by Sara Craven
She was horrified at her own reaction. At her own stupidity. Had she learned nothing from the past? Nothing at all?
Nick did not want her. That was the simple truth—the certainty she needed to hang on to. For reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom he was playing games with her head. But she couldn’t afford to let that go on. She would have to put a stop to it somehow, or she might be faced with another moment of agonising self-betrayal.
There was probably, Paige told herself almost detachedly, a measure of sexual pique in his behaviour. It must gall him to find himself married to one of the few women in the world who seemed to find him totally resistible.
That was what had led to the fiasco of their honeymoon, she thought painfully as she brushed her tangled hair back into submission. His arrogant need to prove to himself that she was his for the taking.
Only in the end he hadn’t been sufficiently interested to—take.
Leaving her shocked and damaged in the rags of her self-esteem.
‘He will never,’ she whispered to herself, ‘do that to me again.’
On the other hand it was foolish, and could be dangerous, to persist in needling him like that. She didn’t need to score points. Or to be punished for doing so, she thought, swallowing.
Her primary aim had to be to get back to England, and normality, relatively unscathed.
Once on her own ground she could deal with Nick Destry, just as she’d done in the past. And once the divorce was safely through she could put him out of her mind for ever and start rebuilding her life.
She stared at herself in the mirror for a moment. In the flicker of the candle flame her face was all hollows and shadows. She looked like her own ghost.
The last thing in the world she wanted was to be alone with Nick again, but this was the hand Fate had dealt her and she’d have to play it to her own best advantage. Neutralise, somehow, this enforced intimacy, and play down the antagonism between them. Pretend, even, that they were on the same side.
She drew a deep, unsteady breath, then reluctantly went back into the bedroom.
Nick was still sprawled in his chair, an untouched coffee cup beside him, his frowning gaze apparently fixed on some distant and disagreeable horizon.
Paige swallowed. ‘Nick,’ she said. ‘Nick—I’m sorry for what I said. It was—unnecessary—and unkind.’
He turned his head slowly and looked at her. ‘My God,’ he said with a touch of derision. ‘What’s brought about this change of heart?’
She tried to smile. ‘The truth is this storm is scaring me witless. I’m not thinking straight. It was—very considerate of you to arrange this room, and I haven’t even thanked you for it.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘We both have things to regret, but fortunately not for much longer.’
‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes—that’s the only sensible way to look at it.’
‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘that sense has played much part in our dealings with each other so far.’ He looked her over measuringly, his eyes lingering on the cropped trousers which emphasised her slender legs, the vivid colour of the shirt, then smiled swiftly and with charm. ‘Some security blanket.’
‘Oh.’ Paige shook her head, fiddling self-consciously with the jade silk collar. ‘I shall only feel really secure when I leave the plane at Heathrow.’
‘Of course,’ he said, with faint mockery. ‘Back to the sanctuary of the family citadel. How the Harringtons do stick together.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with family loyalty,’ Paige said defensively.
Nick shrugged. ‘That might depend on how far the bonds are stretched.’ He got to his feet. ‘I hate to jeopardise this new-found accord, but I think maybe we should conserve the candles. We don’t know how much longer we might need them.’ He looked at her gravely. ‘Can you bear to be in the dark again? It won’t cause you any problems?’
She forced a laugh. ‘Heavens, no. Anyway, it’s such a stupid, childish thing,’ she added lightly. ‘I should have grown out of it by now.’
‘How did it begin?’ he asked.
Paige shrugged, to disguise her momentary hesitation. ‘I really can’t remember,’ she lied.
‘And you’ve never seen anyone about it—been offered treatment?’
‘No—and anyway it doesn’t happen very often these days. It’s usually when I find myself in strange surroundings.’ She smiled brightly. ‘While I stick to the familiar, I’m fine.’
‘And when you’re not alone.’ It was a statement rather than a question, and this time her hesitation was obvious.
‘Well, yes—I suppose…’
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘Because I’m here, and we’ll stick it out together while Minna does her worst.’ He paused. ‘I suggest you take the bed,’ he went on briskly. ‘It’s more comfortable than these damned chairs, and you might even get some more sleep. Pass the time that way.’
‘But what about you?’ She tried to sound equally matter of fact, even though alarm bells were ringing.
‘I’ll be chivalrous,’ he returned. ‘And risk dislocation of the spine.’
‘But you won’t even be able to read.’
‘It doesn’t matter. As it happens, I have some serious thinking to do. A major new investment that I have to consider before I get back. Don’t worry—I won’t get bored and stray,’ he added with a touch of mockery.
‘I wasn’t…’
‘And don’t fib,’ he went on. ‘Because you’re lousy at it.’
Yes, she thought. And always had been.
She lay down on top of the covers, watching as he extinguished each tiny flame in turn. When he’d finished she turned on to her side, closing her eyes as he made his way quietly back to his chair.
The roar of the wind showed no sign of lessening. In fact it seemed louder than ever, she thought with an inward sigh. Would they ever get out of here?
She wouldn’t sleep, of course. That would be silly. Because she might wake and find herself in unfamiliar darkness. And if she cried out Nick would come to her, as he’d done last time. And the time before that… The time she didn’t allow herself to think about.
And that would be fatal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
OUTSIDE, all hell might have broken loose, but inside the room, Paige was aware of a curious stillness, totally divorced from the elements but equally disturbing.
She might almost have been alone, she thought. She couldn’t see Nick, or discern any kind of movement, but she knew he was there, only a few feet away, because every sense—every tingling nerve-ending in her body—was telling her so.
She moved slightly, quietly, unwilling to draw attention to herself, burrowing deeper into the mattress as if she was trying to make herself invisible. Or at any rate to hide. To render herself equally unobtrusive.
The room, at least, no longer seemed an alien environment to her. She could, if pushed, describe every tile on the floor, the colours in the fabrics and each stick of furniture, she thought wryly. A few more hours there and she’d probably be carving her name on the walls. And climbing them, too.
She should try to relax, she knew. Even sleep. It was the only way to endure the hours of waiting for the hurricane to pass. But she was just too aware of Nick’s proximity.
A silent presence, icily concentrated, as he planned the next big deal, she told herself. And when it was done other lives would probably change for ever, just as hers had done.
She should, of course, have refused to accompany Nick to Normandy. Made it crystal-clear that any form of honeymoon was preposterous—unthinkable. Even at the airport it would not have been too late. She could simply have walked away and booked a cab back to London.
So why didn’t I? she thought, biting her lip. Fear of the inevitable scene—the possible repercussions? Well, maybe, but if she was honest there had been another factor in the equation by then, sparked off by the memory of that astonish
ing kiss. And the fact that he’d not attempted even the most casual of follow-ups.
Curiosity, she told herself wryly, with hindsight. That was what it had been. And a certain amount of pique—both totally female and highly dangerous.
Although at the time she’d pretended to herself that it was Normandy itself, which she’d never visited before, that intrigued her—and Madame de Charrier’s family home. And that, of course, had been the first major surprise.
When Nick had said his grandmother had returned to her former village Paige had visualised a tall, narrow house in some quiet street behind the church, within easy reach of the boulangerie.
She had not been prepared for the gracious grey-stoned mansion standing proudly at the end of its own avenue of trees.
‘It’s very quiet here,’ Nick said almost curtly as Antoine, the elderly man who’d met them at the airport, brought the car to a halt in front of the heavily timbered front door. ‘I thought we could both do with some peace—and some space. But if you really hate it we can always go on to Paris.’
She said, ‘It’s beautiful,’ and meant it. ‘And incredibly big.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed cordially. ‘With any luck we can spend the entire week without setting eyes on each other once.’
She said, ‘Yes,’ in a subdued voice. She had wanted but not dared to ask about the sleeping arrangements, but Nick’s comment gave her a vague reassurance.
As she got out of the car a plump woman erupted from the house, wreathed in smiles.
‘Hortense, my grandmother’s housekeeper,’ Nick said in an undertone, before he was overwhelmed in a voluble, clucking embrace to which he laughingly submitted.
When it was her turn Paige found herself being swiftly assessed by dark twinkling eyes.
‘Too thin,’ was the brisk verdict from Madame Marquay. She nodded emphatically. ‘We must feed her well, so that she will have strong babies.’
Paige, crimson, marched into the house, avoiding Nick’s sardonic glance. That, she thought, smouldering, was the trouble with faithful family retainers. They tended to be outspoken.
She soon discovered that Hortense was indeed the lynch-pin of the establishment. With the help of local women, whom she chivvied unmercifully, she kept the house in pristine condition and produced long and delicious meals, while Antoine, her long-suffering husband, worked the same miracle in the grounds with his own band of helpers. In his spare time, Hortense said proudly, he made the best calvados in the region.
To Paige’s relief, the housekeeper made no overtly disapproving comment when she showed her to the grand first-floor bedroom, with its huge lit matrimoniale enticingly made up with crisp, snowy bedlinen redolent of lavender, which she was to occupy in solitary splendour, and then indicated the adjoining room which had been prepared for Nick. But her silence spoke volumes. Clearly in madame’s view newly married couples slept in each others’ arms, not separate rooms.
As far as Paige was concerned Nick’s presence on the other side of a substantial wall was still far too near, but that was not something she could tell his devoted Hortense.
The few clothes she’d brought with her looked lost in the cavernous armoire, but she was glad she’d included a swimsuit when Nick showed her the luxurious pool, complete with fountain, which had been built at the rear of the house.
‘Your grandmother had this done?’ she asked, surprised.
Nick shook his head. ‘Before she moved back here she had some wealthy Americans as longstanding tenants. All Grandmère did was give her permission, et voilà.’
Voilà indeed, Paige thought, assimilating with wonder the expensively tiled surround and the circular changing pavilion constructed from the same stone as the house itself. Thank God Denise can’t see this, or the diggers would be at the Hall tomorrow.
‘Dinner will be at eight,’ he went on. ‘And I shall expect you to join me for it.’
‘Is that really necessary? I—I’m not very hungry.’
His glance measured her coldly. ‘And you also have a headache, plus terminal fatigue from the journey, right?’ He shook his head. ‘Forget it, Paige. This happens to be our wedding night, and Hortense will have gone to a lot of trouble to cook us a special dinner to celebrate. You won’t be asked to comply with any of the other wifely obligations due to the occasion,’ he added bitingly, ‘but you’ll damned well turn up for meals and be civil.’ He paused. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
Their eyes met—clashed. But Paige was the first to look away, her throat muscles tightening nervously.
She said huskily, ‘As crystal.’ Then turned and marched away from him, aware that her heart was beating rapidly and that there were tears pricking at her eyelids. Tears of anger, she told herself defiantly. But certainly not disappointment. Never—ever—that…
After that she expected the honeymoon to be an ongoing nightmare of awkwardness and embarrassment, yet, strangely, it was not—even though that first meal together was, inevitably, a strained and difficult occasion. The panelled formality of the dining room felt slightly oppressive too.
But, in spite of her professed loss of appetite, Paige found it impossible to resist Hortense’s exquisite casserole of chicken, simmered with apples and calvados, or the tiny raspberry soufflés which followed it. And perhaps Nick’s excellent choice of wines helped too.
Over the meal he talked casually and pleasantly on general topics, seemingly unfazed by her monosyllabic replies.
And he made no effort to detain her when she finished her coffee and rose, mumbling something incoherent about an early night.
‘Goodnight, Paige.’ His smile was coolly polite. ‘Sleep well.’
‘Thank you,’ she managed, and escaped.
The communicating door between their rooms was now locked, she discovered when she tentatively tried it. But it was less reassuring to find that the key was not on her side.
She was genuinely tired, but she lay wide awake and tense, waiting for the telltale glimmer of light to appear at the foot of the door, signalling that Nick too had retired for the night.
And even when it disappeared, and there was only the moonlight spilling through the slats in the tall shuttered windows across the wooden floor, it was nearly an hour before Paige felt secure enough to close her eyes and compose herself for sleep.
She awoke to brilliant sunshine, and croissants with rich cherry jam and a bowl of café au lait served to her on the terrace.
Monsieur, Hortense told her, lips slightly pursed, had breakfasted earlier and taken the car to Caen. He would return in time for lunch.
So she was left to her own devices, Paige realised a trifle blankly. Nick must have meant what he’d said about them keeping their distance from each other. Which, of course, was exactly what she wanted.
Nevertheless, she felt slightly at a loss as she wandered round, trying to familiarise herself a little with the house. The dining room might have been rather too forbidding for her taste, but she loved the big, airy salon, with its enormous fireplace. This was empty now, of course, but she could imagine it ablaze with logs when the winter mists and rain closed in, as Nick had told her they could.
The sofas and chairs had been chosen with an eye to comfort rather than grandeur, so, in spite of its size, there was an essential homeyness about the room which appealed to Paige.
She guessed that one imposing high-backed fauteuil, placed near the fire, belonged to Madame de Charrier when she was in residence. There was a small round table beside it, with a hinged top, and when Paige raised the lid she realised it was a sewing table. There was a piece of half-finished embroidery inside, with fabulously overblown roses on a background of cream linen. It was exquisite, Paige thought, gently touching the delicate stitches.
She heard a faint sound, and turned to find Nick standing in the doorway, watching her. His brows were slightly raised and he was smiling.
‘Oh.’ Paige swallowed, hastily replacing the embroidery and closing the lid. ‘I—I didn’t realise y
ou were back.’
‘Caen was hot and crowded. I decided to come back early and get in a swim before lunch.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to join me?’
It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse. To reinforce the policy of avoidance that he’d established.
Instead, incredibly, she heard herself say, ‘That would be—nice.’
‘Good.’ His tone was casual. ‘Then I’ll see you down at the pool.’ He threw her a swift smile and disappeared.
Paige stood very still, aware that her breathing had quickened.
Not, she thought, the wisest decision she’d ever made. But she could always remain where she was—tell him that she’d changed her mind. Only she didn’t want to give him the impression that she found his company disturbing—did she? Or that she was scared to join him?
She needed to copy his own laid-back attitude, she decided. Indicate her own indifference to his presence.
After all, she told herself with an inward shrug, it was only a swim. And went upstairs to change.
Nick was already in the pool when she arrived, and she felt self-conscious as she slipped off her wrap, aware that her plain black one-piece, cut high on the leg and square across her breasts, was the least she’d ever worn in front of him.
But once she was in the water too, her strong graceful sidestroke carrying her swiftly from one end of the pool to the other and back, she forgot everything but the sheer enjoyment of the moment. Nick came to swim beside her, not competing, but slowing his own powerful pace to match hers. And somehow that was all right too.
At last she clung, laughing and breathless, to the side of the pool. ‘That was terrific.’
He grinned, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead. ‘This is where I thought I’d find you when I came back. How did you manage to resist for so long?’
‘I enjoyed looking round the house,’ Paige countered. ‘It’s an amazing place. Is it very old?’
‘Parts of it. It was certainly here when Henry the Fifth paid his memorable visit. But it survived that, and the Revolution later. And somehow it came through the last war, although it was occupied by the Germans, and afterwards the British and Americans.’ He paused. ‘You should ask Grandmère to tell you about it some time. She was a young girl then, but she was mixed up with the local Résistance and she’s got some incredible stories from that time.’