hand; his skin wet and cold against hers. In silence, they walked back towards the building. The adrenaline that had stopped her from feeling the cold flooded away as quickly as it had arrived and she trembled violently. Casting a sideways glance at Sylvain, she saw that he was shivering, too. His jaw was set as he led her to a small door in the east wing.
When he opened it, though, she balked. ‘Where are we going?’
‘If we go in through the main entrances looking like this, people will ask questions you don’t want to answer,’ he said. ‘This is another way in.’
The door opened on to a short stairway down into a part of the cellar she’d never seen before. It seemed unused – old chairs were stacked haphazardly against the walls. Flickering lights in wall sconces cast moving shadows that chased them down the corridor. About halfway down the hall, he opened another door and flipped a light switch, revealing a narrow, winding staircase. Allie’s teeth were chattering so loudly she was sure he must be able to hear them.
‘It’s one of the old servants’ staircases,’ he explained. ‘They’re everywhere. We used another one the night of the fire.’
They climbed several storeys, finally emerging into a warm hallway. Sylvain led her past two closed doors before opening one. It was a spacious, neatly kept bedroom.
Instantly she knew just where they were. Her heart thudded three quick beats.
I cannot be in his bedroom – Carter would kill me. This is so not a good thing. I’ve got to get out of here.
But when he handed her a thick warm towel, instead of throwing it on the floor and running out of the door she began drying herself, looking around curiously. It was like any other dorm room, except for the extraordinary painting in an ornate gilded frame, of angels carrying an unconscious man.
Following her eyes, Sylvain gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘A gift.’
Yanking open a drawer, he pulled out an armful of T-shirts and jumpers, dropping them on the bed. ‘Here. Take off your wet clothes and put these on. They will all be too big but they will do.’
Through the tangled mass of wet hair covering her face, Allie glowered at him. ‘You think I’m taking my clothes off in front of you? Good luck with that.’
A flash of amusement sparked in his eyes. ‘Don’t be such a child. I’ll turn my back if you prefer, but you will not get warm if you keep those wet clothes on. Plus, you will make a spectacle walking back to your room.’
Without waiting for her to agree, he turned around to face the door.
For just a second she didn’t move.
Her soaking wet top made a slapping sound when it hit the wood floor. She wanted to leave her bra on, but it was wet through.
‘Don’t you dare turn around,’ she said through gritted teeth as she unhooked it.
His chuckle surprised her. ‘Hurry up or I will,’ he threatened. ‘I want to change, too.’
Dropping her soaking bra on top of her wet shirt, she pulled on one of his T-shirts. It hung to her thighs. She put a jumper on top of it, then a pair of pyjama bottoms with a drawstring waist.
‘Done.’
‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I’m freezing.’ As he turned, his eyes skittered across her body. ‘My clothes look better on you than they do on me,’ he commented. She felt colour rise in her face, but he’d already turned to rifle through the T-shirts and jumpers she hadn’t put on.
‘Now, I need to get out of my wet clothes,’ he said in perfectly reasonable tones. ‘I won’t make you turn around, though. I am French, so I’m not shy.’
‘I will turn around …’ she said, but before she’d finished the sentence he’d peeled off his wet shirt.
So there was no point.
Right?
His torso was leanly muscled, and his latte-coloured skin held a Braille pattern of goosebumps. Shivering, he dried himself quickly before pulling on a clean T-shirt identical to the one she wore. Then, without any hesitation, he peeled off his wet trousers and dropped them into the pile with her wet clothes.
Turn around, Allie, she told herself. But she didn’t move.
He had the long, muscled legs of an athlete, she observed, as he pulled dry trousers on over his dark blue boxers.
‘You’re very good-looking,’ Allie heard herself say as if from a hundred miles away.
Oh good. I’ve gone completely insane.