Seductive Stranger

by Charlotte Lamb

  'I wrote to you, but you never replied,' Jim Allardyce said. 'Oh, I don't blame you for not answering, Prue, but I wondered . . . did she let you see my letters?'

  'Now and then,' she said; but the truth was, her mother had usually suppressed them, and hadn't let her reply. Prue had realised she was being used as a weapon against her father, but there had not been much she could do about it. Her mother had begun to cry if she mentioned him, so she had gradually let his memory fade, then after her mother's death she had found all those faded old letters, hidden in the back of a drawer, and she had been torn between wanting to see her father again, and dreading it. Why dredge up the past? she had argued with herself, but she had come.

  'I didn't even recognise your writing!' her father suddenly said, and she looked at him searchingly—had he felt the same muddle of emotion when he got that letter, saying she was coming? Was he, too, still not sure how he really felt?

  'Well, it is a long time.' She smiled shakily at him. 'And this isn't how I planned to meet you again, either!'

  He laughed at that, relaxing. 'The best laid plans of mice and men?

  Maybe it's a blessing in disguise. I was feeling very nervous, waiting at the house for you, listening for the sound of a car. I was already in a state of shock when I heard about your accident.'

  'I'm sorry,' she said, liking this familiar stranger whom she had to get to know all over again. 'It's a pity somebody jumped the gun. It would have been better if I could have told you myself; that way you wouldn't have had such a shock. At least you would have known I was OK! When you arrived, I was just thinking that I ought to ring and reassure you before you started calling in bloodhounds to search for me on the moor!' She gave him a wavering grin, then added,

  'When we first arrived, the receptionist asked me for my next of kin, and I gave your name and address, so I suppose they let you know?'

  He hesitated. 'No, it wasn't the hospital,' he said, looking uneasy, and her curiosity was aroused.

  'Then how did you hear?' she firmly persisted. Why should he be reluctant to tell her that?

  'It was Josh,' he said, his eyes sliding away, and she had a brief, painfully vivid memory of that expression on his face when he and her mother were having one of their bitter rows. Even when she was a very small girl, Prue had known that her father would do anything to avoid conflict. That look would come into his face; he would be evasive, try to change the subject, escape from the room if he could.

  He was not an aggressive or dynamic man, Jim Allardyce. He was gentle—and she had loved his gentleness—but he was also a stubborn man with the unexpected obstinacy of the weak. He had hated the arguments and tension, but he would never give in, especially where the farm was concerned. Before her mother had decided there was another woman, their rows had always begun with the farm, the life it compelled them to live, the lonely emptiness of the landscape in which he lived and worked so happily, but which her mother had hated. Her mother had had so many grievances; she was that sort of woman: sullen, suspicious, jealous.

  But why was he looking like that now? 'Josh? she repeated. Who on earth was Josh? Then she remembered, her eyes widening. Wasn't that what the ambulance driver had called the dark man? 'Josh? Is that the man David nearly drove into?' She watched her father's nod. 'You know him?' Her father nodded again, and that surprised her at first, which was stupid, because this was a small community; everyone knew everyone else. She remembered that much, all the gossip and curiosity—it had caused some of the trouble between her parents.

  'How is David?' asked her father. 'He's your fiancé, isn't he?'

  'Yes, I told you about him in my letter. We're over here to look at Europe for a few weeks—a last big fling before we get married and settle down.' Her face sobered. 'The nurses keep saying he's going to be fine, but you know what hospitals are like—could you find out the truth? They might be frank with you.'

  'I'll do my best,' her father said gently, holding her hand in a firm grip,

  and she looked down, biting her lower lip. There was silence for a moment; she heard the grave tick of the clock on the wall, an unhurried and remorseless sound.

  Prue looked up, remembering something, and blurted out, 'But how did he know who I was?'

  Her father stared blankly. 'What?'

  'That man, Josh—how did he know who I was? I don't remember telling him my name or that I was coming to visit you.'

  After a pause, her father said flatly, 'He recognised you.'

  'How could he? We hadn't met before.' This time her father didn't answer, his head bent, and Prue stared at him. She was thinking hard.

  'Or have we?' she said slowly. 'I don't remember, if we have.' Yet she had had an odd, puzzling sense of familiarity, hadn't she, from the first? It had confused her, disturbed her, because she had mistaken it for something else. A slow, hot flush crawled up her face as she admitted to herself what she had thought was bothering her. Well, at least she had been wrong about that!

  'You sent me a photograph,' her father reminded her. 'With your letter saying you were coming back to England. I've got it on my desk and Josh saw it.'

  She felt a jolt of surprise, almost of disappointment. 'Oh, I see.' So it was that simple; nothing mysterious or odd or suspicious, after all!

  But why, in that case, had her father been so uneasy, so reluctant to talk about it?

  'Do you remember my office, at the farm?' James Allardyce had a rueful look-in his eyes. 'Do you remember the farm, come to that? It must all seem very dim and distant to you after ten years.'

  'Some of it,' she agreed. 'But I remember a lot, too, although I expect my memory was selective—it usually is, isn't it? I remember my bedroom and the swing under the apple tree, and the hay loft, and the stables . . . the places I liked, in other words.' She smiled at him. 'I hope they aren't going to keep me in here for too long!'

  'I talked to the doctor before I came in here—you should be allowed home tomorrow.'

  Home, she thought, biting her inner lip. The word had a poignant ring; he used it casually but she couldn't accept it that way—the farm was no longer her home, it hadn't been her home for a great many years.

  'Has it changed much?' she asked, and James Allardyce laughed, shaking his head.

  'I wouldn't say it had changed at all.' The thought seemed to please him, and Prue felt a stab of satisfaction, too. She wasn't sorry to hear that the places and things she remembered hadn't altered much, and yet shouldn't they have changed in ten years? Everything did; why not the farm?

  'You still run sheep?'

  'The land's too acid to support anything else. Very thin soil, too; there isn't enough grass for cows. Sheep do pretty well on the hills. Mine are more like goats than sheep; climb anywhere. We don't have the sort of sheep territory they have in Australia, our flocks don't roam so far, and they're smaller.' He hesitated, then wistfully asked, 'I don't suppose you saw anything of sheep farming while you were in Australia?'

  She smiled ruefully. 'I worked in an office in Sydney, I'm afraid. All I saw of pasture land was when I once spent a school holiday, visiting a friend whose father was a farmer.'

  'Well, farming is a boring subject, I suppose,' her father said on a sigh.

  'But I'm very interested!' she protested.

  His face brightened. 'Are you? Are you really? You aren't just saying that?'

  'Of course not—why shouldn't I be interested? Tell me about your flock—how many sheep have you got?'

  Jim Allardyce didn't need a second invitation. Prue settled back on her pillows and listened, watching her father and remembering him as he had been the last time they met. He had changed a great deal; and yet she was recognising more and more the father she had known when she was a child. They had once been very close; she had loved both her parents and it had been a blinding shock to her when her mother had left, taking her too. Prue had realised that her parents were always quarrelling, but she hadn't expected them to separate for good.

  Her mother
had blamed her father; she hadn't hidden any secrets from Prue, she had wanted her to know why they were going away, and had talked endlessly, bitterly, about the break-up of the marriage.

  Prue had been entering her teens; gawky, shy, unsure of herself. The next couple of years had been miserable for her. She had to cope with a new school, new friends, a new country, new home—and a mother who had nobody else to cling to, needed constant sympathy, and was over-possessive.

  Prue had been hurt and angry, too—not because her father had preferred another woman to her mother, but because he hadn't tried to stop her mother taking her away. Then Susan Allardyce met another man, and both their lives changed again, this time for the better. Prue had been very fond of her stepfather, who had been a nice man, but Harry Grant was more than nice—by taking the burden of her mother on his shoulders, he had freed Prue to live her own life. She had settled down at school, made Mends, discovered the freedom of the sun and sea, and pushed all thought of England and her father to the furthest comer of her memory, until the car crash in which Harry and her mother had been killed.

  The nurse reappeared, scolding. 'Still here, Mr Allardyce? I told you ten minutes, and you've been here half an hour or more! Off you go, now! You can come and pick your daughter up tomorrow morning at ten.'

  'How's her fiancé?' Jim Allardyce asked, getting to his feet.

  'He's doing fine,' the nurse said in just the same tone she had used to Prue. 'Now, come along, Mr Allardyce.'

  'Anything I can get you, Prue?' he asked, lingering, and Prue shook her head, smiling at him.

  'I'll see you tomorrow, then,' he said, leaving, but it wasn't her father who came next morning at ten o'clock to pick her up. Prue was up and dressed, waiting by the window, looking out over the windswept moorland behind the hospital. She saw the red car drive up and park, and stiffened incredulously. The dark head moved below her across the forecourt to the entrance, and her eyes followed it. Was he here to see her? Or was it a coincidence that he was visiting the hospital today?

  A moment later he walked into the ward and she heard the muted stir of curiosity among the other patients; everyone stared, whispered.

  'I'm here to collect you,' he said, picking up her suitcase from the end of her bed. 'Your father got caught up in an emergency; some of his ewes escaped on to the main road, and he had to round them up before someone ran them down. As I was coming into town, I said I'd pick you up.'

  She gave him a tight little smile. "Thank you.' He was being kind again, and she ought to be grateful, but why did he always talk to her in that go-to-blazes voice? I've come to collect you, he said, as if she was a parcel, and all the time those jet-black eyes of his were wandering over her in a desultory fashion, making her both uneasy and furious.

  'But I'm in a hurry,' he said, striding off, and Prue had to run to keep up with him, pausing only to wave a last goodbye to the other patients.

  In the corridor they met the ward sister, who said briskly, 'Off now, Miss Allardyce? I expect we'll see you when you visit your fiancé.'

  'Could I see him now?' Prue pleaded.

  'He's asleep at the moment; we don't want to wake him, do we?'

  'No, of course not,' Prue sighed. 'When can I visit him, then?'

  'I should let him rest today; he's under sedation. Come tomorrow afternoon. Visiting hours are from three to four o'clock.' Her pale eyes then flicked to the man carrying Prue's suitcase, and she gave one of her rare, slightly chilly smiles.

  'Good morning, Mr Killane, nice to see you.'

  He gave her a nod. 'Hello, Sister Wood.'

  Prue froze on the spot; her green eyes wide and shacked. Killane? He was a Killane? Josh, she thought in a slow, stupid way. Josh Killane—of course she remembered him, not that she had seen him very often. He had moved in a very different world from hers, but he had ridden over her father's land with the local hunt. She remembered him very well; he had been mesmeric with that black hair and those dark eyes, in the drama of his red coat, buff breeches and knee-length black leather boots. Prue had watched the hunt from her bedroom window, but she had never ridden with them. She had a pony, like most of the farmers' children in that part of the world, a shaggy moorland pony bought cheaply at a horse auction and broken for her by her father. It was a stolid, patient, gentle creature, but her mother wouldn't let her hunt, and anyway, Prue had been divided in her loyalties. She loved foxes, and hated the savagery of the hunt, yet the huntsmen on their tall, sleek horses had such glamour, particularly Josh Killane, who was a superb horseman, and usually leading the rest of the hunt across hedges and over fields, riding as if he was part of the horse, arrogantly, gracefully, carelessly.

  Most of the land in the valley belonged to the Killane family. They owned several farms as well as the one they farmed themselves. They had lived at Killane House since the Napoleonic wars when a returning soldier bought up a great stretch of land, built himself a solid, elegantly functional house, planted a park around it, and started a dynasty.

  Her father was one of their tenants; he had been born on the farm which his father had then rented, and he loved the place. Her mother had been a Londoner; she had hated the Killanes and what she called the feudal way of life in the valley. After she married James Allardyce, she tried to get him to leave his farm, go to Australia, where she had a brother, but he would never listen. At first, she had believed him when he said he simply couldn't bear to leave Yorkshire, but gradually she had come to believe that he had another reason for staying in the valley, among the Killanes.

  Josh Killane's mother, Lucy, had been the other woman who had wrecked that marriage and driven Susan Allardyce and Prue away to Australia.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PRUE was so engrossed that she was barely aware of walking out of the hospital, getting into the car, driving away. Josh Killane drove capably; Prue noticed that at last, if reluctantly, prickling with hostility. He didn't seem aware of her; his profile razor-edged, eyes fixed. ahead. He was wearing casual, working clothes: blue denims, a blue shirt, a sheepskin jacket. He still looked tough and he still had the same glamour. It wasn't just the aura of power, or money; the man himself was somehow compelling.

  She disliked his manner, his self-assurance, his way of talking, looking at her, but she had to admit that he was not someone you could ever overlook. His features were too masculine; all angles and very insistent. She had a vague idea that he took after his father in feature, as far as she remembered Henry Killane—but in colouring he undoubtedly took after his mother. She could see Lucy Killane now, if she dosed her eyes, so she did, and immediately summoned up the elegant, beautiful woman who had haunted her childhood. Was she still alive? Did she still have that sleek black hair, the eyes of gleaming jet, the flawless camellia skin?

  'Why have you come back?' Josh asked abruptly, and she opened her eyes wide at the tone of his voice.

  'To see my father!'

  'After ten years of silence, you suddenly remembered him?' His voice was dry with sarcasm and she flushed with anger.

  'I'm not discussing my private life with you, Mr Killane!'

  'I'm sure you don't want to, but you're going to have to . . .' He paused, then emphasised her name, 'Miss Allardyce!'

  'Oh, no, I'm not!' Prue said through her teeth. 'You know nothing about me . . .'

  'I know your father wrote to you for years without getting a single reply!' he said bitingly. 'Oh, I'm sure he won't reproach you. He's too happy to have you back home to say anything. I'm not going to let you get away that easily, though!'

  'This is none of your business!'

  'I'm making it my business!' His voice had a harsh rasp, but Prue wasn't backing down, however much he glared.

  'Now, look!' she burst out, but he just raised his voice several decibels.

  'I like and admire your father and I know how much it hurt him, all these years, having a daughter on the other side of the world who wouldn't even send him a Christmas card!'

  'Don't you shout at m
e!' seethed Prue, tempted to hit him with something. 'Things are never as simple as they may look to an outsider, and that's what you are, Mr Killane—an outsider! You only know one part of the story, my father's, and I'm ready to bet you don't even know his for certain. I think you're guessing at what he feels.

  You certainly know nothing about what was going on in my mind—or my life, come to that—over the last ten years. You don't know what you're talking about, so until you know something more about me, will you please . . .' She drew breath, fighting with her temper, then it got away from her and she snapped, 'Butt out, Mr Killane!'

  He had slowed and was staring at her, his face hard. A lorry snarled passed them and that pulled his attention back to the road. He accelerated again, his eyes on the cars coming towards them, and didn't say anything much for a while, then he said coolly, 'You may see me as an outsider, but I doubt if your father would. I've known him all my life, remember; he's not just one of our tenants, he's an old family friend.'

  The flush on her cheeks deepened. Was he hinting at the long affair between her father and his mother? Or was he blind to the truth? She had asked her mother how the Killane family felt, and her mother had laughed bitterly. They were too stupid to see what went on right under their noses, she had said, but could they really have been?

  'Is your m . . . Are your parents still alive?' she asked him, sliding a sideways look at him, her lashes down over her green eyes. His face hadn't changed; she could see ho uneasiness or awareness in those hard features. If he knew, wouldn't he betray it somehow?

  'My mother is,' he said. 'My father died just over four years ago.'

  So his mother had been a widow for over four years? Prue frowned.

  Yet Mrs Killane and her father had not got married once she was free? Was their affair over? Prue thought of the way her father had looked yesterday: grey and a little weary, beginning to show his age.