Читать книгу Fugitive Wife - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

SHE cried for some time, sitting hunched in her high-backed chair, her hands pressed to her face. She was crying primarily, she knew, because she was tired and emotionally confused, but some of her tears were for the hopeful, vulnerable child who had thought all she needed to do was stretch out her hand for what she wanted.

She could even smile at the innocent arrogance which had taken her straight to the editor of one of Fleet Street’s leading dailies to ask for a job.

Looking back, she had to admit that Hal Mackenzie had let her down lightly. He had listened quite seriously to her stumbling exposition of why she thought a career in journalism would suit her, and had even made a few notes on the pad in front of him as she talked. He had asked courteously what her shorthand speed was, and had made no comment when she confessed she had never done any. He had lifted a number of closely printed sheets from his in-tray and handed them to her, asking her to go into his secretary’s office next door and produce a news-story from the handout, no more than six paragraphs long. Briony’s heart sank as she sat before the gleaming electric typewriter and read the mass of words and statistics the handout contained. She was miserably conscious as she handed her finished story to Hal Mackenzie that it would fall far short of the standard required, and saw his brows rise slightly as he read it through.

He put it down on his desk, removed the heavy hornrimmed glasses he wore and wiped them carefully on a spotless white handkerchief while an unnerving silence lengthened.

He said at last, ‘Miss Trevor, I’ve a friend in the Midlands who runs a small group of weekly papers. It’s a good training ground, and if I recommended you to him he would give you a chance.’

Briony said, ‘But I thought …’ and paused.

Hal Mackenzie said drily, ‘You hoped your relationship with the Chairman would open doors for you at U.P.G. Well, I’m afraid not, even if you’d been incredibly talented, which you’re not. But you could probably learn to be reasonably competent in time, with a sound provincial training behind you. Well, shall I write to my friend on your behalf?’ He waited, watching as the embarrassed flush deepened in her cheeks, then sighed. ‘Miss Trevor, I’m old enough to be your father, so may I give you some sound advice? Don’t read too much into a few moonlight kisses.’

Briony said lamely, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘No?’ His brows rose. ‘I saw Logan follow you, you know. Fortunately your father didn’t. He’d already made his views on what had happened earlier quite clear.’

‘Mr Mackenzie,’ Briony made a belated grab for the remnants of her poise, ‘it really isn’t what you think …’

‘Isn’t it?’ His tone was sceptical. ‘You’re a very lovely girl, Miss Trevor. Believe me, I’m not trying to censure either Logan or yourself. Good God, if I was twenty years younger, I’d probably have tried to beat him to it, no matter who or what your father was. Does he know you’ve come here to ask for a job, incidentally?’

Briony bit her lip. ‘We’ve—discussed it, naturally …’

‘In other words, no.’ Mackenzie sighed again. ‘It won’t do, Miss Trevor. I can’t imagine Sir Charles tamely accepting a life in journalism for you. I shall speak frankly to you. He’s a good chairman, but his heart is not in newspapers, the way your grandfather’s was. I often think your father would have been just as happy—happier even—making cars, or sewing machines. Something that couldn’t talk back. Sometimes he acts as if journalism was a dirty word.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘And even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t consider passing over some of the good people who apply to me for work in order to give a start to an untrained girl with no particular flair. As it is, I’m afraid your father’s known views would have to weigh with me—plus my own misgivings about your possible motivation.’

‘I hardly think that’s any of your business.’ She felt hot with humiliation.

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ He gave her a shrewd look. ‘I like my newspaper to operate efficiently, with my staff giving me their best efforts. That’s why I don’t encourage—personal situations, shall we say? They tend to get in the way in office hours. Sometimes, of course, relationships become established, and I have to accept them. All my staff are adults, after all.’

Briony said coolly, ‘If you’re trying to bestow a paternal warning that Logan Adair has a—relationship with Miss Wellesley, then please don’t bother. I already know. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. And there’s no need to write to your friend. I’m sure they need someone with flair—even in the provinces.’

He rose, as she did. ‘You make me sound an insensitive brute, Miss Trevor, and I’m sorry. But it wouldn’t work, believe me—oh, for all sorts of reasons. It may seem a glamorous life from the outside, but it’s hard work and pain with very little room for idealism, whatever pious platitudes we editors may utter from time to time. I think you’re still young enough to have ideals, so why not find yourself a star to hitch your wagon to? And please forgive me for having spoken so frankly on matters which were—not my concern.’

There were tears stinging Briony’s eyes as she hurried across the outer office and out into the corridor, ignoring the embarrassed secretary. She paused for a moment to snatch a pair of dark glasses from her handbag and cram them on to her nose to hide the most visible signs of her discomfiture. There were people waiting at the lift, so she took the stairs down to the ground floor. There was a women’s cloakroom there, and she slipped inside for a few moments, to effect a few repairs to her make-up. When she was sure she was in complete control once more, she walked out into the reception area and towards the massive glass doors which guarded the main entrance to the building.

And Logan Adair crossed the reception area just in front of her and went out into the street, pausing to hold open the doors for a group of women who were entering.

Briony stood stock still for a minute, hardly able to believe her eyes. To see him so suddenly, and unexpectedly, seemed like a sign, a good omen. If she’d taken the lift, if she hadn’t waited to fix her make-up, then she would have missed him. She hurried to the door and out on to the pavement. He was just ahead of her waiting to cross the road, flicking the folded newspaper he carried against his leg in slight impatience as he watched the stream of traffic. There was no reason in the world why she shouldn’t approach him, say something light and laughing about coincidences, and it being a small world, but she couldn’t do it, so she held back slightly, and then followed him as he crossed the road. She’d no idea, of course, where he was going. He might even be working on a story, but she didn’t think so. After all, he was in the foreign news department, not the City desk. Far more likely, she thought, glancing at her watch, that he was taking an early lunch. He did not seem to be in any particular hurry, strolling along in the pale sunshine, and Briony had little difficulty in keeping him in sight. Meanwhile a couple of disquieting thoughts occurred to her. What would she do if he turned and saw her skulking after him, and—which was infinitely worse—what if he was going to keep some lunchtime appointment with Karen Wellesley?

Her heart sank, but her spirits revived miraculously a moment later when Logan turned quite casually into the entrance of a large street-corner pub. After only a moment’s hesitation she followed him. After the brightness of the street, the interior seemed dim. Although it was still relatively early, many of the tables and velvet-covered benches along the walls were already occupied, and an appetisingly savoury smell hung in the air. Briony took a deep breath, then walked up to the bar.

Logan was just turning away, drink in hand, as she reached it. He saw her at once, and recognised her immediately in spite of the dark glasses, and his brows rose with amazed incredulity.

‘Slumming, Miss Trevor?’

‘It hardly looks like a slum to me, Mr Adair.’ Her voice sounded cool and composed, and she even managed a smile to match.

‘But hardly your usual stamping ground, I would have thought.’ He smiled too, but the cool eyes held a puzzled, almost reflective expression as he studied her. ‘Will you let me buy you a drink?’

‘Thank you.’ She hastily suppressed a feeling of glee. ‘You—you’re not expecting anyone?’

‘No one,’ he said, a touch drily. ‘The house wine is good here, and so is the food—unless you’re going on somewhere for lunch.’ His eyes wandered over the simple chic of the cream wool suit, and the dark green blouse she wore beneath it, all designed to convince Hal Mackenzie of her mature efficiency.

‘I’d heard the food was marvellous,’ she fibbed hastily. ‘That’s why I thought I’d try it.’

‘How word does get around!’ He did not bother to disguise his scepticism. ‘But it isn’t patronised much at Board room level. They have their own dining room, I believe.’ He handed her a menu. ‘I can recommend the shepherd’s pie.’

‘That will be fine.’ She would have sampled boiled Wellington boots on his recommendation, she thought dazedly. Logan gave the order to the barmaid, then ushered her to a couple of vacant seats on one of the benches under a long window. The sun poured through the glass, and she was glad to unbutton her jacket and slip it from her shoulders, arching her body slightly. As she did so, Logan’s eyes flickered momentarily over the rounded outline of her breasts, revealed through the fragile silky texture of her blouse.

‘Allow me.’ He helped her with the jacket, and for a second his hand rested on her shoulder and she felt its warmth on her flesh as if she had been naked. She stole a glance at him under her lashes, and saw that his face looked rather grim as he put her glass of white wine in front of her. She had to stifle the feeling of excited triumph that was beginning to build up inside her. The sophisticated Mr Adair was as aware of her, as she was of him, she told herself in delirious unbelief. Almost imperceptibly she edged nearer to him on the bench.

‘Do you smoke?’ He produced a packet of Gauloises and a lighter from the pocket of his brown cord jacket and held them out to her. She shook her head silently.

‘Good girl.’ He sounded lazily amused. ‘All the virtues and none of the vices, which is just as it should be at eighteen. Do you object if I smoke?’

‘Not at all.’ Suddenly tongue-tied, she picked up her wine-glass and sipped, enjoying the cool fragrance of the wine in her dry mouth. She searched around nervously for something to say. ‘Did—did you enjoy the awards party.’

‘Parts of it—very much.’ The amusement was open now, and she felt herself blush. ‘But the awards themselves are pretty meaningless.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I don’t need an ornament for my mantelpiece,’ he said. ‘I’m rarely at the flat long enough at a stretch to appreciate the fact that I have a mantelpiece anyway. And while the money is welcome, it’s not exactly essential. U.P.G. are quite generous in the matter of salaries, whatever your father’s personal feelings about his staff. I suspect that many awards presentations do more for the self-esteem of the donors than the recipients.’

‘But doesn’t it mean anything to you to be Journalist of the Year?’ she persisted.

He shrugged slightly. ‘Most of these titles are meaningless,’ he said. ‘It pleases me far more to know that Mac appreciates me and likes my work. He’s a good bloke to work for.’

‘Unfortunately I’ll never be in a position to judge the truth of that statement.’ Briony stared down at the polished surface of their table.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I asked Mr Mackenzie for a job, and he turned me down flat—not half an hour ago, as a matter of fact.’

‘You wanted to work on the Courier?’ Logan set down his glass so sharply that some of the liquid splashed out of it.

‘Is it so surprising?’ she enquired defensively.

‘Amazing would be a better word.’ He gave her a long speculative look. ‘Now what could have put such an unlikely idea into your decorative head, Miss Trevor?’

‘Kindly don’t patronise me,’ she said unevenly. ‘And don’t reduce me to the level of another mantelpiece ornament either.’

‘Is that what I was doing?’ He smiled drily. ‘I can assure you it’s a very different item of furniture which suggests itself when I look at you.’

‘Oh!’ A faint flush rose in her cheeks as she absorbed the implication of what he had said, and she hated herself for blushing like a fool at his teasing. She said hastily, ‘Nevertheless I did apply for a job on the Courier, but Mr Mackenzie unfortunately seemed to share your incredulity.’

Logan said coolly, ‘He also possesses a well-developed sense of self-preservation—an excellent asset for anyone hoping to make progress on one of your father’s newspapers. Apart from your youth, and your total inexperience, I imagine that went a long way towards your rejection by him.’

‘I really don’t see what my father has to do with it,’ Briony said, nettled.

‘Oh, come on, love.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘You’re surely not trying to make me believe you’re that naive? Your father tends to shed his newspaper personnel like autumn leaves, and you know it, or you should do. Besides, if Mac had given you a job, he’d probably have had trouble with the union to face, as well as your father. The Courier isn’t a training school for beginners.’

She said in a stifled tone, ‘Well, he didn’t give me a job, so there’s very little point in discussing it.’

‘Yet it still rankles.’ He shot her a look. ‘Was it this job that was so important to you, or any job?’

‘I wanted to work—to be of some use.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought journalism would suit me, that’s all.’

He gave her an amused glance. ‘And to start at the top would suit you even better? Nice try, sweetheart. But if you really wanted a job, why didn’t you apply to Vic Hargreaves in Personnel? There are usually vacancies of sorts somewhere in the group.’

‘I didn’t think of it,’ she admitted. ‘You see, I’d met Mr Mackenzie, and he seemed kind, so I thought I’d take a chance …’ Her voice tailed off a little as she saw he was laughing quite openly now. ‘What have I said?’

‘Your reference to Mac’s apparent kindness. I doubt if it’s the image he has of himself. Anyway, here comes the food. I hope you’re hungry.’

At that particular moment, Briony felt as if she could not have forced a morsel past the tightness in her throat, but it was odd when the steaming plate was placed in front of her, how her appetite suddenly returned. The shepherd’s pie was deliciously savoury, flanked by lavish spoonfuls of carrots and peas, and she finished every forkful with real appreciation.

‘Would you like something to follow?’ asked Logan.

‘I couldn’t eat another thing.’ She leaned back with a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘Some coffee, maybe, that’s all. I don’t want to get fat.’

‘I don’t think there’s much danger of that.’ His cool gaze wandered over her, lingering deliberately on her slender waist and the flatness of her stomach. ‘A few pounds wouldn’t hurt you.’

She laughed, finishing off the wine left in her glass. ‘This must be my day for being put down! I hoped you’d say I was perfect as I was.’

‘But perfection doesn’t appeal to me,’ he said. ‘A few failings add humanity.’ He signalled to the waitress and ordered the coffee, while Briony sat beside him in silence, her thoughts whirling. Once the coffee was drunk, then this all too brief lunch would be over, and how was she ever going to see him again? She couldn’t hang about outside the U.P.G. offices every day on the offchance of meeting him. And this meal hadn’t gone quite as she’d hoped. Last night he had made no secret of her attraction for him. Today he had teased her a little, but his manner had generally been wary, even a little aloof at rimes. There had been moments when his mouth had looked almost grim, and it was difficult to remember how it had felt when it had touched hers. All that she knew was that she longed for him to remind her what it had been like.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Where did you work before you joined the Courier?’

‘I was on a provincial daily in the North, doing mostly investigative work. But I’d always wanted to work abroad and when I heard there was a vacancy on the Courier’s foreign news department, I applied for it.’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Does that satisfy your curiosity, or do you want the story of my life? It isn’t very interesting.’

‘Well, it can’t possibly be as dull as mine,’ she said rather ruefully. ‘And of course it interests me. I’d hardly …’ She paused.

‘You’d hardly be here with me now, if you weren’t—interested,’ he finished for her.

She hunched a shoulder. ‘If you don’t want to tell me—–’ she began, but he cut across her impatiently.

‘It isn’t that, Briony. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but I must admit you puzzle me.’

‘Do I?’ She sent him a dazzling smile. ‘Well, that’s a good start.’

‘I wasn’t aware that we were starting anything!’ He paused to pay the waitress as she brought their coffee and the bill. When she had gone, he said quietly, ‘Now let’s have the truth. Just why are you here—and please don’t feed me any more nonsense about having heard rave reports of the food.’

She said blandly, ‘I saw you coming in here, and I didn’t want to have lunch alone. Satisfied?’

‘Not entirely. I could name at random at least half a dozen young executives that you met last night who would give a large proportion of their handsome salaries to take you somewhere fashionable to eat for a couple of hours. Why me?’

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps none of them forced themselves on my attention in quite the same way, Mr Adair.’

‘So you decided to employ the same tactics?’ That reflective, considering look was back.

‘Why not? Last night I got the impression you found me attractive. If I’m wrong, you can always claim this lunch back off your expenses.’

‘Attractive isn’t quite the appropriate word,’ he said slowly. ‘I find you both desirable and exasperating—not always in equal or even the same proportions.’

‘How very odd,’ Briony said sweetly. ‘I find you exectly the same. But you were going to tell me about your early life.’

‘Yes, I was, wasn’t I?’ he said pleasantly. ‘It’s perfectly simple. I’m thirty-four, unmarried, and my parents are both dead. I was educated at a grammar school, and from there I went on to Oxford where I read politics, philosophy and economics. I came into journalism as a graduate entrant, which isn’t a bad way to start. In my time, I’ve covered every type of story from funerals and flower shows to murder hunts and corruption. Is that what you wanted to know?’

‘You know it wasn’t,’ she said in a low voice, and for a moment there was silence between them. When she looked up at him again, she was smiling, and her eyes under the deep sweep of lashes were deliberately provocative. ‘Your past wasn’t very productive,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps I’ll have better luck with your future.’ She reached out and took his hand, turning it palm upwards for her inspection. ‘Hmm.’ She bent over it, pretending absorption, one pink-tipped finger tracing the various lines on his hand as she spoke. ‘A strong headline, but then I’d expect that. A long lifeline, and quite steady too, except for your middle years which could hold some danger for you …’

‘Never more than at this moment, I suspect.’ His tone was dry. ‘Briony, what are you trying to do.’

‘Tell your fortune,’ she said with mock innocence. ‘Now your heartline is really fascinating. I would say you could get any woman you wanted, merely by asking.’

‘Now that is fascinating,’ he said gravely. ‘Your coffee’s getting cold.’

‘You don’t think I know what I’m talking about,’ she accused.

‘I think I know exactly what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘And it has nothing to do with palmistry. Tell me something, Briony. When we leave here, what are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?’

Her heart suddenly seemed to miss a beat at the question. ‘I—I don’t have anything planned.’

‘No?’ His hand closed round hers, opening it palm upwards. ‘Now it’s my turn, and I’ll tell you what I see. I see the heartline dominating the head. I see a mixed-up girl who doesn’t know what she wants. I see a dangerous craving for excitement in the lifeline, but this evens out before too long into steadiness and security and a suitable marriage.’

Briony snatched her hand away. ‘But that isn’t what I want,’ she said unevenly. ‘And you know it. What—what are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?’ She died all kinds of small deaths while she waited for him to answer.

‘I think they could best be described as fluid,’ Logan said slowly at last. ‘But they certainly begin with more coffee—at my flat, I think. Shall we go and find a taxi?’

She had thought that he would kiss her in the taxi, but he didn’t, and she felt dashed by this. He hardly spoke either, and his face was suddenly remote as if his thoughts had travelled a long way from her, and she did not dare make any attempt to recall them. But by the time the taxi drew up in front of the small block of flats where Logan lived, she was feeling thoroughly nervous and on edge.

He didn’t put his arm around her either as they went up the stairs to the first floor, and she felt oddly chilled as he fitted the key into the lock and admitted her to a small cramped hall. There were a couple of letters lying just inside the door and he bent to retrieve them, slitting them open carelessly with his thumbnail and running his eye over the contents while she stood, waiting. He was being so casual, she thought, as though this happened all the time, as maybe it did with him, but not with her as he surely must realise.

She wasn’t just nervous any more either. She was definitely panicky, and suddenly and paralysingly shy at the thought of what she was doing. She had never dreamed she could behave in this way, but she’d thought that Logan would somehow make it easy for her. After all, it was last night’s kisses which had set off the chain reaction which had brought her to the flat today, she thought.

‘Do you live here alone?’ She tried to sound casual in her turn, but there was a tell-tale quiver in her voice, she realised with vexation.

‘I share with Tony Ericson, but he’s in Zambia at the moment,’ he returned laconically.

So although he might have a relationship with Karen Wellesley, they weren’t actually living together. Briony experienced a spasm of relief at the realisation. She followed Logan into the living room. It wasn’t large, and it was furnished in a spartan manner which suggested that its occupants spent little time there. The main items of furniture were a rather battered sofa drawn up in front of the fireplace and a large office desk in the window, supporting a litter of papers and two sturdy portable typewriters.

‘Yes, I work here as well as at the office.’ Logan deftly forestalled her next question. ‘The kitchen is through the door opposite.’ He pointed. ‘Perhaps you’d like to make that coffee I mentioned while I have a shower.’

She was glad to have something to do. Filling the kettle and setting it to boil, and finding mugs and the jar of coffee occupied her hands, but did nothing to ease the mounting uncertainty within her. And she had no one to blame but herself for the current situation, she told herself, her shaking hands spilling coffee granules on to the worktop as she attempted to spoon them into the mugs. It was entirely of her own making. She’d followed Logan and thrown herself at his head, and if she turned and ran now, she would only be making an even bigger fool of herself. Yet if she stayed…. Briony’s imagination refused to consider the implications of the next hour or two. She made the coffee and carried the mugs into the living room, but it was deserted. He was still in the shower, and now, if ever, was the time to beat an ignoble retreat. She set the mugs down on the corner of the desk and looked round for her bag. She’d put it down on the sofa as she’d come in, but it wasn’t there. Nor was it on the desk, or on the floor, or on any of the shelves of the fitment which covered one wall, and housed books and a complicated-looking stereo player. It had vanished.

Or had she simply left it on the small table in the hall, she wondered desperately. She opened the living room door and peered out, but the table was bare except for the discarded envelopes from Logan’s letters.

There was only one other explanation. Logan had taken her bag with him when he went off to have his shower, in order to prevent her from running out on him. The realisation set the match to her temper, relegating her fears and forebodings to a poor second. How dared he? she raged inwardly. She had taken several impetuous steps along the hall when one of the doors opened and Logan emerged, and the sight of him halted her dead in her tracks. He was wearing a damp towel hitched loosely round his hips, and his tawny hair was darkly streaked with water. His eyes, as they encountered Briony’s openly hostile gaze, were enigmatic.

He said smoothly, ‘Coming to meet me halfway, sweetheart?’

‘I was coming to find my handbag.’

He gestured towards the door opposite him. ‘It’s in there.’

After only a second’s hesitation, she turned and walked into the room he had indicated. She had guessed it was his bedroom and she was right. Her bag was there, lying in the middle of the bed—a double bed, she registered in silence. There was little other furniture. Like the living room, it suggested that its occupant was someone constantly in transit, living out of suitcases, and there were few personal touches.

She picked her bag up from the bed, and turned. Logan was lounging in the doorway watching her, and she could read nothing from his expression, but his presence there meant that her retreat was effectively cut off.

‘You didn’t bring the coffee.’ His tone was almost conversational.

‘I—I didn’t want any.’ Damn! she thought in vexation. Why hadn’t she said it was waiting in the living room, and thus made good her escape?

‘Then I won’t bother either,’ he said affably, and walked forward. ‘After all, why waste time when we have more important things to do?’

She took a step backwards. ‘No,’ she got out. ‘I—I can’t!’

‘Can’t you?’ He didn’t hurry as he covered the distance between them. He didn’t have to. It wasn’t a large room, and she was standing with her back against one wall. There was simply nowhere else to retreat to. ‘You can,’ he said. ‘It’s easy—I’ll show you.’

He detached the bag from her suddenly nerveless fingers and tossed it on to a nearby chest of drawers, following it with her suit jacket which he slipped expertly from her shoulders, almost before she realised what he was doing, and then he was unfastening her shirt—as casually as if he was changing a dummy in a shop window, and with about as much feeling, she realised, a sense of hysteria rising deep within her. Her hands came up to push him away, her fingers fumbling as she sought to thrust the buttons he had undone back into their buttonholes.

‘What’s the matter?’ He made no attempt to stop her. He was even smiling faintly.

‘How dare you?’ she choked.

‘I wasn’t aware that daring entered into it,’ he said, his voice cool. ‘You made it quite clear what you wanted, and I’m more than willing to provide it. So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem?’ She stared at him helplessly. ‘You’re behaving as if—treating me like …’

‘Like the spoiled brat you are?’ he cut across her stumbling words with merciless harshness. ‘What’s the matter, darling! Isn’t it all romantic enough for you? But what did you expect? It’s ladies who are being seduced who get the flowers and champagne treatment. Little girls who throw themselves at men merely get laid. It may not be the lesson you expected to be taught this afternoon, but I hope it will prove a salutory one all the same. Now I suggest you get out of here before I forget you’re your father’s daughter and give you the beating you so richly deserve.’

For a minute she stared at him, then with a little inarticulate cry, she struck him across the face and ran past him out of the room and down the hall. She was struggling with the stiff catch on the front door when he caught her.

‘You forgot your handbag.’ His tone was soft and jeering. ‘And your jacket.’

‘Thank you.’ She snatched at them, her face crimson with humiliation, suppressed tears stinging her eyelids.

Logan swore under his breath. ‘Oh God, Briony!’ He turned her to face him. ‘You got off lightly,’ he told her harshly. ‘Just be thankful that I didn’t take advantage of you, and for God’s sake don’t go round offering yourself to any other man who happens to take your schoolgirl fancy unless you want to end up as yet another unpleasant statistic for the sociologists to mull over.’

‘Suddenly everyone feels they have a right to lecture me—to feel responsible for me,’ she said stonily. ‘Now please take your hands off me. I’d like to go home.’

He released her immediately. ‘That’s the best idea you’ve had yet.’ He sounded weary. ‘Go and play in your own league, sweetheart, and leave the adult games until such time as you’ve learned the rules.’

And the flat door slammed behind her.

The remembered sound seemed to strike an echo closer at hand, and Briony stirred in her chair, dragging herself almost reluctantly back from the pain of the past to the reality of the present. She soon saw what had roused her—the noise of a piece of coal falling out on to the hearth—and she knelt down to replace it on the fire and sweep up the resultant ash.

She was shocked when she glanced at her watch and saw how long she had been sitting there, remembering. A pointless exercise if ever there was one, she thought ironically. As she’d told Logan all those months ago, the past wasn’t very productive. Only no one had warned her that the future could be even less so.

She got to her feet, stretching wearily. Now was the time to go and see about her room, otherwise she could well end up spending a cramped night in that very chair. But there was a surprise in store for her when she reached the top of the stairs and turned into the main bedroom at the front of the house. The bed was already made up and waiting, with crisply ironed sheets, and an old-fashioned eiderdown covered in flowered cotton.

Briony frowned as she set down her case and looked around her. Could it be possible that Aunt Hes was expected after all? But that was ridiculous, she knew. Aunt Hes rarely visited the cottage after the beginning of November, because she said frankly that the cold of North Yorkshire seemed to eat into her bones these days, apart from the fact that Kirkby Scar was often cut off by snow for days on end.

On the other hand, could she have let the cottage, perhaps? If so, when the tenant arrived, Briony would simply have to apologise and withdraw. She could spend a couple of days in York, she thought. Now that the tourist season was over, she would enjoy a leisurely tour of the Minster and the museums. It wasn’t what she had planned, but was that necessarily a bad thing when most of the things she planned went so utterly and disastrously wrong?

She took a nightdress from her case and threw it across the bed, then walked to the window to draw the curtains. The second surprise was more in the nature of a shock. The darkness outside was full of the wild swirl of snowflakes, and the ground beneath as well as the kitchen roof and the neighbouring trees were already crusted in white. A swift sigh of exasperation escaped Briony’s lips. She remembered now the forbidding leaden sky which had greeted her arrival, and realised she should have guessed its significance. She could still leave, of course. She could repack her case and find the car and drive to a slightly more accessible hotel. She glanced at her watch again, imagining the reaction if she turned up at this time of night without a booking. She might even end up spending the night in the car. No, she would stay where she was for tonight at least and risk being able to get out in the morning. It was surely too early in the winter for a really heavy fall, she argued to herself without a great deal of conviction. The real trouble was the isolation of the cottage from the village, and the difficulty of stocking up with fresh food if the weather was really turning nasty. She couldn’t subsist for ever on a diet of black coffee.

They said everything came in threes, and the evening’s surprises proved to be no exception. When she returned downstairs, the room was occupied. A large black cat with enormous green eyes was sitting in the middle of the hearthrug washing itself as if it had every right to be there. It turned its head gracefully as Briony came in and gave her a long speculative look before returning to its toilet.

Briony paused and watched it, her mouth curving upwards in amusement. Aunt Hes didn’t own a cat, but she was probably notorious to the neighbouring feline population as a soft touch who could always be relied on for a saucer of milk, and this handsome beast had obviously realised the cottage was occupied again and drawn its own conclusions.

The only thing was—how had he got in? Briony went out into the hall again, but the front door was securely shut. She had opened no windows, so the cat must have got in via the kitchen. But how? Puzzled, she walked out into the kitchen and looked around. The back door was shut and the place was deserted, but someone had been in, presumably while she was upstairs, because a large cardboard box full of groceries now reposed in the centre of the kitchen table. A piece of folded notepaper was stuck in one side of the box and Briony unfolded it.

‘Saw the car and thought I would bring these things up before the weather got worse,’ she read. ‘Hope all is satisfactory. Yours truly, N. Barnes.’

She looked into the box, her spirits lifting. Bread, butter, cartons of long-life milk, bacon and a couple of boxes of eggs. She wouldn’t starve even if the blizzard outside raged for a week. But how had Mrs Barnes known? Perhaps she had simply seen the car parked at the foot of the track and decided to bring up some supplies. It could all be as simple as that, and Briony would take it for granted that was what had happened until she knew differently. Perhaps Mrs Barnes was naturally psychic, she thought grinning slightly to herself, as she unpacked the provisions and put them away. There was even a frozen chicken and a small joint of beef at the bottom of the box, so whoever was expected was apparently planning to stay.

The cat stalked into the kitchen and pushed itself against her legs, purring vociferously.

‘Cupboard love,’ Briony accused as she bent to fondle the glossy head. ‘But we’ll both have a drink in a minute.’

A hot milk drink for herself, she thought, and one of those tablets the doctor had prescribed for when she could not sleep, as something told her she would not do tonight. All this time she had survived by shutting out the past, refusing to admit its existence. Now she had allowed it back to torment her with a vengeance, and it was not done with her yet.

‘Go and play in your own league,’ Logan had said to her, she thought as she stood waiting for the milk to heat, and it was sound advice, although she had not realised it then. Christopher had been far more suitable in every way. Christopher who would be now telephoning vainly round all her friends in an effort to find out where she had gone. Christopher whom she had seriously been considering marrying until that unbelievable evening almost a week ago when she had gone to the head of the stairs, drawn there by the sound of her father’s voice raised in anger, and seen Logan standing there. Logan who was dead—who’d been shot as a spy by Arab guerrillas. A much thinner Logan, his deeply tanned skin fine-drawn over his bones, lines of weariness etched around the grimness of his mouth as he stood quite immobile, his hands resting on his hips, his head bent slightly listening as her father raged at him.