by India Grey
She lifted her head, looking at the painted faces that lined the walls. All of them seemed to look back at her with contempt in their hooded eyes. Except one.
It was the portrait Sophie had noticed on her first night at Alnburgh six months ago, and it showed a woman in a pink
silk dress, with roses woven into her piled-up hair. What set her apart from the other sour-faced Fitzroys was her beauty and the secretive smile that played about her pink lips and gave her an air of suppressed mischief. Sophie remembered Ralph telling her that she was a music-hall singer who had caught the eye of the then earl, who had married her despite the fact that she was much younger and ‘definitely not countess material’.
She shivered slightly as his voice came back to her. ‘You and me both,’ she muttered, and was about to turn away when something else caught her eye.
The girl’s hands were folded in her lap, and on the left one, lovingly picked out by the artist’s brush, was Sophie’s ring.
So that was where she’d seen it before. A chill crept down her neck, as if it were being caressed by cold fingers. Lifting her hand, she looked from the real opal glinting dully in the twenty-first-century electric light, to the painted one on the finger of the eighteenth-century countess, remembering as she did so how her story had ended. Pregnant with a supposedly illegitimate child, suffering from advanced syphilis, the girl in the painting had thrown herself off the battlements in the east tower, to her death on the rocks below.
She hadn’t known what Mrs Watts had meant about opals being unlucky, but she was beginning to get the picture. She knew of two Fitzroy brides who’d worn the ring before her, and neither had lasted long at Alnburgh.
Rainbow had been a great believer in signs and portents; messages in everything from tea leaves to constellations. Growing up, Sophie had always dismissed it as yet another of her mother’s many eccentricities.
Hurrying quickly from the dining room, switching off the light, she suddenly wasn’t so sure.
‘The trust was set up some twenty-eight years ago now, with myself as one of the trustees. The others were the then LadyFitzroy, an army colleague of Leo’s, the senior partner in the firm of accountants he used …’
Kit’s attention began to wander. He had been on the phone to various people all day—all week, it seemed—and his head and neck and brain ached with the effort of trying to make sense of Alnburgh’s financial and legal position. It was nightmarishly complicated and excruciatingly dull, however it did give him something to think about besides Sophie, and the fact that he’d pretty much ruined her life.
As Leo’s elderly former solicitor went on Kit noticed that the library had darkened and filled with shadows. He felt a flicker of surprise. The room’s huge oriel window looked out over the beach below, and through it Kit could see that the mood of the sea had changed and that huge, swollen purple clouds had gathered over the headland to the south.
‘We took a great deal of trouble over the wording of the document to ensure there were no loopholes for Ralph Fitzroy’s legal team to use to his advantage …’
A week ago the beach had been scattered with groups of people—families with buckets and spades enjoying the last few days of their holidays, teenagers from the village with a radio and illicit bottles of cider—but now it was pretty much empty. A dog galloped along the wet sand, ears flapping, and in the distance a slim figure stood at the edge of the sea, her green cotton dress blowing up in the sudden brisk wind, her red hair flying.
A lightning fork of desire snapped through him, closely followed by a crash of guilt and despair. God, he loved her. But seeing her out there, standing in front of the swelling sea, only seemed to emphasise that elusive, untamable quality she had that had drawn him to her from the start.
And which made putting that bloody ring on her finger even more unforgivable.
That had been his chance to tell her, but he had let it pass because he knew that it would set in motion a chain of events
that was entirely out of his control. She would want him to see a doctor. And then, if the doctor’s diagnosis confirmed his fears, he would have to let her go.
And he wasn’t ready to do that yet. He’d only just found her. He wanted to make this happiness last for as long as he could.
He lifted the hand that wasn’t holding the phone and looked at it. The pins-and-needles sensation hadn’t been as bad since they’d returned to Alnburgh, and there were times when it disappeared altogether. Most notably when he was in bed with Sophie, touching her body, feeling her satin skin against his fingertips. Then he could believe that it wasn’t as serious as he thought …
‘Lord Fitzroy? Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’ Kit dragged his attention back to the voice on the other end of the phone. ‘Perhaps you could repeat that?’
‘I said, the fact that the trust was set up so long before Leo Fitzroy’s death means that the amount of inheritance tax owing is substantially reduced.’
‘That’s excellent news,’ Kit said blandly. In fact, it was the news he’d been holding out for, and the key to securing Alnburgh’s future, but at that moment it was slightly overshadowed by a sudden raging need to drag Sophie back here and take her upstairs.
‘It was partly chance, of course. When the trust was set up we didn’t know how long Mr Fitzroy would live, and frankly didn’t expect it to be more than the statutory seven-year period that would put Alnburgh out of danger from death duties. It was just lucky that he survived much longer than that.’
That was a matter of opinion, thought Kit, remembering the photographs Juliet had shown him chronicling Leo’s decline.
‘Thanks,’ he said brusquely, impatient to end the call. Outside the sky had darkened menacingly and the seagulls
were being thrown off course by the wind. Sophie didn’t have a coat. She was going to get soaked.
Bringing the conversation to a swift close, he put down the phone and strode to the door. He went down the back stairs, kicking off his shoes and grabbing one of the many waterproofs that hung in the boot room before going out through the east-gate door. From this side of the castle a steep path cut through the dune grass down to the beach. Dark purple clouds moved in from the south like an invading army and the first drops of rain were already falling.
He began to run. Up ahead, in the distance he could see that Sophie had turned and was beginning to make her way back. She broke into a run but at that moment the clouds unleashed the full force of their fury.
It felt like standing beneath a hail of bullets. In a matter of seconds Kit was drenched, as was the waterproof he carried. Not that it would do much good now anyway, but he ran on, his feet pounding against the hard sand. As they got closer to each other he heard Sophie’s whoop of exhilaration and saw that she was laughing.
His weary heart soared. Suddenly nothing mattered—not the whole legal mess or Alnburgh or the money or anything. Not even the future. Nothing existed beyond that moment on the empty, rain-lashed beach, the water running down his face and sticking his clothes to his skin, the woman he loved running towards him, laughing.
‘It’s insane!’ she cried, throwing her arms out wide and turning round, tipping her face up to the deluge.
Barely breaking his stride, he caught hold of her waist and scooped her up into his arms. The wind took her shriek of joy, tossing it up to the angry sky. Her body was warm and pliant, her heart beating hard against his ribs.
‘We might as well give in to it and just get wet,’ she gasped. ‘It’s miles back to the castle—even you can’t possibly run all the way back carrying me.’
‘I’m not even going to try.’
He had turned his back on the sea and was heading up the beach, his pace slowing as he reached the softer, deeper sand at the top. The rain fell more heavily than ever. It ran down his face, blurring his vision. He shook his head to clear the water from his eyes so that he could see the narrow path through the marram grass, leading up over the dunes.
>
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
It was steeper than he remembered and the sand slipped away beneath his feet, but the need to get out of the rain and peel the wet clothes from Sophie’s delicious body gave him superhuman strength. In seconds they had crested the dune.
The farmhouse was right in front of them, just as he’d remembered it.
‘Oh, what a gorgeous house!’ She almost had to shout to be heard above the noise of the downpour. ‘Do you know the people who own it?’
‘Yes.’
Pushing open the little wooden gate, he strode up the path, hoisting Sophie harder against him while he freed a hand to key in the code. He sent up a wry prayer of thanks for the lack of imagination and security-consciousness that had made Ralph choose Tatiana’s birth-date as the access code for the entire estate.
‘You can put me down, you know …’ Sophie murmured, catching a raindrop that was running down his cheek with her tongue.
‘Uh-uh. Not yet. I’m not letting you go.’
The door swung open and he carried her over the threshold, his heart twisting as he was hit by the symbolism of the gesture. Kicking the door shut behind them, abruptly silencing the noise of the rain, he gently set Sophie down.
She turned, leaning her back against him as she looked around the large, low-beamed farmhouse kitchen.
‘I feel like Goldilocks,’ she said wonderingly, taking his hand and pulling him across to the table so she could peer into the basket that had been left there. ‘So who does own this?’
Kit could feel the warmth of her skin through their wet clothes, the rounded firmness of her bottom. His voice was gruff with suppressed desire as he replied.
‘The estate.’
She picked up a bottle of wine from the basket, a packet of biscuits. ‘So that means you, Lord Fitzroy.’ She turned to kiss him lightly on the mouth. ‘Can I look around?’
‘Be my guest.’
Still with her fingers laced through his, she led him out of the kitchen, their sandy feet making no sound on the stone flags. Beyond it there was a square hallway with a stately old staircase going up, doors leading through to other rooms. Sophie opened one, and breathed in the scent of woodsmoke as she looked into a long room with a fireplace. A huge bay window that flooded the room with rain-soaked light and looked out onto the beach.
There was an odd feeling in her chest as they went quickly on, through rooms that felt as if they were holding their breaths. Waiting for her. Upstairs she opened the door into a child’s room, with a little bed covered by a blue quilt with ducks on it, and a cot. Through the streaming rain on the window she could see a swing in the garden below.
Her whole body throbbed with yearning. Stricken, she turned to Kit, opening her mouth to say something, but the words stuck in her swollen throat.
Gently he pulled her back towards the door.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to move the tour on at this point,’ he said huskily, brushing the side of her neck with his lips in the way that always made her instantly boneless with need. ‘Allow me to show you the master bedroom …’
When she broke away from kissing him and opened her
eyes again Sophie found herself in a large, low room with a pretty fireplace and a window like the one in the sitting room downstairs. A window seat was set into it.
As she looked Kit was very slowly turning her round so he could undo the zip on her dripping dress. Rain rattled against the window, and longing beat within her with the same relentless insistence. For him; but not just for the quick, exhilarating release of making love.
For more.
For all of him—body and soul. Head and heart. For always.
Her dress fell to the floor. She stood before him, naked and trembling, and for the first time ever she didn’t reach to tear his clothes off, rushing and fumbling.
They gazed at each other for a long moment. His silver eyes were hooded. The bruising on his face was gone now, the cuts healed, though the small scars they left would always be there. Mutely she reached up to run her fingers over them. He caught her hand, pressing it to his cheek for a second, then drawing her gently over to the bed. In one deft movement he folded down the covers, then picked her up and laid her onto the cool sheets.
She lay still as he peeled off his T-shirt and reached for the buckle of his belt. Her need for him was as strong as ever—stronger if anything—but it was as if something had shifted inside her; something to do with the quiet bedroom with the uneven walls and slightly sloping floor in this old farmhouse. It was as if she had been running for a long time, hurrying to get somewhere, and at last she had arrived. There was no need to rush any more.
His naked body was so beautiful. Her breath hitched in her throat as he lowered himself onto the bed beside her and, pulling the covers over them both, folded her gently into his arms.
After the rain the sky was washed out and new. The sun reappeared, making the raindrops on the window sparkle like
crystals. Like the tears on Sophie’s lashes. The intensity of their lovemaking had shaken them both.
‘I like this house,’ she said softly now, breaking the silence that had wrapped itself around them since the sobbing cries of her orgasm had faded.
‘Do you come here a lot?’
‘I used to call in a lot when I was a kid,’ he said gravely. ‘But I have to say that this is the first time I’ve actually come here.’
He’d said it in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere a little and banish the mood of wistfulness that seemed to have stolen the laughter from Sophie’s lips and the sparkle from her eyes as they’d looked round the house. It worked. She gave one of her breathy giggles. ‘Don’t be silly. You know what I mean.’
Smiling, he kissed the top of her head. ‘OK. I used to walk down here when I was home from school for the holidays, after Jasper was born. It was a working farm then; the people who lived here were called Mr and Mrs Prior. They were good to me. Probably because they felt sorry for me—it must have been obvious to everyone that I was surplus to requirement after Ralph remarried and Jasper arrived. They let me help out on the farm when I was old enough.’
He’d often eaten with them too; food he could still remember, that was nothing like the bland boarding-school stodge or the fussy, formal meals served up in the Alnburgh dining room, accompanied by acerbic asides from Ralph. It was here that he’d learned for the first time what ‘home’ could mean, and understood why some boys cried in the dark for the first few nights of term.
‘They sound lovely,’ Sophie said. ‘What happened to them?’
‘They went the same way as all the other tenants when Tatiana decided she’d like a little project and turned all the estate cottages into holiday lets. It wasn’t too bad for them—they were looking to retire anyway—but a lot of local people lost homes their families had lived in for generations. The idea was she was going to be completely in charge of managing them all, but of course the moment the fun decorating bit was done she got bored and handed it all over to an agency.’
‘Ah.’ It was a soft sigh of disappointment. ‘So it’s still being let? I was hoping we could stay.’ She sat up suddenly, clutching the duvet against her breasts. ‘Wait a minute—the basket on the table—does that mean people are going to be arriving today? Now I really do feel like Goldilocks—any minute someone’s going to appear and shout, “Who’s been shagging in my bed?”’
Kit smiled. He couldn’t help it.
‘Changeover day is usually Friday, so we should be safe. We can use the stuff the agency have left and I’ll replace it tomorrow. Shall we open the wine?’
It was almost a rhetorical question, since Sophie had never been known to refuse wine before, but she hesitated for a second, then sank down beside him again, not meeting his eye.
‘No, but I’d kill for a cup of tea. How much does it cost to stay here? I’m seriously thinking of booking it for as long as I can afford.’
C
HAPTER ELEVEN
SOPHIE slipped down beneath the warm fragrant water and, sighing, closed her eyes.
She was having a bath in Tatiana’s bathroom because it was by far the most comfortable one at Alnburgh, having been updated by her interior designer with no regard for expense. Or, unfortunately, for taste. Even behind her closed lids Sophie was still dazzled by the glare of about a hundred spotlights glinting off polished marble, gold-plated taps and wall-to-wall mirrors.
Alnburgh was all about extremes. Half of it hadn’t been touched in a hundred years, and the other half had been tarted up to look like Selfridges’ window at Christmastime. Neither half was particularly attractive or comfortable to live in. Wistfully Sophie let her mind drift back to that afternoon at the farmhouse.
When Kit was downstairs making the tea she had got up and stripped the bed, then set about clumsily remaking it with fresh sheets she’d found in the linen cupboard. She could hear him moving about in the kitchen below, and the sense of his presence near her in the house, the simple domesticity of the task, had given her an absurd sense of satisfaction.
The skies had cleared and the beach had been bathed in golden sunlight as they’d walked back, but the castle had loomed blackly ahead of them, looking so like a picture of a
haunted house in a cartoon that Sophie had almost expected to see a flash of forked lightning above the battlements and hear the sound of evil laughter.
Even the sand beneath her feet had felt cold in the shadow of Alnburgh, and with every step she had almost been able to feel Kit slipping away from her again. She had a sudden vision of the castle as a rival—the Other Woman, so much more sophisticated and enthralling than her. Or maybe she was the impostor? The mistress who would never quite win Kit back from his demanding, capricious wife.