Читать книгу: «Bridegroom On Loan»

CHAPTER TWO

BENT in half, eyes screwed shut, arms outstretched, breath held, she waited. She could almost feel the weight of it, almost hear the settling of tortured metal, but not quite. Not above the howling of the wind that was now not only outside the car, but in.

Cautiously opening her eyes, she squinted sideways. From what she could see, which wasn’t very much, the tree had crushed the door and the back of the seat and now lay at an angle above her. Not touching her, but an inch or so above her hunched back. The car roof had been crumpled, the windscreen and side windows were gone and glass was showered across her thighs. The odd thing was, she felt quite objective about it all. Not panicky, or hysterical, just objective. She wasn’t hurt—at least, she didn’t think she was. Cramped, lying awkwardly, but not hurt. It was also like being in a wind tunnel. Dust and grit were whirled about her and she had to squint her eyes shut to avoid damage.

She was an independent girl, used to fending for herself, and it didn’t even occur to her that she might wait until someone came along to help.

Cautiously raising her head, she encountered metal, and lowered it again. The gear lever was digging into her hip. She shifted slightly, the car groaned, and she lay still.

The tree was heavy, she told herself, so the car wasn’t going anywhere. She also thought that the tree had done all the crushing it was going to do. So…

She tried to lever her feet up on what was left of the driver’s seat, and couldn’t. Tried to wriggle out from under the crushed metal, and couldn’t. Curved over like a bow, face down, she was effectively stuck—unless she could push the seat back.

Her long dark hair hanging over her face, shoulders hunched, she groped under the seat to locate the lever, pulled—and the seat shot back with the force of a rocket. Dumped head-first on the floor, she cursed, then swore as the car alarm went off.

This was silly.

And why was it, she wondered, that the English always considered how they looked before considering how they felt? Weird.

She managed to get her upper half on to the cushion, managed to lower the seat back—and then wondered whether you could actually open a hatchback from the inside. Well, she decided crossly as she struggled to free herself, if she couldn’t she would just have to wait until someone came! Which probably wouldn’t be until it got light, or the storm blew itself out. Which didn’t sound imminent, although that terrifying roaring and shrieking had gone. A tornado? That was how it had seemed in those few jumbled impressions she’d had before the tree struck. Not that she’d ever seen a tornado first hand, only on news reports, and certainly never in England.

‘And will you shut up?’ she yelled at the car alarm.

She was wearing herself out with the effort to get free, a temper tantrum imminent, when light flickered across her and was gone.

Startled, she flung up her head. ‘Hello?’ she called.

‘Carenza?’ A torch was shone in the crushed side window and she twisted towards it.

‘Can you see me?’ she shouted stupidly.

‘I can see you. Are you hurt?’

‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m stuck!’

Beck, she thought in relief, and if there was one person you needed in a crisis it was someone like Beck. His jacket was being whipped and snapped like rigging on a yacht, hair blown every which way as he reached in to remove the ignition key, and the alarm thankfully stopped its strident call.

Moments later, the rear of the car was lifted, the back seats shoved flat, and the car dipped alarmingly as he crawled into the small space.

‘Which part of you is stuck?’

‘My hips; I don’t have enough leverage.’ And she was definitely going on a diet when she got out of this.

He put down the torch, grasped her upper arms, braced his feet, and pulled. One foot against the splintered dashboard, she pushed, ignored the pain of being squashed like a sausage, and eventually came free.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘Just let me get my breath…’

‘No time.’ He sounded terse, urgent, and for once she didn’t argue, just allowed him to drag her free. Into mayhem—and another tree that looked in imminent danger of toppling.

He grabbed her arm and dragged her away from danger. Eyes shut to protect them from the whirling dust and debris, fingers clutched into his coat, she stumbled blindly where he led. Speech and coherent thought were impossible; they needed all their energy for walking, or staggering, to safety. Impossible to stand upright, hair almost tugged from its roots by the force of the gale, they could only go in the direction the wind was blowing. She fell twice and was ruthlessly dragged to her feet, but without Beck she would never have managed.

Power lines were down and were shooting blue sparks across the grass. Avoiding them, detouring round so many fallen trees, climbing over those they couldn’t, virtually blind in the pitch-darkness, he forced her on, until thankfully, blissfully, they were in the lee of a building. Exhausted from the battle, they remained there a few moments to catch their breath.

‘All right?’ he shouted.

She nodded against his shoulder.

‘Ready?’

She nodded again, and he urged her along the side of the stone wall, then round the corner where the full force of the wind hit them again. Anchoring her against his side, he halted again, fumbled in his pocket for his keys, unlocked the door and thrust her inside. It took all his strength to shut the door behind them, and the transition from violence to calm left her almost uncomprehending.

She found that she was shaking. Untangling her hair with her fingers, she tucked it behind her ears, savoured the ability to breathe normally. She still couldn’t see a thing. But she was aware of him beside her. More aware than she had any right to be.

She heard him flick a switch, but nothing happened. He didn’t say anything further, and neither did she. He took her arm and led her blindly across the room and into another one. Low burning coals in the fireplace gave some illumination and he steered her towards an armchair.

His shadow was huge, unreal as he bent to toss a log on the fire, stir it into life, and then he said quietly, ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was as quiet as his.

The wind sounded somehow worse from inside, as though it were angry that its prey had escaped. And I’ll huff and I’ll puff, she thought tiredly, and I’ll blow your house down. Leaning back, jumping nervously at every crash from outside, she stared at the fire. Flames were beginning to lick round the log. Hungry, devouring, but she was alive, safe, and in the house of Andrew Beckford, known to his friends as Beck. Her employer. A man she’d been avoiding for the past few weeks of working for him. Because it was best.

The first time they’d met, last November, she had thought it would be just another job, another client. She hadn’t expected to like him. From the little she had known about him—that he was a marine archaeologist, respected mountaineer, explorer, a crewman in one of the Tall Ships Races—she had expected him to be arrogant, condescending, and he hadn’t been like that at all. A tall man with steady grey eyes and brown hair, he exuded a quiet confidence. There had also been an air of sadness about him, of hurt, and, like the fool she sometimes was, she’d allowed her heart to rule her head and agreed to work for him. She should have refused, because when she had discovered that he was engaged to the beautiful Helena it was too late.

She could hear the soft movements he made in the kitchen. With no electricity, he must have gas, or an Aga if he was able to boil a kettle, but it was an absent thought.

When he returned carrying two mugs, she turned her head to watch him. He handed her one, and went to stand by the fireplace, staring down into the fire. The flickering shadows curved his face into a mask, made it unfamiliar, stark; only the eyes seemed alive, bright, intelligent.

‘Were you coming to see me?’ He spoke quietly, gaze still on the fire.

‘No, I’d left my notebook at the centre. I tried ringing you…’

‘I wasn’t there.’

‘No. I should have left it until tomorrow, but I needed to check some figures.’

‘And being an impatient sort of person…’ he murmured.

‘Yes. I didn’t know a gale was imminent. I didn’t see the weather report. I knew March was supposed to be windy, but…’ She felt awkward. Nervous of being alone with him. ‘And then I missed the turning,’ she continued with false brightness. ‘What’s with the dragons?’

‘Dragons?’

‘Mm. The Muted Dragon, Dragon’s Rest. St Maxim’s Forest known for them, is it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. A local legend, I expect.’

‘I should have asked the one I met. If I’d had time, that is. Trees falling on you tend to limit conversation somewhat. Sorry,’ she apologised with a wan smile. ‘I always ramble when I’m tired. It’s been one hell of a day.’ And was liable to get worse. Her awareness of him in the intimacy of the darkened room was ten times worse than it normally was. Unable to sit still, she put her coffee on a nearby table and got to her feet. Hands shoved into her jacket pockets, she walked across to the window. ‘What were you doing out? Looking for damage?’

‘No, I was on my way home. The road was blocked. I left the Land Rover and walked.’

‘Lucky for me.’

‘Yes.’

Turning, she gave him a small smile that he probably couldn’t see in the dark room. ‘I loved that car. Stupid, isn’t it? I mean, get a life, Carenza…’ Tailing off, she returned her attention to the darkened window. All she could see was herself. She was never at a loss for words. Never. And now she couldn’t think of one.

‘Are you hungry?’

She shook her head. ‘I had something earlier.’

‘Then if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’d better empty the freezer.’

‘Yes, of course.’

When he’d gone, she returned to the chair and picked up her mug. Both hands wrapped round it for warmth, she stared at the fire. Miss No Brain, she scolded herself. All it needed now was for the beauteous Helena to come wafting in. Even an idiot could have sensed the tension between them—not that she thought Helena an idiot—she didn’t know her, didn’t want to know her—but she couldn’t have failed to miss the fact that Beck was as aware and tense as she was. Which naturally begged the question, why? If he was in love with Helena, why would he be attracted to herself? Because he was. She knew he was. The pair of them had been as inarticulate as teenagers. And Beck wasn’t a man for inarticulateness. He wasn’t a shy man.

Resting her mug on her knee, she continued to stare into the fire. Continued to think about him. Speculate. As she had been doing since the first time she met him.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, only remembered waking. Opening her eyes, she stared blankly at the fire. It was freshly banked, warm and cosy. A blanket covered her, and the wind had stopped. Silence. Complete and utter silence. Grey light filled the room, and she turned to look at the window. A window framed by expensive curtains. It was raining, she saw.

Allowing her gaze to roam, she pulled a face, partly envious, partly wry. The whole room was expensive. Being an interior designer, she could tell, almost to the last penny, how much it had all cost. Not entirely to her taste with all those small tables holding lamps, too much like something out of a magazine, but tasteful, she supposed. The only thing she really liked was the fire.

She’d never been in the house, never been alone with him. On the few occasions when they had met, it had always been in the centre when other people were present—and she couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep. Too many late nights, she supposed, and a weekend spent chasing clients who owed her money. And the day-to-day tension that she might see Beck, of course. Who was engaged to Helena. And women knew, didn’t they? When another woman was attracted to their man?

You can sometimes be very silly, Carenza. Masochistic even. Yes.

With a deep sigh, a wide yawn, she pushed the blanket aside. The knees of her tailored trousers were torn and muddy, her boots caked with God only knew what. Her jacket was creased. And she ached. Stretching to ease her cramped muscles, she went to peer at her reflection in an ornate mirror, and tried to smile. Something the cat wouldn’t have brought in. Her long hair was tangled, her mascara smudged. Wetting a finger, she wiped away the worst of it and then turned away, because there was absolutely nothing she could do about how she looked. She didn’t even have a comb with her.

Walking into the large kitchen, she halted with another dented smile. It was also expensively decorated. A blue enamel Aga stood proudly against one wall; a matching blue hood with a brass rail hovered protectively above it. The stone flags were cold beneath her feet. The oak cupboards and units matched the long table and chairs, the tiles matched the floor, the walls the curtains. Someone’s idea of a country kitchen. Except it wasn’t. She’d been in a great many country kitchens, and they didn’t look like this. There should be muddy wellington boots, raincoats, a dog basket…Where did poor Spanner sleep? Not here, obviously.

There was no sign of Beck, or Helena, but a kettle steamed gently on the Aga. Milk, sugar and coffee had been left on the work surface. Taking a cup from the mock Welsh dresser, she made herself a hot drink and went to stare from the window. The rain was falling heavy and straight. Noisy. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, menacing sound, and she spared a thought for the poor clear-up crews who would be working out in this. She could see a lot of the damage from here. White, ugly scars on the trees where branches had been ripped off, those that were left standing, that was. There were scattered bricks across what looked like a dug-up lawn. Perhaps that was the next item for renovation.

Sipping her coffee, lost in her thoughts, she started when she heard the back door open. Turning, heart beating over-fast, she found a faint smile as Beck walked in. Drowned rat wasn’t in it. Hair plastered to his head, jacket and jeans soaked through, he gave a small smile back, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke,’ he apologised quietly. ‘I just wanted to check for damage.’

‘That’s all right. How bad is it?’

‘Bad. The “front”, as it’s being called,’ he murmured humorously as he shrugged out of his jacket, shook it and draped it over a chair, ‘cut a swathe through the south of England about a mile wide. Anything in its path was either uprooted or destroyed. Fortunately, it seems to have missed any major towns. I don’t suppose the true extent of the damage will be known for a few days. Certainly the electricity won’t be on for a while. Did you sleep all right?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Never one to pussy-foot around, she said bluntly, ‘I haven’t seen Helena.’

He looked away, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘No,’ he agreed quietly. ‘She isn’t here.’

‘Oh.’

Sounded like a sensitive subject, best avoided, perhaps, and she was disgusted with herself for the rush of hope she felt that they might have split up. Returning her attention to the garden, she observed lightly, ‘The storm will have put your landscaping plans back.’ When he didn’t answer, she turned to look at him, curiosity in her dark eyes. ‘No landscaping?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

One hand on the back of the chair where he’d tossed his jacket, he said quietly, ‘I tried to keep it separate.’

‘Sorry?’ she asked in confusion.

‘The house and the conference centre. I tried to keep them separate.’ His back to her, he walked across to the Aga and put the kettle back on to boil.

Thoroughly bewildered, she asked lamely, ‘Why?’

‘Because it was easier.’ Turning to face her, he gave a grim smile. ‘Helena is missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘Yes. She walked out one day and didn’t come back.’

‘Didn’t come back?’ she echoed in amazement. ‘But why on earth didn’t you tell me? No,’ she corrected herself with a little grimace. ‘Why should you? It wasn’t any of my business, was it? And you wanted to keep the conference centre and your private concerns separate.’ Which was why he’d never invited her to the house. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was because something was between them that wasn’t allowed to be between them.

‘Yes.’

‘She left without telling you she was going?’ Just because it was none of her business, that didn’t stop her being curious.

‘Yes.’

‘Because of the row?’

‘No,’ he denied simply.

‘Because of a lover?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And no one knows where she is?’

‘No.’

‘How long…? I mean, when did she…?’

‘Leave? Two months ago. She didn’t take anything with her. Not her passport, her clothes, any money. Or her car.’

When he said nothing further, she persisted, ‘And?’ Because there had to be an ‘and’, didn’t there?

‘And the police dug up the garden.’

Flicking her eyes to the window, then back to him, a very hollow feeling inside, she whispered in shock, ‘They think you—killed her?’

‘Probably not, but her father insisted that she wouldn’t have just walked out. And the police have to cover all possibilities, don’t they?’

‘That’s what they said?’

‘Yes.’

A frown in her eyes, she returned her attention to the garden. ‘Why would her father think she wouldn’t walk out?’

‘He doesn’t like me, and he didn’t think I was good enough for her. He thinks me cruel.’

‘No,’ she denied without hesitation. Whatever else he might be, she would have staked her life on the fact that he wasn’t a cruel man. And how on earth could she not have known that all this was going on? People gossiped, started rumours… ‘Does everyone believe it?’ she asked. ‘That you killed her?’

‘I don’t know if they believe it or not, but mud sticks.’

‘But there’s no evidence—is there?’

‘No.’

‘But until she’s found…’

‘I’m under suspicion, yes.’

Genuinely concerned, she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Beck.’

With a deep sigh, he finished making his coffee. ‘I’ll see if I can find you somewhere else to stay until the roads are open.’

‘Why?’

‘I just told you why.’

Watching him, she gave a disturbed smile. ‘For my reputation, or yours?’ she asked softly.

‘Yours.’

‘Oh, I think my reputation can stand it. More to the point, does anyone else have a wood-burning stove?’

His mouth smiled. His eyes didn’t. ‘No, but you can’t stay here.’

End of discussion? He spoke so quietly, impassively, with no sign of the strain he must be under, and her staying here had nothing whatever to do with reputations.

‘Afraid I might ravish you?’ she asked huskily.

‘No, Carenza, I’m not afraid you might ravish me.’

‘I’d like to…Sorry,’ she apologised hastily, her face pink. ‘I sometimes have a very big mouth.’

‘To go with being a big girl?’

‘Yes.’ Being tall and rather generously made was the bane of her life. She’d always yearned to be tiny. Like Helena. No, not like Helena. Sigh deeper, she continued her contemplation of the ruined garden. ‘She was very beautiful,’ she murmured, and she had been. She’d only seen her the once—and once had been enough, she thought with a twisted smile. And no greater contrast to herself could ever have existed. Helena had been small and slender, perfection personified. Shoulder-length blonde hair that waved in exactly the right places. Wide blue eyes, a perfect nose…She’d watched from the window of the conference centre as Helena had tucked her hand into Beck’s arm, smiled at him. A woman sure of her own attraction. Sure of being loved. Carenza was statuesque, and her thick dark hair didn’t wave at all.

‘Is there anyone you need to let know where you are?’ he asked quietly.

She shook her head.

‘Just as well,’ he said with slight wryness, ‘because I have no way of contacting them for you. I don’t have a mobile.’

‘And I left mine on the hall table. I wasn’t going to be gone long: drive down and collect my notebook, drive home.’

‘Yes. The Aga doesn’t have a back boiler, but there should be enough hot water left if you want a shower,’ he continued. ‘Bathroom’s the first door at the top of the stairs.’ Hesitating a moment, he added, ‘Helena left all her clothes here, and although you might not want to wear her things there are whole drawers of new underwear, things she’d bought and never used. There’s no easy way to offer this, but you’re very welcome to take anything you need. It might take a while to find you somewhere else to stay. Her bedroom is next to the bathroom.’

‘Thank you. Clean underwear would be nice.’

‘Then help yourself. I’ll get us some breakfast.’

Nodding, she walked out and into the hall, and then up the stairs. She felt ragged and weak. And the strain of being alone with him until however long it took for him to find her somewhere else to stay was going to be enormous. And yet she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Halting outside Helena’s room, she hesitated. She’d have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t curious about the other woman’s bedroom. Not theirs, Helena’s. Maybe they didn’t sleep together, but in this day and age it was usual for engaged couples to do so, and Beck didn’t look like a man who was celibate. He looked as though he would be a very competent and gentle lover. Innovative, perhaps…And she really rather despised herself for wanting a man who belonged to someone else. For wanting a man who could be attracted to another woman when he was involved with someone else.

Feeling like an intruder, she pushed open the door. White. Everything was white. Drapes, bedlinen, carpet, even the furniture was white. The only colour was an ornate, and probably very expensive, turquoise glass lamp. Taking a deep breath, she slowly opened one door of the fitted wardrobe—except it wasn’t a wardrobe, it was a small, walk-in closet. Clothes hung neatly to either side, all covered in plastic. Evening clothes, day clothes, smart, casual. Shoe racks held all her footwear. All neatly paired. Handbags were tucked beside them. Her own wardrobe looked as if the army might have been holding manoeuvres in there. To actually find a pair of shoes involved taking everything out from the bottom of the wardrobe and then stuffing it all back in. Shoes she never wore, shoes that no longer fitted…Looking at all this, she was embarrassed, and vowed that never, ever would she let anyone else look in her wardrobe. Best clear it out in case she disappeared.

Don’t tempt fate, Carenza.

Backing out, she closed the door. She would just borrow some underwear, she decided. Helena’s clothes wouldn’t have fitted her anyway. Opening each drawer in the tall cabinet that stood by the window, she stared at all the tiny frilly triangles that seemed to constitute Helena’s underwear. Glancing down at her own ample proportions, she laughed. She might just get into a thong. Selecting one, she shut the drawer and escaped from all this glamour.

Removing her jacket, she hung it over the rail at the top of the stairs and walked into the bathroom, which was a great deal more than functional. White granite had been moulded to form the basin, flow smoothly into the bath, and then up to form the shower. A vision in white modernity, as though it had been carved from snow. An ice sculpture. Gold fittings, bottle-green tiles and floor. Almost a shame to use it, really.