Bridegroom On Loan. Emma RichmondЧитать онлайн книгу.
you…’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘No. I should have left it until tomorrow, but I needed to check some figures.’
‘And being an impatient sort of person…’ he murmured.
‘Yes. I didn’t know a gale was imminent. I didn’t see the weather report. I knew March was supposed to be windy, but…’ She felt awkward. Nervous of being alone with him. ‘And then I missed the turning,’ she continued with false brightness. ‘What’s with the dragons?’
‘Dragons?’
‘Mm. The Muted Dragon, Dragon’s Rest. St Maxim’s Forest known for them, is it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A local legend, I expect.’
‘I should have asked the one I met. If I’d had time, that is. Trees falling on you tend to limit conversation somewhat. Sorry,’ she apologised with a wan smile. ‘I always ramble when I’m tired. It’s been one hell of a day.’ And was liable to get worse. Her awareness of him in the intimacy of the darkened room was ten times worse than it normally was. Unable to sit still, she put her coffee on a nearby table and got to her feet. Hands shoved into her jacket pockets, she walked across to the window. ‘What were you doing out? Looking for damage?’
‘No, I was on my way home. The road was blocked. I left the Land Rover and walked.’
‘Lucky for me.’
‘Yes.’
Turning, she gave him a small smile that he probably couldn’t see in the dark room. ‘I loved that car. Stupid, isn’t it? I mean, get a life, Carenza…’ Tailing off, she returned her attention to the darkened window. All she could see was herself. She was never at a loss for words. Never. And now she couldn’t think of one.
‘Are you hungry?’
She shook her head. ‘I had something earlier.’
‘Then if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’d better empty the freezer.’
‘Yes, of course.’
When he’d gone, she returned to the chair and picked up her mug. Both hands wrapped round it for warmth, she stared at the fire. Miss No Brain, she scolded herself. All it needed now was for the beauteous Helena to come wafting in. Even an idiot could have sensed the tension between them—not that she thought Helena an idiot—she didn’t know her, didn’t want to know her—but she couldn’t have failed to miss the fact that Beck was as aware and tense as she was. Which naturally begged the question, why? If he was in love with Helena, why would he be attracted to herself? Because he was. She knew he was. The pair of them had been as inarticulate as teenagers. And Beck wasn’t a man for inarticulateness. He wasn’t a shy man.
Resting her mug on her knee, she continued to stare into the fire. Continued to think about him. Speculate. As she had been doing since the first time she met him.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, only remembered waking. Opening her eyes, she stared blankly at the fire. It was freshly banked, warm and cosy. A blanket covered her, and the wind had stopped. Silence. Complete and utter silence. Grey light filled the room, and she turned to look at the window. A window framed by expensive curtains. It was raining, she saw.
Allowing her gaze to roam, she pulled a face, partly envious, partly wry. The whole room was expensive. Being an interior designer, she could tell, almost to the last penny, how much it had all cost. Not entirely to her taste with all those small tables holding lamps, too much like something out of a magazine, but tasteful, she supposed. The only thing she really liked was the fire.
She’d never been in the house, never been alone with him. On the few occasions when they had met, it had always been in the centre when other people were present—and she couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep. Too many late nights, she supposed, and a weekend spent chasing clients who owed her money. And the day-to-day tension that she might see Beck, of course. Who was engaged to Helena. And women knew, didn’t they? When another woman was attracted to their man?
You can sometimes be very silly, Carenza. Masochistic even. Yes.
With a deep sigh, a wide yawn, she pushed the blanket aside. The knees of her tailored trousers were torn and muddy, her boots caked with God only knew what. Her jacket was creased. And she ached. Stretching to ease her cramped muscles, she went to peer at her reflection in an ornate mirror, and tried to smile. Something the cat wouldn’t have brought in. Her long hair was tangled, her mascara smudged. Wetting a finger, she wiped away the worst of it and then turned away, because there was absolutely nothing she could do about how she looked. She didn’t even have a comb with her.
Walking into the large kitchen, she halted with another dented smile. It was also expensively decorated. A blue enamel Aga stood proudly against one wall; a matching blue hood with a brass rail hovered protectively above it. The stone flags were cold beneath her feet. The oak cupboards and units matched the long table and chairs, the tiles matched the floor, the walls the curtains. Someone’s idea of a country kitchen. Except it wasn’t. She’d been in a great many country kitchens, and they didn’t look like this. There should be muddy wellington boots, raincoats, a dog basket…Where did poor Spanner sleep? Not here, obviously.
There was no sign of Beck, or Helena, but a kettle steamed gently on the Aga. Milk, sugar and coffee had been left on the work surface. Taking a cup from the mock Welsh dresser, she made herself a hot drink and went to stare from the window. The rain was falling heavy and straight. Noisy. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, menacing sound, and she spared a thought for the poor clear-up crews who would be working out in this. She could see a lot of the damage from here. White, ugly scars on the trees where branches had been ripped off, those that were left standing, that was. There were scattered bricks across what looked like a dug-up lawn. Perhaps that was the next item for renovation.
Sipping her coffee, lost in her thoughts, she started when she heard the back door open. Turning, heart beating over-fast, she found a faint smile as Beck walked in. Drowned rat wasn’t in it. Hair plastered to his head, jacket and jeans soaked through, he gave a small smile back, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke,’ he apologised quietly. ‘I just wanted to check for damage.’
‘That’s all right. How bad is it?’
‘Bad. The “front”, as it’s being called,’ he murmured humorously as he shrugged out of his jacket, shook it and draped it over a chair, ‘cut a swathe through the south of England about a mile wide. Anything in its path was either uprooted or destroyed. Fortunately, it seems to have missed any major towns. I don’t suppose the true extent of the damage will be known for a few days. Certainly the electricity won’t be on for a while. Did you sleep all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Never one to pussy-foot around, she said bluntly, ‘I haven’t seen Helena.’
He looked away, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘No,’ he agreed quietly. ‘She isn’t here.’
‘Oh.’
Sounded like a sensitive subject, best avoided, perhaps, and she was disgusted with herself for the rush of hope she felt that they might have split up. Returning her attention to the garden, she observed lightly, ‘The storm will have put your landscaping plans back.’ When he didn’t answer, she turned to look at him, curiosity in her dark eyes. ‘No landscaping?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
One hand on the back of the chair where he’d tossed his jacket, he said quietly, ‘I tried to keep it separate.’
‘Sorry?’ she asked in confusion.
‘The house and the conference centre. I tried to keep them separate.’ His back to her, he walked across to the Aga and put the kettle back on to boil.
Thoroughly bewildered, she asked lamely,