Carver's Bride

by Nicola West

  'I'll really have to be going now,' he added, glancing at his watch. 'I've an early start in the morning.' He stood, up and Linzi stood too, laying her hands lightly on his shoulders. 'Goodnight, my dear. I hope everything goes well—and you will be careful, won't you? Insist that this— this artist lets you use his phone, and give me his number so that I can ring you. He can't object to that, since we're engaged. And don't stay a moment longer than you have to.'

  'I won't.' She waited for his kiss and felt his lips touch her forehead, his usual way of saying goodnight. Suddenly she wanted more and lifted her face to his, linking her hands behind his neck to draw him closer. Richard's lips were warm and moist against hers and for a moment she almost recoiled. Then she pressed closer to him. This was the man she was going to marry! She felt his arms holding her and gave a tiny sigh of relief. He did want her, she knew that—but his principles and respect for her—old-fashioned, some might have said—combined with her own dislike of casual touching and kissing, had kept them farther apart than most engaged couples. She would put that right as soon as he returned from his tour, she promised herself silently. It was ridiculous to allow the standards she had imposed on herself during the past five years to interfere with her relationship with the man she. was going to marry. Habit might die hard—but die it must. And as an extra confirmation of that, she nuzzled Richard's cheek for a moment before letting him go.

  'It won't be long,' she said softly. 'And then we'll be busy planning the wedding, and looking for somewhere to live. I promise I shan't be taking on any more strange assignments in faraway places.'

  She wished then she hadn't said that, for the suspicion returned to Richard's eyes and for a moment he looked as if he might be going to start the argument again. But the chiming of the mantelpiece clock distracted his attention; he glanced at it and gave an exclamation.

  'I really must go!' His kiss this time was swift. 'Look after yourself, Linzi—I'll see you when I get back. I've contacted a few estate agents and we should have quite a list to work through then. Goodbye!'

  He picked up the briefcase he had left in the tiny hall and was gone, hurrying towards the lift as if it were about to be switched off. Linzi watched him disappear, then went back into her flat and closed the door. She was disturbed by an odd feeling that there was something missing. Well, of course there was, she scolded herself. Richard had gone, hadn't he—and she wouldn't be seeing him again for several weeks. But it was more than that—something to do with the relationship between Richard and herself.

  Once more the image of a tall, muscular man, black-haired and with a face like a cliff, whose crags could settle into a frown of thunderous darkness, or light tip with a smile of devastating charm, floated across her mind. She stifled an impatient exclamation at the persistence of a memory that should have faded and died years ago, and went into the kitchen to make herself a hot drink. But this time she couldn't push the picture from her mind. It stayed there, taunting and tantalising, until at last she went into her bedroom and fished out an old photograph album, sitting on the bed to look at it while her drink grew cold and unappetising.

  The photographs were, to anyone else, just ordinary snapshots. To Linzi, they were all she had left of a way of life that she had lost. As she gazed at them, tears blurred her sight, yet she saw them as clearly in her mind as though their subjects were there with her—or she with them. Picnics on the Sussex Downs with her parents; swimming parties at the coast or on family holidays. Camping scenes, with firelight flickering on the walls of a tent and the murmuring of her parents' voices as she lay drifting off to sleep. Snow and ice on the winter holiday they'd taken one Christmas and she'd learned to ski and fallen for the charming ski instructor. Other Christmases at home, with fun and laughter as her father carved the turkey and her mother produced a pudding wreathed in flames.

  And in every picture, that other face. Strong, individual, forceful, yet never overbearing. The face of a man who could dominate, who would always have his own way, yet who had never failed to defer to either her mother or her father, who had never forgotten the deep respect he felt for them or the debt he owed them.

  Jason Carver. The man whose black hair and blue eyes Linzi had hoped to see in her own children. The man who had caused her to run away to London at the age of eighteen, to make her own way in the world, to sink or swim on her own account. The man whose effect on her had been so powerful that she had sworn never to marry, never to allow any other man to dominate both her life and emotions in that way again.

  The man she had jilted, only a week before their wedding date, five long years ago.

  It was late afternoon when Linzi drove her scarlet Mini into the small Welsh town of Crickhowell a few days after Richard had left for his European tour. Doubtfully, she pulled up in the square and took out her map, along with the instructions given her by Anna. There was still an air of mystery about them; even now she had not been told the name of the artist she was to sit for. But at present that was the least of Linzi's worries. Tired by the long drive, a little nervous of the wild hills she had been passing through, she wanted only to find her destination, have some tea and rest.

  'Can I help you, miss?' Startled, she looked up into the brown face of an elderly man who was peering into the car. Thankfully, Linzi wound her window right down and showed him Anna's sketch map.

  'I'm looking for a house called Bron Melyn,' she told him. 'I know it's up one of the little roads out of Crickhowell, but I'm not sure which.'

  'Bron Melyn, is it?' The bright old eyes looked at her with interest. 'You'll be one of those artist people, then? Eh, the games they have up there sometimes!' He chuckled wheezily and Linzi stared at him, disturbed by his words. Games? Were Richard's premonitions to be proved right after all? She opened her mouth, wanting to ask the old man more but uncertain how to phrase it, but before she could speak he was leaning through the window, pointing up a narrow road that led out of one corner of the square.

  'Now, you take that road there, see, and follow it up as far as you can go. Don't take no side turnings and don't worry when it gets a bit rough. They has all sorts going up and down that little old track!' He paused to laugh again. 'All sorts!' he repeated, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. 'Just follow it as far as you can go, you can't miss Bron Melyn.'

  Linzi thanked him, and he withdrew to the side of the road and watched with a proprietorial air as she drove out of the square. Her uneasiness returned. Just what had he meant by games? And his subsequent remark about 'all sorts' going up the track—that had sounded odd, too. What had he meant—and why had it amused him so much?

  Linzi had promised Richard that she would go straight back to London if everything didn't seem above board, and she had her own reasons for meaning to keep that promise. For a moment she was strongly tempted to turn round and go back now. But it was already almost five o'clock. She couldn't possibly get back before dark, and she was already tired from the long drive. Besides, the old man's hints may have been no more than those of the local who probably looked on anyone from farther than the next village as a foreigner and eccentric into the bargain. It was only fair to finish her journey, having come so far, and see for herself.

  The lane was winding and climbed steeply between high banks topped with hedges, turning brown in the autumn sunshine. Linzi drove slowly, afraid that some other vehicle would come racing round one of the sharp bends towards her. She kept her windows down and heard the croak of a raven somewhere near at hand; in the banks she could see bracken, its fronds tinged with gold, and occasionally the scarlet berries of a rowan glowed like tiny lanterns in the hedge. The sky was a pale, tender blue, flecked with puffs of white cloud, and as the lane climbed higher and the banks fell away to give way to open hillside she saw the shoulder of the mountain ahead, its lower slopes still aflame with late gorse.

  Linzi caught her breath. Well, if nothing else, it was worth coming just to see this! Whatever the situation at Bron Melyn, she just had to be grate
ful to the strange, unknown artist for bringing her here on this perfect autumn day. Even the roughness of the track as tarmac gave way to metalling didn't disturb her. The old man had said it would get rough, and there had been no side turnings for some way now. She must still be on the right road—and if not, when there were these views all round, who cared!

  A few moments later, just when she was beginning to think that perhaps she had made a mistake somewhere, Linzi swung round a bend and found herself facing a house that seemed almost to be growing out of the hillside. Long, low, grey as the rocks that jutted from the hills, it looked strong enough to withstand any of the weather that winter might see fit to send—gale, blizzard, even a hurricane could not disturb its rugged serenity, Linzi felt as she stopped the car and sat staring at it. It looked a part of the mountain itself, with an air of slumbering power that awed and impressed her.

  Behind it she could see a building that looked as if it might have been a barn, except that its slitted windows had been replaced with huge plate-glass. There were even windows in the roof, and Linzi, gazing at it, realised suddenly that this must be the artist's studio and, perhaps, gallery. She looked hastily at her map. There was no sign outside—at least, not one that she could see—but this, surely must be Bron Melyn.

  A little doubtfully, she drove into the yard and pulled up. There didn't seem to be anyone about, but as she got out of the car and stood stiffly flexing her cramped muscles, the front door opened. A tall, thin man stood there, and as she glanced across he hurried forward.

  'You must be Miss Berwick.' Linzi nodded and opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he went on: 'I'm Hugh—manservant, general factotum, chief cook and bottle-washer, dogsbody, call it what you will. Did you have any trouble finding us?'

  'No, not really.' Linzi told him about the old man in Crickhowell, omitting the remarks which had caused him so much amusement. 'I hope you haven't been waiting for me?'

  'Not at all. I was just worried in case you got lost.' He had a slight Welsh tang to his voice, she noticed, and wondered if he too were local. 'Look, you must be dying for a cup of tea. Come in and I'll make you one—I can bring your luggage in while you're having it, and put the car away for you too. It's a long drive down from London.'

  He led the way into the house and Linzi followed, noting with appreciation the renovations that had changed this from what she guessed had been an old farmhouse to a tasteful and comfortable home. Natural wood complemented the old stonework, and plain glass let in light and set them both off. Shaggy Scandinavian rugs warmed the floor, catching the late afternoon sun as it slanted through the windows, and as she climbed the oak staircase Linzi saw that each window had its own wide-ranging view across the hills.

  Hugh led her into a bedroom that brought a gasp of pure delight from her lips. It could, she thought as she paused for a moment on the threshold, have been decorated and furnished with herself especially in mind. Covering the floor was a thick moss-green carpet, its colour picked up in the Laura Ashley wallpaper and curtains. The duvet on the bed was covered with the same material, its white background giving a fresh, spacious feeling to the room. Fitted wardrobes lined one wall, with a dressing-table unit and full-length mirror lit by separate lamps. And through the large picture window opposite, Linzi could see a view of the whole valley stretching up away from the house, its rocky path climbing steadily beside a tumbling stream.

  'There's your own bathroom and shower here, too,' Hugh explained, crossing to a door she hadn't noticed. 'So you're quite self-contained. Now, if you'd like a wash, everything's here, and I'll go down and make you some tea. Come down as soon as you're ready—the door on the right at the foot of the stairs.'

  He turned to go, but Linzi, her curiosity suddenly too much for her, stopped him. She looked into his face, her topaz eyes gleaming with interest, and pushed back her golden-brown hair with an impatient hand. Her other hand lay lightly on his arm, slim and tanned against the pale blue sleeve of her shirt. For no reason at all, her heart had started to beat very fast.

  'Please tell me,' she asked, feeling a quickening of her breath at the thought that at last she was about to know the answer, 'who is it I've come to work for? My agent wouldn't tell me—just said he was a well-known artist who hated publicity. But surely I can know now?'

  She saw the hesitation in Hugh's eyes and stepped impulsively a little closer, intending to repeat her question. But even as she moved, Hugh's expression altered slightly. He seemed to be looking past her, and as she noticed this Linzi heard a sound out on the landing. Dropping her hand, she turned slowly round—and felt her body freeze.

  Just beyond the door, in the semi-darkness of the landing, she could see the huge bulk of a man. He was standing perfectly still in the shadow and although she couldn't see his face, she knew he was watching her. And knew, with a sickening certainty, just what his expression must be. Cruel, harsh, unsmiling: craggy features set into a mask of disapproval, disapproval of her, as she'd so often seen them in the past. Black hair, falling forward over the high forehead, almost obscuring the brilliant blue eyes when it grew too long as it was sometimes allowed to do. A hard, muscular body, with not an ounce of fat for all its size; a frame that exuded a sense of power and dominance that went only too well, she realised, with this remote farmhouse that stood with such confident arrogance in the Welsh hills, ready to withstand whatever storms might beset it.

  Jason Carver. Jason, whose children she might have borne, who had tried all those years ago to dominate her. And he must hate her now as surely as he'd hated her then, when, filled with panic, she had run away and left him.

  Why, after all this time, had he brought her here? Was it for the purpose he had given Anna to understand—that of artist's model? Or—more likely—was it for some cruel, subtle form of revenge?

  CHAPTER TWO

  For a long moment there was complete silence as Linzi and Jason stared at each other. Like a shadow, Hugh slipped past and down the stairs, leaving them alone. At the same moment, Jason moved forward into the light, his body filling the doorway.

  Trying frantically to calm her thundering heart and quieten her rapid breathing, Linzi watched him. With a sudden odd pang she realised that he had aged in the five years since she had last seen him; his black hair was touched with a dusting of silver, his face even craggier with fresh lines etched upon it. But he was no less attractive for all that, she recognised unwillingly. The same magnetic power radiated from him, the same aura of essential masculinity seemed to emanate from his mere presence. He had become no less domineering, she was sure, and no less arrogant. He would still want his own way in everything. And she wondered, not for the first time, just how badly he had taken that knock to his ego dealt by her running away.

  'Well.' He spoke at last, and Linzi closed her eyes. How often she had heard those deep tones in her thoughts and dreams! 'So we're together again at last. It's been a long time, Linzi.'

  Linzi swallowed and whispered: 'Why have you brought me here? Why all the secrecy?'

  'Would you have come without it?' he countered swiftly, and she was silent. 'Of course you wouldn't! You'd have run a thousand miles rather than face me.' He paused, then added with a menacing, softness: 'Isn't that just what you did the first time?' So it was revenge he was after! Linzi took a firm grip on herself and said in a low voice: 'Jason, that was five years ago. It's all in the past—over. If you've brought me here to—'

  'I've brought you here for work,' he interrupted harshly. 'Didn't Anna tell you? I've a big commission, and I want you for it. Don't flatter yourself there was any other reason!'

  Linzi sighed. Already he was having his usual effect on her. Already she was in the wrong, feeling herself accused of making false assumptions. Flatter herself indeed! She'd be grateful if it were just work that Jason Carver had on his mind—but she'd be surprised too. Whatever he said, she was going to tread very carefully indeed. In fact, she had half a mind to go straight downstairs, get into her car and dri
ve back to London right away.

  'I'm not flattering myself,' she retorted scathingly. 'Flattery hardly comes into it, does it? I'm sure you're not so hard up for women that you have to go to the lengths of bringing them down specially from London, without even daring to tell them who you are! I –'

  She got no further. Jason had taken a stride that brought him close and before she could back away, he had her arms held with a cruel grip in huge, powerful hands. Linzi cried out and tried to wrench away, only to feel the iron fingers tighten so that she knew there must be bruises left on the tender skin. Her eyes filling with sudden tears, she gazed helplessly up at him, but found no mercy in the dark, glittering eyes.

  'Let me go,' she whispered. 'You're hurting me!'

  'If I am, it's no more than you deserve,' he grated, and let her go with a flick of his wrists that had her staggering. 'Don't try me too far, Linzi. I've taken all I'm prepared to take from you, so be warned. Any more remarks like that, and ‑'

  He didn't finish, but he didn't have to. Linzi could feel enough animal power emanating from him to know that punishment would be swift and unforgettable. A tingle touched her spine as she thought what form that punishment might take; then she turned away, rubbing her wrists.

  'All right,' she flung at him. 'So you want me to work for you. Couldn't you have said so in the first place? Don't I have any say in the matter—in what I do, where I go? If you thought I wouldn't come, knowing it was you, didn't it occur to you that I might leave just as soon as I found out?'

  Jason smiled. Not the smile of devastating charm that she knew could touch his finely-chiselled lips and bring light to that dark face, but the sneering curl of the mouth that she feared and hated.

  'Of course it occurred to me, my little rebel,' he murmured, 'that's why I insisted you sign a contract before you left London. I think I know you well enough to be sure that you won't go back on that. You wouldn't want to let Anna down, after all.'