it.'
Mrs Thurston smiled dutifully, but she still seemed troubled
as she left the room.
And why shouldn't she be? Cally asked herself, tossing her
handbag on to the bed. I'm pretty troubled myself. Things are
bad enough without Adele aiming her poison darts at every
available target.
To find her waiting was turning the clock back with a ven-
geance.
She found her way to the bathroom, and washed her face and
hands in cool water. It was die height of luxury, she thought,
eyeing the creamy marble that tiled the walls and floor with
reluctant appreciation. She was less certain about the big
sunken bath and enormous shower cabinet, both of which
looked as if they'd been deliberately designed for dual occu-
pation.
What would she do if Nick insisted on those kind of inti-
macies? she wondered, her throat dry. What could she do?
When she emerged, she paused, then walked the few yards to
the other bedroom and peeped round the door. With its double
bed, in a fitted olive-green coverlet, and matching oak
tallboys, it was a much plainer room, its ambience
uncompromisingly masculine.
This was where Nick had been steeping—when he slept at
home. And maybe he would still choose to spend some of his
nights here.
Her senses seemed to pick up the faint fragrance of the co-
logne he used, making his presence suddenly and formidably
real, and she retreated hastily back to the master bedroom,
feeling like Bluebeard's wife.
While she'd been in the bathroom their overnight bags had
been brought up, and as she rummaged in her case for her
brush and comb she saw the nightdress she'd worn the
previous night was lying on top of the other things. She lifted
it out, shaking the creases out of its folds, wondering whether
or not she would be permitted to wear it tonight. Asking
herself too, her stomach cramping nervously, exactly what
Nick would expect from her.
In physical terms she knew what to anticipate, of course,
although it was all theory without practice. And while she
might resent the idea of his body invading hers, it wasn't par-
ticularly scaring. No, it was that extra emotional dimension
that haunted her, made her curse her inexperience.
Not passion, she thought sombrely. That was too much for
him to ask and he must know that. But certainly he would
want...acquiescence, at the very least, and there was no cer-
tainty she could achieve that.
She sat down at the dressing table, drawing the brush through
the silky tendrils of her hair before applying moisturiser to her
skin and a touch of subtle colour to her mouth.
Warpaint, she thought with self-derision, wishing she had
some chain mail to go with it.
She hesitated on the gallery leading to the stairs. All this part
of the Hall was new to her. The room she'd occupied after the
fire, while her grandfather had been kept in hospital, initially
for observation, was at the other end of the house. She wasn't
sure she'd ever be able to find it again in the twists and turns
of the passages. Or that she even wanted to...
But she couldn't halt the relentless pressure of her memories.
On the night of the fire Adele's welcome, she recalled with a
grimace, had been sugared, but her eyes had been unsmiling.
And there had been no warmth either from the housekeeper
who'd showed her upstairs.
It's not my fault, Cally had wanted to tell them both. She'd
actually reached the hospital exit before she was stopped dead
in her tracks by the realisation that her home didn't exist any
more—or any of her belongings. That she had literally
nowhere to go.
Nick's hand had closed on her arm. 'You're coming with me,'
he'd stated, in a tone that brooked no argument, and almost
meekly she'd allowed him to lead her to the car.
He must have telephoned ahead from Casualty, because the
room had already been made up for her, and hot soup had
been waiting on a table drawn up by the gas fire.
And Cally, to her own surprise, had found she was ravenous.
She'd
Mrs Thurston smiled dutifully, but she still seemed troubled
as she left the room.
And why shouldn't she be? Cally asked herself, tossing her
handbag on to the bed. I'm pretty troubled myself. Things are
bad enough without Adele aiming her poison darts at every
available target.
To find her waiting was turning the clock back with a ven-
geance.
She found her way to the bathroom, and washed her face and
hands in cool water. It was die height of luxury, she thought,
eyeing the creamy marble that tiled the walls and floor with
reluctant appreciation. She was less certain about the big
sunken bath and enormous shower cabinet, both of which
looked as if they'd been deliberately designed for dual occu-
pation.
What would she do if Nick insisted on those kind of inti-
macies? she wondered, her throat dry. What could she do?
When she emerged, she paused, then walked the few yards to
the other bedroom and peeped round the door. With its double
bed, in a fitted olive-green coverlet, and matching oak
tallboys, it was a much plainer room, its ambience
uncompromisingly masculine.
This was where Nick had been steeping—when he slept at
home. And maybe he would still choose to spend some of his
nights here.
Her senses seemed to pick up the faint fragrance of the co-
logne he used, making his presence suddenly and formidably
real, and she retreated hastily back to the master bedroom,
feeling like Bluebeard's wife.
While she'd been in the bathroom their overnight bags had
been brought up, and as she rummaged in her case for her
brush and comb she saw the nightdress she'd worn the
previous night was lying on top of the other things. She lifted
it out, shaking the creases out of its folds, wondering whether
or not she would be permitted to wear it tonight. Asking
herself too, her stomach cramping nervously, exactly what
Nick would expect from her.
In physical terms she knew what to anticipate, of course,
although it was all theory without practice. And while she
might resent the idea of his body invading hers, it wasn't par-
ticularly scaring. No, it was that extra emotional dimension
that haunted her, made her curse her inexperience.
Not passion, she thought sombrely. That was too much for
him to ask and he must know that. But certainly he would
want...acquiescence, at the very least, and there was no cer-
tainty she could achieve that.
She sat down at the dressing table, drawing the brush through
the silky tendrils of her hair before applying moisturiser to her
skin and a touch of subtle colour to her mouth.
Warpaint, she thought with self-derision, wishing she had
some chain mail to go with it.
She hesitated on the gallery leading to the stairs. All this part
of the Hall was new to her. The room she'd occupied after the
fire, while her grandfather had been kept in hospital, initially
for observation, was at the other end of the house. She wasn't
sure she'd ever be able to find it again in the twists and turns
of the passages. Or that she even wanted to...
But she couldn't halt the relentless pressure of her memories.
On the night of the fire Adele's welcome, she recalled with a
grimace, had been sugared, but her eyes had been unsmiling.
And there had been no warmth either from the housekeeper
who'd showed her upstairs.
It's not my fault, Cally had wanted to tell them both. She'd
actually reached the hospital exit before she was stopped dead
in her tracks by the realisation that her home didn't exist any
more—or any of her belongings. That she had literally
nowhere to go.
Nick's hand had closed on her arm. 'You're coming with me,'
he'd stated, in a tone that brooked no argument, and almost
meekly she'd allowed him to lead her to the car.
He must have telephoned ahead from Casualty, because the
room had already been made up for her, and hot soup had
been waiting on a table drawn up by the gas fire.
And Cally, to her own surprise, had found she was ravenous.
She'd
Similar Books
