Читать книгу The Secret Heiress - Bethany Campbell - Страница 13

On a morning in early March, Marie found herself in a cramped economy seat on the cheapest airline out of Darwin. It was small and a bit shabby, but she was thrilled, for she’d never before been on a plane.

The inside of it looked no more glamorous than an elderly bus, but it was a magical thing, for it quickly whisked her up into the clouds and in an unbelievably short time, she was hundreds of kilometers away, in the Newcastle, New South Wales, airport, hugging Reynard.

He flinched at her tight embrace, and when she kissed his cheek, her lips touched a long cut just starting to heal. “Oof.” He drew back from her slightly, and she realized that under his work shirt she could feel something suspiciously like bandages.

“Rennie, what’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Oh, the bloody fire,” he said dismissively. “Cracked a few ribs, that’s all. Don’t worry, love. I’m a tough old bird, I am.”

Instantly she suspected his injury—and the fire—had been more serious than he’d let on. “Reynard, tell me more about this whole thing. Were you in the hospital?”

“Only overnight. Come on. Let’s go find your luggage. Ah, it’s lovely you look. Flying agrees with you?”

“It was wonderful,” she answered. “But I want to know more about what happened to you. And about the fire.”

As he steered her toward the baggage claim area, she saw that he carried himself gingerly and walked with a slight limp. “Rennie,” she prodded, “what happened?”

“A horse panicked, rammed me against a wall,” he told her. “That’s all. The scratch? The wall had a nail in it. And for a few seconds, so did I. A bit of a bashing, nothing life-threatening, I assure you.”

“And the fire? How bad was it?”

Gruffly he explained that in terms of money, the fire was a disaster for Lochlain Racing, where he worked for Tyler Preston. Several horses had died, and many more had been permanently damaged by smoke inhalation. There was one human fatality, a body that had finally been identified as old Sam Whittleson.

“Sam Whittleson?” Marie echoed in disbelief. “That man Louisa shot?”

“The very one. Somebody killed him this time. They found a gun half-melted in a burned fertilizer barrel, and a lab’s trying to identify it. The cops say the fire was arson, and—”

“Wait,” Marie interrupted. “Arson? Murder? You told me nobody was seriously hurt.”

“When we talked, I didn’t think anybody was,” Reynard said defensively.

“Who killed him? Why?”

“Nobody knows,” Reynard said with an impatient shrug. “Anyway, the authorities said the fire was set, and some yobs whisper Tyler Preston himself set it. To hide that he was drugging his horses.

“But,” Reynard said flatly, “he didn’t drug horses, and he set no fire. That’s the trouble living in the sticks. Too much gossip, too many rumors. Now, take Louisa Fairchild. Some even say she done Sam in—ridiculous. An eighty-year-old woman steals out in the wee hours. She lures a man who wouldn’t trust her for a second into a neighbor’s barn? And she guns him down? Not bloody likely.”

The luggage carousel buzzed, and suitcases began to cascade onto the moving belt. Her bicycle appeared with a clatter. “God’s holy trousers,” Reynard exclaimed. “You brought that bloody old wreck of a bike?”

“I have to get around. I don’t have a car.”

“You’ll frighten horses,” he grumbled. “Nobody rides a bike up there. You ride something with four wheels or four legs, and that’s it.”

“I’m not afraid to be different,” she countered, lifting her chin.

He shook his head. “You never were. And I don’t know if that’s your blessing or your curse. Indeed I don’t.”

Reynard refused her help in loading his old blue pickup, even though the job was clearly a strain on his taped ribs. Soon he and she were in the truck, and she gawked at the quaintness of Newcastle and then at the beauty of the Hunter Valley countryside.

Woods and peaceful fields and hills and vineyards stretched on until they met the shadowy lavender of mountains in the distance. Rain poured daily in Darwin, but in the Hunter Valley, the sky was cloudless and blue.

“It’s more beautiful than I imagined,” she murmured. “So tranquil.”

“Appearances deceive,” Reynard said. “Too dry. There’s spot fires near the Koongarra range. There’s wildfire warnings all over the valley. It’s not tranquil, and neither are the people. The stable burning, the killing, it spooked everybody. And the locals were still squabbling about Louisa’s shooting Sam Whittleson last year.”

“Tell me more about that,” Marie said. “They were feuding about water rights or something?”

Reynard nodded. “And there were factions from the start. Some say it was Sam’s own fault. Some say it was Louisa’s. Now at Lochlain, where I work, Sam’s son’s the head trainer. So the Prestons sided with Sam. That irks the old girl. But then she never really took to the Prestons in the first place.”

“Why not?” Marie asked, the familiar uneasiness stirring again.

“The Fairchilds’ve been in Hunter Valley for a century and a half. The old girl sees the Prestons as upstarts and Yanks to boot. Still, they say she was usually civil to them—until they sided so strong with Sam. Now she’s offended about racing politics, too. Really offended. You see, my boss, Tyler Preston, he’s got this cousin. Well, the cousin—”

They rounded a curve and the view was suddenly dominated by a huge set of gates, framed by stone pillars ornamented with bronze and red crests. “Ta-da!” said Reynard with a chuckle. “Behold—Fairchild Acres.”

The security guard let them in, and Marie looked at the great lawn and the seeming endless pastures and paddocks beyond. Did Louisa own all this land?

They bounced down a broad drive between jacaranda trees, plots of bright flowers and the flash of water from a myriad of sprinklers. The rest of Hunter Valley might be browning and dry, but not Louisa’s lawn.

They rounded another curve. “And there is the humble abode of Louisa.”

At the end of the drive stood an enormous house. Gray stone and stucco, it rose three stories, with a gabled roof and rows of mullioned windows. The jacarandas gave way to a wider sweep of manicured lawn, decorated with large formal gardens. There was even an ornamental marble pool with a three-tiered fountain at its center.

She gaped at the house, the grounds. Reynard took a fork in the drive that led to the back of the house. “You’ll meet Mrs. Lipton first.”

Marie’s heart beat hard. Too hard. But Reynard had kept reassuring her that she wouldn’t need to lie. Her identity was true, her experience real, her credentials excellent. She should simply be closemouthed about her family.

“Just remember the nursery rhyme, love.” With a sidelong smile, he recited the poem:

“A wise old owl sat in his oak.

The more he heard, the less he spoke;

The less he spoke, the more he heard;

Why aren’t we all like that wise old bird?”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “Is that how you know so much about what goes on here? And you’ve only been here—what?—two months?”

He winked. “That’s it, love. Eyes open. Ears open. Mouth shut. That’s how you learn.”

He parked, got out stiffly, and opened Marie’s door as smoothly as if he were a trained chauffeur. Perhaps he’d once been one, for she didn’t know all of his past. Not by half.

He escorted her to a back door and gave the bellpull a smart ring, and then two more.

A girl of about eighteen opened the door. She had curling red hair and freckles all over her ruddy face. She wore navy-blue shorts, a white short-sleeved blouse and a white apron.

“Oh, Rennie,” she said with a grin. “Come in. And this must be your niece. Marie, is it?

“I’m Belinda, but everybody calls me Bindy. I’ll get Mrs. Lipton.”

Bindy talked fast, and she dashed off into a hallway just as fast. Marie stood, dazzled by the huge modern kitchen, gleaming with whiteness and chrome.

“Hello, Rennie,” said a man’s deep voice. The accent was American.

Marie turned to see a tall figure standing near a table. She looked up into his face, and her heart, already pounding, almost leaped out of her chest.

He was the man who’d defended her in the parking lot of the Scepter that night, the stranger she’d clung to so foolishly, so desperately. Suddenly the room seemed to swim round her, dizzying her.

Did he recognize her? Would he remember her? She prayed not.

“Mr. Preston,” said Reynard, heartily shaking hands with him. He grinned.

“What are you doing here? Miss Fairchild must be gone.”

“She is, and somebody had to do your work. So I brought the eggs today.”

Rennie grinned more widely. “Thanks kindly, mate. And meet my niece, Marie Lafayette from Darwin. She’s the new assistant cook. Marie, Andrew Preston from the U.S.A. He’s running for the presidency of the ITRF. Staying with his cousin over at Lochlain.”

Marie was still struck dumb and immobile. Andrew Preston stepped over to her and offered her his hand. Somehow she raised her own and placed it in his. It was like having tiny flames shoot up her fingers, through her arm, and into her heart.

She remembered he’d been handsome, but not as handsome as this. He might be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, but it was a purely masculine beauty. He wore a white T-shirt that emphasized his shoulders and chest and revealed tanned, muscular arms. Around his neck was a peculiar necklace, a carved bird on a red string.

Low-riding blue jeans hugged his narrow hips and long legs. His riding boots were tall, black and dusty. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said.

His eyes were such a dark blue they seemed nearly black. His wavy hair was a dark and gleaming brown, and he seemed fully a foot taller than she.

Assume a virtue if you have it not, she thought. She raised her chin and gave a perky smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

He smiled back and released her hand. Again, strange sensations tripped through her body, making her giddy.

“I heard about your mother,” Andrew said. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He sounded as if he actually meant it.

“Thank you,” she said, her smile dying.

Andrew turned to Reynard. “I was just starting back to Lochlain,” he said. “See you there later. And I hope we meet again, Miss Lafayette.”

Marie nodded. She’d let down her guard, so she gave him a mildly friendly, totally professional and completely manufactured smile.

Andrew smiled again, almost hesitantly, and left by the back door.

“Well, you seemed a bit gobsmacked at the sight of him,” Reynard said, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t know anyone was there. H-he surprised me,” she said defensively.

“I’ll bet he did, I’ll bet he did. And you surprised me.”

Before Marie could reply, an interior door opened and a tall woman entered. She had perfectly sculpted gray hair, a strong jaw, a kind face and a firm, stout figure. She wore a navy-blue skirt and blouse, and a ruffled white apron with a bib. “Rennie, you rascal,” she said, obviously pleased.

“Ah,” he replied, his tone silky. “And what mischief are you up to, entertaining gentlemen in your kitchen? Miss Louisa doesn’t know he was here, does she? You’re a bold one, you are.”

She made a shooing gesture at him. “She’s in Sydney getting her annual checkup. She won’t be back until this evening. Ah. And this is your niece, Marie?”

“The very one. Marie, Mrs. Lipton, the housekeeper. A marvel of organization, she is.”

Mrs. Lipton almost smiled, but her face grew serious. “Marie, I’m very sorry about your loss. It’s good you’ve come to join your uncle. It’s a very empty feeling, losing one’s mother. I remember all too well.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Marie almost whispered.

Reynard said, “My sister was a darling woman and a lovely cook.” He pinched Marie’s cheek affectionately. “And this one’s every bit her mother’s child. She’ll do you proud.”

Mrs. Lipton moved to a small cabinet built into the wall. She opened it and pulled out a set of keys. “Rennie, will you be a dear and take Marie to her quarters? I suppose she has things you’ll have to help her move in. Then bring her back here, and I’ll explain her duties to her. Marie, did you bring a uniform?”

Marie said, “Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Lipton had e-mailed the uniform requirements.

“You needn’t wear it until this evening. We’ll also provide you with one of our staff T-shirts with the Fairchild logo. Now, help her settle in, Rennie.”

He gave her an appreciative look from beneath half-lowered lids. “Right away. By the way, Mrs. Lipton, you’ve changed your hair somewhat, haven’t you?”

“Oh. Just a bit,” she said, toying with a gray curl. “Now run along. I know Tyler will want you back at Lochlain.”

“He’s a good enough cove, Andrew Preston,” Reynard said, as they parked in front of the staff bungalow. “I see him around Lochlain all the time. Not our sort, of course, but a good cove. The old girl doesn’t like him, of course. She’s got her back up because he’s a Preston and a Yank and dared come here to campaign against her candidate—Jacko Bullock.”

“I see.” But Marie didn’t really understand; she was still in shock at seeing the man again. Andrew Preston. She hadn’t even known his name. Andrew Preston.

Reynard parked and unloaded the truck, talking the whole time.

Numbly she listened as he explained that Bullock had used all his media clout to defend Louisa in the shooting case the year before. He’d been her loyal supporter, and she intended to be his. She therefore hoped that Andrew Preston would not be merely beaten, but crushed like a bug.

“When it gets to racing politics, she can be hell on wheels,” Reynard said as he unlocked the door to her room. The cottage was sparklingly clean, not fancy, but comfortable, with a shared living room and kitchen.

“It’s nice.” Marie nodded in approval. “And Mrs. Lipton is a nice woman.”

“She is indeed.”

“She seems to like you,” Marie said with a hint of mischief. “And you flirt with her.”

“She needs a bit of fun in her life. So does old Louisa, if she’d admit it. I do my bit, is all. I’ll bring your things. There’s a place to chain your bike near the main entrance. “

Reynard put her bike in place and carried her secondhand suitcases inside. “You need help unpacking?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then let me take you back to the kitchen and I’ll be off to Lochlain.”

“Your boss has been generous, letting you off this long.”

“Tyler? Very decent fellow, a good mate. Andrew Preston’s cousin, did I say?”

“You did.” Her pulse speeded up at the mention of Andrew. It was ridiculous, she scolded herself. Seeing him again wasn’t exciting. It was just a surprise. And—awkward.

“I thought he eyed you like you were something special,” Reynard said.

“Don’t be silly. I’m a kitchen worker.”

Reynard frowned as if in puzzlement. “Bad as my old ears are, I thought I heard something when you saw him.”

She threw him a puzzled look. “Heard something?”

He scratched his chin. “A clickety-clackety. Like maybe someone finally shook those hormones of yours into action.”

She smacked him lightly on the arm, but her eyes flashed in irritation. “You’re impossible.”

“Unfamiliar sensation, wasn’t it?” he asked. “Hormones romping around?”

She smacked him again. He threw his head back and laughed. But then he sobered. “He’s a handsome devil. But out of your league, love. Be careful of men like him. Would to God that Colie had been.”

Andrew, who’d borrowed Tyler’s Jeep for the trip, drove back to Lochlain in a pensive mood. It had been odd, when he’d delivered the eggs, to be welcomed so warmly by the kitchen staff. It meant not everyone at Fairchild Acres hated his guts. Just Louisa.

But that wasn’t what most interested him. Images of Reynard’s niece, startlingly vivid, kept flashing into his mind. Marie. She’d stood so demurely in the kitchen—yet with confidence.

He’d recognized her almost instantly, but he never would have taken her for Reynard’s niece. While Reynard exuded a raffish air of good fellowship, Marie seemed carefully controlled, sure of herself, yet at the same time a bit shy. It was a paradoxical combination, and it intrigued him.

He remembered holding her in his arms so briefly. Too briefly. He rubbed his chest, which sweated in the rising heat. Then he realized Raddy’s charm was gone. He stopped the car, searched the seat and looked on the floor.

Where in hell was it?

Reynard insisted on driving Marie back to the kitchen, although the distance was short. She kissed him in thanks, said she’d phone, then hopped out of the truck.

“Oh, wait,” Reynard said. “There’s something I forgot to tell you.”

She came to his opened window and looked at him in puzzlement. “What?”

“Louisa’s great-niece and nephew are here, staying with her. Megan and Patrick Stafford.”

“What?” she demanded, swept by both surprise and anger. “You said she wasn’t close to any of her family.”

“I never did. Willadene Gates wrote that. And Louisa wasn’t on speaking terms with them. I think this is kind of a test. To see if they’re worthy of inheriting her money bin. Maybe they are, maybe they’re not. Either way, there’s enough to go around.”

Marie, appalled, stared at him. “Reynard! If she’s reconciling with them, I shouldn’t even be here. It makes me feel—underhanded. Why didn’t you tell me, for God’s sake?”

“I didn’t know until they arrived. There were just rumors.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you tell me when they got here? Why’d you wait until now to spring the news?”

He shrugged. “You wouldn’t have come. Now you can’t go. You’re moved in. You might like them, love. They’re probably your cousins. I’ve heard the woman’s nice, but the bloke’s a bit of a layabout.”

“This is unforgivable,” Marie accused.

“I’m doing it for your own good. It’s what Colette wanted and I did it for her, as well. Don’t go all high and mighty on me. Just do your job like the trouper you are. It’s not just me that drew you here. It’s destiny. Bye, love. Talk to you soon.”

With that, he blew her a kiss, drove off and left her standing there.

She stared after him, bewildered, fighting back tears. But for now she had no choice but to brazen it out until she could make her escape. She squared her shoulders and forced herself to march to the kitchen door.

A red-and-yellow object lying in the grass caught her eye, and she bent to pick it up. She stared at it curiously: it was a carved wooden bird with a large yellow beak. The rest was patterned in black and white and red, and it hung from a broken red string.

It was the charm Andrew Preston had worn. He must have lost it, she thought numbly. She slipped it into the pocket of her slacks as she entered the kitchen, her mind dazed, her body working on automatic pilot.

“Welcome back,” said Mrs. Lipton. “I’ll be with you in a little while, but must catch up on my paperwork. I’ll be in my office if anyone wants me. Tonight’s staff menu is on the bulletin board. You could start the potato salad if you like. We need to feed about eighteen.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Marie said. The baked potatoes were already cooling on a large metal sheet on the counter.

“And could you make a meringue for tonight? Miss Louisa loves her meringues and Pavlovas.”

“Certainly,” Marie said, still stunned, but hiding it with all her might.

Mrs. Lipton bustled off.

Alone, Marie again felt almost overwhelmed by the modernity of the shiny white-and-chrome kitchen. What would Mama have done in a kitchen like this? she wondered with a pang. What couldn’t she have done?

Yearning for Colette stabbed through her. I’ll find out who this Fairchild woman is, she promised her mother’s spirit. And if she’s not worthy of you, I’ll walk away and never look back. And she’ll never know what a fine daughter she had—and lost.

But she couldn’t yet think about Colette or Louisa or Megan and Patrick Stafford who might be cousins—and she couldn’t yet deal with what Reynard had done. She simply couldn’t sort it out yet. It was all too sudden.

Get control of yourself, she thought sternly. Get control and keep control, no matter what. There’s work to be done. Do it.

She began to peel potatoes.

Andrew pulled up again at the Fairchild mansion’s kitchen door. He knew he’d been wearing the charm this morning when he’d left Lochlain Stables. A hand from Whittleson’s, Sandy Sanford, had been helping build a sleep-out addition onto the main house. Sanford had given him a condescending look. “Hey, mate, goin’ native?” he’d asked with an unpleasant grin. Andrew’d ignored him and gotten into the Jeep.

The charm must have dropped off on his walk from the Jeep to Mrs. Lipton’s kitchen—or the walk back. If it had hit the kitchen’s tiled floor, he would have heard it, wouldn’t he?

He had no rational reason for attaching any importance to the thing, except it had been given as a friendly gesture. And the Aborigine culture fascinated him; it seemed rich and mysterious. He’d spent a lot of time in Kentucky reading about more exotic cultures than his own. And now, at last, he was seeing them first hand.

He got out of the Jeep and retraced his path to the back door. He looked three times, but saw no sign of the necklace. He pulled the bell, and an instant later Marie Lafayette appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel she’d pinned round her waist for an apron.

She didn’t seem taken aback to see him, and smiled her cheery smile. She looked like a woman almost totally sure of herself. “Oh, Mr. Preston. Can I help you? Mrs. Lipton’s not here, but she should be back in a minute. Would you like to step inside where it’s cool?”

She swung open the door and he entered, glad to escape the heat. He said, “Sorry to bother you. I was driving back and I missed a—a kind of charm someone gave me. I thought maybe I’d lost it here.”

For a moment she looked strangely blank. But then her face lit up, and he realized for the first time that she was not merely pretty, she was exquisite. Her thick cap of hair shone like spun gold in the artificial light. She wore no makeup except pink lip gloss, but she didn’t need makeup. She was stunning without it. And those dimples. Good Lord.

She reached into the pocket of her slacks and drew out the charm. “Is this it?”

She must have seen by his expression that it was and held it out on her palm. “I thought it was yours. I meant to tell Mrs. Lipton, but she was involved in something else.”

Her smile flickered away as he took it from her, his fingertips brushing the smoothness of her palm.

But that too-brief smile made his heart quicken with pleasure. It had been a smile that hinted at mystery and complexities. And her eyes, he suddenly realized, were the most startling and pure green he’d ever seen. Men must fall at her feet like flies. What was such a woman doing, working in a kitchen?

“Thank you,” he managed to say, wondering why he seemed to have something stuck in his throat. “I—I don’t really know much about it, but a blacksmith gave it to me, and…”

She looked up, listening, and he realized he didn’t have an end for the sentence.

“And?” she questioned.

“I hated to lose it,” he finished lamely. “In this age of plastic and—”

“Mass manufacturing?” she supplied.

“Exactly,” he said, trying not to get lost in those depthless green eyes. “That’s it.”

Maybe she wasn’t as poised as she seemed. Almost subliminally he sensed emotions coursing through her, emotions she guarded carefully.

“The string wore through.” She pointed at the frayed edges. “Odd. It looks good and stout.” Her voice was low and soft, her accent delightful.

He forced some words out. “I hope I didn’t interrupt you.”

“No,” she said, with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m just making potato salad.”

“Potato salad,” he repeated.

“I was looking for the mayonnaise,” she said. His gaze must have been too intent because she glanced away.

“Mayonnaise,” he echoed. Good Lord. I’m talking like a parrot, and I was the captain of the college debating team. What’s wrong with me?

But her bearing was almost carefree. Almost. “Yes. None in the fridge. I thought there must be some in the cabinet. I couldn’t find a kitchen stool to see on the top shelf.”

She was petite, almost tiny, beside him. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m tall. I’ll like if you look,” he offered. “I mean, I’ll look if you like.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

He peered at the row of top cupboards. He went to the nearest, opened the door, looked on the top shelf, and behind eight jars of mustard found four quarts of mayonnaise. He pulled one down. “Do you need more?”

“Oh, no. Thank you. That’s plenty.”

He handed it to her, careful not to touch her this time. He realized he still had the charm in his hand.

She licked her lips, and the tip of her tongue was daintily pointed and daintily pink. He felt carnal stirrings. She set aside the jar and murmured, “Maybe you should buy a thong.”

“A thong?” he asked, picturing her in a thong, her arms crossed modestly across her breasts. It was a most arousing image and not the sort that often popped into his head. He was usually a man of stern self-control.

“Leather,” she corrected. “A strip of leather for the bird.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Leather. The very thing. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

“I’d better be going,” he said. “Um. See you later.”

“Yes. Perhaps.” She gave him an unreadable smile.

He made his way out the door and into the Jeep. He got onto the road again and felt the blood roaring in his ears.

What the hell had gone wrong with him back there? When he’d seen her earlier this morning, he’d thought she was singularly pretty, but this time—she’d affected him as few women ever had. Why?

Because you got a closer look at her, he told himself. You looked into those green, green eyes for the first time. And she had such a unique air about her. You touched her. You were alone with her.

He’d slipped the charm into the front pocket of his jeans, and it seemed to spread the heat of desire through his groin. He smacked himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm. Why did she make him react this way?

But he knew why, and had known, perhaps unconsciously, from the moment he’d seen her again.

She somehow reminded him of Kellie Maguire, whom he’d loved all those years ago. The girl who’d been so strong of purpose, but turned out to be so vulnerable.

Marie was small, like Kellie, and beautiful, but in a completely different way. He remembered her at the Scepter, speaking foreign languages fluently, working so gracefully and with such sparkle—and defending herself like a champion. And yet there was vulnerability there, he could feel it, and it brought out an almost fiercely protective urge in him.

Again he seemed to hear Kellie’s voice. “I don’t know how you did it, Preston. It’s broad daylight. But maybe you just found the door into the moon. Glimpse of the future, Mr. Serioso?”