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“Occasionally, but it’s to be expected. It’s been over a week since I had the last one.” She was beginning to be uncomfortable beneath the intensity of his stare and rushed on. “Juliette tells me you’ll be leaving tonight for Spain.”

Francois nodded. “We sail at midnight.”

“You’ll wish to leave Vasaro early. I’ll order supper for five o’clock.”

He suddenly smiled. “A hardy laborer in the field and now gracious mistress of the household? I find myself wondering what other sides to your character I’ll discover.”

“I wonder myself.” She turned and started back down the hill toward the fields and said over her shoulder, “You’ll like the wine of Vasaro. It flows sweetly but has a delicious bite.”

“An interesting description.” There was a thickness in his voice that made her gaze fly back to him in surprise. His face was without expression as he said, “I look forward to trying it.”

A shiver went through her like that brought by a sudden hot wind on fields wet with rain. She felt a tightening of the muscles of her stomach and suddenly her breasts felt…different. Fear?

She looked away from him, her pace quickening as she fled down the hill and through the field until she reached Michel. She began to feverishly pick the blossoms and toss them into the basket.

“You’ve lost the rhythm,” Michel told her, his gaze on the hill. “He’s still watching you.”

Catherine slowed and began to take more care. “Why are you so interested in him?”

“He’s gone now.” Michel began to pick the blossoms again.

“Why?” she persisted.

“I think he’s one of the ones who could understand the flowers.”

Catherine laughed and shook her head. “He’s not at all a gentle man, Michel.”

“It doesn’t take gentleness, it takes…” He paused, trying to put it into words. “A knowing. A feeling.”

“And he has it?”

“I think so.” Michel frowned. “I knew you would understand them, but he’s not like you.”

No, they had nothing at all in common, Catherine thought, and Francois was evidently capable of making her feel most uneasy. It was an excellent thing he was leaving Vasaro that night. The serenity she now possessed had been hard won, and she did not wish it to be endangered.

Catherine’s uneasiness became even more acute when she walked into the salon that evening and met Francois’s gaze. He rose to his feet and bowed politely but his stare was as intent as it had been that afternoon.

She suddenly became aware of the bareness of her shoulders gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight, the swelling of her breasts above the ivory satin of her gown.

“Please, be seated.” She hurriedly sat down in an armchair and looked at Jean Marc.

He was dressed for the journey in boots and dark clothing and she tardily realized Francois was similarly garbed.

“Supper will be served in a quarter hour. I hope that will be all right?”

“Perfectly all right. Wine, Catherine?” Jean Marc was at the cabinet across the room, pouring wine into glasses. “You look in splendid health.”

“Splendid,” Francois echoed softly as he resumed his seat. The warmth of his smile embraced her across the room.

Catherine tore her gaze from Francois. “Wine? Yes, please. Where’s Juliette?”

“She hasn’t come down to supper yet.” Jean Marc turned and handed a glass to Catherine and then moved across the room and gave the other to Francois. “I haven’t seen her since last night.”

“I saw her this morning before I left for the fields. She’s probably sketching and forgotten the time again.” Catherine took a sip of wine. “If she’s not down in a few minutes, I’ll look for her.”

“There’s no hurry.” Jean Marc sat down and stretched his booted legs out before him. “Juliette’s seldom on time. Drink your wine.”

Catherine shot him a curious glance. “You’ve discovered that?”

“‘I’ve discovered a good many things about Juliette.” Jean Marc glanced idly at Francois. “You’re not drinking your wine.”

Catherine smiled. “It’s the Vasaro wine I told you about. You remember?”

“I remember.” Francois quickly raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply.

“Do you like it?” Catherine asked. “This is a good vintage.”

Francois nodded, his gaze meeting Catherine’s. “I find the bite more obvious than the sweetness, but sometimes that’s what a man needs.”

“Is it?” Heat began to tingle through her and she hastily averted her eyes. “Philippe said this year’s grapes would be excellent. I hope he’s right. The vineyards are—”

A sharp clatter interrupted her words.

She looked back at Francois, startled. He was slumped sidewise in his chair and his glass had shattered on the floor, the red wine splashed across the oaken tiles.

Catherine jumped up and rushed toward Francois in alarm. “Jean Marc, he’s ill!”

“No.” Jean Marc stood up and moved swiftly across the room. He pushed Francois’s head back and examined his face. He straightened and added with satisfaction, “But he’s very definitely asleep. He didn’t drink it all, but it should keep him out of the way until the ship is under sail.”

“You drugged him?”

“I thought it kinder than hitting him on the head,” Jean Marc said, then shrugged.

“I respect the man. I didn’t want to hurt him.

” He opened the top buttons of Francois’s shirt and spread back the stiff collar.

“Now he should be comfortable enough. I have a horse saddled and waiting in the stable. By the time he begins to stir, the Bonne Chance will be out of the harbor.”

“This is not well done, Jean Marc,” Catherine said coldly. “He is a guest in my house.”

“My dear Catherine, would you have preferred I waited until I got to Cannes and left him lying in the gutter for the thieves to pick?”

“No, but it is not right—”

“Danton set him to spy on me. I won’t find the statue only to have him take it away from me and give it to the republic.

Au revoir , Catherine, tell Juliette I—” He stopped.

“You probably won’t get a chance to tell her anything when she finds out I’ve left without her.

She can be very voluble when she’s displeased. ”

He left the salon and a moment later Catherine heard the front door slam behind him.