No sooner had she spoken than the front door was pushed open. An older man in a homespun linen shirt and trousers emerged. He removed his cap, mopping his brow on a beefy forearm. When he saw them, he stopped and scowled.

“Qui êtes vous?” he demanded. “Que faites vous ici?”

“Je m’apelle Alex Archer et voici ma femme,” Alex replied. “Son nom de jeune fille était Laura Hayes.”

“Hayes?” the man repeated. “Are you English?”

“We are,” Laura said. “We’ve come to see my father’s factory.” She offered him her hand.

The man wiped his hand on his trousers before he shook it. “I was grieved to hear of his passing. A fever was it?” The man shook Alex’s hand as well. “Quel dommage.”

“And you are?” Alex asked.

“Gabriel Marchand.”

Alex recognized the name from Weatherwax’s documents. “You’re the caretaker.”

“Oui, Monsieur. I worked for Monsieur Hayes for many years. On his death, Monsieur Weatherwax hired me to look after the property.”

Laura’s expression tightened. “Mr. Weatherwax is no longer involved in any aspect of my family’s business. My husband and I have charge of things now. We’d like to see inside.”

Marchand bowed. “It would be my pleasure to show it to you.”

Laura followed along after Monsieur Marchand, taking in the vast emptiness of the building. It bore no resemblance to the distillery in Dorset. There were no stills or steam-powered machines. No great vats filled with rose petals, peppermint, or stalks of lavender. And no jars containing the precious residue produced from distillation. Only a lingering floral scent hinted at what it once had been.

“The equipment—” she began.

“Sold,” Monsieur Marchand said. “On Monsieur Weatherwax’s instructions.”

Anger boiled in Laura’s veins. She felt the reassuring weight of Alex’s hand at her back. “How long ago?”

“Two years? Three? I have copies of the bills of sale, if you’d like to see them.”

“We require all of the relevant documents,” Alex said.

Marchand glanced at the two of them with interest. “Will you be resuming production?”

“We don’t know yet,” Laura answered.

“Yes, we will,” Alex replied at the same time.

She looked at him, brows raised in enquiry. In response, he merely gave her one of his roguish half smiles. Her heartbeat quickened. She’d thought she couldn’t feel anything stronger for him than the swell of affection she’d felt when he offered to take her to the seaside in Cannes.

She’d been wrong.

As she looked at him now, she was filled with such all-encompassing warmth. Such endless gratitude. Such…love.

Good heavens, she loved him.

She loved him.

The realization fairly took her breath away.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“Perfectly all right.” She slipped her hand through his arm.