Beaumont Brides Collection (Wild Justice, Wild Lady, Wild Fire)

by Liz Fielding

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Edward began, but Claudia broke in.

  ‘Are you quite sure about that, Gabriel? You know how much trouble I can be.’

  He knew. No one better. But he was pretty sure that grovelling wouldn’t win him any Brownie points with Claudia. ‘You’re the proverbial pain in the backside, Claudia...’ - as a spark of animation brought her eyes back to life, he knew he was right - ‘...and if you misbehave again it’s entirely possible that I’ll throw you in the lake. But if you’ll promise-’

  ‘Lake?’ She heaved herself up on one elbow. ‘Your cottage has its own lake and you consider it basic?’

  ‘Well, I guess your view of basic depends on your priorities. Why don’t you come and have look at it. You don’t have to stay if you don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll come. But no more promises.’

  For a moment their eyes locked, then Gabriel nodded. ‘No promises.’

  *****

  Several hours later, standing in the stone clad kitchen of a cottage which seemed to be suffering from terminal decay, Claudia wasn’t so sure she’d made the right decision. Seeing her expression Gabriel lifted his shoulders expressively.

  ‘I told you it was a bit basic.’

  ‘You weren’t exaggerating.’

  ‘It has a lot of potential.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘There are a couple of acres of land with it and the lake. I’m renovating it when I have the time.’

  She looked around. The sink was stone with a pump handle attached to the side and an old-fashioned geyser above it that suggested the place had brushed with twentieth century plumbing sometime in the nineteen-fifties and was still trying to get over the shock.

  The cooker appeared to date from the same period and like the geyser relied on bottled gas to fuel it. A glance at the ceiling confirmed that the suspiciously large number of candles meant precisely what she had feared. Electricity had yet to find its way down the long rutted lane that led to the cottage.

  She ran a finger experimentally along a shelf and examined the thick wad of dust that piled up beneath it with distaste. ‘You must have been somewhat short of time recently,’ she said, regarding Gabriel over her finger. ‘You don’t expect me to stay here, surely?’

  ‘No one will look for you here.’

  She couldn’t fault him on logic. ‘That’s true,’ she said, brushing the dust of her fingers. ‘And even if they did, they’d take one look and go away again.’

  ‘Isn’t that the point?’

  Claudia knew she was being unreasonable, but she felt dreadful and knew she looked worse. She bit down on her lip. A week from now and her face would be back to normal and a visit to her hairdresser would fix her hair. It could have been a million times worse. But knowing that and believing it when confronted by the result of the attack in the hospital mirror were two different things.

  ‘I’m sorry that the place is so dusty. I haven’t been here for a while, but it’s nothing a little soap and hot water won’t fix.’

  ‘A lot of soap and a lot of hot water,’ Claudia amended, glancing doubtfully at the geyser. It didn’t look up to the task. Then she indicated the carton of groceries on the square scrubbed table in the middle of the room. ‘Someone must have been expecting us.’

  ‘Not you. Just me. I asked Adele to organise a few essentials but she doesn’t know you’re here.’

  ‘Why? Just in case it was her all the time?’

  ‘She’s the size of a house, Claudia. She couldn’t get up your stairs with a can of paint, let alone throw it at you and beat a hasty retreat down the fire exit, but I thought the fewer people who knows you’re here the safer you would feel.’

  ‘So it’s just you and me?’

  ‘Yes, Claudia. Just you and me.’ He glanced into the box. ‘I’ll go and stock up the larder tomorrow.’

  ‘And leave me alone?’ The panic was already beginning to rise in her throat at the thought. ‘Here?’

  ‘What’s the matter, doesn’t the lake live up to your expectations?’

  ‘The lake is fine. The cottage is...’

  ‘Basic.’ Their glances collided and she received the distinct impression that a fit of tantrums and a demand to be taken to the nearest five star hotel would be met with resistance.

  Since they had left the hospital, communications had been fairly limited between them, but she had been left in no doubt that for the foreseeable future Gabriel MacIntyre was determined that she would do exactly what she was told.

  It would have been comforting if she had thought for one moment he was doing it for any other reason than guilt.

  And since walking out wasn’t an option - they hadn’t passed any habitation within five miles of the place - she decided not to waste her breath.

  She turned angrily away and pushed open the door to the living room. It was larger than she had anticipated, with a big stone fireplace at one end and a dusty blue and white jug on the mantle in which some flowers had withered and died a long time ago. Beside the hearth was a basket containing a few logs and yellowing newspapers.

  In front of it a couple of comfortable armchairs and a thick rug suggested someone had once made an attempt to provide some comfort.

  Claudia gave a little shiver. The room wasn’t exactly cold, but the August sun hadn’t penetrated the thick walls and although the walls had been painted in the not too distant past, it had a musty air of abandonment about it, as if the occupants had simply walked out and locked the door behind them and never come back.

  Gabriel had followed her into the room and was now watching her, his whole body tense, the skin drawn tight over the hard planes of his face and quite unexpectedly something twisted in her gut. He wasn’t finding it easy being in this place yet he had brought her here so that she should be safe. And she was behaving like a spoilt cat.

  But then, when had she ever behaved like anything else.

  ‘Why don’t you light a fire?’ she suggested.

  His head jerked up, as if for the moment he had forgotten she was there. ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘No, but it might cheer the place up a bit.’

  ‘I’ll take your bag upstairs first.’ The stairs were hidden behind a door and rose, steep and narrow to the upper floor. He led the way and opened a door to the right, ducking slightly as he entered the room. Claudia too, had to lower her head as she followed him through the door.

  The bedroom, like the living room, had been decorated within living memory. The walls had been painted in a pale, buttermilk yellow, there were fresh curtains at the window and the pine chest of drawers was genuinely antique. It could have been charming; it would again as soon as she had cleaned off the dust that had settled over every available surface.

  ‘The bed’s more comfortable than it looks,’ he assured her.

  ‘Is it?’ Claudia regarded the ancient brass bedstead without enthusiasm. It had to be more comfortable than it looked. Less would be impossible.

  ‘You’ll find sheets and things in the chest of drawers. It’s a good idea to make the bed while it’s still light,’ he advised. ‘Otherwise the candles blow out when you spread the sheets.’ He spoke with the voice of experience.

  ‘Candles,’ she repeated. ‘This may come as a shock to you, but the oil lamp has been invented.’

  ‘So I’ve heard, but I thought I’d skip that phase and move straight on to electricity. I just haven’t got around to connecting it yet.’ She wondered just what he had got around to connecting. She was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy about the plumbing. ‘These things take time,’ he added, as if finding it necessary to justify the omission. ‘I’ll have to dig a trench from the road-’

  ‘Personally? With a pick and shovel?’ she enquired, hopefully. It had to be at least half a mile to the main road.

  ‘This may come as a shock to you but it’s possible to hire a mechanical digger.’ He waited, but she didn’t respond. ‘In the meantime we have plenty of candles.’

>   ‘Well, candlelight has a certain charm.’ An earth privy was another matter. ‘Is there a bathroom?’ She wasn’t hopeful.

  ‘That depends what you mean by bathroom. There’s a lavatory downstairs with a washbasin connected to the geyser; baths need a certain amount of organisation.’ The thought appeared to offer him a certain wry satisfaction. ‘But with a little notice they can be managed quite comfortably.’

  Claudia, about to ask how, spotted a disturbing glint in those blue eyes of his and changed her mind. Besides, plumbing was not the only thing on her mind. It occurred to her that the bed she was standing beside was double. ‘Is that your room?’ she asked, making a move in the direction of the second door.

  ‘No.’ He didn’t exactly block her way, more discourage her with his presence. ‘That’s empty. I’ll stick with my sleeping bag. Downstairs.’ In front of the fire. It sounded a lot more appealing than a sagging mattress on an old brass bedstead. She considered asking him to swap but managed to restrain herself. ‘I’ll go and clean up the kitchen a bit,’ he said. ‘Then we can have some supper.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I’m sure you must have a broom and a duster somewhere. I can’t sleep with all this dust.’ He stared at her for a moment, not moving, blocking the stairs. ‘Gabriel?’ she prompted.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked Adele to organise a clean up.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that have alerted her to the fact that you are not alone? I don’t imagine Adele would have taken very kindly to the suggestion that she clean up for me,’ she pointed out.

  ‘She wouldn’t have done it herself. She’d have sent Tony.’ He almost smiled at the thought. ‘Stay here. I’ll go and see what I can find for you.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid,’ she began, but he was already half way down the narrow stairs and she wasn’t going to argue about it.

  Instead she crossed to the small casement window beneath the eaves. The room faced south west and it had taken the full glare of the afternoon sun. It was airless and the windowsill was littered with the dead bodies of insects which had battered themselves against the panes in their desperation to get out.

  She lifted the catch and pushed on the frame. It was stuck fast where the sun had baked the paint. It needed a couple of hefty thumps with the flat of her hand before it finally surrendered and she was breathing in the cool rush of early evening air, sweet with the heady scent of honeysuckle and roses scrambling over the wall below the window. But it would take a lot of honeysuckle to rid her of the suffocating smell of paint.

  The pale yellow striped curtains lifted slightly in the soft breeze.

  Fresh and pretty, they were the perfect choice for a cottage bedroom. All the room needed to complete the picture was a pot filled with yellow roses.

  It made her wonder about the jug of shrivelled flowers downstairs and the woman who had put them there. It had to have been Gabriel’s wife. It had to have been Jenny Callendar. And once more something tugged at her memory. A tragedy. There had been a tragedy. Something more than her death.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘MAKING yourself at home?’ Claudia jumped guiltily at the sound of his voice so close behind her. She had been making herself at home with his thoughts, his feelings. Letting her mind explore the possibilities of what tragedy had befallen him.

  ‘Do I have to ask your permission to open the window? You should have said.’ He clearly didn’t believe her question merited an answer, or maybe he, too, was affected by the scene from the window.

  The sun was setting leaving a delicate residue of pink and pearl grey in the sky. The colours were reflected in the stretch of water lapping at the dark silhouette of reeds that fringed the shore of the small lake a hundred feet or so from the cottage.

  He must have leaned against this sill many times, sharing such a scene with the woman he loved. It was so easy to imagine them standing in this spot, arms looped about each other in the gentle aftermath of love, discussing their plans for the cottage, for their life.

  Stealing a sideways glance at his face, Claudia was struck by the lack of any visible emotion. Well, what had she expected? He wasn’t the kind of man to break down and sob on her shoulder.

  ‘Nice lake,’ she said, as matter-of-factly as a prospective purchaser not wanting to show too much enthusiasm in the presence of the estate agent.

  ‘I like it,’ he agreed, in a similarly undramatic tone of voice. ‘It’s not natural of course. It’s an old gravel pit. The area is full of them. Most of them are used by water sports clubs and hotels. Fortunately this one isn’t big enough to interest anyone.’

  ‘Is that a hotel? Over there?’ On a rise, beyond a small wood, she could see the roof and gables of a large building.

  ‘No. That’s Pinkneys Abbey.’

  ‘Abbey?’

  ‘It hasn’t been used as that since the 16th century and there isn’t that much of the original building left. Everything around here belongs to the estate, even the airfield. You can’t see that from here. It’s on the other side of the house.’

  ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘No one now. The owner had a problem with inheritance tax. It’s let to a company who run management courses.’

  ‘And he sold you the cottage and the lake that was too small for anyone else to bother with?’ He didn’t reply and she turned and looked up at him. ‘What do you do with it?’

  ‘Do with it? What do you think I do with it? I live in it.’ She raised her brows in a deliberately provoking manner. ‘I will live in it. It won’t always be like this.’

  She had been wrong about the emotion. It was there, but it was buried deep. ‘Actually, I meant the lake, Gabriel.’

  ‘Did you?’ He was angry. Not with her. He just didn’t like talking about it. ‘I swim when it’s warm enough. I have been known to fish occasionally. Mostly I just leave it to the birds.’ Even as he spoke a pair of swans, necks outstretched, skimmed the water, landing with barely a ripple. ‘They’re a lot more attractive than beefy skiers in wet suits,’ he remarked. ‘And a lot quieter. Here, I found you these.’ Mac thrust a pump spray of cleaner into her hand with a duster. ‘Do you know how to use them?’

  The tension, almost palpable, eased as the subject shifted to more practical matters. ‘I think I can work it out,’ she assured him. ‘What about the broom? I’d better sweep the floor first or the dust will cover everything again.’

  ‘Will it? Fancy you knowing something like that, when domesticity is such a mystery to you.’

  ‘Well, I have to admit that it’s not a complete mystery,’ Claudia confessed. ‘I once played a housemaid in a Gothic horror.’ She glanced around. ‘I have a feeling the experience is going to come in useful.’

  She had hoped to make him laugh. Instead he raked his fingers through his scalp. ‘I’m sorry, truly, Claudia. I didn’t realise how bad it was.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Gabriel. It doesn’t matter.’ Without thinking she put her hand on his arm. His skin was warm and dry beneath her fingers, healthy outdoor skin and the fine line of dark hair that emphasized the strength of his forearm was silky beneath her fingers. ‘I don’t suppose a workout with a duster will kill me.’

  She could hardly believe she’d said that. And what’s more she’d sounded convincing. Given a little encouragement, she might even believe it herself.

  ‘Probably not,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll go and make a start downstairs.’ He detached her hand and turned away. ‘You’ll find the broom on the landing.’ It took an act of will to resist the very real urge to follow him and beat him with it.

  Instead she searched her bag and found a scarf that Mel had thoughtfully packed for her, no doubt anticipating that she would want to cover her hair, hide it. If she’d been told that Claudia would be wearing it like an old-fashioned Mrs Mop, she would never have believed it. Half-an-hour ago Claudia would have been hard pressed to believe it herself.

  There was a mirror on the chest of drawers and she rubbed at it with the d
uster, steeling herself to look in it, face the mess.

  She had always been told she was beautiful, even as a child.

  Her hair had been brushed each morning until it shone and because she has so much wanted to be just like her mother she had never complained, even when there were tangles and it hurt. After the brushing it had been rubbed with a piece of silk to add extra gloss before she was taken in to see her mother who never rose before noon.

  Sometimes she was allowed to sit on the bed and her mother would take the brush herself, choosing the ribbon she was to wear and telling Claudia that she must never have her hair cut because it was so beautiful.

  As she’d got older, the childhood fairness had darkened but she had never had it cut short. The doctor hadn’t been concerned about cosmetic appearances. Her skin, always sensitive, had reacted badly to the paint and he had ordered the nurse to cut away the paint soaked to minimise the damage.

  The poor girl had been so upset that Claudia had had to reassure her that it didn’t matter.

  Did it?

  After a moment’s hesitation she reached up to touch her shorn locks.

  It was rough where the worst of the paint had been cut out of it and felt strange beneath her hand. The other side was untouched but it felt heavy and uncomfortable. If she’d had a pair of scissors she would have cut that off too. Instead she bound the scarf around it, covering it, hiding it, leaving only her blotchy face to commend her.

  All her life, her whole being had been concentrated on the way she looked. No one had ever seen anything else in her, looked for anything else, except perhaps, sometimes, her family.

  She stared at herself for a moment, wondering what she would feel if she had to live with that for the rest of her life the way her mother had had to live with her scars. Would she turn into a monster, too?

  Questions, questions.

  Why were there always more questions than answers she wondered as she turned back to the room and looked around her. For instance, how long was she going to stand there wasting time worrying about nothing when there was so much work to be done?