by Margaret Way
“Why doesn’t he leave?” Bruno asked. “He’s obviously not tied to the land. He acts more like a grown-up kid. I fully expected him to stamp his foot or chuck something at me. Surely he needs some life. He must have a dream. Where are the girlfriends?”
“Maybe he’s got one and we haven’t seen her? He’s handsome enough.”
“You’ve been keeping your eye on him?” Bruno regarded her with a mocking expression.
“For heaven’s sake. I feel sorry for him, if you want to know.”
“Compassion is a strength,” Bruno remarked, liking that quality in her.
“Kurt has all the makings to be handsome, but there’s something missing,” Isabelle considered. “He’s a couple of years older than I am, yet he seems immature. All in all, we’ve got off to a very dismal start.”
“What else? Isn’t it what we expected? Erik doesn’t appear to want the mystery of Helena’s disappearance and supposed death solved. How unbelievable is that?”
“I’d say they’ve all had a lot of practise forgetting Helena.”
“Kurt, of course, is hanging in there for the money. I can check how much the family is worth.”
“Who cares?” Isabelle exclaimed. “Go on. You want to say something.”
“You already know what I want to say. If you turned out to be Helena’s daughter, you would have the stronger claim.”
“When Erik Hartmann clearly doesn’t want me in the picture. That’s a complete aberration for a possible grandfather. What is he up to, claiming he had word of Helena’s death in the U.K.? Who told him? And very recently . . .” She stopped, uncertain.
“You’re thinking Hilary?”
“I can’t rule out the possibility. I was born in a London maternity hospital. Was Helena in the same ward?”
“God knows! From what I saw of Hilary, she’s the sort of woman who could come up with solutions to hers and other women’s problems. What if Helena were in no position to keep her baby? Alone, frightened, traumatized, without money. What if Hilary lost her baby? Was there a swap?”
“No, no, no!” Isabelle shook her head. “I can’t believe that. I won’t believe it. What I can believe is Hilary might have contacted Erik with some information she had.”
“Then why didn’t he do what everyone else would do? Inform his family.”
“Hilary told me she’d made enquiries about the Hartmanns from some influential friend. But to say Hilary and Erik Hartmann had made contact would be to take a massive quantum leap.”
“Here’s another leap: Erik could have staged his wife’s accident. He could have spent time working it all out.”
“A theory without proof. We will never know.”
“Then Christian gets accidentally shot.”
“One suspicious death is hard enough to cover up. But two? Two is a pattern. The police would be all over it, Bruno.”
“They would need hard evidence. Suspicion is not enough. This house is talking to me, Bella. This room. Christian’s room. This is no ordinary family. No ordinary house. Secrets are imbedded in the walls. Couldn’t Christian have fallen in love with his sister-in-law? Yearned for her?”
“What about his wife?”
“She could have been very stout.”
“Be serious,” Isabelle said, knowing he was trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Why don’t we hear a thing about her? It’s as though she never existed. It’s all Myra, Myra, Myra. What about the wife, Abigail? She bore Christian a son, Stefan.”
Bruno was struck by a moment’s sadness. He would always miss his father. He would always feel anger over the way his dad had died. “Dad would have checked her out,” he said. “He described her as a pretty woman, reserved in manner but perfectly pleasant when they met. I have to double-check this, but Dad thought there had to be a lot of repressed emotions there.”
“Nothing strange about that!” Isabelle blew out a breath. “If Christian had fallen in love with his sister-in-law, Abigail would have known about it. He wouldn’t have been able to conceal it. His every glance would have given him away.”
Bruno couldn’t ignore that piece of insight. “Christian may well have loved his wife. He married her. Had two children by her. There are all degrees of loving. Myra may have seduced him and he surrendered gladly. A sort of love, if you like. They would have had plenty of secluded places they could go to be alone.”
“What! Behind the spinifex bushes?” Isabelle asked facetiously. “So Erik finds out and decides they must die. Abigail might even have alerted him to what was going on right before his eyes. She could have been horrendously jealous, not accepting at all. Who knows if Helena were Christian’s daughter? Maybe that’s why Erik doesn’t want any DNA testing. They can tell these days, can’t they, who the father is even within families?”
Bruno nodded. “Stefan is willing to give us a sample.”
“What, a mouth swab? How do we go about it? How do we store it?”
“One thing at a time.”
“Okay, Doc! You realize Stefan could be ignorant of so many things that went on. We should ask him about his mother. She could easily be alive and living elsewhere. All the women took off. Erik would be a fearsome man if he found out he’d been cuckolded. Why did he invite us here? Does he propose to kill me too? We have been poking our toes into pretty murky waters.”
“He might be a devil, Bella, but he’s not a fool. It will all come out now. Either you’re one of the Hartmanns or you’re Hilary’s baby, as Norville claims. The facts will come out.”
“I hope so. We have nothing really to go on but my extraordinary resemblance to Helena Hartmann and her mother.”
“Isn’t that enough? Your appearance has lit the fuse. It’s put them all in a panic.”
“We’re so close,” she agonized.
“Yes, we are. Think you can sleep now?”
“Sure, with one eye open.”
Bruno laughed. “I’ll wait until you’re ready for bed. Hang on, I’ll go get a book. Lovers never seem to throw away their love letters. Who knows? I might find a stack hidden away in Christian’s retreat from the world.”
“Surely he shared a room with his wife?” said Isabelle as she slid off the bed. “There would have been an adjoining room for their child.”
“This was his retreat, Bella. Here it was far easier to be left alone. Christian and his wife may have had the East Wing. We can ask Stefan. Did his mother, Abigail, leave her husband for most of the time, like his own wife spends most of her time in the city with their daughter?”
“I wish we’d stayed out of it, Bruno.”
“We need to find out who you are. We need to find out the truth.”
“Sounds so noble, doesn’t it, finding out the truth? But bad things can happen to people trying to find out the truth.”
“Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Bella.”
Her green eyes locked on his. “You say that with such surety . . .”
“It would have to be over my dead body. And that’s not going to happen.”
She sighed deeply. “Go get your book, Sir Lancelot. Or is that Sir Galahad? I seem to remember Galahad was Lancelot’s illegitimate son.”
“God, I have a lot to learn to catch up with you,” Bruno said, making for the door.
“The more I think about it, it’s Sir Lancelot. Anyway, you’re elected.”
Chapter Six
It might look desperately uncomfortable, but Isabelle found as she bounced up and down in her white cotton and lace nightie, the Chinese bed was well upholstered with an excellent mattress. Thank God for that!
She knew wall sconces along the high-ceilinged corridor were burning, but no light reached under the heavy mahogany door. She looked around the large room for ghosts. There were none. Bruno was right across the corridor, yet she wanted him to be closer. She would have no hesitation banging on his door should some creaks in the night frighten her. Though all old houses creaked, didn’t they? Bruno’s rock-solid presence made her feel
safe. Yet she was reluctant to close her eyes, much less fall asleep.
Again and again, old memories of her childhood threatened to overcome her. Norville believed Hilary to be her mother. She now didn’t. But what did Norville actually know? Hilary led him around by the nose. Had Hilary lost her child and somehow persuaded Helena to hand her baby over? Her heart ached for all the young women who had been forced to do so all down the centuries. Nothing much seemed to change.
“Oh God!” she muttered, winding her arms around herself. “Don’t worry about things you can’t alter. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.” It had been a very long, upsetting day, with the promise of a worse one on the morrow.
She had pulled back the floor-length silk curtains, letting the bright moonlight and the night-sky stars shine in. She hadn’t felt brave enough to open up the French doors. The wind was tapping at the panes of glass and creeping under the gaps between doors and floor. A lovely, subtle fragrance rose from the freshly laundered sheets and pillow slips. She could identify the fragrance. Boronia. By the light of the moon, she could see the elaborately carved white marble fireplace with a luxuriant green fern filling the interior space. She knew the high temperatures of the day could drop dramatically at night as the desert sands gave up their heat.
She closed her eyes, clutching the top sheet tight. She wasn’t afraid of the dark. Well, not until now anyway.
* * *
She couldn’t open her eyes or find her breath. Where was she? She threw out an arm and hit hard, glossy timber. “Damn!” Her fingers were poking through holes. Of course: the fretwork on the Chinese bed.
She opened her eyes as memory flooded back. The white moonlight that had rayed across the room before she had fallen into an uneasy sleep had dimmed. She had been dreaming. Hilary and Helena were in her dream. Both of them sunk in sadness. Mother and daughter. She wanted to get out of that dream. It was too distressing.
Fully awake, she became aware of a sound. Surely that sound had been in her dream? It was a soft moaning, extremely unsettling. She sat up in the Chinese bed, struggling to get her bearings. Surely the previous owner of this room could mean her no harm? Her plait had come loose. Her hair was spilling all over the place. The moaning continued apace. It was like a grieving in the partially relieved blackness.
Have to get out of here.
She kicked off the covers, thrashing her long legs. She needed to find her feet as quickly as she could. She was shivering, feeling a little faint.
Get a grip on yourself.
Why the hell didn’t she have her flashlight? She had brought one with her. Reaching for her white robe, thankful it glimmered in the semidark, she shouldered into it. The moaning held a faint vibrato. It continued, shifting pitch. Close to a demisemi tone. She knew the sound of the wind. The wind had dropped.
Oh, oh, oh, I have to get out of here.
She made a rush for the door, not stopping to turn on the lights, throwing the door open, before running on bare feet across to the Turkish Room, where no doubt Bruno had fallen fast asleep the minute his head hit one of those cushions. She had to wake him; it couldn’t be helped. She wanted Bruno as witness to the moaning sound. She hadn’t conjured it up. The sound had played around the room, joltingly ghostly. Was it such a terrible thing to feel frightened in a vast, strange house full of strange people? Even Hilary might have a fit of nerves.
Bruno’s door was open, which made it easy for her to run inside. She was feeling her way, yet something touched her cheek. She nearly screeched aloud in panic.
Damn, it was only a wall hanging. The bloody things were everywhere.
She could see Bruno’s lean body at rest. Here she was with goose bumps breaking out on her arms and he was fast asleep. Thank God he didn’t snore. She ran at him as if he were the only person in the world capable of saving her from falling off it.
He was lying with his bare back to her, his skin so smooth and golden. She wanted to jump in beside him. Instead, she grabbed at his shoulder with cold fingers, intending to shake him and tell him to wake up, when she was suddenly seized by strong arms, thrown over the top of him, bent back against the bed, all squished up against his side. For a second it was so wildly exciting she didn’t want to move. From cold she went to hot and dreamy in an instant. She wanted Bruno’s weight, the wonderful muscular density pressing down on her. She wanted to do what she had never done before. Raise her legs, lock them around him. Raise her hips. She had to face it. She wanted Bruno to make love to her.
Bruno, however, had other ideas. He shot up, leaning over her, poised on one elbow. “God Almighty, Bella, what are you doing here?” For a moment, he didn’t know if she was real or a figment of his imagination. Only he had clamped her willowy body with his hands. His fingertips had brushed her white breasts, grazed the flowering coral-pink buds of her nipples.
“What am I doing?” she cried, spitting like a kitten. “I don’t believe this. What are you doing? I was only trying to wake you. It was you who hauled me into the bed.” She tried to sit up. He lifted her in an iron grip.
“Bella, my bed is private,” he said.
“You’re not making a joke of this surely?” She knew she sounded overexcited.
He took a very deep breath. “Of course I’m not.” In the semidarkness, he stood up and moved away from the bed. He couldn’t stay a second more beside her. The obvious was obvious. Just holding her, he was fully aroused. He reached for his robe, thankful he had pulled it out of his suitcase.
Isabelle began to inch across the uncomfortable bed. “All right, you’re so tough. Let’s put it to the test. There’s a weird sound sailing around my room. It sounds like a grief-stricken moan.”
“Bella!”
“Don’t Bella me.” She pressed her two hands over her heart as though holding it in. “Come and have a listen.”
“I hope you’re not trying to seduce me?” He half-laughed, only it wasn’t a laugh at all.
She picked up a heavy cushion and threw it at him, which of course he fielded. Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere she wanted to cry. Longings and desires. She had them. Why else would she want to cry? Only what possible good could come of that?
“You’re not crying, are you, Bella?” Control was slipping out of his fingers. He knew there would be danger in comforting her.
“Are you going crazy? Of course I’m not crying.” She denied the charge, astonished that she was. Tears were trickling down her cheeks.
“Damn it, you are. Don’t cry, Bella. Please, please don’t cry.”
The anguish in his voice made her heart leap right into her throat. He actually sounded as if she was breaking his heart. She touched a forefinger to one cheek, then the other, flicking away the beads. “You really should come and listen to this,” she said huskily. “It’s not night terrors, I swear.” She went to move past him but accidentally stumbled over one of the many objects lying on the rug.
To prevent her falling, Bruno had to make a grab for her. There was nothing else he could do.
It was ecstasy.
Agony too. He was nearly breaking up. He knew if he started kissing her, which he desperately wanted to do, he would be very harshly judged. By himself and whoever was up there. That was his religious upbringing, started by his mother, who had conveniently left her religious scruples behind. Isabelle was in his care and protection. He was determined to be the good guy to the end. All this wasn’t helping one little bit. Especially in the adrenaline rush of the dark. Temptation that had been there right from that very first night but kept seriously in check was getting stronger with every passing hour. When had he ever wanted to kiss a woman and hadn’t? This was a first. Bella was a first. He was treating her like a princess.
Her glorious hair was falling all around her face and down her back. Her body come warmly against him seemed barely covered when she was wearing a long white nightdress and a robe, half-slipping off her shoulders. It would be so easy to slide it the rest of the way. She had a natural, very speci
al scent. That scent was on him. The scent was everywhere, like a powerful aphrodisiac. All he had to do was pull her in by her supple waist. Let what was going to happen, happen. He had to remind himself a beautiful woman could break a man into a million little pieces.
“Bruno,” Isabelle whispered. “Are you going to let me go?” It was the last thing she wanted, but she had to gather all her strength. How strange yet how familiar they were to each other, she thought. This wasn’t any casual fling. What was it? They were actually treating one another with kid gloves. Bruno, without knowing it, had become her centre. It was a secret she couldn’t confide. Marta Lubrinski might shoot her.
Bruno’s heart was tolling heavy beats. He could feel the heaviness in his groin. “You should have put on a light,” he said, deciding the best course was to admonish her. It was safer.
“If I could find one. Gosh, there are a lot of things in here.” She clasped his hand, urging him to follow her. “Come and listen.”
“I’m coming.” He had noted the time: 3 a.m. The witching hour, deep in the night. An hour for lovemaking with all the senses raging. God knows he was in the mood, but he didn’t fancy being sent straight to hell. He just had to put up with the ache in his heart, in his head, in his groin.
“Don’t turn on the light,” she warned as he put out a hand. “Come right in. Keep quiet.”
“Bella, I’m getting a little too old for this,” he protested.
“I said keep quiet.”
The bright moonlight had dimmed, but he could see all the fine details of this extraordinary and undeniably spooky room. It was difficult to pay attention to anything but Isabella. He thought he might even be deaf to the most beautiful music or it would surge through his whole being, washing away all his good intentions. As it was, he could hear nothing but the hammering of his heart. Anyone would be susceptible to the atmosphere in this house. He was himself. Isabella, with her exquisite sensibilities, even more so.
Nothing. His teeth were actually locked together in concentration. He couldn’t hear a peep, let alone a moan. “I think our ghost has cleared out,” he joked. He wanted to reach for her. Say it was only the sound of the wind whistling around the huge house. He wanted to offer comfort. He could love Bella, his heart told him. It was a very worrying thought.
