Wild Lady Part 21

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 pale, b.u.t.termilk 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 a.s.sured her.

"Is it?" Claudia regarded the ancient bra.s.s 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 inquired, 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 organization." 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 bra.s.s bedstead. She considered asking him to swap but managed to restrain herself, it seemed safer that way. "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 organize 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 cas.e.m.e.nt 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 shriveled 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 gray in the sky. The colors were reflected in the stretch of water that lapped at the dark silhouette of reeds fringing the sh.o.r.e 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 never got big enough to interest anyone very much."

"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 it 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 which runs management courses."

"And he sold you the cottage and the lake that was too small for anyone else to bother with?" He didn't make any response 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 that had been almost palpable, eased as the subject s.h.i.+fted to more practical matters. "I think I can work it out," she a.s.sured 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 realize 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 antic.i.p.ating that she would want to cover her hair, hide it. If she'd been told that Claudia would be wearing it like an old-fas.h.i.+oned 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 duster, 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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 minimize the damage. The poor girl had been so upset that Claudia had had to rea.s.sure 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? Not a second longer.

She swept and dusted and polished, coughing and sneezing and transferring a large quant.i.ty of it to herself until she got the hang of damping everything down with the spray first. Then she turned her attention to the bed. The chest of drawers yielded white bed linen and a yellow and white striped coverlet that matched the curtains, although by the time she had finished it was barely light enough to see anything, let alone the pale stripes. Downstairs it was much darker.

Gabriel had already lit half a dozen or so candles and the soft luminous glow combined with the flames flickering around the logs to banish any lingering cobwebs to the darkness, leaving a small inviting area in front of the freshly cleaned hearth. A window overlooking the darkening surface of the lake had been thrown open wide to let in fresh air, she could hear the disgruntled chuntering of water fowl settling down for the night and a blackbird was making sure everyone knew that he was king of the neglected garden. It should have been idyllic; instead it was just a little sad.

But, aided by the homely scents of cooking, the long closed-up fustiness of the cottage was in retreat and suddenly hungry, Claudia was drawn to the kitchen. Gabriel hadn't wasted his time. The surfaces glistened damply where they had been washed down and now he had turned his attention to the dishes. The scene provoked an image of homeliness, of comfortable togetherness, which she found disturbing. They weren't at home, or together, but had been thrust into one anther's company by fear and guilt.

She hadn't made a sound yet apparently sensing her presence he swung round and the cozy image evaporated in an instant along with the "new" man. Gabriel's features were thrown into sharp relief in the shadowy light, his expression dangerous, his body taut and menacing. She knew she should have been rea.s.sured by his alertness, but she found it distinctly unnerving. Seeing her in the doorway he visibly relaxed and she released a long, slow breath, making a mental note to whistle "Dixie" in future, just to make sure he heard her coming. "You've been busy," she said.

"So have you." Mac scanned her appearance with a thoughtful look. "The bedroom must be a lot cleaner," he remarked. "Most of the dirt seems to be on you."

"Isn't that supposed to happen?" she inquired, with every indication of surprise. "When I played the housemaid they didn't have real dirt," she explained.

"You can have make-believe dirt?"

"You buy it in spray cans. Cobwebs, too," she told him. He looked slightly perplexed, not entirely sure whether she was kidding him or not and rather enjoying having the upper hand for once, she didn't enlighten him. "Where shall I put these?" she asked, indicating her cleaning materials.

"There's a cupboard over there." The door set into the wall concealed the s.p.a.ce beneath the stairs. She had been expecting a "black hole", full of junk and spiders. Instead it was lined with shelves containing the standard array of household cleaning equipment. There were also a number of paint tins, mostly unused and a sad array of paintbrushes stuck into a pot of white spirit that had long since dried up. She quickly shut the door.

"I think I'd better wash my hands before supper." There was only one other door. She opened it and was disconcerted to discover that several steps led down into the dark interior of a pantry.

"Go out of the back door," Mac instructed. "It's the next door along."

"Outside?"

"I'm afraid so. I can't put in a door from the kitchen because of building regulations. I was planning to extend -" He stopped rather suddenly, turned away to stare down at the sink.

"That sounds like a good idea," Claudia said, brightly, when it became obvious he wasn't going to say any more, clearly wished he hadn't started. "This could be made into a lovely cottage." It didn't help. In fact, she realized that under the circ.u.mstances it was probably rather tactless. It suggested she didn't much like it the way it was. But then tact, like housework, was a skill she had somehow managed to sidestep. "Gabriel -" she began, but he didn't want to hear what she had to say.

"You'll need this," he said, cutting her off as he unhooked a heavyweight torch from behind the door.

She hesitated for a moment wanting to tell that she was here for him, a willing ear if he wanted to talk. But his face was blank, discouraging and instead she looked down at the torch. "Isn't this rather ... modern?" she inquired.

He visibly relaxed at her teasing note. "You can take a candle if you prefer. I always find they blow out at the most inconvenient moments."

Despite her reservations the facilities were modern, the water was hot and there were no spiders - at least none that she could see - and Gabriel had put out a clean towel. The torch threw a bright light, but since she couldn't hold it and wash at the same time, the beam was either pointing at the ceiling, or the wall, leaving her reflection little more than a ghostly shadow in the mirror. But she peeled off her T-s.h.i.+rt and did the best she could. Her face stung, but at least she was clean.

"There, it wasn't so bad, was it?" he inquired, as she hung the torch back in its place and took down a tea towel to start on the drying up.

"Ask me again when it's raining. Are those jacket potatoes I can smell cooking?"

"And sausages." He glanced at her slender figure. "Maybe you don't eat sausages?"

"Not often, but it's long a time since I indulged in comfort food and now seems like a good time."

Gabriel put down a plate just as she reached for one and their hands collided. It was like a shock going through her, spreading out, heating her, until she was glad of the candlelight to cover her blushes.

He moved his hand away from hers as carefully as if he were easing himself away from a close encounter with a land mine. She knew how he felt.

"Comfort food?" he asked, carefully.

She concentrated very hard on drying a plate. "You know, the kind of food that the best nannies give you to make you feel better. When it's the last day of the holidays and you're dreading going back to school, or when you've got a cold and steamed fish and vegetables, no matter how many times you've been told they're nouris.h.i.+ng and good for you, just won't go down. Or when you just need cheering up because..." Because your mother is having a bad day. Or someone has thrown a tin of paint over you.

"Oh, comfort food. You mean dripping toast and fried egg sandwiches and -"

"Do I?" she interrupted before he got too carried away. "I don't think so. Not fried egg sandwiches, anyway."

His teeth flashed white as he grinned. "You don't know what you're missing. Did you have a lot of nannies?"

"I was a bit of handful."

"You still are," he a.s.sured her, but his look became pensive. "But it's no way for a child to grow up. Your father suggested as much."

Most people a.s.sumed that she had had an idyllic childhood. His perception was oddly disconcerting. "Did he?" She lifted a shoulder to her ear. "Well the alternative was boarding school; you pays your money and you takes your pick." Her mother had wanted to send her away the moment she was eight. Beau had protested, but she would have got her way. She always did. Then there was the accident and boarding school had been temporarily shelved. An eight-year-old couldn't be trusted to keep secrets. Maybe, on reflection, it would have been wiser of her father to have got them both out of the house before their mother came home from the hospital. But he didn't. He was going through his own personal nightmare at the time, so she and Fizz became extras in the continuing drama of Elaine French's glamorous life. The show must go on. Her hands suddenly began to shake, a saucer slipped. Mac turned quickly to field it and their hands, their arms, their shoulders tangled. "Are we going to wash the entire contents of this kitchen?" she demanded, jerking away from him, leaving him in possession of the saucer.

"Not tonight. But I thought you would object to eating off dusty plates and it seemed a shame to waste the water." He took the cloth from her, dried up the remainder of the dishes before emptying the sink and wiping it down. "Supper won't be long. Could you handle a drink? There might be a bottle of wine somewhere." He didn't wait for her answer but unhooked the torch from its place behind the door and stepped down into the pantry. He returned a moment or two later with two bottles that clouded with condensation in the warmth of the kitchen.

Curious, she reached out and touched one of them. It was cold. "All the pleasures of civilization despite the lack of electricity?"

"Civilization was heavily into pleasure long before the National Grid. Or the invention of the refrigerator. They had ice cream in sixteenth century Italy. I can't manage that tonight, but since the back of the pantry is below ground cold wine isn't a problem. Red or white?"

"White please."

He uncorked the bottle, poured two gla.s.ses and handed one to her. "What shall we drink to?"

Claudia stared into her gla.s.s. "Why are you doing this, Gabriel?" She lifted heavy lids and looked at him. "Why are you going to all this trouble when we both know that you don't think I'm worth two minutes of your time?"

"Did I say that?"

"You never say anything, but you think very loudly." For a moment the air was charged with enough electricity to make the candles redundant. Then Claudia shrugged. "Whilst I have a reputation for never thinking at all and saying far too much."

"Do you? Well perhaps that's the way you like it because you don't go out of your way to correct the impression people have of you. No matter how mistaken they are." He gestured towards the door. "Supper won't cook any more quickly if we stand and watch it. Shall we make ourselves comfortable?"

In reply she settled herself in one the armchairs, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her.

A piece of wood dropped in the grate sending up a flurry of sparks, but the flames had died down around the logs and there was more cheer from the glow than heat which was just as well. Her tussle with the dust has warmed her through and Gabriel's words, the intensity of his look, had gone a long way to completing the job of heating her blood.

She waited while he settled in the chair opposite, while he stretched out long legs that filled the s.p.a.ce between them, crossing his ankles so that she was confronted by the largest pair of feet she'd ever seen on a man. When he was upright, they were in proportion and they weren't so noticeable, now she had difficulty in taking her eyes of them. Gabriel, staring into the pulsing embers of the fire, didn't appear to notice.

"Well?" she prompted, gently, when she had waited long enough, reminding him that she was still waiting for an answer to her question. At least he didn't pretend not to know what she was talking about. "I told you, it's personal."

"You're going to all this trouble simply because someone stuffed that photograph of me in one of your parachutes?" Surely he didn't expect her to believe that? "You know it has to have been one of the television crew. Why didn't you tackle Barty James about it when you saw him on Sat.u.r.day? He'll have a note of everyone who was there."

"It could have been Mr. James himself," Mac suggested. "Have you considered that?" She scoffed at the very idea and he replied with a grin. "Perhaps you're right. He couldn't have been responsible for the dress, anyway. But I don't need to ask him for a list of his crew, I have my own. Everyone who came onto the airfield was checked in. Maybe you'd like to look at it in case one of the names means something."