The Right Bride? (18 page)

All too abruptly, the woods thinned and with a whimper of fear she burst into an open field. A stone wall loomed ahead of her, curving around to the left; sheep were huddled like small boulders on the other side.

The road to the village, she remembered, ran alongside this field. If she could cross the road, she could follow the woods on the far side until she came to the cluster of houses. Once she was at the inn, she’d be safe.

Safe from what? A nightmare? Or from the man in the woods?

He hadn’t exactly attacked her. She’d been the one who’d gone on the attack. Who’d laced her tongue with his in open invitation and pushed her hips against his.

With a moan of despair Karyn scrambled toward the nearest wall which, she now saw, edged the woods all the way back toward Willowbend. A metal gate was inset where the wall met the field. The harsh whine of hinges scraping her nerves, she unlatched the gate, swung it open
and eased through, carefully shutting it behind her. The sheep paid her no attention whatsoever.

The road was empty, its grassy verges fragrant with wildflowers. Her lungs still fighting for air, she crossed it as quickly as she could, easing into the shrubbery on the other side and scurrying toward the lights of the village. The man who’d kissed her had come through the woods; at least he didn’t have a car in which to pursue her.

She’d kissed him with a seductive intimacy that Steve, even in the early days of courtship, had never elicited from her. Yet she didn’t even know the man’s name.

What difference? She didn’t need to know his name. She just had to make sure she never saw him again. She’d reached the first house, stone like so many of the houses here, its tiny front garden jammed with a riot of delphiniums, foxgloves, daisies and poppies. After drawing her coat tighter around her, Karyn pulled her headscarf from her pocket to cover her hair and as much of her face as she could.

The sidewalk, to her great relief, was empty: to have been mistaken for Fiona for the third time that day would have been more than she could bear. To her greater relief, the dour landlord of the inn was nowhere in sight when she pushed open the door; the wood-paneled counter with its tarnished collection of horse brasses was deserted, although she could hear the echo of laughter from the pub. She sneaked up the stairs, unlocked her door and slipped into her room. Quickly she snubbed the latch. Then she leaned back on the panels, letting out her breath in a shuddering sigh.

Her knees were trembling from her flight. Her trousers were flecked with bracken and dirt. She felt both exhausted and horribly wired. But she was alone. And she was safe.

She’d learned two things this evening. That Fiona lived
a privileged life amid surroundings of exquisite beauty; and that her sister had a lover, a black-haired man who had—under the assumption that Karyn was Fiona—kissed her as though there was no tomorrow.

No, Karyn thought sickly, levering herself away from the door and dragging off her coat. She’d learned three things. She’d learned that passion, which she’d thought had died within her long before she was widowed, wasn’t dead after all. It had taken just one kiss from a total stranger to show that her sexuality, far from being dead, had merely been slumbering. Waiting to be reawoken.

Never again, she thought. Never again. Sinking down on the old brass bed, Karyn buried her face in her hands.

It took Rafe nearly five minutes to get the six dogs sitting in a circle at his feet, gazing up at him adoringly, their pink tongues flopping from sharp-toothed jaws. “You’re idiots,” he said coldly. “I love my mother dearly, but on the subject of dogs we differ. I’d have paid ten times over for obedience classes, and will she do it?
Oh darling, they listen to me, and that’s what counts.”

Right. They listened to his mother when she had a pocketful of dog biscuits, that’s when they listened. In a resigned voice Rafe went on, “Okay, we’re going to Fiona’s. I’m locking you in the garage and I’m expecting you to keep your big mouths shut. Have you got that?”

Charlotte flopped down on her belly and rolled over. With an exasperated sigh Rafe headed for the house. In a way, he was almost glad of the six dogs now trooping at his heels as though they’d never leaped up on him and stopped a kiss that had overturned his world. What would have happened next? Would Fiona have gone with him to Stoneriggs and made love with him in his big bed?

Maybe not, he thought with a touch of grimness. After
all, hadn’t she pulled free and run for the woods as though all the hounds of hell were after her? Had she so quickly regretted that surge of passion, wishing it had never happened?

He could have gone after her. But the dogs would have liked nothing better than another mad dash through the trees, and the odds of finding her were slim. Besides, he couldn’t bear the thought of chasing her down like a fugitive.

His whole body was one big ache of frustration. His jaw set, Rafe marched past the perennial garden and across the forecourt of topiaried yews and formal clipped boxwood. He loathed topiary. Clarissa’s gardener was never going to get within a mile of Stoneriggs.

He ushered the dogs into the garage and shut the door firmly, ignoring their downcast faces. He’d walk them home once he’d seen Clarissa and done his level best to find out what had upset Fiona. The haircut. He’d be willing to bet it was the haircut.

What had brought about that particular rebellion?

After cursorily rapping the large brass knocker against the door, Rafe let himself in. His boots were muddy from the stream, and his jeans wouldn’t meet with Clarissa’s approval; but he’d needed the exercise of walking over here from Stoneriggs after the day he’d had. He shucked off his boots, and heard Clarissa call from the dining room, “Is that you, Rafe?”

“Sorry I’m so late,” he called back, and walked into the vast living room with its array of Victorian ceramics, several of which he’d been tempted to knock—accidentally, of course—off their pedestals. There was only one person in the room. She was standing by the fireplace with a Spode cup in her hand; emerald earrings shot green fire as she turned her head.

Fiona.

Her long hair was drawn into an elegant twist on the back of her head. Her dress was a slim pencil of leaf-green.

Rafe’s breath hissed through his teeth. Was he losing his mind?

Not stopping to think, he strode across the room. Taking the cup from her hand, he plunked it down on the priceless Chippendale table, took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth.

No flame of response. No flick of her tongue. No matching heat, body to body.

No surrender.

Only her jerk of shock and sudden withdrawal, her hands warding him off. The sweet naiveté of lilies of the valley drifted to his nostrils, rather than subtle layers of scent that teased all his senses. As he wrenched his mouth free, Fiona gasped, “Rafe! Whatever’s wrong with you?”

Before he could think of a word to say, she added in genuine horror, “What if Mother had seen us?”

“Even your mother must know that old friends kiss each other on occasion.”

“That wasn’t just a friendly kiss!”

“Maybe it’s time for a change.”

“But you’ve never kissed me like that. Ever.”

He had. Only minutes before, under the shadow of the oak tree. Hadn’t he?

His head whirling, Rafe said, “I need a drink.”

“The coffee’s freshly brewed.” Her cheeks bright pink, Fiona indicated the ornate sterling pot on a tray by the hearth.

“Whiskey,” he said tersely, and poured himself a triple from the crystal decanter on the sideboard.

“What’s the matter?” Fiona said, distressed. “I don’t
understand why you’re behaving like this. Didn’t Athens go well?”

He swallowed a hefty gulp of Glenfiddich, gazing at her broodingly. Fiona, well-known friend of so many years. Slim, beautiful, exquisitely groomed, her blue eyes like the delphiniums in the garden, her brows arched like the wings of birds. And her hair, in its thick coil on the back of her head, its wheaten gleam under the chandelier.

It wasn’t Fiona he’d kissed under the trees. Obviously.

So who had he kissed? And where had she gone, that woman who’d looked enough like Fiona to be her sister, yet who’d responded to him as though she was his soul mate? Meant for him, and for him alone, calling to his blood as though he’d known her all his life.

He’d never seen her before this evening. He might never see her again.

“Darlings!” Clarissa said, sweeping into the room in a rustle of taffeta.

“Hello, Clarissa,” Rafe said, and dutifully kissed her expensively scented cheek.

“Lovely to see you, Rafe.” She smiled charmingly at his jeans and socked feet. “Even in deshabille. How was Athens?”

He’d recently opened a new resort several miles south of the city, one more addition to the international chain of luxury hotels that he owned and managed. “Ironing out a few wrinkles,” he said casually. “Well worth the trip. You’re looking lovely, Clarissa.”

From the doorway, Douglas Talbot said bluffly, “I bought her that dress in London. It suits her rather well, don’t you think?”

If Clarissa had the brittle beauty of a Dresden statuette, Douglas was a Toby jug. Rotund, outwardly hearty, Douglas was also, as Rafe knew all too well, a rabid social
climber with a tendency to bully. Yet he adored his wife and would have done anything for her.

Rafe said smoothly, “A delightful dress, Clarissa, to which you more than do justice. Little wonder you have such a beautiful daughter.”

Fiona’s smile was almost natural; quite plainly, she’d decided Rafe’s kiss was best ignored. Douglas poured himself a drink, asking a shrewd question about the political situation in Greece, and the evening proceeded along its predictable path. A couple of hours later Rafe took his leave, for once unamused when Fiona’s parents tactfully left him alone with her. Clarissa and Douglas wanted much more than friendship between himself and their daughter; they wanted him to marry Fiona. Douglas, to put it bluntly, was applying the crudest of pressures toward that end.

He, Rafe, wasn’t going to be pushed around by Douglas. Although, at the time, hadn’t that kiss under the trees made the thought of marrying Fiona a lot more plausible?

Except for two small details. The woman hadn’t been Fiona and the kiss had gotten way out of hand.

He was going around in circles, he thought furiously. Like a dog chasing its tail. Striving to sound casual, he said, “Am I taking you shopping tomorrow, Fiona?”

“In Coverdale, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem. I’ll pick you up around ten?”

“That’d be lovely.” With the shyness that normally Rafe found endearing, she reached up and brushed her lips to his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

His pulses didn’t even stir. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Rafe patted her on the shoulder and let himself out. The dogs surged out of the shed, and he set off across the gardens behind the house. After closing the gate behind him, he took the path that meandered from Willowbend’s more
civilized surroundings to the open fells. The moon had risen over the trees, Venus a small steady light just below it.

Venus, goddess of love.

He loved Fiona, Rafe thought soberly. She was a dear friend he’d known all his life. But he wouldn’t even have entertained the idea of marrying her if it hadn’t in many ways suited him. He was thirty-three years old, ready to settle down and raise a family, and who better to do that with than Fiona? She’d never betray him as Celine had done all those years ago.

He’d bet every one of his hotels on that.

If he married Fiona, he’d also be rescuing Douglas from a series of disastrous investments. His eyes narrowed. A little financial leverage wasn’t a bad thing to have should Douglas become his father-in-law. Rafe was several times smarter than Douglas and could be ten times as ruthless, and he’d have no hesitation in using any weapon at his command to free Fiona from her parents’ smothering hold: a hold Fiona was too sweet and trusting to see, let alone counter.

He hadn’t yet mentioned the word marriage to Fiona. He’d needed time to think about it first.

The path left the trees for the open fields. To the west Rafe could see the turrets and spires of Holden Castle, where he’d grown up. Eight years ago he’d had it extensively renovated as a five-star hotel and installed his parents as managers, to their enormous gratification. If Joan and Reginald Holden added a certain eccentricity to the castle, so be it. The customers didn’t seem to mind.

He’d take the dogs back to his mother, then head home to Stoneriggs.

The moon had disappeared behind a cloud. But Rafe knew every footstep of the way, and walked confidently
westward, Charlotte demurely trotting at his heels as though she’d never heard of misbehavior.

Why hadn’t the woman, whoever she was, told him she wasn’t Fiona? Why had she been hiding in the grounds of Willowbend in the first place? And why had she kissed him until he hadn’t been able to think with anything except his hormones?

He swore under his breath. Rafe was no stranger to women throwing themselves at him; he was, after all, filthy rich and—so he’d been told—sexy to boot. But the woman couldn’t possibly have known he’d be coming through the woods toward Willowbend. He hadn’t even known it himself until after his flight delay.

He didn’t like being made a fool of.

Didn’t like the fact that passion could still take him unawares? Was that the crux of the matter?

He didn’t want passion. Its betrayals were too cruel.

Tomorrow afternoon, after he’d taken Fiona home from the shopping expedition, he was going to get some answers to all his questions. In a village the size of Droverton, it shouldn’t be difficult to find someone who so closely resembled Fiona. She had some explaining to do, that unknown woman. She owed him that much.

Maybe he would marry Fiona, he thought trenchantly, rounding a crag where a stream fell in a series of gurgling waterfalls. Assuming she’d have him. Marrying Fiona would ensure his personal life was entirely and happily predictable. Unlike the tempestuous ups and downs of his affair with Celine.