The Longest Pleasure

by Anne Mather

  ‘Go away, will you?’

  There was an edge to her voice now, but she didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to her plight. The young man smiled.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ he said confidently, bending to sniff her glass. ‘Brandy, isn’t it? Okay, a double brandy coming up.’

  Helen was outraged. ‘If you buy me a drink, I’ll pour it over you,’ she threatened, and this time there was no mistaking her determination. Her stage whisper carried audibly to anyone in the immediate vicinity and, as she had anticipated, the smile left his face.

  ‘Hey, you’ll get no free ticket from me, lady,’ he snapped, but the look he cast about him was sardonic. With those few carefully-chosen words—and that infuriating grimace—he had turned the tables on her, and Helen seethed at the injustice.

  ‘Still making friends and influencing people, I see,’ remarked another male, but this time aggravatingly familiar, voice. With a feeling of frustration, Helen turned to find Rafe hooking a stool towards him, straddling it beside her as he surveyed her burning face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she muttered unwillingly, not wanting to cause another embarrassing scene, and Rafe took a mouthful from his glass of lager before answering her.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I followed you,’ he admitted, speaking in a low tone, so that their curious audience could not overhear.

  ‘You followed me?’ Helen stared at him indignantly. ‘Why would you do that? And how did you know where I’d gone?’

  ‘Do you mind if I answer the second question first?’ He arched his brows and, receiving a curt nod, he went on: ‘I’d have had to be deaf and blind not to know that you’d gone out.’ He shook his head. ‘If you hoped to escape unnoticed, you shouldn’t bang doors.’

  ‘It wasn’t deliberate,’ Helen sniffed. ‘That still doesn’t explain why you felt the need to follow me.’

  Rafe bent his head, the heavy swathe of ash-streaked hair drooping over his forehead. ‘I was worried about you, believe it or not,’ he responded evenly.

  ‘Worried about me?’ Helen could feel her voice rising and lowered it accordingly. ‘Why should you be worried about me?’

  Rafe shrugged. ‘Helen, be honest. This hasn’t been an easy day for you. I know that. I can guess how you must be feeling——’

  ‘Oh, can you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He lifted his head to impale her with his green gaze. ‘Believe me, I’m not entirely insensitive.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why you allowed that—that creep,’ she gestured irritably in the direction the other man had taken, ‘to insult me!’

  Rafe looked amused. ‘I got the distinct impression you insulted him,’ he responded wryly, and Helen couldn’t resist a belated grimace.

  ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘I don’t need you to worry about me. Go and celebrate your good fortune. Isn’t that what people usually do on these occasions?’

  Rafe expelled his breath heavily. ‘Helen, you have to believe this wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘What?’ She was bitter. ‘Making an old lady feel guilty, because of some imagined injustice her husband had perpetrated? Or suggesting a way to salve her conscience by offering to sacrifice your freedom for the chance to become a rich man?’

  Rafe’s nostrils flared. ‘I did not make the old lady feel guilty. And as for being rich, I can think of more desirable things. I did not come back to Castle Howarth because it was what I wanted. I had a perfectly satisfactory career—and a good life—working for Chater Chemicals.’

  Helen hunched her shoulders. ‘But you did come back,’ she mumbled accusingly. ‘If you felt so strongly about it, why didn’t you refuse.’

  ‘Because the old lady begged me to. And,’ he paused, ‘because she said it was what my grandfather would have wanted.’

  Helen finished her drink. She suddenly felt incredibly weary. ‘What does it matter?’ she said, as much to convince herself as anyone else. She waved her glass dismissingly. ‘It’s too late now to do anything about it.’

  ‘It’s not too late.’ Assuring himself that outside interest in their conversation had subsided, he added tautly: ‘We could still do as she wanted.’

  Helen’s breath almost choked her. ‘What? You mean—you mean——’

  ‘I mean, we could get married,’ he declared quietly. ‘We could obey her wishes and produce a son; an heir for Castle Howarth. Once that was accomplished, there’s nothing in the will that says we couldn’t both go our separate ways.’

  Helen stared at him. ‘I don’t believe you’re actually saying this!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well—well, because it’s crazy——’

  ‘Why is it crazy?’

  Helen’s fingers tightened round the stem of her glass. ‘I don’t even—like you.’

  ‘I don’t much care for you either,’ retorted Rafe flatly. ‘However, I did care for the old lady, and it’s what she worked for.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘My grandmother should have learned that you can’t manipulate people like you can manipulate stocks and shares.’

  Rafe hesitated, and then he said levelly: ‘I suppose it all comes down to character, doesn’t it? Perhaps she thought this was one way to prove which of us cares most for the estate.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Throwing him a look of dislike, Helen got abruptly to her feet. ‘You forget—I already have a fiancé.’

  ‘Who gives you expensive rings, I know,’ conceded Rafe without emotion, capturing her hand before she could prevent him and rubbing the pad of his thumb thoughtfully over the stone. ‘What a pity the old lady never met him. She might have decided differently if she had.’

  Helen wrenched her hand away. The deliberate reference to the fact that her grandmother had never even met the man she was planning to marry stung. Thrusting the hand wearing the ring into her pocket, she turned to push her way out of the bar, pausing only briefly to put her glass on the bar counter.

  ‘You’re not leaving!’ The mocking voice of the young man she had encountered earlier was accompanied by a too-familiar arm about her waist. ‘Come on,’ the voice wheedled, while she fought to get free of him. ‘Lighten up. I could show you a good time, if you’d only let me.’

  ‘The lady’s otherwise engaged.’ Helen never thought she would be glad to hear Rafe’s voice behind her, but she was. Even as she turned her head, he thrust himself between them, and although the other man was heavier, he lacked Rafe’s hard agility.

  ‘If you say so,’ he muttered, edging away from a more physical confrontation, and Rafe grinned.

  ‘Not having a very successful evening, are you, old man?’ he taunted, much to Helen’s dismay. She just wanted to leave, not pursue the argument, but she could hardly walk out when he was defending her.

  The dark man said nothing, but his sullen expression boded ill for someone, and Helen cast a surreptitious glance around her. It only needed for him to summon the help of a couple of friends for this to develop into something nasty, she thought uneasily, and although Rafe resisted, she tugged urgently at his sleeve.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Rafe at last gave in to her pulling, and after assuring herself that he was following her, she preceded him outside.

  ‘Honestly,’ she exclaimed, as soon as they were out of earshot, ‘just exactly what were you planning to do in there?’

  Rafe shrugged, flicking up the collar of his leather jacket as he accompanied her across the car-park. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he remarked sarcastically. ‘You’re too fulsome with your thanks. Really, it isn’t necessary. I was happy to be of service.’

  ‘Well …’ Helen sighed. ‘You were spoiling for a fight, weren’t you? I’m grateful for your intervention, you know that, but I didn’t want to see you beaten up!’

  Rafe gave a derisive snort. ‘Well, thanks for your confidence——’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Helen shook her head. ‘He could have had friends.’

  ‘A creep like that? I doubt it. In any case, I felt
like a fight. I didn’t ask you to be my conscience.’

  Helen gave him an indignant look. ‘No. No, you didn’t, did you?’ she conceded, and without another word she strode off towards the Daimler. The man was impossible, she thought angrily. And he was no better than the man who had accosted her if he was prepared to pick a fight over such a paltry incident. She should have kicked her adversary where it hurt and let Rafe see she was quite capable of handling her own problems. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to pick her up, and she didn’t suppose it would be the last.

  The Daimler was temperamental. After a few encouraging chuggs, it refused to fire, and she was still anxiously twisting the ignition when the Range Rover pulled alongside her.

  ‘Having problems?’

  Helen would have loved to deny it, but experience had taught her to be cautious. ‘It won’t fire,’ she admitted sulkily, winding down her window. ‘I think I’ve flooded the carburettor or something. If I wait a few minutes, I’ll probably get it to go.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ Rafe was abominably smug. ‘It’s not the carburettor that’s refusing to fire, it’s the battery. Can’t you hear how feeble it sounds?’

  Helen controlled her impatience. ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘Abandon it,’ said Rafe at once. ‘I’ll get Brown’s Garage to tow it back in the morning.’

  Helen was suspicious. ‘And—you’ll give me a lift?’

  ‘I wasn’t proposing to leave you stranded here,’ he conceded evenly. ‘Come on. You might as well accept it. Unless you’d like to wait and ask your friend to take you home.’

  Helen cast an apprehensive look towards the pub, but to her relief there was no sign of the man who had approached her. Nevertheless, the prospect of sitting here, waiting to see whether she or Rafe had correctly diagnosed the Daimler’s dilemma, was not appealing. If Rafe drove away, she might well have to go back into the pub to ask for help, and who knew what choices might be offered her.

  ‘Oh—all right,’ she exclaimed with ill grace, winding up the window again and pushing open the door. With some show of resignation, she locked the door before circling the Range Rover, sliding on to the chilly leather seat with evident misgivings.

  ‘It’s just as well there are no other cars at the house,’ remarked Rafe annoyingly, turning on to the highway. ‘You have a penchant for having to abandon vehicles, don’t you?’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea to leave the Porsche in Salisbury,’ retorted Helen heatedly, in no mood for his sarcasm.

  ‘No. You could have abandoned it in a snow-drift, I agree,’ remarked Rafe without rancour. ‘It seems my lot in life is to rescue you from difficult situations. I hope you appreciate it, even if you don’t show it.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to follow me tonight,’ Helen retorted, knowing the barb was unworthy, but too frustrated to curb her tongue. ‘And don’t worry. I shan’t be hanging around much longer.’

  There was silence for a few charged moments, and then Rafe said quietly: ‘You’re leaving.’

  Helen wondered why she hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She made a dismissive gesture, staring out at the piles of snow that edged the road. ‘Sunday, maybe.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going back to my business—and to my fiancé.’

  ‘In that order?’

  She coloured, glad that he couldn’t see her flushed face in the darkness. ‘Don’t be sarcastic.’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised he didn’t come with you. You know—to share your grief with you,’ remarked Rafe, with some irony.

  Helen bent her head. ‘I asked him not to.’

  ‘Why?’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t see that it’s any business of yours. But,’ she lifted her shoulders, ‘I didn’t think it was right. Adam never knew my grandmother. It seemed—inappropriate.’

  Rafe cast her a sideways glance. ‘Is that the only reason?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He considered. ‘Perhaps you didn’t want him to meet me.’

  Helen gasped. ‘You flatter yourself!’

  ‘Hardly,’ Rafe spoke wryly. ‘After the future you had planned for me, you might conceivably not have wanted your fiancé to see the darker side of the woman he hopes to marry.’

  Helen turned to stare at his profile, silhouetted by the reflective light of the snow. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, noticing that they were already entering the village. ‘Thank goodness. We’re almost home—there.’

  Rafe ignored the correction. ‘You know what I mean,’ he insisted, turning into the lane that bordered the church. ‘Poor old Paget was quite concerned that you might order me off the premises before the old lady’s will was read.’ His lips twisted. ‘That was what you had in mind, wasn’t it?’

  Helen pursed her lips. She knew she shouldn’t answer him. She knew she shouldn’t get into an argument with him when there was still over a mile to go. He was goading her, that was all. He wanted her to lose her temper. But not yet; not until they were within sight and sound of the house.

  The gateposts loomed ahead, white sentinels guarding the private road leading to Castle Howarth. Rafe negotiated them without any apparent effort, and then he added blandly: ‘What’s the matter? Lost your taste for the truth?’

  Helen’s teeth ground together. ‘All right,’ she said, her emotions getting the better of her. ‘What if I did anticipate your departure with some satisfaction? I never wanted you here. You know that. And as far as I’m concerned, the revelations about our relationship—whether or not they’re legitimate—don’t mean a thing!’

  Rafe’s foot jammed heavily on the brake and the Range Rover skidded sideways. Helen grabbed for the edge of her seat as the tyres hit a snow-drift, and then an ominous silence descended around them as the engine was extinguished. She thought at first that it had died, but a hasty glance in Rafe’s direction solicited the knowledge that he had turned it off. His hand, withdrawing from the swinging keys, was answer enough, and her eyes widened angrily as she gazed at his shadowed face.

  Even so, she took a steadying breath before saying recklessly: ‘Isn’t this rather melodramatic? I can walk back from here, you know. But I have to say, even Paget may not approve of these tactics. Not on the day of my grandmother’s funeral and——’

  ‘Shut up!’ Rafe’s command was low, but no less effective because of it. ‘Have I said I’m going to make you walk the rest of the way? Have I threatened you? For God’s sake, Helen, I simply want to know what you meant by that crack about our relationship!’

  Helen swallowed. She had said what she had on the spur of the moment. It had been said impulsively; foolishly, no doubt; and more to hurt him than through any real uncertainty on her part. Rafe was her cousin. She had to accept it. However unpalatable that might be.

  Now, however, the anguish in his voice kindled a spark of wickedness inside her. It was good to know that Rafe was not entirely without conscience. Or perhaps, unlike her, he still nurtured some doubts about his ancestry. Whatever the reason, her careless words had scraped a nerve, and she was not about to lose her unexpected advantage.

  ‘What’s the matter, Rafe?’ she taunted, forgetting all her good intentions. ‘Has it occurred to you that your mother might have been lying? I mean, in spite of the birth certificate, we only have her word that Gilbert Sinclair was your father!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  HELEN’S legs were shaking, the muscles strained and aching, by the time she got back to the house. It wasn’t so much the distance—though in all honesty it had proved farther than she had thought—it was the slipperiness, the unevenness of the ground, and the fact that any minute she had expected Rafe to run her down. She would have cut across the park except that the ground was still thickly covered, and her boots were not designed for ploughing through snow-drifts. Besides, if she could have cut across the par
k, so could the Range Rover, and at least on the road she had the chance, however unlikely, of meeting someone else. Running away from someone was a terrifying experience, particularly when one was in fear of one’s life, and it was no exaggeration to say that that was exactly what she had feared when Rafe lunged angrily towards her. She shouldn’t have said what she did. It had been cruel and stupid—not to say foolhardy in her vulnerable position. If she had wanted to score points, she should have waited until she was safely back home, not risked life and limb at the mercy of a man whose pedigree was suspect, to say the least.

  Thrusting her key into the lock and pushing the door open, she felt an enormous sense of relief. She had made it. By some miraculous means she had reached the house safely, and if she pondered why Rafe should have let her escape so easily, she was too filled with elation to let the notion trouble her.

  She had reached her own door when Miss Paget opened the sitting room door and looked out. ‘Oh, Helen, it’s you,’ she murmured, her brows drawing together in some confusion. ‘I was looking for Rafe. Do you know where he is?’

  Helen moistened her lips. ‘He’s—coming,’ she admitted, glancing somewhat apprehensively over her shoulder. ‘I—er—the Daimler wouldn’t start. He gave me a lift home from Bewford.’

  Even as she said the words, a twinge of conscience gripped her. In her enjoyment of baiting Rafe, she had overlooked the way he had watched out for her interests. It might have been difficult getting a taxi out from Yelversley on a night like this and, remembering what had happened at the pub, she could have encountered a whole host of difficulties.

  ‘Bewford?’ said Miss Paget now, frowning. ‘What were you doing in Bewford?’

  Helen sighed, conscious that Rafe could appear at any moment, and impatient to make herself scarce. ‘I went for a drink,’ she explained shortly. ‘And now I’m rather tired. Do you mind?’

  ‘Why—no.’ Miss Paget drew the inevitable shawl about her shoulders, looking anxiously towards the outer door. ‘And you say Rafe is just behind you?’