His Wedding-Night Heir (11 page)

came to visit her grandfather for reasons she'd never been able

to fathom—not then. Occasionally she'd encountered him

when she went riding, and he'd joined her astride a smart bay

gelding that was a marked contrast to her own gentle, ageing

Baz.

That had been the only time they'd ever met alone. Their

conversation had always been general, and Cally had been as-

tute enough to realise that she was being kept at a distance

mentally as well as physically. Because he'd made no attempt

to touch her again.

Yet before long she'd found herself looking out for him—

hoping that she'd see him. Finding herself curiously at a loss

when the business of his various companies had called him

away. Shyly delighted when she'd learned of his return.

She'd never found the visits to Wylstone Hall much to her

liking, particularly as Sir Ranald's widow Adele had still been

snugly ensconced there, acting as Nick's hostess. Cally had

been discomposed to find herself pinpointed by Lady

Tempest's contemptuous violet gaze on more than one occa-

sion, and the crimson lips had been quite capable of uttering

limpid remarks, supposed to be teasing, yet designed to make

Cally feel like a gauche schoolgirl. She'd found herself half-

dreading those uncomfortable occasions.

'Says she doesn't want to be known as a dowager because it

sounds so elderly,' Robert Naylor snorted after one of them.

'But Nicholas should pack her off to the Dower House just the

same, and be quick about it—before the gossip starts. All this

drooping around in black doesn't fool anyone, and I'd put

money on her not having shed a single tear for poor Ranald.

God only knows where he found her, but she's no intention of

going back there.'

He shook his head. 'Wouldn't surprise me if she was banking

on becoming Lady Tempest for a second time.'

'You mean Sir Nicholas might marry her?' Cally was startled

in a number of ways, not all of which she wanted to examine

too closely. 'But she's older than him.'

'Well, he's thirty, so there can't be more man a few years in it,'

her grandfather said with a grunt. 'And she's a looker. I'll grant

her that. No one could blame her for trying.' He gave another

wag of the head. 'And proximity's a damned dangerous thing.'

'Yes,' Cally conceded with an odd feeling of numbness, 'I

suppose it must be.'

Lying in bed that night, she thought of Adele, her beautiful

face crowned by the sheen of her red-gold hair, her

voluptuous body set off by the designer wardrobe that

managed to make mourning seem a sexual experience. It was

whispered locally, with nods and winks, that it was her

excessive physical demands which had hurried her late

husband into a relatively early grave.

'There's a woman who won't want to find herself in an empty

bed,' was a remark Cally had overheard in the village shop.

But perhaps she isn't alone, Cally thought, lying awake, tor-

mented by her imagination.

Looking back now, it seemed ludicrous that she could have

been jealous of Adele.

But I was, she thought. And, being on my guard against her, I

was diverted from seeing where the real danger lay.

Her unhappy musings were interrupted when she realised that

Nick had once again turned off the motorway.

She sat up. 'Is this the right junction?'

'No, but it will do,' he returned briefly. 'I want to stop off in

Clayminster first'

He parked in a side street near the cathedral close and turned

to her. 'Do you want to come with me?'

Cally examined a non-existent fleck on her nail. 'Thank you,

no. I'd prefer to remain here.'

'Very well.' She watched him remove the keys from the

ignition and pocket them. 'I won't be too long.' He paused.

'Please don't do anything stupid, or I might get angry.'

'God forbid,' she bit back at him. 'Why don't you have me

electronically tagged?'

His mouth twisted in wry acknowledgement. 'I'll keep it in

mind.'

Left alone, Cally examined and reluctantly discarded the idea

of running away again. Both the bus and train stations, she

knew, were right on the other side of town, and he would

catch her before she'd gone half the distance.

Besides, in spite of her bravado, she didn't really want to

make Nick angry, she admitted. The coming hours would be

quite difficult enough without that. And sex as punishment

was a terrifying possibility, which could destroy her, she

thought, with a sudden convulsive shiver.

She got out of the car and stretched, then, leaving the door

open, went for a restless stroll, up one side of the street and

back down the other.

It didn't take long. It was mostly terraced housing, with a few

shops, none of which tempted her to linger. A self-styled

antiques gallery, offering mostly junk, was probably the star

turn, she thought wryly, with a place called Needlewoman

selling knitting wool and sewing requisites a close second.

Reaching the car, she leaned back against the doorframe with

a sigh. The memories she'd allowed herself had been unset-

tling, reminding her of things best forgotten or treated as a

temporary aberration.

I was just eighteen then, she thought blankly. A child trying

not to fall in love with a man. And failing miserably.

In spite of the warmth of the day, she found she was wrapping

protective arms round her body. Swallowing back the tears in

her throat. Nick had said he would not be long, and she

couldn't afford to let him find her crying.

It was another ten minutes before he turned the corner and

walked up the street towards her, and by that time she'd man-

aged to get a grip on her control and was sitting in the car

again, waiting for him with a semblance of calm.

'I'm sorry,' he said as he joined her. 'It took longer than I’

She didn't look at him. 'It's not important.'

'Ah,' Nick said quietly. 'But I think it is.' He took a jeweller's

box from his pocket and opened it. She glanced at the contents

and her eyes widened. She'd expected a ring, but the box

contained a pair of them, in classic plain gold.

She said, 'Why two? In case I throw the first one away again?'

'No,' he said. "The other one's for me.'

'For you?' She drew an uneven breath. 'That is—rank hy-

pocrisy.'

Nick shook his head. 'It's a statement. Intended to make clear

to any interested parties that our marriage is on again— and

it's real.' He paused. 'Give me your hand.'

'I can put it on myself—if you insist that I must.'

'No,' he said. 'We'll do it my way.' He reached for her left

hand, grasping it firmly. He said softly, 'I, Nicholas James

Tempest, take you, Caroline Maria Maitland, for my wife.'

Half of her hoped that he'd got the sizing wrong, but the gold

circlet slid easily over her knuckle.

He said, 'Now it's your turn.'

'This is ridiculous...'

'Cally.' His tone was gentle, but there was iron underneath.

'Say the words.'

Biting her lip, she obeyed, her low voice stumbling a little as

she pushed the ring on to his finger in turn.

'Satisfied?' she challenged. 'I presume you don't want to add

anything about for as long as we both shall live?'

His smile did not reach his eyes. He said quietly, 'Let's just

say for as long as it's necessary, shall we?' He fitted the key

into the ignition and started the engine. 'And now, my sweet

wife, I'll take you home.'

The nearer they got to the village, the more Cally's inner ten-

sion increased. She found she was playing with die wedding

ring, endlessly twisting it on her finger.

She'd done that before, she thought, a year ago as she'd paced

the empty house, hearing the echo of her own footsteps, a

ridiculous figure, the bride left alone on her wedding day.

And suddenly and terribly discovering why it should be so.

Why Nick had chosen to leave her in solitude like that.

At the same time telling herself desperately that it couldn't be

true. That Adele's words, still burning in her brain, had been

sheer malice and spite. Nothing more.

That she couldn't—wouldn't take them seriously.

Yet knowing all the time that it was impossible to leave it

there. Finding herself faced with the brutal necessity of dis-

covering if her marriage was a deception—if the vows she'd

exchanged with Nick only a few hours ago were utterly mean-

ingless.

She made a small stifled noise in her throat, and was aware of

Nick's swift glance.

'Are you all right?'

'Fine,' she lied. 'I was just thinking—wondering...' She paused,

taking a deep breath. 'Whether we could make a quick detour

to the cottage. Just for a few minutes.'

He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, 'If that's

really what you want.' And signalled for the turn on to the

bottom road past the village.

He parked the car on the verge opposite the gate and Cally got

out, trying not to look at the field beside them, which had

once been Baz's paddock.

The shock of her grandfather's stroke, which had brought her

rushing back from her London job-hunt had been stressful

enough. Baz's departure had been a very different kind of ag-

ony.

His stable at the rear of Oak Tree Cottage had already been

demolished during her brief absence, and its timbers cut up

for firewood. While the field where he'd grazed had been

bought by a neighbouring farmer and ploughed for barley.

She'd been here, on this same spot, leaning on the fence,

staring at the dark furrows and crying when Nick had found

her.

'Cally.' His hands had been gentle on her shoulders, turning

her to face him. 'What is it? Is your grandfather worse?'

'No. The doctors say he'll make a full recovery.' Her face was

blurred and swollen with tears. 'But—he sold Baz while I was

away. Got rid of him to some awful riding school in the North

and never told me. He says that money's tight and we have to

make savings.'

He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, 'If you want

to ride, you can use one of my horses.'

She shook her head. 'It's not that. You see, I've known Baz all

my life—and he's just—gone. I can't believe it. I'm going to

miss him so much.'

He'd said nothing more, she remembered. Simply drawn her

close and held her. It was the first time he'd ever taken her

into his arms, and she'd sobbed all down the front of his shirt.

A child needing comfort rather than the woman she'd wanted

to be.

She wondered suddenly if Nick remembered too, but knew

she was being ridiculous. He was only interested in his own

private vengeance. And besides, it all seemed such a long time

ago.

She crossed the lane and unlatched one of the wrought-iron

gates. It opened with a screech of rust. The path to the house

was barely visible amid the weeds and coarse grass that

flanked it.

And when she'd fought her way through the encroaching

brambles there was little to see. Just the same sad pile of fire

blackened stones, from which she and her grandfather had es-

caped with nothing but their lives, she thought, shuddering.

She turned abruptly to go, and nearly cannoned into Nick,

who had come quietly up the path behind her.

'Seen enough?' His hands descended on her shoulders,

steadying her.

'It's still a ruin.' She freed herself, stepping backwards. 'I— I

thought the whole place would have been cleared by now.'

'It's your ruin, Cally. The site belongs to you, and it's for you

to say what should happen to it.' He paused. 'I thought you

might want to rebuild. Provide yourself with a sanctuary for

the future, when our marriage has finally ended.'

'No, thank you,' she returned coolly. 'I plan to be a long way

off then.' She glanced back at the fallen walls and gaping

window frames. 'Too many bad memories here.'

'And not just for you,' he said abruptly, looking past her.

'Thank God I was driving past that night, and realised what

was happening.'

'You took a terrible risk.' Her voice shook slightly. 'But I'd

never have got my grandfather out without you.'

'What woke you?' he asked. 'Did you ever remember?'