by Sara Craven
‘Naturally.’ His brows lifted. ‘Just as soon as the Gunners Terrace business is completed.’
‘But you have to give me some leeway here,’ she protested huskily. ‘You can’t expect me simply to—abandon everything and leave.’
He said icily, ‘I didn’t expect it last time, sweetheart, but you managed it all the same. And you’ve had a year of ducking and weaving since then to perfect your technique.’ He paused, allowing that to sink in, then added, ‘Now, get dressed—unless you want me to help you?’
‘No.’ She bit her lip. ‘I can manage.’
The shower seemed to be working better this morning. Nick had probably given it an executive order, she thought rebelliously, as she zipped herself into the yellow dress, ran a cursory brush through her hair, and went to join him in the other room.
A trolley had just been brought in, and Cally saw grapefruit, croissants with dishes of butter and preserves, and a tall pot of coffee.
Nick rose. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, indicating the sofa beside him, and she reluctantly complied.
He put a hand under her chin, surveying her critically. ‘I have to say that you don’t look particularly rested.’
‘I hardly slept at all,’ Cally said curtly, jerking her head away. ‘I’m not used to sharing a bed—particularly with a man.’
His mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Just one of many new experiences waiting for you, darling.’
She said slowly, ‘I hoped—I prayed—that when I woke up this morning it would all be just a bad dream. Or a cruel joke.’ She swallowed. ‘Nick—please tell me that’s all it was. Say that you didn’t mean any of the things you said last night. Because I—I think I’ve been punished enough.’
‘It’s straightforward enough,’ he said, pouring the coffee. ‘And I meant every word. Give me a child, and in return you’ll get your divorce. What part of that do you not understand?’
She said in a low voice, ‘I can’t understand how you can bear to do this to me. It’s barbaric.’
‘Your own behaviour, of course, being so civilised,’ Nick returned mockingly. ‘Have some coffee, and spare us the cliché of saying it would choke you.’
Those very words had been on the tip of Cally’s tongue, but, chagrined, she bit them back, and accepted the cup he held out to her in smouldering silence.
The coffee was surprisingly good, black and strong, putting heart into her and enabling her to say eventually, ‘When we reach Wylstone I’d like to move back into the courtyard flat—at first, anyway.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ Nick said without the least sign of regret as he finished his grapefruit and put down the spoon. ‘I’d have to evict the Thurstons, and they wouldn’t be happy about it.’
Cally frowned. ‘The Thurstons?’
‘The couple who work for me.’ He chose a croissant from the dish.
‘What happened to Mrs Bridges?’ She was astounded. Sir Ranald’s housekeeper had been there for years—almost part of the fabric of the building.
His mouth quirked in faint amusement. ‘She preferred to follow Adele into exile. But the Thurstons are a terrific find. You’ll like them.’
‘I doubt that.’ Mutinously, she returned her cup to the trolley.
‘Then at least try not to show your dislike too obviously,’ he said silkily. ‘Save it for me instead, or I’ll have to raise their salaries.’ He paused. ‘Are you going to eat something?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
His brows lifted. ‘Planning to starve yourself into an early grave? Or simply become anorexic?’
‘Neither,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m not a breakfast person.’
‘I stand corrected.’ This time the glance he sent her was openly amused. ‘But maybe you should change your ways, darling. After all, you need to keep your strength up.’
‘I imagine I’m strong enough for your purposes.’ Cally lifted her chin.
‘Ouch,’ Nick said with perfect amiability, and went on eating his croissant.
Oh, God, he was so pleased with himself—so enjoying his triumph, thought Cally, her hands clenching in the folds of her skirt.
She took a deep breath. ‘If it can’t be the flat, then maybe there’s somewhere else I can have. For a while. Somewhere of my own. Some space.’ She swallowed. ‘One room would do.’
‘You’ll have the whole house,’ he said. ‘During the day, at least. The nights, of course, will be a different matter.’ He got to his feet, dusting his fingers briskly with his napkin, then dropping it on to the trolley. ‘And now it’s time we were going.’
Cally rose too. She said bitterly, ‘You’re not prepared to make any concessions, are you?’
Nick picked up his jacket. He said quietly, ‘I gave you last night. But today our marriage begins.’ He paused. ‘So, shall we go down to Gunners Wharf with the good news? I’ll let you break it to them, darling. Credit where credit is due, after all.’
Her stormy gaze met the icy mockery in his.
She said, quietly but clearly, ‘Damn you to hell, Nick Tempest.’ Then, head high, she walked back into the bedroom to get her bag.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘YOU look so different,’ Kit said. ‘I’ve never seen you in anything but black, white and grey. Now suddenly you’re in Technicolor.’ He surveyed her moodily. ‘You look—amazing. But I feel as if I’ve never known you at all.’
Cally stifled a sigh. ‘I didn’t intend that you should,’ she said quietly. ‘Because I wasn’t planning to stay. And I’m just here to clear my desk,’ she added. ‘Not part bad friends.’
‘And I had no idea your name was Caroline until Tempest said it,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Why did you call yourself Cally?’
She shrugged defensively. ‘When I was learning to talk, that was all of Caroline I could manage. It—stuck.’
He shook his head. ‘No wonder I never stood a chance. He’s a rich man, isn’t he? A multimillionaire.’ There was a note of self-pity in his voice that jarred on her. ‘And you’ve let him buy you.’
Have I? Cally thought. Then, if so, why am I paying the price?
Aloud, she said wearily, ‘Kit—let’s not over-dramatise the situation. I’m going back to my husband—that’s all. It was bound to happen sooner or later.’ At least that’s what I have to believe. She paused. ‘And please remember I offered you nothing.’
‘No,’ Kit said bitterly. ‘I’m not likely to forget that.’
Cally slammed the empty drawer shut. ‘Also, you seem to be overlooking the fact that Gunners Terrace is alive and well,’ she said crisply. ‘We just happen to have won a famous victory, and Leila, Tracy and the others are jumping for joy out there. You should be over the moon for them too, joining in the celebrations.’
‘Well, perhaps I’m not in a celebratory mood,’ he snapped back, just as Nick appeared in the doorway, glancing expressionlessly between Kit’s wrathful flush and Cally’s taut self-containment.
‘Finished up here, darling?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Because it’s time we were leaving.’ He walked over to her, sliding an arm round her body, his hand resting on the curve of her slender hip in a gesture of total possession.
Cally saw Kit register the gesture, then turn away sullenly.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m—ready.’
There hadn’t been much to collect. A few pens, a picture one of the children had painted for her, and a paperweight that Mrs Hartley had given her when Cally had inadvertently revealed it was her birthday the previous day. It was a lovely thing, in shades of azure and emerald flecked with gold, like a dive into a sunlit tropical sea, and she could not have left it behind. She’d brought nothing at all from the flat, which would be cleared out by the landlord—whose protests Nick had silenced with a month’s rent in lieu of notice.
Money really seemed to be the answer to everything, she thought bitterly.
One by one, her tenuous ties to this place had been cut. Now nothing remained b
ut her future with Nick, and that was only temporary.
Her whole life had suddenly become a leap into the dark.
She said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Kit. I hope the whole project goes from strength to strength.’
‘Thank you.’ He did not look at her.
For a moment she wanted to scream at him. Do you know—do you have any idea what I’ve done? The sacrifice I’ve had to make?
But that would imply his attitude was justified, that she owed him some kind of explanation. Whereas she knew she didn’t, and it was best to let the matter drop—walk away. With her husband’s arm holding her like a ring of steel. Staking his claim.
As they reached the main door, she said tautly, ‘Why don’t you just give me a label to wear—“Nick’s Woman”?’
‘I thought I had.’ His tone was clipped. ‘In St John’s church, twelve months ago.’
Cally winced, but could think of nothing to say in reply.
Everyone was waiting outside the Centre to see them leave, and the euphoria was almost tangible.
Tracy came rushing up and enveloped her in a hug. ‘You don’t look as if you slept much last night, you lucky girl,’ she whispered with a giggle. ‘Be happy. And don’t forget us.’
There was a terrible irony in that, thought Cally, forcing a smile and nodding.
‘Come along, darling.’ Nick drew her close to his side again, his fingers laced with hers in a parody of intimacy as they walked to the car. He turned to give a last smile—a wave. Like visiting royalty, she thought, swallowing back the bubble of hysteria that was threatening to overwhelm her.
It was almost a relief to find herself inside the car and driving away from it all.
I should have done that a long time ago, she thought broodingly. Instead of hanging around, waiting tamely to be found. And now it’s all too late…
‘Will you miss Wellingford?’ Nick’s tone was casual.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I never planned to stay. Especially after Mrs Hartley died. She was a terrific lady.’
‘But not particularly blessed in her sons,’ he commented ironically.
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps they take after their father,’ she said, adding pointedly, ‘It can happen.’
And heard him laugh softly.
They were soon on the motorway, the big car comfortably eating up the miles, transporting Cally swiftly and silently to her new life and all that it implied.
Although it seemed she would at least be miserable in luxury, she told herself wryly. The car was air-conditioned, its windows tinted to diffuse the brightness of the sunlight.
And Nick was a good driver, she was forced to admit, stealing a sideways glance at him from beneath her lashes. She’d never before accompanied him on a long journey, and had expected their progress to be aggressively conducted, with him cutting a triumphal swathe through the traffic. But she was wrong. He handled his beautiful vehicle with sure skill, driving fast but safely, with surprising tolerance for the vagaries of his fellow motorists.
He’d discarded his jacket and loosened his tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back to reveal tanned forearms.
He looked totally relaxed—even as if he was enjoying himself, she thought, biting at her lower lip.
He asked if she wanted music and she agreed, simply because it was preferable to conversation—especially if he had questions she’d no wish to answer. But he seemed to prefer to concentrate on the road, rather than be diverted by contentious issues.
She was aware of the music, a smooth blues combo, but she wasn’t listening to it. She couldn’t. Not when every mile was taking her nearer to Wylstone, and the associations of misery and humiliation that haunted it. Memories that she would be forced to endure, along with so much else, she thought, swallowing convulsively.
She’d tried to use the last twelve months to wrench them out of her brain and dismiss them for ever. She’d thought she’d succeeded. That she’d cured herself of the virus that was Nick Tempest. Yet she’d only had to see him again and they were all back, clamouring obscenely for her attention.
Telling her that all she’d really done was use a sticking plaster to cover a mortal wound.
How could this have happened to me? she asked herself numbly. Was there nothing—nothing that I could have done?
But she already knew the answer to that. The path of her life seemed to have led her straight to him.
Even the impulse that had caused her to absent herself to London safely out of Nick’s orbit, had been cancelled out by the breakdown in her grandfather’s health that had summoned her back so arbitrarily.
I was all my grandfather had, she thought wearily. So what choice did I have—then or ever?
And then, with frightening suddenness, her life had begun to fall apart. Inevitably, Nick had been there with his safety net, offering her grandfather and herself a home and a kind of security. It had been the perfect opportunity for him, she thought. Everything had conspired to bring them together, and he had placed her under the kind of obligation that could only have one ending.
She should have realised that one day some kind of recompense would be demanded from her—if not in cash, because there wasn’t any, then certainly in kind. She should have known that Nick had marked her out from the start as his future bride—young, she thought stormily, and biddable. Not a living, feeling girl, but a puppet, easy to manipulate. Or so he’d considered. And she, pitifully, had totally misread his intentions.
Well, at least she’d forced him to think again. To accept that she wasn’t the naïve push-over he’d originally bargained for. Ready to sacrifice her emotions, her self-respect and her trust in exchange for a roof over her head and his money to spend.
Except that it had not been about money at all. And the knowledge of that had provided the basis for the private tragedy that was beginning to unfold.
‘I suppose you know that you’re trespassing?’ Those were the first words Nick had ever said to her, and she would never forget them.
In a way, it had been a covert warning that he was forbidden territory and she encroached there at her peril. And she’d picked up on it, even if it was at some unconscious level. Wasn’t that why she’d taken the job in London—in order to put distance between them and recover from the threat to her untried emotional equilibrium?
But where Nick was concerned her instincts had always been heightened, she recognised. Hence the bad dreams over the past year, signalling to her that his net had been spread again. That the search was on in earnest.
I should have listened, she thought. Found another country to live in, even.
Except, of course, that her passport had been left in her hand luggage back at Wylstone Hall, ready for the honeymoon that never was. Stranding her in Britain, within his reach. A mistake she would not make again once she was finally free.
She became aware that they were pulling off the motorway, traversing a roundabout into a smaller country road.
She sat up. ‘Where are we going?’
‘There’s a good pub not far away,’ he said. ‘And you need food.’ She was aware of his swift, sideways glance. ‘Or are you going to tell me you’re not a lunch person either?’
Actually, she was ravenous, but she wasn’t about to admit it.
She lifted her chin. ‘Just as you wish.’
‘If only it were that simple,’ he murmured with faint amusement.
They drew up a short while afterwards outside an old-fashioned country inn, an ancient timbered building with low ceilings and uneven floors, and, at the rear, well-kept gardens, bright with flowers, and a lawn stretching down to the river, offering tables shaded by parasols.
‘Will this do?’ Nick halted at a table in an arbour, heavy with climbing roses just coming into flower.
‘Fine.’ Cally picked up a menu and hid behind it.
‘They’re famous here for their pies.’ Nick seated himself opposite. ‘I’m ordering steak and kidney. How about you?’
Cally, who had
no wish to enter into the spirit of the occasion, tried to work up an interest in the sandwich list, and failed utterly. ‘Turkey and ham,’ she capitulated, after a brief struggle. ‘And a glass of dry white wine—please.’
She watched him cross the grass to deliver their order, and saw how women’s heads turned as if operated by strings when he passed by. Two pretty girls at an adjoining table were waiting, saucer-eyed, for his return.
And it was worth waiting for. Even she had to acknowledge that. In a crowd of thousands, she would still be able to pick out that long, lithe stride. Feel the pull of that cool, understated masculinity, and the unwelcome stir of her own senses in response.
To her embarrassment, he saw her watching his approach and smiled across at her. She looked away, swiftly and blindly.
As he put down the drinks and resumed his seat Cally said, quietly and urgently, ‘Nick, it’s still not too late. We don’t have to do this.’
His brows lifted. ‘You want to change your order? Or go somewhere else? I thought you’d like it here.’
Her voice shook slightly. ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Well—perhaps,’ he conceded drily. ‘So, what exactly are you saying?’
Cally lifted her chin, ‘That if you announced you were looking for a surrogate mother for your baby the queue would form on the right. Because that’s all you really want—isn’t it? You—you don’t need to involve me.’
‘Oh, yes, I do, darling,’ he said softly. ‘And that’s why I’m not going for surrogacy, or adoption, or even down the IVF route, or any other potential means of escape that fertile brain of yours can summon up.’ His smile was hard—implacable. ‘You married me, Cally, for better or worse. And now, a little belatedly, you’re going to learn to be my wife.’ He added harshly, ‘The number of lessons required will depend entirely on yourself.’
Her breath caught. She said huskily, ‘You—really want your pound of flesh, don’t you?’
The grey eyes narrowed as they studied her, lingering with explicit appreciation on the deep neckline of the yellow dress, the way its fabric clung to her small high breasts.