Читать книгу The Marriage Truce - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

THE wind dropped during the early hours of the morning. Jenna could have timed it to the minute, if she’d felt inclined, as she’d done little else since she got to bed but lie staring into the darkness and listening to the grandfather clock in the hall below sonorously marking the passage of the night.

If I don’t get some sleep soon I’m going to look and feel like hell in the morning, she told herself, turning on to her stomach and giving her inoffensive pillows a vicious pummelling.

Even so, there was no way she would look as bad as Ross had done yesterday, she realised with a pang of reluctant concern. Any doubts she might have had about the seriousness of his recent illness had shattered after the first glance. Because he’d looked as if the virus he’d picked up abroad had taken him to death’s door and back again.

He had told her she was thinner, but he too had lost an untold amount of weight, and his dark face had been haggard, and sallow, with deep shadows under his eyes. He’d looked older, too, and quieter. And oddly weary. For a moment she had found herself confronted by a stranger.

She could understand now why Thirza had been so worried about him, even if she did not relish the solution that worry had produced.

She sighed, burying her face in the pillow. For a while she’d been seriously tempted to keep quiet about their encounter on the cliff, but she’d soon realised that would be impractical. Besides, the way that she and Ross planned to deal with each other would have a direct bearing on the next few days, and affect her family, so they probably had a right to know.

She’d broken the news of their truce over dinner, keeping her voice light and matter-of-fact.

‘The last thing either of us wants is to make the situation more awkward than it already is.’ She had tried to smile. ‘So, we plan to be—civil.’

There was a silence, then Aunt Grace said, ‘Oh, my dear child, how desperately sad.’ She directed a fulminating stare at her husband, who was placidly eating his portion of chicken casserole. ‘Henry—how long have you known that Ross would be bringing Thirza to the wedding—and why on earth did you agree?’

‘She rang to inform me just this morning.’ Mr Penloe smiled at his wife. ‘And she didn’t ask my permission,’ he added drily.

‘Typical,’ Grace Penloe said hotly. ‘Absolutely typical. If she’d had the least consideration for us all she’d have stayed away herself.’

Jenna laid a placatory hand over her aunt’s. ‘Darling, it’s all right—really. I admit I was upset when I first heard Ross was here, but that was—just me being silly.’ She gave a resolute smile. ‘It could be all for the best,’ she added, with a sideways glance at her uncle. ‘After all, we had to meet again some time.’

‘Probably,’ said Mrs Penloe. ‘But, for preference, not under the Polcarrow microscope. Oh, Betty Fox will make a meal of this,’ she added, stabbing at a mushroom as if it were the lady in question.

‘Betty Fox will have enough to do, criticising what we’re all wearing and finding fault with the decorations in the church hall and the caterers,’ Christy said, pulling a face. ‘Even she can’t make much capital out of a divorced couple being polite to each other.’

‘That’s what you think,’ her mother said tartly. ‘Oh, damn Thirza.’ She paused ominously. ‘And, Jenna, what’s this Christy tells me about you making an appointment at the hairdresser tomorrow to have your hair cut?’

Jenna shrugged. ‘New attitude—new image. I’ve had long hair all my life. It’s time for a change.’

Mrs Penloe gave the smooth chestnut coil at the nape of her niece’s neck an anguished look. ‘Oh, Jenna, don’t do it. At least, not now. Wait until the wedding is over, please.’

Jenna stared at her. ‘Aunt Grace, I’ll be wearing a spray of freesias in my hair. The style won’t make any difference.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of the headdress.’ Mrs Penloe shook her head. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘You’d think,’ Jenna said later, as she gave the condemned hair its final nightly brushing, ‘that I was having my head cut off instead.’

Christy, who was sprawled across the bed, turning over the pages of House and Garden, frowned. ‘Ma did overreact slightly,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t say I’m entranced with the idea myself, but it’s your hair, and your decision.’

She pulled a face. ‘Perhaps the wedding is starting to get to her at last. She’s been amazingly calm and organised so far, until dear Thirza dropped her bombshell, that is. I’ve told Pops that when it’s all over he should take Ma away for a holiday.’

A sharp gust rattled the window, and the girls exchanged wry glances.

‘Preferably somewhere warm and peaceful,’ Jenna said drily, putting down her brush.

‘Thank heavens we decided to have the reception in the church hall, instead of …’ Christy paused awkwardly.

Jenna sent her a composed smile. ‘Instead of a marquee on the lawn as I did?’ she queried. ‘It’s all right. You can mention it without me having hysterics.’ She pulled a face. ‘I suspect I’ll need to grow another skin over the next few days, anyway.’

Christy shut the magazine and sat up. ‘Jen—I’m so awfully sorry you should be put through this.’ She paused. ‘The village rumour mill had Ross totally bedridden and being fed intravenously, of course, so you’d hardly expect him to pop up on Trevarne Head, being civilised.’ She gave Jenna an anxious look. ‘Seeing him again—was it as bad as you feared?’

‘Heavens, no,’ Jenna said lightly. Worse—much worse.

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Christy shook her head. ‘Not that it lets Thirza off the hook. As a contributor to consideration and family unity, she makes a terrific fabric designer.’

‘Well, she’s certainly that, all right,’ Jenna agreed. ‘In fact, I’ve often thought I’d like to stage an exhibition of her work at the gallery.’

‘You could always suggest it.’

Jenna shook her head. ‘She’d refuse. I was never her favourite person, even before the divorce.’

‘I could never figure that,’ Christy said thoughtfully. ‘After what she went through with her own husband, I’d have said her sympathies would have been with you.’ She paused ruefully. ‘Ouch, my big mouth again. Jen, I’m so sorry …’

‘Don’t be,’ Jenna said briskly as she applied her moisturiser. ‘Now, tell me about the best man instead. He’s supposed to be my perk, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, Tim’s adorable.’ Christy cheered noticeably. ‘He works in the City, too, and he and Adrian have been friends since university. They’re arriving in time for lunch tomorrow.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And I happen to know Tim’s not seeing anyone just now.’

‘Christy,’ Jenna said gently, ‘be content with your lovely Adrian, and don’t try matchmaking for other people. I was thinking of having a dance with Tim—nothing more.’

‘Why not have two or three dances?’ Christy suggested, unperturbed. She gave a sly smile. ‘He’ll make excellent camouflage, if nothing else.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Jenna rose from the dressing table. ‘Now, push off, bride, and get some beauty sleep.’

‘There are still three days to go,’ Christy protested as Jenna ushered her inexorably to the door.

‘True, but you need all the help you can get,’ she said wickedly, and closed the door, laughing, on her cousin’s outrage.

Now I’m the one who needs help, she thought drily, as she turned over in bed yet again, trying to relax and failing. This insomnia is probably Christy’s curse on me.

But in her heart she knew that it was not that simple. That her restlessness and unease were really due to Ross’s reappearance in her life and nothing else.

Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself forcefully. Because he wouldn’t be losing a moment’s sleep over her, in Thirza’s slate-roofed cottage on the outskirts of the village.

Once again so near, she thought, yet so far away. Which seemed to sum up the entirety of their brief marriage.

Once before, on the night before their wedding, when she hadn’t been able to sleep because she was too keyed up with joy and excitement, she’d tried to work out exactly what the distance was that separated them from each other, mentally retracing her steps down the drive from Trevarne House to the lane, narrow between its high summer hedges, and down its winding length to the steep sprawl of Polcarrow, counting her paces as she went. Imagining him opening the door of the cottage to smile at her. Holding out his arms to enfold her …

Suddenly Jenna found herself sitting up, gasping for breath. She was shaking all over and her nightdress was clinging to her sweat-dampened body. She fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp, then poured herself some water from the carafe on the night table, gulping its coolness past the constriction in her throat.

‘Oh, you idiot,’ she whispered to herself. ‘You pathetic fool.’

The phrase ‘don’t even go there’ had never seemed more appropriate, yet she almost had. She’d created a trap for herself and nearly fallen into it. Because she couldn’t afford these memories. They brought too much pain with them.

The ending of her marriage had been a war zone, and she still bore the wounds. And this truce that she’d agreed on with Ross was meaningless, because it would never lead to a lasting peace.

That was impossible, she thought. Too much had happened.

Most of it she’d managed to block out over the past months by working hard and making sure her leisure hours were full, leaving little time for introspection. But now there was a crack in the dam, and she was terrified of what might follow.

She switched off the lamp and lay down again, aware that her stomach was churning and a mass of confused thoughts were jostling for precedence in her tired mind. And, with them, memories as sharp as knives.

Memories that she needed to deal with and forget. As Ross himself, no doubt, had done long ago.

And that, she realised unhappily, was no comfort at all.

‘Are you sure about this?’ said Stella, picking up a length of Jenna’s hair and brandishing it.

She was short, wiry and feisty, with hair that—this week—was the colour of pewter. She was an ‘incomer’ too—someone who’d come to Cornwall on holiday and fallen in love with it, then decided to throw up her job in a top London hairdressing salon and make a new life for herself in Polcarrow.

She’d lost no time in opening her own premises in the village’s steep main street, and her skills had attracted clients from all over the Duchy.

On Saturday she would be bringing two assistants and a friend who was a beautician and manicurist to Trevarne House to attend to the needs of the bride and her family.

In the meantime she’d agreed to squeeze in an appointment for Jenna. But she clearly wasn’t happy about it.

‘What happens if I start and you change your mind?’ she demanded pugnaciously, hands on hips. ‘I can’t stick it back on, you know.’ Her tone changed, became wheedling. ‘Why don’t I just give it a good trim instead?’

‘I’m quite serious.’ Jenna said flatly. ‘I want it short.’ She opened the style book and pointed. ‘Like that.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ said Stella, blinking. ‘All right, then, love. But it’s your funeral.’

Three quarters of an hour later, Jenna found herself regarding a stranger in the mirror. Her chestnut mane had been reduced to little more than a sleek cap, skilfully layered, which emphasised the shape of her head and lay in feathered fronds across her forehead and over her ears.

‘Actually, it works,’ Stella conceded unwillingly. ‘It shows off your cheekbones and that. And on Saturday I can fix your flowers—like this.’ She demonstrated.

Jenna smiled at her. ‘Stella—you’re a genius.’

‘Yeah,’ said Stella, who did not count mock-modesty as a virtue. ‘But I still say it’s a shame. All that lovely hair.’ She paused. ‘Want a bit to keep? Reminder of past glories, eh?’

‘No,’ Jenna said quietly. ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’

Her head felt incredibly light as she emerged into the street, and the sun had come out too—doubtless in honour of her new image.

She had parked her car down by the harbour, and progress back to it was slow. Every few yards, it seemed, people were stopping her to welcome her back, to tell her she looked wonderful, and say that it looked as if the weather might clear up after all for the wedding.

And she smiled back, and thanked them and agreed, saying she would see them on Saturday.

Amid the general euphoria of welcome it took a moment to register that she was being watched with less than warmth from across the street. She glanced up and saw that Ross was standing on the narrow pavement, outside Betty Fox’s general stores. He was still to the point of tension, staring at her, his brows drawn together in thunderous incredulity.

Jenna’s instinct was to make a dash for the car, but instead she made herself smile weakly and lift her hand in a half-greeting.

He moved then, crossing the street, weaving his way between two vans and a bicycle with the long, lithe stride that was so hauntingly familiar.

What a difference a few hours could make, Jenna thought in astonishment as he reached her. Yesterday on the cliff he had looked tired, almost defeated. Today he was clearly incandescent, and her heart began to thud in alarm.

His hand closed, not gently, on her arm. ‘In the name of God,’ he grated, ‘what have you done to yourself?’

‘I’ve had my hair cut.’ She tried unavailingly to free herself from his grasp. ‘It’s not a crime.’

‘That,’ Ross said crushingly, ‘is a matter of opinion.’

‘And, anyway,’ Jenna went on, her own anger sparking into life, ‘it’s none of your damned business what I do.’

‘So, if I see an act of vandalism being committed—a work of art being defaced—I’m to say or do nothing? Or should I stand back and applaud?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not the same thing at all, and you know it.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s far worse. It’s a travesty—a sacrilege.’ His eyes held hers. The noise around them—the hum of voices, the stutter of traffic, and the crying of gulls from the harbour—seemed to fade, enclosing them in a strange and potent silence.

Then, over his shoulder, Jenna saw Betty Fox emerge from her shop, ostensibly to rearrange the newspapers in the outside rack, her glance darting avidly towards them, and the spell was sharply broken.

She said tautly, ‘I thought we had a truce. Yet here we are brawling in public, for all the world to see. Now, will you kindly let go of me?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

He set off down the street, still holding her arm, taking Jenna with him whether she wanted to go or not, turning the corner on to the harbour.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing.’ She was flushed, breathless with indignation at being whirled along in this undignified manner.

He had always done this, she thought. Starting with that night in London when they’d met again. Recognised each other in a totally new way …

‘Come.’ He’d taken her arm then, hurrying her from the room—from the building and into the street. Striding so fast that she’d had to run to keep up with him.

‘Where are we going?’ She’d been overwhelmed by all she felt for him—scared, joyous and hungry all at the same time.

And he’d stopped suddenly, and turned to her, his hands framing her face with heart-stopping tenderness. ‘Does it matter?’

Now, even though there was nothing remotely lover-like in his touch, she was shocked to find it could still shake her to the core. Or was that the memory it evoked?

‘Making amends, darling,’ he flung back at her. ‘Being amazingly civilised.’

He pushed open the door of the Quayside Café and marched her in. For a startled moment the buzz of conversation at the occupied tables faltered, then resumed at a slightly higher pitch as Ross ushered Jenna to a table beside the window and ordered two coffees from the flustered proprietress.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked Jenna, glancing towards the counter laden with cakes, biscuits and scones.

‘Thank you, no,’ she returned glacially.

His face relaxed into a sudden grin. ‘Because it would choke you?’

It did not help her temper to know she’d actually been tempted, just for a moment, to smile back. ‘This is all a big joke to you, isn’t it?’ she said in a furious undertone.

His brows lifted. ‘Far from it, sweetheart,’ he drawled. ‘A tragedy, perhaps.’ He paused. ‘Now, perhaps we should find some bland neutral topic to keep us from each other’s throats until the coffee comes.’

‘You think of something,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m not into small talk.’

‘Fine.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Are you planning to go on holiday this year?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’ She looked down at the checked tablecloth. ‘I might go for a last-minute booking on some Greek island.’

‘Alone?’

She shrugged. ‘I can hardly go with Natasha. One of us has to be there to run the gallery.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said softly. ‘Thirza told me that you were now in business together.’

There was a note in his voice that reminded her that Natasha’s low opinion of him had been entirely reciprocated.

She lifted her chin. ‘How kind of your stepmother to take such an interest in my affairs.’

‘A slight exaggeration.’ The dark eyes glinted. ‘She merely mentioned it in passing.’

‘I see.’ She hesitated. ‘What about you? Are you—planning any kind of vacation?’

He smiled faintly. ‘For me, as ever, a holiday is simply to stop travelling.’

But you did stop—when you married me. You said you’d finished with that kind of life. The thought forced itself upon her before she could prevent it.

‘But I suppose I’ll go back to the house in Brittany,’ he went on. ‘Apparently the last lot of tenants weren’t the most careful in the world, and it needs some work.’

‘You’ve been renting out Les Roches?’ The place where we spent our honeymoon? ‘I—I didn’t know.’

Ross shrugged. ‘Houses shouldn’t be left empty, or the heart goes out of them.’

Jenna examined a fleck on her thumbnail. ‘You’ve never considered selling it?’

‘No.’ The response was crisp and instant. ‘It’s always been a family home.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘And one day I intend to have a family there.’

She had not seen that coming, and she felt as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus. There was an odd roaring in her ears, and when she parted her lips to say something—anything—no sound would come.

The arrival of the coffee saved her. By the time the cups had been placed on the table, and cream and sugar brought, she was able to speak again. To cover, she hoped, the momentary hiatus.

‘My God.’ She even managed a little laugh. ‘Is the rolling stone coming to rest at last?’

‘It would seem so.’ His mouth twisted. ‘As they all do—eventually.’

‘I thought you might prove to be the exception.’ She could only hope the lightness in her tone was convincing. ‘What’s caused the change of heart?’

‘I became ill.’ His gaze met hers. ‘And, as you know, I’m not used to that. It made me think. Perhaps—adjust my priorities.’ He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Also, there is—someone in my life. Someone important.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say?’

‘There’s nothing that needs to be said.’ Stunned as she was, somehow she found the words. Made her lips utter them without faltering. ‘After all, we’re both—free agents. When—when’s the happy day?’

‘Nothing’s been decided yet. It is still a little too soon for her. She’s been married before as well, and there are adjustments to be made.’

‘Well,’ she said, smiling resolutely, ‘naturally you’ll want to be sure—this time.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I will.’ His brows lifted. ‘You’re—very understanding.’

She murmured something and looked down at the table. The compliment was undeserved, and she knew it. She understood nothing. Under her façade of composure she was seething with questions that she would not—could not ask him.

Do I know her? being the foremost. To be followed by, Is it Lisa Weston? And, if not, why not? What happened to the woman for whom you ended our marriage? And, Did you tire of her, too, in the end? The words were tumbling over themselves in her mind, demanding answers.

But these were places she dared not go. Because once the questions started she might not be able to stop them.

And the inner ice she relied on might crack, and all the pain—all the loss—might come pouring out at last. Betraying her utterly.

Revealing to him, once and for all, how deeply he had wounded her.

And revealing, most damagingly of all, that she still bled—still grieved in spite of the two years’ total separation between them.

And if he ever suspected the healing process in her had not begun, he might ask himself why. And she could not risk that particular humiliation, she thought breathlessly, or any other.

Aware that the silence between them was lengthening, she looked up and smiled brightly at him across the table.

His own glance was hooded, meditative. ‘And what about you, Jenna? Is there someone for you?’

‘No one that special.’ She lifted a nonchalant shoulder. ‘But I’m enjoying playing the field. I never really did that before.’

‘No,’ he said. He drank some coffee, grimaced and put down his cup. ‘This place serves the worst coffee in the world.’

‘You’ve said that every time we’ve been here.’ The words were out before she could stop them. They were loaded with shared memory. And just when she needed to make him think the past was a closed book, she thought, biting her lip.

‘That could be because it’s always true.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Maybe it’s time to bring our demonstration of ex-marital harmony to an end.’

‘Yes—yes, of course.’ She made a business of picking up her bag, watching from under her lashes as he walked to the counter to pay the bill, smiling at plump Mrs Trewin and saying something that made her bridle girlishly.

But that was Ross, she told herself stonily. He could use charm like a weapon, and it was something to which his new lady would have to accustom herself.

However, she couldn’t get over the astonishing change just a few hours had wrought in him.

He looked, she thought wonderingly, as if he’d woken, refreshed, from a deep sleep. He was still too thin, of course, but the lines of his face looked sharper, more dynamic this morning, and the old glint was back in his eyes—sexy, humorous, and as devastating as ever.

Perhaps he was looking for closure, too, wanting to go into his new relationship without baggage from the past to slow him down.

And that, of course, was what she should be seeking, too. Had always told herself that she was striving to attain.

Christy’s wedding was supposed to be a step on the path to her own regeneration. She had known ever since she received the invitation that she would have to be strong to cope with all the implications and resonances of the occasion. But that had been before the bombshell of Ross’s presence had been exploded, and all that had happened since.

Culminating in the revelations of the past half-hour.

And now, she knew, she was going to need every single weapon in her armoury of self-protection to get her unscathed through the next few days, let alone the eternity to come. And she was frightened.

She walked ahead of him out on to the cobbles, and stood for a moment, shading her eyes, looking at the familiar mix of fishing boats and sailing craft in the harbour, thankful to have something else to focus on.

Ross came to stand beside her. ‘You must miss this place—the sea—very much. Do you think you will ever come back?’

‘It was a wonderful place to spend my childhood.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘But I’m grown-up now, and my life is—elsewhere.’

‘London?’ His mouth twisted. ‘Even when we lived there together I was never convinced it was the right place for you.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t the environment,’ she said tautly, ‘but other factors that were wrong. Anyway, I’d prefer not to discuss it.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘My car’s over there. Do you want a lift back to Thirza’s?’

He said slowly. ‘That would be kind. But are you sure you wish to do this?’

She didn’t look at him. ‘We may as well keep the charade going to the bitter end.’

There was still a breeze, but it was turning into a perfect spring day. The clouds were high and broken, and the sun was hot and bright on Jenna’s newly shorn head as they walked along the quayside. She slipped off the quilted gilet she was wearing and pushed up the sleeves of her thin wool sweater.

He said suddenly, his voice faintly hoarse, ‘Dear God—did I do that?’

Glancing down, Jenna saw the red marks, clearly visible on her bare arm, where his fingers had gripped her.

She said, ‘It’s—not important. And the dress I’m wearing for the wedding has long sleeves. Besides,’ she added, coolly and pointedly. ‘I always did bruise easily.’

His swift smile was humourless. ‘Ah, yes. Of course. How could I forget? Whereas I, on the other hand, remained unmarked and untouched by everything—always. As if I have chain mail instead of skin. Is that what you’re saying?’

She bit her lip. ‘Not exactly. I—I couldn’t expect you to care about—some things in the same way as I did.’

‘Presumably because I am an insensitive boor of a man, who understands nothing of a woman’s innermost feelings.’ His tone was suddenly icy. ‘You have a short memory, Jenna. In those first few months of our marriage I came to know all your most intimate secrets—including some you’d never been aware of yourself until then.’

Her suddenly flushed cheeks owed nothing to the heat of the day.

She said in a suffocated voice, ‘You have no right to talk to me like this. No right at all.’

‘I need no reminder,’ Ross said softly, ‘of all the rights in you that I was fool enough to surrender.’

His words seemed to hang in the air between them, challenging, even threatening. Reviving old memories—old hungers. Shocking her with their potency.

He was watching her, the dark eyes glittering as they travelled over her in unashamed exploration. The cream round-necked sweater and close-fitting blue denim jeans she wore were no barrier to the intensity of his scrutiny, she realised as she stared back at him, eyes dilating, lips parted. Aware of a small, unwelcome stir of excitement deep within her.

Because he knew—none better—how she looked naked, after all the times he’d removed her clothes, his hands sometimes tender, often fiercely urgent. His lips caressing the warm skin he’d uncovered.

She was horrified to feel her nipples hardening involuntarily under the sudden force of the recollection.

This was what she’d always feared, she thought, swallowing. This was why she’d refused to allow any personal contact between them during the divorce, even in the safety of the lawyers’ offices. Or afterwards.

Because she knew she could not guarantee to control her physical responses to him.

However much she might have trained her mind to reject him, her body still shivered with remembered desire in his presence.

Suddenly she felt heat blaze from him like a dark sun.

And realised with swift, scared certainty that all she needed to do was reach out her hand …

Her throat tightened. She thought, ‘I can’t do this.’ And only realised she had spoken aloud when she saw his face change. The firm mouth harden.

Saw him take a step backwards, deliberately distancing himself from her.

He said quietly, ‘Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice, Jenna. And neither do I.’ He paused. ‘However, it might be better for me to walk back to Thirza’s. I’ll see you later.’

He turned and strode off down the quay.

For a moment Jenna stood where she was, watching him go, then, slowly and shakily, she made her way across the cobbles to her car.

She unlocked it and got in, stowing her bag on the passenger seat. Even fitting the key in the ignition. But she made no attempt to start the engine.

Her heart was thumping rapidly and noisily, and she felt slightly sick. Certainly she didn’t trust herself to drive. Not unless she wanted to find herself, and the car, on the bottom of the harbour.

She thought, I have to pull myself together.

But that, of course, was easier said than done.

She drew a deep breath and made herself review the situation. It had been lousy luck running into Ross two days in a row, but she’d make sure it didn’t happen again.

She was bound to see him at the wedding, of course, but there would be plenty of other people around, and he would be easier to dodge in a crowd. And there would be the unknown Tim to act as safeguard, anyway.

Apart from the wedding rehearsal tomorrow, there was no need for her to leave Trevarne House at all, and she would make sure that her every waking moment was full—even if all she could find to do was soothing Aunt Grace.

She folded her arms on the steering wheel and leaned her forehead against them, feeling the prickle of tears against her closed eyelids.

But who, she thought, with sudden desolation, is going to soothe me?

And for that she could find no satisfactory answer at all.