Stranger from the Past & Proof of Their Sin

by Penny Jordan

  Without stopping what she was doing, she told him curtly, ‘It doesn’t matter. I should have thrown it out years ago.’

  She heard the door close but didn’t turn her head to watch him walk away from her…perhaps for the last time…didn’t stop her ritualistic, almost compulsive sweeping of the floor until she had heard his car start and was sure he had gone.

  Then and only then did she drop the brush and get down on her hands and knees, slowly picking up every last piece of broken china, her tears mingling with the mess on the floor as she placed each piece on the table.

  Hopeless to ever imagine it could be repaired. It couldn’t. Just like her broken heart.

  Stop being so melodramatic, she told herself fiercely, and for goodness’ sake go upstairs and wash your face, you idiot.

  Leaving the china, she did so, grimacing as she studied her tear-blotched reflection in her bathroom mirror.

  Because the water was running and because the house was old, with sturdy stone-built walls, she didn’t hear the kitchen door open as Gareth walked back in.

  He stopped short, staring at the carefully placed pieces of china on the table, and then walked over to them, studying them, touching them.

  A tender, rueful expression softened his face. He touched one shard thoughtfully, and then glanced towards the open inner door.

  He had come back on impulse, driven by a need he didn’t like to admit even now after all these years, an excuse for his return ready.

  But now…

  But now he needed time to think…to assess, to try perhaps to convince himself that it was foolish and extremely dangerous to allow himself to become so buoyed up by hope simply because of a few broken pieces of china.

  All these years and nothing had changed. All these years of wanting…of hoping…of hearing from his grandfather only things he had not wanted to hear. And then to come back and find that there was no one in her life who… All right, so last night had been a mistake. He had let his heart rule his head, had given in to his own needs, his own yearnings…but perhaps after all the situation was not as irredeemable as he had feared…

  A woman who would carefully sift through the mess presently adorning Sybilla’s kitchen floor just to rescue the broken shards of a piece of china, that at best couldn’t be worth more than a pound or so, couldn’t be entirely indifferent to its giver…could she?

  ‘Quit while you’re ahead,’ he urged himself as he heard a sound from upstairs, quietly reopening the door and letting himself out, but not before he had extracted one of the largest pieces of the broken jar and taken it with him.

  When Sybilla came back downstairs she had the oddest feeling that someone had been in the house, and yet she couldn’t understand why.

  Shrugging, she finished cleaning up the mess on the floor, telling herself miserably that now not even the delights of Georgette Heyer would be sufficient to lighten her despair.

  By Saturday teatime, sick of her own company and the unhappiness of her thoughts, which seemed to have created an atmosphere that hung over the house and her like a miasma of misery, she rang her mother and invited herself round to spend a few days with her parents.

  Belinda, when she telephoned her later to warn her that she would not be in the office until the middle of the week, assured her that she could manage and told her that she was relieved that she was at last behaving sensibly and putting her health before the business.

  An hour later, as she drove past the closed gates to the Cedars, she tried not to look in the direction of the house even though she knew from experience that it was impossible to tell whether or not a car was parked outside because of the banks of rhododendrons lining the drive.

  Just the act of driving past the house was enough to increase her pulse-rate, to make her heart thud more heavily, and why? Just because Gareth was living there again—that was why.

  One thing was becoming increasingly clear to her and that was that if Gareth did intend to take on the responsibility of the family business and stay in the area then she would have to move away—for the sake of her sanity if for nothing else.

  What she hadn’t decided was how on earth she was going to break this news to Belinda, what excuse she was going to use to explain why she was turning her back on all the years of hard work involved in setting up the business, and to do what?

  Chewing on her bottom lip, she wondered if she had the acting ability, the sheer strength of will to convince her friends and her family that the time had come for a change…but a change to what? She could perhaps pretend that she wanted to be closer to her family, that she was thinking of establishing a new branch of the business close to them, but since they lived less than half a day’s drive away that seemed hardly feasible. So what excuse could she give? Perhaps to Belinda she could bring herself to admit the truth and tell her the real reason she had to leave the area. Belinda would understand…would sympathise…but… She shook her head tiredly and scolded herself for not concentrating on her driving. Her reactions were far from being acute at the moment and this road, like all modern busy roads, would be extremely hazardous for the unwary driver.

  She reached her parents’ home just in time for supper, after which she was speedily dispatched to bed by her mother, who insisted on providing her with a soothing hot-water bottle and what looked suspiciously like her old teddy bear, plus a hot lemon drink which, Sybilla ruefully admitted, tasted far better than her own concoction.

  ‘Try to get some sleep, darling,’ her mother begged her. ‘You look dreadfully worn down and far too thin. Something else isn’t bothering you, is it? The business?’

  ‘The business is doing fine, Mum,’ Sybilla assured her, relieved to seize on this and so avoid the necessity of a direct lie. ‘Mm. I do feel rather sleepy,’ she added less truthfully.

  Sighing faintly, her mother took the hint and stood up, pausing by the door before opening it and switching off the light. There was something, she knew it, as surely as she knew that pressing Sybilla to confide in her would achieve nothing. That was the trouble with grown-up children: one still worried as much about them as one had done when they were small, but once they were adult their sorrows and pains could no longer be soothed by a loving hug and a kiss.

  No, whatever was bothering Sybilla was obviously something she preferred to deal with on her own. But, whatever it was, it must be serious…very serious for her to come home like this. Normally she was so independent, stubbornly so at times. Even as a teenager, when she had been going through that adolescent crush on Gareth…

  Sybilla’s mother paused thoughtfully on the stairs for a moment before going down them to rejoin her husband in an extremely sober and anxious frame of mind.

  In the end, Sybilla spent three days with her parents, giving in to her mother’s cosseting and to the boisterous visits of her brother’s children, letting herself sink down into the comforting feather-softness of her family’s love, deliberately blocking out each and every thought of Gareth that tried to torment her.

  Here at least there were no memories of him…no fears that she would turn a corner and come face to face with him. Here at least she was safe from the past with all its tormenting memories and from the future, which had begun to haunt her with its spectre of all the loneliness that lay ahead for her.

  One day Gareth would marry, she was sure of that, and when he did… She gave a tiny shudder, ignoring the imperious frown on her eldest nephew’s face as she stopped reading from the book she was holding.

  How was she going to live with that…with the reality of his marriage…his wife…his family… his happiness…while she…? She gave another tense shudder, causing Jack’s frown to change to a sudden quick anxiety as he reached out to her and asked, ‘Aunt Syb, are you all right?’

  The anxiety in the small voice drew Sybilla’s attention to his face. Conscience-stricken, she quickly assured him that she was fine. She had no right to inflict her heartache, her misery on the children, who were far too young to unde
rstand what was wrong with her. Sombrely she acknowledged that she couldn’t hide herself away forever, burying her head in the sand like an ostrich, refusing to face facts. The best thing she could do, the only thing she could do was to go back, to tell Belinda honestly and openly why she felt she had to leave, and then to formulate some kind of positive plan for her future. What she needed was to give herself…to find for herself something to cling on to…some kind of life-raft to support her through this time in her life when she felt she no longer had the strength to support herself.

  If only Gareth hadn’t returned none of this would have happened, she reflected bitterly, or even if he had come back, but she had known that his return was only temporary, that he would be going back to America…that, if she could only just manage to hold out for a short space of time, he would be gone and her life would return to normal; she could concentrate on forgetting him, on blotting out any mental image of him, of rejecting him from her life and her heart, but how could she do that now?

  Part of her wanted to hate him for what he was doing to her, even if it was done in ignorance, even if he did not know. Did she want him to know…did she want him to realise…did she want his pity…his contempt?

  She shuddered violently. No, of course not…her pride, her self-respect—they were all she had left, even if they were wearing dangerously thin, even if they were precious little protection against the agony of loving him.

  No, she couldn’t stay here with her parents forever. She must go home. She must see Belinda, and she must put her life in order, so to speak.

  She left on Wednesday morning, despite her mother’s plea to her to stay a little longer.

  ‘The virus has almost cleared up now,’ she responded truthfully. ‘And it isn’t fair to leave Belinda on her own…not when we’re so very busy.’

  Reluctantly her mother let her go, standing anxiously by the garden gate until her car had disappeared before turning to her husband to remark worriedly, ‘I hope she’s going to be all right. Perhaps if I rang Gareth and—’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Sybilla’s father told her sternly, adding in a more gentle voice, ‘You know that wouldn’t be right…nor fair…to either of them.’

  ‘No, I suppose you’re right, Jeff. Oh, but I hate to see her like this. She looks so…so wretched.’

  ‘I know, love. I know.’ He patted her arm as they walked back to the house together.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WELL, it was too late for second thoughts now. First thing in the morning Sybilla was going to see Belinda and tell her that she intended to leave the business…to leave the area…but she still had the rest of today stretching out ahead of her…empty time to fill…and what better way to fill it than to go for a long walk, to stretch her legs and get some fresh air, and maybe some mental inspiration as to what she was going to do with the rest of her life?

  The town was wreathed with footpaths and walks, and Sybilla chose one of the longer ones that followed the riverbank before ultimately climbing into the hills and from there joining one of the famous old drovers’ roads.

  Not that she intended to traverse the country or even the county—a few miles would be her limit and then home again.

  She had gone less than three miles when her heel started to rub and she realised that she was getting a blister. She was close enough to the town to take a short-cut across a field and through the civic park, even though she was limping by the time she reached the chemist.

  He was sympathetic while she explained her plight, suggesting that she use the ancient Windsor chair he always kept handy for some of his more elderly customers to sit in as she applied the plaster to her broken skin.

  Thanking him, she did as he suggested and then put her sock back on and fastened her trainer. The trouble was that these were new trainers, and—despite their expensive price—rather more fashionable than comfortable.

  She had bought them in a fit of extravagance which she was now regretting, and she certainly wasn’t going to be able to walk any further in them, even with the comfort of the plaster between her sock and her chafed flesh, she acknowledged as she limped outside. Which meant that she would have to walk into the town square and catch a bus home.

  The street was empty, and she was halfway down it when someone came up behind her, taking hold of her arm and pushing her back against the nearby wall.

  As she tried to pull away in shock and panic she heard Ray Lewis’s voice saying tauntingly, ‘Well, now…not in too much of a rush to say hello to an old friend, are you?’

  Although his words were innocuous enough, his manner wasn’t, and nor was the way he was holding on to her, his fingers digging into her flesh as he forced her back against the wall, his body between her and anyone who might have passed by and recognised her plight, his body far, far too close to hers as he took first one and then another step closer to her, making her shrink back against the rough stone wall until she could feel its abrasive texture even through her thick sweater.

  Her heart was beating frantically with fear, the fear that every woman knew under the threat of a man who felt no love for her, only lust and hatred.

  ‘Not quite so full of yourself now, are you?’ he was sneering at her, plainly enjoying her panic…her fear, even while she struggled to control them, to hide them from him. ‘Think yourself so special, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you. You’re not special at all. You’re just like all the rest. Now ask me nicely and I might just be persuaded to let you go.’

  His free hand reached out to touch her face, but she flinched back from him, dodging his touch…her eyes as feral as a wildcat’s, her whole body rejecting both his presence and his taunts.

  ‘Going to play stubborn, are you? Well, I don’t mind. The more stubborn you are, the more pleasure I’m going to get.’

  ‘Sybilla, are you all right?’

  The sound of Gareth’s voice had never been more welcome. Almost instantly she was free, Ray Lewis muttering something about having an appointment to keep, almost running down the street as Gareth turned to her, demanding roughly, ‘What the hell was going on?’

  She was trembling so much that she could hardly speak. She saw the way Gareth frowned as he looked down the street after Ray Lewis, and instinctively she reached out, grabbing his arm with trembling fingers as she begged huskily, ‘No, Gareth, please don’t leave me.’

  She was running on pure instinct, logic, caution; all the emotions she had taught herself to feel in place of the ones she would naturally feel were submerged by reaction to the shock of fear she had just experienced.

  All she knew was that she didn’t want Gareth to leave her…that she needed to be with him more than she had needed anything in her life, that even if his intent was to pursue Ray Lewis and punish him for what he had done to her she would still rather he stayed with her; she needed the comfort of his presence much more than she needed his vengeance against her aggressor.

  She was trembling so hard that she knew he must feel it. He turned his head, his frown deepening as he studied her.

  He lifted his hand to her face, touching it gently. ‘If he hurt you…’

  She shook her head, too emotionally vulnerable to risk speech. Someone else was walking past and Gareth stepped sideways to make room for them, inadvertently pulling her with him. When he heard her sharp gasp of pain and saw that she was limping he demanded curtly, ‘What the hell—?’

  ‘A blister. I blistered my heel. It’s these new trainers…’ She was babbling…her voice unnaturally high and strained. ‘I was going to get the bus, that’s when…’ She wanted to stop, to dam the incessant stream of too high, too revealing words, but they refused to be dammed.

  ‘The bus? Don’t be ridiculous! I’ll run you home. My car’s parked in the square. Can you walk that far or would you prefer to stay here while I get it?’

  Immediately she clutched harder at the arm she was holding, unaware that she was digging her nails into his flesh in her panic.


  ‘No…no, Gareth…please…I can walk.’

  But when she actually tried all she could manage were a few faltering steps before a combination of shock and pain made her stumble.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ Gareth told her tautly, and before she could stop him he turned towards her and picked her up, swinging her into his arms as though she weighed no more than a child.

  ‘Gareth,’ she protested frantically, ‘people will see.’

  Her eyes were almost on a level with his. He stopped mid-pace and gave her a look she could almost have described as brooding as he demanded slowly, ‘So what?’

  What could she say? She swallowed nervously and tried to concentrate on the throbbing pain in her heel; on the fear she had experienced when Ray Lewis had caught hold of her; on anything but the sensation of being in Gareth’s arms…of being held close to his body, of feeling his heartbeat, which, despite the fact that he claimed that she wasn’t too heavy, was so fast and so loud that she was terrified he might over-strain himself.

  ‘I can walk the rest of the way,’ she told him as they reached the square. ‘Where is your car?’

  ‘On the other side,’ he told her grimly, ‘and you aren’t doing any walking.’

  She didn’t want to argue with him and put even more of a strain on his energy, and so instead she tried to concentrate on making herself as still as possible and of course on ignoring the pleasure her body was deriving from its contact with his, from the sensation of his arms around it, holding it…protecting it…arousing it.

  Stop it, she warned herself, only able to release her breath when they reached his car and he put her down.

  He still kept one arm around her, though, even when he stopped to unlock the passenger-door for her.

  As he tucked her gently, tenderly almost, into the car his manner towards her was in direct contrast to the cold anger in his voice as he told her, ‘I think it’s time I had a word with Lewis.’