Rachel Lindsay - Forgotten Marriage Page 5

  "You will see me again, won't you?'' he asked.

  "'Why not?" Her composure was restored. "I enjoy riding with you."

  It was still half an hour before lunch when she returned to Green Spinney, and after she had changed she wandered into the library. Of all the rooms she had seen here, she liked this one the best. It was semicircular, with a wide bay window jutting out onto a little terrace of its own.

  The decor of the room was definitely masculine. The carpet was dark blue and wine, the drapes of wine silk and the armchairs covered with a cinnamon- coloured leather. A great rosewood desk stood in the window bay, its top pristine; even the nibs of the old- fashioned pens were clean and shiny. Somehow she knew this room had never belonged to Rufus: everything about it was redolent of Adam.

  A pipe lay on the mantelpiece and she curved her hand around the bowl. She imagined the stem between his lips and unwillingly remembered his kiss. There had been no love in it; only passion and contempt…

  "What are you doing in here?"

  Startled, she swung around. The pipe fell from her hand and broke on the marble hearth.

  Angrily Adam strode forward. "Why were you holding my pipe?"

  "I… I…" Mortified, she knelt to pick up the pieces.

  "Leave them," he commanded. "I'll do it."

  She rose. "I'm awfully sorry, but you frightened me.

  "You shouldn't have been in here. This room is private."

  Annoyed by his tone, her contrition vanished. "Must you be so rude? I should have thought good manners were the first things your mother taught you."

  "When I look at you I'm inclined to forget what my mother taught me." His eyes lingered on her mouth before travelling down the slender line of her body. "I'm also beginning to understand what Rufus saw in you."

  "I'm sure you don't mean that as a compliment."

  "Take it how you like. You know yourself better than I do."

  "But I don't." Childishly she rubbed her knuckles into her eyes. "I don't know myself at all. That's the trouble."

  Negligently Adam leaned against the mantelpiece. The? pose pulled the material of his tight-fitting slacks and outlined his muscular thighs.

  "I'll play your game a little longer, Sharon. What would you like to know about yourself? I'll do my best to enlighten you."

  She decided to ignore his sarcasm and accept his offer at face value. "What happened between Rufus and Helen?"

  'I thought Helen told you."

  "Not all of it. Why were you angry with her for not going to South Africa with him?"

  "I thought you wanted to find out about yourself," he said, "not about me."

  "If you answer my question it will help me to at least understand what Rufus was like."

  Adam half turned away, giving her a view of his clean-cut profile. "He was weak and gullible. That's why I wanted Helen to go with him. She had the strength of character he lacked. Unfortunately she didn't have the courage."

  "Or maybe the love." There was silence. "You must love a man very much to be willing to marry him and try to reform him."

  "Don't make me believe you wanted to do that!"

  Resolutely she held onto her temper. "Your mother has no idea what Rufus did, has she?"

  "No. And she must never find out. The shock could kill her. She still thinks of him the way he used to be as a youngster."

  "Was it fair to keep her in ignorance? Fair to yourself, I mean? I'm sure she feels you could have persuaded him not to go to South Africa."

  "I don't mind how harsh my mother thinks me. Rufus was her favourite and I'll protect her memory of him if it's the last thing I do. That's why I didn't want you to come here. Why I pretended not to know your whereabouts after he died. Then like a fool I left one of your letters on my desk—luckily only the envelope so she didn't read the charming contents. But she found your address on the back of it and wrote inviting you to come here for a holiday, all expenses paid."

  "Is that why you're so furious with me? Because I came?"

  "Does it surprise you?" he said savagely. "Especially when I'd already paid you five thousand pounds—with the promise of a regular allowance—to stay away!"

  "You what?"

  Sharon recoiled from the words as if they were poisoned darts.

  "You heard me. Five thousand pounds and an allowance. But when you received my mother's invitation you wired back and said you were on your way."

  Sharon listened to what she had done as if she were hearing the actions of a stranger. Yet they were the actions of a stranger; for the more unpleasant the things Adam accused her of, the less she could credit herself with doing them.

  "You make me sound dreadful," she said candidly. "But then your behaviour hasn't been very commendable, either. Your resentment seems to boil down to cash, doesn't it? Are you worried that your mother will leave me something in her will?"

  His face darkened with fury, but with a great effort he restrained his temper and moved away from her.

  "I have more than enough money of my own. My concern has always been for my mother's peace of mind. I never wanted her to find out the sort of woman Rufus had married."

  "Was it so dreadful of me not to want to live on your uncle's farm? Lots of girls would hate that sort of life."

  Silently Adam moved to his desk, unlocked a drawer and withdrew a letter.

  "Rufus wrote this the week before he was killed. Perhaps you'd like me to read some of it? "

  Sharon nodded and, as if afraid of what was coming, sank onto the nearest chair. Adam began to read, his voice harsh in the quiet room.

  "I thought Sharon was strong enough to help me overcome my weaknesses—heaven knows I have plenty—but her strength seems to be turned against me and I can't fight it. In the past few days I've thought a lot about Green Spinney and mother. I've got some bug in my bloodstream and it's making me feel low, hence my sudden attack of honesty! But somehow there doesn't seem much to live for. Sharon will leave me if you don't send me some money. She's found some Argentinian boyfriend and is threatening to run off with him. If you could send me a couple of hundred pounds…"

  Adam looked up. "Does that help you to understand why I don't like you? "

  Sharon was at a loss for an answer. On the face of it—and she had no reason to think Adam had made up any part of the letter—she was as despicable as he had said. Yet deep in her bones she could not believe she would ever act the way Rufus's wife had done. But she was his wife—or at least his widow—which was why she was here.

  "Don't tell me you're speechless?" Adam said sarcastically.

  "I am," she confessed. "I can't believe I drank heavily and was unfaithful. It doesn't seem like me."

  "Doesn't it? I can't say I'm convinced of your good nature, though you've put on a good act."

  "You don't want to be convinced. You'll never believe your brother was his own worst enemy. You'd rather put the blame on me." She clutched at the folds of her dress. "Yet you've obviously forgiven Helen for letting him down."

  "I forgave her when I realised she wasn't the right woman for him."

  "Is she the right woman for you?" Sharon asked coolly, but Adam ignored her and went on speaking.

  "When Rufus went to Africa, Helen married on the rebound. It was unhappy from the word go, but when her husband became ill she nursed him devotedly until he died."

  "An ideal wife!"

  "You may joke about it but I happen to think it's true." He inclined his head toward the door. "There's no point continuing this conversation. Simon will be here any moment so perhaps you'd like to go to the drawing room."

  "Aren't you afraid I might tell your mother the whole story?"

  "I'd strangle you if you did." The very softness of his voice increased the threat.

  She laughed nervously. "Then why did you tell me? You could have left me in ignorance."

  "You wanted to know the sort of person you are. Now you know."

  "Yes," she said tremulously, going to the door.
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br />   "Wicked and wanton. But not wicked enough to hurt your mother."

  "Sharon!"

  She turned. "Yes?"

  "Your hair," he said abruptly. "Would a hairdresser really know if it was natural?"

  "Of course. Why?"

  "No reason. Just curiosity." He eyed her, as if debating whether or not to say more. "Did you enjoy your ride this morning?" he went on abruptly.

  "Yes. Especially when I discovered I ride very well. Simon's promised to take me out every morning."

  "Don't forget he has a job to do; acting as your riding companion isn't part of it."

  Sharon drew a sharp breath. "I'm sure your mother wouldn't want me to ride alone. Shall I ask her and let you know the answer?"

  Grey eyes clashed with gentian blue ones and the grey were averted first.

  "You win," he said icily. "Please close the door behind you."

  Sharon was crossing the hall when Beryl called her. "I was looking for you, madam. There's a letter for you."

  "A letter!"

  Sharon took the envelope eagerly, her pulses quickening as she saw it bore a South African stamp. Aware of the maid's curious stare, she slipped it into her pocket and went up the stairs, forcing herself not to run until she had turned a bend in the corridor and no one could see her.

  In the privacy of her bedroom she extracted the letter with shaking hands. There was no address, only the date, and the writing was so sprawling as to be almost illegible.

  My dear Sharon,

  Thank God you were saved! I can also say thank God for the crash, for when I heard it on the news and thought you'd been killed, it made me see what a skunk I was. After a bit of soul-searching I confessed the whole thing to Carol and—wait for it—she's forgiven me!

  You-know-who doesn't know I've confessed and I see no reason to tell her. She'll have a fit of fury when she finds out, but thank heavens she'll no longer be able to harm me. So now the ball's in your court. I know you made a promise but personally I think you're at liberty to call off the whole thing.

  I can't wait to see you, so hurry back. I won't write again till I know what your plans are. Carol sends her love and so do I, plus my undying thanks.

  It was signed "Tim" but the name caused no responsive echo in her brain. She reread the letter, hoping to make more sense of it.

  But it remained a mystery. The writer knew her well and for this reason had not put his address on the envelope. Tim… Tim.

  She kept muttering the name, hoping to evoke some image, however slight. But all she achieved was the familiar throbbing in her head, and she put the letter away in her dressing table. Perhaps if she stopped trying to think who this mysterious man was, her subconscious might provide the answer for her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For the next few days Sharon puzzled over the letter. How many Tims were there in Cape Town, and could one find a man without knowing his surname? She turned over the possibility of starting enquiries, but common sense told her it was hopeless. All she could do was to hope he would write to her again when he received no reply to his letter. He might even telephone.

  The thought was so exciting that each time the telephone rang during the next two weeks, she had to force herself not to rush to answer it.

  She continued to go riding each morning with Simon and though he made no further attempt to kiss her, he bombarded her with compliments.

  "How would you feel about going out riding for a whole day?" he asked when they returned from one of their usual morning canters.

  "Sounds lovely," she smiled, "though I'm not sure

  I should. Mrs. Peters wouldn't like me to be away from her the whole day."

  "I'm sure she wouldn't object if you asked her."

  "That's why I wouldn't ask her!"

  He sighed. "You're a sharp girl behind your angelic appearance."

  She slid down from her horse. "Talking about appearance, when will your sister be needing her jodhpurs back? I feel guilty about wearing them so much."

  "Forget it. She hardly ever visits me."

  "What's her name?"

  "Joan."

  He led the horses into the stable and, sensing his reluctance to talk about his sister, Sharon dropped the subject, grateful she at least had one outfit that Mrs. Peters had not had to buy her.

  Her mother-in-law was in excellent spirits. Being able to talk to someone about Rufus was doing her more good than any medicine, and the only disquieting factor—as far as Sharon was concerned—was that each day the woman became more dependent on her.

  "I must get you a fur coat this winter," she said one afternoon as they were having tea together. "I know how badly you feel the cold."

  "I won't be here in the winter," Sharon said deliberately.

  "Not even for a visit? Anyway, how can you leave us when you still don't know anything about your life?"

  "I know I had an apartment in Cape Town. Adam has the address on the letters I wrote to him."

  "But you moved out of it when Rufus died. Don't you remember?" Mrs. Peters looked distressed. "Oh dear, of course you don't. How silly of me."

  "Don't be upset about forgetting. Sometimes I forget, too. It's rather nice to think of my life beginning here with you."

  "What a charming thing to say!" Mrs. Peters beamed. "I always knew you'd settle down once Adam was nicer to you."

  Sharon privately considered that "nice" was hardly the right word. "Aloof" would have been a far better word to describe her brother-in-law's attitude toward her. But she held her tongue, knowing that to say what was in her heart would needlessly disturb a woman who had shown her nothing but kindness.

  If only Adam was as kind! Since her conversation with him in the library, he had studiously avoided her. And she had made the same effort to avoid him: breakfasting with Mrs. Peters, not coming downstairs until she saw him striding away from the house and often lunching in her own room on the pretext that she felt tired.

  Occasionally he went to London and she would catch a glimpse of him as he was driven off, sitting erect in the back of the car, reading a copy of the Financial Times.

  It was only at dinner that she could not avoid seeing him face to face. But luckily Mrs. Peters was always there, and this forced him to a semblance of politeness, though even in front of his mother he never spoke directly to Sharon if he could help it.

  Several times he dined at Helen's home, and though Sharon had told herself she was glad not to have his forbidding presence at hand, she nonetheless found her ears alert for the sound of his return. It was almost as if her dislike of him made it necessary for her to know where he was and with whom; as if, by so doing, she could stop him from mentally overwhelming her.

  He was the sort of man who was always in control. He might allow passion to sway him but it could never alter him. This thought led her swiftly to another, and she wondered how controlled he was when alone with Helen. Somehow she felt the girl's coldness was only surface deep, and that beneath her veneer she was a deeply carnal woman, one who would respond to a man like Adam…

  "What are you thinking of?" Mrs. Peters asked. "You look so serious."

  "I wasn't thinking of anything," Sharon lied. "Except that I'm living a very lazy life." She yawned and stretched like a kitten. "Is Helen coming over this afternoon?"

  "Yes. Was she on your mind a moment ago?" Seeing Sharon's expression, the older woman chuckled. "That didn't require much deduction on my part. When you look sour or moody, I always know you're thinking of the past or of Helen. They both tend to upset you, don't they? "

  "Yes." Sharon pulled a face. "I hadn't realised I was so transparent."

  "Only to me. I know you so well."

  "How can you? It's only a few weeks since we met."

  "Time isn't just a question of hours and weeks, my dear. It's only Man who has put length to it. You can meet a person and know in an instant they are trustworthy… or equally that they are not."

  "That's a wholly feminine reply! I bet your son wouldn'
t agree with you."

  "He doesn't like relying on his emotions. Men who feel things deeply are often afraid of doing that."

  Unwilling to remain on the subject of a man who was already occupying too much of her thoughts, Sharon leaned closer to her mother-in-law. "If you think you know me so well, tell me what kind of person I am. The truth, though, with no holds barred!"

  There was a chuckle. "How easy that is. You're gentle, kind, emotional and rather impulsive. I also believe that once you love, you love forever. Adam is like you, in that respect."

  Back to Adam again. Forcibly Sharon concentrated on the assessment of herself. "I don't see myself as being all that gentle. I have quite a temper when I'm roused."

  "But you're only roused when other people are cruel. You rush to defend those weaker than you. Just like Adam."

  Once more he was being paraded in front of her, and this time she decided not to fight it. "I can't imagine Adam ever being gentle. Except with you, of course."

  "And with any woman he truly loves. Once he's found her, he'll be like putty in her hands. At one stage I thought he'd found her in Helen, but now I'm not so sure." The soft voice sank lower. "He needs someone with more tenderness; someone more like…"

  Abruptly Sharon pushed back her chair and stood up.

  "How about a stroll?" she suggested. "It's a lovely afternoon."

  Together they walked across the lawn to the lake. Willows arched their branches over the water, lowering their green fingers to touch their own shimmering reflections. A golden Labrador bounded up to them and Sharon bent to pat him, fondling the floppy ears. It was Adam's dog and the animal rarely left his side when he was at home.

  "Good Sandy," she said. "Fetch your ball."

  The dog disappeared among the bushes and emerged holding a bright red ball in his mouth. He dropped it at her feet and barked, his tail waving like a flag.

  "If you'd like to take him for a run," Mrs. Peters suggested "I'll be quite happy to sit on the terrace. I'm afraid to walk along with him; he's inclined to jump up at me."