Temporary Bride

by Phyllis Halldorson

  Boredom plus the smooth hum of the engine and the slight sway of the car combined to relax her so completely that she could hardly keep her eyes open. The day had been long and she had worked hard, first in the garden, then packing and getting ready to leave. She yawned and her head nodded as Mark's arm encircled her shoulders and made her comfortable against his broad chest. She slept.

  It was dark when she opened her eyes and realized that the car was no longer moving but the chest against which she was sleeping was.

  "Karen, wake up. We're here."

  It was Mark, and he had an arm around her, holding her as he spoke. She jerked to a sitting position and blinked. "Where are we? How long have I been asleep?"

  "Do you make a habit of curling up and sleeping in the arms of every man you meet?" It was Shane, on the other side of her, and he sounded irritated.

  She was still half asleep and disoriented. "No. I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  Mark got out of the car and reached a hand in to her. "Don't pay any attention to Grumpy there, Snow White. He's just put out because it wasn't his arms you were sleeping in."

  Mark grinned and Karen slid out and had barely closed the door when Shane gunned the motor and drove on down the sloping driveway.

  Even though it was dark, the house and grounds were well lit and she could see that the place was immense. It seemed to be built on the side of a cliff and she could hear water lapping against the rocks below.

  The intricately carved oak door was opened by a tall, angular woman, fiftyish, with heavy dark hair brushed back from her face and worn low on her nape in a chignon. Her face was expressionless but her gray eyes fastened on then-subject with chilling intensity. She greeted Mark with cool politeness and he introduced her to Karen as Mrs. Whitney, the housekeeper. Mrs. Whitney glided stiffly ahead of them down the mosaic tiled corridor to a spacious room at the back of the house. Karen gasped in awe. The sapphire blue carpeting felt ankle deep and the closed wall-to-wall draperies on two sides of the room were a complementary but lighter shade of azure blue and breathtakingly beautiful. The grand piano in the corner left plenty of room for several furniture groupings, and the paintings on the undraped ice blue walls were originals and expensive.

  Mark was talking to Mrs. Whitney and Karen was just standing there trying to adjust to the magnificence of the room, when Shane came up behind them. He greeted Mrs. Whitney and said, "This is Karen Muir. As I told you on the phone, she'll be here for a month or so cataloguing the library. Please show her to her room and I'll have her bags brought up later." He turned to Karen. "Dinner will be served in half an hour. Don't bother to change."

  His abrupt dismissal left Karen no choice but to follow the housekeeper's stiff back through a maze of rooms and hallways and finally down a flight of stairs. Mrs. Whitney explained coldly, "This is the lower level; it contains the main kitchen, laundry room, and the servants' quarters."

  She made a right turn and led Karen into a wing consisting of a sitting room, dining room, and several bedrooms and baths. Karen's room was about like her room at home, small but comfortable. The furnishings were adequate, the closet was large, and she shared a bath with the room next door.

  Mrs. Whitney stood in the doorway and her crisp voice was disapproving as she said, "Apparently Mr. McKittrick expects you to dine with him and Mr. Jefferson this evening, but in the future you will take all your meals down here with the rest of the employees. I hope you will not make a nuisance of yourself with Mr. McKittrick." She turned and marched off before Karen could say anything.

  Dinner was served in a formal dining room that could easily seat fifty people. Karen was impressed and made no attempt to hide it as Shane seated her at the solid mahogany table covered with handmade lace and set with china, crystal, and sterling silver. As in the living room, two of the walls were draped but on the wall opposite her she recognized an original still life in oils by Paul Cezanne, one of her favorite Impressionists. Forgetting her manners, she slid off her chair and went to stand in front of it, giving in to the impulse to reach out and touch the canvas that had felt the hand of the master painter.

  Behind her, Shane's voice was soft. "You like Cezanne?"

  "Oh, yes—he tempered his flights of fantasy with realism—but I also like Degas and Monet."

  "You'd like this clam chowder, too, if you'd sit down long enough to taste it," Shane teased.

  Karen felt the warm color rush to her cheeks as she realized how rude she'd been to leave the table. "Oh, I'm sorry! I guess I got carried away."

  She returned to the table and Shane stood and seated her again. "You seem to know a great deal about French Impressionists."

  Karen nodded. "Yes—my mother taught art appreciation."

  Mark spoke. "Was your mother an artist?"

  Karen swallowed a spoonful of the clam-filled chowder. "She painted a little, but I'm afraid her talents lay in teaching rather than doing." She sighed. "Mother would have loved this house, too."

  Shane looked at her thoughtfully. "Are you pleased with your room?"

  Karen finished her soup just as Mrs. Whitney came with the salads. "Yes, thank you, it's very comfortable."

  Shane looked a little disappointed and she wondered if he'd expected her to be impressed with the room. It was nice but certainly not impressive.

  The salad was followed by a beef dish with vegetables and then freshly made ice cream covered with warm cherry sauce. Karen ate everything that was set in front of her but refused the seconds that Shane, with an amused expression, urged her to accept. When Mrs. Whitney began clearing the table Shane rose and said, "We'll have coffee in the den, Mrs. Whitney."

  Mrs. Whitney nodded and murmured, "Yes, sir," but her eyes sought Karen's and the message in them was clear. Don't make a nuisance of yourself, they warned her again.

  Karen would have liked to have had coffee in the den with Shane and Mark, but she had been reminded of her place in this household. She was an employee, not a guest, and it was time she remembered it.

  She stood, too, but backed away as Shane started toward her and said, "Uh—I think I'd better go to my room and unpack."

  Shane took her arm. "Taffy will unpack for you."

  She looked at him. "Taffy?"

  "One of the maids." He urged her forward. "It's probably already been done—now come along."

  She sidestepped carefully, not wanting to seem rude but anxious not to upset Mrs. Whitney. "I'd—I'd really rather do it myself. I'll be ready to start work tomorrow. That is, if you'll be here to show me the library and what you want done."

  He frowned impatiently and dropped his hand. "As you wish. I expect to be here all weekend so we'll have plenty of time to discuss it. Good night." He turned and walked out of the room and she knew she had displeased him.

  The next morning Karen woke early and made her way to the large main kitchen on the other side of the lower level. She was greeted by a tall, slender man of indeterminate age dressed all in white. A big smile lit his face and he spoke with a heavy French accent. "Bon jour, mademoiselle. You are the new, how you say, librarian?"

  She laughed. "Well, not exactly. I'm going to catalog the library. My name is Karen Muir."

  He nodded his understanding. "Ah, then you will need breakfast. Sit down, sit down." He waved at the breakfast bar with several high stools and she slid into one as he poured her a cup of coffee. "I am Henri. You like your eggs scrambled, yes?"

  Before she could agree, a high-pitched feminine voice, like the tinkle of a bell, sounded from the doorway behind her.

  "Henri, love, could I have a three-minute egg in two minutes? I overslept yesterday and the Dragon has been breathing fire and smoke down my neck ever since. If I don't start cleaning Mr. McKittrick's room the minute he leaves it, she'll probably hang me by my thumbs." She spotted Karen sitting at the bar and squeezed onto the stool beside her. "Hi, you must be the new gal who shares my bathroom. Do you always shower at five-thirty in the morning?"

  Karen smi
led. "Sorry. I tried to be quiet. I'm Karen Muir."

  The young face surrounded by blond curls dimpled in a grin and the hazel eyes teased as the girl said, "Apology noted and accepted. I'm Taffy Harris."

  So this was the "Taffy" Shane had mentioned last night. She looked to be about Karen's age and was soft and curvy and purred like a kitten—the kind of girl men liked to gather up and take home.

  Henri brought the girls eggs with side dishes of bacon and hot buttered biscuits. Taffy picked up her fork and said, "Thanks, Henri. I hope Mr. McKittrick doesn't decide to get up early." She turned to Karen. "Have you clashed with the Dragon yet?"

  Karen blinked. "The Dragon?"

  "Mrs. Whitney. You sure don't get a chance to fluff off around here. She's right there with her whip and chair. You're not really a member of the staff, though. I'm surprised you were put down here—I'd think you'd rate an upstairs room."

  Karen shrugged. "Apparently not—this is where Mrs. Whitney brought me."

  Taffy finished eating and jumped up. "Sorry, I gotta run. Don't let Mrs. W. browbeat you."

  Karen followed a few minutes later, intending to try to find the library. She was anxious to examine the books she would be working with. As she passed the dining room she saw Shane at the table having breakfast. He glanced up and called to her.

  "Karen! You're up early. Where are you going? Come sit down and I'll ring for your breakfast."

  She stood there puzzled. "Oh, no, thank you, I've already had breakfast."

  He frowned. "When?"

  "A little while ago," she replied vaguely.

  He motioned her into the room. "How did you manage to wander around without me hearing you? Sit with me and have some coffee, at least."

  She sat down and took the cup of coffee he handed her as she wondered how he could have expected to hear her when there were two stories between them. She stirred her coffee and glanced around the room, then gasped at the panoramic view before her. The wall-to-wall draperies had been pulled open and the two outside walls were simply two huge windows with a breathtaking view of the Pacific. With a little cry, she jumped up and went across the room to gaze at the magnificent view.

  She had been right last night; the house was built on the side of a cliff with the rocky coast below. Shane came up beside her and said, "Do you like it?"

  She drew in her breath. "Like it! I've never seen anything so beautiful! Where on earth are we?"

  He laughed. "We're on Seventeen Mile Drive, between Pacific Grove and Carmel on the Monterey Peninsula. Surely you've been here before."

  She couldn't take her eyes from the cloudless sky and the smooth, shimmering ocean. "I've driven through after paying the four-dollar entrance fee, but I never dreamed that someday I'd stay in one of these houses. To think you actually live here! I don't see how you can stand to leave it."

  He was standing so close that his shirtsleeve brushed against her bare arm. "I don't remember ever being especially impressed with either the house or the view. I was born here and never knew anything else. When my parents were alive it was a place to come back to from boarding schools, but now I use it mostly for business reasons. It's an excellent place to entertain, but I spend most of my time at my condominium in San Francisco."

  There was a touch of sadness in his voice. She felt a twinge of sympathy for the little boy who spent most of his childhood away from home in boarding schools and said, "You must have been a lonely child."

  He looked at her with a quizzical expression in his dark eyes. "Why on earth would you think that?"

  She realized she'd overstepped the bounds of propriety and felt a surge of embarrassment as she hurried to apologize. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

  He held up a hand to silence her and his voice was low. "Don't be sorry—you're right. I'm just wondering how you knew."

  She looked back at the peaceful scene on the other side of the glass. "When I was growing up my parents and I were never separated. It would have broken my heart if they had sent me away to school or left me behind when they went on vacation, but I'm sure the thought never occurred to them."

  "You miss them very much, don't you." It was a statement not a question.

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  Shane's nearness and the tenderness in his voice were having a disturbing effect on her. He was a stranger. She should never have come here with him and yet she had no fear. She trusted him instinctively, knew somehow that he wouldn't hurt her. He could be gentle one moment and flare into anger the next, and yet she felt protected here in his home.

  But was there another side to him? Why had he put that strange ad in the newspaper? What was the position that she was too young to fill? Why all the secrecy? If it was all honest and aboveboard, why didn't he hire a girl from an employment agency? Who was this man and what did he want?

  Chapter Two

  Karen ran her fingers reverently over the book before she replaced it gently in the glass case and locked the door. The library was half the size of the living room but the walls were lined with hundreds of books. Some were custom bound in leather, others encased in publishers' jackets, and then there were the first editions— worn, stained, and priceless. These were the ones that were kept locked behind glass.

  Karen sighed and dropped wearily down beside Shane on the red velour couch in front of the brick fireplace. He looked up from the ledger he was working on and asked, "Are you tired?" He glanced at his watch and exclaimed, "Good heavens, you're probably starved, too—it's after one o'clock!" He closed the ledger and stood, reaching for her hand. "Come on—we'll go find Mark and have some lunch."

  Mark had joined Karen and Shane briefly at breakfast, but they hadn't seen him since they left him to come to the library. It was a delightfully intimate room, and the hours had flown by as Shane familiarized her with the books and showed her how he wanted them sorted and catalogued. It would be a big job, one that would keep her working happily for weeks.

  She put her hand in Shane's and let him pull her to her feet as he said, "I'll find Mark. You go freshen up and we'll meet you in the dining room in fifteen minutes."

  She hesitated. "Oh, but I—"

  Why did he keep inviting her to eat with him when Mrs. Whitney had made it plain that she was expected to take her meals with the rest of the staff in the kitchen? He was probably only being polite but it was awkward all the way around. She took a deep breath and continued, "You and Mark go ahead with lunch. I'll grab a sandwich and take it to my room. I still have some settling in to do."

  Shane glared at her. "Damn it, Karen, what's the matter with you?" He seemed prepared to say more but controlled himself with an effort and muttered, "Oh, well, have it your way. Run along—I won't need you anymore today." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  Karen had lunch in the kitchen on the lower level with Taffy and the two other girls on the housekeeping staff, Jolene and Erma. Taffy grumbled good-naturedly about the tyrant, Mrs. Whitney, and the other girls merely listened, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. When Karen could get a word in edgewise, she asked the question that had been bothering her.

  "Taffy, I've never been in a house where the kitchen was in the basement. Isn't it awfully inconvenient running up and down stairs with the food?"

  All three girls laughed so uproariously that Karen suspected her question had been a stupid one. Taffy, still giggling, explained.

  "We don't run up and down stairs, silly—we use the dumbwaiters. Come on, I'll show you."

  She led Karen to the wall and showed her the small elevators that conveyed the food and dishes from the main kitchen to the small kitchen next to the dining room directly above.

  "And, love, this is not a basement." Taffy giggled again. "We are also on the ground floor down here. The house is built on a cliff and you just walk down the steps of the terraced gardens to get from one level to the other."

  She led Karen into the sitting room and for the first time Karen saw the sliding g
lass doors that took up most of one wall and led to the rolling green lawn outside. Drapes had been pulled across the doors last night and this morning when she had gone through, but now Karen saw that the view of the ocean was almost as spectacular from here as from the main floor.

  Taffy continued. "There's also a door in the kitchen and the help is expected to use it instead of the front door upstairs. I don't know whether that includes you or not."

  "It most certainly does." There was no mistaking Mrs. Whitney's voice even before the girls turned to face her. She stood straight, unbending in both posture and attitude as her voice dripped disapproval. "Karen is an employee here and as such is subject to the same rules as the rest of you. Now, Taffy, I suggest you get back to the kitchen and help Erma clean up the dishes. I'm sure Karen has work to do also."

  She turned and walked away, leaving the girls in no doubt that they had been reprimanded.

  Karen was in the library scrutinizing the bookshelves and making notes of titles and authors when the door opened and Mark came in. He sounded relieved.

  "Hi, there. I've been looking for you. We missed you at lunch but I don't blame you for not joining us. Shane was in a foul mood—hardly said two words and rushed off somewhere as soon as we'd finished eating."

  She was surprised. Shane had been happy and in good spirits all morning. She couldn't imagine what had happened to upset him, unless it had been her refusal to have lunch with him and Mark. She instantly dismissed that thought as silly and returned Mark's greeting. They talked about her work for a few minutes until he changed the subject.