The Master's Mistress

by Carole Mortimer

  And he still had this afternoon’s funeral to get through yet!

  Rogan came to an abrupt halt at the top of the staircase as he realised that making love with Elizabeth had made the ordeal of his father’s funeral this afternoon fade into insignificance.

  He could still feel the satiny perfection of Elizabeth’s skin against his hands and lips. Still taste her. Still feel how good it had felt to be inside her. Good? It had been fantastic!

  So fantastic that he knew he wanted her again. And again. In fact, he could imagine nothing he would enjoy more than to take Elizabeth to bed for the next day and night, and make love to her in every way he had ever fantasised making love with a woman.

  Rogan, my boy, you are in above your head, he acknowledged with a rueful frown as he forced himself to continue on his way to his father’s bedroom.

  Well above his head. In fact, Rogan knew he was seriously in danger of going under completely and not recovering…!

  Elizabeth stood in front of the damaged glass cabinet, her eyes wide as she stared at the four books placed neatly on the top shelf. The Darwin. The two Dickenses. And the Chaucer.

  Either she had made a mistake, and the books hadn’t been missing in the first place, or the burglar had come back some time in the night and returned the books he had stolen.

  As the latter explanation was highly unlikely, that only left the first one. Also unlikely. Elizabeth didn’t make mistakes where books were concerned.

  Which meant there had to be a third explanation…

  Although for the life of her Elizabeth couldn’t think what that third explanation might be.

  Did Rogan know these books were back in the cabinet?

  Rogan…

  Every time Elizabeth so much as thought of him she went weak at the knees. She couldn’t help remembering their lovemaking—in the kitchen, of all places. She thought of how much she loved him. Of how he was going to leave her once his father’s funeral was over and never come back. Maybe even later today? Oh, God…!

  Rogan had made love to her like a man possessed—or a man bent on possession. And it had been good. So good. Wonderful, in fact. Beyond anything Elizabeth had ever imagined—and much better that any of the eroticism in the sexy vampire novels she liked to read! The reality of lovemaking was so much more amazingly pleasurable than simply reading about it.

  Her breasts still felt full and achy. The nipples sensitive from the ministrations of Rogan’s hands and mouth. As for that soreness between her thighs…

  Rogan had filled her so completely. So pleasurably. So excitingly! Every part of her had been alive and quivering as those waves of pleasure had surged through her.

  Because she was in love with Rogan. Because—?

  Busy. She had to keep herself busy, Elizabeth told herself determinedly. She had to stop even thinking about Rogan, let alone dwelling on how much she loved him.

  Although she had yet to solve the puzzle of the returned books…

  As funerals went, Rogan supposed his father’s had been okay. Surprisingly, the church had been full. Mrs Baines had been there, of course. Along with Desmond Taylor, his father’s lawyer. What had surprised Rogan was that many people who had once worked with and for his father had also taken the trouble to drive from London to attend. As had a considerable amount of the local people.

  All of which had simply added to the ordeal as far as Rogan himself was concerned. To the point when he was now actually starting to feel ill, after almost an hour of accepting the condolences of people who actually had fond memories of his father. And probably wondered why it was that his son remained so stony-faced!

  Mrs Baines, bless her, had risen to the occasion and announced that anyone who wished to come back to the house for tea and sandwiches was welcome to do so. Something that Rogan hadn’t even thought of in his need to just get his father’s funeral over and done with, so that he could leave England altogether and get back to his own life!

  And Elizabeth had been there at his side during the whole ordeal, pale and dignified in a black business suit and white blouse.

  ‘You’re really one hell of a woman, did you know that?’ Rogan murmured huskily on the short drive back to the house for the wake. The two of them sat in the back of the car that had been supplied for the family. ‘You’ve been very supportive today, and I wasn’t exactly pleasant to you earlier this morning,’ he elaborated, as she turned from looking out of the car window to give him a puzzled glance.

  Delicate colour entered the paleness of her cheeks. ‘Any personal differences between us shouldn’t matter at a time like this.’

  Personal differences? Rogan wasn’t sure they had any ‘personal differences’. He still wasn’t sure what was between them!

  He knew he was grateful for Elizabeth’s presence at his side today. Really grateful. In fact, Rogan wasn’t sure he could have got through the whole nightmare of it all if Elizabeth hadn’t warmly filled the awkwardness during the times Rogan simply hadn’t known what to say in answer to some of the kind comments made to him about his father.

  It had come as a total surprise to him how much his father had been involved in the local community in the years since his retirement. How much affection and respect he was still held in by the people he had worked with.

  ‘Nevertheless, I’m grateful.’ Rogan reached out and laced his fingers with Elizabeth’s as her hand rested on her lap. ‘I wasn’t so hot, but both you and Mrs Baines came through for my father today.’

  Elizabeth warned herself not to read anything into Rogan taking hold of her hand in this intimate way. He was just expressing his gratitude for her support today. Which made absolutely no difference to the slight trembling of her fingers at Rogan’s lightest touch, or the tide of physical tension that suddenly flared between them.

  She moistened peach-glossed lips. ‘Rogan, I know it was Mrs Baines who took the books.’

  A shutter came down over the darkness of Rogan eyes, his expression suddenly totally noncommittal. ‘Sorry?’

  Elizabeth gave a rueful smile. ‘Mrs Baines was the one who took the first editions.’

  He released her hand abruptly, his gaze watchful. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m not expecting you to confirm or deny it, Rogan,’ Elizabeth assured him huskily. ‘Mrs Baines came over to the house before lunch, and the two of us talked as we prepared sandwiches for the people coming back this afternoon. She told me—explained why she had done it. That at sixty she didn’t think she would find another housekeeping job. That she was frightened of being poor in her old age, and had imagined she could sell the books. That she had heard the two of us talking about the books, how much they were worth, and had thought the burglaries in the area lately would hide the fact that she had stolen them.’

  Rogan’s expression was grim. ‘As you said, I have no intention of confirming or denying what you’ve just said.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘I—I just wanted you to know that I admire the way you dealt with the situation when she made her confession to you earlier this morning. Mrs Baines is so grateful to you for reassuring her that your father arranged a pension for her in his will.’

  Rogan nodded abruptly. ‘It was the least I could do in the circumstances.’

  Elizabeth smiled, sure that Rogan had been surprised several times today at the warmth and affection in which his father had been held by people. ‘I’m not sure if this is a good time or not, Rogan, but I—I think I should tell you that I have decided to leave Sullivan House later this evening.’

  ‘What?’ Rogan exclaimed as he turned sharply in his seat to look at her. ‘Because of what happened this morning?’ he bit out grimly.

  ‘No, not because of that,’ she denied ruefully, the warm colour back in her cheeks. ‘Rogan, whatever differences there were between your mother and father—and those differences were surely personal to them—it’s been made obvious to me today, and to you too, I believe, that other people didn’t see your fath
er the way you did, that they held him in great esteem—’

  ‘Never heard the saying “street angel, fireside devil”?’ he snapped, stung by the criticism he sensed behind her comment.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard it,’ Elizabeth confirmed softly. ‘And that may or may not be true of both your own father and mine. But I can’t forget what you said to me yesterday about dealing with the unresolved issues between my father and myself before it’s too late. The funeral today, with all those people who have fond memories of your father, has shown me that I need to know, to find out for myself what sort of man my father really is. Before it’s too late,’ she reminded him gently.

  Rogan’s mouth compressed. ‘The implication being, I suppose, that I left it too late to find out what sort of man my own father was?’

  Elizabeth gave him a sympathetic look as she shook her head. ‘Not everything is about you, Rogan.’

  He scowled fiercely. ‘I know that, damn it.’

  ‘Then please try to understand that I have to do this—for my own peace of mind, if nothing else.’

  Rogan did understand. He even admired what Elizabeth was proposing to do. He had just been totally thrown by her announcement that she intended leaving Sullivan house later today…

  Which was pretty stupid when Rogan already knew he had no intention of staying on there any longer than he absolutely had to. That he would be leaving there himself tomorrow. Or at the very latest the day after that.

  But the thought of Elizabeth leaving, of never seeing her again, disturbed him more than he could ever have imagined…

  ‘Fine,’ he accepted offhandedly. ‘Go. But I hope you’re prepared to accept that your father just may be every bad thing you ever thought he was!’

  ‘Believe me, I do accept that, Rogan.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘Obviously my mother and father weren’t good for each other. But, as I told you before, I didn’t know until I was old enough to realise that. I remember my father as being full of fun, always laughing, and very loving towards me when he was at home. Possibly because of the lack of love in his relationship with my mother—I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘But which came first, I wonder? My mother’s drinking? Or my father’s affairs? I was a child, so how could I possibly know or be in a position to act as his judge and jury?’

  Had Rogan acted as judge and jury to his own father…? Hell, yes. After his mother had taken her own life, he had most definitely judged his father! But he was an adult now, and not the emotional teenager he had been when he’d left Sullivan House all those years ago. Was his judgement still the right one? Or had it been as flawed as Elizabeth now felt perhaps her own had been of her own father?

  Whatever the answer to that question was, Rogan certainly didn’t feel like thanking Elizabeth for putting these doubts in his own mind!

  ‘Maybe I’ll see my father again and still be filled with the same anger I‘ve felt towards him for so many years,’ Elizabeth continued ruefully. ‘And maybe I won’t…’ Her expression was wistful.

  Rogan looked at her thoughtfully. ‘That’s a pretty gutsy outlook.’

  ‘It may prove to be a very stupid one.’ She laughed softly. ‘But I have to at least try.’

  Rogan had to admire her courage.

  At least he would have admired Elizabeth’s courage if he didn’t still feel so confused by his own anger at the thought of her leaving here later today.

  Leaving him!

  The car finally pulled up to the house, and other cars with guests who had taken Mrs Baines up on her offer of tea and sandwiches after the funeral were already starting to pull in behind.

  Elizabeth looked at him sympathetically. ‘Are you ready to face them again?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really, but I suppose I’ll have to,’ he replied. ‘Hopefully it won’t go on too long.’ And, with that, he took a deep breath and opened the car door.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘ROGAN?’ Elizabeth said softly.

  He made no move to acknowledge her presence as she stood hesitantly in the bedroom doorway. He simply stood as still as a statue in the middle of the room where she had finally found him. He had disappeared straight after talking with his father’s lawyer, once the other funeral guests had left.

  ‘Rogan, what’s wrong?’ Elizabeth pressed.

  His expression was grim, and there was a slight pallor to his tightly etched features. His eyes were so dark and unfathomable that Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel concerned about him.

  ‘The louse!’ Rogan finally grated harshly, his fingers crushing the letter he held in his hand.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘You were right and I was wrong, okay?’ He turned on her fiercely, dark eyes blazing.

  She looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Take a look around you, Elizabeth,’ Rogan said. ‘What do you see?’ he prompted angrily, already knowing exactly what she would see. What she couldn’t fail to see!

  Photographs. Dozens—no, hundreds of them, on every conceivable surface in what had once been his mother’s bedroom. Several of them featured Rogan himself, from babyhood to a young man. But most of them were of Rogan’s mother, Maggie. A dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty who smiled so innocently into the camera.

  Every family photograph that had ever once adorned the rest of the house and many more that hadn’t were all meticulously framed and arranged. On the dressing-table. The bedside tables. Even the walls! Everywhere he looked, Rogan was presented with likenesses of his happily smiling mother.

  The place was like a shrine!

  There were even fresh flowers in a vase on the dressing table. Yellow roses. His mother’s favourite blooms. Looking less than their best now. Which wasn’t surprising, considering that the person who had tended them had been dead for over a week now.

  Bradford Lucas Sullivan.

  Rogan’s father.

  Maggie’s husband.

  ‘How could he?’ Rogan ground out fiercely. ‘All this time I blamed him. Thought—Believed—Hell!’ His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached.

  Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. Or if she should say anything at all.

  The bedroom was so feminine, with its lace drapes about the four-poster bed, the floral wallpaper and cream and gold décor, that it had to have been Rogan’s mother’s. Was still Rogan’s mother’s, in fact. Every surface was free of dust, and there was a deep blue gown draped across the bedroom chair, as if ready for its owner to slip into. Perfume and make-up bottles stood on the dressing table. Even the hairbrush had several strands of long dark hair still entangled in its bristles.

  This room, the roses, all those framed photographs, were a monument to someone who had been deeply loved.

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I don’t understand,’ she repeated huskily.

  Rogan’s mouth twisted grimly. ‘Neither did I. Not until I read this.’ He held up the letter he had seconds ago crushed in his hand. ‘I told you my father knew exactly how ill he was, and he—he left this letter with his lawyer, for me to read. After his funeral, if I’d bothered coming back for it. Or to be forwarded on to me if I didn’t,’ he added bleakly. ‘Read it if you want.’ He threw the letter down on the bed before striding across the room to stand in front of the window, the rigidity of his back turned towards her.

  Elizabeth wasn’t sure that she did want to read the letter that Brad Sullivan had left for his son to read after his death, feeling as if she would be intruding on something very personal between father and son. Too personal, surely, for a third party to become involved in?

  Even a third party who had made love with Rogan that morning…!

  She grimaced uncomfortably. ‘I’m not sure that I should, Rogan…’

  ‘Why not?’ He turned and faced her. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know how wrong I’ve been all these years? About everything, it seems.’

  He had been wrong about his father. About his mother. Just wrong, wrong, wrong!

  He strod
e back to snatch up the letter, smoothing out the creases before beginning to read out loud. ‘“My dear Rogan…My deepest regret is that you and I have been estranged all these years—”’

  ‘Rogan, I really don’t think—’

  ‘“But it couldn’t be any other way,”’ Rogan continued relentlessly. ‘“Not without tarnishing memories of someone we both loved so dearly. Better by far, I decided long ago, that you think badly of me than of her. Your mother was, and always will be, the dearest love of my life. I fell in love with her the day I met her, and be assured I remained in love with her until the day I died. Hopefully the two of us are together again now. I sincerely hope so. These years without her have been harder to bear than you could ever imagine. Harder even than my estrangement from you, Rogan. Perhaps now you’re older you might understand why it had to be this way? I sincerely hope so. For my part, I must take equal responsibility for any difficulties that your mother and I encountered during those years after we relocated in England. I was always so busy working, often not even managing to return to Cornwall for the weekends, and as such left Maggie alone and lonely far too much. In such circumstances, mistakes happen. Faced with the truth of those mistakes, we have the choice of beginning again, of forgiving and forgetting, or relinquishing the one we love most in the world. I chose to forgive and forget.”’

  Rogan looked up at Elizabeth. ‘Don’t you see? He was the one who chose to forgive and forget what she did, not the other way around.’

  Yes, Elizabeth did see. Only too well. And her heart ached for all three of them. Maggie as well Rogan and Brad.

  Because, whether he had intended it or not, Brad’s letter revealed that he wasn’t the one who had had an affair during his marriage. That, although Brad had forgiven and forgotten, it had been Maggie who was unable to live with her own guilt…

  The next paragraph of the letter clearly showed that Brad hadn’t intended his son to know that. ‘“But perhaps I have said too much,”’ Rogan continued reading flatly. ‘“My only wish in writing you this letter, Rogan, is to let you know how very much your mother and I have loved you, will always love you, and how proud we are to call you our son. Always, your loving father.”’ Rogan’s voice broke emotionally as he came to the end of the letter. ‘Damn him. Damn, damn, damn! Why couldn’t he have told me all this before he died and given me a chance to reconcile with him?’