His Wedding-Night Heir (9 page)

back, just as Nick appeared in the doorway, glancing

expressionlessly between Kit's wrathful flush and Cally's taut

self-containment.

'Finished up here, darling?' he asked pleasantly. 'Because it's

time we were leaving.' He walked over to her, sliding an arm

round her body, his hand resting on the curve of her slender

hip in a gesture of total possession.

Cally saw Kit register the gesture, then turn away sullenly.

'Yes,' she said. 'I'm—ready.'

There hadn't been much to collect. A few pens, a picture one

of the children had painted for her, and a paperweight that

Mrs Hartley had given her when Cally had inadvertently re-

vealed it was her birthday the previous day. It was a lovely

thing, in shades of azure and emerald flecked with gold, like a

dive into a sunlit tropical sea, and she could not have left it

behind. She'd brought nothing at all from the flat, which

would be cleared out by the landlord—whose protests Nick

had silenced with a month's rent in lieu of notice.

Money really seemed to be the answer to everything, she

thought bitterly.

One by one, her tenuous ties to this place had been cut. Now

nothing remained but her future with Nick, and that was only

temporary.

Her whole life had suddenly become a leap into the dark.

She said quietly, 'Goodbye, Kit. I hope the whole project goes

from strength to strength.'

"Thank you.' He did not look at her.

For a moment she wanted to scream at him. Do you know—

do you have any idea what I've done? The sacrifice I've had to

make?

But that would imply his attitude was justified, that she owed

him some kind of explanation. Whereas she knew she didn't,

and it was best to let the matter drop—walk away. With her

husband's arm holding her like a ring of steel. Staking his

claim.

As they reached the main door, she said tautly, 'Why don't you

just give me a label to wear—"Nick's Woman"?'

'I thought I had.' His tone was clipped. 'In St John's church,

twelve months ago.'

Cally winced, but could think of nothing to say in reply.

Everyone was waiting outside the Centre to see them leave,

and the euphoria was almost tangible.

Tracy came rushing up and enveloped her in a hug. 'You don't

look as if you slept much last night, you lucky girl,' she

whispered with a giggle. 'Be happy. And don't forget us.'

There was a terrible irony in that, thought Cally, forcing a

smile and nodding.

'Come along, darling.' Nick drew her close to his side again,

his fingers laced with hers in a parody of intimacy as they

walked to the car. He turned to give a last smile—-a wave.

Like visiting royalty, she thought, swallowing back the bubble

of hysteria that was threatening to overwhelm her.

It was almost a relief to find herself inside the car and driving

away from it all.

I should have done that a long time ago, she thought

broodingly. Instead of hanging around, waiting tamely to be

found. And now it's all too late...

'Will you miss Wellingford?' Nick's tone was casual.

'No,' she said. 'I never planned to stay. Especially after Mrs

Hartley died. She was a terrific lady.'

'But not particularly blessed in her sons.' he commented

ironically.

She shrugged. 'Perhaps they take after their father,' she said,

adding pointedly, 'It can happen.'

And heard him laugh softly.

They were soon on the motorway, the big car comfortably

eating up the miles, transporting Cally swiftly and silently to

her new life and all that it implied.

Although it seemed she would at least be miserable in luxury,

she told herself wryly. The car was air-conditioned, its

windows tinted to diffuse the brightness of the sunlight.

And Nick was a good driver, she was forced to admit, stealing

a sideways glance at him from beneath her lashes. She'd never

before accompanied him on a long journey, and had expected

their progress to be aggressively conducted, with him cutting

a triumphal swathe through the traffic. But she was wrong. He

handled his beautiful vehicle with sure skill, driving fast but

safely, with surprising tolerance for the vagaries of his fellow

motorists.

He'd discarded his jacket and loosened his tie, and his shirt-

sleeves were rolled back to reveal tanned forearms.

He looked totally relaxed—even as if he was enjoying him-

self, she thought, biting at her lower lip.

He asked if she wanted music and she agreed, simply because

it was preferable to conversation—especially if he had

questions she'd no wish to answer. But he seemed to prefer to

concentrate on the road, rather than be diverted by contentious

issues.

She was aware of die music, a smooth blues combo, but she

wasn't listening to it. She couldn't. Not when every mile was

taking her nearer to Wylstone, and the associations of misery

and humiliation that haunted it. Memories that she would be

forced to endure, along with so much else, she thought, swal-

lowing convulsively.

She'd tried to use the last twelve months to wrench them out

of her brain and dismiss them for ever. She'd thought she'd

succeeded. That she'd cured herself of the virus that was Nick

Tempest. Yet she'd only had to see him again and they were

all back, clamouring obscenely for her attention.

Telling her that all she'd really done was use a sticking plaster

to cover a mortal wound.

How could this have happened to me? she asked herself

numbly. Was there nothing—nothing that I could have done?

But she already knew the answer to that. The path of her life

seemed to have led her straight to him.

Even the impulse mat had caused her to absent herself to

London safely out of Nick's orbit, had been cancelled out by

the breakdown in her grandfather's health that had summoned

her back so arbitrarily.

I was all my grandfather had, she thought wearily. So what

choice did I have—then or ever?

And then, with frightening suddenness, her life had begun to

fall apart. Inevitably, Nick had been there with his safety net,

offering her grandfather and herself a home and a kind of

security. It had been the perfect opportunity for him, she

thought. Everything had conspired to bring them together, and

he had placed her under the kind of obligation that could only

have one ending.

She should have realised that one day some kind of rec-

ompense would be demanded from her—if not in cash,

because there wasn't any, then certainly in kind. She should

have known that Nick had marked her out from the start as his

future bride—young, she thought stormily, and biddable. Not

a living, feeling girl, but a puppet, easy to manipulate. Or so

he'd considered. And she, pitifully, had totally misread his

intentions.

Well, at least she'd forced him to think again. To accept that

she wasn't the naive push-over he'd originally bargained for.

Ready to sacrifice her emotions, her self-respect and her trust

in exchange for a roof over her head and his money to spend.

Except that it had not been about money at all. And the

knowledge of that had provided the basis for the private

tragedy that was beginning to unfold.

7 suppose you know that you're trespassing?' Those were the

first words Nick had ever said to her, and she would never

forget them.

In a way, it had been a covert warning that he was forbidden

territory and she encroached there at her peril. And she'd

picked up on it even if it was at some unconscious level.

Wasn't that why she'd taken the job in London—in order to

put distance between them and recover from the threat to her

untried emotional equilibrium?

But where Nick was concerned her instincts had always been

heightened, she recognised. Hence the bad dreams over the

past year, signalling to her that his net had been spread again.

That the search was on in earnest.

I should have listened, she thought. Found another country to

live in, even.

Except, of course, that her passport had been left in her hand

luggage back at Wylstone Hall, ready for the honeymoon that

never was. Stranding her in Britain, within his reach. A

mistake she would not make again once she was finally free.

She became aware that they were pulling off the motorway,

traversing a roundabout into a smaller country road.

She sat up. 'Where are we going?'

'There's a good pub not far away,' he said. 'And you need

food.' She was aware of his swift, sideways glance. 'Or are

you going to tell me you're not a lunch person either?'

Actually, she was ravenous, but she wasn't about to admit it.

She lifted her chin. 'Just as you wish.'

'If only it were that simple,' he murmured with faint amuse-

ment.

They drew up a short while afterwards outside an old-

fashioned country inn, an ancient timbered building with low

ceilings and uneven floors, and, at the rear, well-kept gardens,

bright with flowers, and a lawn stretching down to the river,

offering tables shaded by parasols.

'Will this do?' Nick halted at a table in an arbour, heavy with

climbing roses just coming into flower.

'Fine.' Cally picked up a menu and hid behind it.

'They're famous here for their pies.' Nick seated himself

opposite. 'I'm ordering steak and kidney. How about you?'

Cally, who had no wish to enter into the spirit of the occasion,

tried to work up an interest in the sandwich list, and failed

utterly. 'Turkey and ham,' she capitulated, after a brief strug-

gle. 'And a glass of dry white wine—please.'

She watched him cross the grass to deliver their order, and

saw how women's heads turned as if operated by strings when

he passed by. Two pretty girls at an adjoining table were wait-

ing, saucer-eyed, for his return.

And it was worth waiting for. Even she had to acknowledge

that. In a crowd of thousands, she would still be able to pick

out that long, lithe stride. Feel the pull of that cool,

understated masculinity, and the unwelcome stir of her own

senses in response.

To her embarrassment, he saw her watching his approach and

smiled across at her. She looked away, swiftly and blindly.

As he put down the drinks and resumed his seat Cally said,

quietly and urgently, 'Nick, it's still not too late. We don't have

to do this.'

His brows lifted. 'You want to change your order? Or go

somewhere else? I thought you'd like it here.'

Her voice shook slightly. 'That's not what I meant, and you

know it.'

His mouth twisted. 'Well—perhaps,' he conceded drily. 'So,

what exactly are you saying?'

Cally lifted her chin, "That if you announced you were look-

ing for a surrogate mother for your baby the queue would

form on the right. Because that's all you really want—isn't it?

You—you don't need to involve me.'

'Oh, yes, I do, darling,' he said softly. 'And that's why I'm not

going for surrogacy, or adoption, or even down the IVF route,

or any other potential means of escape that fertile brain of

yours can summon up.' His smile was hard—implacable. 'You

married me, Cally, for better or worse. And now, a little

belatedly, you're going to learn to be my wife.' He added

harshly, 'The number of lessons required will depend entirely

on yourself.'

Her breath caught. She said huskily, 'You—really want your

pound of flesh, don't you?'

The grey eyes narrowed as they studied her. lingering with

explicit appreciation on the deep neckline of the yellow dress,

the way its fabric clung to her small high breasts.

He said quietly, 'I want all of you, Caroline. No protests and

nothing held back. And no less will do.'

She swallowed. 'I—think I just lost my appetite.'

'Unfortunate,' he said. 'Then you'll just have to watch me eat

instead.' He paused. 'Tell me something, Cally. Is it the whole

idea of sex that repels you, or merely the thought of having it

with me?'

She stared down at the table. 'I ran away from you,' she said,

expressionlessly. 'I'd have thought that made my feelings

clear.'

'No, darling,' he said. 'Now, as always, your emotions remain

an enigma.' He lifted his beer glass mockingly. 'To marriage,'

he said, and drank.

In spite of her previous disavowal, Cally found that lunch,