‘I live almost on the Hertfordshire border,’ said Annie, eyebrows shooting up in further surprise.
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Anyway, when we moved there, my father began entertaining more business associates, one of whom was your father. He was a charming man and we all liked him, my mother, obviously, more than my father and I did.’ He was silent for a moment, gazing down the years. When he resumed his expression had become closed. ‘I don’t think Henry was aware of my mother’s feelings. I think she forced him to become aware of them and he didn’t know what hit him.’ Murray took a deep breath and sat up straight. Annie’s heart went out to him. ‘He came to see my father after Marion left.’
‘What for?’ prompted Annie, when he seemed inclined not to continue.
‘To apologise, I gathered later.’ Murray shook his head. ‘My father never told me, but divorced Marion very quietly and continued to regard Henry as a friend, although he never saw Marion again.’
‘So your father didn’t blame mine for breaking up his marriage?’
‘No. He blamed my mother.’
‘But in the letter my father left he said she had set up home with you after – well, after the episode with my mother.’
‘Not quite. One of the reasons Henry had been a frequent visitor in Hertfordshire was that he had a house near ours. Marion left him there and came up here to Tallon House where she enjoyed playing the lady of the manor. If he wanted to come up here, she would move in to the Hertfordshire house. It was only after her accident that she came to me.’
‘So you were grown up by that time?’ Annie was fascinated in spite of herself. ‘But what about your father?’
‘I was living at Fallowfield by then while my father lived in Hertfordshire. He encouraged me to take Marion in for Henry’s sake.’ Murray watched her to see how she would take this unexpected information.
‘For Henry’s sake?’ Annie gasped. ‘Do you mean to say he was on Henry’s side?’
Murray regarded her wryly. ‘So surprised? So was everybody else.’
‘Well. Henry had taken his wife and then cheated on her! How could he be on his side?’
‘That’s what you think of your father, is it?’ Murray lifted an eyebrow.
‘Well, he hardly presented himself to my mother and me as a principled individual, did he?’
Murray shrugged. ‘That I only have your word for. But my father knew him very well.’
‘So you’re on Henry’s side, too?’ Annie put down her cup and regarded him balefully.
‘I’m not on anyone’s side,’ Murray pointed out forcefully. ‘I know a little more about the situation than you do and I’m trying to find out the truth.’
‘The truth about what? My father leaving the house to me?’ Annie was getting angry now, ignoring the increasingly persistent headache. ‘According to you he was a decent sort who would try to make up for not helping us before. Doesn’t that strike you as normal behaviour for him?’
‘Not entirely, no.’ Murray held her fiery brown gaze with his own cool blue one. ‘There are other aspects of which you know nothing.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘Not yet. I have to be sure of the facts first.’
‘And how do you find out? Are they to do with me? Is that it?’
‘Partly. Now, don’t get upset,’ he leaned forward as her face became suffused with angry colour and took the clenched fists in his own hands. ‘I’ve told you this much because you asked about your father and I thought you might get yourself into a state if I refused to say anything. I certainly don’t want you upsetting yourself over what I have told you.’
Annie stared at him, absorbing the feel of his hands through her skin, feeling the prickling awareness all over her body as his thumb began stroking her tense fingers. She saw the expression change in his eyes and his almost imperceptible leaning towards her and caught her breath. Fleetingly, time hung suspended, and then he sat back and relinquished her hands.
‘I’ll leave you to finish your tea.’ He stood up, back behind his impenetrable wall. ‘I’ve done my best with your casserole. Will you have some on a tray?’
‘Couldn’t I come down?’ She strove to keep her voice normal.
‘See how you feel. It should be ready about 7.30.’ He went to the door.
‘Murray?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for being so kind. I hate having to put you to so much trouble.’
‘It’s my responsibility, isn’t it?’ he muttered and left, shutting the door with a snap.
Annie stared at the closed door for a long time after he’d gone. His responsibility? Because she was a guest? But she wasn’t, strictly speaking, a guest, was she? She shifted in the bed restlessly. She was more confused than ever, now. She had taken his dislike of her father for granted, assuming that he took his mother’s part, yet now that seemed to be in doubt. But in that case, she asked herself, why had he come after her in the first place? Her head was beginning to throb in earnest now, and she looked for the painkillers Dr Graham had given her. As she uncapped the bottle and shook two out into her hand, she remembered the conversation she had overheard between Murray and his mother last night. That had seemed to indicate they were, if not in league against her, at least on the same side, yet Murray had given the distinct impression that he was strictly neutral. If anything, she thought, his sympathies lay with Henry, rather than with Henry’s daughter or his wife.
As to Murray’s personal reaction to her, Annie was still totally in the dark. The realisation that had come to her that morning of just how much she cared for him, she had accepted with resignation, but his attitude to her was far more difficult to read. On the one hand, she could have been almost certain that he was physically attracted to her, remembering with a shiver the uncontrolled passion which had flared between them earlier, yet part of her still believed he was using her own attraction as a means of manipulating her. She lay back against the pillows with a sigh, wishing desperately she had not been so ignominiously prevented from leaving.
By seven she was up and dressed, gloomily surveying her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She had applied more make up than normal and had gingerly brushed out her plait, taking care not to touch the dressing applied by Dr Graham, which adhered more to her hair than her scalp. She wound the matted hair into a loose coil which she attached carefully over the wound to hide it and pulled a face at herself. Why anybody should find her attractive looking like this she couldn’t imagine, and especially not a man like Murray. Her unremarkable face was pale, her large brown eyes clouded, deep shadows lurking beneath them. She had no choice but to wear the skirt she had worn yesterday, her jeans being somewhat the worse for wear after her fall. Oh, well, she thought, I’ll be home tomorrow, whatever Dr Graham says about travelling. She knew she couldn’t face another day here, wondering if Marion really had attempted to cause her harm and if Murray was aware of it. More than that, she couldn’t face any more time in Murray’s company, aware of how hopeless the situation was.
The small drawing room door was ajar when she reached the hall and she paused outside wondering whether to go in or go to the kitchen.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the invalid.’
Annie hadn’t heard the wheelchair and whirled round, causing her head to thump alarmingly. Marion sat a few yards away, squinting at her through cigarette smoke.
‘And how are you feeling?’ She surveyed Annie dispassionately. ‘You don’t look too good.’
‘I’m much better.’ Annie refused to be drawn. ‘I was wondering if I could help with dinner.’
Marion made an impatient gesture. ‘Oh, Murray’s got it all under control. He’s been fussing in the kitchen for hours.’ She shrugged. ‘Rather him than me.’
‘I’ll go and find him then.’ Annie started off down the corridor.
‘Don’t get any ideas in that direction, will you, Henry’s daughter?’ Marion’s brittle voice stopped her in her tracks.
�
��What?’ She turned round to see the other woman silhouetted in the light from the drawing room door, her expression triumphant.
‘There. I was right. You do fancy him, don’t you?’ She laughed. ‘He’s always got women falling all over him, my Murray. But he’s sensible, doesn’t want to get married. Besides,’ her expression became petulant, ‘What would I do without him?’
Annie watched her, horrified. My God, she thought. Poor Murray!
‘Still, you go and help him in the kitchen,’ Marion continued. ‘Tell him to come and have a drink with me. You can finish the dinner.’
Rage began to simmer in Annie and she had to turn away and walk as quickly as possible down the hall before she was betrayed into telling this awful woman exactly what she thought of her.
‘Annie.’ Murray was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass in his hand, a book in front of him. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ Annie tried to control her rapid breathing and pin a smile on her face. ‘I’m feeling much better. I came to see if I could help.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have.’ He stood up. ‘Do you think you’d be allowed a drink?’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Annie recklessly. ‘I’d love a glass of wine.’
He looked at her for a moment, then fetched a bottle from the fridge and a corkscrew from the table drawer.
‘Sit down. Dinner won’t be long. I’m just waiting for the potatoes.’ He withdrew the cork carefully.
Annie sat on the other side of the table. ‘I’d no idea you would be so domesticated,’ she commented.
‘Why ever not?’ He was amused. ‘Did Marion’s comments about the help make you think I was used to being waited on?’
Mention of Marion caused Annie’s face to darken and Murray immediately stopped in the act of pouring her wine.
‘What’s the matter?’ His voice was sharp. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
Annie looked up at him. ‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘She suggested I might finish the dinner and you could go and have a drink with her.’
‘Oh, is that all.’ The relief in Murray’s voice was palpable.
‘All?’ Annie gasped. ‘You’re as bad as she is.’
‘I didn’t say she was right.’ He was amused, handing her the wine.
‘Then what did you mean?’ Annie took a sip of wine before looking him in the eye. ‘What were you afraid she’d say?’
The silence lengthened as she held his gaze, the blue eyes hardening into ice before he spoke.
‘And what, exactly, do you mean by that?’ he asked softly.
Annie was conscious of the accelerated beat of her heart and betraying warmth creeping up her neck.
‘You were worried about what she’d said to me. Why? What mustn’t she say? What is it that she mustn’t give away?’ She gripped her hands together under the table.
Murray looked at her without expression and sat down. ‘What are you imagining now, little Miss Prickly? Could it be you think you were deliberately pushed this morning? An attempt on your life? Is that it?’
Chapter Six
Annie stared at him, her eyes wide, as the air hummed around them. His words seemed to echo over and over again, sounding more and more ridiculous.
‘Well?’ He picked up his own glass and lifted it to her mockingly. ‘Is that what you thought?’
Annie’s colour flared brightly into her cheeks. ‘No, of course not,’ she muttered with as much conviction as she could muster, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.
‘Then what’s your problem? Why are you so suspicious?’
She looked across at him, leaning back at his ease in the Windsor chair. He had changed the charcoal sweater for a loose pale denim shirt, open at the neck, which echoed the colour of his eyes, throwing the strong planes of his face into sharp relief. A sudden ache gripped her at his sheer male beauty and she found herself unable to say a word. She wanted to scream at him: why are you so suspicious of me? but she couldn’t. She just sat there and at last, he shrugged and put his glass down, stood up and went to the Aga, where he prodded the potatoes with a fork and announced that dinner was ready. It broke the spell.
‘Can I help you carry it in?’ She pushed back her chair and stood up on shaky legs.
He turned round, fork in hand and grinned. ‘Carry it where? We’re eating in here.’
‘Oh.’ She looked round, half expecting to see Marion’s wheelchair materialise in front of her.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘I’ll take my mother’s in on a tray.’ He nodded towards the big oak dresser where a tray was laid ready. ‘That would have been yours if you’d stayed upstairs.’
‘And would your mother have eaten in here with you in that case?’ She couldn’t keep the bite out of her voice, try as she might.
‘No, I would have eaten with her in the dining room.’ He smiled as though their previous animosity had never occurred. ‘This is much more ... cosy, would you say?’
‘Much.’
Annie regarded him, puzzled. How could he behave as though nothing had happened? Her own head was still singing with the reverberations of accusation and counter accusation and she felt resentful that it meant so little to him. Did anything touch this man, she wondered, was there anything that could get through to him, or anyone? Sighing, she pulled open the drawer in the table and found cutlery and cork mats.
He served her from the big blue casserole dish when he returned from taking in Marion’s tray. Smiling, she removed a large bay leaf and a little muslin bag to the side of her plate.
‘Damn!’ He scooped them up in the serving spoon and bore them off, dripping, to the waste bin. ‘I did my best.’
‘You certainly did.’ Annie sniffed appreciatively. ‘It smells delicious.’ She helped herself to potatoes and waited for him to sit down.
‘Cheers.’ He pulled his glass towards him and took a sip. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’
Annie picked up her own glass. ‘I’m sure I shall. Thank you.’
They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Murray began to ask her about her business. He was surprisingly knowledgeable and gradually put her at her ease enough to do justice to the food to the extent that she actually accepted a second helping. Their small talk ebbed and flowed, and if neither of them were actually concentrating wholly on their conversation, neither of them allowed it to show. At last she sat back, replete and he leaned across and refilled first her wine glass, then his own, raising it towards her.
‘Here’s to a better understanding.’ He sipped, watching her.
Slowly, she lifted hers, her eyes locking with his, and feeling a pull as if they were attached by an invisible thread. Stop it, she scoffed silently to herself. You’re becoming positively maudlin.
‘Can I make you some coffee?’ She stood up quickly, breaking the contact.
Murray grinned wickedly. ‘Sure?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ Annie was puzzled.
‘Sure you want to prolong the evening, I mean?’
‘Oh.’ Annie was beginning to get used to the way he could wrong foot her every time.
‘I’d love coffee. I’ll clear this lot away while you start it.’
Annie went to the dresser where she had seen a cafetiere, then rummaged in cupboards until she found ground coffee. All the time she was aware of Murray behind her, clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, leaving the room and coming back with his mother’s tray.
‘I’ll take my mother a cup of coffee when it’s ready.’ He spoke so close behind her that she made a hurried and uncontrolled movement and spilt ground coffee all over the counter.
‘Damn!’ she gritted, stepping back in annoyance.
‘Brush and dustpan?’ Murray moved at just the wrong moment and they collided. Jumping as if she had been stung, Annie turned, as he did, and found herself up against his soft denim shirt, feeling the seductive warmth from the brown skin at the open neck. She made an inartic
ulate sound in her throat and tried to step back, coming into sharp contact with the counter as did so.
‘Annie …’ Murray’s voice was soft, his steadying hands on her arms. She looked up and then wished she hadn’t. The blue eyes were intense, almost level with hers, and of their own volition her eyes dropped to his mouth, which seemed strangely closer. She knew he was going to kiss her, just as she knew this time it wasn’t in anger, but somehow a culmination of all the tension that had eddied around them all evening, ensnaring them in an unreal web of anticipation – anticipation for this very moment.
When his lips touched hers, she felt all the fight go out of her and knew that the tension they had felt all evening was sexual tension, knew that if he pressed his advantage now she would be his for the taking. And knew without doubt that he knew it too, and, as his tongue delicately explored her mouth inciting a fervent response somewhere deep inside, that he would use it to his own benefit without a thought.
Somehow, she found the strength to pull away and slide sideways away from him, breathing rather fast.
‘Am I supposed to say I’m sorry?’ She was glad to hear his voice was a little husky and breathless, so he hadn’t been as unaffected as she had feared.
‘No – of course not.’ She tried to sound bright. ‘One of those things.’ She pushed past him to find the brush and dustpan, wondering if she could renege on the coffee.
‘One of those things?’ He followed her. ‘Annie?’
She didn’t look at him. ‘Well, it was wasn’t it? We don’t even like one another.’
‘So why have I kissed you twice?’ He grabbed her arm and forced her round to look at him, his blue eyes hard as steel now.
‘Automatic response?’ she hazarded, and was rewarded with a curse that made her wince.
‘You take the biscuit, Annie, you really do.’ He flung her arm away and stalked to the door. ‘And I thought we’d begun to make a breakthrough.’
Annie stood watching him in silence. He stopped at the door and turned, pushing a hand through the dark hair and leaving it dishevelled.
‘Goodnight, Annie. I’m sorry if I offended you yet again.’ He opened the door and looked back at her. ‘I’ll try and do better in future.’
A Will to Love Page 8
