Читать книгу His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 13

‘IT’S not fair,’ Mrs Griffiths complained fretfully. ‘All this talk about human rights, and I can’t even see my own daughter.’ She gave Tarn a mulish stare. ‘It’s about time you did something.’

‘I have tried.’ Tarn made herself speak gently. She’d spent a restless night interspersed with wild and disturbing dreams, then woken very early when the sky was barely streaked with light to discover with shock that her arms were wrapped round her pillow, holding it closely to her body as if it were flesh and blood rather than feathers and down. And realised that she was glad she couldn’t remember her dreams in detail.

She’d known from past experience that she would not go back to sleep, yet was unwilling to simply lie there, staring into space, while she reviewed yet again the events of the previous evening and tried to make sense of them. Or rationalise her reaction to them.

Instead, she’d got up, dragged on some track suit bottoms and a T-shirt, and conducted a cleaning blitz on the flat, losing herself in sheer physical hard work.

When she’d finished, the whole place gleamed and she surveyed it with a sense of real satisfaction.

She showered and washed her hair, then, with the faintest hint of gritted teeth, she reminded herself that she almost certainly owed her foster mother a visit and took a bus to Wilmont Road before heading off to the supermarket for the Saturday morning shop.

‘But clearly you haven’t tried hard enough.’ Mrs Griffiths was like a dog with a bone, and not to be put off. ‘I need her, and Evie needs me at a time like this. You have to tell those doctors so. You must.’

I can talk to the Professor until I’m blue in the face, but it won’t make the slightest difference, Tarn thought, suppressing a sigh. Aloud, she said temperately, ‘I’ll go down there tomorrow and see what I can do.’

‘I’ve bought her a dress,’ Mrs Griffiths said. ‘Her favourite turquoise. And I want to give it to her myself. Tell them that. Make it perfectly clear.’

Tarn nodded as she got up from the kitchen table and walked to the door, where she paused as a thought struck her. ‘Talking of clothes, what happened to Evie’s wedding dress? Is it here somewhere, because there was no sign of it at the flat. I don’t want her to ask me about it, and not be able to answer her.’

Aunt Hazel shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. I certainly never saw it. Another of her surprises, poor baby. But when she described it, I wasn’t convinced that satin was the wisest choice she could have made.’

‘I think that was probably the least of her worries,’ Tarn said, then stopped, her brows drawing together in a swift frown. ‘Did you say it was satin? I thought—she said in one of her letters that it was cream lace and chiffon.’

‘Satin,’ said Aunt Hazel. ‘And oyster. I think she looked at quite a few before she made up her mind.’

‘Yes,’ Tarn acknowledged, still frowning. ‘I suppose that must be it.’

‘And you’ll go down to see her. You won’t let that Della talk you into doing something else.’

‘Della’s away this weekend, visiting her family,’ Tarn said with faint weariness.

Mrs Griffiths sniffed. ‘Well, aren’t they the lucky ones. Of course, I should have insisted you stay here instead of moving in with that flighty piece.’ She paused, giving Tarn a critical stare. ‘As it is, you look as if you’ve been burning the candle at both ends for a week.’

Tarn bit her lip. ‘I simply had a bad night, that’s all.’

‘Just the same, I expect you slept better than my poor girl, locked away like that,’ was Mrs Griffiths’ parting shot, accompanying Tarn down the hall to the front door.

What happened to Evie was not my fault, she wanted to shout back. But I’m doing my damnedest to make amends anyway.

Instead, she bit her tongue hard and went shopping.

An hour and two heavy bags later, she let herself into the apartment block and walked up the single flight of stairs to the flat. As she reached the landing, a tall figure moved away from the wall he’d been leaning against and came towards her.

‘I was just about to leave you a note,’ said Caz.

Tarn, aware that her jaw had dropped, hurriedly restored it to its proper level, thankful he could not hear the tattoo that her pulse was drumming.

As she’d pushed her trolley up and down the aisles, she’d been rehearsing what she would say, how she would behave when she next saw him. Now here he was, lithe and attractive in pale chinos and a dark blue shirt, its sleeves rolled back over his tanned forearms, its open neck revealing a dark shadowing of chest hair.

And suddenly her wits seemed to have deserted her.

She said with an assumption of cool, ‘And what was the note going to say?’

‘It’s a lovely day. Let’s spend it together.’

‘Brief and to the point.’ She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. The nervous twist in her stomach. ‘But what about your friends?’

‘They’re going to have a short, sharp shop, then get back to Surrey. Grace tires easily these days.’

‘Yes, I suppose she would.’ Tarn forced a smile. ‘The perils of motherhood.’

His tone was laconic. ‘It’s reckoned to have its compensations too.’ He paused. ‘So will you come with me?’ He added softly, ‘We can treat it as a journey of discovery.’

Tarn hesitated. ‘I’ll have to put my shopping away.’

‘Of course.’

‘And change.’ She glanced down at her black cut-offs and crisp white blouse, thankful that the track suit and tee of her cleaning marathon had been safely consigned to the laundry basket.

‘Unnecessary,’ he said. ‘What more do you need for a trip to the seaside? Apart from a jacket, maybe.’

This time her smile was genuine if a little startled. ‘The coast? That would be lovely.’

‘You unpack your groceries,’ he said. ‘I’ll make coffee and we’ll argue about whether to go south or east. The Channel or the North Sea.’

She nodded. ‘Fine,’ and unlocked the door.

‘You’ve been busy,’ Caz commented as he followed her into the spotless kitchen.

‘I enjoy housework.’ Which was just as well, she reflected, as she’d certainly done enough of it when she was living at Wilmont Road. She began to empty the first bag. ‘If all else fails I can always apply to the MacNaughton Company for a job.’

‘I used them at one time.’ Caz filled the kettle, set it to boil and found the cafetière. ‘But I’m not sure I’d recommend them. Anyway, who’s talking about failure?’

She passed him the fresh pack of coffee she’d just bought, telling herself that Evie must have obtained the paperwork about the cleaning company from him. Something she should have realised. Aloud, she said, ‘No-one can predict the future.’

‘I can.’ He took the coffee from her, and held onto her hand, looking down at the palm and tracing a line with his fingertip. ‘And I foresee a long and happy life.’

His touch shivered through her senses as if his hand had stroked her naked body.

She detached herself with a self-conscious laugh. ‘I don’t believe in fortune telling.’

‘Not even when the fortune is being arranged for you?’

‘Particularly not then.’ She made her tone crisp. Continued putting things away in cupboards. Did not look at him.

‘In other words, I’m rushing you into something you’re not ready for. Mea culpa.’ He paused. ‘Is that why you looked again as if you were confronting your worst nightmare when you saw me just now?’

‘I was just surprised, that’s all.’ In order to reach the fridge, she would have to get past him, so she put the items for cold storage on one side. ‘I—I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.’

The dark brows lifted sardonically. ‘Really?’ He spooned coffee into the cafetière. ‘I thought I’d made my intentions pretty clear.’

Tarn shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m having trouble believing that you have any intentions.’

He gave her a swift grin. ‘For someone who doesn’t like to be rushed, lady, that sounds suspiciously like a hint for a declaration.’

‘No—nothing like that.’ Her protest was instant. ‘It’s just that—Oh, for heaven’s sake, everyone knows that you’re involved with Ginny Fraser. And how many others before her? How many so-called declarations have there been?’

Tell me about Evie. Offer some explanation—express some compunction for what you’ve done to her. I’m giving you this chance…

He said quietly, ‘I’ve never pretended I’ve lived like a Trappist monk while waiting for the right woman to walk into my life. Ginny had her career and I had mine. Our relationship has been—convenient. It is now in the past.’

Consigned to oblivion—like Evie.

She watched him fill the cafetière with boiling water, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She said, ‘But Ginny wasn’t the only one. What about the others? What happened to them?’ ‘You’re beginning to make me feel like Bluebeard,’ he commented unsmilingly. ‘All I can tell you is that I never made any woman a promise I wasn’t prepared to keep. And that, my lovely one, will also apply to you.’ He paused. ‘Now shall we relax a little and discuss how to spend our day?’

In the end, they drove to Whytecliffe, a village on the South coast set on a small bay.

She’d been surprised to find a sleek black convertible two-seater parked a few yards from the apartment block.

‘No Terry?’ she asked.

‘A driver is more convenient on working days. But at weekends, I like to drive myself. And as I said—we’re spending the day together.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘Don’t you trust me to take care of you?’

‘Of course.’ But, in truth, she wasn’t altogether sure. This car looked to have a lot of power under its pared-down lines.

Hood down, they headed out of the city, and Tarn soon realised she hadn’t the least cause for concern. He was a terrific driver, positive without being aggressive, treating other road-users with consideration.

‘So where are we going?’ she asked as they left the suburbs behind.

‘It’s a surprise.’

And a very pleasant one, she discovered, as they eventually wound their way through narrow lanes with the sea shining in front of them, and reached Whytecliffe.

It was small and sleepy in comparison to other nearby resorts, its harbour catering primarily for private sailing dinghies rather than the fishing smacks of the past, while further round the bay, at the foot of the chalk cliff, a row of brightly painted beach huts stood sentinel over the stretch of sand and pebbles leading down to the sea.

The village itself had a Norman church, and a pleasant main street, partly cobbled, which housed a few shops and cafés. They walked slowly, her hand in his because he’d reached for it and she couldn’t think of a solitary reason to deny him, looking into the windows of the various antique shops, as they went and wandering round the small gallery displaying the work of local artists.

There was also a bistro-type restaurant which turned out to be only open in the evenings, but Caz declared that was unimportant and headed for the solitary pub overlooking the breakwater.

‘The Smuggler’s Chair.’ Tarn looked up at the swinging sign above the door. ‘That’s a strange name.’

‘And it goes with a strange story.’ Caz had to bend to negotiate the low entrance. He guided Tarn down a tiled passage and through a door with ‘Fisherman’s Catch’ painted on it.

She found herself in a wood panelled room, with old-fashioned settles flanking tables set for lunch, several of which were already occupied.

Caz ordered a white wine spritzer for her and a beer for himself, and they took the remaining table by the window.

The menu was chalked on a board, offering Dover sole, hake, crab and lobster, but they agreed to share the special, a seafood platter served with a mixed green salad and crusty bread.

‘So tell me about the Smuggler’s Chair,’ Tarn said when their order had been given.

‘Well, in the bad old days, the village had a reputation for being involved in free-trading,’ Caz said. ‘And cargoes from France were regularly landed here.

‘The leader of the gang used to come here to drink quite openly—apparently he had an eye for the landlord’s daughter—and he always sat in the same chair by the fire.

‘An informer told the Excisemen who organised a surprise raid. When they burst in, there was this man sitting in the chair with his pipe and his pint pot, just as they’d been told. They ordered him to stay still, but he reached into his coat, and thinking he was going for his pistol, they shot him.

‘However, when they searched the body, they found government papers authorising him to compile a secret report on the local free trade. It seems the smugglers had their own informers, and were expecting his visit.

‘Which is why, when he arrived at the inn, he was made welcome—and offered the best chair by the parlour fire.’

‘Nasty.’ Tarn wrinkled her nose. ‘What happened to the gang leader?’

Caz shrugged. ‘Got away, scot-free, and presumably found somewhere else to drink, complete with some other obliging wench.’

‘And the chair?’

‘Oh, that’s allegedly still here in the other bar, but it seems no-one fancied using it after the shooting in case the Excisemen returned and made a second mistake, so it was always left empty, and the story got around that it was haunted, and that doom and disaster would pursue anyone reckless enough to sit there. Even these days, it’s given a wide berth.’

Tarn laughed. ‘You surely don’t believe that.’

‘I heard the story at a very impressionable age,’ Caz said solemnly. ‘My parents used to rent a house nearby for the holidays. The then landlord used to offer a fiver to anyone who’d take the risk. I gather it’s currently gone up to a hundred quid, but still no takers.’

Tarn took a reflective sip of her spritzer. ‘It’s quite a reward—just for sitting down. I think I might try it.’

Caz put down his glass. ‘No.’ The negative was sharp and held a note of finality.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said laughing. ‘It probably isn’t even the same chair.’

‘Possibly not,’ Caz agreed. ‘That doesn’t change a thing.’

Tarn gave a provocative whistle. ‘Palmistry, now superstition,’ she marvelled teasingly. ‘I would never have believed it. But you were quite right,’ she added. ‘This is certainly a voyage of discovery.’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ he returned. ‘If you sit in the smuggler’s chair and lightning fails to strike, you’ve ruined a perfectly good legend forever, and it’ll be the landlord’s curse you need to watch out for if you spoil his trade.’

‘The pragmatic response,’ Tarn said lightly. ‘I’m disappointed. But I suppose you’re right.’

‘Besides,’ Caz went on thoughtfully. ‘Disasters I can well do without.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘But I’d be the one to suffer.’

‘Not any more,’ he said. ‘What happens to you, happens to me. That’s the way it is, lady.’

Tarn looked down at the table, her heart hammering. Dear God, she said silently, please don’t let that work both ways. Not this time.

The seafood platter was piled high with prawns, mussels, oysters, cockles, spider crabs and crayfish, and came with finger bowls and a pile of paper napkins.

Sharing it with him should have been a problem, an intimacy she could have done without, but in some strange way it was fine, even enjoyable, as if they’d been doing it all their lives.

And, at the same time, it was messy, funny and totally delicious.

Of all the meals we’ve eaten together, she thought suddenly, this is the one I shall always remember. And stopped right there, because she didn’t want any memories of him to take, alone again, into the next chapter of her life. Because she couldn’t afford that kind of weakness.

They decided to forego the desserts, choosing instead a pot of good, strong coffee.

‘Shall we take a walk along the beach before the tide turns?’ Caz suggested, as he paid the bill.

There was flat sand beyond the pebbles and shingle, and the sea was just a murmur, its surface barely ruffled by the breeze. Tarn drew the clean air deep into her lungs as she lifted her face to the sun, wondering at the same time how things would be if nothing existed but this moment.

‘So, tell me what you did in New York.’ He spoke softly, but his question brought her sharply back to reality. Because it was clear he expected to be answered.

She shrugged. ‘I suppose—pretty much what I do now.’

‘Your editor was sorry to lose you.’

‘I owe her a lot.’ Especially for that reference.

‘Will the job be waiting for you—if you go back?’

‘That or another one. I’ve rarely been out of work.’ She didn’t want the interrogation to continue, so she bent, slipping off her loafers. ‘I’m going to find out if the sea is as inviting as it looks,’ she threw over her shoulder as she headed for the crescent of ripples unfolding on the sand.

‘I warn you now—it will be cold,’ Caz called after her, amused.

‘You can’t scare me. I’ve been to Cape Cod,’ she retorted, speeding into a run.

He hadn’t been joking, she discovered. The chill made her catch her breath and stand gasping for a moment, but an ignominious retreat back to the beach was out of the question for all kinds of reasons. So she waded in a little deeper, finding that it grew more bearable with every step, until eventually it bordered on pleasure.

However, it was also bordering on the turn-ups of her linen pants, which was not part of the plan at all, so she opted for discretion over valour and walked slowly back to the shore.

Caz looked at her, shaking his head in mock outrage. ‘Crazy woman.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Chicken!’

‘But not a chicken risking pneumonia. Or with wet feet and no towel.’ Before she could stop him, he picked her up in his arms and carried her up the beach, scrunching over the pebbles before setting her down on a large, flat rock. ‘I prefer my seas warm, like the Mediterranean or around the Maldives.’

He produced a spotless white handkerchief from a pocket in his chinos and unfolded it. ‘I’m afraid this is the best we can do.’ He dropped to one knee in front of Tarn and began to dry her feet, slowly, gently and with immense care. ‘Like blocks of stone, as my old nanny would have said. Even your nail polish has turned blue.’

Forbidding herself to laugh, she tried to free herself. ‘There’s no need for this. I can manage—really.’

‘Is it the reference to Nanny that’s worrying you?’ Caz looked up at her, his hazel eyes warm and amused. ‘Do you think I’m going to revert to childhood and play “This little piggy”? Or are you afraid I’m a secret foot fetishist seizing his opportunity?’

‘It’s just—inappropriate,’ Tarn managed lamely, aware that some totally foreign instinct was prompting her to wriggle her toes into the palm of his hand, and not just for warmth either.

‘Is it?’ He was grinning openly now. ‘I do hope so. I’d hate to be politically correct at a moment like this.’ He traced the delicate bone structure of her slender toes with the tip of a finger. Cupped the softness of her heel. ‘They’re adorable,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe these foot fetishists have a point.’

‘Caz.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Don’t—please.’

‘Why not? Isn’t this where women like to see men—kneeling at their feet?’

‘I am not “women”.’ Tarn could feel that betraying heat spreading through her body again. ‘And I want to put my shoes on.’

‘In a minute. This is a new experience for me, and I like it.’ He bent his head and kissed each instep, warmly and lingeringly. ‘They taste of salt,’ he whispered.

The breath caught in her throat. She said with difficulty, ‘People—there are people coming. You must get up.’

Caz shook his head. ‘And lose this perfect opportunity? Not a chance.’ He looked up at her, and there was no laughter in his gaze. It was serious and intent. ‘Tarn, my sweet, my lovely girl, will you marry me?’

‘You—you said you wouldn’t rush me.’ Her voice was a whisper too.

‘I dare not wait,’ he said quietly. ‘After all, you came out of nowhere. I’m terrified that you may disappear in the same way.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I—I won’t do that. But it’s too soon. You must see that.’ She spread her hands almost beseechingly. ‘We—we hardly know each other.’

‘Something I’m seriously trying to redress,’ he said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed? Sweetheart, we can catch up on the details as we go. But I think I knew from that first moment that you were the one. I guess it was too much to hope that you felt the same.’

He added almost harshly, ‘But now that I’ve found you, Tarn, I can’t let you go, and I won’t. Not when I love you and want you to be my wife. You and no-one else for the rest of our lives.’

‘This isn’t fair…’

‘I think there’s a cliché that covers that—something about love and war.’

But this is war, she cried out silently, from the pain and confusion inside her. It’s just that you don’t know it yet.

Aloud, she said, stumbling over her words, ‘I—I have to think. You must give me time. We have to be sure.’

Caz sighed ruefully. ‘My darling, I am sure. Now, I just have to convince you. But I’ll be patient. I won’t even ask if you love me in return. Or not yet.’

He took her loafers and fitted them back on to her feet. ‘There you go, Cinderella. They fit. Now you can’t turn me down.’

‘You may believe you’re Prince Charming,’ Tarn said, forcing herself somehow to speak lightly as she scrambled up from her rock. Struggling to behave as if the whole world had not turned upside down. ‘But this couple walking their dog probably think you’re an escaped lunatic.’

Caz turned towards the elderly man and woman, walking arm in arm along the beach, their Jack Russell scampering ahead of them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he called. ‘Isn’t this a wonderful day?’

The man looked dubiously at the sky. ‘I reckon we’ve had the best of it, and it’s clouding over for rain. The weather’s always treacherous at this time of year.’

Treacherous, thought Tarn. Why had this man, this stranger, chosen that of all words?

‘Darling, you’re shivering, and our coats are in the car.’ Caz spoke with compunction. He untied the sweater looped casually around his shoulders. ‘Wear this.’

Obediently, Tarn pulled the enveloping softness over her head, knowing as she did so that the freshening breeze from the sea was not the problem, and that a dozen layers of cashmere would never be enough to alleviate the icy numbness building inside her. Possessing her. Making her feel she would never be warm again.

Oh, God, she thought desperately. What have I done? And what am I doing? I don’t seem to know any more.

Worst of all, I’m not sure I know myself. And that terrifies me.