Читать книгу Alien Wife - Anne Mather - Страница 7

WHEN Abby came down to breakfast next morning, Daniel McGregor was alone at the table. Noticing the way she raised her eyebrows at the empty place, he smiled.

‘Mr Jordan is not, I think, an early riser, my dear,’ he remarked, helping himself to more toast.

Abby seated herself at the table and reached for the coffee pot. ‘I don’t consider eight o’clock is early,’ she pointed out.

‘No, not for us, perhaps. But we don’t keep the hours they keep in London.’ McGregor paused. ‘Well? What did you think of him?’

‘What did I think of him?’ Abby played for time. ‘That’s an odd question.’

‘But apt, don’t you think?’ The old man shook his head. ‘I’m not a fool, Abby. I know you wanted to meet him.’

Abby’s cheeks burned. ‘Well, that’s not unnatural, is it?’ . ‘No.’ McGregor shook his head. ‘I understand your feelings. But don’t be bitter, child. Life is too short for that.’

Abby bent over her toast, her long dark hair successfully concealing her features from her adopted uncle. Bitter? Yes, she supposed, she was bitter. But it wasn’t that that had made her want to meet Luke Jordan. Other emotions had long since taken over from bitterness, emotions far more destructive if she allowed them free rein.

‘So?’ McGregor was speaking again. ‘What was your impression?’

Abby frowned. What had been her impression of the man her aunt was reputed to be going to marry? Yesterday afternoon he had seemed amiable enough, and certainly attractive in a hard, masculine kind of way, but during and after dinner he had been broodingly morose, only speaking when spoken to and contributing nothing of his own experiences to the conversation. She had hoped he would talk, perhaps about her aunt, but instead he had concentrated on the food on his plate, and only occasionally had she encountered his gaze upon her in frowning meditation.

Now she shrugged her slim shoulders, and said: ‘He—he seemed withdrawn.’

‘Last evening, you mean?’ McGregor nodded. ‘Yes, I noticed that. Perhaps the man was tired.’

‘He didn’t seem so in the afternoon.’

‘Until after he had met you …’ murmured her adopted uncle thoughtfully.

Abby looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know he didn’t know of your existence, don’t you?’

‘I—yes.’

‘Mmm.’ The priest wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘I wonder why Scott refrained from telling him.’

‘You might say the same of Aunt Ella,’ Abby interposed quickly, before she could stop herself.

McGregor sighed. ‘You are bitter, Abby. I was afraid you might be.’ He leant across the table to imprison one of her hands beneath his gnarled one. ‘My dear, Ella has her own reasons for eschewing her responsibilities towards you, and we both know what they are. Who knows? Perhaps she regrets what happened as much as we do—–’

‘I don’t believe that.’

Abby’s tone was flat, and the priest released her hand and rested back in his chair regarding her disappointedly. ‘Abby, Abby! Things haven’t been so bad for you, have they?’

Abby felt a twinge of shame. ‘Of course not, Uncle Daniel. But—without you …’

‘But there was me,’ he replied quietly. ‘And believe me, Ella will have suffered for her thoughtlessness.’

‘Thoughtlessness!’ Abby pressed her lips tightly together. She could think of other words more apt.

‘Well …’ McGregor pushed back his chair and got to his feet, ‘I must go. Mrs Lewis was taken ill again in the night, and I promised I’d go over this morning. If you see our guest, will you tell him I will have to postpone our tour of the village?’

Abby replaced her coffee cup in its saucer. ‘I—er—I have the morning off,’ she volunteered. ‘I could—show Mr Jordan the village.’

McGregor hesitated. Then he shook his head as if dismissing the problem. ‘Why not?’ he agreed. ‘I’m sure the choice of courier will not cause any dissension.’

Abby felt a momentary pang of remorse, and reached for his hand. ‘You’ve always been like a father to me, Uncle Daniel,’ she mumbled unhappily.

The priest patted her head reassuringly, but there was an anxious expression in his eyes. ‘You said that as if you regretted it, Abby,’ he protested, and she forced a smile and lifted her head.

‘I—as if I could!’ she exclaimed, and then coloured anew as a tall figure darkened the doorway.

‘I’m sorry. Am I late for breakfast?’

Luke Jordan stood regarding them both apologetically, lean and disturbing in black suede pants which hugged the bulging muscles of his thighs and emphasised the length of his legs. A black roll-necked sweater completed the ensemble, throwing the lightness of his hair into sharp relief, a startling contrast to his tanned skin. Tall and powerful, he emanated a sexual attraction that was both unconscious and disruptive.

McGregor released Abby’s hand, and greeted his guest warmly. ‘Of course not, my son,’ he told him firmly. ‘Mrs Tully will provide you with whatever you wish. And …’ he paused, glancing at Abby half doubtfully, ‘… as I have parish matters to attend to this morning, Abby has offered her services as your guide.’

‘Abby?’ Luke’s green eyes turned in her direction, and she could see the guarded expression in their depths. ‘That’s—very kind of her, but it’s not necessary. I can make my own way.’

Abby’s smile felt fixed and artificial, but she insisted she had nothing else to do. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

‘But I understood you looked after some children,’ he interposed smoothly, and she had to compel herself to go on with the charade.

‘I’m free this morning,’ she explained, aware of the old priest’s eyes upon her. She forced a light laugh. ‘If you say much more, I shall think you don’t want my company!’

Luke recognised defeat, but there was a grimness about his mouth which belied her victory. Mrs Tully appeared to see whether their guest required breakfast, and McGregor took his leave, mentioning he would see them both at lunchtime.

Abby finished her meal quickly, and went to change her shoes while Mrs Tully attended to Luke Jordan. She guessed he was not pleased with her offer of companionship, but if she was to go through with this she must not be put off at the first obstacle. Besides, he was aware of her—how could he not be?—and once they got to know one another … She refused to consider her own feelings.

She zipped her slender legs into long boots and added a crimson windcheater to her attire of jeans and denim shirt. Her hair she left loose for once, aware that its silky strands looked well against the brilliant colour of her jacket.

Luke Jordan was still at the breakfast table when she returned, reading the morning newspaper and apparently in no hurry to begin his sightseeing. But he was polite enough to get to his feet when she entered the room, and his gaze flickered briefly over the attractive picture she made.

‘I’m ready,’ she said unnecessarily, and he inclined his head.

‘So I see.’

‘Have you finished breakfast?’

He indicated his empty plate, the dregs in the bottom of his coffee cup. ‘It would appear so.’

Abby sighed. ‘But you don’t want to come out with me?’

Luke regarded her dourly for a few moments, and then he folded his newspaper and laid it beside his plate. ‘I—there’s no urgency, is there?’

‘No.’ Abby wished she could control her colour, but right now she didn’t seem to be having much success at controlling anything.

Luke frowned. ‘Tell me something—how well do you know Scott Anderson?’

‘Scott?’ Abby was glad she was red now. It disguised any further embarrassment she might have exhibited.

‘Yes, Scott. You do know him, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Abby lifted her shoulders awkwardly. ‘He—well, he used to live in the village.’

‘I know that.’

‘He was—a friend of my mother’s.’

‘Was he? How close a friend?’

Abby’s eyes sparkled angrily now. ‘What do you mean?’

Luke made a gesture of innocence. ‘Nothing detrimental, I assure you. I’m merely trying to ascertain Scott’s relationship to you.’

‘Well …’ Abby sought for words. ‘When—when my father first left my mother, Scott’s father was still alive and living in Ardnalui. He used to come up to see him, and he used to visit my mother at the same time.’

‘So he and your mother—and your aunt—were much of an age?’

‘No.’ Abby shook her head. ‘Aunt Ella was younger.’

Luke nodded. ‘But Ella—your aunt—she had left the village by this time.’

‘Oh, yes. She went away before I was born.’

‘And she never came back?’

Abby half turned away. ‘To begin with, she used to.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you want to see the village or don’t you?’

‘Do you know why Ella never mentions you?’

His question was direct, and Abby raised her dark eyebrows. ‘Like I told you, I suppose I might have ruined her image.’

Luke regarded her steadily for several seconds, and she was made intensely aware of the strength of her adversary. This was no easy task she had set herself, but already she had made some headway. All she needed was time, and an ability to act, almost as great as Ella’s.

The air was sharp, and the mist still lingered beside the loch. But it was going to be a fine day, and Luke breathed deeply of the clear northern air.

‘Where do you want to begin?’ asked Abby, as they walked away from the presbytery, and Luke glanced down at her wryly.

‘You tell me,’ he suggested, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, and she smiled.

‘All right. We’ll walk to the harbour. It’s small, but you might find it interesting.’

They walked in single file along the narrow village street which the Lamborghini had negotiated the day before, and Abby had a greeting for everyone who passed. Some of the villagers stared openly at Luke, but she failed to satisfy their curiosity. She walked with an easy casual grace that gave elegance to the most informal attire, her long hair clinging in strands to the crimson windcheater, like ropes of black silk.

The jetty was almost deserted, the fishing boats which had nudged its sides the afternoon before all gone. A few old men sat together mending nets and smoking their pipes, and one or two of them called to Abby and she answered them.

‘Do you know everyone in this village?’ Luke asked, as they leaned together on the wall, looking out over the choppy waters of the loch, and she smiled.

‘Of course. I’ve lived here all my life—I told you.’

‘Except for a trip to Madrid. Yes, I know.’ Luke turned to look at her, and she had to look away from the penetration in his eyes. ‘That’s why your hair is so much darker than—–’ He broke off. ‘Don’t you have any relations in Spain?’

She shook her head, and a strand of her hair blew into his face. He put up a hand to brush it away, and his fingers lingered on the silky threads.

‘My father’s two brothers were killed in the civil war,’ she explained. ‘When my grandparents died, there was no one else.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes. So am I.’

Luke frowned. ‘Would you like me to speak to Ella—–’

‘No!’

The vehemence of her denial brought a hardness to his jawline, and his mouth, with its full lower lip, became a thin line.

‘Why not?’

Realising she had been careless, Abby twisted her hands together and turned away. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Jordan,’ she said, in a choked voice. ‘After all these years, I—I couldn’t accept …’

Luke’s expression softened slightly. ‘People change, you know, Abby. And sometimes it’s difficult to show one’s feelings, sometimes one’s afraid they’ll be rebuffed.’

He put a hand on her arm, and beneath that persistent pressure she turned to face him. Deliberately, she looked up into his face, and as she did so she saw his instinctive withdrawal. For some reason, he resented her, and only time would prove whether it was on Ella’s behalf—or his own.

‘Do you know my aunt very well, Mr Jordan?’ she asked innocently, and his hand fell away from her.

‘Reasonably,’ he returned, straightening. ‘Shall we go on?’

As they passed the bakers, the smell of newly baked bread and pastry was irresistible. Abby gave Luke a rather speculative glance before disappearing inside, emerging a few minutes later with a paper bag containing two hot meat pasties. She offered him one, and after a moment’s hesitation he took it, biting into the crumbling pastry as she was doing and savouring the juicy filling.

‘I’ve just had breakfast,’ he protested, when she suggested they seated themselves on the low wall surrounding the church yard to eat them.

‘So have I,’ she replied easily. ‘But I’m sure a man of your size doesn’t need to watch his weight.’

Luke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that a compliment?’ he inquired dryly, and she coloured, unable to meet his gaze.

‘Naturally,’ she murmured, looking down at the pastry in her hands. ‘Don’t you think this pastry is delicious?’

Luke conceded that it was, and they sat in silence until they were finished. The sun was gaining strength, and its rays beat warmly upon their backs.

Afterwards they walked down to the shore of the loch, and Abby pointed to a small rowing boat pulled high up on the shingle.

‘That’s Uncle Daniel’s,’ she said. ‘Would you like to go out on the loch? You can see the whole village from there.’

Luke was obviously torn between a desire to do as she suggested, and his desire to get this outing over. His reluctance for her company had not diminished, and she wondered what had made him so wary of her. Unless, somehow, he had spoken to her aunt …

That telephone call he had made the previous evening. He had told her uncle that he had spoken to Scott. What if he had spoken to Ella as well? But she was in Rome, Scott had told Abby so. And Luke would have told her uncle if he had made a call to Rome.

Now Luke said: ‘I should very much like to row out on to the loch. But there’s no need for you to come with me. I’m sure you must have better things to do than keeping me company.’

Abby took a deep breath. There it was again—that aloofness, that withdrawal. This wasn’t at all how she had planned it. But how could she penetrate that mask of politeness he was wearing?

She gambled, knowing that if it didn’t come off, she might have destroyed any chance of success. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you like me?’

Luke sighed then. ‘That’s not the point, is it? Good God, I’m old enough to be your father! You can’t possibly enjoy being with me.’

Abby held up her head. ‘And if I do?’

Luke shook his head. ‘I’d rather go alone.’

Abby’s confidence crumbled. ‘Why?’ she demanded, childishly. ‘Because I remind you of my aunt?’

Luke’s brows drew together. ‘That would be silly, wouldn’t it?’

‘Would it?’ Abby knew she had to make a stand. ‘I don’t think you like being reminded of the kind of woman she is!’

That was unforgivable. She knew, as soon as the words were uttered, and Luke looked justifiably furious.

‘What the hell do you mean?’ he snapped, forcing her to go on.

‘I—I know about you—and her.’ Abby fumbled the words. ‘I—I know about your—your relationship …’

‘Indeed?’ His tone was grim.

‘Y—yes.’ Abby swallowed convulsively. ‘I—I know that she—she’s your mistress, that—that you’ve been living together—–’

‘What?’ Luke’s green eyes blazed into hers. ‘Where the hell have you got that from? What do you know about my affairs? What can you know, living here, miles from anywhere, out of touch—–’

‘I can read,’ she reminded him unsteadily. ‘We get newspapers—–’

‘Newspapers!’ Luke’s denigration of the word made her flinch. ‘Don’t you know better than to believe what you read in newspapers!’

Abby’s shoulders quivered. Well, she had certainly succeeded in breaking his politeness, but any association they might have had must surely be doomed from this moment on. With a little gulp she turned away, and walked up the slope towards the road on trembling legs.

‘Abby!’

She heard him call her name, and although she would have preferred to ignore him until she had herself in control again, instinctively she slowed and glanced back. He was still standing near the rowing boat, his hands pushed into his pockets, the breeze from the loch stirring the silvery thickness of his hair. He looked so big and powerful somehow, so remote. She must have been out of her mind to imagine she might be able to influence a man like him, she thought bitterly. Her methods were so gauche, so unsophisticated, so amateurish! Ella would have known how to go about it. She had known. But Abby’s experience of men was limited to the boys from the village and Uncle Daniel.

‘Come back here!’ Luke called to her, but she could sense the irritation still in his voice and remained where she was.

‘What’s the point?’ she called in answer. ‘I’ll—see you later.’

‘Abby!’ Frustration hardening his tone, he strode up the shingle towards her where she stood, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, poised for flight. ‘Abby, you can’t expect to say something like that without arousing some reaction!’ He sighed, his anger controlled. ‘All right, so I do find your resemblance to your aunt—disturbing. But not for the reasons you think.’

‘I was rude,’ she said stiffly. After all, this man was a guest in her uncle’s house and old habits die hard. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Are you?’ Almost against his will it seemed, his hand came out and lifted her chin so that she was forced to look into his face. His fingers were cool against her heated skin, and his thumb probed her jawline involuntarily. ‘Don’t pay lip service to me. I get enough of that back home.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, shivering, and he let her go.

‘Come on,’ he said, as if coming to a decision. ‘We’ll take the boat out.’

Abby caught her breath. ‘But you said you didn’t want me to come with you.’

‘Perhaps I was being unselfish,’ he remarked enigmatically. Then, still unsmiling, he added: ‘If you’re prepared to waste your time with a middle-aged contemporary of your aunt’s, why should I object? Do you want to come or don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded.

‘All right, let’s go.’

It was cooler on the loch, but she insisted on taking a turn at the oars and kept warm that way. He leaned back lazily as she rowed, his long legs stretched at either side of hers, and it was difficult for Abby to prevent herself from staring at his lean muscular body. It was true, she thought, she had never met anyone like him before, but she could quite see why her aunt—or any woman for that matter—would find him attractive. But she had to be objective about it …

Surprisingly, once the first few moments of awkwardness were over, they talked together easily. When he put aside the guard he had adopted, he became an amusing companion, telling her about his family—his brothers and sisters, and the struggle his mother had had to support the children after his father was killed.

‘It was one of those quirks of fate,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘He was in the Merchant Navy and went right through the war without even an injury. He was killed in 1952 when the engine of his coaster exploded on a trip from Liverpool to Newcastle.’

‘How awful!’ Abby’s eyes were wide and sympathetic. ‘Your mother must have been frantic. With eight children to support.’ Eight children, she thought incredulously. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have seven brothers and sisters. Would Luke want a large family? she wondered, and trembled at the thought.

‘I was fourteen at the time,’ he recalled now. ‘I have two brothers older than me, but the rest of the family are younger.’

‘All the same, it must be nice for you belonging to a large family,’ she murmured, half enviously, and he smiled ruefully.

‘It’s expensive,’ he conceded with a dry inflection. ‘So many birthdays.’

‘And—and yet you’ve never had a family of your own?’ she probed, amazed at her own temerity.

Luke shrugged. ‘I was married once. But it didn’t work out. We were divorced twelve years ago.’

Abby hadn’t known that. It surprised her. Although as it was twelve years since his divorce, he must have been very young when he got married. Not so easy now to bring a man like him to the altar.

‘What about you?’ he asked, his eyes narrowed and questioning. ‘Do you want to get married?’

Abby bent over the oars to hide her flushed cheeks. ‘I—I suppose so. When—when the right man asks me.’

Luke drew out a case of cheroots and placed one between his teeth. ‘Ardnalui’s not a big place. If the right man hasn’t asked you yet, surely he can’t be here. Or are you waiting, as your mother did, for someone up from Glas—–”

‘No!’

Abby shipped the oars and let the small boat drift with the current, staring out blindly across the loch. She had no intention of marrying a man like her father—a charming man, but weak, drifting as this boat was doing with the current, only struggling for survival when it was too late …

‘So what will you do?’

Luke’s voice was soft as he applied the flame of his lighter to the cheroot, and she turned to look squarely at him. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered, pushing her hair back from her face with both hands, drawing his eyes to the pointed swell of her breasts surging against the thin nylon material of the windcheater. ‘You tell me.’