His Wedding-Night Heir (16 page)

jure up merely to survive.

Because, in spite of everything Nick had done, and all the

reasons he'd given her to hate him, Cally was not sure, even

now, that she could wholly trust herself where he was con-

cerned.

In fact, she realised that she could be on the verge of a totally

catastrophic self-betrayal.

From the moment they'd met she'd been aware of a dark,

bewildered excitement stirring deep within her. Every time

he'd looked at her, or smiled or spoken, it had seemed as if a

silken thread was drawing her ever deeper into a maze of con-

fused emotion she was too inexperienced to understand.

And the terrible damning truth was that nothing had changed.

It had been that day by the river when she'd first acknowl-

edged his potential power over her. It had not, however, been

the first time she was aware of it, but her consciousness had

been submerged by all the sudden, overwhelming changes

which had overtaken her.

The shock of her grandfather's death had been enough to cope

with. And then she'd found herself knocked sideways with the

news of the financial morass he'd left behind. She'd

still been stunned and grieving when Nick had asked her to

marry him—except that his quiet, contained words had been

less a proposal than a statement of intent, which had told her

there was no need to be frightened of the future, because he

would look after her.

She'd found herself longing with utter thankfulness to throw

herself into his arms and feel them holding her in safety

against the world. Just when everything seemed lost, all the

dreams she'd ever had were coming true. She hadn't been able

to see further than that.

She'd allowed him to take charge, making no demur when he

suggested that in view of her recent bereavement they should

have a completely private early-morning wedding, with the

vicar's wife and the verger as their only witnesses.

No Adele, she'd thought, her heart lifting. Just the two of us.

But, however quiet the ceremony, she'd still been determined

to wear a special dress, and she'd found one in a Clayminster

boutique, designed simply in plain ivory silk, short-sleeved,

with a soft swirling skirt and a V-necked bodice fastened by a

row of tiny-silk covered buttons.

And Nick, in turn, had insisted on a traditional honeymoon,

even if it meant working long hours to clear his desk in prep-

aration.

In the fortnight leading up to the wedding she'd hardly seen

him at all, so it had been a major surprise when he'd arrived at

the flat one sunlit afternoon, only a couple of days before the

ceremony, and announced he was taking her on a picnic.

It had occurred to her, as she changed into shorts and a white

cotton shirt, that this was the first time since he'd proposed to

her that they would be alone together for any length of time,

and she'd felt her throat close in excitement and trepidation.

He'd found them a sheltered spot under a tree, a few yards

from the water's edge, and spread out a rug and cushions. The

food had been simple enough—-cold chicken, crusty bread,

cheese, fruit and a bottle of wine—but Cally had thought she'd

never tasted anything so wonderful.

Nick, stretched out beside her, had been relaxed and un-

alarming, his grey eyes warm with laughter as he chatted to

her about everything and nothing, making her forget her shy-

ness as she responded to him.

'I think we should drink a toast,' he said at last. He filled her

glass with wine and handed it to her. 'To us. Soon to be man

and wife.'

She tried to raise her glass with similar smiling insouciance,

but suddenly the significance of what marriage to him was

going to mean came home to her, and her hand jerked ner-

vously, disastrously, sending most of the wine down the front

of her shirt.

'Oh God, I'm so clumsy.' She grabbed at a napkin, but his

hand took her wrist and held it. She saw his grey gaze turn

smoky, and, glancing down, saw what he was seeing. The

damp shirt was clinging to the delicate uplift of one rounded

ultra mamelled breast, outlining the nipple—revealing her as

if she were naked.

'Cally.' His whisper of her name was husky. He moved, taking

the dripping glass from her hand, pulling her into his arms.

His mouth brushed hers lightly and sweetly, the tip of his

tongue exploring the curve of her lower lip, probing gently,

while the long fingers encompassed her breast with a

sensuous purpose that sparked an answering tremulous ache

deep within her.

Helplessly, she felt her nipple rise and harden under the stroke

of his thumb, and her head fell back against his supporting

arm, allowing his lips to travel down the line of her throat to

the opening of her shirt. Tantalisingly, he allowed them to

hover there for a long moment, the warmth of his tongue

caressing the cleft between her breasts as if he was sipping the

spilled wine from her skin.

Then he moved back, to put his mouth to hers, parting her lips

with pleasurable mastery. His kiss was deep and unashamedly

sensual, and her body arched against his in involuntary

response, her breast thrusting avidly against the subtle play of

his fingers.

Still kissing her, he slid his hand down to her bent leg, ca-

ressing her bare knee then sliding upwards with aching slow-

ness over her thigh to the edge of her brief shorts, where he

paused. She felt the breath catch in her throat as the moment

became endless—unendurable. As her ungiven body clenched

suddenly in a need she'd never experienced before.

'Darling.' He raised his head to look down at her. There was a

note in his voice she'd never heard before either. A look in his

eyes she'd never seen, making her weak—molten with

longing. 'My beautiful girl...'

He bent to kiss her again, then tensed, turning his head

sharply and listening. And Cally heard it too—in the distance,

but fast approaching—the high-pitched barking of a dog.

Nick sat up, pushing the dishevelled hair back from his fore-

head, then lifting Cally so that her back was against the trunk

of the tree. He handed her back her glass. 'We seem to have a

visitor,' he said, his voice laconic.

The dog, a Jack Russell terrier, came bundling across the

grass towards them, his stump of a tail wagging furiously. He

paused a few feet away, still yapping excitedly, then sat up,

waving his paws in the air.

Cally could hear voices calling, and someone whistled, but the

dog stayed where he was, bright eyes fixed on the remains of

the picnic.

'So you have to be paid to go away, is that it?' Nick sounded

amused. He tore off a piece of chicken and tossed it to the

dog, who wolfed it down eagerly. 'Now clear off,' he added. 'If

you know what's good for you, you appalling mutt.'

The dog gave the food another long, regretful look, before

deciding to reluctantly obey the increasingly agitated

whistling and trotting off.

Silence returned, but it had changed to a different kind of

quietude. The bark of the tree felt rough through Cally's thin

shirt as she leaned against it eyes closed, attempting to control

her breathing. And to hide, she realised, her sick disappoint-

ment. Because the moment had passed, and she knew it with a

pang of utter desolation.

As if in unspoken confirmation, Nick's hand touched her

cheek lightly, fleetingly. He said gently, 'I think it's time I

took you home.'

'Yes.' She forced a smile, brightness into her voice. 'It—it's

getting late.' She knelt, helping to pack the hamper, avoiding

looking at him directly.

When they reached the Hall, Nick accompanied her across the

courtyard to the door of her flat, and she felt herself tense as

she lifted the latch, wondering whether he would ask to come

in. And, if so, whether he would stay...

But she was soon disabused of that notion.

'I'll say au revoir,' he told her almost abruptly. 'I'm driving up

to London this evening. I have a few loose ends to tie up.' He

took her hand, brushing its knuckles in a swift kiss, even the

gesture seeming to distance him. 'So—see you in church.'

She smiled, and nodded, and went inside, closing the door.

Deep within her she was still shaking, her body an ache of

yearning. She leaned back against the heavy panels of the

door and closed her eyes.

'Two days,' she whispered, touching her fingertips to the

sensitised fullness of her lower lip. 'Only two days...'

Oh, God, Cally thought now, with sudden violence. How

many more times must I remember? Nick—my almost lover.

And how cruel that those few hours were her most vivid

memory, every detail as sharp-cut in her mind as if it had

happened minutes rather than months before.

But perhaps in this instance she needed total recall, she

thought. Needed to remind herself how quickly she'd fallen

under his spell, and how easily he could have seduced her.

Something Nick might well have thought of, too. And this

time he'd make sure they weren't interrupted.

Shivering, Cally moved away from the balustrade and de-

scended the steps to the lawn.

She'd asked herself a thousand times why he'd even bothered.

He'd already been involved with a beautiful, experienced

woman, so her innocence could hardly have constituted a

turn-on for him.

But perhaps he'd planned the whole incident to test her ca-

pacity for arousal, she thought. To discover how much

pleasure he could expect from his enforced nights with his

brand-new wife.

That afternoon by the river, she would have given herself to

him with total completeness, holding nothing back. And he

knew that, she told herself, biting her lip.

I should have taken you while I had the chance. His own

cynical words. And he would soon find out how right he'd

been.

Because now she had to make some plans of her own. To

make him understand in the bleakest terms that she wasn't the

same person any more, and he was no longer her hero, riding

to her rescue.

She had to reject the kisses and caresses that belonged to

someone else and fight him, tooth and nail, to maintain her

integrity.

All he would possess was the shell of the girl she'd once been.

Nothing more.

And somehow, somewhere, she would hide all traces of the

long, lonely hunger for him that still burned within her.

However he used her that was something that Nick Tempest

could never be allowed to know. And she shivered at the pros-

pect of all the long nights ahead of her.

In SPITE of her inner turmoil, Cally was unable to ignore the

beauty of her surroundings for long. She had to admit that the

grounds were looking at their best, poised on the verge of

summer, and the scent of the grass and newly turned earth

brought a kind of peace.

But only for a while. As she wandered restlessly across the

lawns, the sun warm on her back, she found herself imagining

that the past months had rolled away as if they'd never existed,

and Nick was walking beside her, his fingers laced with hers,

talking softly, his mouth and eyes smiling as sometimes he

paused to kiss her. The way she'd once dreamed it might be.

Crazy, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. I'm going

completely crazy. Living in never-never land.

As she reached the formal garden she saw that an elderly man

was working with a hoe on one of the borders, and he

straightened, beaming, as she approached. 'Good to see you,

Miss Caroline. Beg pardon—Lady Tempest, I should say,' he

added hastily.

Cally smiled back. 'Miss Caroline is just fine, Mr Robins. I

can't get used to anything else. But I didn't know you were

working at Wylstone.'

He looked faintly embarrassed. 'Six months or more now,

your ladyship, and I've two lads to train as well. Things move

on, you know, and a lot of the people I used to work for, like

your grandpa, aren't here any more, so I'm glad of the secu-

rity.' He nodded. 'He's a good man to work for, Sir Nicholas.'

He paused. 'On your way to the stables. I dare say?'

'Oh—er—-yes,' said Cally, her mind on other things. A good