'But I've got to admit I did believe them—to begin with, that is,' she tried again. 'Then, when I got to know you better, and 1...' She couldn't possibly confess her true feelings for him; she wasn't that courageous. 'And like you, I really doubted you could have done what she'd accused you of.'
'Seduced a child. What was she at the time? Seventeen? With a mental and emotional capacity of a ten-year-old,' he said flatly. 'You shared mine and Sophie's lives, believing I was that type of bastard.' That hurt.
'Not for long.' Her voice shook. 'I believed it before I met you because Katie had told me it was so. Though, to be absolutely fair, she never once said that you took her to bed, or that she attempted to drown herself after she learned you'd married Fleur Ferrand who was then carrying your child: Sophie.
'She didn't exactly say those things, not in so many words, but they were implied and for some reason best known to herself—maybe because it made her feel she was the centre of attention—she allowed me to go on believing the lies.'
He turned, his eyes bleak, and she said thinly, 'That makes Katie sound dreadful. And it's not as simple as that. Very few things in life are really simple—you don't need me to tell you that. But I do know that Katie truly did believe she was in love with you, and because you had shown an interest in her, made time for her, taken her to lunch—certainly at that time the only man who ever had—she talked herself into believing her own fantasies.
'And I've always looked after her, stuck up for her against Gran—who can be terrifying—because she's never been able to stick up for herself; she's too timid. She's always been lonely, too shy to make friends. So I've always protected her because there was no one else to do it. Mum's too fond of a quiet life to want to make waves. And by taking the job of Sophie's nanny I thought I would have the time to find a way to pay you back. For that I am truly, deeply sorry.'
He looked at her with desolate eyes. He walked back into the body of the room, putting distance between them. She sounded sincere but how could he trust her? Why should he even want to? And she was shivering. From being chilled, or from nervous tension? Did he even care?
Schooling all expression from his features, all emotion from his voice, he said, 'Apology noted and accepted. Now may we forget it? The subject's distasteful. I take it there's food in that hamper? Could you investigate while I look for something to burn in the hearth to help us get dry?'
Thunder cracked, closer now, and the rain poured relentlessly down the window-panes. They could be sheltering here for quite some time, he thought grimly, and strode out of the room, going in search of the dusty-looking matchbox that he vaguely remembered seeing lying on the floor of one of the box rooms when they'd viewed the property for the first time.
He would never forget that day. Something warm and sweet had tugged at his heart, something that had said they were a family. It had certainly felt that way, as if they belonged together.
It had been a day of bitter disillusionment, too. He would never forget that, either.
The matchbox was probably empty, just another piece of debris the house-clearance people had neglected to remove, but it gave him the excuse to get out of that room, away from her, away from the stupid, self-destructive yearning to take her in his arms and make love to her until they were both too exhausted to move, let alone think.
He took the stairs two at a time, the release of energy not doing as much as it should to restore his mind to a more peaceful state. For the first time ever he could well imagine what it would feel like to have an addictive personality, to crave something you knew darn well was bad for you!
The box held two matches, one spent, the other live. Finn almost felt like smiling. Trying to make a fire would give him something to do. It could be as much as an hour before Sophie woke and helped to defuse the tension just by being her cute and demanding small self.
He collected the ramshackle bookcases and carried them through to the back where the noise of their breaking wouldn't disturb Sophie. They broke into pieces like the painted orange boxes they had obviously been made from and with the help of some rumpled sheets of newspaper, taken from the packing cases, and the single match, he was able to sit back on his heels and spend a satisfying few moments watching the flames leap up his own chimney.
'Couldn't you get clapped in irons for burning someone else's property?'
'They can always try suing!' He had heard the note of humour in her voice—albeit a slightly wistful one—and responded in kind. 'Though I guess the burning of antique orange boxes, covered in old brown paint, could be headline material. Come closer.' He stood up, moving so that the warmth from the flames could reach her. But she just stood where she was, her face a pale blur in the dim, rainy light. She was still shivering.
Half impatiently, he reached out and circled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger. 'Come. Closer to the fire.' Her skin was so cool, her bones so fragile. The combination made his heart lurch with unexpected tenderness. Women were popularly supposed to be the nurturing sex but right now all he wanted to do was keep her safe and warm, provide comfort and ease.
He tugged her into the circle of the firelight, an exploratory hand sliding over her back. As he had thought, the sleeveless cotton top was still soaking wet; he had seen the way she'd curved her body protectively around Sophie as she'd run through the downpour.
Huge golden eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his face as he touched her and she was still shaking, inner tension intensifying the tremors, affecting him too, making his fingers shake as he slowly began to undo the row of tiny fabric-covered buttons that marched down the front of her top.
Affected his voice, too, making it emerge thickly, as if he hadn't used it in a long, long while, when he explained, 'You'll catch a chill if you stay in these wet things any longer.'
The back of his hand brushed the taut swell of one breast, daintily covered—or nearly so—in the finest of laces and silks. He heard the inward tug of her breath, felt the smooth heat of her skin and felt his legs go weak, his stomach muscles clench with a fire that spread in a wild explosion of need, engulfing his loins, every last part of his body.
Now all he wanted to do was stroke her, pleasure her, possess her.
And she, the witch, knew that, and began to draw on the magic she possessed to make it so, soft dark lashes fluttering against her ivory cheeks as she bent her head to watch her fingers tug his shirt from the waistband of his trousers then move to the buttons, her breath coming in quick, shallow beats, her breasts taut, swollen, rosy in the fireglow.
His hands moved to her shoulders, whether to hold her away or to keep her close he couldn't be sure. His head was reeling, his mind a blank. He wasn't sure of anything until her small hands parted the sodden fabric of his shirt and her soft palms rested against his ribs. And then there was no doubt. None at all.
He needed this woman with an intensity that overwhelmed him, with a hedonistic abandonment that testified to the power of her sorcery, and the blood roared through his veins, the drum-beat deafening him as her hands slid smoothly up to his shoulders, easing the wet fabric away from his body.
Caro drew in a jagged breath, holding it, hardly daring to exhale as tiny tremors of exquisite sensation trickled through her when her fingers stroked the warm, oiled satin of his skin.
His acceptance of her apology had been curt and cold to the point of total indifference, and he'd left the room as if he couldn't bear to be anywhere near her.
But now—now that he'd touched her, looked at her with naked desire in those sexy silver eyes—now maybe everything would be all right. She moved closer, sliding her body against his, wound her slender arms around his neck and lifted her face to his.
His warm lips lightly covered hers, tasting her, the tip of his tongue outlining the shape of her mouth, dipping inside until she opened to him, moaning her need to accept him utterly.
And when the kiss deepened to a passionate intensity that left her reeling,
clinging to him, she responded with a hunger that matched his own. She loved him, was in love with him, and even if things didn't work out she would have this.
This... and more... Sensations bombarded her, leaving her weak and giddy, breathless and clinging as his hands fastened on her hips, pulling her against his body, leaving her in no doubt at all about the extent of his arousal, one of his thighs nudging hers apart, making her shock all the greater when he suddenly stepped back, his chest heaving as if each breath was torture.
'God help me—but you send me insane!'
'Finn!' Caro gasped his name. She felt as if she'd been pushed out in the cold, away from light and love and hope, the fallen angel banished from heaven. Her breath bunched in her lungs, hurting, her eyes filled with tears, stinging.
His voice was low, raw. 'Sophie could wake at any moment. I should congratulate you. No other woman has ever come near making me forget my child!'
He turned abruptly, dragging the old sofa closer to the fire, draping her top and his shirt over the end to dry.
Caro put her hands up to her burning cheeks. Sophie. Of course. The tiny girl napped for an hour every afternoon. Rarely any longer than that. Which meant she'd soon be waking, needing her nappy changing, wanting a drink and maybe one of the sandwiches.
That both she and Finn had overlooked the possibility of her waking at any moment just went to show how far they'd been carried away, absorbed in each other. She took her top and held it closer to the leaping flames, watching the steam rise gently from her skirt. She felt absurdly shy, although her bra was perfectly respectable. It was because there was still an edginess between them.
'Finn?'
He had gone to stand at the windows, watching the weather. The storm was passing, the sky lighter, the rain less heavy.
'Well?'
The touch of impatience in his voice made her suck her lower lip between her teeth. Somehow they had to get things straightened out. She had to know if there was any chance at all of things working out between them. She wouldn't weep and wail if he told her there wasn't. She would accept it, with dignity, and cut her losses. Or try to.
She cleared her throat. 'When we were here before...' They had become absorbed in each other that time, too. Lost to everything but the way they could make each other feel. 'You said...' God, but this was difficult. And he wasn't making it easier, the rigid line of his back, the way it was turned on her hurtfully dismissive. 'You said you thought you were falling in love with me,' she pushed out bravely. 'Did you mean it? It wasn't just a line you use to get a woman into your bed?'
Sweat broke out on her short upper lip at his dry riposte. 'I don't normally have to go quite that far.'
'I can believe it.' Was that her voice, so thick and heavy? She wished he would turn and look at her when he spoke; she wished he'd smile, reassure her, let her feel she wasn't about to make a monumental fool of herself.
'I want you to have meant it...I... You see, I was falling in love with you, too.' She held her breath, hardly daring to breathe or to hope, and he did turn then, but slowly, swinging round on the balls of his feet, his austere features unreadable.
'Oh, yes? Make a habit of it, do you? Falling in love with married men—making love with married men?'
His scorn flayed her. She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and held her crumpled cotton top in front of her. 'You're not a married man,' she croaked miserably.
'You thought I was. At the time. Which comes to the same thing, at least from the point of view of where you stood a couple of weeks ago.'
'I wouldn't have let things go any further.' Caro pulled on the nearly dry cotton top, fastening the buttons with fingers that felt like a row of swollen thumbs. Whatever she said she was digging a pit to bury herself in. 'It had been my idea of a fitting revenge but—'
'Cruel as well as devious!' he taunted, then snagged his hand through his rapidly drying hair, making it stick up in endearing tufts. He walked across the room to check on Sophie. The baby was beginning to stir, kicking her legs under the blanket. 'I think you should go,' Finn said. 'The storm's passed over; it's barely raining at all. I was told you'd borrowed a baby seat from the hotel. I'll make sure it's returned—put it in the Range Rover, would you? It is unlocked.'
He bent and plucked his now gurgling baby daughter out of her makeshift cot and held her against his broad, naked chest.
And Caroline Fair walked out into the soft summer rain and let the tears she'd vowed she wouldn't shed pour down her face.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Caro checked the dashboard clock again. She was going to be late.
A family dinner at eight at the big house, during which, apparently, Gran would break some important news, followed by a sedate drinks and nibbles party for family and friends to celebrate Katie and David's engagement.
Caro didn't really want to be in on either event. It was three weeks since Finn had pushed her out of his life and she was still feeling wounded and raw, in no mood for parties or one of Gran's interminable dinners. But she hadn't been able to make up an excuse when her mum had phoned the invitation through.
'They delayed the engagement party until I was back on my feet again—wasn't that sweet of them? And Gran's surprise is a biggy, I can promise you that. But my lips are sealed. I promised. But you know, she's changed. She's much softer lately. I never thought I'd see the day when I forgot to be frightened of my mother-in-law!'
At least that was something positive, Caro thought as she drove past the lodge on the way up to the big house. And there it was, a huge Gothic pile drowsing in the early evening sun.
She left her car alongside David's and sent up a brief prayer of thankfulness because her sister had found someone who would keep her feet firmly on the ground and her head out of the clouds.
The main door at the head of the wide flight of stone steps was open, the vast hall empty, dim and echoing. She heaved a sigh. Dinner at eight. It was already twenty past. Time and Gran waited for no one, she misquoted in her head, and went through to the great polish-smelling, mahogany-dark dining room.
Her grandmother said, 'You are exactly twenty minutes and thirty seconds late. What kept you?'
'The traffic, Gran.' And the manifestly dreary inability to rouse herself to do anything more than plod through each interminable day and endless night. 'Sorry, everyone.'
Her mother and Katie were looking party-pretty and Gran, as usual, dominated the gathering both with the strength of her personality and her patrician looks. Yet David, spruced up, his hair neat, his wide shoulders covered by a commendably fine lightweight jacket, looked as if he could hold his own with the old lady, no trouble at all.
'We forgive you,' the matriarch granted before ruining the gracious tone entirely. 'Everything's cold. So help yourself from the sideboard and make sure you have enough. You've lost weight and look dreadful. Your clothes are hanging off you. Most unbecoming. Are you ill? Or is the baggy look the latest fashion?'
Caro shrugged. OK, so she had got to be a bag of bones in hardly any time at all and nothing fitted, least of all the ivory silk shirtwaister she'd uninterestedly buttoned herself into this evening. And she knew Gran used rudeness to mask the way she cared but no way was she about to break down in tears and confess that she was pining away for the only man in the world she could ever love.
'I don't think so. But I knew Mum and Katie would be looking like princesses and I didn't want to outshine you as well!' She grinned at her grandmother and saw her eyes twinkle in response.
'Touche, young lady! Now, fill your plate. The sooner we've all finished eating, the sooner you will hear my news. And you are all going to like what you hear. Isn't that so, Emma?'
As Caro helped herself sparingly from the selection of cold meats and salads she marvelled at how perky her mother sounded. She was chattering about the coming party, who had been invited, what they would be given to eat, and how she and Katie had spent all day helping Mrs Fai
rchild prepare the food.
In the past Elinor Fair had had nothing but scorn for her 'wishy-washy' daughter-in-law and the more scorned Emma had been, the more wishy-washy she had become, hardly daring to open her mouth in her formidable mother-in-law's presence.
It had been a vicious circle. But, fingers crossed, Caro thought, smiling across the table at David as he poured wine for her, the circle was broken.
'The party guests will start arriving in half an hour so we'll have coffee in the small drawing room,' Elinor said after the summer pudding had been reduced to crumbs. 'The Fairchilds and Polly will be joining us—what I have to say affects them, too. And Finn Helliar should be already waiting, I think. I invited him to have dinner with us, but he made some excuse and declined.'
There was general movement as everyone got to their feet. Apart from Caro who was solidly glued to her chair. There was a roaring sound in her ears and she wondered hazily if she was about to faint for the first time in her life and whether everyone would come rushing back and make her put her head between her knees.
'I'll see if Mrs Fairchild has brought the coffee through,' Emma said, obviously unaware that her elder daughter was in shock. 'If not, I'll give her a hand. We don't have a lot of time.' And she followed Katie and her brand-new fiance out of the door.
'Close your mouth, Caroline. Drink the rest of your wine if you're in need of Dutch courage,' Elinor said into the very heavy silence. 'Then you may escort me to the drawing room.'
Caro swallowed raggedly. 'What is Finn Helliar doing here?' Besides haunting her, reminding her of what she wanted and couldn't have.
'Apart from doing all the donkey-work—and here I'm talking about the news I'm about to give you all—he asked if he might come. He needs to talk to you.' Her eyes glittered with mischief. 'About a nanny for that little daughter of his, perhaps? Ah.' She leaned more heavily on her stick and poked her face closer to Caro's. 'I know all about that little escapade. Or as much as Finn Helliar thought fit to tell me. I suspect he left the more outrageous bits out of his narrative, not realising that I'm completely unshockable. Well, are you coming? Or have you turned into a coward since I saw you last?'
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