Tomorrow's Bride Page 11

  But instead of putting it down he raised it again, looked from the card to her face and back again, before reading aloud in that damning, sneering voice, 'Captain James Brereton, Royal Navy.' Disparagement was in the eyes now raised to hers. 'A friend of yours?' A multitude of accusations and implications lurked in the seemingly innocuous query, implications which brought indignant colour flooding to her cheeks, but doubtless he would see her guilt being proclaimed.

  'Do you mind?' It was an attempt at coolness undermined by the flashing contempt in her eyes. But the hand she held out for the card was steady enough. She had found the bit of paper in a pocket the other day, had meant to put it in the waste-bin, and now slipped it into the pocket of her dressing-gown.

  'You haven't answered my question.'

  ‘I’m not in the witness-box.'

  'And I suppose you'll say you're not on oath either?'

  'Precisely.'

  'Is he married, this captain in the Royal Navy?'

  'I haven't the faintest idea if he's married or not.' She couldn't even remember what the young man looked like.

  'Ah.' There was a wealth of innuendo in the single word, and in the faintly bitter smile which accompanied it. 'How very wise. That's one way you can plead total ignorance.'

  There was no way she would dignify such a remark with an answer, so, trying to ignore her own fevered pulses and to retain some remnants of dignity, she reminded him once more, 'I did say I was expecting a guest...'

  'And I told you I have no intention of breaking up your dinner à deux but... a last word. Remember, when the whole thing breaks about your ears, I warned you...'

  'I promise you I shall try to do that.' She spoke slowly, as if to a young child. 'Even though I haven't the least idea what you're talking about, I shall try to remember I was warned. And that you were the one who gave the warning. You shall have all the credit. Is that what you want?' She had managed to adopt a tone of sickly sweetness, but at the last minute her voice wobbled dangerously. Frantically she gnawed at her lower lip as she tried to retain her crumbling control. 'Now please will you go?'

  'And remember, you're old enough-----' he might have been deaf for all the notice he took '—and obviously experienced enough, to know that married men, whatever their protestations, are seldom there when you need them. When the going gets tough, that's when they rediscover all the benefits of married life—the safety of it, the comfort. That's when they hurry back to their wives and children.'

  'Get out.' There was nothing you could tell this man; his pigheadedness was so total that for a moment she forgot her misery. 'Get out of my house and out of my life.'

  'Yes.' Now his calmness was a foil for her anger. 'I can see now I was wrong to come.' His laughter was self-deprecating. 'It's amazing, amusing too, how bruised pride can undermine the most level-headed man. Not that my relationship with you has ever been level-headed-mad, deranged might have been more apposite—but that taunt... the suggestion that you were ashamed of that night we spent together in Paris... If it hadn't been for that, things could have been so very... Ah, well.'

  He sighed, turned for the door, and stopped. 'I confess, Leigh, that was the bitterest cut of all. Especially in view of what I know now.' Firmly he strode through the hall and, barely aware of what she was doing, she followed, watched him place his hand on the doorknob.

  'I'm speaking to you as a lawyer now, Leigh. Prepare yourself for a rough ride. Once they become public, these things are inevitably humiliating—matters are made public which should concern only two people, and of course the gossips won't let it die. So, you may find you're not as tough as you thought you were.'

  He eased open the door. 'Already the Palais is buzzing with speculation, and it won't be long till the media are in there too. I wish I could do something to help, but I doubt if there's much anyone can do. If I had a desert island somewhere I'd be happy to lend it to you, but...' He smiled wanly, shrugged. 'I hope to God you find it all worth it in the end.' He tipped her chin upwards, looked down into her eyes for what could have been a lifetime. 'Goodbye.' The door closed behind him. 'My love.'

  She dreamed she had heard him whisper those words as he disappeared, but that was sheer self-delusion and she had over-indulged in that for more years than she cared to admit.

  It was then that she began to shiver, long, racking rigors which reminded her of her barely dry hair and scantily covered frame. But even when she had dressed and had turned the heating to boost she could not control her shaking.

  She managed—just—to get through the meal with Jane, but her friend insisted on leaving early, after seeing her into bed with a hot-water bottle and a supply of aspirin.

  'Now, you see you take things easy tomorrow,' Jane ordered before closing the bedroom door. "This kind of flu clears quickly, as a rule, so long as you catch it early. And you promise you'll call me if you need any help tomorrow?'

  But when she was alone, staring numbly into the darkness, Leigh knew that her symptoms had little to do with the flu virus; much more likely she was heading for a complete breakdown. After all, she thought hopelessly, it had been incubating for the last five years.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ESCAPE was much easier than Leigh would have guessed possible, a matter which in less fraught circumstances might have been the cause of some concern. She visited the doctor, who, obviously sensing the emotional tension simmering so dangerously just below the surface, agreed all too readily that his patient was suffering from nervous exhaustion. What was more surprising was that Kyle, far from trying to dissuade her, appeared totally divorced from the problems which her going away would engender.

  'I'm sorry, Kyle, leaving you in the lurch like this, especially with Anna away, but I feel I must have a break.'

  'What?' Her explanations might have passed him by. 'Sorry, Leigh, what did you say?'

  His lack of interest struck at her, adding to her present low self-esteem, and brought the all too ready tears pricking again. ‘Just, as I said, I’m going to have to take sick-leave. I’m…’ Her voice wobbled.

  'Oh.' For the first time he looked at her with recognition. 'Well, if you must, of course... How long did you say you're likely to be away?'

  'I'm not sure.' Firmly she banished her basic inclination, determined to stick to generalities. This was not, not the moment to throw in the towel, to give up everything she had striven for over the years. Later on, when she was in a calmer frame of mind, then would be the time, if she decided, to hand in her resignation, to make up her mind that Europe was scarcely big enough to hold both her and Patrick Cavour. Time enough then to look for something else. North America, perhaps. Even the Antipodes would hardly be distant enough. Eventually she spoke again. 'At least two weeks.' And maybe even two months, she promised herself.

  'That's all right, Leigh.' Kyle appeared to be pulling himself together. 'Besides, quite apart from sick-leave, you haven't had a holiday this year, and-----' he looked at her more closely '—you don't look your usual assured self, I must say.'

  'No.' Again she struggled with her threatening emotions. 'Well, if you agree... I'm on standby for a flight to Heathrow later today. But.. .are you sure you can manage on your own, Kyle? If you like, I could ring an agency before I go and-----'

  'No, don't do that. In fact, I've just decided that I'm going to close the office for a spell. Things are quiet this time of the year, and if they pile up, so what? You're not to worry. Promise.'

  'Yes, I promise.' It was easy to do that when she had lost all interest—in her job, her employer, in the very fate of Europe. Even the fear of Kyle on the rampage through her immaculate filing system failed to move her.

  'You'll let me know how things go?' Although he smiled faintly, there was no doubt it was an effort. 'I can't afford to lose you. You know it's you who keeps the whole thing together.'

  'I'll let you know. As soon as I can.'

  Her arrival back at the vicarage in Great Whencote, the place where she had been born, where sh
e had spent the greater part of her life, coincided with the most perfect spell of late summer weather. It was all so peaceful and undemanding that she knew her decision had been the right one. If there existed on the face of the earth a place where souls could be restored, then this corner of rural Gloucestershire must surely have been it.

  'You do know your mother is coming home next week?' Her father, seeming for once to be aware of what was going on around him, crumbled the last morsel of bread on his plate then assiduously pressed it together with a few slivers of cheese into a pellet which was popped into his mouth.

  'Next week?' Leigh raised her head in surprise, pushed her chair back from the well-scrubbed kitchen table. 'But I thought she had another month? At least, that's what I gathered from the last letter I had from her.'

  "That was the plan, but-----' David Gregory's smile was almost mischievous '—she almost hinted she was feeling homesick. Strange, isn't it?' His expression grew more sombre. 'All these years she has seemed to dislike living here. But maybe—who knows?—this spell apart might have been good for both of us. I know I've missed her, and I shall tell her so.'

  'I should do,' she said gently. 'We all like to hear these things. Anyway, it does seem as if she's enjoyed herself, and the climate has obviously suited her.'

  'Mmm. Well, that's another reason for hoping the weather holds for another week or two. It would be a pity if she were to come back to the chilly weather we had last month. Speaking of that, why not make the most of it and treat yourself to another spell in the hammock this afternoon? You look better already. You know, I was quite concerned about you when I met you at the station—so white and all eyes...'

  'Mmm. I know.' Abruptly Leigh rose and began to collect the debris of their simple meal. 'Thought we'd got a panda to stay when I looked in the hall mirror. The after-effects of that virus I was telling you about. And I think I'll take you up on that—indulge myself while I can. There's nothing quite like settling down in the hammock with a good book, knowing perfectly well that you'll be drowsing before you reach the bottom of the page...'

  'A wonderful feeling,' he agreed abstractedly as he picked up a newspaper and frowned over the crossword. 'I'm going to settle down in the study for an hour... Are you feeling inspired, Leigh? Perhaps you can solve this. It should be so easy, and it looks like "moped", but... "Something for which the leg-weary cyclist pined." Why...'

  "There is something called a mo-ped, Father.' Leigh smiled affectionately. 'It's a sort of underage motorcycle.'

  'Of course.' He shook his head reprovingly. 'It will surprise you to know that I have heard the word. I'll just go and get a pen...' As he crossed the hall she could hear him whistling timelessly, while she, slowly drying a plate, glanced down at the folded newspaper, eyes searching for another clue... Mmm, that could be... possibly was... But that one... She was still puzzling over the second clue when a name jumped out at her from the small news items on the back page. She drew in a startled breath, her heart beginning to thump against her ribs as the significance of the words was absorbed.

  'Mrs Kay Lessor, wife of MEP Mr Kyle Lessor, is seeking a divorce,' she read, her eyes wide with shock. She skimmed the brief news item and reached the implication in the last line. 'It is understood that Mrs Lessor intends to name a secretary, Miss Anna Craig, in her petition.'

  No. She dropped on to a chair, raked a shaky hand through her hair. No. She couldn't believe it. Not Kyle. And more especially not Anna, not shy and slightly colourless Anna. Frowning, she shook her head. But if it should be true, how was it she had never guessed...?

  The door was pushed open as her father reappeared, wandered over to the boiler, picked up his pipe, began to tap down the tobacco...

  'Any luck, Leigh?'

  'What?' Her eyes were without comprehension.

  'Any more luck with the crossword?'

  'No, I'm sorry...'

  'Well, I'll take it with me, and if you want me I'll be in the study. As I said, you go out into the garden, get some colour back in your cheeks.' Even as he spoke he was on his way back to the study; she could hear him reading another clue under his breath.

  Still in shock, and without being completely aware of what she was doing, she picked up her book and drifted down to the far end of the garden to where the hammock was suspended. She remembered it being there from way back in the days of her early childhood, between the two ancient apple trees always jokingly referred to as the orchard. She swung herself into it and lay back, one long bare leg allowed to droop over the side, a disregarded sandal slipping from her slender foot as she adjusted the pillow to support her head.

  Kyle...well, on reflection she could just about understand it of him, but Anna. How completely out of character it seemed, and yet... Pondering, she lay back, contemplating the patches of blue sky chequered with leaves. A few bees buzzed lazily about a clump of daisies and a butterfly settled momentarily on her hand, fluttering away as she reached out for her book. And as her mind went chasing round in circles various tiny clues and signs which had lodged at the back of her mind began to click into place, to make sense. But, although it was on Kyle and Anna that she was determined to concentrate, her brain would have none of it. It was Patrick Cavour who was there in front of her, so dominating, so accusing. And for the first time she knew what he had meant.

  She drew in several shuddering breaths, blinked once or twice to clear a persistent film about her eyes, then, with some deliberation, pressed her lips together, closed her eyes and willed herself, with every ounce of strength she could summon, to relax. Starting at her head, working right down to her toes.

  This, then, was what it was all about—the hints and innuendo. All the time Patrick had been accusing her of an affair with her boss. With Kyle, for heaven's sake. She gave a tiny scoffing laugh which very nearly translated into a sob. Kyle Lessor who had, it was true, propositioned her in her first month in Strasbourg, but who had at least taken her refusal with grace, had never mentioned the subject again, and who had, for all she knew, gone on immediately to someone else.

  Kyle. But surely Patrick must have realised that she knew and was friendly with Kay Lessor? Did he think she was the land of woman who...? She struggled to bring things down to earth from the high emotional plane which could wreak such havoc. Besides, apart from anything else, Kyle was half a head shorter than she was, and...

  Oh, God. If only he had come out with it all there and then instead of so many hints and evasions... In spite of all her resolve, she felt tears on her cheek, reached into the pocket of her brief skirt, found she was without a handkerchief then used the hem of her faded T-shirt to dry her face.

  She would not, would not think about it any more. She had wasted too many years of her life already. She would ignore the persistent and uncomfortable pressure in her chest and read a few pages of her novel... Sniffing, she opened the book at the marked page, tried to concentrate on the text instead of her own stupid feelings, read a few lines...

  Then, with a weary, defeated sigh, she put the book aside. Later, there would be plenty of time. She leaned the side of her face against the softness of the cushion, allowed her eyelids to droop. She felt so indescribably weary, so hopeless... At last her breathing calmed... her lashes lay like tiny fragile fans against her creamy, sun-dappled skin...

  Slowly the idyllic afternoon wore on and she began to slide away, blissfully away, from all the anguish of reality, drifting in and out of sleep without opening her eyes, only vaguely aware of the subtle changes of light, of lengthening shadows and a slight easing of the exhausting heat of earlier on in the day. In the comfort of lying there, so quiet and undisturbed, it was almost possible to switch off from what had happened, to blot from her mind all Patrick's bitter, incomprehensible accusations...

  A sudden twist of pain in her stomach contradicted her; she murmured a protest as she tried to push away the recent hurtful memories. Even that long-ago agony had been nothing to compare with this, she admitted to herself.

/>   'Can you forgive me, Leigh?' His voice was so close, so real, despite being all in her head. So real, so precious and yet so unutterably sad. There was no way she could refuse, or want to, especially here, where all things were possible.

  'Of course.' Her lips moved with the thought. 'Of course I can forgive.' For she had learned the hard way about forgiveness. All those years of regret—what comfort had they offered...? Her heart leapt in her breast as a hand touched her, circling the foot dangling so invitingly over the side of the hammock, as fingers curved over the tender skin of her instep, impossibly arousing... In her veins an irresistible tingling rose. She wanted to retreat into dreams, where it was safe, but something stroked delicately, and the impossibly long, incredibly dark lashes swept back. And she forgot to breathe.

  For a long time neither of them spoke, she from fear that the vision would evaporate with the same stealth of its arrival, and he—who knew?—possibly because at that moment to look was enough; that was what the dark eyes hinted, with their searching warmth. And maybe it was the intensity of his regard which reminded her of how she must look. One hand rose in an effort to restrain the tumble of untidy hair, then her fingers trailed apologetically across a face devoid of make-up, and panic set in as she recalled her none too clean shirt and her skirt, which was a left-over from her schooldays. She must get up and try to...

  'No.' A firm hand restrained her. 'No, don't move. Please. I just want to look...'

  'Patrick.' Her breath was released in a tormented sigh. 'For a moment I thought... you weren't really there, that I was seeing things.'

  'And...' still his eyes refused to move from her face, from her mouth'...what did you hope? That you would blink once and find I had gone, replaced by a frog, perhaps?' He smiled bleakly.

  'No—I don't know.' Feverishly she bit her lip. 'At least...'

  'Tell me.' When he spoke like that, commandingly, imperiously, it was impossible to refuse. 'Tell me what you felt.' His fingers were still about her foot, moving almost imperceptibly against that tender skin with totally devastating effect.