by Penny Jordan
They deserved one another, she told herself crossly, and she wished them joy of their lunch. She only wished it was dinner they were having together and then she would not be forced to endure Slade’s silent scrutiny at the dinner table herself. Her stomach lurched suddenly as she thought of Slade and Fiona dining together; leaving together perhaps to return to the seclusion of Fiona’s room.
‘You obviously enjoy your work.’ The quiet comment cut across her thoughts, jerking her into awareness that the gently smiling man at her side had been observing the way she was watching Slade and Fiona.
‘I do,’ she told him honestly. ‘Very much.’
‘You certainly know a good deal about your own family history,’ she heard Fiona saying admiringly to Slade. ‘Who is this?’ she asked, pointing to the golden-haired figure Chelsea had been working on when they interrupted her.
For some reason Chelsea found herself holding her breath, unwilling to have the fairy tale she had spun around the fair-haired girl broken by the cold hard facts of truth, and yet experiencing an unwilling interest to know who she had been.
‘That,’ Slade told them, ‘is the woman one of my ancestors brought back with him from the Crusades. The story goes that at the time he was betrothed to the Lady Alys Percy but that he fell hopelessly in love with Damask in the Holy Land and brought her back with him intending to marry her.
‘She had told him that her parents had been killed by the infidels, and that she had been struggling to care for her infant brother and sister on her own. Out of love for her Roland swore a vow of chastity towards her until he could make her his wife.
‘When he told his elder brother that he wanted to marry her, he laughed in his face. Damask was a whore, he told him, and her supposed “brother and sister” in reality her own bastards. He himself had first-hand knowledge that she was nothing more than a common harlot, he told Roland.’
‘What happened to her?’ Chelsea demanded huskily. It seemed to her that the girl’s blue eyes reproached them from the canvas, and there was an aching pain in the region of her own heart.
‘She threw herself from the battlements of the castle when Roland faced her with the truth,’ Slade told her unemotionally. ‘As a penance for his sins Roland raised her bastards along with his own children, although they always maintained that she was their sister and not their mother. She’d trained them from babyhood to lie, I suppose.’
‘Why?’ Chelsea heard herself saying fiercely. ‘Why couldn’t she have been telling the truth?’
‘Because Roland’s brother had indisputable proof that she wasn’t,’ Slade told her, watching her with narrowed eyes which seemed to ask why she should be taking such an interest in a girl who had lived and died over eight hundred years before.
‘He might have been lying,’ Chelsea retorted stubbornly. ‘It was only his word against hers.’
‘Possible, but hardly likely,’ Slade argued smoothly. ‘What would he have to gain?’
‘Perhaps Miss Evans is trying to suggest that he wanted the girl for himself,’ Fiona interrupted, giving Chelsea an acid little smile, plainly annoyed that Slade’s attention had been diverted away from herself, her expression saying that she had grown bored with the subject of the girl. ‘I want to see the rest of the house,’ she commanded, drawing her arm through Slade’s and turning her back on Chelsea.
Geoff went with them, and Chelsea told herself she was glad to be alone.
I believe you, she found herself wanting to comfort the girl of her imagination, but instead she forced herself to concentrate on her work, instead of daydreaming about events so deeply buried in the past that they would never know the truth.
Of the trio only Geoff returned to say goodbye to her. He was smiling when he told her that he had to return to York instead of joining the others for lunch. ‘I’m sure Fiona won’t miss my company,’ he told Chelsea, ‘although I might have been tempted to stay if you were joining us.’
Slade appeared just as Geoff was leaving, his expression sardonic as he bent his head to mutter so that only she could hear, ‘You just can’t resist trying, can you? First me, then Tom, and now Geoff.’
‘My mother always told me there was safety in numbers,’ Chelsea riposted sweetly, adding for good measure, with a limpid smile, ‘I do hope you enjoy your lunch.’
His drawled, ‘I’m sure I shall,’ made her stab the point of her needle clumsily into her finger, drawing a tiny dot of blood. When they had gone she felt strangely restless, unable to blot from her mind the memory of the possessive way Fiona had clung to Slade’s arm. What was the matter with her? she asked herself crossly. Surely she wasn’t jealous? She stopped as though she had been turned to stone, shivering with realisation of the truth. She was jealous—bitterly and helplessly so. And why? Because she couldn’t bear to see Slade touch or hold anyone but herself. The enormity of the truth was a death blow to her pride. She had fallen in love with Slade Ashford.
She tried to tell herself that it simply wasn’t true, but once admitted the truth could not be banished. Right from the start it had been there, she knew now, although she had cloaked her feelings in anger and indignation, forcing herself to feel contempt and trying to convince herself that her love was merely sexual attraction, while all the time her feelings had grown stronger and stronger. If she didn’t love him she would never have reacted in his arms the way she had done. Not even Darren had made her feel like that. She bit hard on her bottom lip. Now more than ever it was imperative that she finish her work and leave as quickly as she could. Thank God Slade was leaving before Christmas for New York. Chelsea trembled convulsively, suddenly aware of how desperately important it was that she should prevent him from carrying out his threats against her.
She had already sensed that he was playing a waiting game with her. She had already hopelessly betrayed the fact that she wasn’t indifferent to him, and he, thinking her as sexually experienced as he was himself, was no doubt waiting until her desire became too much for her and she abandoned herself completely to him He wasn’t going to be satisfied with simply possessing her body, but even if he had been she knew she could not afford to let that happen.
Slade was no fool. Once he discovered that before him there had been no other men he was bound to put two and two together She could explain away her initial behaviour with the truth if she had to, but how was she to explain why after years of not responding to sexual overtures she should suddenly succumb to his? She suspected it would be impossible to convince him that it was merely desire; her responses to him were too betraying. He was a man used to coaxing foolish girls into believing they were in love with him, he would have no difficulty in guessing what had happened to her, and she simply could not bear that, she decided grimly, remembering the torture of the humiliation she had endured over Darren. There was no way she was going to go through all that again, and with Darren it had simply been infatuation. With Slade it went far deeper, and she was forced to acknowledge that even though her mind told her that she ought to feel nothing but contempt for him, her heart refused to listen.
* * *
It brought Chelsea no pleasure to eat alone at the Dower House, suspecting as she did that Slade was still with Fiona.
She tried to settle down after her meal to watch television, but found it almost impossible to concentrate on the small screen. Mrs Rudge always returned to her own rooms in the evening, and knowing that her company would not be welcome Chelsea wandered into the library thinking that a book might help to keep her mind off her problems.
A history of the Borders caught her eye and she picked it up. Rather than be discovered by Slade when he returned, waiting up for his return and giving him the satisfaction of seeing just how much his absence had affected her, Chelsea took the book up to bed with her.
A warm bath helped to relax her over-strained nerves, and acting on impulse she pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs to the study to telephone Ann.
The very sound of her sister’s vo
ice had a soothing effect upon her. No, Kirsty was showing no ill effects from their interference over Slade Ashford, Ann assured her. In fact she seemed happier than she had been for a long time. ‘Possibly because we’re beginning to give in over this drama school business. She’s nowhere near as sensitive or vulnerable as you, Chelsea,’ Ann admitted. ‘We saw her in the school play last week, and I have to admit she was absolutely marvellous. Her English teacher had a word with us, and apparently he thinks she has real talent. Ralph says we owe it to her to give her a chance, but we’re both adamant that she has to take a secretarial course first just so that she has something to fall back on.’
Although she was relieved to discover that Kirsty seemed to be getting over her infatuation for Slade, Chelsea acknowledged as she returned to her bedroom that it altered nothing as far as she was concerned. Even if he had not been the sort of man she despised, what hope did she have that he could possibly love her? None at all, she admitted wryly, climbing into bed and picking up her book, and if she had any common sense she would put him right out of her mind. But when had common sense ever had anything to do with love?
It was the low purr of the Ferrari engine that woke her, her senses instantly alert as she stared through the darkness to the luminous dial of her alarm clock. Two in the morning. Pain knifed through her. It didn’t take much imagination to guess how Slade had spent his evening. Perhaps he would now ignore her. It would be better if he did, she acknowledged, because if he continued his relentless assault on her defences she could place no dependence on resisting him. She shuddered, contemplating his sardonic mockery if he ever discovered the truth, praying that he never would. How he would laugh when he discovered her vulnerability! She heard him coming upstairs and froze as for a second he seemed to pause outside her door. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs as she held her breath, but then the footsteps moved on, and she told herself that she must have imagined that faint hesitation outside her room.
There was no sign of Slade at breakfast, and Mrs Rudge offered no explanation for his absence.
Chelsea decided to drive down to the village to replenish her diminishing stocks of shampoo and soap. As she parked the car and climbed out she saw Sandy coming out of the chemists and hailed the other girl cheerfully. Sandy flushed, and Chelsea gained the impression that she was none too pleased to see her.
When Sandy asked curtly, ‘Isn’t Tom with you?’ Chelsea was puzzled.
‘No,’ she told her. ‘Why should he be?’
Sandy shrugged and looked away. ‘Well, you two are something of an item round here. It’s no great secret either that Mrs Little has been wanting Tom to get married for ages. She’s longing for grandchildren and a domesticated daughter-in-law.’
‘I think you’re rather jumping to conclusions,’ Chelsea told her mildly. ‘Tom and I are friends…’
‘You mean you’re not interested in him now you’ve got bigger fish to fry in the shape of Slade Ashford,’ Sandy burst out bitterly, pushing past her and hurrying down the street, leaving Chelsea to stare unhappily after her.
Sandy’s reference to Slade had given the truth away. The poor girl was jealous, and if she did but know it, with scant cause. Poor Sandy, Chelsea reflected as she made her purchases. She had liked her and had hoped they could have become friends. She sometimes felt lonely at Darkwater and would have welcomed the company of another girl. She missed her chats with Ann and the cheerful company of Kirsty. She was tempted to hurry after Sandy and tell her the truth, but she doubted that the younger girl would have believed her. She hero-worshipped Slade and would undoubtedly believe that Chelsea was simply trying to discredit him.
The sight of Tom’s Range Rover outside the house as she drove towards it helped to lift Chelsea’s spirits considerably.
Mrs Rudge smiled grimly when she opened the door and imparted the information that Tom was waiting for her in the study.
He grinned when he saw her, and sensing that he was going to kiss her, Chelsea moved away, wondering how on earth she could explain to him that all they could be was friends, without betraying her own love for Slade.
‘You’re a welcome sight for a poor farmer,’ he teased, studying her slim form in cord jeans in a rich dark blue toned with a blue and rust checked Vyella blouse and a blouson cord jacket which matched her jeans.
The wind had whipped her hair into soft tendrils round her face and the pure Border air had brought new colour to her cheeks. Blusher was something she had quickly discovered she didn’t need up here. Although she was unaware of it the rich blue of her cords and jacket emphasised the colour of her eyes, and Tom observed her with male appreciation as she waited for him to speak.
‘I know you claim you can’t leave your work long enough to spend Christmas Day with us,’ he began, ‘but this time I won’t take no for an answer. I’ve got tickets for the Young Farmers’ Ball—quite a social highlight in these parts. It’s held on Boxing Day night. Formal gear’s the order of the day, and it’s normally very good…’
Chelsea frowned. ‘Oh Tom, I can’t,’ she apologised. ‘I haven’t got anything formal to wear with me.’
Neither of them had been aware of the front door opening and closing as they spoke, nor of the grim expression in Slade Ashford’s eyes as he overheard their conversation.
Tom was still struggling for the right words to overcome Chelsea’s objections, mentally cursing himself for ever mentioning formal evening attire, when Slade walked slowly into the room.
‘Nothing to wear?’ he mocked, making it plain that he had overheard. ‘Surely that can’t be true? Or had you forgotten this?’ he added cruelly. ‘You left it in my room.’
Chelsea’s expression betrayed her immediately she saw the crumpled blue silk dress he was holding in his hands, and too late she saw the bitterness in Tom’s eyes, and knew that he had seen the instant recognition in hers.
‘Tom…’ she started to protest as he turned away, ‘I can explain.’
‘Go ahead,’ Slade told her savagely, ‘tell him exactly how this came to be in my possession. Or have you forgotten? In that case let me refresh your memory a little.’
‘Is it yours?’ Tom asked dully, and even though she longed to plead with him to listen to her, Chelsea could only nod her head, knowing the conclusions he must be drawing from her admission and hating Slade for subjecting her to such humiliation.
‘I see.’ The two words fell between them like flat hard pebbles. ‘I have been a fool, haven’t I?’ Tom said bitterly. ‘And I thought you were different—innocent and untouched.’ He laughed harshly, ‘My God, I couldn’t have been more wrong! It won’t last, you know,’ he told Chelsea. ‘Ask Mrs Rudge—she knows all about Percy men. Thirty years she worked for Matt Percy, every one of them hoping he’d marry her, but he never did. She was good enough for him to take to his bed before she married Bert Rudge, but marriage—no way!’
Chelsea couldn’t bring herself to look at Slade. Tom’s allegations were too convincing to be denied as mere gossip, and Chelsea suspected that Slade must have known the situation and why Mrs Rudge was so bitterly opposed to him. No doubt all those years she had been thinking not simply that Matt Percy’s own son ought to succeed him but that that child could have been hers.
‘You don’t have to make any excuses any more,’ Tom said quietly as he walked towards the door. ‘I quite understand the position.’
Chelsea said nothing until she heard the Range Rover engine fire. All the colour had left her face, and her fingernails bit into her palms as she fought for self-control.
She felt Slade move behind her and out of the corner of her eye saw him pick up her dress.
‘God, I hope you’re satisfied!’ she managed finally in a thick choked voice. ‘How could you do that?’
‘Quite easily,’ came the urbane response, ‘but I’m not satisfied, as you put it, Chelsea, and I won’t be until I have you in my bed, responding to me without a thought in your greedy little head apart from how much yo
u want my hands on your body.’
‘I’ll never want you like that,’ Chelsea told him half hysterically, ‘Do you hear me? Never!’
She turned towards the door, hating him as she had never hated anyone in her whole life—not even Darren—unable to forget the look in Tom’s eyes. She had thought Tom was his friend, and yet he had destroyed his pride as callously as he might crush an insect underfoot.
‘How could you do that to Tom?’ she demanded from the door, her eyes blazingly blue in her pale face. In her book only one emotion could justify such a vindictive action, and that was the same searingly painful jealousy she experienced whenever she thought of him with another woman. She was appalled to discover that he could so easily destroy another human being, totally without compunction, merely as a means of inflicting pain on her, and for what? Simply so that he could reinforce his threats and save the tiny bruise she had inflicted on his ego.
‘You’re despicable!’ she told him bitterly. ‘To have hurt Tom like that. In a wildly jealous lover your behaviour might have been excusable, but…’
There was an odd expression in his eyes, a tenseness about his jaw that warned Chelsea she was treading on dangerous ground.
‘But what?’ he prompted softly, watching her.
‘But you have no excuse,’ Chelsea told him tiredly, the adrenalin anger and fear had released into her blood suddenly ceasing, leaving her feeling drained and exhausted. ‘And Tom…’
‘Forget Tom,’ he told her brutally. ‘He’ll find solace soon enough, and with someone far better equipped to make him happy than you.’
‘Who?’ Chelsea demanded, too stunned by his comment to stop the word from forming.
‘Sandy,’ Slade told her unequivocally.