by Anne Mather
She experienced a nasty moment at the head of the rise that gave the visitor his first glimpse of the house. For an awful moment, the car lost all traction, and she felt herself aquaplaning down the track. But then, by some means she herself hardly understood, a patch of thawed earth brought the Daimler back under control, and she completed the journey to the forecourt without further mishap.
Even so, she sat for a few moments behind the wheel after she had turned off the engine. That kind of excitement was not designed for females of a nervous disposition, and although in the normal way Helen did not regard herself in that light, just at that moment she was having some difficulty in forcing her legs to obey her. She felt decidedly shaky, and not a little apprehensive of Rafe’s reaction now that the chase was over. Not that it had really been a chase, she reflected bitterly. Rafe had not even tried to compete.
She was still sitting there, feeling sorry for herself, when the headlights of the Range Rover flooded the interior of the Daimler. Stiffening, she saw the headlights extinguished and heard the engine silenced, and then the ominous crunch of Rafe’s feet on the gravel. She waited in taut anticipation for him to approach the car, knowing he was hardly likely to let what had happened go without some belittling comment, but even she was taken aback by the violence with which the door was jerked open and the ruthless hand that descended on her shoulder. She was practically hauled out of her seat and, because of the uncertain state of her legs, she had to clutch his jacket to prevent herself from landing in an undignified heap on the frozen ground.
‘What do you think you’re——’ she began indignantly, only to have her words overridden by the harsh superiority of his.
‘You crazy little bitch!’ he snarled, retaining his grip on a handful of her parka. In the course of her extraction from the Daimler, her shoulder had escaped his brutal grasp, and she was grateful. But, for all that, his hold was causing the collar of the parka to dig into her neck at the other side, half choking her outraged retaliation. ‘You don’t deserve to own a licence? Are you aware your grandmother had a great affection for this vehicle, and you damn near destroyed it and yourself, too?’
‘Oh—oh, that’s typical of you, isn’t it?’ exclaimed Helen, lifting a trembling hand to ease the pressure on her throat. ‘It wasn’t me you were concerned about, it was the car! Well, if you hadn’t slunk up behind me in that great wagon of yours, I wouldn’t have reacted as I did.’
‘I did not slink up behind you,’ retorted Rafe grimly, ‘but if it gives you some perverted pleasure to think I did, then go ahead. All I’m concerned with is that you should be around to attend your grandmother’s funeral. After that’s over, you can go ahead and kill yourself, as far as I’m concerned!’
‘Oh—that’s charming, isn’t it?’ Helen’s face was hot with anger and frustration, her thwarted attempts to free herself making her feel almost as undignified as her collapse would have done. However, she was recovering rapidly from the shock his assault had given her, and she moved her leg instinctively, testing her ability to respond in kind.
But, as if reading her mind, Rafe impelled her back against the rear door of the Daimler, imprisoning her there with his body, so that her aborted attempt to avenge herself on him was rendered futile. ‘For someone with such a classy background, you really have the instincts of an alley-cat, don’t you, Helen?’ he taunted, and she seethed as his teeth parted to reveal a mocking smile.
‘I—despise—you!’ she choked, her fists balling where they were crushed between them. It infuriated her that he could overpower her without any apparent effort on his part, though the taut muscles of his midriff were tangibly evident through the knitted cotton of his shirt. His thighs, too, were pressed against hers, his leather jacket having opened in the struggle. The muscled frame of his hard body was bending her body backwards, and every angle of the car’s superstructure felt as if it was imprinted on her spine.
But, in all honesty, it wasn’t the pain in her back that was causing her frustration. She could stand the discomfort. It was Rafe’s almost contemptuous disposal of her efforts to defend herself that was having a far more dangerous effect. Controlling her, as he was, meant she was conscious of every small detail about him, not least the clean male heat of his skin and the faint musky odour it promoted. It made her intensely aware of other things about him—of the smooth brown flesh, visible above the neck of his shirt, of the firm line of his jaw, blurred now by the barely definable shadow of roughness, of the hard beauty of his face, and the brilliance of his eyes, clear and green, and unexpectedly heated. They were all inescapable reminders of that other occasion when he had forced his will upon her and, although she knew she ought to feel repulsed, once again her pulses were racing.
‘Someone ought to have taught you about respect,’ he informed her, his lips scornful and, in an effort to shatter the almost mesmerising effect his physical closeness was having on her, Helen lashed out at him.
‘Who?’ she demanded, with more bravado than discretion. ‘You? Oh, Mr Fleming, you don’t know the meaning of the word! You don’t respect anyone or anything, or you would respect my right to see you as the egotistical parasite you really are!’
For a moment, she thought he was going to strike her. A muscle in his cheek twitched, and his features lost all animation, his eyes darkening with an emotion she was not prepared to recognise. His hands, one still gripping the shoulder of her parka, the other braced against the roof of the Daimler close by her ear, clenched as if he was preparing to launch an attack at her, but although her lungs ached with the effort of holding her breath, the anticipated blow never came.
‘Is that what you think I am?’ he asked instead, when every nerve in her body was burning with apprehension, and there was a bitter kind of amusement lurking in the harshness of his voice. ‘Well, what the hell…’ And before she could make any attempt to thwart his intentions, his hand left the roof of the limousine to curl coldly about her nape. ‘What do I have to lose?’ he breathed, bending his head towards her, and the horrified realisation of his objective dawned only as his mouth found hers.
His lips were cold, but savagely insistent and, with the dusk of early evening to throw the shadow of those thick lashes across his eyes, she could only guess at his expression. But the determination to make her respond needed no elaboration and, although Helen’s instinct was to close her eyes, she knew she had to keep them open if she hoped to resist him. Clenching her teeth and compressing her lips, she fought the insidious weakness to submit. Don’t let him do this! she ordered herself feverishly; remember who he is; remember what he did! He’s only trying to humiliate you again. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Think of Sandra! Think of Adam! Think of anything but the emotions he seemed so easily to arouse.
His other hand cupped her neck, his thumbs grazing the curve of her jawline, holding her face a prisoner as he continued his studied offensive. All the while his mouth moved hungrily over hers, his tongue circling her lips until they quivered in protest, her efforts to oppose him growing more and more constrained. Dear God, had she taken leave of her senses that he could so carelessly turn her bones to water, that the sensual excitement Adam found so hard to induce should nullify her feeble denials and make her fluid in his hands? This was the man who had stifled her natural development; this was the man who had used her innocence to destroy her. She couldn’t be so stupid! She couldn’t be so base!
But no matter how she wanted to feel, how she ought to be feeling, the truth was Rafe’s continued persistence was having the effect he desired. Unwillingly perhaps, but consciously for all that, her lips were softening, parting, and the explosive warmth of his tongue in her mouth caused a fiery sweetness to spread along every vein. That hot, moist invasion was what she had fought so valiantly, and yet, now that it had happened, she was helpless to resist. With her senses spiralling, she surrendered to the increasing urgency of his kiss and, hardly aware of what she was doing, her clutching fingers sought his neck. His skin was
silky-smooth beneath her hands, just that slight abrasion on his chin to chafe her knuckles. The hair that lapped his collar was soft, too, and her fingers twisted into its thickness, tugging his head towards her. She had forgotten where she was, and what she was doing, and who she was doing it with, and it came as a tremendous shock when Rafe abruptly dragged himself away from her.
With her senses swimming as they were, it was not surprising that Helen took a few moments to realise what had happened. Wrapped in the cocoon of sexual arousal, she had ceased to think, only to feel. But what she had felt—or what she was almost sure she had felt, it was difficult to be certain in her uncertain state—was probably the reason why Rafe had so summarily put an end to his offensive, she surmised, struggling to rationalise what had occurred. What had begun as a calculated attempt to humiliate her, had somehow backfired, and in the seconds before Rafe had released her, she had perceived the stirring pressure between his legs. It didn’t reassure her. She was still as shocked and disgusted with her own reactions as it was possible to be. But it did augur rather better for the future. Rafe would be far less likely to touch her, if by doing so he proved his own vulnerability. Or rather, lack of control, thought Helen, with distaste. It was as she had always believed—he was overconfident and over-sexed!
Now, however, she had to deal with the present situation and, for all her rationalisation, it stuck in her throat to remember how feeble she had been. She didn’t understand it. Adam had never achieved that total obliteration of her identity, and in her desperate state she wondered if there was something wrong with her. Could she only respond to a forced assault on her senses? Had what Rafe had done to her in her youth not only destroyed her ability to respond naturally, but put in its place this shameful need for a violent subjugation? Was it possible? Was that why her senses had refused to obey her? Was that why even now her blood was racing, hot and thick, through her veins?
But now was not the time to probe the complexities of her psyche. Convincing herself that what had happened was still too fresh in her mind to apply reason to, she carefully eased herself away from the Daimler, relieved to find that at least her spine had suffered no lasting damage. Her parka looked a little crushed, her hair was loosening from its knot, and the removal of Rafe’s body had left an unexpected chill as the night air sought to reassert its dominance, but otherwise, physically, she was unharmed.
Rafe, meanwhile, had stepped back from her, raking his long fingers through the silky swathe of hair that had invaded his temple. His mouth was taut, his features grim; even the encroaching darkness could not disguise his evident displeasure. In spite of the fact that everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, it was only seconds since he had drawn back from her, and her movements, albeit tentative ones, instantly caught his attention.
‘Don’t expect me to apologise,’ he grated, dragging the sides of his jacket together and fastening the single button. ‘You asked for that, and you got it. Now, just get out of my sight, will you? You make me sick!’
‘I—make you sick?’ Helen was infuriated beyond reason. ‘I don’t know how you——’
‘Save it, will you?’
‘No, I won’t save it! Why should I? You practically break my neck getting me out of the car; you insult me and abuse me, and force your disgusting attentions upon me——’
‘Not so disgusting, if I’m any judge,’ he retorted wryly, incensing her even more. ‘Look, I’m cold! If we must continue this discussion, at least let’s do it some place warmer. You may be as hot-blooded as a bitch in heat, but I——’
‘Don’t say that!’ Helen practically screamed the words at him, and Rafe’s eyebrows arched with knowing insolence.
‘Why not? It’s the truth.’
‘It is not the truth!’
‘No?’ He tipped up the collar of his jacket so that the dark leather framed his face. ‘Oh, Helen, we both know you’re lying——’
‘And I suppose you’re going to deny that you felt anything!’ Helen spat angrily, only realising after the words were spoken how she was wasting her initiative. But it was too late now. She had lost any opportunity to save that accusation for a more calculated moment, and her stomach twisted at the mocking expression it engendered.
‘No,’ said Rafe carelessly, casting a deliberate glance down at the closely-fitting narrowness of his trousers. It was a provocative thing to do, intending—and succeeding—in drawing Helen’s eyes to the innocent flatness of his stomach. Such evidence as there had been had now subsided, but his coarseness could still bring a wave of embarrassment to her face. ‘I’m only human,’ he told her mildly and, with a moan of anguish, Helen turned and fled into the house.
Helen was amazed at the turn-out for her grandmother’s funeral. In spite of the weather, at least a dozen cars followed the hearse taking Lady Sinclair on her last journey from Castle Howarth to the church of St Mary’s. Much to Helen’s relief, a thaw had set in, enabling the traffic to move quite freely, and she hoped tomorrow to rescue her car from the Blue Boar in Salisbury. She intended to ask Mr Dobkins if his son would drive her there in his delivery van. That way, she could avoid having to ask Rafe to take her. She had no desire to speak to Rafe, let alone ask for his assistance. Since their brawl the previous afternoon—she would not flatter the encounter by calling it anything else—she had managed to avoid any contact with him and, although she might be obliged to share his company today, she consoled herself with the approaching prospect of his dismissal.
The funeral service was short but poignant. The Reverend Peter Morris, looking much different from the harassed man of the day before, conducted the ceremony with skill and sensitivity, rekindling in his listeners the belief that death was not an end in itself. Even those members of his congregation who generally doubted the precepts of the church could not doubt his faith in the Almighty and, although Helen entered the church with a feeling of bereavement, she left it with spirits not so much uplifted as enlightened.
A chill did descend as the door to the mausoleum was opened and a lamp illuminated the last resting places of other Sinclairs. It was dank in the tomb, and the scraping of wood on stone was eerie to say the least. Although all the people who owed their livelihood to the estate had attended the funeral, only Helen, and Miss Paget, and Frank Graham, her grandmother’s solicitor and close personal friend, attended this final interment. And as if sensing the atmosphere himself, the vicar did not eulogise long over the coffin. The words Helen found she could vaguely remember from her own parents’ funeral were said, and then the mahogany coffin was sealed inside its stone facsimile. As the grating sound of stone against stone assailed Helen’s ears, she stepped backwards, only to feel the heels of her boots dig into someone’s foot. Her instinctive words of apology were stifled when she turned to find it was Rafe Fleming who was standing behind her, and she shook off the hand that had righted her with the vehemence of a terrior shaking free of a rat.
Her lips formed the word: ‘You!’ but somehow she managed to remain silent. She could not despoil her grandmother’s memory by voicing her resentment here, but the knowledge of his presence was like a festering wound inside her. The man had no conscience, she thought incredulously. He was so unfeeling he couldn’t conceive that even were he the paragon her grandmother had thought him, he did not have the right to intrude on family grief. It didn’t matter that for once he was dressed as formally as Adam Kenmore might have been, his dark grey suit and pale grey shirt, with its contrasting black tie accentuating the sleekly-combed lightness of his hair. His expensive clothes and the veneer of civility they gave him only added to her frustration, and the fact that she was conscious of him in a way she had never been conscious of any other man simply strengthened her determination to get rid of him. Had her grandmother ever felt this way, she wondered fancifully. Had there ever been a time when she apprehended the hold he might ultimately achieve over her? But no. Helen had to concede that Lady Elizabeth’s involvement had been totally voluntary, and if she h
ad succumbed to his unarguable physical attraction, she had had the option not to do so at the start.
As well as those members of the estate staff who had known Lady Elizabeth for many years and who had come to pay their last respects, there were people from the village and the other outlying districts. Her grandmother had been a well-known, and well-liked, member of the community, and Helen had to keep a tight rein on her emotions as one after another they came to offer their condolences. By the time she allowed Frank Graham to usher her into the leading car for the ride back to the house, she felt as if the years had rolled away and she was once again the well-loved grand daughter of the house. At least there was no animosity from them, she thought tensely, and closed her eyes against the image of Rafe assisting Miss Paget into the second car.
At the house, the handful of servants hired for the occasion were waiting to serve a cold collation. In order that Mrs Pride, and Mrs Sellers, could attend the funeral, Rafe had arranged for a firm of caterers from Yelversley to handle the buffet lunch. While welcoming their efforts, Helen couldn’t help but resent yet more of Rafe’s high-handedness. He should have consulted her, she argued silently, when her conscience pricked her. She refused to concede that he might not have had an opportunity, and fed her dislike by not mentioning it.
The house itself was a miracle of what could be achieved with a minimum amount of time and a maximum amount of effort. The hall, where Helen received her guests, glowed with the patina of polished wood, and the huge fire that had been lit in the hearth threw dancing curls of flame over the portrait of Lady Elizabeth that hung above the mantel. In the blue drawing room, where double doors had been opened to the dining room beyond, the light from a gleaming chandelier was gentle on the high-backed sofas and Regency-striped chairs of another age. But the rosewood marquetry of a George III cabinet and the delicate glaze of the porcelain residing inside, looked as if they were newly minted, and Helen guessed her grandmother would be proud that the old building had been briefly revitalised.
