“Drink this. It’s good for shock.”
“I don’t like brandy,” Anna protested.
“You don’t have to like it. This is for medicinal purposes.”
Anna drank obediently while she thought about what had happened. Although Gideon had meant to frighten her, it hadn’t just been a joke—he wasn’t that kind of man. Whatever his motives, they stemmed from something a good deal more serious. Anger? Hatred? A desire for vengeance?
LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in an English village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy traveling, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Her hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.
Lee Wilkinson
A VENGEFUL DECEPTION
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS Christmas Eve and, at five o’clock in the afternoon, already dark outside. In the old square, the carefully preserved Victorian street lamps spilled pools of yellow light on to the cobbles.
In line with the bow window of her now empty shop, Anna was stooping to nail down the lid of a wooden packing case.
An occasional glance through the uneven panes had told her that for the last half an hour or so there had been few people about in the square.
Most of the other shops, in what was something of a backwater, were already closed or closing. Only the jewellers and the expensive wine merchants, their windows glittering with tinsel, seemed set to remain open longer.
A sudden pricking in her thumbs, the certainty that someone was standing outside watching her, made Anna glance up sharply. Right on the edge of her vision, a dark figure was moving away.
Shrugging off a feeling of unease, she assured herself that it had no doubt been someone just innocently walking past.
Magnified by the bottle-glass, she could see huge, feathery flakes of snow starting to drift down. She had always loved snow, and the sight brought a touch of magic to an otherwise dismal day.
Bending again to her task, she finished knocking the final nail into the lid of the last packing case, and, putting down her hammer, looked around her with a faint sigh.
Apart from a residue of dust and packing materials, nothing was left. The shelves and the window were bare, as was the dark, cramped office-cum-stockroom at the rear of the tiny Dickensian shop.
Only the slightly musty smell of old paper, leather bindings and printer’s ink lingering on the air spoke of books and a dream that had ended.
All the most precious first editions and manuscripts had gone, collected the previous day by the agent who had bought them.
The rest of the stock had been carefully packed into cases that were scheduled to be picked up during the quiet few days between Christmas and New Year.
From the first, Anna’s long-cherished ambition to run her own specialist bookshop had been encouraged by her good friend Cleo.
Though complete opposites in both temperament and looks—Anna, tall and slim and dark, a quiet, self-contained girl, Cleo, short and plump and fair, bubbling with life and enthusiasm—the two girls had been friends since they were toddlers.
Throughout their schooldays and college years they had shared nearly all their hopes and fears, their successes and disappointments.
When Anna had finally managed to raise enough capital to rent the shop and add a few antique maps to her small amount of stock, Cleo had been as pleased as Punch.
Though a busy mother with young twins, she had given what practical help she could, and an endless supply of moral support.
But now, after many months of hard work and effort, and mainly due to lack of finance, the venture had sadly ended in defeat.
Cleo, vastly sympathetic but unable to help, had popped into the shop the previous day to lament its closure. ‘It’s a damned shame. I just wish I could help in some way but, short of winning the lottery… What will you do now?’
Anna had shrugged, trying to appear philosophical. ‘As soon as Christmas is over, start looking for a job.’
‘It shouldn’t be too difficult with your knowledge and qualifications.’
They both knew that the optimism was more than a trifle forced.
Rymington, a small, picturesque market town encircled by hills and quiet, fertile fields, was thriving and affluent. Within easy reach of London, it attracted a stream of seasonal holiday-makers. But jobs, other than in the tourist industry, were few and far between.
It was one of the reasons that had made Anna seize the chance and take over the shop on a short lease, and with what she knew to be barely sufficient capital. There had simply been no other opportunities available.
Despite that lack, she wanted to stay in Rymington where she had been born and brought up. After leaving college, a couple of years spent in London had only reinforced her dislike of big cities, and finally sent her home weary and disillusioned.
‘You were so close to making a go of it,’ Cleo had mourned. ‘If only the lease hadn’t come up for renewal.’
But it had. And the considerably higher rent that Deon Enterprises, the new owners of the complex, were demanding had been the last straw.
All that remained of the stock Anna had so painstakingly gathered together had been bought as a job lot by an agent for a private collector.
Knowing she was in a cleft stick, he had beaten her down in price and finally, in desperation, she had been forced to sell at a loss.
Her only consolation was that the sale had raised just enough money to cover her debts, including what she owed the bank, and allow her to walk away with her head held high.
The same way she had walked away from David.
No, she wouldn’t think about David. Memory Lane was just a circular route around a lingering pain.
Squaring her shoulders, Anna crossed to the mahogany counter, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness, and, pulling on her coat, picked up her shoulder-bag and the small weekend case that waited there.
When they had exchanged Christmas gifts, Cleo had asked, ‘Will you be seeing Paul over the holiday?’
‘No,’ Anna had answered firmly. ‘He wanted me to, but I said I couldn’t. I didn’t want to raise his hopes.’
‘You could do a lot worse.’ Cleo, who had introduced the pair, felt she had a vested interest. ‘I know he’s more than fifteen years older than you, but he’s a well-respected barrister, with a very nice house, and he’s not bad-looking. What more could any girl ask?’
Cleo was so happy with her own marriage that she felt sorry for anyone who didn’t share the same blissful state.
‘You do like him, don’t you?’ she persisted.
Resisting the temptation to say, not particularly, Anna agreed, ‘Yes, he’s very nice.’
‘And you like children.’
Paul was a widower with a nine-year-old daughter.
‘Yes, I like children,’ Anna admitted. ‘Sophie’s a sweet little girl. But that doesn’t mean I want to be her stepmother.’
Sighing, Cleo gave up for the time being. ‘So what are you planning to do over Christmas?’
‘Just have a nice quiet break,’ Anna said lightly.
The other girl wasn’t fooled for an instant. ‘That means you’re going to be on your own. Why don’t you come
to us again? Come for the whole weekend.’
Alan, Cleo’s husband, was a quiet, rather shy man, who wasn’t fond of company.
‘Thanks, but I don’t think I will.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Cleo said, well aware of the reason for the refusal. ‘Alan won’t object.’
He might not object, because he loved his wife and wanted to make her happy, but he wouldn’t like it.
Though he’d done his best to make Anna welcome the previous year, when she had just moved back to the town, Anna had felt sure he would rather have been alone with his family.
‘And the twins will be delighted,’ Cleo urged. ‘They’ll probably get you up at the crack of dawn, but it has to be better than spending a lonely Christmas in a bedsit.’
Troubled by the thought that Cleo might only be asking her out of a sense of duty, and might secretly prefer to have her husband and children to herself, Anna said, ‘Thanks a million. But I really won’t be lonely. I’ll find plenty to do.’
‘Well, I won’t try to persuade you, but if you change your mind at the last minute, just turn up. The spare room’s ready, we’ve enough food to feed an army, and you’ll be more than welcome. Truly.’
And this morning, over her solitary breakfast of toast and coffee, her spirits at their lowest ebb, Anna had changed her mind.
Unable to bear the thought of waking on Christmas morning with no happier prospect than a day spent alone in her poky room, she had decided to go to Cleo’s after all.
Finding clean undies and several changes of clothing—the twins were expert at spreading chocolate and other sticky substances over everything—she had hastily packed what she would need before setting off for the shop.
Now, case in hand, her bag over her shoulder, she switched off the lights, ducked her smooth, dark head beneath the low lintel, and closed and locked the black-painted door behind her.
Dropping the key into her bag, she looked up at the black sign above the lopsided bow window. The gold lettering read, ‘Savanna Sands Rare Books and Manuscripts’.
The leaden feeling of failure and despair that had haunted her for weeks had gone. All she could feel now was empty and hollow.
It was still snowing, the flakes smaller and crisper, starting to stick, covering the uneven cobbles with a white blanket and swirling round the street lamps like motes swimming in the beam of a spotlight.
She pulled her coat collar around her ears and, finding the cobblestones were slippy, walked with care towards the arched passageway that led through to the car park at the rear of the old square.
Built alongside the river, it had once comprised mainly ship’s chandlers and warehouses, until a restoration scheme had transformed the complex into a tourist attraction.
After the relative brightness of the square, with its lamps and lighted shop windows, the passageway, and the long, narrow car park which lay between the backs of the shops and the tow-path, were gloomy and ill lit.
There was a scattering of vehicles still parked, but not another soul in sight. Deep patches of shadow lay between each small pool of light.
As Anna unlocked the door of her old Cavalier, a movement she sensed rather than saw made her glance up swiftly.
Through the curtain of falling snow the place appeared to be deserted, yet a sixth sense insisted that someone was lying in wait, watching her, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose.
Telling herself she was being a fool, that there was no one there, she tried to shrug off the feeling, but it persisted.
As she peered into the murk, a large black cat, its head turned in her direction, ran along the top of the wall and jumped over into the yard of one of the shops.
Letting out her breath in a sigh of relief, she said aloud, ‘There, what did I tell you?’
Tossing her case and bag on to the back seat, she got behind the wheel and turned on the ignition. Cold and damp, the engine took a bit of starting, reminding her that the man at the garage had said she could do with a new battery.
When it finally roared into life, she switched on the windscreen wipers and backed out carefully. Her headlights, like searching antennae, lit up the whirling snow as she turned towards the exit.
She was just picking up speed when only a few yards ahead a man’s dark figure suddenly stepped out from between two parked cars, straight into her path.
Instinctively, she braked and swerved. The wheels skidded on the snowy cobbles, and as she struggled to regain control the car slewed sideways before slithering to a halt.
Badly shaken, for a second or two she sat quite still behind the wheel. All she could think was, Thank God she’d missed him.
Or had she?
He’d been very close, and those few split seconds were just a blur. She might have caught him a glancing blow.
Peering out, she could see no sign of him and, with a sick dread that he might be lying injured, she threw open her door and clambered out.
He was slumped on the ground in a patch of deep shadow. A carrier bag, spilling its contents, was lying close by.
As she hurried over to him, to her utmost relief he began to struggle to his feet. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Fine, I guess… Apart from some minor damage to one arm.’ His voice was deep and attractive, an educated voice with a hint of an accent she couldn’t quite place.
‘Then I did hit you? I’m so sorry.’
‘Just brushed me. Unfortunately it was enough to make me lose my footing and slip on the cobbles. I landed on my elbow.’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said again.
‘You’re not to blame. It was entirely my own fault. I didn’t realise you were so close. If I hadn’t stepped out in front of you it would never have happened.’
When he’d one-handedly gathered up the carrier and its contents and moved out of the deeper shadow, she was able to make out that he was tall, at least six foot, she judged, and broad across the shoulders.
Despite being marked from their contact with the ground, his well-cut trousers and car-coat were unmistakably expensive.
His left arm appeared to be hanging useless and, concerned, she asked, ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
After making an effort to lift it, he admitted, ‘I seem to have no use in it at the moment.’
‘Perhaps you should go to the Accident and Emergency unit at—’
‘On Christmas Eve? Not on your life! No, I’m sure it isn’t serious. So long as I’m able to drive.’
‘I don’t see how you can drive in that state,’ she objected.
‘You may have a point. In which case I’d better try to find a taxi.’ Ruefully, he added, ‘I’ve been in town most of the afternoon and I haven’t seen any about, which rather suggests that they might be few and far between.’
He was right. At Your Service, the town’s main taxi firm, had recently closed down, and as yet no one had taken their place.
Still feeling she was partly to blame, despite his disclaimer, Anna offered, ‘If you like, I’ll drive you home.’
‘I couldn’t possibly put you to so much trouble.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s the very least I can do. Where do you live?’
‘On the Old Castle Road.’
Off hand she couldn’t recall any houses on that quiet, country road, apart from the Manor. But it was a while since she’d been that way, and new estates were springing up everywhere.
‘Then it really is no trouble,’ she said briskly. ‘That’s the way I’m going.’
It was true that Cleo and her family lived in that general direction, but not nearly so far out of town.
‘If that’s so, I’ll accept your kind offer… Perhaps you’ll be good enough to take this while I collect the rest of my provisions?’
As Anna relieved him of the carrier and put it in the back of her own car, he crossed to a dark-coloured Laguna parked close by.
Through the falling snow she watched him fish in his pocket for the key
s, open the boot, and with one hand begin to manoeuvre a box of groceries.
It seemed he’d been shopping for his wife.
‘Let me.’ As soon as the box had joined the other things on the back seat, she invited, ‘Jump in.’
As she took her place behind the wheel, he slid in beside her and turned his head to look at her.
He saw a face of enchanting beauty. Long-lashed almond eyes set wide apart—eyes that were the colour of wood-smoke—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a lovely mouth above a softly rounded chin. Her smooth dark hair, which was taken up in a knot, was spangled with snowflakes.
In the glare of the overhead light she saw him properly for the first time, and what she saw threw her completely.
For a long moment a sense of shock held her rigid. His sidelong glance, the shape of his head and that cleft chin, reminded her of David.
But he wasn’t really like David.
His eyes were green, flecked with gold.
David’s had been blue.
His hair, when dry, would have the bleached paleness of ripe corn, while in fascinating contrast his brows and lashes were dark.
David’s brows and lashes had been as fair as his hair.
His tanned, good-looking face was hard-boned and tough.
David’s had been boyishly handsome.
Added to that, this man must be in the region of thirty, where David had been just twenty-two at that time. A year younger than herself.
No, he wasn’t like David at all.
Yet his effect on her was just as immediate, just as intense, abruptly destroying her composure and robbing her of any self-assurance.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Her voice shook betrayingly as she added, ‘Just for a second you reminded me of someone I used to know.’
Turning hastily away, she started the car, and, driving with care, made her way out of the car park.
The town centre was aglow with fairy lights and decorations, the shop windows bright with Christmas cheer. Around the tall tree set up in the Old Market Square, a group from the local church were singing carols and collecting for charity.
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