Penmort Castle (15 page)

After Alistair
Beaumaris had won his court battles, regained the family fortune
Anthony Beaumaris bequeathed on Myra Fraser and, in so doing,
bankrupted Cash’s mentally unstable mother, Alistair had left Cash
and Myra with very little. When Cash’s grandfather died, there was
even less. When Myra slit her wrists, there was even less.

Cash had fought
his way out of poverty and into Oxford and spent many years shaping
himself into a man on whose arm a woman like Abby belonged.

Even if he had
to pay for her.

Perhaps
especially
since he had to pay for her, considering the
astronomical amount he’d paid.

But he wasn’t
going to get used to Abby being in his life and he certainly
couldn’t allow her to do it.

He liked her
company but he’d been alone a long time. He preferred to be alone
and there wasn’t a woman in the world, not even Abby with all of
her beauty and humour and contradictions, who could change
that.

On that
thought, Cash turned into Abby’s street and saw her lights on.

He was half an
hour early but he wanted time with her before going to dinner at
her neighbour’s. With his work and her being late the night before,
they hadn’t had a lot of time to get to know one another and Cash
intended to rectify that.

As Cash parked
in the drive behind her BMW he decided he’d take her away somewhere
after he’d claimed Penmort. Somewhere they could be alone, no
curious neighbours, no traffic delays and no work. Somewhere warm,
where all she needed was a bathing suit.

He was
considering his options (and leaning toward an island in Greece)
when he turned the bell on her door.

It clanked
discordantly.

He looked at it
and noted it had to be as old as the house and, by the sound of it,
desperately in need of servicing.

He waited
impatiently for her to open the door. She had to be home, her car
was in the drive and the lights were on in the front room and
upstairs.

He turned the
bell again.

He waited
again.

When he was
about to knock or more to the point, hammer on her door, he saw the
light in the vestibule switch on and the door opened.

Abby stood
there wearing an old, faded-blue, flannel man’s dressing gown that
was far too big on her. Her hair was held back in a wide, pale pink
band, her feet were bare and her eyes were surprised.

He watched as
the surprise disappeared and the shutters came down.

“You’re early,”
she told him, not moving from the door.

At her
non-greeting Cash’s good mood disappeared instantly. Firstly,
because she appeared to be barring him from the house. Secondly,
because she didn’t seem happy to see him. And lastly, and most
importantly, because she was wearing another man’s clothes.

“I finished
early,” he replied.

“You work until
the wee hours, how did you finish early tonight?”

Having lost his
patience, with artificial politeness Cash enquired, “Are we going
to hold this conversation on the doorstep?”

She gave a
start then her eyes darted away and she seemed to hesitate. For a
moment Cash thought she wasn’t going to let him inside. Then she
stepped back, opening the door.

“I’m sorry.
Come in,” she murmured.

He stepped in
and was immediately surprised.

It was as if
stepping over her threshold took him a step back one hundred and
fifty years in time.

The vestibule
was large, in fact it was huge. It, and the hall leading off of it,
had black and white tiled floors that seemed to stretch on forever.
Both rooms were cavernous with tall ceilings. Heavy pieces of
antique furniture, all of which were well-kept and high-quality,
were positioned here and there in the vestibule and hall. The
furniture indicated either Abby’s grandmother had good taste or
Abby had given him a significant discount on the first quote for
her fees.

“I’ll take your
coat,” he heard her say.

He shrugged it
off and ignored her outstretched hands, hanging it on the mirrored
coat stand in the vestibule himself.

She watched him
do this then her eyes moved to him before saying, “Come into the
living room. I’m not ready yet. I’ll get you a drink and then I’ll
finish upstairs.”

He followed her
into the front room that was the same as the hall, enormous and
well-furnished in quality antiques.

A
tassel-bottomed, inviting, maroon velvet couch faced a large
stone-mantel fireplace, two matching armchairs at its sides. There
were handsome tables placed strategically around the seating area
for comfort of use and aesthetic purposes.

The heavy,
maroon velvet draperies were pulled back with silk, cord tassels.
The windows were dark, exposed to the night.

The couch sat
in the centre, leaving a wide expanse of floor space available to
the room. Most of it was empty except for a delicate writing desk,
angled in the corner, facing the room.

The desk was
not for show, it was obviously in use, the brown leather desk
accessories filled with pens, upended notepads and bits of paper.
The desktop held a tidy stash of stationery under a tasteful, round
glass paperweight in which there was a swirl of colour. Also on top
was an antique brass desk lamp, now lit, the lamp’s shade a pink
glass globe. The desk had a delicate chair upholstered in plum
velvet.

There were
several bookshelves standing around the room filled with books and
displaying objects d’art, all of the pieces interesting, some of
them, Cash noted, highly valuable.

Cash couldn’t
help but think that this was not where he saw Abby living. Although
it was refined, yet warm and inviting, with silver-framed photos on
the mantel, on the desk and dotting the shelves and tables, Cash
felt it somehow didn’t suit her.

He didn’t know
what would but this was just not it. It was too vast, too old and
it didn’t have even a hint of her playful personality or her
cosmopolitan flair.

“Whisky?” she
asked when he’d stopped behind the couch and his eyes moved to
her.

She’d barely
entered the doorway. She was standing too far away and she looked
preoccupied.

“Abby, come
here,” he demanded and her body went still for a moment before she
seemed to force herself to move toward him. When she arrived within
reach, he lifted his hand to curl his fingers around her neck. “You
haven’t even said hello,” he told her, trying not to let her see
that her behaviour was displeasing him.

She blinked,
looking confused, then asked, “I haven’t?”

Cash shook his
head.

“I’m sorry,”
she whispered and she sounded like she was.

This went a
long way towards dispelling Cash’s irritation.

“Is there
something on your mind?” he queried softly.

“I…” she
started, then stopped, took a deep breath and continued, “you just
surprised me, being early,” her hands came out at her sides, “I’m
not ready yet.”

The tension
left Cash’s body.

Women, it was
his experience, liked to make an entrance. Even when Abby left his
bathroom, her face cleaned of makeup, she still managed to make an
entrance (mainly because she looked damned sexy in her clinging
blue nightgown).

He bent his
head to touch his lips to hers as he gave her neck an affectionate
squeeze.

“Tell me where
to find the whisky. I’ll get it while you finish getting dressed,”
he told her.

She nodded
while saying, “In the kitchen, I’ll show you.”

“I can find my
way.”

She seemed to
be considering this, her eyes darting anywhere but him. Then she
swallowed, her gaze came to his and she nodded again. “The
cupboard, by the –”

He brushed her
lips with his again to interrupt her. “I’ll find it. Go.”

Her white teeth
appeared as she bit the side of her lip but she gave another short
nod, disengaged from his hand and walked from the room, saying, “I
won’t be long.”

Cash watched
her go or more to the point, Cash watched her ass sway as she
walked away.

He found his
way to the kitchen, even more ancient-looking (and warm and
welcoming) than what he’d already seen of her house. He located the
whisky, a heavy, cut-crystal tumbler, poured himself a drink and
walked back to the living room.

Upon entry to
the room, Cash saw a black cat with yellow eyes and long, silky fur
sitting on the back of the couch, its tail swaying. Instead of the
pert nose of a domestic feline, it had the nose of lion. This
feature significantly increased the usual catlike disdain. It
regarded Cash, blinked, jumped off the couch and trotted smartly
from the room.

Cash ignored
the cat and looked around.

There was an
empty Denby mug on a coaster on the table in front of the couch,
the stringed label of the wet tea bag still in it indicating it was
a cup of some complicated herbal tea. Next to that was a cookbook
with an excess of multi-coloured post-it tags sticking out the
sides, a plastic row of the post-its sitting on top of the book, a
Waterman pen resting at the book’s side.

Cash went to
the mantel and looked at the photos. Most of the pictures were
older and in black and white. All of them were candid and in every
one the subjects were smiling.

When Cash
turned away from the mantel, his eyes caught on a large,
silver-framed photo sitting ensconced on a bookshelf and he
froze.

It was Abby’s
wedding photo.

He stared at it
from his place several feet away and it felt like the image
depicted was burning itself in his brain.

In slow motion,
his body came unstuck and he walked to the photo, his fingers
curling around it, he brought it to him for closer inspection.

She’d been a
young bride and a beautiful one. Her beauty hadn’t matured to her
current magnificence but her obvious happiness made up for it.

And she was
definitely happy.

The photo
wasn’t posed. Abby, wearing a complicated but not overdone,
strapless gown made, it appeared, entirely of lace, wasn’t
smiling.

She was
beaming.

Her head was
tilted back and her arm was wrapped around a tall, brawny,
good-looking blond man who was smiling down at her. She was curled
into him, her arm around his back and Cash saw the man’s arm was
around her waist. Her fingers were touching his face and – the
photo was black and white, so colour was not discernible – but it
looked like she was using her thumb to wipe lipstick from his
mouth.

The intimacy of
the gesture, their shamelessly unhidden joy, Abby glowing in a way
she had not even come close to giving him, coupled with the memory
of Abby wiping his own mouth the day he met her, all of this made
Cash feel like he’d swallowed a mouthful of acid.

The intensity
of his reaction vaguely disturbed him, but he resolutely set it
aside, put the photo down and threw back the whisky. It took him
two drinks to drain the glass.

He headed to
the kitchen to refill it and was back in the front room standing at
her window, sipping at his whisky, lost in thought (most of these
thoughts centred around when he would find the time to purchase a
dozen new dressing gowns for her), when she returned.

“I’m ready,”
she announced and he turned to look at her.

She was wearing
a body-hugging, jade green, jersey dress. It covered her completely
from wrists to hem which touched her knees. Even if it covered her
almost fully, it left nothing to the imagination. The only expanse
of skin that was exposed, outside of her legs, was at the wide,
low-cut, v-neck. She was wearing strappy stiletto sandals in
patent-leather, a shade darker than the green of her dress. She had
on a pair of gold hoop earrings, her hair down around her shoulders
in a sleek fall, her makeup more dramatic than the night before but
less than it had been the first night they went to dinner.

She wore no
other adornment.

She looked, as
ever, exquisite.

“I wasn’t sure
what to wear to a dinner party at crazy Mrs. Truman’s. I’ve been
thinking about it all day,” she told him as she walked into the
room.

This was the
wrong thing to say.

Except for his
enjoyable conversation with his uncle and when work intruded, he’d
thought about nothing but her all day.

“I was thinking
armour but I’m not sure a suit of armour goes with these shoes,”
she finished when she’d stopped in front of him, a small smile
playing at her glossed lips, her head tilted back to look at
him.

She meant to be
amusing. For the first time, Cash didn’t laugh.

Her smile
faltered and her head tilted to the side.

“Cash?” she
called.

He didn’t
answer.

Instead, he
looked to the window and caught their reflection in the glass.

She was
standing close, head still tilted back to look at him but she
wasn’t touching him.

Even in the
indistinct reflection of the glass he could see they complimented
each other. It wasn’t the first image he’d seen of them together
and it wasn’t the first time he recognised they looked good.

He liked the
look of them together. They matched. She looked like she belonged
with him. She looked like she was the kind of woman that would
belong
to
him. If he was honest with himself, it aroused
him, thinking of her as his.

But she wasn’t
his, no matter how much he paid for her.

She belonged to
the man in that photo.

Her hand came
to rest lightly on his arm, taking him out of his thoughts and she
asked, “Cash? Is everything all right?”

He threw back
the remainder of his whisky, looked down at her and replied,
“Fine.”

“You’re
behaving funny,” she told him.

“I have a lot
on my mind,” he returned.