by Robyn Donald
Remembering the compassionate, always pleasant woman who used to talk to her whenever she got the chance, Mariel found her eyes filling with stupid tears. Swallowing, she said, “She was kind to me.” And then in bewilderment, “Why did you go there? My childhood has nothing to do with you.”
“I think it does,” he said quietly. “For years you’ve believed that what your parents did put you completely beyond the pale. Your aunt sounds like the last person who should’ve been given the care of a bright, confused, grief-stricken child. Thanks to her you grew up firmly convinced you weren’t worthy of being loved. I’ll bet any confidence you’ve managed to achieve is shackled to your work, your skills. Then you met David St. Clair and you let gratitude overwhelm your common sense.”
“Gratitude?”
“What else was it, Mariel?” His voice was a cool challenge. “Besides physical attraction? You’re far too intelligent to love a man who let outdated ideas of family loyalty and class dictate who he married—unless you were struggling with a sense of inferiority, of being unlovable. You admired him, but above all you were grateful to him for loving you.”
Gratitude? Biting back a protest, she forced herself to consider his statement. Had she such low self-respect that she was grateful to a man for wanting her? Dazed with happiness, for a short while she had juggled a fragile bubble of hope, a bubble that had shattered when she told David who she was and he had rejected her. A woman with healthy self-esteem would have been angry at his rejection; she had accepted it without demur. Indeed some part of her, too deep to be accessible to her conscious mind, had expected it all along.
With enormous, resentful reluctance she admitted that Nicholas’s theory made sense. A basic lack of faith in herself would explain why she had let David—and Nicholas— go out of her life without a battle.
She stared out the window, toward the trees in the far distance. Somewhere there, sandwiched between the woods and the sea, was the cottage where they had spent their idyll.
Nicholas had been right when he’d insisted she felt far more than the simple, direct urgings of lust. They shared the same sense of humour; his ice-clear brain had sparked off hers, and they had both enjoyed the discussions that sometimes became heated, but never degenerated into arguments.
And it would be foolish to decry the sex. When he’d made love to her Nicholas hadn’t been like David, careful to ensure she had reached her peak before he succumbed to his own pleasure. There had been nothing careful about Nicholas. The consuming, white-hot strength of his desire had swept her into a realm she’d never reached before.
In Nicholas’s arms she had found a different Mariel, a woman who had no inhibitions, who had been warm and earthy and eagerly erotic, a woman who valued herself. They had come together as equals, a man and a woman whose passions were complementary. That, she thought painfully, had been one of the reasons she had turned tail. That sensuous, uninhibited aspect of her personality frightened her.
And when Nicholas left her he had ripped her heart out, not merely bruised it.
“What is all this in aid of?” she asked aggressively.
“Do you agree with me so far?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said. She couldn’t bear to look at him in case she saw nothing of what she wanted in his face, so she stared down at her hands. “Nicholas, why did you go to all this trouble? What is this all about?”
“Can’t you guess?”
CHAPTER NINE
She shook her head. Was he trying to persuade her to marry him? If so, she’d have to stand firm against the pleadings of her heart, because all the insights in the world into her own psyche were not going to persuade her to wreck his career.
She clasped her hands at the back of her neck, tipping her head into her laced fingers, stretching the taut muscles there as she grimaced.
I’ve wanted to be a diplomat ever since I was twelve. His words echoed in her brain.
Even though she’d found paradise in his arms, even though he’d asked her to marry him, she couldn’t do it. Love had responsibilities. He was innocent of anything but wanting her. Her aunt had also been innocent, but her affection for her sister and brother-in-law had turned to hatred over the years, and Mariel couldn’t bear it if one day Nicholas looked at her with the same mixture of blame and loathing.
“I want you to come and meet someone,” he said calmly.
“Meet someone? Who?”
“His name won’t mean anything to you. Come on.”
“I need to change—”
One of his rare smiles eased the hard contours of his face. “You’re fine just the way you are,” he said.
Noting the uncompromising look in his eyes, she got up, in her heart the old futile yearning that somehow things could be changed, that her parents had thought for a moment before they embarked on their career as traitors, that the sins of the fathers were not visited on the children. ‘And then you’ll leave me alone?” she asked abruptly.
His smile became twisted. “If you want me to.”
After a short walk along the corridor he knocked at a door; a voice answered in a language she recognized as Russian.
Nicholas said in English, “Here she is,” and the door opened, she concluded, after the unknown man behind it had sufficient time to consult the peephole.
He was short and bald, with shrewd dark eyes, high Slavic cheekbones and the solid build of a man who had once been all muscle. “Come in,” he said in heavily accented English.
Totally bewildered, Mariel allowed herself to be ushered in; Nicholas kept his hand between her shoulder blades, the warmth of his palm burning through her dress. “This is Arkady Svetlanko,” he said formally. “Mr. Svetlanko, this is Mariel Browning, who was born Mariel Frensham. You knew her parents in Hong Kong, I believe?”
If he’d held a knife to her throat, Mariel could not have been angrier or more shocked. But the Russian was thrusting out his hand, and the manners her mother had drummed into her stopped her from doing more than lance a glare at Nicholas as she obeyed the summons.
“Mr. Svetlanko,” she said. “How do you do.”
He had a firm, warm handshake, and there was something like sympathy in his dark eyes as he looked at her. “You see me as the enemy,” he said. “For years I saw you as such, too. It seems foolish now, such a waste, and yet we were sure, all of us, that the future of the world depended on our machinations.”
His remarks caught her attention; she looked at him properly, seeing strength of character and resolution in his features. “I suppose it did,” she said a little uncertainly.
“Well, no doubt we will pay in some way for the things we did.” He sounded as though he meant it. “My friend Nicholas Leigh tells me that you think your parents spied for the Soviets while they were in Hong Kong.”
She couldn’t look at Nicholas, although she could feel him behind her as a bulwark, both bodyguard and warden. “It’s long past,” she said. “As you said, it doesn’t matter now.”
“I think that it does,” he said unexpectedly in his correct English. “And so does Mr. Leigh, or he would not have spirited me out of Moscow and brought me all the way to America simply to tell you that they did not spy for us. They were framed, I am afraid, and killed because they knew too much.”
The room wavered in front of her. She drew in a jagged breath as Nicholas’s hands closed on her upper arms and he said angrily, “You didn’t need to be quite so brutal.”
The Russian sounded weary. “There is no way to break such news gently,” he said.
Nicholas guided her to a chair and sat her down. He didn’t move away but stood behind her with one hand on her shoulder. Electricity surged from his fingers, a powerful current of feeling that was intensely protective.
“I’m all right,” she said, steadying her voice with an effort. “How do you know this, Mr. Svetlanko?”
“It was my business to discover such things.” He paused, his eyes moving from Mariel’s taut face to that of the m
an behind her. “Your father had learned that there was a thriving trade in smuggled antiquities from China. He came across it because one of his interests was Chinese porcelain of the Ming dynasty. You have his collection, I presume?”
“No,” she said numbly. “I don’t know what happened to it.”
“That is a pity. It was very good. He had a feel for porcelain, a natural instinct for what was fake and what was genuine. This was almost certainly his downfall. He noticed that more and more genuine porcelain was coming onto the market in Hong Kong, more than was known to be in the Western world. And once he started to ask questions he found other objects—priceless antiques such as bronzes and silk paintings, unique artifacts from burial sites—all national treasures. Of course he informed his superiors, and of course he was told not to do anything about it, that such things were not in his area of influence. But your father was a persistent man. He kept digging away, and eventually his activities came to the knowledge of the powerful Chinese tong that was doing the stealing and the selling. This business was very profitable for them. I am sure you are aware that there are in the world many unscrupulous millionaires who fancy themselves as connoisseurs. The tong decided to get rid of your father.”
“So they had him framed,” she said quietly. “Why did they choose to implicate the Soviets?”
“They certainly did not want anyone connecting the deaths to China,” he said. “Russia was the logical nation to choose at the time.”
“Why such an elaborate charade? Why didn’t they just kill them?”
“Think, Ms. Browning.” The Russian spoke didactically, as though this were a classroom lesson. “They wanted no hint of the market in antiquities to escape—the Chinese government would not have stood idly by and let their birthright bleed through their fingers. Besides, at least one important official in China was conniving at this trade, a man who would have lost his life if it was discovered. It was a reasonably simple matter to cast suspicion on your parents and then to kill them and make it seem like a suicide pact. They also made sure that the names of several agents were supplied to me. The deaths of those men added verisimilitude to the scenario the tong concocted.”
Tears ached at the back of Mariel’s eyes. She said huskily, “Why didn’t they kill me, too? I was in the bedroom asleep when it happened.”
“They were professional,” the Russian said, not without compassion. “There was no need to kill you. You knew nothing.”
“And did they arrange for the maid to find them?” she asked. Nicholas’s fingers tightened on her shoulder.
Svetlanko said, “She did as she was told. Apparently it was felt that your parents were so devoted that they would not have risked the possibility of your discovering them.”
Nicholas said, “It’s over, Mariel. Your parents are dead, but at least they were not traitors.”
She should be feeling wonderful. But she felt only anguish at the tragedy of it all, the shattered lives—her parents’, her aunt’s—the misery of those childhood years, the useless lies and treachery and deaths. She looked at the Russian. “How do you know all this?”
“I made it my business to find out. After all, they were supposed to be spying for us and I knew they were not.”
She nodded. “You were right, Mr. Svetlanko, it all does seem a waste now,” she said desolately.
“I am sorry,” the man said. “There is much that cannot be righted, many wrongs that are written in the history books as truths. But at least your friend Nicholas Leigh has made this right for you.”
Mariel got to her feet. Her bones were filled with lead, she thought distandy. But she stood straight-backed and smiled at the Russian and said, “Thank you for doing this.”
He laughed and looked at Nicholas. “Do not thank me. I am a pragmatist—I do not try to face down the whirlwind. Mr. Leigh is a force of nature when he wants something done.” The dark eyes twinkled. “And this he wanted done very much. I am glad to have met you, Ms. Browning. Your father was a gallant gentleman, and your mother was warm and gracious and funny. I liked them both.”
She swallowed, her memories at last robbed of bitterness. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I will never be able to repay you.”
He smiled, looking shrewdly from her face to that of the man who had tracked him down. “Repay Mr. Leigh,” he said. “He has done all the work, not I.”
“There’s no question of repayment,” Nicholas said with cool hauteur, holding out his hand.
Mariel watched them shake hands, the older man solid, almost squat against Nicholas’s rangy elegance. She supposed she said goodbye; afterward she had no recollection of it. As she walked numbly back to Nicholas’s suite she saw nothing of the charm and tasteful luxury that was the resort’s trademark. In her mind raged the turmoil of Hong Kong, busy and noisy and packed with people, an image that was soon replaced by a wilder shore on the furthermost reaches of the Pacific, where an endless sea broke on abrupt little islands that sheltered golden beaches and rocky headlands and a green, untamed country.
“I’ll order tea,” Nicholas said when they were back in his suite. “Or would you rather have something stronger?”
“No, tea will be fine,” she said colourlessly.
She heard his voice in the distance as she summoned memories of her parents, childhood ones untarnished by her aunt’s bitterness, and she began to weep, the tears of a lifetime melting pain and anger and frustration, washing away the malign legacy of her parents’ guilt.
And then she was surrounded by the warmth of his arms, supported by his lean body as he pulled her close and held her, his cheek on the top of her head.
After a while he said, “All right, that’s enough. You’re going to make yourself sick if you cry anymore.”
“Bully,” she said on a laborious, indrawn breath.
“Only when necessary.” He held her away, pulling her hands down as she tried to cover her face. “At least,” he said mockingly, “you’ll never be able to say that the only reason I love you is because you’re beautiful. At the moment you look like the wrath of God, and I find myself loving you more than ever. The tea will be here soon.”
“It sounds wonderful,” she said, suddenly shy. She searched his face, but the brilliant green-gold eyes gave nothing away. No tenderness softened their glitter, and yet he had said he loved her, and he had gone to incredible lengths to prove it—travelling all the way to New Zealand and Russia, bringing Arkady Svetlanko here.
“I need to wash my face,” she said. As well, she needed time to herself.
He smiled. “All right.”
She did look like the wrath of God, with swollen, red eyelids and a nose glowing like a beacon. Soggy and self-indulgent, she thought with a grimace as she turned on the faucet. And the splash of frigid water didn’t help much. However, the icy shock of it did stop the slow welling of tears.
Of course her parents’ vindication wasn’t going to make any difference. She doubted whether Mr. Svetlanko would tell the world what had happened, so Nicholas’s career would still be jeopardized by her past, but oh, she loved him so for doing this.
After blowing her nose heartily she walked back into the room. The tea tray was already there. For a moment she thought Nicholas had left, but he was standing by the window, looking down at the gardens. The instant he heard her he turned and scrutinized her thoroughly.
“That’s slightly better,” he observed, his mouth lifting at the corners.
“Don’t flatter me.”
His brows quirked. “I don’t flatter anyone,” he said dryly. “You should know that by now.”
“An unlikely trait for a diplomat.’’
“I’m no longer a diplomat,” he said casually—so casually that for a second she didn’t comprehend the importance of his words.
When she did she gasped, “Oh, God, I was afraid of that—that’s why I— Did Sanderson—”
“For heaven’s sake, Mariel,” he interrupted, “why must you think everything is yo
ur doing? It makes you sound utterly self-centered.”
As no doubt he’d intended, his acerbic frankness jolted her out of the remorseful agitation his bombshell had caused. “Oh, does it?” she snapped, hackles rising. “Tell me why you decided to throw your career in, then.”
“Pour me some tea and I will.”
He waited until she’d done that, then hitched up a chair and sat down, long legs thrust out, his autocratic profile outlined against the heavy crimson curtains.
“I resigned because it came to a choice between diplomacy and you,” he said, “and you won.”
She said dully, “That was the choice I didn’t want you to have to make.”
“I know. You were being so insistent on self-sacrifice, going so bravely into martyrdom, that it didn’t occur to you to ask me what I wanted.”
“You’ve got a poisonous tongue,” she retorted. “I didn’t just—”
“No? Oh, I don’t blame you. You were taught really well by that aunt of yours, who from all accounts was completely bitter and more than a little twisted. Her method of dealing with the situation couldn’t have been worse.”
“She did her best,” Mariel objected. “She’d lost everything she cared for, her family, her career, her future—everything. Her life was ruined.”
“Only in her estimation. The situation wasn’t good, but she could have kept her job. She made the decision to leave.”
Setting her cup down sharply, Mariel said with curt distinctness, “A request to resign doesn’t leave you much choice in decisions.”
“She wasn’t asked to resign.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked,” he said calmly. “Something you didn’t bother to do. She had you well and truly brainwashed. Tell me, why were you so worried about working with diplomats?”
She stared at him. “Because I knew my background would make people highly suspicious of me.”
“Even after ten years of excellent work in a variety of fields, with never a breath of scandal or suspicion about you?” he asked conversationally. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that you were overreacting to a ridiculous degree?”
