‘So I see.’ She spoke repressively, but she hadn’t the heart to read the riot act. The two small faces were alight with excitement. After all, it was Christmas Eve. Consigning at least another hour of much needed sleep to the dustbin of dashed hopes, she said, ‘Get dressed. And tidy this room up before you come down for breakfast. And if you behave yourselves—and only if you do,’ she stressed, ‘I’ll help you make a snowman when it gets light.’
‘Wow!’
Guy bounced off the bed and James, grinning from ear to ear, announced, ‘Carl can help as well. He’s coming to put up the tree. He said so. Where is it, Mum? Is it a big one?’
‘Big enough.’ She’d seen it propped up in the porch when Carl had let himself out last night. She wished he hadn’t promised James that he’d come and set it up. She didn’t want to have to face him again until she’d got her mind sorted out.
Besides, they had nothing to dress it with. Christmas trees and glittery baubles hadn’t featured in her grandparents’ scheme of things. She’d fully intended to buy some decorations yesterday, when picking up a tree from the village, but the sudden heavy snowfall had put a stop to that.
But that had to be the least of her worries. Leaving the boys’ room, she closed the door and leant back wearily against it.
What Carl had suggested was out of the question. How could she marry a man who’d vehemently stated that he didn’t love her, who actively and openly despised her?
He had wanted her physically once, briefly, and now he obviously thought she was the pits. That she had loved him, adored him, could safely be relegated to the past. Of course it could.
What she had experienced when they’d been talking after he’d brought the boys back from breaking into his house had been simple animal lust. He had matured into a wickedly attractive male. A woman would have to be blind not to fall victim to his vibrant masculinity.
Marriage would be a form of torture. There had to be another way. But her brain seemed incapable of functioning sensibly.
Using all her will-power, she propelled herself into the bathroom, shutting her ears to the noises coming from the bedroom where James and Guy were clumping around, hopefully tidying up the mess they’d made.
She needed more time to get her head around Carl’s cold insistence on marriage, to work out a compromise that would be acceptable to both of them. She needed a breathing space—but she clearly wasn’t going to get one.
Back in her own room again, she pulled on the first things that came to hand. A pair of warm fawn cord trousers, an old navy blue jumper that had stretched in the wash and a pair of suede ankle boots that had seen better days. Dragging a brush through her long hair, she met her eyes in the mirror and groaned at what she saw there. Utter bewilderment.
The brush dropped from her fingers, clattered on the dressing table.
She had never known who her father was, only that he had been a student at the college where her mother had been studying at the time. As a child she had hopelessly daydreamed that both her parents would come and claim her, make her part of a close-knit, loving family. It had never happened, of course.
Had she any right to deny her own son the security of the love and care of both parents? True, he had a mother who loved him, but he needed a father too.
Full-time, as Carl had stated.
Could she handle it? She simply didn’t know. Her heart twisting alarmingly, her forehead creased with confusion, she padded downstairs to make a start on breakfast. It was going to be a long, long day.
She already felt like a piece of chewed string and the day had barely started!
Carl found what he’d been looking for at the far end of the attics. The box of Christmas decorations.
In less enlightened times this series of small rooms leading off a narrow corridor had provided sleeping quarters for the servants. But things had changed for the better. Mrs Griggs, his uncle’s housekeeper, and her husband Cyril—a cheerful, willing helper around the house and grounds—had occupied a light and comfortable suite of rooms above the kitchen quarters. A phone call early this morning had established the fact that they were only too happy to return.
They would take up their positions immediately after Christmas, hire the extra staff needed and make sure that everything was running like well-oiled clockwork when he took up permanent residence.
With his son.
His heart swelled inside him until he thought it might burst, and he felt strangely light-headed as he lifted the box and walked the length of the corridor to the door at the head of the attic stairs.
He was making decisions. He didn’t have to think about it because it came naturally. And he didn’t have to think about the possibility of Beth refusing his offer of marriage. He would make damn sure that the consequences of her refusal would make her blood run cold.
A few days ago remarriage had been out of the question. But now it was the only option if his son were to have a permanent place in his life, the privileges he himself had enjoyed, the security of two loving parents, his heritage and all that entailed.
The Hall was big enough for him and Beth to lead virtually separate lives—only sharing mealtimes when James was around, joining forces when the three of them needed to do things together: celebrating James’s birthday, school sports days, that sort of thing.
He clattered down the narrow staircase. No one had ever said that such an arrangement would be easy, but if he could live with that, for their son’s sake, then so could she. That would be the first thing he would make sure she fully understood. No arguments!
As he passed the small sofa on the first-floor landing his mouth tightened as an unidentifiable pain clamped around his heart. She had been so sweet, so responsive and loving on that long-ago fateful night. Had she, even then, been concealing a devious nature, a disregard for anyone’s feelings and needs except her own?
He would never forgive her for denying him his rights as a father.
Outside, the air was crisp and cold. An overnight frost had hardened the thick layer of snow, just as her duplicity had hardened the carapace around his heart where she was concerned.
Once, he had been besotted with her, and if circumstances hadn’t removed him he knew he would have pursued her with all the tempestuous ardour of puppy-love. He’d written, asking her to keep in touch, and after weeks and months of waiting for her non-existent reply he’d done what any sane guy would have done—got on with his studies, enjoyed his social life, and forgotten her.
Except in his dreams.
But those erotic, tormenting dreams were a thing of the past. He was no longer a besotted, callow youth, inexperienced in the ways and wiles of women.
Beth was switching off her mobile phone as Carl walked, unannounced, into the kitchen of Keeper’s Cottage. She had an arm round Guy’s shoulders and her face was pink.
Guilty conscience? Had she been phoning her solicitor? Her current man-friend? Trying to find a way out of the situation she found herself in? Her obvious embarrassment, and the absence of James, certainly pointed that way. If she was thinking along those lines she’d have to damn well think again!
Beth felt her face run with hot colour. She hadn’t expected him this early. It was barely eight-thirty. And he looked so dangerously attractive her heart stood still. Gorgeous simply wasn’t the word for it. Perfect, very male features, a lean and sexy physique—but cold, killing eyes. He looked as if he hated her.
It was Guy who broke the tension. Beth heard his bright young voice as if it came from a great distance. ‘My mummy says the new baby is coming soon, and my daddy says Father Christmas knows where I am. He won’t leave my presents at home by mistake.’ He squirmed out of Beth’s hold and dived over the kitchen floor for his wellingtons. ‘My dad says he doesn’t mind if the baby gets born a girl or a boy. But I want a boy to play with, ’cos James says he wants to live here for ever and ever.’
‘We phone Angela and Henry every day, so Guy can speak to them.’ Beth’s explanati
on was shakily delivered, and the hand that placed the mobile on the table was far from steady.
Carl felt the tension ebb from his shoulders. But whether it was because that phone call had been innocent and not what he had suspected, or whether it was because his son apparently seemed keen to stay in the area—relieving him of the worry that he might not want to be uprooted—he couldn’t say. A mixture of both, he decided, and he put the bulky cardboard box down on the table just as James came clattering down the stairs.
He was wearing a long woolly scarf round his neck and carrying another, which he bunched into a ball and threw at Guy. His face lit up when he noticed Carl. ‘Mum said she’d help us make a snowman. You can help, too.’
‘I’d like that, Jamie.’ Carl’s voice was slightly husky, warm. The cold, killing look had disappeared. His smile would have melted an iceberg.
Beth shivered. She hugged her arms around her body. What had she done to this man? She’d deprived him of the first formative years of his son’s life and turned what had been a fondness for her into implacable hatred.
How could she marry him, knowing that?
How could she live with Carl until their son was of age, making his own way in the world, loving him and knowing that he despised her?
Biting her lower lip until she tasted blood, she made a swift and vehement mental correction. Of course she didn’t still love him! It had been the best part of a decade ago, for pity’s sake. Love didn’t last that long without anything to feed on!
He was helping the boys into their coats, asking them if they’d like to see over his house and look for a hat for the snowman. He was sure they could find something—there were several old trilbys that had belonged to his uncle in the garden room. Marcus wouldn’t mind, Carl was explaining, he’d be glad they were making use of something he didn’t need now.
As Beth listened to the gentle baritone she felt swamped by lonely bitterness. Of course Marcus wouldn’t mind his great-nephew using his cast-offs. The bloodline was all-important to the Forsythes. She felt surplus to requirements. The outsider.
She had never felt that way in those long-gone happy days when she and Carl had been practically growing up together. But everything had changed. And that was the loneliest feeling in the world.
‘Ready?’ Carl turned to her, one dark brow gliding upwards. The boys were fidgeting, anxious to get outside. ‘You’ll need your coat; it’s bitterly cold out there.’
He sounded polite, friendly even, Beth thought hollowly. He wouldn’t want James to pick up bad vibes. But she wasn’t going to jump when he told her to.
‘Now you’re here to supervise I’ll leave you to it,’ she came back with a manufactured saccharine-sweetness, an airiness that belied the heaviness of her heart. ‘I’ve got loads to do inside.’
Their eyes clashed for long fraught moments, then his face froze over. Two strides took him to the door. He flung it open and the boys, needing no encouragement, raced out into the pale winter sunshine.
‘Sulking, Beth?’ he enquired in soft, level tones that sent shivers down her back. ‘Grow up, why don’t you? You brought this on yourself and it’s time you took responsibility for your sins of omission. And by the way—’ there was a sharp edge to his tone now ‘—I’ll give the boys lunch at the Hall. It’s time James got familiar with the place he’ll be calling home. I suggest you use the next few hours to decide when we tell our son who I am and break the news of our forthcoming marriage.’ He walked through the door, turned back to her and stated coolly, ‘It’s going to happen. Just get used to it.’
It was growing dark when they returned. Beth heard the boyish voices ringing out on the frosty air well before Carl pushed open the kitchen door.
Frantically, she pinched her wan cheeks to coax some colour into them. She didn’t want him to see her looking as if she were knocking on death’s door. She had more pride than that!
She’d changed into fresh blue denim jeans and a pale aqua silk-knit sweater, brushing her hair until her scalp stung and leaving the soft blonde mass loose around her shoulders. No way would she let him know she’d spent the intervening hours in a state of blind panic at the way he was taking over, keeping James away from her for the greater part of the day without so much as a by-your-leave. Excluding her.
That she could have gone with him if she hadn’t stubbornly decided to make a point was something she hadn’t contemplated as she’d thrown herself into a mindless whirlwind of cleaning and polishing, baking and ironing, doing anything to stop herself from feeling like a spare wheel, stop herself from thinking.
Now, as the boys rushed past Carl into the warm kitchen, babbling excitedly, their cheeks rosy, their eyes over-bright, she wished she’d been with them and been a part of their fun day.
‘The snowman’s humungous!’ Guy gabbled, kicking off his wellingtons so wildly they flew into a far corner. ‘His name’s Bert and he fell over, but we builded him up again and gave him a hat and an umbrella.’
‘And pelted him with snowballs until he disintegrated again,’ Carl put in with a wry smile. ‘However, Bert Mark Three is still standing, guarding the approach to the Hall—Guy, be a good chap and pick your boots up and find your slippers—’
‘And Carl’s house is brilliant, Mum,’ James, sitting on the floor and removing his boots more circumspectly, cut in. ‘You should see it—millions of rooms and he’s lived there since it was built!’
‘Which would make me getting on for five hundred years old,’ Carl said with a grin that made Beth’s heart turn over. She dragged her eyes away from him, her face hidden as she busied herself helping the two boys out of their coats, hanging them up on the back of the door.
Carl in this kinder mood sent a lonely sigh around her heart, where it curled up and stayed right where it was, leaving her feeling bereft because none of this warm gentleness was for her benefit.
How could it be?
‘I fed them beans and sausages for lunch,’ Carl imparted as James and Guy scampered up to the bathroom to wash their hands, as instructed.
Beth, pulling herself together, but not quite to the point where she could actually turn to look at him and see all that hurtful hating back in his eyes, collected the discarded boots and scarves and told him, ‘Thank you. I’ve made a seafood pie for supper. Will you join us? Or would you rather skip that and come back later? We need to talk.’
She felt calmer then. However unpalatable the facts were, they had to be faced. The fact that she was now willing to do so, and was no longer in denial, had restored some of the sense of self-worth that had been leaching away ever since he’d told her he knew James was his son.
‘I’d like that.’ Carl knew his voice had come out with an intimate slow huskiness, and felt his eyes soften, grow heavy, as he watched her move around the kitchen. Even putting the diminutive wellington boots in a tidy row at the side of the stove, folding the scarves and placing them in one of the dresser drawers, her movements were sheer grace.
The soft denim fabric moulded the elegant length of her legs, clipping the rounded feminine curve of her hips, just as the sweater she was wearing followed the proud curve of her beautiful breasts. The way she moved had always fascinated him.
And he’d missed her today, he admitted. Wanted her to be with them.
Running out of things to occupy her, she turned and faced him. Her silky blonde hair was tumbling around her face, curving around her slender neck. A faint wash of colour was creeping across the delicate arch of her cheekbones and something deep in the emerald depths of her huge eyes made his stomach clench with a desire that should have died years ago.
The sensation made him want to hit something. His mouth twisted bitterly. He had forgotten what love was, but his body remembered hers.
Lust. That was what it was all about. And lust he could handle simply by ignoring it. He surely hadn’t wanted her with them today for any other reason than getting James used to seeing them as a threesome. Sure, he’d like to join her for
supper, but only because it would give him the chance to continue the bonding process with his son.
She owed him that much, and a damn sight more!
To hammer that point home, for his own sake as much as for hers, he informed her coolly, ‘It’s important that Jamie and I spend as much time as possible together before we break our news. And yes, we do need to discuss the timing. Also—’ he shrugged out of his coat and hung it with the others ‘—I promised them we’d decorate the tree.’
The hope that his attitude towards her was softening had been a very faint glow in the darkness of his overt dislike of her, and his coolly delivered words had brutally extinguished it.
No big deal, she told herself staunchly. She would be a fool to hope for anything other than implacable dislike from him.
The thought of that dislike stretching through the years to come, until, when their son was grown, Carl could safely get rid of her, made her feel nauseous. But he wasn’t going to see that.
Making herself smile—a thin one, but a smile just the same—she said, ‘Then perhaps you could make a start while I see to supper? The boys will come down any time now. I put the tree in a bucket and wedged it firm with split logs. The box of decorations is through in the parlour, too. And while you’re in there make up the fire, if it needs it.’
Then, feeling her control begin to slip away, she knelt to bring the seafood pie from the fridge. When she stood up again the parlour door was closing behind him and her eyes filled with tears.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CARL had made coffee while Beth had been settling the boys for the night. The aroma, usually so enticing, turned her stomach.
‘Through there.’ He lifted the tray and walked into the parlour and Beth had no option but to follow. Crunch-time, she thought, her face paling as her heartbeats threatened to choke her.
The cheerful blaze of the fire drew her. She sank into the chair nearest the hearth to relieve her wobbly legs of the necessity of keeping her upright. Outside, the wind was howling around the little cottage. It sounded like a wild animal. They were in for another snowstorm; she was sure of it.
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 33
