Читать книгу Morgan's Secret Son - SARA WOOD - Страница 7

BLEAKLY he acknowledged the impossibility of that dream. ‘Sam will be proud of you,’ he promised with an effort.

The urgent hungry expression on Jack’s face was slowly vanishing and a soft, blissful look of repose had begun to replace it. The small features smoothed out, the impossibly arched mouth slackened with sleep.

Desperate for sleep himself, Morgan adjusted his arm so that the two of them could rest in comfort. Just a few minutes for a catnap, he promised himself vaguely. Unfortunately his teeming thoughts wouldn’t allow him to rest.

He hadn’t found a daily help yet, and the kitchen needed clearing up. After that, he had to sterilise a load of bottles, make up a new batch of feed, put the washing on and do some ironing. Some time today he had to ring the office to see if it still existed. Then he and Jack would wrap up and go to see Sam.

He groaned at the catalogue of things which needed doing. It was eleven-thirty and he hadn’t even shaved—let alone found time to grab a morning coffee! But when he wasn’t by Sam’s bed, doing essential chores or looking after the baby, he was pacing the floor night after night, and his energy levels were at rock bottom.

More to the point, his mind was consumed with guilt. He’d never done anything wrong in his life before and this secret was testing his self-respect and control to the limit.

He knew he was on a short fuse. Was it any wonder? Morgan’s black brows screwed together in a fierce frown. His big capable hands curled around the tiny baby who slept, oblivious to everything around him. Jack made Morgan feel both protective and envious.

His eyes grew hazy as he contemplated the future. For years he’d done whatever he’d wanted, gone where he’d pleased, lived as free as a bird. Now circumstances had clipped his wings and it was hard to adjust.

Once he had been free to fly to exotic sites and absorb their meaning, to discover that feverish excitement of seeing one of his designs take shape on his drawing board—and then grow in reality on the site, at one with its environment.

But in one brief moment with Teresa Frazer he had created and designed something which had turned his world upside down. For the rest of his life he’d never forget the moment when he’d turned up at the hospital and she had confessed that Jack was his son, not Sam’s. Jack had been conceived while they were still together—before Sam even knew of Teresa’s existence.

He winced, seeing again that once-beautiful face, hideously mangled by the car crash which had brought him hurrying to Sussex from his London flat. He hadn’t doubted her word for a second. She had been so desperate to tell the truth, and too aware that she was close to death to waste her time with lies.

Morgan thought of Sam’s breakdown when news of the crash had come through, how it had been he, Morgan, who’d been with Teresa for her last conscious moments before the emergency Caesarean.

It had been he who’d first held his baby, he who’d wept with unrestrained joy and amazement. He hadn’t shed tears since he was eleven, but the suddenness of fatherhood had overwhelmed him.

Emotion had filled his heart to bursting. He’d wanted this child. His child! And yet he had known even then that he’d have to surrender him for the sake of a slowly dying man. Jack must be registered as Sam’s son.

Such joy and sorrow mingling together as he had never known…

Morgan passed a shaky hand over his face. He owed everything to Sam. But this was the cruellest price to pay!

Racked with despair, he bent his weary head and gently kissed the downy forehead. The warmth of the fire and the accumulation of several sleepless nights began to blur his mind. His thoughts became less focused and finally he slept, briefly free from his troubles and the destructive, shameful deceit.

The closer Jodie came to the village where her father lived, the more breathless and excited she became. Discovering his existence had been the most wonderful thing that had happened to her. Her heartbeat quickened. She dearly wanted this to work. It must! All her hopes were resting on it.

Her eager eyes took in the scenery with its voluptuously smooth hills—incongruously called Downs, according to the map. Sheep grazed on the emerald grass of the tiny fields and swans were lazily decorating a meandering river.

And then she saw it: an old-fashioned signpost pointing the way down a country lane. She turned off the main road, her heart singing with unrestrained delight.

It was getting dark, even though it was only about four o’clock in the afternoon. In her headlights she could pick out quaint flintstone cottages strung out sporadically along the lane. Occasionally there would be a small Tudor cottage, with black and white timbers, a thatched roof and pretty garden.

As she passed each house she slowed the car to a crawl, so she could read the names, her mouth increasingly dry with nerves. At last, in the rapidly fading light, she spotted the one she was looking for: Great Luscombe Hall.

‘Be there!’ she begged in a heartfelt plea.

Nervously she headed down a long drive, her hands gripping the steering wheel in a mixture of panic and anticipation. Her forest dark eyes widened. There was a moat! Awed, she steered the car over the wooden bridge that spanned it. It had never occurred to her for a minute that her father might be wealthy!

Adjusting to this fact, Jodie brought the car to a halt in front of the house. Her heart was beating hard in her chest with anticipation. Great Luscombe Hall was a rambling, timbered manor house with a roof made from huge slabs of stone, and its façade had been constructed with enough oak beams to make a fleet of ships.

‘I can’t believe this!’ she whispered.

With trembling fingers she switched off the lights and the engine and leapt out, her body tensed in expectancy.

And then she heard a furious barking. She shrank back, terrified to see a Collie hurtling towards her.

‘Help!’ she croaked, freezing to the spot. Her terror-stricken gaze was pinned to the dog’s white fangs. ‘G-g-good, dog!’ she squeaked unconvincingly.

‘He’s friendly,’ snapped a hard male voice. ‘His tail’s wagging, can’t you see?’

Her father! Forgetting the animal, she looked hopefully towards the house, a warm, happy smile bursting forth and illuminating her eyes. It faded almost immediately. This couldn’t be him. He was too young. This was…who?

She swallowed nervously. The dishevelled, raven-haired man was glaring at her suspiciously from the shadowy doorway. Darkness surrounded him, a mere chink of light coming from the door he’d pulled to, as if he were defending his castle from intruders.

Extreme tiredness made her head swim with odd, fanciful images—the black-watered moat, the medieval manor and with its looming, jettied upper storey, and the sinister stranger.

She noted that his hair was wild and wind-tousled, his black brows thick and fierce and the angular jaw covered in five o’clock shadow. Wide-eyed with apprehension, she took in his hostile stare, crumpled crew-neck sweater and jeans and wondered if she’d come to the wrong house.

‘Great…Luscombe Hall?’ she queried shakily.

‘Yes!’ he clipped.

No mistake, then. And he was just a man, she reminded herself. Bad-tempered, unfriendly and unwittingly threatening, but nothing more. It was time her adrenaline climbed down to normal.

‘Then, hi!’ she called, rallying her spirits. When she took a step forward she felt the dog’s nose against her thigh and her courage faltered. ‘You’re sure I can move without losing a leg or two?’ she asked, worried.

Searingly dark eyes brooded on her poppy-coated lips and she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. He’d just stared, that was all. But a flash of something almost sexual had slid briefly through her body.

‘He’s eaten already,’ he dismissed. His mouth remained hard, as if hacked from granite by a sculptor who didn’t know how to do curves. ‘You want something?’ he shot.

It wasn’t the most gracious welcome she’d ever had! Jodie thought he sounded as if he’d got out of the wrong side of bed—and not long ago, judging by his rumpled state. Who could he be—the gardener? No—he’d been indoors. And the house might look grand enough for a butler, but not one who looked so untidy and…dangerous.

Handyman perhaps. He could have been under the floor-boards fixing something, hence his mussed-up hair.

Mystified, Jodie risked walking to the house. The dog bounded about her, circling as if she were a wayward sheep to be brought into line, and she smiled at its antics—though her city upbringing stopped her from trusting it enough to offer it a friendly pat.

‘Here, Satan!’ ordered the man sharply.

She hid a grin. Satan! That said volumes about his owner! She watched thoughtfully as the dog whirled around and flew over to its master, sitting to heel and gazing up anxiously. How severely had the dog been chastised till that level of obedience had been achieved? Fresh from living with a bully of her own, she felt her dislike of the man rack up a notch.

Close up, he seemed to tower over her slender frame, and she felt almost smothered by the tense atmosphere which surrounded him. It was clear from his manner that he was harassed and impatient, suggesting he had better things to do. Boilers to repair, pipes to lag, she thought with a sublime ignorance about maintenance. So she got to the point.

‘I’ve come to see my father,’ she told him briskly, though her joy suddenly shone through as she thought of their imminent meeting. Her fears vanished completely and she beamed, suddenly awash with happiness. This was a moment to cherish.

The man drew in his breath sharply and his eyebrows collided fiercely over his nose, as if she’d just confirmed his worst suspicions.

‘Your…father?’ he repeated ominously.

‘Sam Frazer,’ she confirmed, before the frown screwed up the man’s entire face.

‘Sam!’

He looked devastated. He’d gone quite pale beneath his olive complexion. Jodie took pity on him. Thinking only that she was seconds away from seeing her father for the first time, she gave an ecstatic grin and said, ‘Yes! It’s going to surprise a lot of people, I imagine. I’m pretty knocked out too—this house isn’t what I’d expected at all. I’d imagined my father in a little cottage with roses over the door, and wearing tweedy things with leather patches on the elbows. This is really grand!’

‘Is it?’

Jodie’s voice faltered a little at the contempt in the man’s eyes. But she wasn’t to be put off. ‘Sure it is. Now, if you’re wondering, I’m his long-lost daughter from New York,’ she explained. ‘You’ll want credentials, I suppose. Understandable. You can’t let anyone in, can you? Somewhere…I have his letter…’ Eagerly she scrabbled in her bag and produced it. ‘It’s a bit blurred in places because I cried over it,’ she pointed out hurriedly. ‘And it’s coming apart at the folds because—’

‘I get the picture,’ he said tightly.

He shot her an unreadable look from under his brows then switched on the porch light and bent his tousled head to study the first few lines. Jodie restrained her urge to leap about from one foot to the other and yell, Let me in—now! and contented herself with idly observing him as an exercise in self-discipline.

It surprised her to see that his hair was gorgeous: thick and silky, gleaming with the brilliance of a raven’s wing in the light. Her thick brown lashes fluttered with unwilling feminine admiration as her gaze took in his killer looks and the sheer masculinity of his angled jaw and powerful shoulders. Then her eyes widened in wonder. There were some creamy stains on his black sweater.

She was just pondering on this odd fact when the hairs began to rise on the back of her neck and she sensed that he must be studying her again, with that bone-slicing stare. She looked up and gasped. His expression was one of utter repugnance.

‘He wrote this six months ago,’ he said icily.

‘I know that! I replied immediately—’

‘Really?’

‘Yes!’ Her face went hot at his disbelief. ‘I did!’ Her brow furrowed when she realised what his doubt must mean. ‘Are you telling me that my father didn’t get my letters?’ she asked in dismay.

‘Correct.’

Exasperated by the monosyllabic responses, she drew her brows into an even deeper frown.

‘That’s impossible. I wrote several times in quick succession—and I telephoned twice—’ she said with dignity.

‘If that were true—if,’ he interrupted coldly, ‘why did you come?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Because I want to see him, of course! Something doesn’t add up here. I sent those letters. They can’t all have been lost.’

‘I agree. He had no letters from you. So you must be lying. I think you’d better leave.’

She glared and clenched her fists in angry distress, her mouth beginning to tremble. Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. It would be tragic if this was as far as she got! So near, so far…

‘I’m not going till I see my father! I did write!’ she insisted in desperation. ‘Something’s happened to the mail. A wrong zip code, maybe. I spoke to a woman on the phone. I’m not imagining that. I asked for Sam Frazer, said who I was, and she told me he didn’t want to see me—’

‘Well, that final comment is true, at least,’ he drawled. ‘I suggest you turn around and go home.’

He’d turned and was about to shut the door when she lunged forward and jammed herself in the gap. The dog barked excitedly, its teeth snapping close to her thigh.

‘Ouch!’ she gasped. ‘Get this door and this dog off me!’

The pressure of the door was removed from her protesting flesh.

‘Leave!’ ordered the man.

Glowering, she stayed put; the dog backed away obediently. She rubbed her arm and thigh, conscious that she was deliberately being intimidated by the man’s looming bulk.

‘What did you do that for?’ he asked impatiently. And then, with a small thread of concern in his voice, ‘Are you hurt?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she dismissed. ‘But I couldn’t let you slam the door in my face. I’ve flown across the Atlantic to see my father. Surely he can spare a few moments of his time?’

‘No. He can’t.’

Her imploring face lifted to his. ‘Just a few moments… I won’t bother him for long, but… You must let me in,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘Please! You’ve no idea what it’s like not to know your father! I need to see him so badly—even if it’s just the once and never again! It’s not much to ask, surely? To see what he looks like, to hear his voice…’ Her own voice cracked up annoyingly. ‘I—I don’t even have a photograph! Let me have memories of him to take away with me, if nothing else,’ she added in a croaky husk. ‘Imagine how you’d feel in my position!’

‘Hell.’ His growl was followed by a long pause, as if he was struggling against his better judgement. Jodie waited with bated breath, willing him to relent. ‘You’d better come in,’ he muttered grudgingly, to her great relief.

Then, before she could gather her wits, he’d turned on his heel and was walking into the beamed hall beyond, the dog at his side. She stared at his daunting back with irritation. This guy wasn’t a servant to anyone. He oozed authority with every flicker of his ink-dark eyes. He wasn’t pleasant, either.

But everything pointed to the fact that he knew her father well. And the hostile welcome must be because he knew that her father had been disappointed and upset when her expected letters didn’t arrive.

No. Correction. There was another reason. This guy might be the person who’d dissuaded her father from going ahead with the reunion. If so, she had to persuade the guy that he had nothing to fear from her.

Jodie gave a feeble smile. Fear! He wouldn’t be afraid of the devil himself if he came calling!

Suddenly she started, remembering the recorded delivery. That must have arrived—proof enough! She would call his bluff.

In seconds she crossed the dark oak floor and caught hold of the man’s arm. It felt hard and muscled as it tensed beneath her fingers. His whole body became stiff and taut, as if she’d invaded his space. Crushed by his cold dislike, she let her hand slide away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘But I had to stop you before you reported back to my father. I want you to know I’m not lying. I can prove that I had the right address and that he must have had my letters.’

The hard, uncompromising gaze pierced into her brain and she felt giddy.

‘How?’

With an effort, Jodie pulled herself together. She might be tired and woozy, but this was important.

‘I sent a letter by recorded delivery to say I was coming. It must have been safely delivered into the right hands; it’s guaranteed! And if that arrived, then so did all the other letters!’ she said in triumph.

‘Ah.’

She followed his gaze to a circular table which groaned under a pile of unopened mail. Her letter lay on the top. Her mouth opened in amazement that anyone could be so cavalier. ‘How can you claim the rest of my mail’s gone astray?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘It’s probably all lurking beneath that heap!’

‘No. That’s just ten days’ worth,’ he said curtly.

‘Ten…! But you can’t leave mail unopened! And where are my previous letters, then? In a landfill site?’ she spluttered, aghast.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! All his earlier mail has been dealt with. So will this when… You look hot,’ he said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘Let me take your cape.’

He came up behind her and his hands were on her shoulders before she could move. But his touch seemed tentative, as if he would have preferred to avoid contact. The pure wool cape slid away, slithering across her firm breasts in a shimmer of gold.

‘Your hat,’ he ordered, appearing in front of her and holding out his hand.

He looked her up and down, and then again—perhaps startled by the vibrancy of her colour scheme, she thought with a flash of amusement. She let a smile sneak out, her hopes rising—she’d got this far at least. What did she care what had gone wrong in the past? This was now and she was here, and somewhere in this house was her own dear father.

Jodie removed her hat with a flourish, giving her head a little shake as she did so.

‘Let’s not get twitchy over what happened. There’s obviously been a muddle. The important thing is that I see him now,’ she said happily, silky brown hair still swinging around her delighted face.

His lips tightened into an uncompromisingly grim line. ‘Come into the study,’ he ordered.

She was left with her mouth open in astonishment as he strode away. This, she decided angrily, was another control freak. He told women to jump; they asked How high? Chauvinist!

She followed, the dog prowling alongside her, but she paused on the threshold of the lamp-lit room he’d entered. Her father wasn’t there. Her hands curled into angry fists as she checked the room again.

The stranger stood with his feet planted firmly apart in an attitude of domination. He leant, squire-like, against a carved beam which spanned an enormous recess…an inglenook, she decided, raking around in her mind for her limited knowledge of medieval houses.

Logs the size of small tree trunks crackled and blazed in a massive iron basket, filling the timbered room with the sweet aroma of pine. Books lined the walls and a desk, chaotically littered with papers, sat squarely in a mullioned bay window, its deep window seat backed by a dozen or so scarlet cyclamen in oriental pots.

‘You’re busy, I’m in a hurry, so I won’t hold you up any longer,’ she said, her chin high. ‘You know why I’m here. Tell me where my father is!’

Her face went hot. He was examining her in intense detail and warmth was creeping through her as he did so.

‘Sit!’ he ordered.

‘Good grief! What do you think I am—a dog?’ she declared indignantly.

‘I was talking to Satan. He’s just behind you in the doorway. Perhaps you’d like to sit down as well, though?’ he suggested, a faintly dry humour briefly appearing in his eyes.

She grinned. At last he was beginning to unbend a little. ‘Sorry!’ she said blithely. ‘I’m not used to orders being barked at dogs.’

His eyebrow rose at her implied criticism. ‘Collies are intelligent and powerful. He knows he’s not allowed in the reception rooms, though he tries it on every now and then. You rule them, or they rule you. All dogs need a pack leader.’

‘And you’re it?’ she said with a smile, wondering if his philosophy extended to women.

‘For the moment. Please, make yourself comfortable.’

The cream leather armchair he’d indicated looked as welcoming as a warm bed and she sank into it in relief. ‘That’s better! It’s been a long journey,’ she confided, stretching her long limbs luxuriantly and giving a little wriggle to ease her stiffness. ‘I’ve been driving on the left side of the road for the past four hours and my brain has been protesting every inch of the way. I suppose I could have stopped overnight somewhere, but I kept going because I longed to be here.’

Misty-eyed again, she ventured a smile, but received nothing in return.

‘I’ll get you some tea,’ he drawled. ‘Stay!’ he ordered.

Jodie wasn’t too sure if this had been directed to her or the dog. ‘I’d rather see my father straight away,’ she said hurriedly. But not quickly enough. His long jean-clad legs had swallowed up space so quickly that he was almost out of the room. Balked again, she called, ‘And if it’s no trouble, I’d prefer coffee… Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she fumed in exasperation.

Morgan strode to the kitchen, and once he was there and out of sight he stopped dead, knowing he had to gather his composure before he faced Jodie again.

He needed space. Time. A brain that wasn’t fuzzy with exhaustion and which could deal with the problem her arrival had created.

Focus. He must concentrate… Cursing softly to himself, he ruthlessly shut out everything but the alarming situation.

He had a choice. To refuse Jodie any access to Sam, or—when Sam’s health improved—he could coax Sam to see his daughter. He closed his eyes, fighting for objectivity.

If he could persuade her to go then life could continue as before. And one day Jack would return to him.

He felt dark emotions swirling inexorably in his mind, denying him clarity of thought. Because he knew with a gut-wrenching pain that if Jodie was ever reunited with Sam then he could lose his son for ever.

Jodie was Sam’s next of kin. When Sam died, which the doctors said would be within a year or two, she would automatically be responsible for Jack’s future welfare.

And he, Morgan, would be out on his ear.

A devil was driving him, whispering in his ear wickedly that he could eliminate all danger by stating the cold, unvarnished truth: that her father had rejected her utterly. It would be so simple—and he wanted his son so badly that he tortured himself by listening to the voice in his head even though he knew he should, in all honour, endeavour to bring father and daughter together.

But Sam had been adamant. ‘She’s like her mother!’ he’d declared with wild conjecture, when he’d given up all hope of hearing from Jodie. ‘Selfish, flighty and heartless! If she knew I was rich she’d be here quick enough! Morgan, she’s broken my heart! I never want to see her—even if she turns up in rags and trailing ten children in her wake, do you hear?’ he’d raged.

‘I hear,’ he’d said quietly, hoping some day to dissuade him.

But that had been before Morgan knew he was Jack’s father. And now Jodie was here, in dazzling scarlet and trailing fire and passion and a steely determination in her wake.

Common sense told him that he should send her away with a photo after a cup of tea. But could he live with himself, knowing that Sam had had the opportunity to enjoy the last year or two of his life in his daughter’s loving company?

‘God!’ he muttered. ‘What a choice!’

Hard on himself, as always, he forced himself to go through the motions of making tea, but his fingers were constantly stilled by the strangely haunting image of Jodie’s face.

What was it about her? Some element of Sam, his honesty, his goodness? It would have been easier if she’d been an out-and-out cow—selfish, flighty and heartless, as Sam had suggested.

But Morgan’s lasting image of her was of her transparent, innocent joy, which had cut through his suspicion and shock like a sword of light.

He stared into space, seeing the blinding smile which had lit up her extraordinary jade eyes till they’d sparkled like gemstones. She’d seemed almost vulnerable in her eagerness to tell him about herself.

Morgan thought of her passion when she’d begged for a crumb, the right to see what her father looked like because she had no photographs of him. Her words had sliced through his heart like a knife through butter. He understood that terrible emptiness of being somehow unfinished because of an unknown parent.

All his life he’d wanted to know who his father was. His rootlessness, his avoidance of committal and his dangerous hunger for love had undoubtedly been a consequence of that empty gap in his life. In that instant he had felt a visceral stab of compassion for her. And so he’d weakened.

Of course she was lying about the letters. But it was like the lie of a vulnerable child who can’t bear to be in the wrong. A greedy child, perhaps, he reminded himself with a frown, before he became too indulgent. Maybe she’d done some research on the Internet and had discovered that Sam Frazer was one of the most prestigious architects in the country.

He rubbed a thoughtful hand over his stubble. With Sam owning half the village and the lucrative practice, she’d be in line for a huge inheritance. And custody of Jack.

Morgan’s hands shook as he filled the kettle. Where would that leave him? Visiting occasionally. Looking on while she brought up his son.

‘No!’ he muttered vehemently. ‘Never in a million years!’

Sam only had a short time to live. Morgan had planned to adopt Jack when the older man died. But if Jodie was on the scene she would be firmly entrenched as Jack’s carer by then.

There’d be a legal tussle which could go on for years, with Jack in the middle—and by that time Jodie would to all intents and purposes be a mother figure to Jack. He couldn’t take his son away under those circumstances. It would be too cruel.

No! Better if he never let that situation arise. He sucked in a harsh breath. That settled it. He’d keep her at arm’s length and respect Sam’s explicit wishes. Tea and sympathy, then pack her off home.