by Sara Craven
It shouldn’t have happened, she thought bitterly. Not when she’d been telling herself over and over again that his continuing absence was a relief. A case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’.
But being forced to consider what he might indeed be doing while out of sight had aroused a sharp pang deep inside her, of which her damaged lip was only an outer sign.
It’s none of my concern what he does, she told herself forcefully. He’s a law unto himself and always has been. And if anyone should feel injured by his behaviour, it’s certainly not me.
In the past few days, while she was out with Flare or shopping in East Ledwick, she’d caught several glimpses of Lindsay Watson walking slowly along, her head bent, shoulders slumped and clearly deep in thought. And to judge by her body language, her thoughts were not particularly happy ones.
Chloe could imagine why. According to the village grapevine, Sir Gregory’s condition was improving every day, which meant that he would soon not need a full-time nurse and Lindsay would be looking for another job.
Which meant that if she’d been entertaining hopes of securing Darius as a husband, her time could be running out, a situation not improved by his continuing absence in London. And maybe she too had her suspicions about what drew him there.
Maybe I should feel sympathy for her, thought Chloe. But somehow I can’t. And anyway, I have my own problems.
When she arrived at the stable yard, she was surprised to see Samson out of his box, saddled and bridled but tied up securely. He clearly resented the restriction, moving restively, his head jerking and eyes rolling. Every glowing inch of him a magnificent challenge, thought Chloe, her heart missing a beat.
‘Am I riding him today?’ She couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice, and Arthur snorted.
‘Not on your life, gal. Mr Darius warned me before he went away that you weren’t to be allowed anywhere near the nasty devil.’
‘Oh,’ said Chloe. ‘Did he really?’
‘Yes, missy, and he meant it, so you can take that look off your face. And Samson’s going tomorrow, off to stud in Ireland, which I won’t be sorry for.’ He nodded severely. ‘Tim Hankin, the gamekeeper’s eldest boy has been coming over each afternoon to exercise the blighter, but he’ll be early today as he has to rejoin his regiment. Off to Afghanistan again, seemingly.’
Chloe frowned. ‘Tim? I don’t think I know him.’
‘Good lad,’ said Arthur. ‘But wild when he was a youngster. Mr Darius, being a pal of his, had to drag him out of all kinds of trouble, some worse than others.’
Chloe lifted her chin. She said coolly, ‘It sounds to me like six of one and half a dozen of the other.’
‘Does it?’ said Arthur grimly. ‘Then maybe you don’t know as much about Mr Darius as you think, my girl. Now I’ll finish tacking up Orion for you.’
Chloe leaned against the wall, watching Samson as he fidgeted, ears pricked, clearly bored and becoming irritable. In the stable she could hear Arthur’s chiding voice telling Orion to stand still.
Seriously fast, she thought with longing, and jumps like an angel. Darius said so himself in the restaurant that night. But off to Ireland, so I may never get another chance.
And how dare he tell Arthur to warn me off, as if I was some stupid little novice who can’t be trusted with a difficult horse? I’ll show him—I’ll show both of them that I can really ride. But I won’t go too far—just down to the first paddock and back in order to make my point.
She began to walk towards Samson, who acknowledged her approach by curling back his lip to show his teeth.
She said softly, ‘Come on, beautiful. Show me how nice you can be.’
But nice did not seem to be a word that Samson understood. As she approached, he began to stamp, swishing his tail, his nostrils flaring ominously. Chloe halted, trying to quell her sudden apprehension.
Dangerous, she thought. Dangerous and unpredictable. Both attributes which had attracted her once before and almost led her to disaster.
She took a deep breath. If you get the better of Samson, she thought, then maybe you can also conquer this ludicrous obsession with Darius, and put it behind you where it belongs, once and for all.
It’s something you have to prove to yourself, for heaven’s sake, if you’re to have any hope for the future.
As she got closer, Samson began to sidle around, trying to jerk loose from his tethering ring probably in order to lunge at her.
Murmuring nonsense in a low, soothing voice, wondering which of them she was trying to calm most, herself or the horse, Chloe warily adjusted the girth and the stirrups.
And then, as if by magic, all the angry restless movements were suddenly stilled and his head even drooped a little.
Well, what do you know? thought Chloe. Maybe all he ever needed was a woman’s touch.
Very gingerly, she untied him and, without having lost a hand, swung herself up into the saddle.
For a moment, everything was quiet, but it was only the lull before the storm as Samson’s powerful muscles bunched and, with a squeal of pure rage, he wheeled round then reared up, in an attempt to throw her off his back and into oblivion.
His hooves clattered down and he went into a series of fierce bucks, forcing her to cling on desperately, winding a hand in his mane in addition to the reins.
Every atom of concentration in her body was fixed on staying in the saddle, because she knew that if she was thrown, she would be kicked and trampled. That the least she could expect was serious injury.
She was half blind with fright, almost deafened by the noise of his drumming, relentless hooves, overwhelmed by her helplessness in the face of such fury, and yet, somewhere in her consciousness, there seemed to be men’s voices shouting.
Someone was there, a stranger, tall and broad-shouldered, seizing the bridle as Arthur arrived on the other side, both of them clinging there, fighting Samson to a breathless, swearing halt, while another pair of strong arms reached up and dragged Chloe without gentleness out of the saddle, hauling her back across the yard and out of the range of those viciously kicking back legs.
Sobbing drily, wordlessly with relief, she looked up into Darius’s white face. Saw the emerald blaze of his eyes, felt herself scorched by an anger that left Samson as a mere beginner, and knew that any thought of safety was an illusion.
He said between his teeth, ‘Hell, woman, are you suicidal or just bloody insane?’
She tried to speak, to explain, but no sound would come from the tightness of her throat. His arms were iron, caging her, making her listen as his voice went on, soft and menacing, never repeating himself, as his words seemed to flay the skin from her bones.
At last she began to cry, the scalding tears pouring silently and remorselessly down her pale face, and his grasp slackened.
He said with great weariness, ‘Oh, God,’ and looked across to where Samson stood, defeated and sullen, between his two warders.
He said, ‘Tim, Miss Benson’s car’s just outside. Drive her back to Axford Grange, will you, and I’ll see you for a farewell drink at the Butchers Arms in an hour.’
She began to say that she could drive herself, trying to snatch back some atom of dignity from the situation, but the look he sent her stopped her in her tracks.
Tim Hankin’s hand under her elbow was firm, but there was kindness in it too, and she went with him without further protest.
They were outside the Hall grounds and on the road to the village when he eventually spoke, his tone gentle.
‘You don’t want to take what Darius said too much to heart, Miss Benson. Yes, you did a silly thing, but his bark’s always been worse than his bite, as I have cause to know.’
Chloe was blotting her face with a handful of tissues from the glove compartment. She said chokingly, ‘No-one’s ever spoken to me like that before. As if they—hated me.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Fear takes people in different ways. And he was much rougher on me, I promise you, because I d
eserved it more.’
She said, sniffing, ‘I can’t believe that.’
‘Then you’d be wrong.’ He pulled the car onto the verge, and switched off the engine. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of, but maybe you need to hear it.’
He paused. ‘It was a long time ago.’ His voice was quiet and serious. ‘We’d always been mates from young kids, Darius and me. But he’d been away—school then university—and I was bored, being expected to follow in Dad’s footsteps as a gamekeeper and not sure it was what I wanted, so I got in with a bad crowd.
‘Darius found out somehow—he always could—and discovered what they were up to. I’d not wanted to get involved because it was against the law and vile too, but I didn’t know how to break free. I knew the kind of men they were and what they’d do to me if I tried.’
Chloe gasped. ‘Was it—dog fighting?’
‘Yes.’ Tim Hankin spoke heavily. ‘Darius knew that the police were tracking the gang organising it and there was going to be a raid. He also knew what it would do to Mum and Dad if I was caught with them, and he came to find me. Got me out some way, God knows how, and we headed for home, miles across country dodging the police who were everywhere. He was taking one hell of a risk for me.
‘When we’d gone far enough to be safe, he went for me. Called me every name under the sun and a few more even I hadn’t heard of. Then he hit me. Knocked me down, and I didn’t even try to defend myself because I knew I’d asked for it and more.
‘Then we sat down and talked, and the next day he drove me to the nearest recruiting office and I joined up, got into a regiment where I could work with horses.’
She said, ‘There were—rumours—afterwards, about Darius. That he was the one going to dog fights.’
‘I know that, and I’m sorry for it. But he never cared much about local gossip or what people thought of him.’
He gave her a sober look. ‘However, I could have ended up in jail, Miss Benson, and you could be laid in that yard with your neck broken, and how could he ever have lived with that? Think about it.’
He restarted the car. ‘And now I’ll get you home.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘PAPERWORK?’ Chloe repeated. ‘You have to catch up on paperwork? Oh, Ian, surely not.’
‘Look.’ His voice down the phone sounded harassed. ‘I’ll still be coming to the wretched dinner party. I just won’t be able to pick you up first. But there’s no real problem, surely, when you can go with your aunt and uncle?’
‘No,’ Chloe agreed with an effort. ‘Of course not.’
But that’s not the point, she longed to shout at him. I wanted to arrive with you, as one half of a couple, so I wouldn’t have to face Darius tonight on my own. I was relying on you to be with me from the start.
And I can’t even tell you why without admitting the lethally stupid thing I did trying to ride Samson. Maybe Darius was right and I did take leave of my senses. But I can’t bear anyone else to know, especially Aunt Libby and Uncle Hal.
They hadn’t been at home when she’d returned the day before. A scribbled note left on the kitchen table explained they’d gone into East Ledwick to talk to an estate agent, and her lunch—a pan of home-made vegetable soup keeping warm on the range, fresh bread and some good cheese—was waiting.
She only managed a few spoonfuls of soup, her churning stomach resisting any thought of solid food.
She was still shaking with reaction to the abominable risk she’d taken and the consequent scene in the stable yard. Nor could she stop crying. It didn’t matter how many times she tried to tell herself that Darius had no right to speak to her like that, she still knew in her heart that the fault was hers and she deserved every damning word.
Her immediate thought was to invent some illness in order to avoid the following night’s dinner party, and only the conviction that Darius would know she was faking it kept her on track. The prospect of having to endure more of his icy scorn when they did eventually meet was more than she could bear.
Her battle with Samson had left her physically as well as mentally bruised, so when she had cleared lunch away, she went upstairs and indulged in a long, hot bath.
But if the warm water eased her body, it also freed her mind, and she found herself thinking back over everything Tim Hankin had said, especially with regard to the illegal dog-fighting ring and the role Darius had played in it, contrary to all reports.
She had to be glad that he hadn’t been involved in anything so disgusting, but while he might have been misjudged over that, there was still plenty to set to his account, she told herself resolutely. He hadn’t suddenly turned into the Archangel Gabriel. And there was certainly no need for her to make excuses for him.
She found some arnica tablets in the bathroom cabinet, and remembered too how Darius had once offered her the same remedy.
For a moment she stood, staring into space, the small bottle clutched in her hand. Then she took a deep breath and said aloud, ‘I will not think about him. I will not.’
But it was obvious that she needed something to take her mind off the past few hours and hard work was usually the best diversion, she thought as she recalled Aunt Libby saying that the borders in the front garden needed weeding. Accordingly, she put on old jeans and a tee shirt and went out to tackle them.
‘Kerb appeal,’ she muttered as she dealt with a persistent dandelion. ‘And I hope the punters appreciate it.’
Her aunt and uncle were certainly appreciative of her efforts, especially as three valuations of the Grange had been scheduled for the start of the following week. But, over supper, they also began to enquire, albeit tactfully and gently, about her own plans, and she could tell them nothing.
It’s time Ian and I stopped shilly-shallying, she told herself when she was in her room, having offered gardening fatigue as an excuse for an early night and an escape from further questions. If I’d had my wedding to plan, I’d have had no time to waste on exercising other people’s horses, and saved myself a load of grief.
Against the odds, she slept soundly, and woke determined to be positive.
‘I’m getting my hair done in honour of tonight’s dinner party,’ Aunt Libby announced over breakfast. ‘Shall I ask Denise if she can fit you in too?’
Chloe shook her head. ‘I’ll give myself a shampoo, thanks, and just leave it loose.’ She paused, smiling. ‘The way Ian likes it.’
Her aunt gave her a swift glance then looked back at her plate. ‘Just as you wish, my dear,’ she said equably. ‘I presume he’ll be driving you to the Hall tonight.’
‘Indeed he will,’ said Chloe.
Only now he wouldn’t, so there was embarrassment to add to the disappointment of his phone call, she realised as she busied herself preparing a ham salad for lunch.
Her uncle was later than usual and came in apologising. ‘I’ve been up at the Hall,’ he said. ‘In case a shot of something was needed to get that damned horse of Andrew Maynard’s into the box for transit. But Darius had summoned a couple of grooms over from that stud farm of his in Ireland, and they got the job done.’
‘Oh.’ Chloe set down his plate with more than usual care, aware her heartbeat had quickened nervously. ‘I—heard Samson was going.’ She tried to keep her tone casual, wondering if anything had been said about her visit the day before, and steeling herself for another dressing down, but Uncle Hal was serving himself from a dish of new potatoes with apparent unconcern, so she seemed to have been spared.
Yet that made the prospect of the evening ahead no more enticing, although she felt that she could be reasonably satisfied with her appearance at least. She was wearing a favourite dress in a close-fitting silky fabric that enhanced every slender curve, knee-length, long-sleeved and scoop-necked in a dramatic shade of deep red. Her lips and nails had been painted to match, and she had the antique garnet-and-pearl drops that had been part of her twenty-first birthday present, in her ears.
Fighting colours, she thought ironically, as sh
e viewed herself in the mirror. Nothing even slightly penitential, although she had reluctantly decided that some word of regret for her escapade the previous day would be appropriate if a suitable opportunity occurred, at the same time, crossing her fingers that it wouldn’t. And she knew that she should also be thankful that her stupidity hadn’t been mentioned.
Only she didn’t feel even remotely grateful. Just terribly apprehensive.
Although she told herself a dozen times that she was overreacting, it was a feeling that somehow, in spite of her best efforts, refused to go away.
Chloe had hoped that Ian would deal quickly with the VAT returns or whatever was holding him up, and be at the Hall, waiting for her.
But one glance round the drawing room soon disabused her of that notion, and her heart sank.
Oh, Ian where are you when I need you? she whispered under her breath.
Sir Gregory was seated in a high-backed armchair beside the fireplace. While he was undoubtedly resplendent in a dark green velvet smoking jacket, his face was sunken with one side of his mouth turned down a little. And he appeared, Chloe thought instantly, to have shrunk in some odd way.
Or perhaps he just seemed smaller in contrast to the tall young man in the charcoal suit and pale grey brocade waistcoat, standing beside him and resting a casual arm on the back of his father’s chair.
And who was now walking forward, smiling. ‘Mrs Jackson. It’s a pleasure to see you again. And Mr Jackson.’ They all shook hands, then Darius let his glance drift past them to the girl standing in silence behind them.
‘Chloe,’ he said, inclining his head with cool politeness.
She returned a breathless, ‘Good evening,’ joined her aunt and uncle in their polite greetings to Sir Gregory, then turned away rather too hastily to speak to Dr Vaughan, the head of the neighbourhood GP practice and his wife. The vicar was there too with Mrs Squires, and so were Hugo Burton and Prunella Burton, the local MP and his wife, and by the time she’d greeted them all, and taken a glass of orange juice from the tray of drinks being brought round by a maid, she was beginning to feel rather more comfortable. But she would only be able to relax properly, she told herself, when Ian arrived.