Mistress On Loan. Sara CravenЧитать онлайн книгу.
on reverence.
Soon, Adrien thought dreamily, it would be installed—the centrepiece of the room—and of their marriage.
And Zelda had unearthed some fabulous fabric, incorporating a heavily stylised pattern in blue, green and gold, from which she was making the hangings for the bed and the windows.
Three months from now, she thought, I’ll be sleeping in that bed with Piers.
Happy colour rose to her face, and she laughed softly to herself.
She would still keep this morning tryst with the house, however. Only she’d wear the peignoir in ivory silk and lace that she’d bought on her last trip to London instead of the jade towelling robe which had seen better days, she thought, giving it a disparaging look.
And her dark auburn hair would be cascading over her shoulders instead of hauled up into an untidy topknot.
She would save this room until last, as she’d always done. Keeping it special. And once the new window curtains were pulled back, and she’d looked out over the wide lawns at the rear of the house, she’d go over to the bed and kiss Piers awake. And he would draw her down into the shadowed softness, back into his arms.
So far it was only a fantasy that stirred her blood and brought her senses to trembling life. But very soon now it would be reality.
She walked slowly to the window and looked out at the view she’d come to love.
And stopped, gasping, her hand flying to her mouth.
A man was standing in the middle of the expanse of grass, looking up at the house. A man dressed all in black, with an overcoat hanging from his shoulders like a cloak and early mist coiling round his legs, giving him an air of unreality, as if he’d come from another age and been caught in a time slip.
He was so still that for a moment she thought he wasn’t human at all, but a statue that someone had placed there during the night as some kind of bizarre joke.
But then she saw the breeze lift the skirts of the coat and ruffle the dark blond hair, and realised that, whatever else, she was confronted by flesh and blood.
She thought, But not Piers, and her heart plummeted, shock replaced by disappointment. Piers wasn’t quite as tall as the figure below, and his hair was raven-dark. And yet—just for a second—she’d experienced this curious sense of familiarity.
Who is he? she asked herself. And what is he doing here?
The Grange had its share of visitors, most of them driven by curiosity to see how the work was progressing. But they didn’t come at sunrise, and usually they asked first.
Adrien swallowed. A visitor who came unannounced this early in the day had to be an intruder. Someone who was up to no good. A potential burglar casing the place? she wondered frantically. She’d heard of empty houses being stripped to the bone, their fixtures and fittings carried off. And downstairs there was a brand-new kitchen, as well as Angus Stretton’s library, its walls still lined with books.
She said fiercely under her breath, ‘But this house isn’t empty. And you’re not taking anything.’
She turned and ran to the door, tearing along the corridor to the wide oak staircase, launching herself downwards.
The drawing room was also at the rear of the house, to take advantage of the view, and French windows led on to the terrace. She ran towards them, grabbing the keys from the pocket of her robe.
It was the stark chill of the stone flags under her bare feet that startled her into awareness of what she was doing. She hesitated, staring around her, scanning the now-deserted lawn, recognising that the black-clad intruder was nowhere to be seen.
And at the same time she heard in the distance the sound of a departing car. He must, she thought, have parked at the side of the house, where he wouldn’t be seen. But how had he known that?
Adrien realised she was holding her breath, and released it, gulping as common sense belatedly intervened.
What on earth did she think she was doing? she asked herself. Charging down here like a maniac, with only a bunch of keys for protection. Quite apart from wearing nothing except an elderly robe. Hardly confrontation gear, she acknowledged, tightening the belt protectively round her slim waist. And just as well the stranger had disappeared.
But why the hell hadn’t she stayed in the house and used her mobile phone to call for assistance? How could she possibly have taken such a stupid risk?
After all, he could have been violent, and she might have ended up badly injured, or worse.
He must have assumed she wasn’t alone, or else he’d have stood his ground.
Because he’d known she was there. She was convinced of it. Certain that he’d seen her, somehow, standing in the window. And that his dark figure had stiffened.
But that’s crazy, she thought, beginning to shake inwardly at the realisation of her narrow escape. He couldn’t possibly have picked me out from that distance. I’d have simply been another shadow inside the house.
And I couldn’t have noticed such a detail either. I’m letting my imagination run away with me.
She straightened her shoulders and stepped back into the drawing room.
It was over, she reassured herself, and nothing had happened. But she would play safe and report the incident to the local police station, although there wasn’t much they could do without a detailed description of a car number.
He’d invaded her privacy, she thought, as she trailed back upstairs to shower and dress. Spoiled that first golden hour of her day. Made her feel edgy and ill at ease, as if a storm was brewing.
Oh, pull yourself together, she adjured herself impatiently. You’re reacting like a spoiled child. And you’ll have tomorrow and all the days to come to treasure, so you’re hardly deprived.
And he was probably some poor soul who’d been driving all night and had turned in at the wrong gate through tiredness.
She gave a small, fierce nod, and turned on the shower.
She dressed for action, in a tee shirt under a pair of denim dungarees, and secured her hair at the nape of her neck with an elastic band.
Over a breakfast of toast and coffee, she reviewed what the workmen would be doing when they arrived, making notes on her clipboard as she ate.
There was some tiling to complete round the new Aga in the kitchen, and plumbing to install in the laundry room. They’d converted the old flower room into a downstairs cloakroom, and if the plaster was dry that could be painted. The panelling in the dining room was finished, but the ceiling needed another coat of emulsion.
Most of the bedrooms were finished, apart from the one with the camp bed that she was occupying at the front of the house.
She decided she would make a start on that, peeling off the layers of old wallpaper with the steam stripper. It was a messy process, but she enjoyed it.
Remembering how immaculately the house had been kept in Mr Stretton’s time, Adrien could have wept when Piers had taken her back there to see what needed to be done. The plaster had been flaking, and there had been damp patches on some upstairs ceilings. In addition, her practised nose had warned her that dry rot was present.
‘My God,’ Piers had muttered. ‘It might be easier just to pull the place down.’
‘No.’ She’d squeezed his hand. ‘We’ll make it beautiful again. You’ll see.’
And she’d been as good as her word, she reflected, with satisfaction. The Grange was looking pretty wonderful already. Most of the work that was left was cosmetic—adding finishing touches—so that the final bills should be relatively modest.
At least compared with the last batch that she’d just paid, she remembered, shuddering.
She was making good