Читать книгу One Summer At The Castle: Stay Through the Night / A Stormy Spanish Summer / Behind Palace Doors - Пенни Джордан, Anne Mather - Страница 8

‘YOU’RE NOT SERIOUSLY going to allow her to stay here until she can get a ferry back to the mainland, are you?’ Sam Devlin was dismayed. ‘Man, you know nothing about this woman. How do you know this wasn’t just a ruse to get into the castle?’

‘I don’t.’ Liam finished the plate of bacon and eggs Mrs Wilson had cooked for him and reached for his steaming mug of coffee, sitting on the gleaming pine table beside him. He took a mouthful of the coffee, the third cup he’d had that morning, and sighed his satisfaction. ‘But, in answer to your first question, she’s leaving this morning. As soon as she can get her belongings packed.’

‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ said Sam briskly. ‘I could hardly believe it when Edith told me she was staying the night. Not but what the lassie seems honest enough. It’s just unlike you to invite a stranger into your home.’

‘I know.’ Liam could hear the edge in his voice, but he didn’t appreciate Sam telling him what he already knew. ‘Anyway, I doubt if you’d have wanted to drive her back to the village last night.’

Sam sniffed. ‘You could always have called McAllister out. He gets little enough work as it is.’

‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Liam shortly. ‘And, for your information, I don’t think she has an ulterior motive for being here. For God’s sake, she didn’t know who I was until I told her.’

‘So you say.’

‘So I know.’

‘All right, all right.’ Sam backed down. ‘But I’m always suspicious when supposedly innocent strangers turn up out of the blue. I mean, who would be stupid enough as to believe you’d allow anyone to make a film on Kilfoil?’

‘Her teenage sister, perhaps?’

‘But you have nothing to do with film production.’

‘I told her that,’ said Liam mildly.

‘So why did you bring her here? Couldn’t you have convinced her you were telling the truth and sent her on her way?’

‘She wanted to come,’ said Liam flatly. ‘She insisted on speaking to Liam Jameson in person.’

Sam shook his head. ‘This was when you were masquerading as Luther Killian?’

‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’

Sam snorted. ‘Well, I don’t know what you were thinking of, Liam. For God’s sake, you’re not a teenager. You’re a middle-aged writer of horror fiction. You should have known better.’

‘Gee, it’s so good to know what you think of me,’ drawled Liam drily. ‘Why didn’t you add with more scars than Ben Nevis and a gammy leg into the bargain?’

Sam’s gnarled cheeks had gained a little colour now. ‘Och, you know what I think of you, man. Surely there’s no need for me to mince my words.’ He paused, and when his employer didn’t say anything he continued fiercely, ‘If you were the type who played around with the lassies, Liam, it would be different. But you’re not. You never have been. Sure, I know you’ve had the odd fling now and then, but you’ve never brought your conquests home. Not since Kayla—’

‘Don’t go there, Sam.’

Liam came to life now, and the older man hunched his shoulders at the reproof. It was years since he’d even thought about Kayla Stevens, thought Liam grimly. The woman he’d been intending to marry before the disastrous attack that had almost killed him.

They’d met at a launch party his publisher had thrown for him when his first book had made number one on the bestseller lists. Kayla had been a struggling model, hired out by her agent for such occasions to add a little glamour to the mix. She’d seemed out of place there, too innocent to be forced to earn a living in that way. Liam had felt sorry for her—much as he’d done for Rosa Chantry, he thought now, scowling at the memory. But he’d eventually learned that Kayla had always had an eye to the main chance.

Although she’d hung around the hospital for a while after the attack, the idea of getting hitched to a man who was badly scarred, who might be impotent or paralysed, and who would definitely need a lot of care and understanding to recover, hadn’t appealed to Kayla. Six months after returning Liam’s ring, she’d married a South American polo player with enough money to keep her in the style to which she’d become accustomed. The fact that without Liam she’d never have had the opportunity to meet such a man didn’t even compute.

Sam was looking dejected now, and Liam took pity on him. ‘Look, this isn’t about what Kayla did, right? It’s about helping someone out. Rosa’s mother doesn’t know where her younger daughter is. I expect she’s pretty worried by now.’

‘So why doesn’t she go to the police?’

‘And say what? That her daughter’s gone off with another man and her boyfriend’s jealous? Sam, teenagers are notoriously unpredictable. She’ll probably turn up in a couple of days and deny the whole thing.’

‘So why did you get involved?’

Good question. ‘I’ve been asking myself that,’ admitted Liam sagely. ‘I don’t know. Because my name was mentioned, I suppose. According to Rosa, her sister’s a big fan. Maybe I was flattered. In any case, she’s leaving today.’

It was the sunlight that awakened her. When she’d finally gone to bed—some time after midnight, she thought—she’d been sure she wouldn’t sleep and the moonlight had been comforting. But she must have been more tired than she’d thought, both mentally and physically. Otherwise, why would she have accepted that man’s help?

Discovering that the man she knew as Luther Killian was really Liam Jameson had knocked her off balance. And angered her, too, she admitted. He’d had no right to lie about his identity, however desperate he was to retain his anonymity.

The fact that he must have been equally stunned to learn that he was supposed to have met her sister at a pop festival and offered her a screen test made it marginally excusable. But she wouldn’t have come here at all if he’d been honest with her from the start.

Pushing back the duvet, Rosa swung her legs out of bed and padded, barefoot, to the windows. The floor was cold beneath her feet, but she thought she’d never get tired of the view. She was on the second floor of the castle and her windows looked out over the headland. She had an uninterrupted view of the restless sea that broke against the rocks.

It was so beautiful, the sun already tingeing the tips of the waves with gold. But there were clouds on the horizon, brooding things which threatened rain later. Perhaps this afternoon, she considered, wondering where she’d be sleeping tonight.

The realisation that it must be later than she’d thought occurred belatedly. Or perhaps it was the appetising aroma of warm bread drifting to her nostrils that reminded her she hadn’t eaten much the night before. She turned with a start to find there was a tray resting on the chest of drawers standing by the doorway. Someone had evidently put it there. Was that what had woken her?

She’d been resting her bare knee on the wide sill, but now she straightened and headed back to the bed, where she’d left her watch. Snatching it up from the nightstand, she saw it was already half-past-nine. Good heavens, she must have slept for at least eight hours.

She hesitated, torn between getting washed and dressed or investigating the contents of the tray. The tray won out, and, deciding that whoever had put it there deserved to be compensated, she picked it up and carried it back to the window seat.

A flask of what was obviously coffee invited her to try it. There was milk and cream in small jugs, brown sugar, and a basket of warm rolls. These were what she’d smelled, she realised, touching them reverently. Warm rolls, giving off the delicious scents of raisin and cinnamon.

Had Liam Jameson arranged this for her? More likely Mrs Wilson, she thought, remembering how rude she’d been to her host the afternoon before. But learning that he had been Liam Jameson all along had been so humiliating. When he’d told her he was the man she’d been waiting to see, she’d felt hopelessly out of her depth…

‘You?’ she’d said stupidly. ‘You’re Liam Jameson?’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t be.’

He was annoyingly laconic. ‘Why not?’

‘Because you don’t look anything like your picture,’ Rosa protested, remembering the young man with a moustache and goatee beard she’d seen on the back cover of one of his novels. This man’s face was clean-shaven, if you didn’t count the shadow of stubble on his chin.

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I really am Liam Jameson,’ he said. ‘The picture I think you’re referring to was taken about twelve years ago.’

‘Then you ought to have it updated,’ she snapped.

As if!

Liam shrugged. ‘As I believe I told you earlier, I’m a fairly reclusive soul. I prefer not to be recognised.’

‘That’s no excuse.’ Rosa was trying hard not to feel too let down. ‘So, what about Sophie? Do you know where she is?’

‘Of course not.’ The exasperation in his voice was unmistakable. ‘If I did, don’t you think I’d have told you?’

‘I don’t know what to think, do I?’ Rosa’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You bring me here under false pretences…’

‘Now, wait a minute.’ Liam didn’t know why her words stung him so much. That was, in effect, what he’d done. Taking a different tack, he went on, ‘Would you have believed me if I’d told you who I was? You’ve just accused me of not looking anything like my picture.’ He paused. ‘If you must know, I felt sorry for you. You’d obviously been sent on a wasted journey, and whatever I’d said you would still have been stuck here for three more days.’

Rosa lifted her chin at this. ‘There was no need for you to feel sorry for me, Mr Jameson.’

‘Wasn’t there?’ Liam couldn’t help but admire her courage. He’d obviously judged her too harshly when he’d thought she had no spirit. ‘So—what? If I’d told you who I was, you’d have just booked into a bed and breakfast and waited for Thursday’s ferry? You wouldn’t have been at all suspicious that I might not have been telling you the truth?’

‘Well, I would have asked you about Sophie,’ said Rosa, her shoulders slumping. ‘You should have told me who you were,’ she added again. ‘Who is Luther Killian anyway? Someone who works for you?’

‘You might say that.’ A trace of humour crossed his face, and she was annoyed to feel herself responding to his charm. ‘Luther Killian is the main character in all my novels. Which just proves that you’re not a fan.’

‘I’ve told you, Sophie is the one who reads your books.’ She shook her head bitterly. ‘You must think I’m such a fool.’

‘Why would I think that?’

He had the nerve to look indignant, but Rosa was way past being understanding. ‘Because I was too stupid to suspect anything,’ she retorted. ‘Even when it became obvious that you knew too much about him not to be involved.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Why did you do it, Mr Jameson? Were you just playing a game? Did making a fool of me turn you on?’

Now, where had that come from?

Rosa was still gazing at him, horrified at what she’d said, when someone knocked at the door. There was a moment when she feared Liam Jameson was going to ignore it, but then he turned and strode across the room. Once more, he was dragging his leg, but Rosa was too dismayed to feel any compassion for him. God in heaven, he would think she was no better than her sister.

The housekeeper was waiting outside. She was carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches, and Liam let her into the room with controlled politeness.

‘This is Mrs Wilson,’ he said, his voice as cold as she’d heard it. ‘Enjoy your lunch. I’ll speak to you later.’

But in fact he hadn’t. When Mrs Wilson had come in to collect the tray again, she’d offered the news that Mr Jameson was resting. He’d apparently asked the housekeeper to provide a room for her, where she could freshen up and so on. And that was how Rosa came to be here, almost twenty-four hours after her arrival.

Not that she’d ever expected to stay the night. When she’d had as much of the tea and sandwiches as she could stomach, with her conscience making every mouthful an effort, she’d ventured downstairs with the tray, hoping to run into her host. But the only person she’d encountered was Sam Devlin, and he’d taken some pleasure in telling her that Mr Jameson was indisposed and wouldn’t be able to speak to her that afternoon after all.

Naturally, Rosa had blamed herself for Jameson’s condition, sure that her behaviour had contributed to his malaise. But when she’d asked how she could get back to the village, Devlin had reluctantly admitted that his employer didn’t want her to leave until he’d spoken to her again.

‘Mr Jameson suggests that you might like to spend a little time exploring the grounds of the castle,’ he’d said tersely. ‘I can come with you, if you like? Or, if not, you’re free to relax in the library. There are plenty of books to read, and Mrs Wilson can supply anything else you need.’

In the event, Rosa had agreed to go for a walk, though not with Sam Devlin. She’d a managed to convince the dour Scotsman that she wouldn’t get lost, and she’d spent a fairly pleasant hour wandering through gardens bright with late summer flowers, with only the dogs for company.

Back at the castle, and not knowing what else to do, she’d retreated to the library. Though not to read. She’d seen what manner of books were on the shelves, and, while she was sure Jameson only used them for research, she’d had no desire to give herself nightmares.

She’d been a little disturbed when Mrs Wilson had informed her that supper would be served at seven in the dining hall. She’d never expected to stay for supper and she hadn’t been wholly surprised when she’d ventured downstairs again, after washing her face and combing her hair, to find that she was eating alone.

‘Mr Jameson has suggested you spend the night,’ Mrs Wilson had explained gently, much less antagonistic than Sam Devlin had been. ‘He says he’ll see you in the morning. Will that be all right?’

Of course Rosa knew she should have refused, that accepting anything from Liam Jameson was putting herself in his debt. Which was definitely something she didn’t want to do. But she also knew that she owed him an apology, and much against her better judgment she’d agreed to stay.

She sighed now. Whether she’d wanted to or not, she’d accepted his hospitality, and sooner or later she was going to have to make her apologies and take her leave. So, was her reluctance just embarrassment, or was she, as she suspected, curiously unwilling to say goodbye?

She shivered. How ridiculous was that? Liam Jameson meant nothing to her, and she’d made sure he would be glad to see the back of her. And what a way to repay his kindness. Okay, he should have told her who he was right off—but would she have believed him as he’d said?

She considered. On the ferry, she’d told him very little about why she was coming to the island, and even after they’d disembarked she hadn’t exactly welcomed his help. By the time she’d confessed why she was really here, he’d already let her think he only knew Liam Jameson, not that that was who he really was.

The situation had definitely not been conducive to confidences, and she had to admit she’d been too anxious to get to her destination to listen to reason. Was that really why he’d kept his identity from her, as he’d said? It certainly made more sense than what she’d accused him of.

Not wanting to think about that scene in the library, Rosa finished her coffee and one of the warm rolls, and then went to get a shower. A glimpse of her tumbled hair convinced her that she couldn’t face Jameson in her present condition. She needed to have herself firmly under control before she encountered him again.

The bathroom was just as elegant as the bedroom where she’d slept, with a free-standing claw-footed tub and mirrored walls. The fluted glass shower could have accommodated at least three occupants, and the windows were made of clear glass.

The idea that anyone could look into the bathroom as she had her shower sent Rosa immediately to the windows. But there, on the second floor of the castle, there was no danger of being observed by anyone. Open spaces stretched in all directions, the nearest dwelling at least a mile away.

Stripping off the man-sized tee shirt she’d brought to sleep in, Rosa was caught for a moment by her reflection in the mirrored walls. Long legs, small breasts and a bony frame did not make for beauty, she decided ruefully. Okay, her complexion was fair, her eyes were dark and she didn’t suffer from freckles. But her mouth was too wide, her nose was too long and at present there were frown lines between her brows.

She sighed, losing patience with herself and stepping into the shower. What did it matter what she looked like? Liam Jameson was not going to be attracted to her. Goodness, she’d thought he was gorgeous when she’d believed he was Luther Killian. Now she knew who he really was, she would not have been surprised if Sophie had fallen for him.

Sophie!

Rosa felt ashamed of herself. Here she was, thinking about Liam Jameson, when she still had no idea where her sister was. She would have to phone her mother again, she thought, knowing Mrs Chantry would be waiting for her call. Hopefully her mother would realise that Rosa wasn’t free to use Liam Jameson’s phone at random. Particularly when the call she needed to make was long distance.

Emerging from the shower a few moments later, she quickly grabbed one of the luxury towels from the rack and wrapped it about her. Then, after cleaning her teeth, she went back into the bedroom to dress.

To her surprise, and dismay, the tray had disappeared in her absence. Remembering that she hadn’t bothered closing the bathroom door, Rosa hoped she hadn’t been seen. But if she had it would only have been Mrs Wilson, she assured herself. There was no way Liam Jameson would have collected the tray himself.

And if he had, what of it? she asked herself bitterly. It wasn’t as if she was the kind of woman men spied on. Unlike Sophie, who, with her spiky hair and rounded figure, was always being pursued by one man or another. And it now seemed as if her involvement with Mark Campion was on the skids as well.

Thankfully, there was a hairdryer lying on the period dressing table in the bedroom. Like the bathroom, the bedroom was an attractive mix of ancient and modern. The cheval mirror was Victorian, and the chest of drawers was even older. But, although the bed was a four-poster, the mattress was reassuringly twenty-first century in design.

It took a little while to dry her mass of hair, and then even more time to secure it in a French braid. If the severe style and the high-necked navy sweater she chose to wear with her jeans owed anything to a desire to stifle any trace of femininity, she refused to acknowledge it. It was important to appear confident, however insecure she might feel.

She was quite familiar with the stairs that led down to the lower floor by this time. The dining hall was on the floor below, not far from the library. But the dining hall, with its mahogany-lined walls and long refectory table, was empty, the epergne of roses in the centre the only sign of life.

She wondered if it was worth going down into the reception hall, but she doubted she’d encounter her host there. If, indeed, he was up and about. But she remembered there had been a desk and a computer in the library. Perhaps that was where Jameson wrote his books.

She tapped at the library door first, before venturing inside. But, although she listened intently for any movement from within, the room seemed eerily quiet. Now, why had she used that adjective? she chided herself. She hadn’t felt any unusual presence in the castle. It was just her imagination working overtime because there was nobody about.

There was only one way to find out. Reaching for the handle, she turned the knob. She sensed she wasn’t alone only seconds before someone spoke behind her. ‘Looking for me?’ enquired Liam Jameson in a hollow voice, and she almost jumped out of her skin.