Bride at Briar's Ridge

by Way, Margaret

  ‘And I pity them.’ She knew she shouldn’t give in to her anger and her deep sense of hurt—it would have been very difficult for him to refuse, a newcomer to the valley, dependent on valley goodwill—but she knew she was failing to do so. Restraint had always been her way. Now that restraint was crumbling beyond repair. ‘The real question is why did they ask me to do the catering?’

  ‘The answer is simple. You’re the hot new chef in town. You have winning credentials. In fact, you’ve made so much of an impression I hear one has to book well in advance to get into the bistro. All we need to do is move Saturday to Sunday. There’s a big plus going here. You’ll be in a position to showcase your culinary skills to people who do a lot of entertaining.’

  ‘You mean the old families?’ she asked, with a tinge of sarcasm.

  ‘I suppose. Anyway, I’ll be proud of you.’

  She turned away quickly. ‘Violette didn’t mention to you she was going to ask me to do the catering?’

  ‘I would have told you right off.’

  ‘Really?’ She turned back, her great dark eyes flashing.

  ‘So, tell me—you don’t trust me?’

  The question, the sombre way it was put, took her by surprise. ‘I’m sorry. I apologize.’

  ‘Yet irrationally some part of you thinks I’ve failed you?’

  She recognised the truth of it. ‘We have no commitment, Carl.’

  Looking at her, hearing what she said, brought out the weakness in his defences. He threw out an arm beyond him and gathered her in. ‘That’s funny? No commitment?’

  She saw the hard edge to his handsome features. She dropped her eyes.

  ‘Look at me, Daniela,’ he ordered. ‘I want you so much it scares me, and I know every inch of your beautiful body, but you won’t let me get close to you. Something happened to you when you were in London. I want to know but I’m afraid to push it. I don’t even know if you intend to go back there.’

  ‘It’s personal,’ she said, her own weakness causing her to rest against him, her arms of their own accord going around his waist.

  ‘Important?’ He ignored the pain in her voice. ‘I assume it’s some guy?’

  She sought his eyes. ‘Carl, I wish I could talk about it, but I can’t. I want to put the whole thing out of my mind.’

  ‘So you were in love with him?’ he asked, very quietly. How could she still be in love with some guy in London and be as she was with him?

  ‘No.’ Violently she shook her head. ‘He was—is—a bit unstable.’

  ‘You mean crazy?’ he replied, his tone perplexed and a little bitter. He didn’t believe her.

  ‘No, not that at all. I can only explain it as an obsessive nature.’ She grew cold at the thought of it.

  ‘Is that so unusual?’ he retorted. ‘Most men would turn obsessive over you. So you had a passionate affair that didn’t work out?’

  She withdrew her arms, but he didn’t let her go. ‘No affair,’ she said tightly. ‘You don’t get it. And I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Abruptly he relented. ‘Daniela, if you’re frightened of someone, frightened this man will follow you here, I promise you I’ll take good care of you. No one will ever hurt you while I’m around.’

  She searched his face, knowing he had a very protective attitude towards women. No doubt his great love for his mother was a big factor in that. She knew he was tough. She knew he was strong. She knew he would be ruthless if he had to be. She thought, all things being equal, Gerald Templeton wouldn’t have a chance against him. It all came down to whether Gerald had forgotten her or not.

  Or perhaps nothing would stop him? In his own way he tortured her.

  She leaned her head back against Carl’s chest and closed her eyes. Gerald, for all his threatening behaviour, had never had such power over her.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ he murmured very quietly into her scented, silky hair. ‘I can’t be alone with you without wanting to make love to you, Daniela.’

  Later, she couldn’t even remember walking back through the silent house and up the stairs with him. All was fluid motion and miraculous excitement. She remembered it was he who threw himself down on the splendid carved bed that looked as if it could easily accommodate three or four people. He who lifted his arms to her as she stepped closer, her breath coming fast over her wildly beating heart.

  ‘Come here to me,’ he said, his shimmering eyes a mix of hunger, tenderness and an odd compassion.

  She leaned over him and kissed him, holding nothing back, one hand flat against his lean cheek, her blond hair falling forward around her face.

  He pulled her onto the bed, as easily and as gently as if she were a piece of porcelain.

  This was their escape route to ecstasy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHAT really got under Gerald’s skin was the fact none of Daniela’s colleagues—indeed no one who had ever worked with her—would level with him about where she had gone. That rankled badly, although he took good care not to show it. He kept his enquiries to the seemingly casual. A few of the people close to her might have known they had been seeing quite a bit of each other, though he had never been able to get her into his bed. They were taking care to keep what conversation there was to the usual pleasantries. The fellow who worked with her when she did her party catering, Peter, told him in confidence he was pretty sure she had gone back to Italy.

  ‘Danni told me once she ached for Italy. I expect that’s where she headed. We all expect a postcard from Rome sooner or later.’

  If she had gone to Rome it had proved surprisingly difficult to track her down. But Gerald was not to know he had been deliberately led astray. What Daniela had actually confided to Peter was that she ached for Australia.

  Templeton’s own crowd, the top-notch people, had no idea where she’d gone, couldn’t care less although quite a few said it was a pity she had gone because she really was a terrific chef. Oddly enough, Gerald had objected very strongly to her working in kitchens. Such busy, noisy places—all hands working at a frantic pace. Why ever had she chosen such a career? His views on the matter he’d decided to keep to himself—at least for a time. She was maddeningly beautiful and fine company. She even spoke well, with a faint and intriguing Italian accent, but he had never for a moment thought of her as suitable to be his wife. His mother, a woman to be reckoned with, had the right girl in mind—Lady Laurella Marks. He would go along with that. Laurella was a good sort, with a cool, down-to-earth streak and no consuming libido—which was a relief. He could find passion elsewhere. Laurella had missed out a bit in the looks department, but she had dignity and elegance and she could be relied upon to keep a stiff upper lip. Best of all, she had money of her own. And there was, of course, the family name. What he had in mind for Daniela was the role of mistress. He thought in time she would come round to it. She was a working girl, after all. One he rather suspected—or all her beauty—had come from humble roots. Society these days sanctioned mistresses, especially those as beautiful as Daniela.

  Imagine his shock—he still hadn’t recovered—when she had told him she found his suggestions not only highly objectionable but nauseating.

  ‘And I thought you were a gentleman!’

  ‘I am—and I can do better than that. I’m a real catch.’

  ‘For some women, I suppose. Not for me.’

  It was a few weeks after that when he had begun to stalk her. No use hiding it. His fascination with her had turned him into a different man. Either that or it had brought out the worst in him. He phoned her. He e-mailed her, keeping the messages ambiguous. He waited for her wherever she went. Once, she had approached him and told him she would go to the police.

  ‘My dear Daniela, sadly no one will listen to you. I’ll have a different story to tell. People know me. They know my family. What are you, after all?’

  And now, though it was the last thing he had intended, he had driven her out of London. Obviously she had made a run for it. But sooner or late
r he would find her. When he least expected it would be the time he would get a break…

  It was on a flight home from Zurich that he found himself seated beside Malcolm McIver, an acquaintance, big in advertising. They talked easily enough most of the flight back, though they would never make friends. It wasn’t until they were told to fasten their seatbelts for the landing that McIver turned to him and asked, ‘Whatever happened to that gorgeous little Italian girl you used to have on your arm?’

  ‘Oh, that was just to annoy Laurella.’ He shrugged it off, man to man.

  ‘Lady Laurella Marks, you mean?’ McIver looked at him rather hard.

  ‘Of course. Just a matter of time before we walk down the aisle.’

  McIver’s expression hardened. ‘Wouldn’t having an affair with another woman give you a bad name and upset Laurella dreadfully? No wonder—Daniela, wasn’t it?—headed off for Australia. I never thought she’d stay with you anyway. Too good, in my opinion.’

  Gerald decided to keep that insult very much in mind. If ever he got the opportunity to hurt McIver in business he wouldn’t hesitate to sink the boot in. Yet shouldn’t he be thanking the man? He had never thought about Australia. To his mind Australia was an absolute backwater. It was huge, he knew that, but hardly packed with people.

  His eyes lit up with a malevolent gleam. He would find her. As the saying went, persistence would win the day.

  Daniela surveyed the Denby formal dining room with satisfaction. She had gone to a lot of trouble and it had paid off. The table looked spectacularly well. It helped that the room was beautiful and spacious, of perfect dimensions, with a lovely high ceiling, moulded and delicately coloured in a design of various fruits. A magnificent antique chandelier hung over the centre of the long table which, when fully extended, could comfortably seat twenty guests and certainly a few more.

  With so much to choose from she hadn’t had the slightest difficulty deciding on the right napery, the bone china, the silver, the crystal. The Denbys were collectors, and over the long years they had collected many fine things. In every drawer, cupboard and cabinet she had found silver, silverware and a dozen fine bone china dinner sets: Aynsley, Royal Doulton, Wedgwood, Coalport, Mikasa. Deep drawers contained a wealth of fine table linen, including some beautiful Irish linens, both single and double damask, in white and cream.

  She felt relief that Mr and Mrs Denby would not be present. They were staying at their Sydney Harbourside apartment, where they would remain for at least a week.

  Gary, her number two at Aldo’s, had helped her with the placement of the settings, commenting on the exquisite gold-rimmed crystal wine glasses, three at each setting. Gary and Jules, a determined and remarkably capable seventeen-yearold apprentice Aldo’s Bistro had taken on, would be on hand to help her.

  The Denby kitchen was the workplace of a serious cook. It was huge, ultra-modern, and fitted with every conceivable appliance, a cooking island, and loads of bench space.

  It had been Daniela’s idea to use a beautiful almost life-size silver swan that had been stored away at the back of a cabinet as a centrepiece. One of the Denby maids had polished it to perfection, and now it gleamed, its hollow back filled with a profusion of delicate ferns and lovely white orchids with cerise throats. The right flowers were very important—no heavy scent, a full arrangement, but low so the dinner guests could easily see one another across the table. Eight matching silver candlesticks, four to each side of the swan, were spaced down the table. She had deliberated over beautiful lace-trimmed placemats versus a near floor-length Irish linen cloth, a chrysanthemum double damask she fell in love with, and in the end went for that. For a touch of colour she had wound tiny Thai orchids of an incredible shade of purple-blue with trails of gypsophila around the base of the candlesticks. It was a nice touch. The table needed a little colour, and the deep blue was picked up in the rim of the beautiful white bone china.

  At first Violette, slowly orbiting the table, wanted to find something glaringly wrong. The fact that it was all so perfect gave her quite a jolt. That silver swan had been stuck at the back of a cabinet for years on end, although she seemed to remember her grandmother using it a lot for her flower arrangements. Never on the dining table, however. The arrangements had always graced the library table in the entrance hall as far as she could remember.

  Of course Lilli couldn’t be counted on to stay aloof. She had gone up to the outsider and taken her hand, swinging it gently.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Daniela. You’re a true artist.’

  Violette wanted to silence her with a good hard slap, like when they were kids. Instead she pursed her lips. ‘I think I would have preferred table mats—and those little orchids could be a touch too vibrant…’ She dragged one a little higher.

  Daniela shook her head, thinking she would have to fix it back. ‘I don’t think so, Violette. So much white needs enlivening.’

  Lilli tapped her taller sister playfully on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Vi. This is really beautiful. Even Mum hasn’t done better.’

  Violette glanced at her sister, her finely chiselled nose wrinkling ever so slightly. ‘Excuse me, Lilli,’ she drawled, ‘Mother is famous for her exquisite table settings and her roses. I expected you to use roses, Daniela.’ She sounded disappointed at Daniela’s choice.

  ‘Roses would have been lovely,’ Daniela conceded, keeping her sighs to herself. ‘But this is a little different, don’t you think?’

  For her answer Violette made a ‘tsk’ noise and reached forward to minutely adjust a finely penned placecard. ‘I have an infallible eye,’ she explained. ‘That didn’t sit straight.’

  Lilli chortled. ‘You’ve just got to change something, Vi.’

  ‘God, Lilli—how many times do I have to tell you it’s Violette. I detest Vi.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry if you called me Lil,’ Lilli retorted.

  ‘Why don’t we just concentrate on the table?’ Violette said. ‘Now, let’s see. Maybe we should move Zoe a little farther down. There is a pecking order, after all.’ She switched a card that said Selina Morris for one that said Zoe Baker. I’m at the head of the table, of course.’

  Another eye-roll from Lilli. ‘Of course!’

  ‘Linc, as guest of honour, is to my right. Did I tell you Linc Mastermann will be coming, Daniela?’ Violette said, with a happy flourish.

  ‘You must have. Daniela wrote up the placecards,’ Lilli reminded her, winking at Daniela.

  Daniela thought it time to intervene. ‘And you’ve settled on Menu Two?’ She had to double-check. Although even if Violette abruptly changed her mind Menu Two would still have to go ahead. ‘All the food had been bought in.’

  ‘Just let me check again,’ Violette said, as though she suddenly saw Menu Two through different eyes.

  Lilli rolled her blue orbs heavenwards. ‘We’ve already settled on Menu Two, Vi. We can’t mess Daniela around.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Daniela smiled pleasantly. Why did Violette set out to be so odious? Lilli seemed to be coming around. There was hope for her. ‘I think you’ve come up with the right choice,’ she said, putting approval into her voice.

  A chef’s palate was his or her most crucial faculty. What separated a good cook from a chef was the understanding of food, the ability to bring together complex flavours and bring those flavours to a new dimension. An important part of her job was constantly tasting, refining, adjusting, innovating. It was this that years before had brought her to the attention of a famous French chef—that and her calm and careful temperament in a volatile environment. And it was the nod from that famous chef that had helped her jump a few rungs. Everything took time and concentration. She knew this menu worked. It might have been fun to try out some of the new ‘molecular gastronomy’, but the tried and true had its advantages—especially first-off.

  ‘Menu Two’ featured a tartare of ocean trout, served with fresh goat’s cheese as an entrée; Sansho peppered chicken breasts with poached baby vegetables, shita
ke mushrooms and foie gras velouté as the main course, that was safe, followed by a fresh lime curd tart with a crème fraîche sorbet. She had even picked the wines to go with each course. The Denbys kept a fine cellar.

  ‘Well…please don’t do anything wrong, Daniela,’ Violette warned as though terrible things might happen to her if she did. ‘I’d be most unhappy if we had slip-ups.’

  ‘Nothing at all will go wrong,’ Daniela told her, with a confidence she didn’t really feel. She couldn’t rid herself of the idea that Violette had the whole thing rigged. But surely that was absurd?

  ‘All the toffs have arrived,’ Jules told them gleefully, as he swung back into the kitchen. He was relishing the occasion. ‘Dressed to kill, the lot of ’em. Nothing like a party to make people shine. I’ve never worn a tux in my life. One guy out there looks exactly like James Bond—except our guy’s got light eyes. Cat’s eyes, I reckon. Hell, he looks good! The ladies think so, too.’

  It wasn’t difficult to guess who that was.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, boyo!’ Gary broke in. ‘It’s all hands on deck.’

  ‘Right you are, matey!’ Jules, a handsome young man with thick flaxen hair gelled into the latest style and bright blue eyes, gave an impish grin.

  Jules was to help Gary with the serving. Though young, Jules was a great mover, with nerves of steel and an enviable self-confidence. Daniela had refused Violette’s request that she do the serving herself, saying that in all honesty her place was in the kitchen. No doubt Violette had had a little accident in mind, like landing a main dish in someone’s lap. It was Daniela’s practice, however, to make a brief appearance at the very end of the meal—minus her protective clothing—to ensure all had gone well.

  Gary and Jules were dressed alike, in narrow black trousers and snowy white shirts, collarless and pintucked. They looked good. An A-grade student, Jules had disappointed his parents with his choice of a career. It had upset their plans. They knew nothing about the food industry—and had wanted him to study law. Jules just wanted to become a cook.