Free Tower of Shadows by Sara Craven Page A

another bottle. 'Taste this instead. It's the '86.'
    He handed her the glass. 'This time, look at the colour first.'
    'It's beautiful,' Sabine said. 'Like the heart of a ruby.'
    'Now the bouquet.'
    Sabine complied and gasped. 'That's completely different. It's got a
    lovely rich, warm aroma.'
    'Good,' Rohan approved, his tone faintly sardonic. 'Now drink.' He
    filled a glass for himself. 'I'll join you.' He was watching her
    closely. 'So—what do you think?'
    'It's wonderful,' Sabine said, as she swallowed. 'It's got this
    incredible fruity taste, rather like blackcurrant. But my mouth feels
    very dry, almost furry.'
    'That's the tannin from the Cabernet Sauvignon grape. We use a
    combination of that and the Merlot, which is much softer, and the
    Malbec. One of the problems we've had of late is the wine keeping
    too much tannin as it matures. With all wine, it's the force —the
    long-lasting flavour in the throat—which matters.'
    'But it's not unpleasant,' Sabine said, taking another mouthful, and
    savouring it.
    'Nevertheless it is not to all tastes. Sometimes it can be caused by
    the age of the oak casks the wine is stored in. Some vignerons will
    tell you that a cask lasts only for four years. Ours have needed
    replacing for some time,' he added with a touch of grimness.
    'If they're oak, they must be expensive.'
    'They're not cheap,' he agreed. 'But a good vintage requires the best
    of care. I intend to see that it gets it.'
    'Another customer for our wine, Rohan? No one told me.' At the
    sound of the voice from the doorway, they both swung round.
    Gaston de Rochefort would always be a handsome man, in spite of
    his disability, but pain had carved deep and bitter lines across his
    forehead, and beside his mouth. The fair hair had faded to a dusty
    grey, and his skin looked pale and unhealthy, as if he spent too
    much time indoors, but the green eyes were lusty with life and
    rebellion against the confines of the wheelchair he was
    manoeuvring into the room —
    Eyes which widened when they looked at Sabine, then became
    opaque —blank. The chair stopped, and the hands directing it
    tightened on the controls until the knuckles turned white.
    Suddenly, the room was filled with silence, threatening and highly
    charged.
    It was like that endless moment, Sabine thought, between the
    lightning flash and the first crackle of thunder.
    He said softly, 'Who are you?' and Sabine felt all the hairs stir on
    the back of her neck.
    She lifted her chin, and stared back at him. 'My name is Sabine
    Russell, monsieur.'
    'And you are Isabelle's daughter, of course.' A pause. 'How is your
    mother?'
    Sabine said evenly, 'She died eight years ago, monsieur, when I
    was fourteen. I learned only recently that she'd lived near here.'
    'And so you decided to pay us a visit.' She saw his hands relax, and
    the broad shoulders lean back in the chair. 'Well, that is natural.
    But someone should have told me that you were here,' he added,
    shooting a glance at Rohan, who stood, his face expressionless. 'I
    live very much in seclusion these days, mademoiselle, with my
    books and my papers. Yet when I returned to the house just now I
    sensed that something—unusual had occurred.'
    He gave a wry smile. 'Of course, I understand now the reason for
    my poor wife's accident. Your resemblance to your mother is—
    quite amazing. I confess that when I came into the room more than
    twenty years—slipped away.'
    Sabine bit her lip. 'I seem to have been a shock to a number of
    people. I didn't intend it.'
    'Oh, not a shock, mademoiselle. More —a delightful surprise,
    wouldn't you say so, Rohan?'
    Rohan shrugged, his eyes fixed watchfully on his uncle's face.
    'But I should have been told of your arrival,' the Baron went on.
    'So that I could welcome Isabelle's daughter to my house in
    person.'
    Rohan drank the remainder of the wine in his glass and replaced it
    on the tray. He said, 'I thought you were still in Domme, Uncle.
    And Miss Russell was only