A Will to Love

by Rosina Lesley

  Chapter Three

  Murray’s smile as Annie re-entered the sitting room made her uncomfortably suspicious that he knew exactly why she had changed, but his mother’s disparaging sniff told her that whatever changes she had made to her appearance had made no difference to Marion’s opinion of her.

  ‘Come and sit over here.’ Murray indicated a small button backed chair on the other side of the fire to Marion’s wheelchair. Annie moved towards it, ignoring Marion’s hard eyes following her. As she sat down, she smiled brightly.

  ‘I must say, everything’s beautifully appointed here,’ she said, determined to try and put the atmosphere back to some semblance of normality.

  ‘Naturally.’ Marion’s voice was silky smooth. ‘My husband had excellent taste – in most things – and a great deal of money.’ Her eyes glinted once more at Annie’s distressed expression before she turned back to her contemplation of the fire. Murray’s slight movement caught Annie’s eye and she lifted her head to see him shrug in a deprecating fashion.

  ‘Are there permanent staff here?’ she asked, addressing her question to him this time.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ Murray pushed a hand through thick dark hair and glanced towards his mother’s still profile. ‘My mother engaged a temporary housekeeper from an agency when she moved in.’

  ‘No one else?’ Annie was surprised, remembering Marion’s reference to the staff preparing the house for her arrival.

  ‘I believe a woman from the village and her daughter come in occasionally when required. They worked for your father.’

  Annie made a mental note to track down these two women who were probably the only people who knew her father well enough to tell her about him.

  ‘Are they here now?’ she asked.

  ‘Hardly!’ Marion’s voice cracked through the atmosphere like a whip. ‘Mrs Barlow’s cuisine just about extends to meat and potato pie for her husband – and it has to be on the table by 6.00. Chicken Cordon Bleu at 7.30 would be a little beyond her.’

  Annie wisely refrained from asking any more questions and contented herself with an appraisal of the room, trying desperately to ignore Murray’s intrusive presence in the shadows behind his mother’s chair. But though her eyes studied the panelling and the pictures, the curtains and the carpet, her brain was registering the blue eyes that rested thoughtfully on her averted face, the relaxed body beneath the casual clothes and the aura of powerful virility that reached out and touched her with delicate arousing fingers. Her nerves were stretched to screaming point when, to her relief, the door opened and broke the tension.

  ‘Would you like to come through to the dining room?’ A pleasant looking woman of much her own age, dressed in jeans and a workmanlike white apron smiled impartially at the three of them.

  ‘Thank you Tracy.’ Murray smiled back and swung his mother’s wheelchair towards the door. ‘This is Miss King. Annie, this is my mother’s housekeeper, Tracy Wells.’

  Annie stood up, acknowledging the housekeeper’s frankly curious stare with a small smile and a nod, pushing down the glow of pleasure that had coursed through her at this second time Murray had used her first name. And he’d remembered to say Annie, not Annalise.

  In the long dining room, Murray pushed his mother’s chair to one side of the table, then walked round and held the chair opposite for Annie, taking the seat at the head himself, the referee between warring factions, Annie thought. Tracey lifted the lid from a white tureen, smiled again, and left the room. Marion clicked her tongue and looked pointedly from her soup bowl to her son. With an interrogative lift of an eyebrow, Murray gazed back.

  Marion let out her breath in a sharp hiss. ‘Would you mind serving my soup, Murray? As it doesn’t appear that Mrs Wells is staying to do it for us?’

  ‘Of course.’ Murray stood up with a hint of a smile and gestured to Annie’s bowl. ‘Can I help you to soup, Annie? Home made vegetable and quite delicious, I assure you.’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ Annie watched as he ladled the steaming concoction into her bowl and then his mother’s before his own.

  ‘Tracy isn’t a waitress, you know, mother,’ he said conversationally a few moments later. ‘She’s a graduate of catering college.’

  ‘I hired a housekeeper.’ Marion sniffed.

  ‘They don’t come with long black dresses and keys at the waist any more, nor do they wear short black dresses and lace aprons. Come on, mother. You know that perfectly well.’

  ‘She’s an excellent cook, if this soup is anything to go by,’ volunteered Annie.

  ‘She is indeed.’ Murray threw a wicked glance in his mother’s direction. ‘But then, so is Mrs Harvey. Her meat and potato pie is the talk of the district.’

  Annie watched angry colour creep over Marion’s high cheekbones and tensed herself for the inevitable outburst. It didn’t come. Murray pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘More soup, ladies? Or shall we go and ask for our next course?’

  ‘I won’t have room for my next course if I have any more soup.’ Annie sighed truthfully. ‘May I help with the plates?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Murray picked up the tureen and preceded her out of the room. In the hall, he waited for her to catch up.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my mother, I’m afraid. She has what I think used to be called delusions of grandeur.’

  ‘Perhaps she has every right to have them,’ murmured Annie, keeping her eyes fixed on the soup bowls in her hands.

  ‘My mother was strictly working class until she married into money.’ The harsh words were belied by an amused note in the silken voice. ‘She used to be the one doing the waitressing.’

  ‘Really?’ Annie looked up and met his blue eyes. For a moment, she could have sworn that neither she nor Murray was even breathing, then he turned towards the kitchen door and broke the spell.

  ‘Yes, really. A waitress in a small cafe in the back streets of York, although she wouldn’t like me to tell you, obviously.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Annie was indignant as she followed him into the large kitchen. ‘I won’t bring it up.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would.’ Murray’s tone was careless and Annie felt her former antagonism begin to surface again.

  Tracy looked over her shoulder from her position at the sink.

  ‘Oh, thanks. Hang on a minute and I’ll get the main course.’ She took her hands from the suds and picked up a towel.

  ‘We’ll wait and take it in.’ Murray put the tureen on a counter near the dishwasher which stood open and half loaded. Annie followed him with the soup bowls.

  ‘No, go on, I’ll bring it in,’ Tracy said. ‘But if I leave the dessert out could you help yourselves? I know I said I would serve coffee in the study later, but the radio says there’s snow on the way and I promised Don I wouldn’t be late.’

  ‘Of course. Are you sure you’ll be able to get home?’

  ‘Are you casting aspersions on my Bertha?’ asked Tracy with unimpaired good humour. ‘Bertha’s my van,’ she explained to Annie, ‘And a mite temperamental – especially in this weather.’

  ‘I’ll gladly take you in the Land Rover.’ Murray was frowning, and Annie realised he really was concerned about this person who was only a passing feature in his life and what was more, knew enough about her to be concerned. He was far from the cold, arrogant, insensitive individual for whom she had first taken him, and the knowledge was oddly disconcerting.

  ‘No, Bertha’ll get me home, thank you, Murray. And anyway, what would I do tomorrow without her?’

  ‘I could come and get you.’ Murray turned back to the door. ‘But if you’re sure …’

  ‘Of course, I’m sure. Besides, you’ve already had too much to drink. I’ll bet you had whisky before dinner, and you won’t want to miss out on that nice Sauvignon Blanc you put in to chill, will you?’ Tracy grinned at him and opened the Aga door. ‘Now, go on, go. I won’t be a moment.’

  ‘I can see why she’s not your mother’s idea
of a housekeeper,’ Annie whispered, as the kitchen door swung closed behind them. ‘Far too familiar.’

  ‘Which doesn’t just breed contempt,’ Murray’s mouth twisted. ‘In her book, familiarity is contemptuous itself.’

  ‘Then I must continue to be aloof.’ Annie risked a mischievous glance up at his strong profile.

  ‘Must you?’ He turned sharply and stood still, his face just above hers in the semi darkness of the hall. Awareness crackled between them, and Annie found her breathing becoming laboured. She was so close she could see the texture of his skin and the shadows along his jaw line which in the morning he would shave away. Shave in front of his bathroom mirror, thought Annie, out of control, his chest bare, his ...

  ‘Annie?’ His voice was a breath and she moved her attention to his lips. That was a mistake, she realised, her tongue coming out to lick her own in an unconsciously seductive motion.

  ‘Murray!’

  Marion’s imperative voice cut through the erotic miasma that surrounded them and Annie jerked backwards, catching her elbow on a projecting panel. Murray dragged his eyes away and went towards the voice.

  ‘Yes, mother? Did you want something?’

  Annie followed him into the room more slowly, resentful at his apparent composure, while she felt as though she’d just gone seven rounds in the boxing ring. She resumed her seat and continued to keep her eyes down while Tracy brought in the main course, which was indeed Chicken Cordon Bleu, with baby sweetcorn and mange tout, courgette and carrot strips and tiny boiled potatoes.

  ‘I’m off, then,’ said Tracy, wiping her hands on her apron, oblivious of Marion’s evident disapproval. ‘I’ll see you in the morning as long as the weather’s OK.’

  ‘Thank you, Tracy.’ Murray stood up, waiting for her to leave the room. A gentleman, too, thought Annie grudgingly. ‘Drive safely.’

  Did it mean anything to him, she wondered, as they ate in silence. Had he felt that intangible current that flowed between them set about with all sorts of sensual possibilities? Or was he the type of man who turned every situation to his sexual advantage? She hadn’t thought so, but in the present circumstances, perhaps a little seductive softening was part of the plan, perhaps even suggested by his mother. Resolving to be more on her guard in future, she lifted her eyes and once again met his, experiencing the shock that immediately melted all good intentions.

  ‘Do you intend to live up here, Miss King?’ Marion’s voice was like an icicle splintering between them.

  ‘Er – no.’ Annie focussed confused eyes on the other woman. ‘At least, I don’t think so. I didn’t know anything about it, you see, until Murray – Mr Campbell – called in to see me last week.’

  ‘No?’ Marion’s tone was thick with disbelief. ‘How odd.’

  Annie glanced at Murray, who merely regarded her over his wine glass with a closed expression on his face.

  ‘Hardly odd,’ she responded, clearing her throat and laying down her knife and fork. ‘As you must know, my father had no contact with my – with me – at all during his lifetime. How could I know anything about him?’

  ‘You can read, presumably?’ Marion’s long fingernails beat a tattoo against her cigarette packet, and with a sharp exclamation she flicked it open and took out a cigarette. Murray leaned across and picked up her lighter in silence.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’ Annie was out of her depth and floundering.

  ‘Newspapers, Miss King, newspapers. Surely you must have seen his name?’ Marion was mocking.

  ‘No, I hadn’t, I’m sorry. Was he very well known?’

  Marion’s laugh was short and anything but amused. ‘Tell her, Murray.’

  ‘Your father was one of the shrewdest investment brokers in Europe. Within his own circles he was extremely well known, and because of his position, he frequently appeared in the media, and not only the pink pages, either.’ Murray was still watching her impassively, his voice even.

  ‘I don’t read the financial press, I’m afraid.’ Annie let slip a nervous laugh. ‘Or any papers, really.’ She clasped her hands together in her lap. Why were they both looking at her like that? She was aware of her heart thudding in her chest and heat crawling up her neck into her face. She lifted her chin and looked from one to the other.

  ‘I don’t know why you should imagine I would have heard of him, neither do I know what exactly you are accusing me of.’ Grammar, Annie, she thought, distractedly.

  ‘Why should you think we are accusing you of anything?’ Murray’s voice was soft, but the spikes had appeared again beneath the silk. Annie’s desperate eyes went from his blue chips of ice to Marion’s hooded brown stare.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Of being oversensitive, perhaps.’ Murray shrugged and twirled his wine glass between his fingers.

  ‘I would have said the reverse was true,’ snapped Marion, ignoring a warning glance from her son. ‘Hardly sensitive to try and force me out of my home with no warning, to take my …’

  ‘Mother.’ Murray placed a long hand over his mother’s restless fingers. ‘Miss King is hardly forcing you out of your home. You haven’t lived here for over 20 years. Your home is at Fallowfield with me.’

  Annie watched him, puzzled. One moment he had been ranged firmly alongside his mother, her adversary, the next he was defending her, albeit she had reverted to being Miss King again.

  ‘I never divorced Henry. As his widow, I am entitled to his estate.’ Marion spat the words across the table and Annie recoiled.

  ‘Henry never divorced you, mother,’ said Murray quietly. Marion snatched her hand away and pushed her chair away from the table, deliberately turning her back on Annie. Murray stood up and fetched an ashtray from a side table.

  ‘No dessert, mother?’

  ‘I’ll have a brandy in the study.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll join you in a moment.’ Murray returned to the table and Annie watched the chagrin and surprise on Marion’s face as she realised she had been put down. The wheelchair hissed round the table and was manoeuvred expertly through the door. Murray let out a small sigh.

  ‘Once more I apologise for my mother.’ He stood up, a forbidding expression on his face. ‘I’ll fetch the dessert.’

  ‘May I help?’ asked Annie, in a small voice, not feeling she could manage another mouthful but determined to keep calm.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He disappeared through the door and she was left alone.

  Slumping back in her chair, she contemplated the twinkling crystal goblet in front of her. What on earth was going on? First she had been accused of destroying a family, now of dispossessing a helpless widow – what next? Or was there already a next? Her gaze sharpened as she remembered the unspoken undercurrents in the recent conversation. Marion suspected her of something, she was sure, presumably of knowing about her father. But what difference would it have made whether she had known about him or not? They had never met, never corresponded, she could have had no influence over his will. She shook her head, perplexed. And Murray. She looked up as he came in bearing two glass dishes containing decorated fruit. Where did he come in and whose side was he on? At first, she would have said he was definitely his mother’s champion, but then he seemed to be aware of the unjust nature of her anger, defending Annie against her attacks. She looked at the spun sugar cobwebs over the kiwi fruit flowers in her dish and frowned. And he had definitely been flirting with her, although anything further from flirting in Annie’s book would have been hard to find. It was more like spontaneous combustion, but maybe it was just her going up like a rocket, while he was merely a practised seducer.

  ‘Annie?’ His voice broke across her thoughts and she sent a strand of sugar flying on to the table.

  ‘Yes?’ She picked up the sugar and placed it carefully on her side plate, keeping her eyes down.

  ‘I’m sorry you have been subjected to …’ he gestured towards his mother’s empty place. ‘I wish things could have been more ci
vilised.’

  ‘Family in-fighting over wills is never civilised.’ Annie was quoting Martin Humphrey.

  ‘And we are hardly a family.’ He reached across and lifted her chin with a long finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘I wish things could have been different.’

  ‘More comfortable, anyway.’ Annie laughed nervously, twisting her head away.

  ‘That too.’ He was silent watching her, neither of them touching the elaborately prepared concoction that Tracy had left them. ‘Would you like cheese?’

  ‘No, thank you. Just coffee.’ She pushed her chair away from the table. ‘What do we do about clearing up? Shall I go and load the dishwasher?’

  ‘Commendable though the offer is, my mother is paying Tracy to do that, so we will let Tracy do it – in the morning.’ He stood up and held out his hand.

  Hesitating, she said ‘But I can’t just leave it all here. Let me take it in to the kitchen.’

  He laughed and pulled her to her feet, sending little electric shocks all the way down her arm from her hand. ‘Highly commendable,’ he repeated. ‘Very well, clear the table – but do it after the coffee. You might need displacement activity.’

  I do now, thought Annie, detaching herself and making for the door, or I might just throw myself into your arms and beg you to make love to me. Shocked by her wayward thoughts, she entered the study with more force than she intended, the door springing back out of her hand and hitting the panelling. Marion spun round in her wheelchair, her expression furious.

  ‘Just because you think it’s yours, don’t wreck the place,’ she screamed. Horrified, Annie stepped back and cannoned into Murray, whose hands came up to steady her, warm on her shoulders.