The Waiting Man

THE WAITING MAN Jeneth Murrey

She needed protection--but could she trust him? Eden Nairn, a widow, had been hiding from her tyrannical grandfather ever since the birth of her son--the only male heir to his estate in the Northumbrian Hills. So when his handsome henchman, Brett Allard, finally tracked her down, she knew he'd be under strict orders to return there with her child. To her surprise, however, Brett had his own axe to grind with her grandfather. "Marry me, Eden," he suggested, "and I'll see the old man doesn't ride roughshod over you." Eden needed some form of protection. But she could never risk marrying again! Especially someone like Brett Allard--just the kind of man she could love.. . .

CHAPTER ONE THE man stood in the open doorway, his black head bent a little to clear the low lintel. He'd made his way down the equally low passage with a cat-like, silent tread so that the girl working by the bench with her back to the door hadn't heard his approach. But some sixth sense must have been operating and she knew she was no longer alone. She spat the last upholstery tack into her hand, positioned it carefully with steady fingers and spoke without raising her head. 'Put it on the table by the sink, Betty,' she called over her shoulder without looking up from her task, and her hammer rose and fell accurately so that the tack was buried, its head barely visible in the neat pleat of dark red velvet. Dropping the hammer on the bench, she raised her hand to push back a swathe of fine blonde hair, which had escaped the rubber band holding her pony tail and fallen across her forehead. Her other hand went to the small of her back and she gave a little groan as she straightened up to a modest five foot three in her flat, crepe-soled, leather sandals. 'You're early with the tea this afternoon.' Still she didn't turn and her voice was unexpectedly deep for such a small person. 'But thanks for bringing it, and I won't waste it this time. I'll drink it straight away, I promise; before I start on the gimp.' She stroked the smoothly drawn velvet of the chair seat with thin, sensitive fingers. 'The last one! What do you think of them now?' 'Very professional, Eden." The man's voice came deep, almost mocking and Eden Nairn, expecting nothing but a female voice tinged with the burr of Gloucestershire, jumped as though she'd been stung while her hand went automatically to the hammer she'd so recently abandoned, her fingers closing round the shaft convulsively. She was completely still for a second, rigid with shock, before she whirled around to face the intruder, her small face

white and her large, wide- spaced, sherry-brown eyes slitted and almost hidden behind the thick fringe of her dark lashes. It took another couple of seconds before she was able to lift her chin and the hammer, holding it menacingly while her face became a mask of non-expression and her heartbeat dropped back to nearly normal. She had needed that pause to steady herself, to get over the sudden landslide of emotions which had made her little world shake right to its foundations, and she used it by appearing to study her visitor with a pseudo-clinical air. At, first it was only the small differences made by the few years since she'd last seen him that registered, and there weren't so many of those. A very few threads of silver in his black hair, a deepening of the lines from his bold nose to the corners of his firm mouth, a faint air of weariness about his dark, heavy-lidded eyes; that was all she could find. Otherwise, he looked just as she remembered him; tall, dark and handsome in a cool, aloof way and as immaculately dressed as always. She could never remember him being untidy, whatever he'd been doing. Unconsciously she admired his handmade shoes, the dark grey of his formal suit, the whiter than white of his shirt and the symphonic greys of his striped tie. She studiously ignored broad shoulders; a flat, taut stomach; lean hips; long, long legs and well-kept, long- fingered hands. One could admire the fit and quality of the clothes, the man inside them was another matter! 'I've been taking upholstery lessons.' She strove to sound as cool and aloof as he-looked, but the words came out stiffly. This was a moment when she felt she could do with a little help. Her dark eyebrows drew together in a scowl and she opened her mouth and yelled for it. 'Betty!'

'Gone!' The man came through the doorway and planted himself in front of her, smiling derisively at her makeshift weapon. 'If by Betty you mean the heavyweight female who was minding the shop? I gave her the rest of the afternoon off. I didn't think you'd want an audience for our private talk.' 'You gave her the afternoon off.' She didn't shout, it came out as a menacing growl. Her fear was smothered temporarily with indignation and her hand, still holding the hammer, rose a little higher while the bright pink of battle flags flew in her otherwise pale cheeks. 'You mean there's nobody looking after the shop?' 'Nobody,' he agreed. 'But nobody need. I've shut the door, locked it, pushed the bolts across and turned the card to "Closed".' He ignored the hammer except for a second derisive glance at it before he took another look around the work room, his eyes lingering on the untidy bench, and there was a fastidious twitch to his lips. 'We've a few things to discuss and we shan't want to be disturbed. Haven't you anything better than this?' Again, he glanced round. 'I prefer to do my talking somewhere a little more comfortable.' Perhaps he'd meant to give her time to think although she hardly credited him with that much concern for her. In her eyes, Brett Allard had never been a 'caring' person and as the years didn't seem to have made much difference to him outwardly; she didn't think he'd changed much inside either. She'd known him ever since she was five years old, when her grandfather had left his Northumbrian hills to come down to Gloucester and wrench her away from her father, to take her back north with him. Brett had been there, in her grandfather's house; a quiet, dark young man, her grandfather's protégé, but she hadn't seen much of him. Bewildered by the sudden, strange new surroundings and a totally new way of life, she'd clung to her grandfather and the

old man had been kind and indulgent to her; she could remember that. And always, during her growing-up years, Brett had either ignored her or treated her as if she was Typhoid Mary, staying aloof but watching, always watching. When she'd been a child, she'd suspected he spied on her and made a daily report to her grandfather! Eden gave a little sigh and came back to the present. She'd needed that time to get herself over the shock of seeing him and delve down for some self-possession so that she could keep a tight hold on her unwary tongue. Have the talk, she decided, make it short and sweet and get rid of him, as quickly as possible. That was what she would have to do! 'I'm hardly dressed for a discussion.' She removed her stained smock to reveal much washed, well-worn jeans and a T-shirt which had seen better days. 'But if you insist. ..' 'I do,' he said it flatly, 'and how you happen to be dressed isn't important. I've come a long way to talk to you. Have you forgotten all your manners?' 'There's the kitchen at the back of the shop,' she offered ungraciously as she stepped around him delicately, like a cat avoiding a puddle. 'It's small and there's only one chair, but you can always stand.' "I could bring in a chair from the shop,' he offered. 'There are a couple there . . .' 'The lyre-backs, yes.' She nodded composedly as she went along the passage and through the open door into the large shop-cumshowroom area where she headed for another door, the upper panel of which was glazed and covered with a lace curtain. 'But they're for

sale, not for sitting on!' She adopted a needle-sharp, businesslike tone, acidly sweet, which she would never have dreamed of using to a real customer. 'They're in good condition,' she continued, 'I can guarantee they're genuine and I'm asking two hundred guineas for the pair. If you want to use one, you'll have to buy them both and my terms are cash on the nail. Otherwise, you stand!" 'One hundred and fifty,' he offered with a glint in his eyes. 'Will you take a cheque?' Eden snorted. One seventy-five, and no! I told you, no cheques. Cash! You're the same as my other customers, all trying to get something for nothing.' She threw the words over her shoulder as she opened the glass-panelled door into the kitchen. 'The chairs are worth it and I'm not prepared to haggle.' 'We have other things to haggle about,' he reminded her and then, baldly, 'Your grandfather wants the boy.' Eden had picked up the kettle and was filling it from the tap. Her hands started to shake and the tapwater missed the wide, stubby spout to splash harmlessly into the sink. She watched it dazedly for a long moment until Brett removed the kettle from her nerveless fingers to put a long finger under her chin and tilt her face to the light. His black brows drew into a frown at the grey tinge of hopelessness which seemed to lie beneath her skin, and the dead white marks of strain on either side of her mouth. 'Go and sit down. I'll make the tea.' He was harsh. 'Did you think we didn't know you'd had a child?" 'Hoped you didn't, prayed you didn't!' she corrected automatically playing for time and barely aware of what she was saying. She'd never dared hope this anonymity she'd struggled so hard for would be permanent. At the back of her mind, she'd always seemed to

know that sooner or later her grandfather would find out about her son and that, in his arrogant way, he'd either come himself or send somebody to try to take the boy away from her. Of course, as a messenger, Brett was the logical choice. 'Eighteen-hour brides aren't usually so fecund,' she continued, trying to sound bright and uncaring. 'If there were cups for fertility. I ought to qualify.' But beneath her light words ran a thread of fatality. She dropped on to the plain wooden chair and leaned her elbow on the scrubbed table-top, while she played for more time to pull herself together and get over the shock. Long ago she had realised that, if she was found, denial would be useless because she had been found, but that was a truth she couldn't live with, so she'd pushed it right to the back of her mind and tried to forget it. Alone, she was valueless except as a possible breeding machine for her grandfather's long-desired male heir, but having a son put a different complexion on things. As heir apparent, her son was so very apparent, he was the embodiment of her grandfather's dream, cherished through two generations. At last, an actual male heir to all those bleak but productive, northern acres. At the birth, Eden had shocked everybody by praying fervently for a girl! 'Well!' She gave Brett what she hoped would pass for a smile, although the act of curving her mouth caused her actual, physical pain. 'It's no more nor less than I've been expecting, but Philip's two and a half years old' What took you so long?' 'You did.' She heard Brett's voice through her despair and became aware of a different quality in it, a tinge of exasperation mixed up with a trace of reluctant admiration, and did she imagine some humour as well? Surely he couldn't be laughing about it? But he was! 'At first, you weren't hiding, you were a normal, everyday girl travelling about with nothing to hide. They're always the most difficult to trace, they're so innocent, so ordinary, nobody notices

them. And then, joining a hippy commune!' He jeered softly. 'A nearly perfect cover.' He shook his head at her mockingly. 'Did you do that by accident or were you really thinking ahead for the first time in your life?' 'Sheer accident,' she admitted with regret. She would have liked to claim forethought but she had always tried to be honest. The times when she couldn't or wouldn't tell the truth, she kept silent, but this wasn't one of those times. 'I wasn't trying to hide at the time, there wasn't any reason to. I'd bought an old Dormobile and it broke down in some unpronounceable place in Wales; the people from the commune mended it for me, they were very kind. They offered for me to stay with them for a while and I accepted.' 'You left them before the baby was born .. ' 'Mmm,' she went on detailing the story, there was no point in concealing anything, 'the doctor I saw said there might be complications. The baby was big and I wasn't, so he booked me into the local hospital. But apparently, I'm not like Grandma Falconer or my mother; for me, it's easy.' She wrinkled her nose and made a rueful face. 'Well, comparatively easy, although I didn't think so at the time. As soon as the hospital would let me, I went back to the commune for a while. I needed time to think. I knew Grandfather would want Philip, if he ever found out about him. I wanted to delay that finding out. They looked after me until I was well enough to travel and they never asked any questions. They were all very nice people and they helped, which is more than I can say for some!' she added belligerently. Her courage was coming back and the feeling of hopelessness was seeping away. 'Mmm, we learned about the Dormobile.' The kettle shrilled to a boil and he made the tea competently, pouring hers into a delicate china cup and setting it down in front of her, together with an opened bottle of milk and a well polished silver bowl of sugar. There was no

cup for himself so he poured his own tea into a slightly chipped mug which commemorated the coronation of Edward VII, drinking it black and unsweetened while he fiddled with the sugar bowl, turning it this way and that in his fingers. 'Nice.' He changed the subject deftly but she wasn't deceived. He was only trying to soften her up, and she snorted derisively. 'You mean that bowl?' She became even more derisive. 'It's easy to see Grandfather didn't give you any lessons about antique silver if that's an example of your judgment. That bowl's a fake. That's why I use it instead of selling it!' 'It looks all right to me.' She watched as he lifted the bowl, holding it above his head while he peered at the hallmark on the base. 'Hallmarks aren't everything,' she said. 'That bowl's an example of deliberate intent to deceive. The hallmark says it's late eighteenth century whereas the bowl itself is comparatively modern, you can tell that b\ the shape and decoration. The whole thing's only worth its scrap-metal value. But aren't you getting away from the main topic, why it took you so long to find me?" She raised an eyebrow. Brett hitched himself on to the edge of the table and looked at her enigmatically. 'Can't you work that out for yourself?' 'Oh, I can! Indeed I can!' Her mouth twisted bitterly. Grandfather, of course!' She deepened her already deep little voice in a mocking parody of male gruffness. "The lassie's not penniless, she's made her own bed, let her lie on it a while!" He'd have said that as soon as I left and it wouldn't have worn off for years!' 'Two, to be precise.' Eden didn't imagine the glimmer of his smile. 'And then . . .'

'And then, he called you in.' She said it with bitter, biting sarcasm. 'My, but you've come down in the world. Go, boy! Find! Fetch! And still it took you more than a year! You're not as good as you'd like people to think!' 'I'm a barrister, not a—er—bloodhound.' He gave her another mocking smile. 'I put a man I know, an ex- policeman, on to the job of finding you, he's slow but he has all the right contacts and it involved quite a lot of legwork. At that time we didn't know about the boy you see. The people in the commune were loyal, Eden, they didn't let the cat out of the bag. That was done by a garrulous man at a garage where you'd filled up with petrol. He remembered the Dormobile, and he remembered you because he thought you shouldn't have been driving in that condition. Anyway, after that, the search was easier. My man now knew what he was looking for and after several visits to check the Register of Births, and a long delay while he obtained information about the Dormobile—who you'd sold it to—we finally traced you to Gloucester. Then we ran into another problem. Having found you at last, things had to be arranged so you'd do as you were asked . . .' 'Do as I was told, you mean,' she raged. 'To put it bluntly, yes!' Brett became authoritative. 'So now, we come to the crunch. Where is the boy, and how long will it take you to pack up and be ready to leave?' That was Brett carrying out his instructions to the letter, and although she was in a way prepared, she couldn't accept it. She remained sitting and staring dully at nothing. The Falconers of The Pele had always been hunting mad and her old Grandfather Falconer was the worst of them all. But now, he was after bigger prey. He was after her and her son! But she was no timid wood pigeon flying for cover. There was nowhere to hide now and she would have to fight back although, given the present

adversary, it wouldn't be much of a contest. But at least she'd prepared herself for something like this. She'd often rehearsed what she would say, how she would deal with such a demand, and now the words came out like a well learned lesson. 'Philip and I are not leaving.' She forced herself to composure, a brave front would add impact to what she had to say. 'We don't have to,' she added. 'This is our home, this is my business. I may not be making a fortune but it's a living and it's getting better all the lime. I'm not on Social Security, not a drain on the State. I'm over twentyone, I'm a widow with a child. That child is well cared for and I don't go in for sexual relationships, so you can't have me declared an unfit mother! In fact you can't do anything, so,' she gulped a fresh breath, 'on your bike! You're not welcome here!' As she'd listed her advantages, Eden had regained confidence. She had let herself get upset over nothing. Nobody could interfere with her, nobody could take her son away from her, not while she kept her head above water financially, paid off the debts she'd incurred starting up in business and lived a life as pure as driven snow. Put that way, her future looked blooming but—she stole a look at Brett's face—he still looked confident. He had something in reserve! Brett Allard wouldn't have gone to all this trouble, tracked her down and taken time to come from the northern borders of England right down to Gloucester without being sure of success. She racked her brain, trying to think of what he could have which gave him that confidence. She was safe, but somehow she didn't feel safe. He had a lever, she was sure of it, a lever which would dislodge her from her secure position. From upstairs there came a thump, a loud wail and the ceiling above her head began to vibrate. 'Philip,' she explained in a hurried mutter as she dived for the door. 'He's woken up from his afternoon nap and he's trying to shake the cot to pieces.' The door slammed violently

behind her and she returned a few minutes later carrying two-and-ahalf-year-old Philip Stephen Nairn, whose chubby face was flushed with tears and temper; and he didn't behave at all well. He cast a fascinated look at Brett, stopped crying to yell 'Daddy, Man", and commenced to beat his mother on the head. He'd learned about 'daddies' recently, he wanted one and any man would do. Philip wasn't particular! 'A bit of a handful.' Brett watched her struggle to cope with her lusty, determined son with an unexpectedly gentle look about his mouth before taking the child from her expertly. 'Too much for a little thing like you. What he needs is a father.' He sat down on the chair she'd vacated to prepare her son's tea and started playing with the boy, showing him a gold Hunter pocket watch and demonstrating how it opened. Trust him to wear something so unusual these days. Her son liked it far better than a wrist watch. 'He has me,' she said. She spread a cloth and started to cut brown bread and butter it. 'He doesn't need anybody else,' she added defiantly, and slammed the fridge door open to search for a fresh carton of yoghurt before slamming it back shut again. She then rattled through cupboards and drawers in a noisy search for Philip's cup, plate and spoon to emerge pink-faced and turbulent. 'I've told you, you're wasting your time. Philip and I are staying here .. .' 'Keep your voice down,' he ordered sharply, 'you'll make the boy nervous.' 'Don't you dare speak to me like that!' she flared with resentment at his condemnation, but kept her voice low for fear of frightening Philip who was still playing happily with Brett's watch and quite unaffected by the verbal battle raging over his head. 'We are quite happy here,' she continued in a grim monotone, 'and we're not leaving, so you can go back and tell Grandfather to stop wasting my time. I've better things to do than stand here, listening to you. You

haven't anything to say I want to hear. As soon as I saw you, I knew you meant trouble, and all I want is to be rid of you. I just want an uncomplicated life, and how can I have that when you and Grandfather are complicating things by hounding me? There was a time,' she added, "when I'd have been glad to go back to him, a time when I needed help, but did I get it? No, I didn't. He didn't want to know!' Brett shrugged, making her even more resentful. "Very complicated and rather unfair,' he murmured silkily, 'like the rest of your life. You seem to have been born without any foresight. Take the present situation,' he paused and her fingers crisped as she waited for what was to come, 'this venture of yours into business when you had so little capital, for instance. Buying this house." He waved his hand about at the cramped, old accommodation. "Philippa's, my stepmother's.' Eden was terse. 'That's what I meant when I talked about help. She sold it to me for what I could afford to pay, which wasn't all that much. Well,' her voice became ragged with irritation at the bland look on his face. 'I couldn't very well live in the Dormobile, could I? Not with a little baby! And I hadn't anywhere else to go.' 'So you bought this place for a song and then raised money on it to start your business.' It wasn't a question, it was a statement and he went on smoothly, "You should have dealt with a more reputable company, the bank for instance, or one of the big building societies. Somebody must have advised you very badly. Your grandfather was able to buy your mortgage and he's calling it in. This House is to be possessed and offered for sale.' 'Sell it over my head, is that what you mean?' The lever was out in the open; long, strong and big enough to demolish everything she'd worked for. She looked up at him disbelievingly. 'Can he really do that?'

'Mmm,' over the top of Philip's curly fair head he looked at her gravely, 'and you should think about it carefully, Eden. Do you need me to outline the results?' 'No.' She shook her head. She'd worked that out already. She'd have no home, no business and nowhere to go. Her father was a housemaster at a private school, there was accommodation provided but the terms of his contract didn't allow him to take in guests except family, and then only for very short periods. She'd have no income and with a two-and-a-half-year-old son, she couldn't take a regular job. Brett broke in on her thoughts, outlining her future tersely and making her go cold. 'You'd be on Social Security, but I believe the councils are required to house the homeless, so you would have a roof over your head, perhaps a house or a flat in the back streets. Is that how you want Philip to grow up? OF perhaps your father can lend you the money?' 'No.' It seemed to be the only word she could say while anger and hopelessness rose up to crush her. All this because a selfish, arrogant old man wanted the world to turn his way and didn't care who was hurt in the process. She partly absolved Brett, dismissing him as a brainwashed tool of her grandfather. Brett didn't know the real truth about anything, but that didn't mean he was justified in hounding her. In fact, on second thoughts, he was just as bad, if not worse than her grandfather! 'You and that old villain at The Pele!' She almost spat the words at him, but not too loudly, she didn't want to frighten Philip. 'You're his damn whining cur and you'll wag your tail and lick his hand while he wrecks everybody's lives to get his own way. And what are you laughing about?' she demanded as she noticed the way his lips curved with amusement.

'You." Brett's normally stern face had relaxed into a smile. "You're more like the "old villain" than you realise. You get in a temper and you sound just like him.' "Oh God, No!' She sounded appalled. 'That's not true! I'm not a bit like him. He hasn't an ounce of charity or pity in his whole body, he doesn't care who he hurts or what a mess he makes of other people's lives. He never thinks of anything but what he wants and the rest of humanity can go to hell as long as he gets it.' She took a deep breath and tried to calm down but she was still shaking as she pulled out Philip's high- chair and she was vaguely grateful when Brett deposited him in it; the way she was trembling, she might have dropped the child. 'Not quite as bad as that.' Brett was calm and. smooth as he watched Philip's performance with buttered half-slices of bread, the dish of fruit yoghurt and the plastic mug of milk. Eden congratulated herself on her prowess at being a mother. Her son was doing her proud, he ate all his crusts, didn't slop his yoghurt on the floor and he drank all his milk, noisily but thoroughly. He also said 'please' and 'fankyou' at all the correct times; he was being very good indeed. But it wouldn't stay that way, not at The Pele. There, she'd cease to be his mother, become merely a cipher did allowed no say in how he was brought up. He'd either be spoiled rotten or cowed by overharsh discipline and either way, she'd lose him. She had to think of some way ... Oh hell! There was no way! She glanced at Brett, who gave her a slight nod as if he could read her thoughts and agreed with her. 'A cleft stick situation.' He put her thoughts into words. 'But we'll talk about that later, Eden. If you'll arrange your baby-sitter for this evening, I'll take you out and we can continue this over dinner.'

'No!' She was curt, almost rude. 'No to the babysitter and no to the offer of dinner. Philip's my son, I look after him myself. He goes everywhere with me and I won't eat with a man who's threatening me, trying to take my baby away from me. And all for an old autocrat who can't be happy unless he's making everybody miserable!' Brett ignored Philip's constant yells of 'Tick-tock, tick-tock!' and concentrated on the business in hand. 'You always did fight the wrong people at the wrong times. The woman in the shop, you called her Betty I think, she'll come. All you have to do is pick up the phone. I took a chance when I gave her the rest of the afternoon off, I asked her and she said she would. And you will have dinner with me and we will talk! Be ready by seven, I'll call for you.' He rose to his feet and stood towering over her. 'Running away again would be useless,' he advised. 'We talk this out and you see sense, or your grandfather goes on his bloody-minded way regardless.' 'And you're on his side,' she muttered despairingly, seeing nothing but loss and heartache ahead. 'Not at all.' Brett seemed to find her amusing, he was smiling at her. 'I'm on my side. Not his, not yours, but mine!'

CHAPTER TWO AT seven o'clock Eden was ready. She'd taken no particular trouble about her appearance and it showed. The dress she was wearing was a loose Indian thing she'd bought cheaply in the market, and neither the muted blue and black on a grey background, nor the lack of shape did anything for her. Her fine, fair hair was newly washed and unmanageable, so she'd screwed it into a tight knot on the top of her head and although she'd conceded a little in the way of a dab of powder and a smear of lipstick, they didn't conceal her pallor or the look of strain about her eyes and mouth. It would have been easy to excuse her lack of finery by saying that since Philip was born, every penny had been spent either on him or paying off as much as she could of her debt, but it wouldn't have been the truth. There was a small trunk full of trousseau she'd collected for her wedding to Peter Nairn and which she'd hardly if ever worn, but why should she tart herself up to go to her own execution? Go back to Grandfather and The Pele? Never! To that old man, she had never been more than a means to an end; a male heir with Falconer blood in his veins. He'd had no sons himself and both his wife and his only daughter had died in childbirth. But Grandfather hadn't given up his dream of an heir. Eden remained and through her, he had a chance of achieving his dream. He'd been planning for that when he'd swooped down on Gloucester, bullied her good-looking but unworldly father into parting with his daughter, and dragged Eden as a five-year-old back to Northumbria. To the lonely chill of The Pele, an old border house built on to an older stronghold—a simple, sturdy tower called a pele—which dominated the rounded, grassy- topped lava hills through which part of Clennel Street, the old cattle droving road ran.

Eden stopped thinking about the past as she heard the sound of a car drawing up outside. The old floorboards creaked, a tired, squeaky sighing as she crossed to the bedroom window which overhung the shop front by more than a foot, and peeped out through a crack in the drawn curtains. It was an old house in an old street which was little more than an alley, and she had a good view of Brett's head as he slid out of the car, which was a big one and took up most of the available road space. He had something in his hand, and she peered down to identify a florists' small cellophane box which contained something which glimmered red and green. Perhaps her grandfather had given Brett his orders, told him to do her proud, butter her up. He had wasted his time! It would take more than a nosegay to sweeten the old man's atrocious behaviour. Eden sniffed, a red flower wouldn't suit anyway! She took another look out of the window. From this angle, Brett looked different, more powerful and much less detached. He even looked dependable. A man to ride the water with, trustworthy ... But Eden was short on trust. She'd trusted once before and it had blown up in her face. Now, she trusted nobody but herself! She recrossed the room, stopping en route twice. Once to hover over Philip's cot where her son was sleeping the sleep of uncomplicated childhood. She didn't touch him except to move the teddy bear a bit further from his face—once he wakened, he was difficult to get off to sleep again—then she went on to the mirror where she paused and gave her reflection a rueful shake of the head. Somehow, the loose Indian thing, instead of concealing her thinness, made her look even thinner. It clung to her sparsely covered bones, emphasising all her worst points. She grimaced at her hands, they looked workworn and felt rough despite the cream she tried to remember to use each night. Her legs

were her best feature, she decided, long and slim, but unfortunately the Indian thing covered them. However, it was the best she could manage at such short notice and it would have to do. On impulse, she slipped a black, heavily fringed and embroidered silk shawl about her shoulders and, with a final grimace, turned her back on her unflattering reflection and slipped out into the passageway, leaving the door partly open so that Betty would hear Philip if he woke. 'That thing. . .' Brett was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs and he gestured vaguely at her dull blue and black on a grey background, 'makes you look as dim as a snuffed candle, and the flower I've brought you is the wrong colour.' There was an astringent quality to his North Country bluntness which shocked her out of her miasma of gloom and brought her alive once more. 'I thought you'd wear something pretty,' he added as he tendered the cellophane box. 'You always used to.' 'People change, but I'll wear the flower just the same.' Her fingers shook as she stripped off the cover and took out the single red rose, but she managed a small, almost meaningless smile. She felt like Marie Antoinette on the way to the guillotine but with one advantage, she still had time. For her it wasn't a short ride, a whoomph! and everything finished for ever. He watched her fumblings with the tiny gold- coloured safety pin and finally, with a snort of disgust, pinned the flower on himself and as she flinched involuntarily from his touch, she thought she saw his eyes blaze with anger. Thunderstorm grey eyes, not as dark as she'd always thought, she noticed with surprise, and was even more surprised that she'd never noticed that about them before but then, she wouldn't have. She seemed to have known him for ever—he was part of her earliest memories—without knowing him at all. He'd always been there but

only on the fringes of her life, the extreme periphery of her vision, mainly because he'd been so much older. How much older? She wrinkled her brows in the effort to remember—about fifteen years, she thought—a grown man while she was still a child, and children never really notice the immediate scenery, they take it for granted. 'It wasn't going to touch you!' Brett almost snarled it at her and a warning bell rang in the depths of her mind. Brett didn't understand, he didn't know, nobody knew. Only the matron at the little cottage hospital, where she'd been taken after the car smash which had killed her young husband, had raised disbelieving eyebrows at the extent of the bruising on Eden's body; bruising which wasn't consistent with a car smash. But the matron had been discreet and except for those raised eyebrows and the pity Eden had read in her eyes, the woman had made everything seem normal. Eden had never said a word. Peter, her husband of less than twentyfour hours, was dead and she'd seen no reason for his widowed mother to be more upset and grief-stricken than she already was. In any case, there was always the thought that nobody would believe her. Eden's lasting scars were purely mental, not physical. Within a week or so of the accident there was hardly a mark left to be seen on her body but the scars on her mind were still there. Deep, puckered and twisted, they lived in her memory, poisoning her whole life so that even after this gap of more than three years, she shrank away from contact with men. It felt like for ever had passed while she'd been remembering but it couldn't have been more than a few moments; Brett seemed hardly to have noticed her pause. Eden drew the shawl more tightly about her shoulders and forced her voice to a casual tone. 'Personal Space,' she explained lightly. 'I've been reading about it recently. Some people need more than others, I think I must be one of them. I have this invisible area around me—arm's length—and I

get upset when anybody intrudes ... I'll just have a word with Betty; see she's all right.. .' 'I've already done that,' he interrupted her. 'She's cleaning some silver before she switches on the television. She'd didn't seem surprised at being asked to babysit, does she have to do it often for you?' 'This is the first time.' Eden found her fingers wandering to the rosebud and she hastily dropped her hand to her side. 'For me, that is, although I believe she does a lot of it for other people, but I prefer to look after Philip myself,' she added forbiddingly, daring him to trespass any further on her privacy. 'We've wasted enough time.' Brett was curt in return. 'Shall we go?' And at her nod, he opened the door for her and stood well to one side while she passed through it. They dined at his hotel, an old-fashioned but comfortable place where the food and service were excellent, and before Eden had finished her chilled grapefruit, he was talking business. 'How soon can you come home? I know you're a bit nervous about the coroner's findings on the car crash which killed your husband but time passes. Most of the gossip has died down…' 'That man was unjust!' She spat it at him. 'Saying that since it was an open car and we were both thrown out, it was impossible for him to tell who was driving but since I was the survivor, he'd give me the benefit of the doubt. At least,' she tried to, be calm, 'that's what he meant although he mightn't have used those exact words.' 'I've read the transcript of the hearing.' Brett was almost too bland. 'The coroner didn't say anything of the sort! He was, merely mystified, as everybody was. A newly married couple dashing

around the countryside at three a.m. on their wedding night. What on earth were you doing?' 'Joyriding!' She snapped it out while the familiar chill settled in her stomach and started to spread outwards, freezing her into a travesty of a woman. But it didn't show, she knew that now, she could go on speaking quite normally. 'And forget about it.' She was eager to get on to another subject. 'You asked how soon, well, let me see .. .' She laid down her spoon precisely, wiped her lips with her napkin and appeared to be deep in thought. 'I couldn't do it in under a month.' She had recovered nearly all of her self-possession and was coolly practical. 'You have to understand. Grandfather's taken over, I have to do as he says, but I think I ought to be allowed to sell my stock as profitably as possible. I shan't have a penny otherwise, I shall be beholden to him for everything. As it is, he'll make a profit, the house is worth far more than I owe, so why shouldn't I do the same? And it's one thing I'd have to take my time about.' At the flick of his eyebrow, she explained. 'Once word gets around that I'm shutting up shop, the local dealers will hold off until the very last minute, when they'll offer me rock-bottom prices, knowing that I have to sell or take an even bigger loss ...' 'Send it all to an auction,' he suggested curtly, but again she shook her head. 'And have the other dealers move in and fix things among themselves?' Her pity at his ignorance was obvious. 'Word gets round very quickly in the antique business. Every penny I possess is invested in my stock and it's not only mine but Philip's future I'm thinking of. I can't afford to take a huge loss, I've never worked on a big profit margin—small profits, quick returns is my motto—and I'd end up broke to the world. There's very little charity or lovingkindness in the antique market, any more than there is in Grandfather. It's all very cut-throat, and I've a fair amount of good,

old silver which I wouldn't like to see go for a song, I couldn't afford to anyway. I could shift most of the small stuff if I did the round of antique fairs .. .' 'You have everything priced so let Betty do the fairs.' Brett's mind was working more quickly than hers, which seemed to be set in a sluggish mould. He ignored her little grunt of outrage and continued smoothly, cutting the ground from under her feet. 'You trust the woman with the running of the shop so she must be competent. Give her carte blanche for a month and then we'll put the sale of the house and whatever's left in the hands of your solicitor. Given a day to finish your chairs and a couple of packing cases to hold the things you don't want to part with, you could be ready to leave in two days. Which,' he added forcefully, 'is about as long a time as I can spare.' 'I've already told you, I must have some money of my own. I don't want to leave so I won't be rushed.' Eden had started off quietly but her emphatic 'I don't want' seemed to ring round the small diningroom. Several people turned their heads to look at the source of the noise and she coloured hotly. 'You've no option!' Brett didn't even raise his head as he served himself with more vegetables and he ignored her indignant gasp. '. . . That's unless you prefer to live on state benefits wherever the council chooses to house you. You know your grandfather as well as I do, he's not the type, to make threats and not carry them through. Of course,' and this time, he looked up at her but his heavy lids still concealed his eyes and she could make nothing of his expression, 'you could build in a safeguard, if you wished. It mightn't prevent you going but it could have an effect on the sort of life you'd lead when you get there.' 'A safeguard?' Eden regarded him suspiciously. 'What?'

'We-ell.' He took his time about replying almost as though this was something he'd just thought up, but she wasn't deceived. Brett wasn't the type to have bright ideas and act on them at once, she felt sure; he'd mull them over carefully just to see if they were watertight and only then would he mention them. So, he must have had this one up his sleeve for some time. 'What?' she demanded again with increased belligerence. 'D'you remember what I told you when I first met young Philip, when you were carrying him in and he was trying to hammer you into the ground?' At the shake of her head, his stern mouth took on a humorous curve. 'A bad memory, Eden. Only a few hours ago and you've forgotten already! I said that what the boy needed was a father, although perhaps I should have said that what you need is a husband! Husbands are very useful things to have about the place, they have a few advantages not given to other men; grandfathers, for instance. And especially so if you choose the right man. Give me a list of possibles and I'll vet it for you. The right type is essential.' 'Thanks for the advice.' She forced her voice to remain steady while the nightmare of her wedding night came crowding in on her, shortening her breath and making her forehead and the palms of her hands damp with nervous terror. A husband! Not again, she shivered uncontrollably. Never again! The mere thought of it was too much for her. She'd never be able to stand it, she'd go mad! A cold darkness swept over her, dragging her down into a whirlpool of horror; half remembered and half imagined. She wanted to run screaming from the table but that was impossible so she did the next best thing, as far as she was concerned. She laid down her fork and spoke curtly and with no pretence at manners.

'I've had enough! I don't want any more to eat so I'll go. Don't bother, I can find my own way home. You stay and finish your meal.' 'You mean that?' And at her nod, he tossed down his fork, followed it with his napkin and rose smoothly, with a nod to the hovering waiter. 'I'll take you home. No!' as her mouth opened on a protest. 'You should know better than that, Eden. I don't take no for an answer.' It was dark in the car and she sank back against the upholstery, grateful for the privacy the darkness gave. Her face felt stiff and brittle, as if it was made of eggshell china which would crack and splinter if she forced it into one more expression of polite nothingness. It wasn't Brett's fault, of course. He didn't know what he'd done to her, the things he'd brought to life so vividly in her memory. She watched as the headlights swung to illuminate a wider road and the car picked up speed. 'This isn't the way,' she protested. 'You should have taken a right turn at the lights. You're on the ring road now.' She took a swift glance at a road sign as they swept past it. 'Heading for Cirencester, you've just passed the turn off for Cheltenham. You've gone miles out of the way.' 'I know.' He sounded very weary, although she thought that could be due to the long drive from Northumbria. 'But we have to talk, Eden, whether you want to or not. If I take you back to your place, you'll make some excuse—the boy needs you or something like that—and there'll be more delay. I'll find a lay-by.' Remorse stole over her. 'But you must be tired, you've driven a long way. Can't it wait till we get to my place or better still, tomorrow?'

'I'm not that tired.' In the dimness, she thought she saw him smile. 'I'm no long-distance man, I started off yesterday and stayed overnight at Chester before coming the rest of the way today, but I haven't a lot of time to spare and I'd like to get things settled as soon as possible.' He gave a sigh of relief as a lay-by sign came up and he swung the car off the road and slid smoothly to a stop. 'There.' He switched off the engine and headlights, leaving them in the dim glow of the sidelights. 'Now let's get back to the point. I've explained to you that it would be better if you had a husband .. .' 'No list of possibles,' she muttered in a nervous, husky little croak. 'Not even one possible.' The whirlpool stopped dragging at her senses and her voice firmed. 'I haven't had time for things like that. Philip, my business ...' 'Unfortunate.' Brett was unmoved. 'It would have been the perfect solution. But if there's nobody ...' His pause was nerve-racking and she wanted to scream aloud. 'Would you care to make do with me?' 'Make do with you? No, I wouldn't!' Eden squeezed her hands so tightly together, she doubted if they'd ever part again. 'I wouldn't care to make do with anybody! I've no intention of marrying again—ever!' She made it as emphatic as she could without going into hysterics and losing control of herself completely. 'I had everything I wanted,' she continued because it seemed the only way she could remain sane. 'I had my business and my son. You and Grandfather have ruined that, so that now I have only my son. I don't want another husband…' 'And you so young,' he mocked. 'What's the matter, are you still yearning for your lost love? It was over almost before it had begun and though you seem to be rather slow getting over it, you will get over it in time, you know.'

'I shall never get over it,' she answered with perfect truth. 'Then I'm afraid I can't help you.' She felt the movement as he shrugged. 'I can only tell you the consequences. You'll lose your business, but you know that already; you'll lose your home and you'll lose your son as well. Your Grandfather only wants the boy. To be blunt, he doesn't give a hoot whether you're there or not, in fact he'd prefer you weren't. But, knowing you, you'll go and you'll have to stand on the sidelines and watch the boy grow away from you. Children are great copyists, he'll see your Grandfather treat you as part of the furniture and he'll do the same.' 'I won't allow that!' 'You won't be able to stop it.' Brett gave an impatient snort, switched on the interior light and gave her a cynical smile. 'The old man can give the boy so much more than you can. He's an astute old devil, he knows that and he'll make capital of it. He'll give him anything he asks for. You'll try to stop Philip being indulged, there'll be rows and you'll find yourself in the role of an over-anxious and fussy female, a spoilsport. The boy will soon learn to despise you, your Grandfather will make sure of that! Well, that's my proposition. Why don't you take a night to think it over?' he suggested smoothly. 'Lacking anybody else, I'm your best bet. In fact, if there was anybody else, I'd still be your best bet.' 'You would be my best bet!' Eden was ironic. 'That's a laugh, or it would be if the whole thing wasn't so tragic. You and Grandfather work hand in glove, you always have! I've said this before, you're on his side!' 'No, I'm not,' he contradicted her baldly. 'I told you this afternoon, I'm on my side. But I know the old man inside out, and he can't ride roughshod over me. He was good to me when my parents died but I've repaid him for that. Now, except for the estate business, which

I've always advised him on, he and I see very little of each other although we're still on the best of terms.' This time his eyes weren't concealed, and she had the full force of the thundercloud grey which, even in the weak, interior light was threatening one hell of a storm. 'There's nothing laughable about my offer,' he continued. 'It's serious and it's practical. You need a husband because your grandfather's a bully and against him, you don't stand a chance on your own. He'll either ignore you completely or treat you with contempt and gradually, he'll wean Philip into doing the same...' '... Philip wouldn't...' she interrupted hoarsely, only to be interrupted herself. 'Yes he would! Your grandfather sees him as the last of the Falconers, that'll be the first thing he'll change, the boy's name. The old man will encourage him to do just as he wishes, he'll give him anything he asks for, he can afford it. Can you compete with that?' 'Not moneywise,' she admitted, 'but Philip would have to learn that having everything he wants isn't good for him. I would teach him that.' 'Oh, you would!' Brett was sardonic. 'And how far would you get when your grandfather was telling him that women were silly, nervous creatures and only fit for the kitchen? You'll lose the boy, Eden! I guarantee that in a couple of years, he'll be looking down his nose at you.' 'You don't have to rub it in.' She leaned back wearily in her seat and closed her eyes on the tears which threatened to fall. 'I'd already worked most of that out for myself but I can hope and try, can't I?' 'And break your heart.' He was sombre. 'Marry me, Eden, and I'll see the old man doesn't ride over you roughshod.'

'And what's your angle?' she demanded bluntly. 'You've been very frank, you've explained just how I'll benefit but what's in it for you? That's what I want to know ...' But she didn't give him time to answer. Like a blinding flash of light in the darkness, the answer to her own question had come to her. It illuminated everything and it made sense out of nonsense. 'Don't bother trying to kid me!' she snapped. 'I know I was practically moronic when I got married but I've had ever since then to grow up in. You don't go round doing people favours, and certainly not me! You're doing this for yourself. Some woman, I suppose, you've played and you don't want to pay but that's only minor.' She gave a derisive snort. 'No, you're killing two birds with one stone! Grandfather's upset you somehow and you're going to stab him in the back when he isn't looking. Not that I blame you,' she added generously. 'I'd do it myself, given half a chance!' 'Mmm.' He nodded and his smile was sardonic. 'You could say that, and this is your chance, so why not take it?' 'I can just see Grandfather's face when we turn up at The Pele and tell him he can't have Philip because you, as my husband, won't allow it. We'd be lucky to get out of there alive! And later, because Grandfather wouldn't let it rest there, am I supposed to stand on the sidelines while you and he carry on a daily war with my son as the prize?' 'Not daily, you little fool. I don't live in the old man's pocket any longer. I haven't done for the last three years.' He was cheerful. 'There's a legal firm in Alnwick, a couple of solicitors who put quite a bit of work my way, and I get briefs from other parts of the county as well. I made quite a name for myself in London.' A small, ironic smile curled the corners of his mouth. 'I've a lovely, impassioned style which can bring tears of pity or anger to the eyes of the jury— depending on whether I'm defending or prosecuting—and when I went back north, my fame travelled before me. My rooms are in

Alnwick, too far for me to commute to and from The Pele every day, so I've bought a place of my own outside the town which is far enough away from The Pele to make anything more than a weekend visit inconvenient. If you married me, that's where you'd live, you and the boy. I'm afraid you might find it a lonely life, I'm away quite a bit but there would be scope for your antique business if we could find you suitable premises.' 'Grandfather would never settle for weekend visits.' She shook her head, ignoring Brett's hint that she might be able to get back into business again. Pie in the sky, she decided, and said only as a sop to her shattered dreams of independence. He probably didn't mean it and anyway, she'd learned to take her medicine straight, she didn't need a coating of jam on the pill nowadays. 'That's not what he wants,' she continued, 'and you know it, so the idea's useless.' Brett looked almost sly. 'He'd have to settle for it, Eden. His pride wouldn't allow him to do much else. I'd have become a member of his bloody family, the nearest anybody could get without being born one, and you know what he's like about family. Also, as your husband, I'd be the boy's legal guardian and he can't intimidate me!' 'If you could work something like that out for yourself,' Eden copied his slyness, 'why can't you do it for me?' 'We all have our own axe to grind.' He looked at her blandly. 'Your grandfather approached me as a friend and I said I'd do my best for him. If you're willing to fall in with my plan, that's exactly what I shall do. But my best will be to get the boy as far as Alnwick and promise weekly or fortnightly visits. Think about it, Eden. Don't dismiss the proposition out of hand. You'll do better with my help than without it.' 'If only it was as easy as that.' Her mouth drooped and she uttered her thoughts aloud without realising, while the look of strain was

back in her face. 'But I couldn't, and I do mean couldn't. I couldn't marry anybody...' 'Why not?' She felt him shift in his seat and heard his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. 'You're still carrying a torch for Peter?' Perhaps it would be better to let him think that, any other explanation was out of the question. Besides, he'd known Peter and even if she could have brought herself to tell him—which she knew she couldn't—he probably would never believe such a thing. 'You have to understand,' she kept her voice chilly and remote, 'I couldn't face marriage and what it entails if I didn't love the man ...' k was weak but the best she could do, and she sat waiting for his laughter and after a few seconds of complete silence, it came but not the sort of laughter she'd expected. It wasn't mocking at what must have sounded like sheer romanticism, it was pure humour with an odd note of relief at the back of it. 'I offered to marry you, I didn't ask you to be my wife. There's a difference, you know. I put forward a purely business proposition for our mutual benefit and I've pointed out the advantages on both sides. You comply with your grandfather's wishes, but only as far as your husband will permit, so you're off the hook. While I get out of a situation which was none of my making and which I'd find intolerable. Also I'd gain a ready-made family and an aura of sober, solid dependability and last but by no means least, there'd be the sweet taste of revenge and that's all there will be to it.' His voice roughened to hardness. 'When I make love to a woman, I want her to want me and only me, I don't want her pretending I'm somebody else, and if she can't do that, I don't want her. Period!' 'Crudely put but understandable.' Eden let go her breath in a sigh. For a split second he'd got through to her, crashed through the barrier she'd erected to hide her own hurts, and she thought she'd

glimpsed a fierce, passionate pride which had been bludgeoned into the ground but which had never died. It still lived, as fierce and indomitable as ever. Not twin souls, she found herself thinking wryly, but there was some common ground between them. She nodded. 'You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. May I have until tomorrow to think about it?' 'D'you need that long?' 'No, not really.' She conquered her aversion to touch and held out a small, work-roughened hand while she smiled ruefully. 'I'm in a corner, you're offering a way out, the only way out as I see it. I'll accept on those terms. Shall we shake on it?' 'Magnanimous of you!' He almost snarled it but his hand closed on hers, folding her fingers into a cool, firm grip. 'Two days!' he reminded her. 'I've wasted enough time already.' And there was no more to it than that! Eden, who'd been expecting—she didn't know what, but the mere thought of whatever it might be made her cringe—sank back and suppressed a sigh of thankfulness as he started the car, slid out of the lay-by and drove back the way they'd come. He said good night to her on the doorstep, barely touching her fingers—the little lecture about Personal Space had taken effect— and with a brisk, 'See you tomorrow morning at nine sharp,' he was gone and she watched as the car slid away from the kerb before she let herself in through the door. Betty seemed to find it all very romantic when a very little of the situation was explained over a jug of cocoa and a plate of sandwiches. Eden didn't want to eat but she knew she must—and then Betty was gone and she was alone with her thoughts. Her mind went round and round but she could find no other way out of her dilemma. She mulled it over in the bath and afterwards when she lay

awake in the darkness, but there was no other way. Had she been alone, she could have defied her grandfather but she had to protect Philip. She flinched away from the memory, not only of her wedding day but of the time after the car accident. Nobody had been generous to her then, most of her acquaintances had seemed to think she was responsible for the tragedy and that it would have been better if she'd died with, or instead of her husband. But, she tried to be fair, the coroner had been a lot to blame for that with his instant supposition that she and Peter had been joyriding for kicks. Joyriding! In the darkness her mouth stretched into an expression of terror remembered. She'd brought it all back with her stupid worrying, and now she would have to live through it all again. She'd learned from long experience it was the only way to banish the nightmare. Dry-eyed, she stared up at the ceiling and tried not to flinch or close her eyes at the worst bits, and she finally managed to grab at the last part and hold on to it. The part which contained the wild dash about the dark countryside in the car. If she'd been terrified before, this part was the ultimate. Before, she had wished for oblivion and her wish had been granted, but during that car ride, she'd prayed for life. And she'd prayed for another thing as well, a thing no normal, sane person would pray for.

CHAPTER THREE EDEN was still full of doubts when Philip woke her in the morning by rattling his cot bar. and she mulled over Brett's plan all the time she was bathing, dressing and feeding her son his breakfast. He preferred to feed himself but he tended to be messy about it, although this morning, after a bit of help with his cereal he made quite a neat job of his boiled egg and toast soldiers. But by the time she'd straightened out the kitchen and cleaned him up, she'd discovered the weak point in Brett's arrangements and her doubts had coalesced into certainty. She was being manoeuvred, she was being had! She tackled him with it almost as soon as she'd unlocked the door to his knock and let him into the shop. She looked like a small bantam hen defying a regulation-size cockerel as anger at her own stupidity made her small, thin figure very stiff and erect and her eyes were slitted and glittering dangerously. 'Nobody,' she said flatly before he'd a chance to speak, 'can get married in two days—one and a half now—not unless they have one of those special things from an Archbishop. This is just a trick you've thought up to keep me quiet until you can hand us over to Grandfather! 1 was a fool to think I could trust you!' 'Eden!' He was roughly reproving and at the sound of his voice some of her fury and disappointment evaporated, but the suspicion remained, spoiling everything, and she watched him warily. 'Be sensible,' he snarled softly. 'I wouldn't have outlined a plan if it wasn't feasible, so if you'll take me somewhere where we can sit down and talk in comfort, I'll explain the arrangements.' She flushed at the roughness of his voice and reluctantly moved aside from her 'on guard' position in front of the door which led to the kitchen. His obvious anger could be explained by her show of ignorance, but on the other hand, it might be because she'd found him out. She rather hoped it was the latter, it would prove to him

that she wasn't a complete idiot, and perhaps he'd treat her with a little more respect. But whichever it was, she was taking no chances and as he followed her through the door, she darted ahead and picked Philip up from where he was playing with some wooden blocks on the rag rug in front of the guarded fire, to hold him as if she expected him to be torn from her arms at any moment. 'Be sensible.' He said it again as he eyed her stance with derision before he seated himself in the chair and placed a small notepad on the table in front of him. 'All I want is confirmation of some information I already possess and the use of your telephone.' His final words cracked in her ears like a whip. 'Sit down!' Eden subsided on a chair still holding her son, and so tightly that Philip protested vigorously, thumping her knees and stomach with his slipper-clad feet as he wriggled to be free while his short arms flailed like windmills. Brett raised his head and his eyes gleamed as he watched the tussle. 'Put him down,' he advised, 'he's getting too big to be treated like a baby and it's all quite unnecessary. I've no intention of running away with him!' 'No,' she was ungracious. 'I didn't suppose you would,' she mumbled. She put Philip on the floor and became filled with chagrin as he made a beeline for Brett and scrambled up on to his knee without any qualms, without even being invited. She had often been told you could trust a child's instincts about people, but trust was one thing and taste was another. Philip was showing the most deplorable taste! But she tried to relax, leaning back in her chair and attempting to look at ease, a difficult thing to do. The chair was not one of the lyre-backs but a comparatively cheap, over carved Victorian hall chair with barley twist supports, much too ornate for modern tastes. She'd bought it at an auction when

she'd first set up in business and nobody so far had ever wanted to take it off her hands. An odd quirk of fancy made her wonder if she should make her grandfather a present of it. It was the sort of thing he deserved! 'Now . . .' Brett unscrewed a fountain pen, foiled Philip's wild grab at it and drew the notepad towards him. 'Your full name is Eden Nairn, you have no others?' At the -shake of her head he went on, 'You're twenty-two years old, your condition is widowed, you're an antique dealer, you reside at seven Battye's Lane, Gloucester, your father is Stephen Edward Manning, a schoolteacher. Have I got that right?' Eden nodded and he went on, 'For your information, my name is Brett Louis Allard, age thirty-six, a bachelor, a barrister by profession, of The Barns, near Hawkhill, Alnwick and my father's name was Louis James Allard, a solicitor, deceased. Now may I use your telephone?' Eden nodded as she watched him put Philip down on the rug with his blocks, regretting there was no earsplitting roar of disapproval. She led the way back into the shop where she listened unashamedly to one side of a conversation between Brett and somebody called Charles who seemed to only take notes with little or no comment. Brett started off with an abrupt 'Here are the details for the marriage licence,' before reading out from his jottings, paying particular attention to the spelling of names and ended with a brisk, 'Get on to it straight away. Charles, there's a good fellow, and set the date at the Register Office for as early as possible, which should be Monday morning. Then call in at my place and tell Mrs Scott, my housekeeper, the news and ask her to make the necessary preparations for Mrs Nairn and her two-and-a-half year old son, and to get a cot and high-chair for the boy. We'll be arriving on Saturday evening.'

'Satisfied?' He followed Eden back into the kitchen. 'You are not Little Red Riding Hood and I am not delivering you to the wolf!' 'And that's all there is to it?' She still looked doubtful. There had been a lot more to it last time; visits to the vicar, banns read in church, three long weeks of preparation . .. 'That's all.' Brett turned to a previous page of his note pad without even a glance in her direction. 'One doesn't necessarily need to apply for a licence in person, and Charles already has a copy of your birth certificate. I was just checking in the unlikely case you'd made any changes in your name recently. And I am quite trustworthy, Eden, so start learning to trust.' 'How can I?' She relaxed slowly, enough to indulge in a little wry humour. 'Grandfather is sitting up at The Pele trusting you and you're doing the dirty on him, you said so! How do I know . ..?' 'I am not doing the dirty on your grandfather,' he denied blandly. 'I'm following his instructions, which were to bring you and the boy back to The Pele. I shall do that whenever possible, say once a fortnight, and it's all perfectly legal. Today is Wednesday, we'll leave for the North on Friday morning. By that time I'll have had a child's safety seat fitted in the car and although two days' travelling will be a bit rough on the boy, he looks fit enough to stand it and you can both rest up on Sunday. Now to get you settled. Have you told your Betty?' 'Last night,' she admitted. 'I didn't intend to, she gossips rather a lot, but she works three days a week for me and I didn't want to leave her up in the air. She didn't seem to mind, though, and she's perfectly willing to do the fairs. We've arranged a payment for that and she's going to use my old van. I bought it cheap and it's on its last legs now, so it doesn't owe me anything. Betty can sell it when

she's done with it and keep the money. As for the stock, what's left over at the end of a month can go to the auction . . .' 'Hmm.' He made a note and Eden, reading it upside down and making out 'transfer of ownership-DLVC', allowed herself a smile of triumph. 'I've already thought of that!' she scolded, reaching out to tap the note pad with a finger tip. How dare he treat her as if she was a moron! She was quite capable and she reckoned she'd proved it. Young as she had been, she'd started a business—with a bit of financial help from Philippa—run it at a profit and brought up a baby at the same time, all of which took a bit of doing. But her triumph fell flat when, instead of complimenting her on her forward thinking, he ignored it and passed straight on to another question. 'And your solicitor's name, address and telephone number?' He was busy with his notepad once more. 'You'll have to give him some instruction, there are bound to be a few debts outstanding. I advise you to have any mail delivered to him and let him deal with it. I think we'd better see him together, I'll ring for an immediate appointment.' And so it went on. Eden finished her last chair and then sat back in unaccustomed idleness, watching as her life was rearranged. She didn't like it but she had no option, and while he was dealing expertly with every small problem as it arose, she occupied herself, not with listening but with making a neat and comprehensive list of the extra things she wished to take with her. Her favourite bits of silver, the Sevres china and anything which would make the nucleus of a stock if she ever had the chance to start up in business again. It would be too much to go in the car, but Betty could pack it in crates and send it on later by road.

'Don't forget the lyre-back chairs.' Brett looked over her shoulder at her list which was overflowing on to a second sheet of paper. 'Have them sent on as well.' 'Oh, you're buying them!' Eden started on mental arithmetic. One hundred and seventy-five guineas—one hundred and fifty, if she couldn't squeeze the other twenty-five out of him—would be very welcome. Brett ruined her sums. 'No,' he was bland, 'you're giving them to me as a wedding present!' 'Am I?' She regarded him with a glitter in her eyes. 'And what do I get in return?' 'Safety,' he replied mockingly. 'The chance to bring up Philip in your own way, an amenable husband, need I say more?' *** Eden shivered as she stepped out of the car and reached for her light nylon jacket to struggle herself into it before she picked up her fretful son. She had forgotten that late April would be that much colder here in the north, and she wasn't dressed for it. The brisk northeast wind seemed to go through her instead of round and she was tired, which made it worse. Philip was weary as well, he whined irritably when the wind caught his face, clung tightly to her and said, 'Go home now?' hopefully. Eden said the wrong thing. 'We can't, darling. This is home, our new home.' 'Don't like it." His bottom lip thrust forward and he pummelled at her chest with chubby fists. 'Want to go home!' Brett rescued her as her slight body rocked beneath the force of her son's blows, lifting him out of her arms and setting him on his

shoulders. 'New home,' he said, 'new things. Let's run.' Which successfully diverted his soon-to-be stepson so that Philip shrieked with excitement as he was jogged up and down on the way to the door. Eden, after a bad-tempered slap at the locked boot which contained her suitcases, cast a jaundiced eye over the exterior of her new home. The Barns was a big house—it was a conversion and she supposed the two original barns had shared a common wall although one had been shorter than the other. She caught a glimpse of a double gable but only at one end—and it looked pleasant enough, although lonely. There wasn't another house within a mile or so. Eden liked the modern, wide windows set in the old walls, the smaller dormer windows in the sturdy, high peaked, tiled roof and the gleam of fresh white paint everywhere. Some work had been done on the garden. quick-growing saplings had been planted on the north and east sides of the house to form a windbreak. A newly made lawn—the outlines of the turf still visible— was showing a fresh, new green; there were some hardy shrubs and some rose bushes, each with a very bright orange label to show their newness, and the darker green spears of daffodils had pushed up through the bare soil in the flower borders. Brett turned with a squealingly excited Philip on his shoulders and made a brief explanation. 'The bigger one's the house, the other's a garage with the housekeeper's flat above it.' But Eden wasn't listening properly. A thin trail of smoke from one of the chimneys was a consoling sight, and she hurried after him, her mind filled with thoughts of a bath, a change of clothes, cups of tea and blazing log fires. The wind took the door out of her hands, it slammed behind her but this was no modern building. Even as a barn it had been built to

stand up to anything the north-east wind could throw at it. Nothing rattled and the old plates which decorated the walls of the hallway didn't fall off. 'Upstairs, a bath, a change of clothes and you'll feel better.' He guided her towards the staircase, making no excuse for uncarpeted stairs or the several bare rooms they passed as they walked along the gallery. Excuses didn't seem to be in his line, he dealt in reasons. 'The remains of my parents' home.' He gestured around briefly. 'Your grandfather had it all put into store when they died and he took me to live with him. He said it was good stuff, too good to sell, and that I'd perhaps need it one day. I'll leave the rest of the furnishing to you. There'll be tea when you're ready for it and you can meet Mrs Scott, known as "Scotty". I don't think you'd know her, you never got into Alnwick much, did you?' 'And although the total population of the place is only just over seven thousand, I might have missed one or two.' She heard herself sounding aggravating, and was startled at his understanding smile. 'Smooth down the prickles, you don't need them any longer,' he advised before he pushed her gently through a doorway. 'Ah, Scotty has provided the cot. I hope you'll be comfortable.' He went off back down the passage, leaving her to examine her new quarters which had an old-fashioned charm. She and Philip bounced on the bed and approved it, there was no need to inspect the wardrobe, it was cavernous and would hold all, her things and still leave room to spare. The dressing table was bare except for a very beautiful crystal tray and specimen vase, and the mahogany tallboy with a cane inlay was just right for Philip's things. There was a door in the side wall of the room which led. into a well appointed bathroom and without more ado, she stripped off Philip's clothes and ran a bath for him, something which was guaranteed to sweeten his irritability.

While they were trying to drown a new plastic duck which didn't have a hole in it, she heard Brett bringing up the suitcases. She heard the thumps as he dropped them to the bedroom floor and stiffened, waiting—but he didn't intrude, he went off back the way he'd come and she relaxed again. Dinner was over; a plain, wholesome meal of thick vegetable soup followed by roasted spare ribs and ending with cheese and biscuits. Philip had already wolfed down an outsize portion of soup plus a generous dish of rice pudding—Scotty had admitted that she wasn't handy with sweets—and was asleep in his new cot together with his treasured teddy before Eden and Brett started their meal. Eden hadn't eaten much, pleading tiredness as an excuse—pride forbade her to show her nervousness—but she ..welcomed the coffee which the housekeeper had set down on a low table beside the fire in the lounge area of the large room. Brett settled in an armchair by the fire, puffing contentedly at his pipe and waiting for Eden to be free—she'd felt bound to help the housekeeper clear the table although her offer to help in the kitchen was kindly but firmly refused—and when she eventually came to pour the coffee, Brett announced they would visit The Pele tomorrow. 'I'd rather not.' All Eden's suspicions rose again but she tried to disguise her unreasonable fear with an outward show of unconcern. 'I'd like Philip to have a quiet day, he needs it after two days' travelling. Why tomorrow anyway? Why can't we leave it until after we're married? Surely that would be the best thing.' 'Sheer consideration for my peace of mind.' He stretched his long legs to the blaze. 'And consideration for you,' he added. 'We can't keep our arrival here a secret, and although your grandfather lives some considerable distance away, he has his ear to the ground. This isn't a city like Gloucester where things like a new arrival can go

unnoticed. News travels very swiftly and if we don't go there, he'll simply come here.' 'And you don't want that, you're expecting some unpleasantness?' She kept herself cool and wrinkled a thoughtful brow but his short, hard laugh calmed her. 'Some unpleasantness! You know your grandfather, he'll be livid. It would be nothing I couldn't handle if the worst came to the worst, but I'd prefer to do my fighting at The Pele. We could always walk out of his house if he became too unbearable, but I couldn't throw a man of his age out of mine! So, I'll phone to tell him that we'll be calling on him tomorrow.' 'I'd still prefer to present him with a fait accompli,' she muttered, but relief was making her almost light-headed. At last it had sunk in, Brett wasn't going to hand Philip and her over! Perhaps she could trust him after all, but she shied away from that thought. Men were not trustworthy, she'd never had grounds for believing them to be. Her grandfather, Peter, even her own dear, gentle, academic—but outside his school room woolly-minded father had all, in their separate ways, let her down. Yet seemingly, she was expected to trust Brett. But only up to. a point, she decided she would be on her guard and time would tell. 'We shall invite him to the wedding.' Brett said it between puffs at his pipe. 'The ceremony isn't until Monday noon, your grandfather has a car and a chauffeur of sorts if he doesn't feel up to driving himself; I expect he'd like to come.' But that was too much for her, she shrank back into the chair and her face set in the old lines of strain. 'No, I won't have him there and I won't take Philip to see him tomorrow either. I won't, I tell you. I won't!' She crushed down the rising hysteria which was making her voice become shrill and continued more calmly. 'He doesn't want

me, he wants Philip, and he was prepared to ruin me to get him and that's not all. After the accident, after that coroner said the things he said and everybody was gossiping away like mad, I didn't have anywhere to go. Grandfather turned his back on me, he sort of wiped me out of existence. D'you know, he didn't even let Father and Philippa know, they had to read about it in a newspaper…' 'All the more reason for you to be generous now.' Brett sounded condemning. 'You can afford to be. Your grandfather's an old tartar but he has nobody else left, no other family but you and the boy. Most of his contemporaries, his old friends, are dead, he's outlived them all. Besides, after Monday noon he won't be able to touch you or the boy, so you can give way on little things like an invitation to a wedding, and an hour's visit tomorrow. Neither of which can do any harm.' 'Oh, you make my heart bleed!' She was scathing and then—she put it down to tiredness—she gave way. 'If Philip's all right tomorrow, if he's not too tired, we'll go and you can invite Grandfather to the wedding. I'll leave the generosity to you, though. Don't expect any from me!' Brett stood up lazily with a little sigh of weariness— she thought she must be getting on his nerves—and quite against the rules, he crossed the rug and pulled her from her chair, holding her firmly and paying no attention to her involuntary flinching. His thumbs traced the thinly covered bones of her shoulders and when she flinched again, his hands tightened and he gave a half-laugh which wasn't much more than a soft growl. 'You'll have to do better than that on Monday.' He shook his head at her. 'We have to put on a good show or there'll be gossip. We must manage a kiss at least.'

'No!' All her terror was back with her. He was so close she could smell the male scent of him, the sharp tang of eau-de-cologne. Peter had liked heavy, musky toiletries... 'Just a friendly kiss.' She heard him through the roaring of the blood in her ears and could do nothing except stand there with her eyes closed, helpless. 'Like this,' and his mouth was on hers. For a brief moment, she fought. She fought him and the sick fright which enveloped her before she stilled, slowly recognising the difference. His mouth was cool and firm, like his hands, it wasn't hot and devouring and there was no blatant thrust of his body against hers. Except for his hands and his lips, he wasn't touching her. AH her resistance was gone, she could feel herself withdrawing from her body so that she was numb; her legs trembled and she sagged in his hands and then his mouth was no longer on hers. 'Still in mourning?' he mocked. 'All feeling dried up, I suppose and the dessicated remains of your heart buried with Peter! Why in hell's name can't you forget the past? All right,' as she made a small movement to be free, 'so you've been through the mill but it's all over now. . .' 'Don't touch me!' It came out as a hoarse whisper through her trembling lips. 'I can't bear anybody to touch me.' She took a deep breath but the numbness wouldn't go, nor would her muscles obey her when she tried to drag herself upright. His hands held her still although she was sagging in them and she heard his voice, quiet in the quiet room and rather rueful. 'Did you think I had seduction in mind, my girl? Bed,' she heard him say, the word seemed to come from a great distance so that it echoed in her ears as she felt herself lifted and carried to be set on the bottom step of the staircase. He turned her round and gave her a little push in the small of her back. Her hand went out to the rail to steady herself and

through blurred, eyes she watched him lift a Burberry from the coat stand. 'Y-you're leaving?' 'No, why should I?' He shrugged on the coat and gave her a wry glance. 'We have a dog, my dear, a noisy but otherwise useless Labrador who's supposed to guard us. I'm just going to take him for his usual walk. I'll be up later.' As the back door closed behind him, Eden took the staircase at a stumbling run while her mind became a whirlpool of thoughts and fears. He'd said he wouldn't but . .. supposing she couldn't trust him after all . ..? She sped along the gallery, let herself into the bedroom and locked the door behind her with cold hands which shook with fear. Even with the door safely locked, she couldn't be easy. Her nerves were jangling and her stomach was curdled with nervous fright. Slowly, so very slowly, she calmed down until she was once more capable of reasoned thought. She was safe here. Hastily, she went into the bathroom and sluiced cold water over her hands and face; it made her feel better. Back in the bedroom, she locked the bathroom door behind her— she'd just noticed another door in there, directly opposite hers so it couldn't lead on to the gallery—but she didn't undress. She sat in a chair beside Philip's cot and waited a long time before she heard a door slam downstairs and Brett's soft whistling as he climbed the stairs. Came a light tap at her door and she jerked like a marionette on strings as the tap was repeated more loudly, and she heard his voice. 'Eden, are you all right?' But she couldn't speak, couldn't move, terror held her dumb and motionless. A moment later, footsteps

retreated back down the gallery and the tension went out of her. He was gone, he'd meant what he'd said, he wasn't going to try ... Her eyes slid round the darkened room, illuminated only by Philip's dim nightlight. One part of her was limp with relief but another part was filled with an odd feeling that something very fragile had just been born, that she had to hold it very carefully because if she dropped it and it broke, she'd never be able to replace it. In the darkness, she scrambled herself into bed and lay there, listening to Philip's soft breathing until she fell asleep. She dreamed but it wasn't her old, recurrent nightmare. This time there was no Peter; this time she was running, not away from but towards a dim figure. She didn't know who it was but she was certain that if she reached it, she'd be safe and welcome and the dreadful, sick terror which made her breath rattle in her throat would be gone for ever. Eden was woken as usual by Philip's strident demands to be let out of his cot, and she opened her eyes to bright, spring sunlight and the normality of doing instead of thinking. She and Philip shared a shower and dressed just in time for Scotty, who brought morning tea and after Philip had been fed his breakfast, Eden and Brett shared a fresh pot of coffee before he vanished into what looked like a study, announcing he had work to catch up on. Eden went back upstairs and made herself very busy—more as an excuse to delay going to The Pele than for any other reason— although there was plenty for her to do. Last evening, she'd been too tired to cope with unpacking and had only taken from her cases anything which was strictly necessary for the night. Now she had emptied them on her bed and was sorting through the large pile, putting Philip's things away in the tallboy, and searching among the remainder for woollens and thicker skirts and trousers. For this task, she had dressed herself in her usual well-worn jeans but topped them with a flannel shirt instead of the normal cotton top,

and as a final concession to the cooler climate, she wore socks instead of slipping her bare feet into sandals. Philip was all right, she comforted herself, he was still in his winter woollies. Busy with trotting to and fro between wardrobe, drawers and bed and setting aside things which needed pressing—all with a great deal of help from her son, most of which she could have done better without—she didn't hear the car arrive, and it was only when she heard her grandfather's stentorian tones drifting up the stair well that she realised he'd not waited to be visited. She heard Brett's quiet voice after her grandfather's 'Where's Eden and the boy?' She didn't hear Brett's reply and she didn't wait to hear any more. She bundled a protesting Philip into the safety of a big, wooden playpen—another example of the housekeeper's thoughtfulness; it was sturdy, old and, she thought, possibly borrowed—tossed his teddy in with him and without even a glance in the mirror to make sure she was tidy, she rushed down the stairs, arriving in the hall breathless. She was glad her grandfather had mentioned her, put her_ first, but the gladness didn't extend to anything enthusiastic in the way of a welcome. Let Brett do that, she thought truculently, he was good at smoothing people down and he wasn't bitter as she was, he had no reason to be. 'What are you doing here this morning?' she demanded fiercely without bothering about a greeting. 'We were coming to visit you this afternoon.' And while she was speaking, she was noticing things. Her grandfather looked different, the years apart had made an enormous change in him. He was still a big man— taller than Brett—but now he was stooped and his clothes—the usual rough, hardwearing tweeds he'd always worn—hung on his large frame as though there was no flesh left on his bones to pad them out. He was also using a stick, leaning on it as he stood beside Brett.

'Manners!' He roared her down, 'It's time you learned respect for age, lassie. And come to that, what have you been doing with yourself? You're nothing but a skeleton. Some faddy diet I suppose, I hope you've not been starving the boy as well. It's about time you came back to The Pele and put some flesh back on your bones.' He turned back to Brett. 'Thanks, lad. You've done the job more quickly than I expected. Did she give you very much trouble?' 'Hardly any at all, sir.' Brett was his usual, smooth self as he slid a hand under the old man's elbow and urged him towards the drawingroom. 'I brought her and the boy—we arrived yesterday evening— but,' he gave a slight shrug and a faint smile of self-mockery, 'but I'm afraid things aren't going to be quite in the way you wished. You'll take a drink and stay for lunch, I hope.' Eden watched suspiciously as he settled her grandfather in a chair and kicked the housekeeper's carefully banked-down fire into life. He straightened up to hold out a hand to her and, for the look of the thing she found herself taking it, letting her fingers lie quietly in his and feeling a surge of confidence wash over her, killing her suspicions stone dead. There was no need for her to fight this time, she could leave it to Brett. 'Eden and I are to be married at noon tomorrow; a quiet, civil ceremony at the Register Office,' he continued placidly. 'We hope you'll come to the wedding." "Wedding, you scoundrel!' Her grandfather had always bellowed like a bull if anything displeased him but this was quite a quiet bellow if Eden remembered correctly. She could remember the time when a roar from him would have sent her flying for cover, but not any more. She stood back to watch the by-play, only amused now by her grandfather's indignantly wrathful, 'Who gave you permission to marry a Falconer?'

'Eden herself.' Brett was humorous about it and his mouth curved into a smile. He paused a moment to let it sink in before continuing. 'She is a widow with a child and not a minor. She needs nobody's permission to marry." He released her fingers but the warmth and the confidence she'd found in his touch remained with her, and she was calm as she watched him cross to a side cabinet and rattle about among the bottles it contained. He emerged with one from which he poured a generous amount into a glass and carried that, with a jug of water back to the old man. 'The Macallan, sir.' His voice was as smooth and smoky as the whisky. 'I know it's your favourite, and while you're drinking it, perhaps you'll tell me. Who else should I have asked? Eden's is the only permission I need and she gave it quite willingly.' She watched as the white straggle of her grandfather's eyebrows drew together into a tremendous frown and a flush of rage rose in his gaunt cheeks. His old hand went out to grasp his stick and Eden had the idea that he'd get to his feet and belabour them with it. But whether he could no longer move that swiftly or whether he'd had second thoughts—his fingers certainly curled firmly round the crook—he made no move. 'The boy,' now he wasn't thundering, he was looking at Brett as if he'd never seen him before. 'I want the boy. Dammit, he's my heir! You lawyer fellows are all the same; sly, treacherous dogs! You say one thing and you mean another but I'm a man of my word . ..' He left the sentence hanging as a threat. 'Certainly.' Eden didn't know how Brett managed to remain so calm, this was what she'd been afraid of and it was no use Brett signalling to her not to worry, she couldn't help it. And it was just herself being silly, she knew that, but somehow it didn't seem to make any difference. The old man had always put the fear of God into her when his uncertain temper got the better of him. Her teeth closed on

her bottom lip and she tasted blood on her tongue while she waited for the explosion. 'Certainly.' Brett repeated it. 'I remember your terms precisely, sir. I was to bring Eden and the boy back with me—or the boy by himself if Eden refused to come—all so that you could sell up her house and business to recover your investment, leaving her and her child homeless and destitute.' His face was calm, there wasn't a flicker of emotion on it. 'I've simply made a more equitable arrangement, one which is fairer to both sides, hers and yours,' he explained judiciously. 'I've brought them back as we arranged, you will recover your investment as soon as the house in Gloucester is sold, and you will see your great-grandson frequently…' 'That's not what I wanted and you damn' well know it?' The old man's roar rattled the window panes. 'I don't give a damn about the money, I want the boy with me! My granddaughter has to do what I say!' 'Not after tomorrow.' Brett was calm and smooth. 'After tomorrow, Eden will be my wife and she'll do as I say—within legal limits— and even if she wished, I wouldn't allow the boy to live apart from his mother. Neither will I permit my wife to live anywhere else but in my home, with me. Now, sir, we hope you'll stay for lunch.'

CHAPTER FOUR THIS should have been Eden's moment of triumph, but suddenly for her, it fell flat and she couldn't understand it. Philip broke the ensuing silence with a series of roars from the bedroom, rather reminiscent of his great-grandfather, and Eden, with a muttered apology of 'Oh dear, and he's usually so good!' sped away, but all the way up the stairs, she kept remembering her grandfather's face. First he had looked stunned and then, before her eyes, he had changed into a weary, beaten old man; a rather lonely old man. A great deal of her anger and bitterness had vanished at that moment, not all of it of course, there was a lot left, but what remained was inextricably mixed up with pity. In the bedroom, she found the teddy had been hurled from the playpen together with Philip's socks and slippers and practically every article of clothing he'd managed to tear off, but his seminudity wasn't what was causing the roars. Philip wanted out, he wanted movement and company, he was fed up with a lonely, restricted existence. Eden understood and blamed herself. Except when he was asleep, he had never been alone before, so she soothed while she lifted him out of the playpen, redressed him in fresh clothes, replaced his socks and slippers, restored the teddy to him and then, more slowly because he insisted on walking and not being carried, they made their way to the bathroom where he suffered her to sponge his puce face and rather sticky hands with cool water. After that came the difficulty of getting him downstairs. Again, it would have been quicker to carry him, but he was obdurate. 'My's walks,' he announced firmly and continued to be independent right up to the drawing-room door where he reverted to shyness and deigned to hold her hand. It seemed a long way, across acres of polished boards and carpet from the door to the chair where her

grandfather was sitting, and halfway across Philip was totally overcome by his shyness. Except for one swift glance at the visitor, he ignored him, to let go his mother's hand and make a beeline for Brett. 'Walk?' He said hopefully, clinging to a handful of grey worsted trouser leg. 'See the dog!' And added a belated 'Please?' as an afterthought. 'See Grandfather first,' Eden made a bid for control of the situation, 'then see the dog.' She towed her reluctant son across the room. 'Grandfather, this is Philip; Philip,' she knelt to bring her face on a level with the child's, 'this is Grandfather Falconer.' She left out the 'great', it would only confuse him since he already knew about grandfathers and in any case, according to the books, he seemed a bit slow about talking. She was hoping this would improve when he started playschool. Philip solved it in his own way, reducing everything to the bare essentials. 'Fanner,' he managed and then with a hand on the old man's knee, 'Walk, see the dog . . please?' he entreated. 'Philip is not a Falconer name,' her grandfather growled ungraciously as he rose to his feet and took his great-grandson's pudgy little hand in his own huge one. 'Named after that woman, I suppose?' 'Yes.' Eden kept up her serene expression. 'Who else? I've always thought of Philippa as my mother, and there was a time when she was the only person I could turn to.' She said it with bitter emphasis. Eden remembered that time only too well. She and Philip had arrived on her father's new doorstep because she needed help and she couldn't think of anywhere else to go for it. She hadn't been

surprised when her father had proved to be useless, completely out of touch, as he always was. He'd looked at her baby with something like horror. It had been Philippa who'd welcomed her, made everything normal and it had been Philippa, refusing to be shaken out of her normal placidity, who'd taken charge. She'd put Eden to bed and kept her there for a week, listened with only half an ear to her hysterical outbursts and, gone on quietly making plans until she had a life for her stepdaughter all worked out, down to the last detail. At the end of the week, she'd explained to a still frail but rested Eden ... 'I've a house in Gloucester, it's old and poky but it's vacant and I was going to sell it anyway. I'll let you have it for what you can afford to pay for it...' 'Which'd be peanuts!' Eden hadn't been able even to sound enthusiastic. 'Grandfather gave me money as a wedding present but I've had to use a bit of it to live. I couldn't work, you see, and in any case, I've never been trained for anything.' She made a despairing face. 'D'you realise I'm useless, I can't do anything, I'm unemployable!' Eden could remember the relief she'd felt, the wry grin she'd given at Philippa's calm reply. 'So? But I'm not out to make a profit out of my own stepdaughter, so I shan't ask more than I know you can afford. You can have it as soon as you feel fit enough to cope on your own. Meanwhile, you can stay with us temporarily.' And Eden hadn't been offended. She'd known it wasn't an attempt to get rid of her but a genuine desire to help. In any case, she was well aware that her father would be vaguely uncomfortable with her about, she was a permanent reminder of her mother, whom he'd far rather forget. If she wasn't there, he wouldn't be reminded.

'My last tenants ran it as an antique shop,' Philippa had continued placidly. 'It's in an old part of the city, a narrow, out of the way street and plenty of tourists hunting around for souvenirs with just that bit of difference. You could take out a mortgage and open it up again later on, when you feel well enough. It would be an outside interest, give you something to do and you've always had an eye for antiques. You know about that sort of thing, and you might as well turn that knowledge to good use.' As a bit of forward planning, Eden had accepted gratefully and as the weeks slid past and she started to feel better she'd realised it was the only real solution. Once she was gone, life for Philippa and her father would settle back into its quiet routine. Her father loved her in his odd, impersonal way, but she had to admit there were times when he quite obviously found both her and Philip a nuisance. She came back to the present with a jerk. 'It's a good name,' she told her grandfather defiantly. 'I couldn't think of a better!' But she spoke to the old man's back; he and Philip were already on the way out, and she turned to Brett who was regarding her curiously. 'He won't do anything?' she sounded unsure. 'Not a thing!' Brett was, unlike herself, quite sure. 'Airing family squabbles in public would be quite beneath your grandfather's dignity.' Then he reminded her, 'Hadn't you better see Scotty? Tell her about the extra one for lunch and,' he added, 'your grandfather will be at the wedding tomorrow. He always observes the conventions—outwardly!' 'He won't run off with Philip?' She crossed to the window through which she could see the old man and the young child making their slow way along the frontage. Soon they'd be out of sight. 'Run off in what?' Brett didn't touch her, he just stood there, looking sardonic. 'Can you see a car?'

'N-no.' She craned her head until she could see right up to the doorway. There was nothing there, not even a bicycle, but she still was doubtful. 'But it all went off too smoothly for my liking and I have the feeling Grandfather has something up his sleeve.' 'But, nothing!' Brett snorted softly. 'Donald, his handyman, has driven down to Alnwick to see his relatives, he won't be back to pick the old man up until after tea. So stop imagining things. The fourteenth century was a long time ago and the reiving days have gone. Your grandfather may have inherited a few of the instincts but he doesn't put them into practice ...' 'It would be so easy for him.' She found herself growing steadily more uneasy. 'You know what he's like. He's quite capable of carrying Philip off and he'd shut them up in The Pele and defy everybody…' 'Idiot!' This time he did touch her, coming to stand at her side and putting a hand on her shoulder to shake her gently. 'You're letting your imagination run away with you. Eight foot thick walls are no longer a guarantee of safety. Two or three hundred years ago they might have been, maybe, but not today. Give them a half an hour and they'll be back,' he gave her another shake, 'and don't go interfering. The old man's been waiting for this for fifty years, he has his boy at last, so let him have his moment.' 'I thought you didn't like him.' She raised an eyebrow and pushed away from him, wriggling her shoulder from his grasp. The way Brett had spoken had disturbed her, all her doubts were back, in force and nibbling at the edges of her mind with sharp, cruel little teeth so that her newly found confidence was being bitten to shreds. 'I don't think I can trust you after all,' she muttered. 'You and he were together before I came in, you must have arranged something behind my back .. .'

'I neither like nor dislike him.' Brett was wry. 'But I think I understand him better than you do and it's only natural I should. I'm not biased and I've little now to be bitter or vengeful about. Nothing was arranged behind your back and as for you not trusting me, that doesn't worry me a bit, you don't trust anybody, so why make an exception in my case?' He turned his back on her and walked to the door where he stopped, his hand on the latch. 'Why don't you do something constructive, Eden? Go and fix up about lunch, there's a good girl, and organise something hot to drink for when they come in; the wind's cold, this place is very exposed and,' his mouth curved into a smile, 'neither of your two other menfolk is what you might call "quick on their feet"!' For Eden, the afternoon dragged. Her grandfather and Philip came back in from their after-lunch tour of inspection and after a hot drink, Philip was seated on his great-grandfather's knee and given an interminable history of his family. The old man was speaking of The Falconer as if it was only yesterday and not way back in the fifteenth century that The Pele had been given to the man who had been appointed falconer to The Duke. Philip fell asleep after only ten minutes or so, but the old man refused to allow him to be taken upstairs to his cot. 'Leave him, lassie,' he growled softly so as not to waken the sleeping boy and Eden, remembering what Brett had said about letting him have his moment, gave way. But her suspicion was still with her, and rather than leave them alone—Brett had gone back to his workroom, excusing himself with a plea of having a lot to catch up on—she drew a footstool up to the fire, sat down in a chair, put her feet up and kept guard. It was all quite unnecessary, though. Her grandfather went to sleep, still holding Philip, and gradually she dozed off herself; lulled by the warmth and the quiet; not waking until Scotty came in to set out tea. And the other two had both woken before she had, Grandfather had reached the eighteenth century in his Falconer Saga!

After tea, after her grandfather had heaved himself back into the car—brought on time by a beaming Donald who wasn't much younger than his employer— she turned back from the gate as the old-fashioned Rover vanished round a bend in the road. Philip, a heavy weight in her arms, was still chanting 'Bye-bye Fanner'—a nice corruption which could be either grandfather or Falconer—and waving vigorously at the empty road. The cold, damp wind blowing strongly from the grey wastes of the North Sea and spattering cold rain made her shiver and she hurried as much as was possible, running the last few yards to pelt through the door and slam it behind her. With a sigh of relief, she dropped Philip on to the floor, where he went off at an unsteady run, heading directly for the kitchen while she leaned against the door panels to get her breath back. Brett came out of his room and through the open door, she caught a glimpse of the interior. A big desk, clear of paperwork; part of a huge, glass-fronted bookcase which seemed to be full to overflowing; a tall grey metal filing cabinet; a swivel armchair and by the side of the desk, a bulging briefcase with the clasp fastened. He'd evidently finished his work. 'He's gone?' Eden nodded bleakly. It hadn't been very fair of him to lock himself away, giving work as an excuse and leaving her to cope with her grandfather on her own. She thought her expression must have given her away or else he could read her mind. 'He isn't my grandfather.' Brett seemed amused by her air of martyrdom. 'I hope you impressed on him the need for punctuality tomorrow and, by the way, since it's all rather a rushed affair, will you settle for Scotty as the other witness? From what I remember, you didn't have that many friends ...'

Eden found her breath and her courage. 'Many! You know how remote The Pele is, I was practically friendless and although I managed to collect a few as I grew older, after that coroner had given me the "benefit of the doubt", I had none at all! No, I think Mrs Scott will do very well.' 'Good.' He carefully closed the door to his workroom and leaned idly against it. 'I've already asked her and she's busy pressing up her "best" for the occasion. I've booked lunch at the Lion and Crown for half-past one, which'll give us time for a drink before we eat. What are you wearing?' Eden stared at him aghast. She hadn't given it a thought! She supposed she'd been hoping that something, anything would happen to prevent this wedding and now it was falling on her like a ton of bricks, heavy and unexpected because she hadn't been able to visualise it ever happening. It had seemed something remote which had nothing to do with her. 'W-wearing?' she stuttered while her mind filled with little pictures. Grandfather would be in his best suit, very like his other suits only slightly less hairy. Something told her that Brett would look very formal, Scotty was pressing her 'best' and she, the bride, hadn't even looked to see if she had anything she could wear, much less a bridal outfit! She hadn't washed her hair. Had she a bag and a pair of matching gloves? Did brides wear gloves nowadays? Had she even a pair of dressy shoes? And if she finally got them all together, would, she be able to find some clothes to go with them? With wild visions of turning up at the Register Office and later at the Lion and Crown in a pair of jeans and a jumper covered by her old sheepskin jacket, she gulped nervously and took the stairs at a run. For more than two years she'd lived in jeans and tracksuits.

They'd been practical, warm and easily washed and although she had other clothes, she'd forgotten what they were. She felt perspiration bead her upper lip and forehead; maybe they wouldn't even fit any more! And the Lion and Crown, a little way out of town on the Rothbury road, was a haunt of the wealthy; the huntin', shootin' and fishin' elite, all cashmere and pearls! Nervously she tumbled through the drawers and the wardrobe to emerge with a makeshift outfit, a cream suit in fine wool; cleaned and set aside as unsuitable after Philip had lost a whole feed down the front of it; a silk shirt which matched her eyes, a pair of country type shoes with a medium stacked heel, a pair of soft leather gloves and a flat little bag; all parts of that old trousseau and little worn, fortunately. She even found a pair of silk stockings. The shoes would need a polish and- the suit a pressing and, with it over her arm and the shoes dangling from her hand, she went down to the kitchen keeping her fingers crossed. She'd lost a lot of weight, please heaven, let the things still fit her! Scotty was still performing on her 'best', a pink two- piece in a knitted, man-made fibre, and her eyes gleamed as she caught sight of Eden's burden. 'Nice.' she murmured, fingering the material of the suit, 'but will you be warm enough?' 'It's a bit big on me now.' Eden was bland. She couldn't tell the housekeeper that she'd be shivering anyway, with terror if not with cold. 'I'll have plenty of room for an extra woolly underneath!' 'And you'll have Mr Allard to keep the wind off you.' That was Scotty being coy, so that Eden felt sick. 'Oh please', she prayed silently. 'Let it be all right. Don't let him ask anything of me, please, please!' Her small face whitened as she shook with remembered fright. The bright kitchen darkened sp that she could no longer see Philip, sitting on the floor and leafing

through a highly coloured book about trains. There was a roaring in her ears and Scotty's middle-aged, rather dour face swelled up to balloon size and then started to shrink as though it was receding at express speed down a long dark tunnel, until it was no more than a speck of light which went out and there was only the terrifying, cold darkness left. Like a trapped, demented animal, she fought the hands which tried to hold her until she could fight no more. 'Little fool!' Eden heard Brett and felt a cloth soaked in something cool and perfumed placed on her forehead. A glass was thrust against her mouth, his firm voice came again, 'Drink this,' and her nose wrinkled at the fumes of brandy. 'No.' She tried to turn her head away, only to have it held even more firmly and the glass pressed harder against her lips as she became aware of things. She was no longer in the kitchen but lying on the couch in the lounge area of the dining-room. The couch had been drawn nearer to the fire and there was a cushion beneath her head and a tartan rug tucked round her so that she was beginning to feel warm again. 'Yes.' He was insistent, 'It'll make you feel better and it doesn't taste as bad as sal volatile. Drink up, like a good girl, or I'll send for a doctor.' Eden obediently drank, spluttering and coughing as raw spirit stung her throat, bit once down, it lodged in a nice warm ball in her stomach, sending out waves of heat which radiated right through her so that her fingers and toes started to tingle. The last thing she wanted was a doctor's attentions. Her experience of the one who had prescribed for her when she left the hospital after the car crash had put her off the medical profession for life. Sleeping pills because she couldn't sleep and tranquillisers because her nerves were shattered. She'd burned the lot after living in a twilight world for three days and nearly crashing the Dormobile!

'No doctors.' She whispered it. There seemed to be a constriction in her throat and she gulped nervously, but the brandy had helped, she was feeling better and more able to cope. 'Too much rushing about the last few days,' she explained briefly, glaring at him as though it was all his fault—which it was—'and then Grandfather coming here today, catching me before I was prepared . . .' She wanted to say a lot more, but something about his expression stopped the words before they got as far as her tongue. He was looking at her sardonically, as though he didn't believe a word she said, or if he did, he thought she was a fool. His next words confirmed it. 'I admit the journey wasn't good but it wasn't too bad either, and as for your grandfather, I thought you coped very well.' He was sitting on a stool at the side of the couch and his face was only a few inches from hers. "What's wrong, Eden? And for heaven's sake don't say "nothing". You've worked yourself up into a fine old state and if it's what I think it is—us getting married— it's all unnecessary. I'll expect you to put on a bit of a show in public, but that's all for the present. Later, when you've got over things a bit more, although I think you're taking a long time . . .' 'I've a lot to forget,' she broke in fiercely, her voice gaining strength by the second. 'And you're taking a hell of a time to do it!' He retorted grimly. 'Or are you really one of those "faithful unto death" types?" There wasn't any answer to that and she cringed. They were talking about two vastly different things although he didn't know it, and she wasn't going to explain. She couldn't explain! She hadn't been able to explain to Philippa whom she knew very well, and as far as she was concerned, Brett was the next best thing to a complete stranger. Eden let her head drop back on to the cushion, closed her eyes and

said as firmly as she could, 'I don't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever,' and to change the subject, 'Where's Philip?' 'In bed by this time, I expect," and as her mouth dropped open, 'you aren't the only woman who's had a baby, you know. Scotty's had several and brought them all up safely. Besides, I didn't want the boy to see you, not as you were, he could have been frightened—or hadn't you thought about that?' She hadn't thought about it and she resisted the impulse which wanted to rush her up the stairs and read him his usual bedtime story, while Brett's ears must have caught a sound she hadn't heard. 'Dinner's on the way.' Eden caught the sound of the trolley wheels outside in the hall. 'Can you walk as far as the dining table?' he demanded, it's half your trouble,' he added grimly, 'you don't eat enough. There isn't a scrap of flesh on you, you're skin and bone. No,' he changed his mind suddenly, 'for heaven's sake don't try to walk, I'll carry you.' 'I'm not that weak,' Eden retorted as she struggled to rise. 'Not weak,' he ignored her wriggling, picked her up as if she were a doll and strode off with her, 'but perhaps a bit drunk. I've an idea I overdid the brandy!' So it was the brandy which was giving her this wonderful, careless feeling; as though she'd unloaded a huge burden on to his shoulders and wouldn't ever have to carry it again. And they were good shoulders, she could feel them under her arms and they were broad and solid, warm too; while beneath her ear, she could hear the steady beat of his heart. Everything about him was as steady as that beat and utterly dependable—it must have been the brandy after all, because she giggled foolishly and he halted in his stride. 'Something funny?'

But the moment had passed and she shook her head. Eden tried to eat; the first few mouthfuls were hell, she chewed and chewed and they still hurt going down, as though there was no room for them but after that, it was better. She could taste things, savour Scotty's excellent roast beef and her little, light Yorkshire puddings with the rich, brown meat juices poured over them, even relish the tiny sprouts and the creamy mashed potatoes. Brett poured her wine which shone ruby red in the glass, and that gave her something else to think about. It was a heavy, hand-cut crystal goblet with a double baluster to the stem, very old and exquisite. She glanced at the sideboard and saw four more, all the same hand-cut crystal and much larger and heavier than the modern type.. She fingered hers delicately, almost afraid she might drop it, and she didn't think he'd notice but he did. 'My mother's,' he was brief, sounding almost defiant, 'she was an Allenby from over the border. You needn't worry you might be marrying beneath you!' Eden knew, in that moment, that people didn't have to be beaten to be hurt and she wasn't quite sure how to handle it. What did you say to a man who suddenly gave you a glimpse of a scar you didn't know had existed? Unfortunately, alongside the hurt she'd seen, she started to fill up with indignation, she didn't like being taken for a snob. That sort of thing was out of date nowadays and in any case, she didn't think she'd all that much to be proud of. A father who was too woolly minded and school orientated to bother about a daughter, and a grandfather who was arrogant and insensitive and who only regarded her as a breeding machine for scads of future Falconers. At this point, the stupidity of it struck her so that she giggled— although that might have had something to do with the brandy and the glass of wine—but surely she'd eaten enough to sop that up? Then suddenly, it wasn't funny any more. Sometime or another,

Brett had been hurt. He'd allowed her a glimpse of that hurt and in doing so, had hurt her and Eden had been hurt enough already. Didn't he realise that future Falconers wouldn't be Falconers, they'd be Nairns and in her book, that wasn't much to be proud of? She could feel her mouth tightening as she arrived at a sudden decision. If Grandfather wanted to change Philip's name, she wouldn't try to stop him! 'Don't be stupid,' she snapped. 'You're sounding too Victorian for words. Anybody'd think I was the daughter of a belted earl and toffee-nosed with it! I've learned a few things, you know. Everybody is just a person and they come in all kinds of shapes and sizes, they're all individuals and from the top of the pack, right through to the bottom, nobody's perfect. I've known fast-talking market traders who'd have diddled me out of my last penny if I gave them the chance, but who always treated me with respect, and I've known so-called gentlemen who paid with dud cheques and who propositioned me without any encouragement.' Brett gave her a glinting glance but he didn't say a word in reply and they finished dinner in silence. Before Eden poured the coffee, she slipped into the kitchen where Scotty greeted her with one finger on her lips for silence while with the other hand, she pointed upstairs. 'Thank you, Scotty,' she murmured gratefully. 'I don't know what I'd have done without you and I promise not to be so stupid in future. It's been all the rushing, I suppose.' Eden received an understanding smile; understanding of what, she wondered, and crept upstairs where she found Philip fast asleep in his cot, looking innocent and vulnerable. She didn't wake him, she didn't even kiss him, but crept quietly back the way she'd come and settled herself beside the fire to pour coffee. She handed Brett his cup, he put it down and caught at her left hand to frown over it.

'That's not your wedding ring.' He twiddled at the worn silver circlet she wore on her third finger. 'No.' By this time Eden was feeling better, quite well enough to be composed. 'Outside Gloucester, on the other side of the river, there's a tiny place called Over. You go over the bridge to Over and somehow, it seemed symbolic. Over two years ago, I went over the bridge to Over and since everything else was over as well, I donated my wedding ring to the river. But I found it led to some embarrassing situations so I looked around for something to wear in its place. I'd bought a job lot of trinkets and I found this ring among them. It fitted so .. .' She shrugged and tried to withdraw her hand but Brett held it firmly, turning it over to look at the palm, running his thumb along the small callouses made by hard work and finally pulled gently at the old silver ring until it came off. 'You value it?" He tossed it up and down in his palm so that its worn surface glittered in the firelight and she shook her head. 'No.' It seemed to be the only thing she had to say to him and it sounded so stark and bare on its own, she felt she had to add something more. 'It's pretty battered and wearing thin now. Already I've had the edges rounded off because they were getting sharp and cutting my finger.' 'Then we'll dispose of it.' His final toss sent the ring into the fire, and she watched the glittering arc it made before it fell among the coals. Was her adult life to be counted in separate periods, each one symbolised by a different ring? Would the period which would start tomorrow morning be any better than the two which had gone before? Again, Brett seemed to be able to read her mind. 'A new beginning.' He said it quietly. 'Do you trust me yet?"

'Not very much," she answered frankly and allowed herself a small smile. 'I can't make up my mind whether you're a knight in shining armour or just devious . He stood up suddenly, still holding on to her hand and drawing her up with him, but this time, Eden was determined not to give way to the shiver of fright which had started to ripple down her spine, not even when he loosed her hand and pulled her close against him. 'You'll tell me when you want me, me and only me?' He asked it softly. 'Yes.' She was sedate. 'In the unlikely event that 1 wanted you, or any other man, I would certainly tell you. That's a promise!' 'A bargain,' he corrected, 'and like any other bargain, we'll seal it.' She watched as his face came nearer and closed her eyes as his mouth touched hers. The fright, the terror was still there but this wasn't the time to show it, she knew that. She'd made a big enough scene tonight already, and then, as his mouth moved on hers and his arms held her, close and firm so that she could feel the strength of his body against the length of hers, she wasn't frightened any more, not of Brett. The ripple down her spine was quite a pleasant sensation and the dreadful cold knot in her stomach dissolved into liquid warmth which spread right through her. He was murmuring something against her mouth and she tried to hear it over the beat of the blood in her ears. At last it came through. 'That's better, my girl,' he said it huskily with a soft laugh at the back of the words. 'With you, things seem to take a little longer. Go to bed now and we'll meet in the Register Office tomorrow. Your grandfather is coming to pick you up; you, Philip and Scotty. He'll be on time so don't keep him waiting and,' his mouth found hers in a swift, hard kiss which had a leasing warmth at the back of it, 'and afterwards, we'll have time on our side.' And then, he was gone and

he'd taken the warmth with him. Eden shivered as she climbed the stairs and she was still shivering when she slid into bed. She couldn't sleep for thinking, not about herself this time but about Brett. She'd seen his hurt and somehow she knew it was her grandfather who had done it to him, but for the life of her, she couldn't think how.

CHAPTER FIVE EDEN sat in the lounge of the Lion and Crown, sipping at a gin and tonic. She'd got through the wedding all right, perhaps because it had been so different from the other one that it didn't seem real. There hadn't been all the fuss or the bridesmaids, no organ, no never-seeming-to-end walk down the aisle on her grandfather's arm and no white-surpliced clergyman to make it all feel impressive and binding. There had been just the pleasant man in ordinary clothes who'd made everything perfectly straightforward while Grandfather with Scotty and Philip sat on plain chairs a little behind her. It had been all very matter-of- fact, no glamour, no romance, and although Scotty had squeezed out a tear or so, Eden hadn't felt really married. Not until they were driving away afterwards and she'd commented on the proceedings. 'That wasn't in the least bit frightening.' She'd sounded relieved—the time before, she could recall how her knees had shaken while she walked the interminable distance down the aisle while everybody's heads had turned to watch her. it was all so swift and practical.' Brett had taken his hand from the wheel, reached over and touched the thick, wide gold band on her finger and spoken quietly so that Grandfather and Scotty, sitting in the back of the car, with Philip between them, hadn't heard. 'But very, very legal!' he'd murmured. 'And the legality is all that matters, isn't it? It spells safety for you and Philip!' But did it? The rear-view mirror had given her an excellent view of her grandfather, and what she'd seen had been of little comfort to her. The old man had been wearing a satisfied smile on his craggy

face, he had looked as though his ship had come home! So it wouldn't be wise to assume she was safe, not yet! Eden touched the spray of tawny gold orchids pinned to the lapel of her cream suit as she dragged herself back to the present and the plush and mahogany extravagance of the lounge of the Lion and Crown—the orchids had been unexpected—Brett had pinned them on when they'd met outside the Register Office. They weren't her favourite flower but they added something to her hurriedly scrambled-together ensemble, made it look almost chic, and she heard Philip's high pipe sounding in her ear, above her grandfather's muted roar. 'A pony. Fanner? What's a pony?' 'A wee horse,' Scotty was explaining between sips at her port and lemon and Eden's heart dropped right down the soles of her wellpolished, lightweight brogues. It was starting already! Grandfather wasn't the type to let the grass grow under his feet, he was commencing to seduce Philip away from her already with promises of a pony and they wouldn't be empty promises either. There would be a pony, a stable to keep it in and a paddock for it to run in. There was plenty of room at The Pele. 'Later, sir, I think.' Brett had broken into the conversation while she had remained dumb, uncertain of how she should combat the old man. 'Another year or so, when Philip's a little bigger.' "I was riding before I could walk,' her grandfather growled, loud, enough for Philip to hear, of course! "Having been acquainted with horses and ponies since you toddled.' Brett was humorous but definite. '1 don't suppose Philip's ever seen one at close quarters, he'll have to get used to the sight of them first. They'll look very big to him."

I've had the offer of a Shetland, not big enough to frighten anybody.' Grandfather was obdurate and Eden felt despair creeping up on her. She'd known it was to be this way. the old man had a will of iron and he'd ride roughshod over everybody. He always had! 'We'll certainly bring him out to see the pony when it arrives.' Brett was bland. 'On a Sunday afternoon, I expect. It's about the only time I can rely on an uninterrupted few hours.' Eden watched her grandfather suppress anger. Beneath his plentiful silver hair his face went beetroot red. and she shivered at the rage which glittered in his eyes. He might be old but he could still be violent, and violence was the one thing which drove her into a state of unreasoning terror. 'My granddaughter can drive.' He didn't shout but there was a wicked look about him. 'Get her a car or let her use yours,' he ordered. 'I shall be expecting her and the boy each weekend, for the weekend!' 'Impossible.' Eden watched Brett being cool, and he was, she knew it; not just a surface coolness such as she assumed sometimes, but one which seemed to start from within and become icier the nearer it got to the surface. 'My wife,' he put a gentle emphasis on it and then repeated it for effect. 'My wife will be far too busy to give up every weekend, and as for her driving that distance, I wouldn't permit it. As I said, we shall come on Sunday afternoons, once a fortnight perhaps.' A waiter beckoned and Brett put a hand under the old man's elbow while he tucked Eden's under his arm. 'Our lunch seems to be ready, sir. Shall we go? If you'll give Mrs Scott your arm ...?' Driving back to The Barns after the celebration lunch, with Philip safely strapped into the plastic safety shell on the back seat, Eden felt some of the euphoria drain away from her as the bubbles of

champagne fizzled in her bloodstream, popped and went out like so many fairy lights on a Christmas tree. There'd been a taxi to take her grandfather and Scotty back to Alnwick where her grandfather had left his own car, but Brett hadn't stopped to pick up his housekeeper. 'What's happened to Scotty?' She asked it more for something to say than for any other reason. She was nervous now and the dragging silence was increasing her nervousness. 'Staying with her sister for a few days.' Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Brett's firm mouth curve into a small, almost sarcastic smile. 'Scotty's a dear, sensitive soul, even coy! She thought we needed a few days together on our own. She'll be back at the end of the week. Can you manage until then?' 'Oh dear!' Her nervousness increased some more until she felt like a tightly strung piano wire, but she made an attempt to cover it with a seeming lightheartedness. T understand, of course, but I was hoping I'd have a bit more time before you discovered what a shocking cook I am.' 'I'll start learning tomorrow.' She saw the corner of his mouth twitch. 'Scotty's left everything ready for dinner tonight, you shouldn't have any trouble.' Being busy with Philip's tea kept Eden from thinking about the immediate future too much, and after all, she comforted herself as she went about the few preparations for dinner, she didn't really need to be frightened. Brett had promised, hadn't he! On the other hand, her mind was lured back to when Peter had promised to love and cherish her—in church! She couldn't trust promises any more. So, after her son had been fed a small supper, been bathed, put to bed at seven o'clock and read his bedtime story during which he fell asleep as usual, it took a positive physical effort on Eden's part to go

downstairs again, to hide her sheer terror and behave normally. The meal which Scotty had prepared, a chicken casserole, needed only reheating, but there were pans of vegetables to be cooked and the table to be laid. It all helped, and aided by Brett's matter-of-fact approach, she even managed to swallow a few mouthfuls and give the appearance of being at ease. It was only after they'd finished the washing up that the ugliness in her mind reared its head again, and she was breathless as she stowed away the last of the crockery and bade him a curt good night. 'Eden.' His hand fell on her shoulder and try as she would, she couldn't hide her involuntary flinching, it made him raise his eyebrows before he drew them together in a scowl and his fingers tightened so that she could feel them pressing through the thin layer of flesh and hurting the delicate bones. 'Damn you, Eden. You've no reason to be afraid. I've no intention of raping you. I thought you'd got that straight in your mind, so what are you so scared about?' 'Who's scared?' It was a brave attempt but she could hear her own voice, quite unlike her own voice, shrill instead of deep and a bit husky. 'It's sheer embarrassment," she continued, taking a deep breath and trying to steady herself. 'All the giving's on your side, I'm beginning to feel like a charity case. The trouble is, I've been running my own life for quite a while and I'm not used to saying "thank you", although you really deserve it for putting your foot down with Grandfather about the pony. I could never have done that, you know. He reduces me to mincemeat!' She might have gone on babbling but he broke in swiftly. 'But you've got over hating him?' 'Mmm.' As she nodded, she realised it was the truth. She didn't hate the old man any longer; she feared his single-mindedness perhaps but she was no longer hating. That had been swamped by pity for

his loneliness and a queer, perverted pride in his dogged determination. He was so old and so alone, with all his machinations brought to nothing and his dream falling in ruins about him but he still fought, still hung on tenaciously. In a while, she supposed, she'd end up loving and admiring him again, as she had when she was a child. 'But I don't trust him,' she added dubiously and Brett's sudden laugh, so sardonic, caught at her heart with a wrench. 'You don't seem to trust anybody except your damn' Philippa! You certainly don't trust me. Why's that?' Eden shrugged. 'She helped when I needed it.' 'So have I! But you still don't trust me!' Again she shrugged, feeling the slight movement of his fingers on her shoulder. Through the thin silk of her sherry-coloured shirt, they pressed warmly and reassuringly as if he were trying to transmit some of his own confidence to her quaking body, only she couldn't accept it. 'Philippa didn't ask questions,' she answered flatly and forced herself to an appearance of pseudogaiety. 'Cross-examination over, lawyer man? May I leave now?' 'You want that?' His fingers still held firm on her shoulder. 'You promised,' she reminded him. 'You said . . .' 'Mmm.' He still held her but suddenly the atmosphere in the kitchen changed, the tension went out of it and he smiled ruefully. 'I say so many things, don't I, Eden? Thank you for reminding me.' And as she stood undecided for a moment, 'Oh, go on to bed, sleep well and don't hurry down in the morning.'

Filled with relief, she could be buoyant. 'Don't hurry down in the morning?' she raised an eyebrow. 'You're not the only male in the house. Philip likes his breakfast too and he makes a noise about being kept waiting. I doubt anybody'd sleep through that!' The buoyancy sustained her all the way to the bedroom and then evaporated as swiftly as it had come, leaving her feeling flat and almost listless. It was like being token to a parade, she thought; all exciting and colourful, but with no fireworks to round off the finale. It was very odd and she couldn't understand it.

Eden counted the days of her newly married life, all six of them, as she struggled with the opening of a wooden packing-case. Brett had left early on Thursday morning, saying he'd be away for a couple of days, and Scotty was still coyly absent so Eden had directed the carrier to put the cases in the garage. Opening and emptying them would be a messy job, and there was sufficient to do clearing up in the house after Philip. Despite all her efforts, he went from room to room leaving a trail of sticky fingermarks and little piles of debris behind him. And there were a lot more rooms in The Barns than there'd been at the house in Battye Lane. She rescued the big claw hammer from her son who. like herself, was attired in his oldest dungarees and a shirt which didn't matter, and found him several large nuts and bolts to play with while she started to prise off the lid. It wasn't an easy job nor a quick one; the nails were long and had been driven in firmly but at last they were all free and she lifted off the lid after she'd dragged the back of her hand across her forehead to wipe away the perspiration. Knowing Betty, the crate would be filled to the brim with wood shavings, straw and screwed-up newspapers to protect the contents. Betty was a careful packer.

Busy with her task, she only halted when something obstructed the light from the garage door and a high, clear voice which had a penetrating, commanding quality came from the entrance. 'Darling, where's your excuse for a housekeeper? I've been through the house and there's nobody about.' The black silhouette in the wide doorway halted abruptly. 'Good lord! Who are you?' 'Eden N .. .' Eden hastily corrected herself, 'er ... Eden.' She screwed up her eyes to combat the glare from the sunlit garage doorway and made out the figure of a female, young or youngish, she judged, and by the sound of the voice, one of the huntin', shootin' and fishin' coterie. 'Make up your mind what you wish to be called.' The words came crisply. 'Eden will do if you prefer it to your Christian name. Where's Mr Allard?' 'Away for a couple of days.' Eden contemplated an explanation but decided against it, it could wait till later. That was generally the best way, things usually sorted themselves out if one waited long enough. She replaced the hammer carefully on the benchtop where Philip couldn't get at it, while the female took another few paces into the garage to stand where the light from the opaque glazing of the garage window fell on her to transform her from a black outline into a real person with all, or most, of the details visible. A youngish woman, beautifully dressed in a Parisian couturier's idea of what English tweeds ought to look like; a bit voluptuous, with a shiningly smooth cap of black, glossy hair and a pale, exquisitely made up face. Skilful use of eye shadow, liner and mascara enlarged her round, rather small dark eyes and an equally skilful use of lip liner made her thin lips look fuller. She had a finished look about her. Everything matched, toned and contrasted from the top of her shining head to the toes of her slender, lizardskin court shoes. No

expense spared in any area. Eden glanced down at her work- stained dungarees, regretted them and the fact it was too late to do anything about them—the jeans they covered were cleaner, but very well worn and thin and shapeless with much washing—and collected herself into some good manners. 'And Mrs Scott is in Alnwick so I'm the only one here.' She made a grab at the straps of Philip's dungarees to stop him before he started on an investigation of the newcomer; some of the nuts and bolts had been a bit oily and his hands were filthy. 'My son, Philip,' she introduced as an aside. 'Would you like to come into the house?' The visitor nodded graciously. 'You can make me a cup of coffee.' And she turned on her heel and led the way back into the house. Eden followed, tugging at a reluctant Philip, finally carrying him. In the kitchen, she stripped off his dungarees before she sat him in his high chair and washed his hands and face. He didn't like it. he resisted vigorously although silently, but she persevered and all the time she was aware of being examined. It was as though the woman was trying to find a category into which she. Eden, could be slotted and it took a great deal of self-control to move about smoothly, starting the percolator, pouring Philip a glass of milk and putting biscuits on a plate. But she did it, although all the time it felt as though the dark eyes were boring two holes in her back. 'Now we have the name straightened out,' her visitor suggested, still brisk and businesslike as she seated herself at the kitchen table with a slight moue of distaste, and stripped off her soft leather gloves, straightening them and tucking them into her large, lizardskin handbag, 'I'm Miss Daphne Hunter, a friend of Mr Allard's. You're Eden, and I suppose you've come as a replacement housekeeper?' Eden, with her back to the table and busy filling the cream jug and sugar bowl stifled a sound which was part way between a yelp of

dismay and a snort of incredulous laughter. She'd been taken for a domestic— quite reasonable under the circumstances but even so, surely nobody talked to servants nowadays as though they were second-class citizens! That sort of thing went out years ago. She supposed she'd better set the record straight but she was given no chance. Miss Daphne was still holding forth. 'I told Mr Allard weeks ago before I left for Paris that Mrs Scott was quite unsuitable and he'd have to find somebody else. But,' she looked Eden up and down. 'I'm afraid you won't be suitable either. Apart from the child, which is your biggest drawback, you're much too young for such a responsible position. Oh dear,' she gave an exasperated little sigh, 'men are quite hopeless when it comes to choosing domestic staff. I gave him the name of a reputable agency but,' she gave a graceful shrug, 'I hope you're not some sort of relation, that always makes things difficult." This last supposition was a good clue and in her mind, Eden followed it up. Daphne Hunter must be a stranger to the district, although she looked as though she'd stepped straight through the gateway of Alnwick Castle to come slumming. If she hadn't been a stranger she would have known that Brett had no relatives. It was common knowledge throughout the area; but she didn't know. She had jumped to a conclusion and it was the wrong one. That little bit of thought took less than a second and at the end of it, Eden was ready with the words formed in her mind and hovering on the tip of her tongue. 'I'm sorry but I think I might have misled you,' she apologised. 'I'm not exactly a relative, I'm Mrs Brett Allard and Eden is my Christian name.' She put a tiny emphasis on the 'Brett', it wasn't really necessary, she doubted if there was another Allard in the whole county, but Miss Daphne Hunter didn't seem to know that. Eden rattled about in the cupboard for some cups and saucers and just rescued Philip's empty mug before he threw it on the floor to see if it

would bounce. 'I'm also sorry if I sounded unsure but in the circumstances, I believe it's allowable. I've only been Eden Allard since Monday, I'm not used to the name yet.' 'You and Brett are married!' The words cut like a whiplash, making Eden frown, but she hid that by being very busy polishing the teaspoons with the teacloth. 'And your first name is Edith . . .' 'Eden.' she corrected gently as she set the cups and saucers down on the table, poured more milk for Philip and gave him a plain biscuit. The percolator burped and she brought it to the table, sitting down with her back to the window. This was really a very difficult situation and she wasn't sure how to cope with it. 'Edith, Eden; what's the difference?' Daphne Hunter brushed the correction aside. 'I'm sure Brett's never mentioned your name, not to me, he couldn't have done or I'd have remembered it. I wonder why he didn't tell me about you. Have you known each other long?' 'Perhaps you were away at the time," Eden murmured, diplomatically avoiding the question and glad that her face was in partial shadow. She hid it further by paying great attention to the pouring out of the coffee. 'Sugar and cream?' she offered. Daphne disdained both but added a sweetener from a plastic pack in her handbag, stirring her cup viciously. She was angry but Eden didn't blame her for that. A rather unfortunate combination of circumstances had resulted in an embarrassing mistake. And the thing to do now was to forget about it all as soon as possible. Apparently Daphne had the same idea. 'You were a widow?' she asked, with a pointed glance at Philip who'd finished his biscuit, and then with a smile which did her credit, 'and not from this part of the country. I've been living here for the last two years and I'm sure we'd have met in that time.'

'Mmm.' Eden nodded assent to the first part and filled in the second diplomatically. 'I was Eden Manning before I married.' She didn't wish to bring the names of Nairn or Falconer into the conversation if it was possible not to do so. Three years wasn't all that long and she'd been pretty well ostracised after the accident and the coroner's unfavourable conclusions. People had long memories and Peter had had a fairly large and widespread family, none of whom had been even half way sympathetic towards her. But then nobody else had either, not even Brett. But on second thoughts, Brett hadn't been at her wedding, he'd been in London at the time and Grandfather hadn't sent him an invitation. She didn't suppose the old man had even told him she was getting married. 'I am, or perhaps I should say was, an antique dealer with a shop in Gloucester,' it became easier as she went on, 'I sold my stock before I came north with Brett; I'd kept a few things, too many to bring with me so I had them sent on. That's what I was doing when you found me, the stuff hadn't long arrived and I was anxious to see if anything had been damaged in transit." 'My father dabbles in antiques.' Daphne had finished her coffee and was reaching into her bag for her gloves. 'You must come and see his collection some time, he specialises in silver.' The gloves found and put on, she was making all the motions of departure. 'I mustn't intrude any longer, I expect you have a thousand and one things to do. Tell Brett I'll ring him and perhaps we can fix up a small dinner party . . .' And in a cloud of vague hopes for a future meeting, Daphne left. 'Lady gone. Fend?' Philip who had been usually well- behaved all through the conversation, banged his plastic mug on the tray as he asked the question and Eden shook her head. 'A friend? No, I don't think so." It was all right to speak this way to her son, his garbled attempts to repeat anything she said were rarely

understood. 'A disappointed lady, rather. 1 believe I've upset her apple cart.' Philip obligingly seized on the only word which meant anything to him. 'Apple,' he demanded. 'My want an apple . . . please.' It was a long afternoon. While Philip had his usual nap, Eden lay on the bed, thinking while trying not to think about her visitor, but Daphne wouldn't be banished so easily. She was there, sharp and clear-cut in Eden's mind and each separate train of thought seemed to come back to her automatically. The importunate girl friend? Daphne seemed the type, slick and sophisticated, and she'd certainly made like the woman in possession, wandering about at will and screening housekeepers. If she was still a friend, how much more than a friend, and had it anything to do with her? Brett would be discreet about it, of course—he couldn't afford to be otherwise—but she wished he'd told her, prepared her. He should have told her! Theirs was nothing more nor less than a business arrangement, she'd been quite frank; Brett could at least have done her the favour of being equally frank so that she'd know what to expect. But Brett made little or no attempt to hide anything. He returned at six o'clock, bathed and changed in time for dinner, and was devastatingly outspoken when she gave him the bare facts of Daphne Hunter's visit—she didn't go into elaborate detail, this hardly seemed the moment for it—and asked to be put in the picture. 'Daphne!' He raised his eyebrows as he helped himself to more roast beef. 'Charles was in hospital just when I needed him. Daphne trained at a top class secretarial college and she went with me to help put together a case I was working on. We were—close for a time. But we were discreet and since neither love nor marriage was ever mentioned, you've no need to feel sorry for her.'

Eden bit her lip. Outspokenness was one thing but cold, clinical savagery was quite another. She had once thought there could be nothing worse than physical violence but after her own experiences, she realised there was. Bodily bruises disappeared and scars faded with time, but not the mental ones; they twisted the mind, leaving ineradicable marks, and she should know! Her small face whitened and she erupted into angry speech. 'You're callous,' she spat at him. 'Utterly selfish! You're speaking of her as if she was nothing more than a—a . . .' 'The word you're looking for is quite short," he snapped back at her. 'And it isn't nice. Neither was there any payment involved so I prefer not to use it. Let's class her as a modern young woman with liberated views. And I suppose she is, if you want to be definitive, but in the most elegant way. Only the very best hotels, or preferably a country cottage hired for the occasion. I wasn't the first and I don't suppose I'll be the last, and she wasn't the first for me either. I'm a man and quite normal, with my fair share of all the usual appetites.' 'Ugh!' Hectic splashes of embarrassed colour stood out on her cheekbones and she gave a visible shudder at which he laughed. 'Come out of the fairy tale you live in, Eden.' She looked up at him to find real amusement on his face. 'There aren't many saints about nowadays and I've never pretended to be one. I'm not over-sexed, I don't go looking for it but if it's waved under my nose . . . and there's no commitment on either side ...' 'That makes a difference,' she was scornful, 'the lack of commitment?' 'Of course.' Brett was bland. 'No deep emotions involved, no hearts broken …'

'. .. And a good time had by all!' She shuddered again. 'You make me feel sick!' 'We're not all like you.' He sounded wry. 'Most of us actually live in this world, we're totally alive in it. We haven't buried half of ourselves in the grave with our lost love, neither do we feed on memories until we're out of touch with reality.' He paused, but something about that pause made Eden certain he hadn't finished, there was more to come. He looked at her blankly as though he didn't really see her, as if his thoughts were miles away, and then his gaze sharpened. 'And some of us,' he continued, 'are totally honest as well!' Eden folded her lips and clenched her jaw until her face muscles hurt, jamming back the hot words on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to yell at him that honesty was relative, that everybody had some part of their lives they didn't ever talk about and not necessarily because they were ashamed of it. Maybe it was too painful, too sickmaking to talk about—as hers was! She wanted to hurl insults and she couldn't think why. What he did and had done was nothing to do with her. The thought of him and Daphne slipping between the sheets in some superior hotel shouldn't make her sick to her stomach, and she had no right to be feeling this way, possessive and hurt as if she'd been betrayed. There was no love between them so there could be no betrayal; so what in hell was the matter with her? She gulped, abandoned her self-analysis and tried to be normal and get in one little dig. 'That's wonderful.' She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose distastefully. 'But honesty's all right as long as you don't involve anybody else. You have, and I don't think that's fair.' 'But I haven't involved anybody else.' A hint of mockery curved his lips but only slightly, so that she couldn't be really sure whether he

had smiled or not. in the eyes of the law and the Inland Revenue, you and I are one,' he was aggravatingly pedantic, 'speaking to you is just the same as speaking to myself and being honest with myself means I'm being honest with you. You wouldn't have it otherwise, would you?' 'N-no.' She faced facts, didn't like what she saw but accepted it because there was nothing else she could do. 'But as you're being so honest,' she larded that bit with sarcasm, 'please tell me, who have you been discreetly non-committed with for the past two days?' She murmured it with her nose twitching fastidiously. 'I'd better know, hadn't I? I wouldn't like to put my foot in it in my usual careless and—what must seem to you— naive fashion.' 'Nobody, Eden,' he gave her a shameless grin. 'I now project an image of unimaginable domestic felicity.' This time she was quite sure of the smile. 'Actually, I was consulting with a young man of nearly thirty, deciding how best to present his case ...' 'Prosecuting or defending?' she murmured, determined to show an interest but not too much. 'This time,' Brett's smile was sardonic, 'I'm defending and I have to make a jury believe that rape is physically impossible in the front seats of a Mini, the steering wheel gets in the way. Not very romantic, I'm afraid.' 'What was wrong with the back seat?' Eden was lured into indiscretion. 'At the time, I am assured it was occupied by a double-bass. The young man is a member of a well- known pop group and that's the instrument he plays.' 'He could have chucked it out,' she suggested with a grin.

'The weather was inclement.' His answering grin was sardonic. 'The young man didn't wish to expose them to the elements, neither himself, the girl nor the double- bass . . .' 'There you go again,' Eden sighed. 'Seventeen- syllable words that would choke a horse. You're always doing it and it makes you sound as though you've got a plum in your mouth; you do it with Grandfather. Why couldn't you just have said it was raining and they didn't want to get wet?' 'Because it wasn't raining, it was snowing.' She caught the laughter in his eyes. 'We have to be very correct, you know, and "inclement weather" is a phrase which covers everything from a spring shower to a blizzard.' 'But what if the girl was telling the truth?' Brett shrugged. 'That's up to the judge and jury. I'm only defending and I have to do my best for my client.' 'Like you did for Grandfather?' She raised an eyebrow and watched as his face lost every trace of expression. 'We all have our little lapses, my dear, and I'm no exception. No, sit down,' as she made a movement to rise, 'I'll make the coffee and we'll drink it before I go down to Alnwick to collect Scotty.'

CHAPTER SIX EDEN heard the front door close and felt the house lapse into silence around her. She put her empty coffee cup back on the tray and counted up minutes. Less than three miles into Alnwick but the first part of the road wasn't too good, say a quarter of an hour; about the same amount of time to pick up Scotty and then a quarter of an hour back. A total of an hour, allowing for Scotty not being ready and it was now nearly nine o'clock. She could go to bed straight away, that would be the easiest thing, but she didn't want to, and with muttering crossness she hoisted herself from her chair and started to clear the dining table, loading everything on to the trolley and pushing it into the kitchen where she started on the washing-up. A fine one Scotty would think her if the housekeeper came back to a kitchen full of dirty dishes. Unconsciously, she found herself watching the clock fingers inch around the dial, she even checked it against her wristwatch because it seemed to be going very slowly; the hour she'd allowed was dragging by on leaden feet. The washing-up took hardly any time at all, the dishes were put away, the tops wiped down, and she was just finishing mopping the floortiles when she heard the car arrive. 'You shouldn't have bothered, Mrs Allard.' Scotty came bustling into the kitchen in her outdoor clothes but she looked pleased which made it seem worthwhile, and she shooed her employer and his wife back into the lounge-cum-dining-room with promises of a nice cup of tea as soon as she'd taken her hat off. 'You want tea at this time of night?' Brett raised an eyebrow as Eden sank back into her chair. 'Yes, please.' Strangely, she still had no desire to go to bed although she could feel her eyes growing heavy. There were things she

wanted to say, wanted to get straight but the difficulty was saying them. She had the idea she would make a hash of it, but so what! 'I like Scotty.' It was a beginning but there didn't seem to be any more so she left it bald and unadorned. 'So do I,' he was quite agreeable, 'and I've liked her a lot longer than you have, Eden, but no power on earth is going to make me drink her tea at ten o'clock at night. I'll have some whisky instead. D'you want a nightcap?' 'No thanks, I'll just have tea.' The words were there now, waiting to be said, demanding to be said, and she couldn't help it if they were wrong. 'Can you afford a housekeeper now that you have Philip and me? Because if you can, I'd rather it was Scotty than anybody else.' 'Daphne been riding her hobby-horse again?' He sounded sardonic. She heard the tinkle of a bottle neck against a glass and the glugglug as he poured his drink, but apart from a slight nod, she kept her eyes on the fire and made no other movement except to wrinkle her brows slightly and spread her hands as she explained. 'Mmm.' It even seemed a bit funny to her now. 'She thought I was the replacement housekeeper and she wasn't too pleased about that either. Apparently I have certain drawbacks and Philip is the biggest, not to mention the fact that I'm too young for such a responsible position.' 'She thought you were the housekeeper!' Brett brought his drink back and dropped into the opposite chair with a snort of laughter. 'What on earth gave her that idea?' 'I did, I suppose.' Eden explained about the packing cases, glossing over the details to make it quick. 'I must have looked pretty disreputable and there was a mix-up over my name; I said Eden

instead of Allard .. .' She gave a soft sigh of relief as Brett nodded understanding^. 'You'll have to practise up on that,' he chuckled between sips at his glass, 'or people will think we're living in sin, and that isn't the effect I'm aiming for. And of course we can afford a housekeeper. Scotty suits me,' he stretched his long legs nearer to the fire, 'and if she suits you there's no more to be said. At least we can be sure that our private lives won't be gossiped about, our Scotty has a still tongue in her head. All the same, just in case of accidents, I think we'd better put on some sort of a show. I think you should move into my bed tonight.' Her small face whitened and she gulped to swallow the huge lump of terror which had suddenly jammed in her throat and which was making breathing difficult. 'I can't do that,' she muttered huskily. 'Philip . . I've always been there if he wanted me. If he wakes or cries, he'll expect me . It'll be dark and he's so little; he might be afraid .. .' The look she turned on him was agonised and she could feel her lips quivering with fright. He had been kind to her in his way so that she felt she owed, but she couldn't pay that way, she couldn't! If Brett saw or felt anything wrong, he ignored it; sitting with his long legs sprawled out to the dying fire and sipping at his drink. 'From now on he'll have to make do with me,' he said flatly. 'I'll take your bed, and if there's any trouble, I'll bring him through to you and I'll certainly bring him through early enough in the morning so that everything will look normal when Scotty trots round with her morning tea. You in bed and me-in my dressing gown and slippers, with Philip running about in his pyjamas; a complete family scene. The old girl will begin to think I'm henpecked.' Eden hadn't thought of any of this, she should have done but there'd been so much else to think and worry about. She should have

remembered Brett would have his pride like any other man, he wouldn't want it whispered about that his new wife refused to sleep with him. And that was another point—unconsciously, she scowled—Brett had got his blow in at her grandfather, there'd now be no resentment on either side, that was the Border way; a debt was paid and forgotten so why ... He wasn't unattractive, quite the reverse; any woman would . .. Daphne would, like a shot... She choked on silent, hysterical laughter, part relief and part embarrassment, as Scotty came in with a tray of tea, told them it was time they were in bed and stumped out again. 'Y-you should have been a conspirator.' The hysteria was still there, making her gruff little voice squeak on a high note and her hands were shaking as she handled the teapot. 'D-do you always cover all the eventualities?' 'As many as I can foresee.' He changed the topic effortlessly. 'And speaking of eventualities, we're due at The Pele for lunch with your grandfather tomorrow, didn't I remember to tell you?' This brought her upright in her chair, wide awake and indignant. 'No you didn't, I don't want to go!' 'Nothing to it.' He drained his glass and cradled it in both hands. 'You pin a look of happiness and fatuous devotion on your face, agree with everything I say and leave future arrangements to me. Just play the subservient little wife and we'll have no trouble at all. Well ...' he gave her a comical look, 'hardly any! Have you finished that tea yet? You have? Then off we go before Scotty gives us the rough side of her tongue.' 'Odd,' Brett came back to where she was standing by his bed and tossed her nightdress, slippers and gown on to the foot of it, 'I must have had second sight when I helped the architect to draw up the

plans for the conversion. Two bedrooms separated by a bathroom and connecting doors between so that one can go from one bedroom to the other without using the gallery.' He dropped his hands on her shoulders to hold her just by the weight of them. 'I always wanted you in my bed, Eden.' As she raised startled eyes, he lowered his head and kissed her mouth which was parted in astonishment, caressing the inner softness gently while he released one shoulder to slide a finger down the smoothness of her throat to where a pulse was beating madly at the base. The kiss lasted a long while before he raised his head and went on speaking quite casually and calmly. 'Ever since you ceased being a child. Not like this, of course,' his finger was still on the pulse and he seemed to be almost talking to himself, 'I wanted you in my bed with me, but I was told I was too old for you and in any case, other plans had been made for your future which didn't include me. So it's ironic you should be here and,' his finger was still touching the pulse, 'and with your heart beating like a steam hammer. Why?' Her eyes were still closed, she'd shut them when he kissed her and she shook her head dumbly, afraid to speak in case her voice wobbled. 'Of course," he continued quietly as though he were thinking aloud, 'it could be either modesty or shyness.' He shook his head. 'No, I don't think so, you've been there before. It isn't unknown territory, Philip's the proof of that. Or it could be reluctance? Perhaps, but I could sense that and- overcome it without any difficulty.' His hands dropped to his sides and he released her and moved towards the bathroom door pausing there to look back at her broodingly. 'But fear, Eden? I can smell that a mile off. At first I thought it was because of your grandfather's threat, or that you thought you might lose the boy, but we've cleared those hurdles. No, don't shake your

head,' as she wagged it from side to side in a mute denial, 'I've defended and prosecuted too many frightened people, and in my business you get to know the smell of fear. And it's all round you.' 'I'm not afraid.' Since she couldn't explain, she had to deny. 'You said I had to want you and only you before you'd ... so I've nothing to be afraid of.. .' Her voice died away into an incoherent mumble. 'So I did, and so you will.' He left it at that. 'But the fear, Eden, don't lie to me about that. I've told you, I know it's there! One day perhaps you'll tell me what it is, we aren't going to get anywhere until you do.' The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving her alone. Eden stumbled back to the bed and dropped on the foot of it without any regard for the impressive, heavily embroidered silk spread; her legs were shaking badly and she doubted if they'd hold her up for much longer. And the amazing thing was that she wasn't frightened any more, only of herself. Something had happened to her when he'd kissed her, she'd suddenly felt safe and cared for instead of alone and terrified; she'd wanted it to go on and on, never stopping. Only things didn't stand still, they progressed and the end point was what terrified her. That she couldn't face, not ever! But did Brett really believe that her heart was buried with Peter? It had been a good excuse at a time when she'd needed one but common sense told her—and he must know as well—that people, especially young people, didn't mourn for ever; there was so much of life still to be lived for them. Also, he'd seemed to be very serious about wanting her in his bed. It had been Grandfather who'd put up the 'no go' sign. So was it Grandfather—in his arrogant, unfeeling way—who'd hurt Brett. He probably told him he wasn't good enough for a Falconer!

It was the sort of thing her grandfather would do— the old tyrant— and she wouldn't have known anything about it. Then she smiled to herself ruefully. It wouldn't have made any difference if she had known, Brett hadn't even impinged on her consciousness then; he'd been part of the background and much too old in the eyes of a teenager. Pity about that! She had the idea that Brett would have been a good teacher; if he'd taught her instead of Peter—she felt an erotic little shiver run up and down her spine—if it had been him, she mightn't have so many hang-ups now.

The sun poked inquisitive fingers through the slats of the blind and woke her to Philip's rumbustious shouts and his pudgy fingers trying to prise her eyelids open. Eden smiled widely, last night there had not been one single dream, the past hadn't intruded at all. Perhaps she was free of the memories, but was she free of the consequences? That was a different matter but it was going to be a fine day so what the hell! Even the visit to The Pele didn't seem so fraught with danger. She cuddled Philip and spared a small smile for the heavy weight which was keeping the bedclothes tight about her legs. Brett smiled back at her and waved a hand at the tray on the bedside table. 'Your tea, madam. Drink it while I have a shower and dress, then,' he aimed a slap at her behind as she rolled over, 'see to yourself and your son, we want to leave soon after breakfast.' The car breasted a rise, the country was rougher now and although the road which wound along the sides of the hills had quite a reasonable surface, it was so narrow that on some of the bends, Eden held her breath while she imagined them slipping off and rolling down the slopes into the Alwin River. She could see the bulk of Cushat Law over to the right and old remembered names came slipping back into her mind; Wether Cairn, Bloodybush Edge, Windy Gyle; they'd soon be at The Pele. They rounded the corner of

the last hill and it was there before her, surprising her with its remote, dignified—she searched for a word—beauty? Memory had played tricks with her and all in the space of little more than three short years! Sunlight turned the old walls to a creamy gold. Eden had been waiting for it to look grey and forbidding but it didn't. It looked warm and welcoming even when they were quite close to it. That wasn't as she remembered, memory had painted a much more stark picture. Still, even on a fine day like this one, nothing could make the place look cosy. A fourteenth-century house built on to a thirteenth-century tower, the walls of which were eight feet thick— Grandfather had helped her measure the thickness of them with her school ruler—didn't make for cosiness. The actual house wasn't big; compared with lots of places it looked like an oversized cottage, but only in some respects. It still looked what it was, a strong place. Rather like Grandfather himself, old but still indomitable; and behind the crenellations at one end, the grey roof rose smoothly to its shallow peak. It would have looked different in the old days, she mused, listening with half an ear to Philip talking nonsense to his teddy in the back of the car. On a grey, cold winter day, when there was no sunshine to gild the walls, when it had stood, grim and weather-beaten with only tiny windows piercing the stone walls and the door eight feet up, on a level with the first floor and reached by a wooden outside stairway which could be easily destroyed if the Scottish reivers came too close. Brett drove in through the gateway which pierced the remains of the high wall which had surrounded the original pele, and drew up in the cobbled courtyard. Eden painted a pleasant smile on her face in readiness for her grandfather who was waiting to welcome them, standing in what was outrageously known as the 'new' door although it was several hundred years old, and looking as though he'd grown

there and wasn't much younger than the door itself. As usual, he came straight to the point, his point! 'Come your ways in, you've brought the boy?' Philip was yelling his own composition from the back seat as Brett unstrapped him. 'Fanner, pony—pony. Fanner.' Children—they had no discrimination! And when he was stood on his feet on the cobbled yard, he made a beeline for his great-grandfather, clutching at hairy tweed as far up as he could reach and tugging at it while he lifted a radiant face. "My's brought Teddy to see mys pony.' "And so he shall." Over the top of Philip's fair head, her grandfather shot Eden a look which was composed mostly of triumph. "We'll go now, before lunch.' And he led his great-grandson away towards what in Eden's youth had been the stable block, leaving her and Brett to follow or go into the house, as they wished. "The Pied Piper in person.' Brett made a face. 'Let's watch, we should have brought a camera.' 'Not out here, there's no warmth in the sun yet." Eden shivered in the brisk wind, regretting the lack of her sheepskin jacket which she'd left back at The Barns as being too shabby for visiting and made a dive for the door. 'There'll be a good view from the parlour window.' She flung the words over her shoulder as she passed through the doorway and scampered down the passage. Brett followed her, without such a show of speed, but he was directly behind her when she entered the parlour. 'It's exactly the same! Would you believe that? I've been away for years and nothing's changed!' Surprise coloured her voice, but her sharp eyes were already detecting small differences. As she had said, nothing had changed. There were still the green pots of daffodils on the deep windowsill, the same pictures on the walls, the

same curtains and furniture, but like her grandfather it all looked older and more worn than she remembered and so much smaller, she hadn't remembered the beamed ceiling being so low or the carpet so faded. She wandered about the room, running sensitive fingers over the moulded frame of a button back armchair, setting a Victorian bentwood rocking-chair in motion, touching little ornaments until the sound of a brisk little clip-clop from the yard took her to the window to see her grandfather leading out the pony, with one arm about Philip who was perched on its back. As the old man had said, it was a very small pony, barely three feet high, still in its rough winter coat and with the typical soft, luxuriant forelock, mane and tail of the Shetland breed. Grandfather wasn't shouting now—he never did with horses and dogs—but Philip was making enough noise for both of them as he was held on the pony's back with his short, fat legs sticking out on either side of its rather round barrel. 'He's good with children and animals.' Brett had come to stand behind her and she spoke without turning. 'What is this? Some sort of whitewash operation?' she demanded without taking her eyes from her son. 'I know he's good with kids, it's only when he plays God with grown-ups he gets my goat. Watch out!' The words broke from her involuntarily as Philip looked like losing his balance. 'Nothing to worry about.' Brett's voice was calm in her ear and his hand on her shoulder was encouraging. 'Your grandfather won't let him fall, he never let you fall, did he?' 'I was older,' she pointed out. 'Older and bigger. I hope he doesn't keep Philip out there too long, I don't want him catching a cold.'

Lunch was served in the long, narrow dining-room, with all the leaves still in the table which would seat twenty-six; twelve a side with a single placing at the top and bottom. The four of them were crowded up at the top end with Eden's grandfather at the head, Eden and Brett on either side of him and Philip, in a high chair specially rooted out of the attics for the purpose, squeezed in between his great-grandfather and his mother. Eden's mouth nearly watered at the sight of the high chair, late seventeenth century she guessed, and nearly as ornate as the uncomfortable hall chair which would be arriving soon—she hoped—but it was still in beautiful condition. It had no tray, of course, it had been made so that the arms fitted snugly under the table top and the child could eat with the family as soon as he could handle a spoon. Her grandfather's eyes, beneath his straggling white brows, gleamed back at her. 'It's not for sale!' Surely he couldn't be teasing her, actually making a joke? 'It's the boy's chair for when he visits. It'll all be his when I'm gone,' he continued pathetically. 'I can't last for ever.' 'Don't talk nonsense,' she snapped back, refusing to be swayed by his 'old man on the edge of the grave' act. He'd been putting that on ever since she was a little girl. 'You're only eighty.' 'Seventy-eight,' he corrected her indignantly, forgetting about being pathetic and out of the corner of her eye, she caught Brett's mouth curving into a smile so she smiled back at him as she ate her roasted mutton and gasped at the strong caper sauce. Philip's favourite pudding—rice—followed and she smiled reminiscently as the old man carefully spooned a dollop of red- currant jelly on to the creamy heap in her son's dish. It was just as he'd always done for her. But that didn't make him any less of an ironwilled old autocrat and she wasn't going to be sentimental about him. Not after what

he'd done to her, the way he'd mucked up her new life, the life in which she'd been perfectly happy and contented! Lunch over, they all went back to the parlour where her grandfather seated himself in the button-backed chair with Philip on his knee to look at a book on hawks, and in the middle of an explanation of the differences between merlins and peregrines, they both fell asleep. It was impossible to leave them; one or the other or both could easily have fallen out of the chair, so Eden seated herself on a high-backed settle and watched as Brett made up the fire. 'You see,' he dusted his hands and came to sit beside her, 'it was all in your imagination, there was nothing to be frightened of.' She snorted. 'He's on his best behaviour! As soon as we're gone, he'll start plotting again and I can't forgive him for threatening me, for making me give up my business, going behind my back to sell my house, making me come North when I was quite happy where I was. He's devious!' 'Merely old and tired,' Brett corrected her quietly. 'You're too generous!' She was sarcastic and then cooled down to probe. 'It was him who said you were too old for me, wasn't it?' 'Mmm.' Brett rested his head against the back of the settle and slanted a glance down at her. 'And he was quite right, at the time. It could have been a disaster.' 'It was only five years ago, so what makes it so different now?' she demanded softly but venomously. 'The difference between a teenage girl and a widow with a child, of course.' Brett cocked an eyebrow. 'Allied to the difference between a struggling barrister, grateful for any brief which came his way, and

my present circumstances, which are more settled and quite promising. I'm older and wiser now and so are you.' 'Mmm.' She closed her eyes while she felt regret, a regret so bitter she could have wept for it; would have wept if she'd been on her own. She would never be that careless teenager again, she couldn't be! Peter had warped and twisted her into a mockery of a woman without trust or hope. The scars were indelible, they'd never fade. She kicked off her shoes, curled her legs beneath her, slumped against the back cushions and just before she slid into an uneasy doze, she realised she was—in a way—sorry for Brett. He'd made a very bad bargain! But serve him right for hounding her, he'd asked for it! 'Who's looking after Grandfather?' she wondered aloud on the edge of sleep. 'I haven't seen a woman about the place.' Just Donald,' he answered her wondering. She thought that accounted for everything, the overneat tidiness, the things which should have been replaced or renewed but hadn't, everything so clean but shabby; men wouldn't notice things like that... She woke to fine, soft wool beneath her cheek and an arm which held her firmly, and as she lifted her head from her husband's chest to give a suspicious look at the empty armchair his voice came, amused yet soothing. 'They've gone out to the stable. Philip wanted to help feed the pony and say goodbye to it. The old man told him it went to bed at four o'clock.' But it was no comfort to her. Eden had woken up in an irritable mood, she always did if she slept in the afternoon. 'We're not stopping for tea, I hope.'

'Tea is mandatory, you know that, Eden." Some of her irritability had transferred itself to him and the answer came sharply. 'Besides, Philip will need it. For heaven's sake, stop making difficulties!' 'I'm not making difficulties,' she grumbled back at him. 'I just don't want Philip getting too attached to Grandfather. We'll be having "Fanner and the pony" for evermore as it is.' Acid dripped from her tongue as she parodied her son's still babyish speech. '"Go to see Fanner, ride my pony". We'll have that all day and every day, he never forgets anything.' 'Jealous?' 'When you have as little as I have, yes!' Eden was vehement, spitting out the words like a cat in a temper. 'Self-pity,' Brett diagnosed briskly and without a trace of sympathy. 'Start counting your blessings and you'll realise the old man has so much less than you, he doesn't even have time on his side. And I'll be around. I'll have to be to make sure he doesn't spoil Philip as he spoiled you!' 'I was not spoiled,' she denied viciously, her slight bosom heaving with indignation and her fingers curving into claws. 'Yes, you were.' Brett refused to take her temper seriously. 'Just as he spoiled your mother. Not too badly—the old man was too much of a disciplinarian for that—but enough. I told you, you're very much like him and now I think about it, so was your mother. You've quietened down a lot, but there was a time when you made life hell for everybody if you couldn't get your own way, just as your mother used to do.' Eden sat quite still and silent, shocked by his reproof and her reluctant realisation that while he might have exaggerated slightly, there was a great deal of truth in what he'd said. Grandfather had

spoiled her, not rotten but enough. But if Brett was to be believed— she'd never caught him out in a lie yet so why not believe him?— and it was the truth, it was only because she had been the next link in the chain of Falconers and through her, he'd hoped for the boy he so desperately wanted. She'd copied his autocratic ways and been a bit headstrong and uncaring. She could see it now and Brett couldn't have shocked her more if he'd slapped her face. Her fingers uncurled and she raised a hand to her cheek, almost as if there had been a blow and she wanted to cover the hurt. 'No,' she moaned softly. 'I know I wasn't perfect but I wasn't as bad as that, surely?' 'You were,' he answered her hardily, but with her head averted she didn't see the humorous twist to his mouth or the understanding in his eyes as he hauled her to her feet. 'You were a termagant. It was a good job your grandfather had the schooling of you. If it had been me, I'd have beaten you!' She looked up at him sharply but it wasn't the rather grim smile on his face, it was what he'd said which had brought on the old terror and the sick, hopeless feeling in her stomach. It was the picture her memory conjured up which made the blood thunder in her ears and she flinched, whimpering softly through lips gone slack. He didn't mean it, she told herself, he couldn't mean it! It was just one of those things said for effect. Brett wouldn't .. . She felt the chill in her cheeks as the blood drained from them while his face and the few things she could see over his shoulder started a stately whirl. But this time she refused to give way. It just wouldn't do—twice in one week—Brett would haul in a doctor, and when nothing physical was found wrong with her, he wouldn't let it stop there; he was too thorough.

It was all in the mind, she told herself as she grimly hung on to reality; reaching out to him to hang on to him as well until, with a shiver, she could feel memory retreating, going back into dead yesterday. She mumbled something about a splitting headache and wished memory would die with yesterday instead of haunting her. Of course, her grandfather would choose just this moment to come back into the house with Philip! 'Donald will be bringing in tea any moment now.' The old man looked at her piercingly as he set Philip on his feet. 'What's the matter with you, lass? Something you've eaten? You look like a sick horse!' 'Nothing serious.' Brett pushed her back down on the settle and seated himself beside her with an arm about her waist while Philip scrambled up on to her lap, chattering incomprehensibly about the pony. 'Just a bit of a headache.' But in a muttered aside which reached no further than her ears, 'What brought the fear on this time, Eden? Something I said?' 'Tea.' Her grandfather fastened upon the cure-all for everything from a running nose to a broken neck. 'You should have gone out for a brisk walk after lunch instead of sitting in this fug. That would have blown the cobwebs away for you. Come, laddie,' it was exactly how he spoke to a horse or a dog and it went down well with Philip, 'we'll go and tell Donald to hurry it up.'

CHAPTER SEVEN THE. branch bank in Alnwick wasn't very busy so it didn't take long for Brett to open an account for Eden in her new name. She wrote out her specimen signature shakily, it was the first time she'd written it and it looked rather stiff and hesitant, but she supposed she'd get used to it sometime, even eventually be able to write it with flair. She'd blinked slightly at the sum Brett had deposited in the account; she'd seen larger ones, of course, but those had always to be adjusted to take into account her outgoings, and had proved disappointingly small when all the necessary deductions had been made. But this money didn't have to be adjusted in any way, and apparently it was for her own use and adornment. 'I'll see to the household expenses for the time being,' he explained, 'until you get more used to things. This is your personal allowance for the next three months, and I'd like to see you in something other than jeans and T-shirts, but for today, why don't you concentrate on getting something to wear on Thursday evening? Something pretty,' he suggested when they were once more on the pavement. 'You're supposed to be a credit to me.' 'Yes, sir; thank you, sir!' Eden chanted, inwardly resolving to try but with few hopes of succeeding. She couldn't see herself as the pretty type and the last thing she'd ever wanted was to look like the original dumb blonde. 'And when I've finished my shopping?" She raised an eyebrow. 'I've rooms above the solicitors' offices between here and the Post Office, I don't have to draw you a map?' And at the wag of her head, 'Come there when you've finished, Charles will see you comfortable if I'm engaged." She watched him stride off and turned her attention to the Tenantry Column and the stiff-tailed Percy lion which surmounted it while

she thought how best to go about this shopping. Left to herself, Eden wouldn't have bothered. She'd either have worn the old Indian thing or politely declined the invitation to the small dinner party on Thursday, but it had come from Mr Hunter. Daphne's father and Brett had been firm about it. They would accept, he'd said, which had cut the ground from under her feet. And it wasn't the right time of the year for shop windows to be dressed with evening wear, so she would have to go inside, and that would be another problem. She hated to waste assistants' time and usually felt obliged to buy something, whether she liked it nor not, rather than share the disappointment they felt at not making a sale. Eden knew that feeling only too well, she'd suffered it herself too often! After several false starts, she eventually found a shop where the quality was good and the clothes didn't cost the earth—she was beginning to think of herself as a Scrooge but you got that way when you had to look twice at every penny—and she settled for a creamy, slightly stiffened silk organza spotted all over with tiny black polka dots; boat-necked with long sleeves and a very full, mid-length skirt. The manageress of the shop insisted it was a bargain even though Eden thought it expensive, but by this time, she was developing some interest in the proceedings. It was a good fit so she added some underwear and a couple of pairs of filmy silk stockings to the pile, wrote out a cheque in a hand which had suddenly become as steady as a rock, and hared across the street to a shoe shop for a. pair of black patent, high-heeled courts which would bring her up to an acceptable five foot five inches. Since this was all for an occasion, she resolved to do things in style by wearing the small string of pearls and the pearl earrings which had been her mother's and lastly, as a finishing touch, she laid out a

small sum on some fresh make-up, with the help of a with-it assistant in the chemist's shop. Laden with packages and feeling unaccountably light-hearted, she made her way back to Brett's where she found Charles, his clerk, to be not quite as she'd expected. He wasn't young and smooth with modern efficiency but a middle-aged man, a bit rotund and definitely Pickwickian. For a moment or two, she wondered if Charles was the ex-policeman who had tracked her down, but then she dismissed the idea; he wasn't tall enough to have ever been a policeman. So, as Brett was temporarily engaged, she sat with Charles in the outer office, feeling quite at ease as they shared a pot of tea, until the door to the inner office opened and Daphne came swanning through, seemingly oblivious of Eden who was partly hidden by a very modern filing cabinet. Tea, Charles?' Her voice was carrying and over-loud. No, don't bother about pouring a cup for me, I haven't the time. I thought Mr Allard would take me to lunch before I started back, but apparently he's tied up with another appointment and I loathe eating on my own, so 1 shall be going straight home.' Eden's eyes glinted with appreciation, it had been very well done. Of course Daphne knew she was there, Charles had announced it on his very efficient intercom, but Daphne seemed to be intent on stressing the intimate nature of the relationship between herself and Brett. Her little start of surprise at finally locating Eden was worthy of the Old Drury; not too little so that it would escape notice, and not too great so that it looked artificial. It couldn't be faulted. 'Eden, how nice to see you again.' The thin red lips smiled graciously but the smallish dark eyes beneath the darkly arched brows weren't smiling at all. 'How are you settling in? No problems, I hope.'

'No.' Eden smiled back, thinking this was just like a very ladylike game of tennis.. The ball had been lobbed gently across to her side of the court and it was now up to her to lob it back with equal gentility. 'Nary a one. I've surprised myself, I think. I'm taking to the idle life like a duck to water.' Daphne nodded and her eyes hardened until they were like pieces of wet, brown, water-polished stone. 'And so you should.' Her smile remained fixed. 'Naughty girl,' she admonished as Charles excused himself and slipped into the inner office with a couple of papers for Brett. 'You didn't tell me you weren't a stranger to the area. I've been telling my father that at last there's a real, live expert on antiques come to live here, and what do I find? That you're a native and quite well-known!' Her gaze concentrated on Eden's face, absorbing everything there and went on to sum up the rest of her; the decent tweed skirt, the roll-necked woollen sweater and the well-worn sheepskin jacket. 'In fact, in certain quarters, you're very wellknown, almost notorious.' Eden prided herself that she didn't visibly falter. She'd been preparing herself for something like this, nobody could remain anonymous for ever especially in this sparsely populated area, and trust Daphne to have found out! But although her face remained cool and gently smiling, inside she could feel herself beginning to shake with cold tremors which started in her stomach and spread outwards until she was enveloped in a deadly chill. 'No, not again!' She thought she'd screamed it aloud, and was almost shocked when Daphne gave no sign of hearing the words her mind had expressed so vehemently, and all the darkness and the pain swept over her until she felt frozen with the effort of not remembering. With an inward struggle, she kept up the smile and tried to think ahead because she didn't dare think backwards. And thinking ahead,

just the effort involved in forcing herself to do it had its compensations—she'd never been able to concentrate on more than one thing at a time—she could now take the present situation, accept it, analyse it and plan for the immediate future, or to be more precise, the next few minutes, which was as far ahead as she dared to look. That one word 'notorious', said as Daphne had said it, changed everything. This was no longer a polite, friendly game and the ball was no longer being lobbed to her with a gentle, easy service; it was coming at her hard and fast, but she did her best, deliberately misunderstanding. 'Aren't we all, in one way or another?' she murmured, almost to herself before she looked up and her voice came clearly. 'But if you have any doubts as to my competence, you can set your father's mind at rest. You can tell him I know what I'm talking about, I am something of an expert on silver and antique chairs. My grandfather was an excellent tutor and I've had quite a lot of practical experience to fill in the small gaps he left. Ah,' as Charles opened the door and beckoned her within, 'Brett seems to be able to spare me a few moments before we go to lunch. Bye-bye for now…' She would have liked to have been thoroughly sophisticated and invited Daphne to join them, but she knew she lacked the savoirfaire to carry that through to the bitter end. She imagined herself sitting dumb and uncommunicative while Daphne took a firm grasp on the conversational ball and played a little two-handed game with Brett. If that happened, she—Eden—would be excluded, relegated to the background, and her newfound confidence would vanish like dew in warm sunshine. 'Finished your shopping?' With her thoughts miles away, Eden almost jumped out of her skin at Brett's question, but she managed

to close the door quietly behind her and. nod at the dress box and plastic carrier bag she was holding. 'Quite finished.' She lifted her chin and looked at him gravely. 'Although whether you'll be pleased with the results, I don't know, but I did the best I could in the short time allowed. Would you like to see?' 'Mmm.' He took the box from her, slid his fingernail under the loop of plastic tape which held the lid on, easing it aside so that he could look at the contents and gave a small nod of approval. 'That's better, Eden. You see, you can do it if you try. What about a coat of some kind?' 'Oh,' she was airy, waving her hand and smiling although it was only a gesture, she wasn't feeling light- hearted any longer, 'somewhere, I've a simulated mink stole, but if that's not good enough, I'll wear my mac! You must leave me some self-respect, you know. I'd make a poor beggar maid to your King Cophetua, I don't kneel to anyone!' While she was speaking, she watched his face, seeing the shades of expression which flitted across it. They didn't tell her very much, but the thundercloud grey of his eyes seemed to have lightened as he started on the shoe box, delving into it and balancing one of the fragile-looking shoes on his palm and almost smiling—she wasn't sure about the way his firm mouth twitched but to her, it looked like the beginnings of a smile—at the ridiculously high and spindly heel. 'Mmm.' He peeped into the smaller bag containing the underwear and nodded with satisfaction. 'Very nice my little beggar maid.' 'Thank you, your majesty.' She forced herself into a pseudo-gaiety. 'I'll look like a doll, all frilly. If it wasn't for the black polka dots, you could stand me on top of a Christmas Tree. But the shoes should help a bit, I thought. If I put my hair up and stand very straight, I'll probably come up to your shoulder and people will

resist the temptation to put me back in my box. We're going to be late getting back though,' she changed the subject swiftly, her mock gaiety was getting thin at the edges and soon it would vanish completely. 'I hope Philip's all right, perhaps we'd better go straight home and not bother about lunch.' 'I'm glad you're beginning to think of it as "home",' he answered approvingly. 'But Philip will be quite safe with Scotty, and she won't be expecting us,' Brett pointed out. 'Besides, I've already booked a table,' he glanced at his watch, checked it against the wall clock, 'for about now. So, if you're ready ...?' The lunch was good but worry had driven away Eden's appetite. Suppose Daphne had invited some of the Nairn clan, or even one of them. One would be enough to ruin any dinner party for her! Eden wanted to find a hole in the ground, crawl into it and pull the top in over her head so that she was invisible. It wasn't fair! She'd been through this once and the thought of having to go through it again brought her out in a cold dew of perspiration. It wouldn't be just herself this time, Philip would be smeared as well, not to mention Brett, and all because some blasted coroner had given her the 'benefit of the doubt' without knowing all the circumstances!

'Something wrong?' Brett had brought her back to The Barns as soon as they'd finished lunch, and Eden had spent an uneasy afternoon alone with Philip while her husband had shut himself up in his study with a bulging briefcase and now, it was nearly nine o'clock. Dinner was over and Brett had seemed to ignore the way she'd fiddled with Scotty's succulent Iamb chops, pushing the food about her plate, eating so very little of it, and only sipping at the dry white wine, so that one glass lasted her all through the meal.

She paused with, the coffee pot in her hand, deliberating whether to say anything or just plead a headache but that would be cowardly and it wouldn't help. 'Yes,' and as soon as she'd said it, she felt better and the coffee poured in a steady stream into the cups instead of splashing all over the place. 'Daphne knows, about me and the car crash, so very soon everybody else'll be remembering and if you want the whole truth, I'm scared to death about this dinner party in case something's said. And if it is, it won't do you much good either. I'm supposed to be putting a polish on your image, not dragging you down as the new husband of a woman who maybe killed her first in a mad dash about the countryside at three a.m. You'll get no kudos out of that! Oh hell!' She spooned sugar into her cup and stirred it wearily, 'I was a fool to think I could live it down, and you were a bigger fool when you suggested this marriage. I've always been trouble with a capital T but this time it's not just me, there's Philip and you as well…' "Forget about it." Brett's mouth curved into a wry smile. 'You aren't the only person with a skeleton in the closet. Most of us have a grey area, a bit of tarnish which we'd prefer other people didn't see. Yours was made public, everybody's attention was drawn to it, that's the only difference.' The smile vanished and she watched as his face became sombre and his black eyebrows drew together in a frown. 'One thing I could never understand about that accident.. .' 'Leave it, I don't want to talk about it.' she interrupted fiercely. 'But I do!' He put his coffee cup down on the saucer with a clatter, rose and came to stand over her, not touching her but holding her penned into the chair with his hands on the fatly upholstered wings. 'I want to know what a very newly married couple was doing tearing round the countryside on their wedding night. I would have thought they'd have had something much better to do than that, and there's only one person who can tell me. You!'

Eden held his gaze for as long as she could, watching the thunderclouds darken and thinking she could see flames flickering behind the darkening grey; but it was only reflection from the fire, she told herself and turned her head to look away as she answered. 'Youthful high jinks, I suppose. A moonlight ride…' 'Liar!' Brett's voice was stern. 'The one thing missing that night was the moon. I looked that up in the almanack, there was no moon. It must have been as black as pitch!' 'Blacker, if anything.' Memory crept back and she was once more running—sore and aching with the treatment she'd received—down the lane with only the dim starlight to guide her, stubbing her bare toes against the rough, rutted surface, getting snagged in the tangle of hedgerow. She'd tried to run on the grassy verge where the branches and twigs had caught at her hair and the thin silk of her nightie and robe, and it had been so cold, although she hadn't noticed it at the time. 'As you said,' she forced herself back from memory, 'there was no moon, only the starlight.' 'So what was the truth, Eden?' Brett went on remorselessly. 'That's what I want to know. Why did you both go careering off like that?' Eden shook her head, the firelight dazzled through the tears she was holding back from falling and she closed her eyes. It was better that way, she couldn't see, only hear, which cut out half the terror and enabled her to be wordily flippant even though her voice was not much better than a shaky croak when she started off. It gained steadiness as she continued. T don't think I have to answer that question. This isn't a court of law, this is only a discussion between an oddly married couple, so I'll tell you exactly what I told the coroner. My husband felt like taking a drive, he wanted me with him and like a good, obedient wife, I

went. That's all I want to say and I'd be obliged if you'd mind your own business . ..' The last word finished in a long drawn out hiss as Brett's hands left the winged back of the chair and closed on her shoulders, dragging her to her feet and shaking her so that the breath rattled in her throat. 'It is my business, you infuriating little bitch,' he snarled. 'I'm your husband now, so let's have some of that obedience you quoted so smugly, or did that only apply to your first? All right,' as she opened her eyes to look up at him and shook her head warily, 'keep your secrets,' he continued grimly, 'but I warn you, they won't be secrets for long. I shan't ask you again, I'll make my own enquiries, and since you seem to have forgotten the rules, I'm going to forget a few myself.' Her eyes darkened with remembered terror as he drew her closer. She watched as his face drew nearer to hers and started to struggle like a mad thing, but it was like a pygmy fighting a giant. She hadn't a hope of winning no matter how she twisted and turned. He shifted his grip to hold her about the shoulders with one long arm while his other hand fastened on her pony tail of blonde hair, not hurting, just holding her firmly until she stopped struggling. 'Better.' Brett sounded amused. 'Learn your limitations, my girl.' And his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding, bruising her lips as he forced them apart. It was the first time he'd hurt her, made her feel a little physical pain, but somehow the pain didn't matter so much any longer, it was insignificant when she compared it with the pool of warmth which was collecting in the pit of her stomach. A pool which gave her a hot, empty feeling as it spilled over and trickled through the rest of her body so that she was aware of his slightest touch.

He was no longer holding her pony tail, instead his fingers were fiddling with the buttons of her check patterned, cotton shirt and her hands wouldn't obey her when she tried to raise them to stop him. It was almost a relief when her taut, throbbing breast spilled out into his hand and she felt his fingers close about it firmly. This time he was closer to her; she could feel the warm hardness of him through her clothes, a hardness which was demanding more of her, and automatically her hands slid up to his shoulders, her mouth parted willingly and she crowded in closer to him. There was an urgency about it all but underneath the urgency, a small fear was growing until it was big enough to push her away from him, wrench her mouth free and gasp out a hoarse 'No!' 'Not ready yet, Eden?' Brett didn't look or sound disappointed. 'It's all right, I'll give you a bit more time but don't forget, I've less to waste than you have and it's going to happen one day, I think we both know that.' 'You promised,' she muttered, her fingers touching her swollen lips. 'You said . . .' He was wry as he straightened her clothing and did up the shirt buttons. 'I've said so many things in the past. But I'm giving you a preview of the future for you to mull over and get used to. Sooner or later, things are going to be different between us. You're my wife and you'll share more than my home. You'll share my bed and every moment, waking and sleeping, of our lives. Between us, we'll give Philip a few brothers and sisters so he'll grow up well adjusted and a member of a real family instead of a lonely little boy .. Eden didn't hear the rest of it, his mention of a lonely little boy triggered off a line of thought and she could actually see Brett when he was a child; so many years ago, before she herself had even been born. Had he been so very lonely after his parents had died? Was that what had made him so much a shadow of her grandfather that

even when he was a young man and she had been at the noticing age, he'd never really impinged on her consciousness, not as an individual, a person in his own right? Slowly she raised her head to look up at him solemnly. He'd been right, she decided. She was a selfish and self-centred little bitch to be so immersed in her own troubles she didn't notice other people had theirs as well. And he was right about other things, of course. This artificial relationship between them couldn't continue for ever. There was a part of her Which didn't want it to continue but it was buried beneath the thick blanket of her fear. If she could only talk about it perhaps it would go away and she'd start really living once more, the nightmares and the memories would die and she'd be able to love. She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come, she couldn't say them. In the midst of her distress, she heard him still speaking. She'd missed a lot but the last part came through loud and clear. .. I always wanted you and you aren't exactly indifferent to me. I know that! I can feel it when I touch you. There's a response but you kill it before it has a chance to grow. Lord, woman, you're young, you're alive, you can't bury yourself in the grave with your lost love. Maybe the accident was your fault, maybe not—I don't give a hoot about that one way or the other—but it was an accident, you didn't set out deliberately to kill him so you've nothing to feel guilty about. It happened, and surely you've mourned long enough? It's time you started living again. Oh hell!' He released her completely and so suddenly that she almost fell. 'Go to bed,' he growled. 'And lock your doors, both of them, if you want to be left undisturbed.'

Daphne's little dinner party turned out to be less of a strain than Eden had expected, and she was able to go to it with an easy mind. Philip had developed a rapport with Scotty, in fact sometimes Eden

thought he was happier with the housekeeper than with herself. She would have been jealous but for common sense which told her that ninety percent of the rapport was founded on Scotty's scones, cakes and gingerbread men with currant eyes, and she started seeing her son as a walking stomach which was in perpetual need of being filled. At any rate, Philip was quite happy with Scotty; he was always pattering around the house, following her or sitting on the immaculate kitchen floor tiles waiting for goodies to fall off her baking trays. But even so, Eden insisted on putting him to bed herself with the usual bedtime story droned out until his eyelids closed, which made her a bit late in taking a bath and dressing. The spotted organza didn't look so gooey when it was on, and the high-heeled courts helped tremendously so that there was no need to screw her hair up on top of her head. She left it in a swinging silvery bell which touched her shoulders, admired the effect of the new eyeshadow and lipstick and seized her fake mink stole to patter carefully down the stairs—she hadn't worn high heels since before Philip was born— and found Brett waiting for her. He eyed the total effect morosely. 'You hardly look old enough to be the mother of a two-and-a-half year old boy!' 'Mmm.' Her fingers clutched at her black, beaded evening purse; an Edwardian trifle she'd picked up at a sale and refurbished with a new lining because the frame was of silver and the fine beadwork was still in excellent condition. 'I'm sorry, but although I try to look every one of my twenty-two years, I don't seem able to achieve the correct matronliness and I don't know what else I can do. Perhaps my hair ...?' She raised her hands to lift it away from her face and he frowned and shook his head. 'Leave it. You look like a skinned rabbit when you scrape it back.'

'Thanks.' She pirouetted, making her full skirts swirl. 'I'll do? I wouldn't like you to be ashamed of me.' There was no reply to that except a suppressed grunt so she pretended to be awed by the magnificence of his pleated white linen shirt which made his face look very dark; his severely brushed back hair and the evening jacket and trousers, which were tailored to perfection so that he looked as though he'd been poured into them. Dressed like this, Brett looked incredibly sexy and she wondered why she'd never noticed it before, but she knew the answer to that as soon as the question had formed in her mind. She hadn't known because she hadn't wanted to know! But now, the knowledge was being forced into her consciousness and it sent a little trickle of excitement down her back and started up a squeezing, warm cramp in the pit of her stomach. There was no trace of her fear in her as she realised that at this very moment, she actually wanted him as a man, and it was such a shocking thought, she took a deep breath and conquered the desire, only to wonder equally shockingly why this should have happened at such an inconvenient moment. If it had happened three nights ago when he had outlined their future before sending her off to bed so brusquely, everything would be straight between them now. They would be a normal, married couple, she'd be normal herself maybe, and not scared out of her wits at this sudden discovery of her own sexuality. Almost as if he could read her mind or as if what she was thinking was visible on her face, he suggested lazily, 'I could ring and say we can't make it...?' 'Oh no.' The moment had passed and the fear was back in her, flickering so that the dissolving warmth in her stomach churned, chilled and went sour on her. 'Not after all this preparation. Besides,

they'd think we were very bad mannered to cancel at the last moment.' Yet, despite the curdled chill, she was almost wanting him to insist. 'And Scotty won't have prepared dinner here, it wouldn't be fair to her.' She extended the excuses and could almost have wept when Brett nodded serenely. 'Then, if you're ready ...?' His arm didn't touch her but it was there. She could feel it quite definitely although it was a good six inches away. Daphne greeted them with a brittle gaiety and lost no time in separating them, clinging to Brett like a leech while she hived Eden off on to her father without even waiting to introduce her to the other dinner guests, but Eden didn't mind a bit. One swift glance told her that the others were all strangers, she'd never seen any of them before and they were no threat to her hardly won and rather tottery self-confidence. She went happily off on Mr Hunter's arm to have what he called 'a peek at his latest acquisition' before they sat down to dinner. 'It looks like a piece by Paul de Lamerie.' She handled the exquisite coffee jug reverently, her fingers lingering on the butterfly finial and the delicate leafage at the spout before they caressed the otherwise plain shape. 'I've seen some of his work and this is very like it.' She took the proffered magnifying glass and inspected the stamping, 'I think his mark is here. It's been overstruck, but that's not unusual for a de Lamerie piece. There were two auctions, you know, one of his stock and the other of his tools after his death, and I suppose whoever bought and resold the pieces felt entitled to overstrike with his own mark.' Mr Hunter, a blunt northcountryman with few pretensions, breathed a sigh of relief. 'That bodged up marking nearly put me off,' he admitted. 'I don't know much about silver but I know what I like,

and I liked that coffee jug as soon as I saw it, but it's hard when you don't know.' Eden chuckled as her eyes wandered over the display of salvers, cruets, tankards and goblets. 'I don't think you need advice, Mr Hunter, just good taste, and you have that in abundance. It's a lovely collection,' Eden didn't bother to hide her envy but it only seemed to please him. 'And you can be proud of it.' 'Which is a hint you want to get back to your husband.' Her host's nearly colourless eyes glinted understandingly. 'Well, you could be right and it's always better to play safe. Leave him alone too long and you could lose him. I've watched the competition and' it's been fierce.' Eden looked startled at such plain speaking, she wasn't used to it, but he'd taken her arm and was towing her back towards the lounge where everybody was sipping aperitifs. Daphne, standing a little apart with Brett, was clutching possessively at his sleeve with pale fingers which looked like red-tipped talons. Approaching from behind, Eden heard her clearly. 'But darling, it's not dead and gone, not for me!' And the cruelty of Brett's blunt reply made Eden wince. 'But my dear, it was never alive and never there for either of us. That was clearly understood, I think.' And he turned round as if he could feel Eden behind him. 'Enjoying yourself?' he asked as he took her arm. 'Very much,' she answered him calmly as if she hadn't heard a word of that muttered scrap of conversation, but she nearly shrivelled in the blaze of hate and frustration in Daphne's eyes. Everything had been spoiled for her, she'd caught a glimpse of a Brett she'd never suspected existed; cold, precise and slashing through emotionalism

as if he were cutting it out with a knife, and it wasn't a reassuring sight. 'Need you have been quite so cruel to Daphne?' She asked the question when they were in the car, driving home. 'I heard what you said, you know.' 'Yes, I know you did.' In the glow from the dashboard, she caught a glimpse of his face, dispassionate and rock hard. 'I was being cruel merely to be kind. I said what had to be said, that's all, and I don't think that rates as cruelty, only as common sense. I advise you to forget about it.' 'Daphne hasn't forgotten and I'm afraid I don't forget so easily ...' . 'Why not?' Brett continued to be ruthless. 'I have! It's all over now, I was quite honest about it. It was a brief interlude, there was never anything permanent intended, but Daphne read more into it than she should have. Do as I say, forget about it!' But it wasn't so easily forgotten, not for Eden. She bade him a curt good night, showered and crept into her bed to lie awake, fancying she had seen a terrible, deep hurt beneath the hate and frustration in Daphne's eyes. Finally she slept, but only to fall into a nightmare where she was in the dock, accused of Peter's murder and Brett, with a black square over his white wig, was sentencing her to death and still with that aloof, dispassionate expression on his face.

CHAPTER EIGHT 'Go to see Fanner, please? Mys want to see Fanner!' Philip's short nose was pressed against the window pane, outside of which the rain was pouring down as if somebody was emptying the sky by the bucketful and Eden smothered a sigh. Her son's continuous 'Go to see Fanner, want to see Fanner' was beginning to sound like a litany, he'd said it so often. 'Tomorrow,' she told him firmly. 'It's raining too hard today. Let's play trains.' 'Nofankyou,' he snuffled at the window glass. 'Want to ride mys pony. No trains!' Eden gave in and offered a more acceptable substitute. 'Then let's go down to the kitchen and see if Scotty will give us some chocolate biscuits and a glass of milk.' She knew it was wrong to divert him in this way but she didn't feel capable of putting her foot down. Since Thursday night, she'd been unable to shake off her fit of moodiness. That Brett could be hard and implacable had frightened her, it had made her feel unsafe; she had wanted to argue it out but he had cut the ground from under her feet by leaving early on Friday morning, saying he wouldn't be back until Saturday evening and he hoped he'd find her in a better temper when he returned! It was Saturday now, she gloomed and her temper was still uncertain. Two whole days of cold winds and rain had kept her in the house where, reluctant to interfere with the running of it for fear of upsetting Scotty, she had nothing to do save amuse Philip and brood on all the things she would have said if she'd had the opportunity. Consequently, when Brett arrived home just in time for dinner, her welcoming smile was a mechanical thing which covered her rehearsal of all the things she wanted to say. Dinner, instead of

being a companionable meal, was a silent one, and after it, when she made one tentative remark about the subject bugging her, he nearly snapped her head off. 'I don't wish to talk about it!' He was brusque and it made her hands shake with aggravation so that she spilled some of the coffee. 'No,' she pulled herself together and adopted a sweetly acid tone, 'I don't suppose you do! Isn't it a pity we're not in America, you could plead the Fifth Amendment on the grounds you might incriminate yourself!' 'I've done nothing criminal.' She could hear his weary irritability and she knew she ought to drop the subject, but there was a devil riding on her back and she couldn't let well alone. 'Daphne might have other ideas about that.' She lifted her nose haughtily. 'You evidently led her on, probably promised her all sorts of things. When are you going to start breaking your promises to me?' 'If I thought it was the right way to go about it,' he spoke softly, between clenched teeth, 'I'd break every one of them here and now.' Idly, he scuffed one foot on the thick sheepskin rug before the fire, drawing her attention to the deep pile. 'Primitive but satisfactory I think, and you'd think so as well, afterwards.' 'You wouldn't dare!' She said it with all the confidence she could muster and her nose lifted another inch. Brett closed his eyes, blanking out the thunderclouds so that she could only see the fringe of his lashes and his voice, when it came, was as soft as velvet but she could almost see the steel beneath. 'Don't dare me, Eden. If you do, I'll take you up on it! And if you've any doubt about that, ask your grandfather!'

She was beaten, she knew it, and there was nothing left for her to do but escape while her dignity was still intact. She didn't want any more bad memories, she had enough of those already. She put her cup down precisely, walked slowly to the door—although she wanted to fly for her life—closed it gently behind her and only then did her self-possession desert her. She fled up the stairs as though the devil was at her heels. Safely locked in the bedroom, she was tempted to go back down and apologise but thought better of it. Why the hell should she apologise? She'd done nothing wrong, unless it was wrong to have her own opinion and voice it! Although it was still raining, the atmosphere in the kitchen on Sunday morning was cosy and comforting. Philip, his face smeared with chocolate from more biscuits, was slurping his milk contentedly, having forgotten about his pony for the moment, and when Eden offered to help, with preparations for the midday lunch, Scotty calmly produced an extra pinny and some rubber gloves and set her to peel more potatoes. 'I suppose we'll be needing them,' she observed. 'I heard Mr Allard on the phone, saying you wouldn't be going to The Pele, not in this weather, so it's almost certain your granddaddy wilt be coming here. He's fair set on the wee laddie and he won't let the week go by without setting eyes on him.' Scotty's prediction was correct but delayed; lunch was over before her grandfather arrived, wet through and gasping ominously. 'The damn car broke down nearly four miles back, I had to walk the rest of the way,' he wheezed as he shed a soaked Burberry and stood dripping puddles on to the polished floor. 'About time you retired that car and got a new one, sir.' Brett came out of his study, bad temper or his guilty conscience concealed

beneath a mask of hospitality and took charge smoothly, giving Eden a warning shake of his head as she started fussing. 'Come upstairs with me, you can have a hot bath while I find you some dry clothes to wear.' 'There's nothing wrong with my car,' the old man roared as he shook himself like a dog, and stamped his squelching feet. But the roar was little more than an indignant rasp, he was breathing heavily and beneath the weathered tan his face had a greyish look. 'It's a damn' good car, they don't build them like that nowadays.' 'It's suffering from old age.' Brett kept the smoothness going as he escorted the old man to the staircase and Eden could still hear his voice, calm but definite as they went slowly up the stairs. 'Nothing lasts for ever and it's becoming unreliable, besides, it drinks petrol like a fish. You'd find a newer model cheaper to run and a lot easier to handle. Tell me where you left it and I'll phone the garage to get it picked up ...' Their voices faded away until they were cut off by the slam of a bedroom door and Eden gave Scotty, who had come out from the kitchen to mop up the floor, a wry look. 'He's had to walk four miles,' she murmured, 'and he's wet through. Brett's just taken him up for a bath and a change of clothes.' 'It'll have to be pyjamas and a dressing gown then.' Scotty echoed her wryness. 'Big as Mr Allard is, his clothes aren't going to fit your granddaddy. I'll make up a good fire and have a rug and a hot toddy with plenty of honey and lemon ready for when they come down. He's old, that one, and if he's caught a chill, I misdoubt it'll settle on his chest.' By tea time, Eden knew they had a sick man on their hands. Her grandfather had refused food and spent the afternoon in a chair by

the fire; one rug over his shoulders, another across his knees and his frequently replenished hot toddy beside him on a low table. Philip had come to sit on his knee and together, the very old and the very young had dropped off into a doze while Eden kept guard over them, hoping fervently that Scotty was reducing the amount of whisky in each successive toddy, otherwise her grandfather was going to be drunk as well as ill. His eyes seemed to have sunk into his head and there was a hectic flush on his high, gaunt cheekbones. After tea, when Philip had been put to bed and Eden was sitting, listening to her grandfather's stertorous breathing, Brett reappeared beside her. 'I think we'd better get him to bed.' He only mouthed the words, no longer cruel or withdrawn but compassionate. 'Scotty's aired everything and I've phoned for the doctor, he should be here soon.' 'I doubt he'll go,' she mouthed back with a worried look. The sight of her grandfather's sudden illness had washed her clean of bitterness and now, she could only feel a respectful pity for him mixed up with a kind of loving admiration for an old man who could still put up a fight for the things he held dear. 'He'll go.' Brett's confidence was inspiring. 'You on one side and me on the other and no arguments. The trouble won't be in getting him to bed but in keeping him there. Are you up to a bit of nursing? You're looking a bit peaky.' 'Two days in the house, the weather's been too wet to go out for walks.' She brushed his comments aside and went across to rouse her grandfather. 'Come along. Grandfather, we're going to get you upstairs and into bed.' The old man opened his eyes and glared at her. 'I've not had my dinner yet,' he grumbled and when she suggested he could have it in

bed, he croaked a pitiful roar at her that he'd never eaten in bed in his life. 'Then it'll be a new experience for you,' she snapped back hardheartedly as, with Brett on his other side, they manoeuvred him through to the staircase. 'Feeling a bit groggy, sir?' Brett was all help and caring and she felt a twinge of jealousy that he should be so with her grandfather but not with herself. It wasn't fair, she was as much in need of loving kindness and understanding as the old man but when the huge old hand came heavily on her shoulder and she staggered a bit beneath the weight, she stopped being jealous. Self-pity was a useless emotion and in any case, she'd never asked for sympathy or understanding so how could she expect to receive them? 'My legs,' the old man halted on the stairs while the breath rattled in his chest, 'walked too far, I suppose and a little thing like Eden can't hold me.' 'She can and she will.' Over her grandfather's shoulder, Brett's eyes met hers encouragingly. 'Haven't you noticed, sir? Eden bends but she doesn't break.' The doctor—when he came—was also encouraging. A chill, a touch of bronchitis but no need to worry. The patient was old, of course, which didn't help, but he was as strong as a horse with a heart a man of thirty might envy. He'd be a bit worse before he was better but to keep him warm, bedrest for at least a week, a light, nourishing diet and the medication regularly. 'Keep taking the tablets and stay in bed for a week!' Eden said it disgustedly when her grandfather was safely dozing in bed in their only furnished guest room, and she and Brett were once more beside the fire in the sitting-room. 'Some hope of that!'

'Oh, 1 don't know,' Brett chuckled. ' "When the devil was sick .. ." ' he quoted, 'and the ' "auld de'il" is sick. He'll be as meek as a Iamb for a day or two. I'm sorry I shan't be here to help, I'm due in court in Newcastle on Tuesday morning, but you and Scotty should be able to manage and I'll be back as soon as the case is over.' 'We'll manage.' She grinned comically. 'But to keep him in bed for a week, that's asking too much unless I tie him down. We'll have to settle for keeping him warm and dosed up. You're being very kind,' she added, almost reluctantly. 'Why not? I owe,' Brett reminded her gently. 'There was some money for me when my parents died but your grandfather never touched a penny of it. He housed, fed, clothed and educated me until I was qualified to earn my own living. He invested the little my parents left and he invested it wisely. How else d'you think I could have bought and renovated this place? I pay my debts, all of them; kindness for kindness and a blow for a blow, but he understands that. It's what he taught me himself. And you owe as well, my dear. Forget the last few years and remember him and how he was with you when you were a child.' 'Mmm.' She nodded. It seemed she still had a lot to learn about Brett. 'But it's not just owing. I'm surprising myself, I'm loving him again and that's something I once swore I'd never do, but I'm not trusting yet!' she added warningly as she went off to the kitchen to lend a hand with the dinner. Although it, stopped raining on Monday and the weather brightened, Eden found the days dragging, and to make matters worse, Brett phoned on Tuesday evening to say there'd been a rearrangement of the court timetable and his client's case had been put back two days, which meant he wouldn't be home until Friday at the earliest, but he was sure she could manage her grandfather without his help.

Eden showed her teeth at the unresponsive phone. Manage her grandfather, that was a laugh for a start! The old man's chest was clearing slowly with regular medication and his roar was beginning to echo along the gallery every fifteen minutes. 'Scotty's washed his shirt, socks and smalls and pressed them,' she grumbled, 'and his suit and coat will be ready at the cleaners' tomorrow. When I collect them and bring them home, there'll be no holding him. He's already threatened to throw me and the medicine out of the window and Scotty's in his bad books for feeding him pap!' She heard Brett's snort of laughter at the other end of the line followed by his careless, 'You'll cope,' before the line went dead on her. 'You toad,' she shouted at the innocent mouthpiece before flinging it back on the rest and heading upstairs to discover the reason for the latest yell of frustration.

The little town of Alnwick seemed to be taking a long afternoon nap in the bright, but still chilly spring sunshine and Eden, with her shopping finished and— having missed one bus—an hour's wait for the next, searched for and found a teashop. Vaguely, she remembered it from years back, she'd never been a frequent visitor to Alnwick in her younger days but somebody had taken her there once. The place was a nice mixture of genuine and pseudo-Tudor with mob- capped waitresses, and chairs upholstered in chintz to match the decor. Automatically, she ducked as she went through the low doorway and grinned to herself, the lintel was only lethal to anybody more than five foot eight high. Quite a few other women were here but nobody she knew, and she listened to the soft hum of their voices as she found herself an unoccupied table by one of the windows; dropping her carrier bags,

seating herself and ordering coffee and cream cakes. Deep in thought and halfway through her second cup of coffee, she became aware of another customer entering but she paid little attention until the chair on the other side of her table was pulled out and Daphne, with a sigh of relief, sank on to it. Something inside Eden cringed but she raised a quiet, expressionless face to smile an automatic and meaningless smile. 'Hello, Eden.' Daphne stripped off thin leather gloves and smiled back, equally meaninglessly, before she turned her head to snap out an order to the waitress who was hovering. 'You don't mind if I share your table?' she added when the girl had gone. Eden felt rather than heard a sound like a sword being withdrawn from its scabbard and abandoned good manners. 'Could anything stop you?' she asked sweetly. 'No, my dear.' Daphne was cool and superior. 'I don't think anything could. We've such a lot to say to each other, don't you think? And this place,' she gave a swift glance at the other customers who were all intent on their own business, 'seems ideal for the purpose. Neutral ground, so to speak. We're neither of us at a disadvantage..'. Silently, Eden nodded. There was a hard, painful knot of nervousness in her chest which made breathing rather difficult and speech almost impossible, but she swallowed convulsively and felt a chilly detachment creep into her mind, numbing it. She was afraid she'd be mauled in the encounter. There was some small comfort in the knowledge she'd faced and survived worse than this in the past so she could do it again. It might take every bit of courage she possessed and she would probably not sleep for a week afterwards but what the hell! It was a pity the Falconer blood ran so thin in her veins, she could have done with a whacking great transfusion of the belligerent stuff. As it was, she

felt like a war-weary veteran, defenceless and sickened of fighting; all she wanted to do was go home. 'You see, my dear,' Daphne's voice was honeyed, 'you came into this little drama at just the wrong moment for me. I had plans, you've upset them and to be perfectly frank, I can't stand being thwarted.' 'It happens to us all at some time or another,' Eden murmured it gently, 'and speaking from personal experience, I can tell you, you'll get over it. A pause for reflection, another interest and in a little while, you'll accept the status quo.' 'Never!' There was a rasp in Daphne's beautifully modulated voice and her carefully studied accent seemed to be in danger of slipping. 'I don't give up that easily. I've been working on Brett for nearly two years, I saw him, I wanted him and I got him.' Her smile was slick with a hurting triumph. 'I suppose that's news to you?' 'No.' Eden primmed her mouth, pursing her lips before she took another delicate sip of coffee. Everything was now out in the open, no more veiled hints, no more innocent remarks brimful of a different meaning. At least she knew where she stood. 'Brett's nothing if not frank. And as for "getting" him,' she laid a very slight emphasis on the word and shrugged gracefully while she abandoned even the pretence of delicacy, 'that's you and quite a few other women, from what he said. After all, he's no boy. He's been dallying round for a number of years now. He's hardly inexperienced.' Daphne raised a dark, perfectly shaped eyebrow while her eyes glittered angrily. 'He told you about us? I can hardly believe that!' Eden decided there must be more Falconer in her than she'd ever imagined. How else could she be replying with more than a trace of her grandfather's famed and feared blunt arrogance? Words seemed to be arranging themselves to spill out of her mouth without any

conscious thought, although she could feel herself trembling inwardly. But fate, in the form of the waitress with Daphne's tray of coffee and cakes, was kind to her. The few moments it took for the girl to arrange the stuff on the table gave her a breathing space in which to force herself into calm. 'In passing.' She nodded gravely and speared a calorie-filled cream bun from her own cake basket and transferred it to her plate just to see if her hands were still steady. 'Brett always was devastatingly honest, surely you know that by now. Of course, he didn't give me chapter and verse, that would have been indelicate, but he gave me a rough outline which was all I needed. I do so hate stumbling around in the dark and drawing maybe the wrong conclusions.' 'Then I hope you were as honest with him about your own affairs ...' Thin red lips writhed around the words and Eden broke in before Daphne could complete what she had been going to say. 'Are you spelling "affairs" with or without the E? Because if with, there weren't any.' She managed a sweet smile although bitterness was putting an acrid taste in her mouth. 'I was a widow with a child to rear and a living to earn, which left precious little time for affaires with an E. And if you're spelling it without one, that's a private matter I don't discuss with anybody and certainly not you. In any case,' Eden was beginning to falter, she didn't feel she could keep up her cool front much longer and she could think of only one way of ending this deplorable, if semi-private scene, 'if you have any complaints, why bring them to me? You should have it out with Brett, I'm only his wife.' 'He doesn't love you.' Again the red lips writhed, almost spitting the words out. 'You can't be sure about that.' Eden was too weary to be cautious any longer, too weary to even be kind. 'But,' she flicked a glance to

where her left hand lay relaxed on the table top—how the damn thing could look so relaxed when the rest of her was screwed up into a tight knot, she didn't know—and nodded at the gleam the sunlight picked up from the chasing of her wide, heavy-looking wedding ring. 'I do have this, which puts me in a sort of privileged position ...' What happened next shocked Eden so much that her whole body froze. Daphne stopped twiddling with her cake fork, reversed her grip on it and stabbed downwards at a hand which didn't seem to belong to Eden any longer. She saw the blow coming but she couldn't move a finger. The wide, blunt cutting tine didn't penetrate, it slid off the side of her hand, scoring and bruising but the narrower one did—she felt it pierce the skin and grate against bone before it was quickly withdrawn—and she watched as first one bead of blood and then another trickled across the back of her hand to be sopped up by the whiteness of the tablecloth. She sat quite still, hypnotised by the blood and almost oblivious to Daphne's hurried preparations for departure. What the woman said barely registered, only the studied carelessness of it. Daphne was speaking as though nothing had happened! 'I've been away for a couple of days, I brought you back a little gift, a consolation prize for the runner-up. I'll just tuck it in your bag ...' And she was gone while Eden's lips compressed in an effort to shut out the pain. She'd suffered worse than this and hadn't whimpered; she wouldn't whimper now! She even found some black humour about the episode when the waitress came to reckon up the cost of one cream bun and two pots of coffee. Her bruised and bloody hand, now concealed in a sheepskin mitt, was hurting like hell; she'd hidden the bloodstain on the cloth with her plate, acted as though nothing unusual had happened and then, to crown it all. Daphne had added insult to injury by walking out and leaving her to pick up the bill!

Reaction set in when, at last, she boarded the bus and found an unoccupied back seat where she hoped nobody would notice her. It had all been her own fault of course, and in between fits of sick shivering, she deplored and regretted every word she'd spoken. She and Daphne had been fighting over Brett like two bitches over a bone, but it was too late now for regret. Another sick shiver shook her slender body; for her, it always seemed to be too late! 'I caught it on a nail somewhere.' She manufactured a sorry attempt at a smile for Scotty's benefit. 'You know how these things happen, you're in a hurry and you don't notice . . .' 'Mmm, easy done.' The housekeeper hustled her into the kitchen and across to the sink. 'Bruised too, you must have had your head in the clouds not to notice that, but we'd better get it cleaned up before I put a dressing on it. You've broken the skin, nails can be rusty and you don't want it going bad ... A good cup of tea afterwards and an aspirin, you'll feel better in no time.' It wasn't until much later, after she'd handed over the cleaned suit and Burberry to her irascible grandfather that her fingers had come in contact with another, smaller package at the bottom of her shopping bag and she vaguely remembered Daphne's parting remark. But presents from Daphne held no interest for her, she didn't even want to think about the woman. Later on, she decided, when memories of that unfortunate meeting had dimmed a bit, she would burn whatever it was, but for now it was all too hurtful, she didn't even want to touch it and with a little grunt of distaste, she zipped up the bag and stuffed it into the bottom of her wardrobe. Friday seemed long in coming but eventually it arrived, and with it Brett, darkly handsome and with an appreciative gleam brightening the thundercloud grey of his eyes as Eden came down the stairs to greet him in a new shirtwaister dress of shell-pink silk, bought in Alnwick the day she'd had the run-in with Daphne. But even

thoughts of Daphne and what had happened couldn't spoil her pleasure in the dress. The colour suited her, the wide, stiffened belt clipped her waist to a handspan and as she walked, the pleated skirt flirted about her silk-clad legs. It made her look and feel good which, she thought, excused the extravagance. It had cost rather a lot. Her mouth was wry as she made herself accept the basic truth, absence did make the heart grow fonder! After nearly a week without him, she had to forcibly restrain herself from flinging herself on to his chest and crying with relief all over his shirt front. 'Nice.' He slid a companionable arm about her shoulders and inspected the dress at close quarters. 'Is it new?' 'Mmm,' her face crinkled into an easy smile, while her heart thumped so loudly she was afraid he might hear it, 'I needed something to boost my morale after coping with Grandfather. He's been a very difficult patient, but you'll hear all about it over dinner. He's having it with us tonight.' 'I've time to shower and change?' 'Mmm, but don't be too long,' she warned him as she went off to lay up the table. 'Scotty's been muttering spells over a huge piece of beef, she'll never forgive us if it's spoiled.' Purely private conversation was impossible at the table. This was her grandfather's first day up and while he admitted to a little weakness, he emphatically denied any lasting damage. The weakness had been caused by what he called a 'blithering pair of women' who had treated him like a child in arms, and he was very grateful to see a man about the house once more. He was, he insisted, as strong as he'd ever been, but he didn't refuse Brett's arm up the stairs immediately dinner was over.

'Scotty tells me you've hurt your hand.' Brett had seen the old man into bed and was now back, lounging in a chair by the fire. 'It's nothing.' Eden was noncommittal. She'd established herself in her usual chair and was busy pouring coffee with hands which shook a little. Brett seemed particularly good to look at tonight, any woman could be excused for wanting him, and she, who'd vowed she'd never want a man again as long as she lived, was no exception. She waved her hand—now free of Scotty's massive bandage—airily. 'A lot of fuss and bother about a mere scratch, but you know how Scotty is.' 'It doesn't look like a mere scratch to me.' He took her hand instead of his coffee cup and examined it carefully. 'It's healed, but there's still some bruising. How did it happen and,' his grip tightened on her wrist as she tried to withdraw her hand from his grasp, 'don't tell me that tale about a rusty nail you didn't even notice.' Eden raised her eyes, making them as innocent as possible. 'What's wrong with hitting your hand against a bit of wood and catching it on a nail?' 'Nothing,' his firm mouth curved into a small smile, 'if it's the truth, but I spend a lot of my life hearing truth and lies so I'm something of an expert when it comes to deciding which is which. Besides,' his smile broadened, 'you're looking too damn innocent and it's not like you. Let's have the truth for a change.' 'I don't think I like that implication.' She found herself smiling back at him, feeling happy and stimulated by the touch of his fingers which was sending a delicious little quiver of frightened anticipation through her whole body. 'That I lie so often, it's a change when I don't—but since you insist,' she screwed up her face as though in deep thought, 'how's this? I got myself impaled on a cake fork!'

'Which is so damn ridiculous it just has to be true.' To her surprise, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the fading bruise. 'Are you glad to see me back?' 'Me and Scotty both,' she admitted with a wry grin, the words coming out all anyhow because she could still feel the imprint of his mouth on the back of her hand, a tingling sensation which was spreading through her whole body and putting crazy thoughts in her mind. She was feeling like a girl with her first lover, filled with a quivering anticipation and a softening so that every part of her was aware of him. 'You seem to be the only person who can handle Grandfather,' she added huskily. 'Not very flattering,' he mocked gently. 'I was hoping you'd missed me.' He took the cup from her, his fingers meeting hers beneath the saucer and holding them again while, with his free hand, he put the cup and saucer down. 'Did you?' 'Mmm.' She kept all her attention on those two hands; his, longfingered, big and capable and hers lying within it, smaller, paler and not very steady. Not so long ago, she couldn't have borne to be touched but she seemed to be growing out of that, now her fingers spread and linked with his. Together like that, their two hands looked like an omen or one of those sentimental Victorian brooches. Her mouth was dry and her lips felt stiff so that the words came out in an almost incoherent babble. 'Of course I've—we've missed .. .' She dried up, unable to finish the sentence but she didn't have to. Brett seemed to be able to read her like a book. 'I said once that if you ever wanted me .. .' He tipped his head on one side, raised an eyebrow and his fingers moved to totally enclose her hand but he made no other move towards her. 'I think you do, don't you, Eden?'

Until that moment she hadn't known how much she wanted him, and the wanting was only a small part of it, she was in love with him! It had crept up on her silently, while she wasn't watching and now, it hit her like a blow. Even so, was that love strong enough to carry them through the act of loving, or was it a weak thing which would vanish if the terror came back, swamping all her hot, quivering anticipation and making her sick with fright? She didn't dare take the chance, not for her own sake but for his. How would he look if she couldn't help herself, if she shrank from him in loathing—how would he feel? No, she couldn't do that to him, she couldn't. Her pale face became even paler so that the pink blusher she'd used stood out on her cheekbones to ,make her look like a garishly painted doll, and she wrenched her hand away from his while she shook her head violently in a mad mixture of desire and despair. 'I can't answer that,' she muttered, and as her voice strengthened, 'Honestly, Brett, I can't! If I could, I'd say either yes or no. I can't explain.' And as she watched his frown grow, 'Oh, I know we can't go on as we are, but I don't know how to change things. I think I must have been a bit short-sighted when I agreed to all this, I didn't think far enough ahead, I didn't realise ...' Brett's eyes glittered while above them his eyebrows met in a black bar, but his voice was as smooth and controlled as ever. 'I really thought we might be getting somewhere, but the fear's back, isn't it? It's thick on you.' He reached out again for her, grasping at her shoulders and she flinched under his touch, an instinctive withdrawal which seemed to make him angry so that his fingers tightened, hurting the delicate bones beneath their thin covering of flesh while a rasp came into his voice.

'I don't understand you, Eden. There's no rhyme or reason to you.' Each short sentence was punctuated by a little shake. 'You promised ...' she gasped, almost hoping he wouldn't take his hands away. His grip on her shoulders was all that was keeping her upright, keeping her sane. She had the idea that if he took his hands away, she'd lose all control and collapse on to the floor in a mewing heap of grief. 'So I did.' Out of the corners of her slitted eyes, she saw the thinning of his nostrils as he drew in a deep breath, he was still angry. 'And I meant it. I'm willing to give you time—I said, "when you wanted me".' She could still sense the anger but it was hidden now under a smile which mocked the whole situation. 'I've been thinking you've been showing the green light all evening, was I wrong?' The thick parchment shade of the table lamp concentrated all the light on the coffee table and when she risked another look at his face; there was only the fitful light of the fire to illuminate it. There was bitterness there, compounded with regret, but the anger still blazed. The room grew very still as if it was waiting for something, even the logs on the fire had stopped hissing and were burning quietly; time seemed to stand still. Eden could feel perspiration prickling on her top lip, she licked at it nervously while she held herself rigidly still. Then the anger went from him, she could feel it going and also feel the flat, weary kind of resignation which replaced it. The danger was over, this wasn't to be the moment of truth for them. A log slipped deeper into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks and the room ceased to be a separate place and became part of the house again. Faintly, she could hear a rattle of cutlery from the kitchen and she drew in a deep breath of relief and bit hard at her bottom lip in an effort to stop it wobbling.

'You are frightened.' Brett's voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. 'But you've nothing to be frightened of, my dear, certainly not me. I've never needed to force a woman yet. Good night, Eden, see you in the morning.' And he was gone and she heard the door close quietly behind him.

CHAPTER NINE EDEN felt only a mild exhilaration as she stripped corrugated cardboard wrappings from the two lyre- back chairs and the Victorian hall chair. Something seemed to have happened to her enthusiasm for antiques, she could clearly recall the time when she'd have been dancing with impatience, waiting for them to arrive. However, she nodded at them with satisfaction; they'd travelled well and there wasn't a scratch on them. All they'd need would be a good polish and she thought the two lyre-backs would look very well in Brett's study. She had finally made up her mind—or had it made up for her—to give the hall chair to her grandfather. She'd almost decided to keep it, thinking it wouldn't look out of place in the hall of The Barns, but Scotty had sniffed disparagingly at it and muttered 'dust trap' when she'd come out to the garage to ask about the vegetables for lunch! Eden had come out to the garage prepared for a morning's work, the tin of polish and her cloths ready to hand, but she was reluctant to begin, all her thoughts were back in the house where her grandfather was making life very difficult. Nearly recovered from his chest infection, he wanted to go home to The Pele but the doctor, when the circumstances had been explained—that the household at The Pele consisted of only two men, neither in the first flush of youth— had advised against it. This hadn't gone down well with her grandfather and since he was much better and no longer confined to bed, he was behaving very badly; from sheer spite, Eden was convinced, although she tried to be understanding. And she could understand him, in a way. Despite his years, he was still vigorous and very active and it was only natural for him to want to be in his own home, he'd never lived anywhere else. There, he was king of the castle; whereas here, he was only a visitor. He was fretting for his house and the bare, bleak hills which were home to him; all of which he loved with a passion which was almost

idolatrous. To him it was the only place to be, the only place he'd ever wanted to be. With a little sigh, she abandoned work on the chairs and went back into the house to find Philip and his greatgrandfather in the sitting room, both looking glum and ignoring the toy soldiers set out in battle formation on the table-top. 'Fanner wants to go home,' Philip eyed her accusingly, "n I want to go with Fanner, ride my pony.' Eden hid a smile. Her grandfather was exerting a good influence in one area at least. Philip's speech was improving every day. 'No, darling,' Eden tried sweet reason, 'Fanner's not well enough yet. Next week perhaps when he's quite better. Then we'll go.' 'Want to go now!' Philip was obdurate. 'See my pony, ride my pony, stay with Fanner!' 'No, Philip.' She raised her eyes to the old man who was grinning at her with a sly triumph. 'Please don't put ideas in his head or encourage him. Grandfather; you know we can't...' 'Why not?' he demanded at the top of his voice, 'I want to go home, I want to be in my own house and I want the boy with me. You heard what he said, he wants to be with me ...' 'Words you've put into his mouth,' she interrupted flatly, continuing with a weary kind of resignation, 'but you can't leave yet. The doctor said .. .' 'To hell with the doctor.' The old man roared it, a nearly normal roar as he slapped the table-top and set Philip's toy soldiers jingling. 'The dithering fool's still treating me as if I had one foot in the grave. You can take me, my car's ready, it's been standing out in that garage for nearly a week. I'm well enough to go home whatever your damn' doctor says, and you can drive us.'

'And who's to look after you when you get there?' she demanded crossly. 'There'd be only Donald in the house with you. You can't expect him to nurse you and do all the other work as well, he's getting on.' 'You and the boy could stay for a few days.' He had all the answers. 'So why don't you put a few things in a case and we'll go?' 'Can't you think about anything but what you want?' she scolded. 'No, Grandfather, you're staying here until the doctor gives "you a clean bill of health. I'm not taking you anywhere, so you can get that silly idea out of your head straight away. I won't be a party to it.' 'Silly woman.' It was her son who answered her in a shrill pipe, his mother, had said a word which rang a bell in his little memory. 'Silly, silly, silly! All woman is silly. Fanner said! Silly woman.' He repeated it several more times. A lesson learned by heart, she decided and she didn't need a crystal ball to know who'd taught it to him! 'Don't say that, Philip! It's very rude,' she snapped at him with unaccustomed severity, although she knew it was no good scolding him, he didn't understand so she turned her wrath on her grandfather. 'You're a wicked, conniving old devil,' she raged quietly while Philip went on with his 'silly woman' like a wellrehearsed parrot. 'And it's no use you trying to make trouble. You think because Brett's not here you can get away with it, but I won't let you! If it was left to me,' she ground it out in a defiant mutter, 'you'd go home this very afternoon and I wouldn't let you see Philip again, ever. Teaching him to call me a silly woman just because you can't have your own way, how dare you! If I hear him say that once more, I'll have Scotty put you back to bed and take away your clothes so you'll have to stay there until the doctor says you're fit to leave—which can't be soon enough for me!' she added belligerently as she marched out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

She stormed along the passageway to the kitchen, hot colour in her cheeks and her eyes bright with an indignant anger which was rapidly degenerating into a raging despair. Her grandfather was running true to form, behaving as she'd known he'd behave. He hadn't changed a bit and she was disliking him all over again! He was utterly selfish and self-centred; he couldn't, wouldn't, see anybody's point of view but his own and he knew, damn it, that she wasn't capable of standing up to him for long. She could maybe hold her own in a few preliminary skirmishes, but a long-drawn-out battle would be too much for her slender reserves, and he was beginning the war by taking a savage pleasure in humiliating her, subverting her son—just as Brett had said he would—whenever he had the chance. The kitchen was calm and bright, it felt like a haven and Scotty raised her eyes from her pastry making. 'Coffee's in the pot, you look as if you could do with a cup. Has the old de'il been riding on your back?' she asked disrespectfully but Eden had got to know the dour housekeeper very well in a short time. Scotty was no respecter of persons, she called a spade a spade usually, and sometimes when the occasion warranted, she called it a bloody shovel! 'You heard?' Eden took a deep breath and tried to steady herself while she forced hands which still trembled with temper to set out a cup and saucer and then fill the cup from the pot. 'I should think everybody between here and Alnwick heard.' Scotty shrugged. 'He's never been ill before in all his life, he told me so, and my guess is that he's plain homesick. Better you send him home to his own place, where he belongs.' 'I can't do that, it wouldn't be safe.' Eden said it with a grim kind of resignation. 'Up there there'd be no holding him, he'd be doing all sorts of stupid things and the doctor said he'd need care. He won't get that at The Pele, miles from the nearest doctor and with only

Donald to see to him, and it's no use me going with him, he doesn't listen to a word I say! I could shout and storm at him until I was blue in the face and it wouldn't have the least effect. He'd go his own way regardless!' 'Aye, I know that well,' Scotty agreed. 'And yon Donald's a feckless body. He'd snore through the night if the angel of death blew the last trump in his ear, but what else can you expect from a man like that? Rabbit catcher, poacher, horse coper and now handyman.' She snorted her disgust and was silent for a few seconds while she thought it all out, staring at the lump of dough as if she could read the answer on its floury surface. 'Besides,' she continued eventually, 'Mr Allard may be back any time now and he'll expect you to be here, you and the laddie. He'll not think well of it to hear you're trying to manage a sick man and a child up at that Godforsaken place; rest and quiet for you, he said. Best you let me take the old one back where he wants to be. I could stay with him for a wee while, maybe a week until he was on his feet, and you could manage here on your own easily.' 'Oh, that is kind of you, Scotty, but I couldn't let you do it!' Eden shook her head. For a fleeting second she had seen hope like a bright blue patch in an otherwise stormy grey sky, but she knew she couldn't accept the offer. 'And why not?' The housekeeper slammed the rolling pin down on to the lump of dough, flattening it. 'Falconer can't go by himself and as you've just said, it wouldn't be any good you going with him, he'd stamp you into the ground. But on the other hand, you certainly can't keep him here if he doesn't want to stay. He'll go, whatever the doctor says, so you might as well let me go with him. That way, you'll know he'll be cared for, properly fed and his medicine regular if I have to hold his nose while I pour it down his throat…'

'You think you could do that?' Eden's bright blue patch, no bigger than a penny, was swelling to huge proportions, but thoughts of Brett and what he would say when he returned reduced it to the size of a pinhead. And she didn't know when Brett would be back, he hadn't said. Her husband had been behaving very busily ever since the beginning of the week, since the morning after he'd returned from Newcastle; the morning after the evening when, emboldened by her pink silk dress and the pleasure of seeing him again, she'd flown over all the preliminary hurdles in their peculiar rite of courtship, only to balk at the final one. Thereafter he'd shut himself in his study, only emerging for meals and to cope with her grandfather's worst excesses, he was very good at that. There'd been constant phone calls to and from Charles and a host of other people and then, after three days, he'd patted her on the shoulder, said goodbye and that he didn't know when he'd be back but he hoped it wouldn't be too long. He'd behaved towards her like a rather remote uncle, hadn't even given her an approximate date, and he hadn't phoned from wherever it was he'd gone. All she was sure of was that he wasn't appearing in court. He'd taken a weekend bag with a few clean changes, but not his gown or his wig bag. Suddenly Eden found herself wishing he was here with her, right this minute. Not that it would make any difference really, but he was so supportive and over the weeks of this odd marriage, she'd grown to depend on him for the calm and the strength she didn't possess herself. She would also like to apologise; not explain— she didn't think she'd ever be able to do that—but just apologise. She wasn't a complete fool, neither did she blink or look sideways at the truth; and the truth was that she loved him and she wasn't treating him fairly, she was taking so much more than she could give.

The relationship between them was an unnatural one, and she knew it couldn't possibly stay this way for the rest of their lives. Sooner or later it would have to be all or nothing, and both options filled her with fear. They would have to either grow closer or drift so far apart that they would be strangers. But to grow closer would mean explanations and talking about things which she couldn't bear talking about. But who did she think she was kidding? She couldn't bear the thought of being apart from Brett either, it would be like losing a great chunk of herself and never being a complete person again! Loving was hell, she decided. It hurt! With an inward groan she dragged herself back to the present, to nod seriously at Scotty as though the problem of her grandfather was all that occupied her mind. 'If you really mean it, I could drive you,' she offered hesitantly and she didn't dare say another word while she waited for the housekeeper's reply. On the reply so much depended! If the housekeeper refused the offer, it would be tantamount to saying she'd heard and believed the old gossip about the car crash. Eden crisped her fingers together and waited through what seemed a very long silence. Scotty rolled her pastry back into a large ball and wrapped it in a piece of film before she put it into the fridge. 'Lunch first and then the sooner we go, the better,' she said calmly. 'That way you and the wee laddie will be able to come back before the light fails. I don't think Mr Allard would like you to be driving those roads in the dark.' Eden felt the knot of apprehension in her stomach dissolve. She was so relieved, she could have wept with gratitude. A believer at last! Even Brett hadn't accorded her that much, he'd only said he didn't care one way or the other! The old Rover wasn't the easiest car to drive. Eden had" pulled the driving seat as far forward as it would go in order to reach the

pedals and she'd had to add a couple of cushions to raise herself so that she could see where she was going, but although the steering was a bit stiff, the old car purred along like a contented cat. It was certainly an improvement on her aged van, which had clattered and clanked ominously over every bump in the road. The first fifteen miles or so, from The Barns to Alnwick and from Alnwick to Alwinton, weren't too bad. Compared with an A class highway, it was not much better than a country lane, but it gave her a chance to get the feel of the car before she started on the last leg from Alwinton up to The Pele. Eden remembered Alwinton very well and she knew its history. It was here, at the Rose and Thistle Inn, that the English and Scottish wardens of the Middle March used to meet when there were disputes to settle, but that had been long ago, during the three hundred years of warfare on the Borders. Nowadays, farmers from a wide area around met in this little hamlet on the second Saturday in October and held an agricultural fair. It was the high spot of the year and her grandfather, one of the largest landowners in the area and a renowned judge of horses, sheep and cattle—it was said he could pick a winner with his eyes shut—had taken her with him as soon as she was old enough. She could even remember the year she'd won the junior gymkhana on a Welsh pony called Cariad. Grandfather had been proud of her that day. But when she turned off on to the tiny road which led up into the hills, there was no more time for remembering. Being driven along this road and driving along it were two entirely different things. She changed down into third and then into second as she coped with hairpin bends and gradients which almost made her hair stand on end. Up and down and round, following the contours of the lower slopes of the Cheviot Hills, but always more up than down so that the car climbed steadily higher all the time, and all the while there was one thought in her mind. She was definitely going to start the journey back long before sunset. This road was bad enough in

daylight, she would never dare venture on it in the dark. If Philip wanted to kiss his pony good night, he'd have to do it at four in the afternoon! 'Where's that woman now? What's she doing?' Her grandfather, well wrapped up against the cold winds, grumbled as he brought a tousled, damp but otherwise happy Philip in from his sedate little ride round and round the cobbled yard and Eden manufactured a bland, self-possessed smile to cover her inward trepidation. She had left explanations till the last moment so that the unpleasantness could be delayed and—she hoped—terminated as quickly as possible. 'Airing beds,' she answered lightly. 'Seeing what there is in the larder for dinner tomorrow, getting Philip some tea before we go. I'd like to start back as soon as possible, I don't want to be driving in the dark ...' 'You're going back?' Her grandfather put on an aggrieved air. 'Eh, lassie, you're not leaving me here with only Donald, are you?' 'No.' Eden resisted an impulse to say 'Well, that's what you wanted this morning' and covered her grin with an innocent look. 'Certainly not, Grandfather. I'm leaving Mrs Scott with you. She offered to look after you for a while until you're fit again, and since you were so determined to come, I couldn't refuse. It took a great weight off my mind, at least I'll know you're well cared for. As soon as Brett's back I'll have him bring Philip and me up to see how you're going on.' While she was speaking, she watched the play of emotions on his face. Aggrievement gave way to shock which turned into anger. 'I'll not have that woman here.' He grumbled it threateningly. 'It's you and the boy I want, that's why I had Brett bring you back from Gloucester. I've a right...'

'No you haven't.' Surprisingly, Eden had lost her fear of him, it had slipped away silently while she wasn't looking. Philip had hold of one of her legs and was making a futile attempt to swarm up it; she detached his scrabbling fingers and picked him up to look over his fair head at her grandfather. 'You gave up that right more than three years ago.' She felt quite calm, not angry and no longer hurt; as though it had all happened to somebody else and it no longer mattered. 'You turned your back on me just when I needed you.' 'You don't understand ...' 'Yes, I think I do.' She looked at him sadly but there was a sternness mixed in with the gentle pity in her eyes. 'You brought me up to be as arrogant and uncaring of other people's feelings as you are. It was you who taught me to take what I wanted and to hell with anybody else. I don't think you really wanted me to marry Peter because you knew he wouldn't make his home here, at The Pele.' Or, a sudden suspicion shot through her mind, had that been the real reason? She thought she could remember her grandfather's vague disapproval but she wasn't sure. It all seemed so long ago, in another life when she'd been arrogantly certain and just as arrogantly uncaring of other people's opinions; when she had heedlessly gone her own way, regardless. But it was only a few years back, not so very long ago, she should remember. Had her grandfather known or sensed something about Peter, something she had been too young and inexperienced to see? She gave a mental shrug; it didn't matter now, it was too late. Now she had to fight for her own freedom and Philip's. 'If you didn't approve,' she continued slowly, 'it must have been instinct, nothing you could put your finger on so you didn't let it show, but at the wedding, I believe now, you gave me away in more ways than one. You'd washed your hands of me and afterwards, when I needed help, you ignored me. But later, when you knew

about Philip, you interfered again as if you were God! You forced me to come back from Gloucester because you wanted Philip. But there are more important things than being Falconer of The Pele, things like kindness and consideration for others, and I think Brett will make a better teacher for my son than you ever will.' 'The boy's my heir.' Her grandfather was now giving his impression of a weak, tired old man, the noisy bully image had disappeared completely. 'This,' he waved his hand in a gesture which seemed to encompass everything about them for miles in every direction; the house, the outbuildings and a sizeable slice of the Cheviot Hills, 'this will all be his one day…' 'Then he'll be all the better for learning a little humility and selfdiscipline,' she answered swiftly and firmly. 'And the earlier the better. I learned mine late and the hard way, Grandfather, so I know what I'm talking about. The longer it's left, the harder it is to learn. Even now,' she gave him a rueful smile, 'I still kick against the pricks.' She held his gaze steadily without blinking or looking away and watched with relief as slowly, a very small and reluctant smile touched the old man's face and he gave her a quizzical look which held a grudging admiration. 'There's more of the Falconers in you than I suspected,' he growled, but coming from him, it was high praise. 'And I suppose you'll have the impudence to ask to borrow my car to take you home?' Eden let out her breath on a tiny sigh; she'd won but now was no time to show any weakness, and she answered his smile with a wider one of her own. 'Yes please.' Her smile grew and she chuckled deep in her throat. 'If you don't mind, that is.'

'If I refused, you'd still take it, wouldn't you?' For the first time ever, she saw appreciation and a measure of respect in the old man's eyes as she gave him a definite nod. 'Philip and I are going home'—just saying the word 'home' gave her a lovely feeling of security—'as soon as we've all had tea. Mrs Scott will stay with you and I'm going to ask her to find you a decent housekeeper…' 'I'll not have a woman in the house,' he interrupted fiercely, but Eden was learning fast. 'Yes, you will.' She felt as though she'd bathed in serenity until she was impregnated with it. 'After a week of being cared for by Scotty, you'll have been too comfortable to want to rely on Donald for everything. In fact, I'm willing to bet you'll be down on your knees, begging.' She grinned at him wickedly. 'Come on, Grandfather,' she released one hand from Philip's grubby grasp and held it out, 'let's stop fighting over Philip; that way, we'll both lose him. Let's be friends?' 'Friends.' His large, bony old hand slowly enveloped hers. 'Eh, lass, I always liked a good fight and you've turned into a bonny fighter. Go on back to your husband and your own place, the wee laddie'll come to no harm with you, but,' his old arrogance reasserted itself, 'I shall expect you to bring him up here often. I want him to learn to love the place.' It was nearly six o'clock before Eden started on the drive back to The Barns. First, she'd had to change Philip's damp clothing for the clean ones she had in her shopper—he was a sturdy, healthy child and she couldn't remember his ever having a real cold except when he was teething, but there was no sense in taking chances—and then, after a long-drawn-out tea, Philip was tearful because his teddy had disappeared. His woe was noisy and nagging and he refused to

be comforted until the teddy was found, beneath the settle which was the last place anybody had thought to look. And Philip's farewells took an age, he insisted on kissing everybody, herself included, at least twice. She congratulated herself as she tackled the narrowly tortuous track which ran among the hills for several miles before it joined the slightly wider and better maintained road from Blindburn to Alwinton. The sun hadn't set yet and she calculated she had at least another half-hour of daylight, plenty of time to get over this, the worst part of the journey. Trying to hurry was out of the question; Philip's safety shell had been too troublesome to install temporarily in the Rover. He was loose on the back seat but she hoped he'd fall asleep soon. He usually did, cars seemed to have a soporific effect on him. Everything had turned out very well, considering; she congratulated herself some more. She'd stood up to her grandfather instead of running away or giving in—it didn't mean that hostilities had ceased for ever, the old man was too old, too set in his ways ever to really change—but when his next autocratic outburst hit her, she wouldn't flinch as she'd done in the past. Now she'd stood up to him once, she could do it again. Her only problem remaining was Brett himself, and she would tackle that as soon as possible. And she wouldn't cheat, she'd tell him, if she had to force every word out of her mouth, she'd let him make the decision. Perhaps it was already too late, perhaps he no longer wanted her, maybe he wouldn't want her after he knew, but that was something she'd face later. Now, she had to get herself and Philip home. Her mood of quiet resignation lasted for all of three miles, during which she got over the worst bit and turned on to the road to Alwinton. It lasted until, after rounding a sharp bend to tackle a

steep and narrow gradient, the Rover coughed, spluttered and died on her before she reached the crest of the hill. She nearly wept with vexation as she tried the starting motor, only to hear it whine fretfully, and she silently cursed all garage mechanics. She cursed them some more, audibly but softly—Philip had fallen asleep and she didn't want to wake him—when she discovered that, adding insult to injury, not only did she have a dead engine but the handbrake wasn't holding. As soon as she took her foot off the footbrake, the Rover commenced a stately glide backwards down the hill. With a muffled yelp of dismay she stamped hard on the footbrake as her hand went to the starter again, but she drew it back swiftly. Too many turns on that and the battery would be drained, she'd have no lights and the sun was just setting, soon it would be dusk. Tentatively, she put the car in bottom gear and lifted her foot from the brake pedal, giving a small sigh of relief when it remained stationary but—it was a heavy old car, the gears were as old as the rest of it— something could easily break, so she slid herself out of the door, raced to find and wedge a couple of big stones behind the rear wheels, and dived back inside again to press down on the brake pedal. Meanwhile, Philip had roused from his little doze. Grasping his teddy firmly, he stood up on the back seat, leaned forward and poked his head over her shoulder as she made another abortive attempt to start the engine. "Bloody car," he said distinctly. 'Bloody broken!' Surprise shook her and she forgot all she'd ever read about child psychology as she scolded him. 'That's a naughty word, Philip! Little boys don't say words like that, so don't you say it again. And yes, the car does seem to be broken, so be quiet while I think what to do.'

'We walk,' he proffered hopefully, ignoring her scolding as he dropped back on to the seat. 'Walk to Fanner.' 'Which is easier said than done,' she muttered, almost to herself. It was a good three miles back to The Pele and with the best will in the world, Philip couldn't walk three miles. Neither could she carry him that distance; he wasn't very big but he was solid and quite a heavy weight. The next near point of human contact was the rural telephone box further back on the road between Shillmoor and Blindburn, but that was even further away than The Pele. Even Alwinton was a good three miles to the south. Alone, she could easily have reached any of them in less than an hour, but with Philip, they might as well have been on the moon. 'We'll wait,' she decided aloud. 'A car might come past. If it does, we'll stop it, so be a good boy and play with Teddy while we're waiting.' But this was a deadend road and a passing car was a faint hope, too faint to be more than wishful thinking. This wasn't the tourist season and passing cars would be few and far between. Soon it would be dark and cold, already she could feel the night chill creeping into the car. Without the heater, it was going to be uncomfortable but better than being out on the open road. At least they'd have some protection from the wind and the night frost. She filled the hour before the light faded completely and the stars began to come out with nursery rhymes and stories and when it grew too dark to see, she switched on the side lights, excusing the running down of the battery on the grounds of safety. If a car did come along, she wanted it to stop, not to run into them! On her instructions, Philip had rolled himself up in a car rug on the back seat and, cuddling his teddy, had fallen asleep right in the middle of a tale about Jemima Puddleduck. Another hour dragged by very slowly as she sat in a waking stupor, waiting to be found and well aware they might have to wait until morning. When cramp

started in her left foot, she changed over and held the pedal down with her right until cramp made her change back again and she was so intent on keeping her eye on the illuminated dial of her watch, she nearly missed the bright glow of oncoming headlights on the other side of the hill. The headlights breasted the rise and stopped, illuminating the road and blinding her with their brightness, and with trembling fingers, Eden switched the Rover's headlights on and off two or three times. Damn the battery, it didn't matter now if it ran down and left her in the dark, help was at hand. In the glare of the headlights she could see nothing of the vehicle before them, but she heard the slam of a car door, there was a crunching of feet coming down the hill towards her and a silhouette which stood out blackly against the background glare. She didn't really need the sound of Brett's voice to tell her who it was as she slid gingerly out of the car, she would have recognised him anywhere and anyhow. She would have liked to run wildly towards him and only the thought of Philip, asleep on the back seat of the Rover prevented her; she still couldn't bring herself to trust the holding power of the gear. She waved both arms in recognition and felt a sweet relief mixed up with a lot of other emotions steal over her. Coming towards her was safety and a warm caring, the first she'd known in the long years of exile. Here were shoulders on to which she could unload every one of her burdens; she no longer had even to think for herself if she didn't want to. Brett was her symbol of home, of peace; she loved him, she needed him and she would pay the price, whatever it was and however much it hurt. And she would pay it gladly. He was near enough now for her to be able to see his face in the dim glow of the sidelights, only a few paces away. The thought of Philip

in the back seat held her feet motionless but with a glad cry, she stretched out her arms as he covered the little distance left between them and his arms enveloped her. For a moment, she buried her face in his chest, smelling the warmth of him and then blindly, she raised her face to his and felt the hard pressure of his mouth on hers while the tension in her relaxed and drained out in the tears which oozed out from beneath her closed eyelids and trickled down her cheeks.

CHAPTER TEN 'MMM.' Brett raised his head slowly and wiped away the moisture on her face with a long, gentle finger. 'Rescuing a damsel in distress has its points, I must do it more often.' And then he became serious. 'What's the matter, Eden? I phoned The Pele over an hour ago and Scotty said you'd left just after six, plenty of time for you to have arrived home.' His eyes followed hers to the Rover, which was looking deceitfully workmanlike and as if it was raring to go. 'Has that damned old car broken down again?' 'Yes.' Reality bulldozed its way through the fog of romance which surrounded her. She pushed away from him, slid back behind the wheel and stamped hard on the footbrake. 'Again!' she said angrily. 'The damn thing's a disaster, only fit for the scrap heap. The engine conked out here, miles from anywhere and the handbrake's not working. I've put stones under the back wheels—the condition it's in, I didn't dare trust the gear—and I was going to wait it out. I didn't know you'd be home today, you didn't say, but I thought there was bound to be some traffic on this road in the morning, a milk lorry or something like that.' Now that she was no longer under stress, Eden felt light-headed with relief and a bit hysterical. She gave a high-pitched, rather crazy little laugh all mixed up with tears of relief. 'Even Philip said it was "bloody broken". Grandfather's been teaching him some new words, drat him!' 'Move over,' Brett gave her a little shove, and when she didn't respond, just kept sitting there as though her foot was welded to the pedal, he picked her up bodily and dumped her into the passenger seat to sit himself behind the wheel and start fiddling with the controls. As if he doubted her word, he put the Rover out of gear and released the footbrake to give a muffled snort of disgust when the car slid back a few inches, pushing the stones with it.

Eden sniffed back the remainder of her tears, gulped and said 'See!' venomously. She was feeling better already. 'I told you the handbrake wasn't working. Nothing's working except the lights and the footbrake,' she added gloomily. 'I hope Grandfather sues that garage!' Brett flicked his eyes over the dials and tried the starter. The Rover coughed apologetically, subsided back into silence and Eden became triumphant. 'I told you! Nothing works! It looks so good and it's nothing but a death trap!' 'Mmm,' Brett agreed gently, but for now, the important thing is to get you home. We'll leave it—it's well into the side of the road, not a hazard—and use my car. Get in the back, my love, and hand Philip out to me, I'll carry him.' From that moment on, Brett took charge with calm efficiency and Eden was only too glad to have it that way. She felt light and free, as though a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders. He carried Philip, still asleep and wrapped in the car rug, to the waiting car, and his command that Eden should follow with any personal belongings was so quietly given, it could have been mistaken for a polite request. She trudged up the hill beside him, several questions hovering on her lips and a thousand more forming in her mind. Where had he been, what had taken him so long, why hadn't he phoned? The list was endless, and it wasn't until they were in his car and heading towards Alwinton that he put her in the picture, but only vaguely, and leaving out all the important bits. 'I didn't get back until six o'clock, the house was empty but I thought you'd probably taken everybody for an afternoon drive to The Pele, that you'd all be back well before dinner time so I waited a while. When you didn't arrive…'

'An afternoon drive.' From the back seat where she was steadying Philip's sleeping body, she gave a little growl. 'We had to take Grandfather home, he was making everybody's lives a misery and he was teaching Philip to call me a "silly woman"! Scotty and I, we couldn't stand it any more. You know how he can be, and that reminds me, he's not going to thank me for leaving his wretched car on the side of the road.' Brett's answering 'Tcha!' was lacking in sympathy but she saw his head nod. 'When we get home, I'll ring and have the Rover picked up tomorrow morning and towed down to the garage. I'd better ring Scotty as well to put her mind at rest, and I think this might be a good opportunity to talk your grandfather into getting another car.' 'I hope you succeed.' Eden couldn't think of anything else to say; there wasn't anything to say..Reaction set in and her mind emptied of everything except the change she felt rather than noticed in Brett's behaviour. He seemed to have distanced himself from her, she didn't know how to reach him, and suddenly, getting close to him again was the most important thing in the world. But the car was warm, Philip was a heavy weight on her arm and shoulder, and home wasn't very far away. She relaxed and her eyelids drooped as the miles slid by until she was sleeping as soundly as her son. 'I'll take the boy.' Brett had the car door open and was shaking her shoulder. She opened bemused eyes, momentarily disorientated and expecting to see nothing but an empty road and dim sidelights barely piercing the blackness. She blinked at the brightness of the porch light, came back from dreams to reality and let him draw the bundle of Philip and the car rug from her arms. 'Bring your bag,' he added as he marched towards the door so there was nothing else for her to do but totter after him, through the doorway and flop on to a hall chair.

'Sorry,' she winced and rubbed at her calf, 'my legs are a bit stiff. Pushing on that brake pedal, I expect.' But he didn't seem to have heard her small complaint and when he carried her son up the stairs without even answering her, she could only follow numbly. 'Half an hour before supper's ready.' Brett raised an eyebrow as he handed a still sleeping Philip over to her. 'Will that be long enough for you, Eden? And after supper, we talk. We've a few things to straighten out, my dear.' 'Mmm.' She still couldn't think of anything to say and bent all her attention to getting Philip out of his clothes and into his pyjamas without waking him. But it had been a long day for him, he'd missed his afternoon nap, and now it was well past his bedtime. He'd also missed his supper but as he'd eaten an enormous tea, Eden wasn't worried overmuch. He didn't even stir when she sponged his hands and face, and he was still dead to the world when she laid him in his cot and drew the covers up over him. But the little bit of activity brought her back to life, she tucked her son's discarded clothing in the laundry basket, added the damp things from her shopper and stared down at the small plastic bag which she'd dragged out with his socks. A very chi-chi bag, dark brown with gold lettering, and containing something soft and pink wrapped in tissue paper. For a long moment it didn't connect, and then she remembered the scene in the tea shop with Daphne. What was it the woman had said? She couldn't recall the exact words, and shrugged. It was bound to have been something nasty so perhaps, better forgotten. The name on the bag was a mere scrawl, as chi-chi as the bag itself and she couldn't read it but the lettering underneath stood out clearly—'of NEWCASTLE'— and Daphne had said she'd been away for a couple of days—in Newcastle apparently, which was where Brett had been as well.

Eden dropped the small packet, wiping her fingers as though the plastic was contaminated, then reluctantly, she retrieved it. She wasn't hurt, she told herself; she "had no right to be hurt and she wasn't jealous. There was nothing to be jealous about! Brett had said Daphne hadn't meant anything to him, that there'd been no commitment, that it hadn't been anything permanent and that it was finished. All so easily said and maybe true from his point of view, but Daphne seemed to be viewing it from a different angle. Eden wasn't able to put herself in Daphne's shoes, to feel as the other woman did, they were too far apart in temperament but she tried to make a completely fair judgment. Daphne was possessive, extremely so, and she was tenacious and not too choosy about her methods. That scene in the tea shop had probably been no more than an outburst of spiteful disappointment, all done for the maximum effect; on a par with her other little tricks, like being dramatic and intense right in the middle of a dinner party. It had probably been a desire to hurt or to sow seeds of suspicion, but because of that thing with the cake fork—physical pain had a habit of crowding out all other thought—it hadn't worked. Eden sniffed distastefully—she hadn't the sort of mind which dealt in strategy, or even appreciated it— and dismissing everything but the here and now from her mind, she set about readying herself for supper. A lightning shower, a change from her crumpled clothes into a fresh white shirt blouse and a slim grey skirt, a whisk over her face with a powder puff, a smear of lipstick and after she'd brushed out her hair—leaving it loose for a change—she opened the tissue paper packet and tied the contents, a pink silk scarf, about her neck in a spirit of bravado. She didn't feel short of words now; they were already forming in her mind as answers to questions which she hoped Brett would ask, and she hurried downstairs before she forgot all the most telling phrases she was thinking up.

'Good, right on time. Microwave ovens are a boon.' Brett, carrying a large casserole, passed her on the way to the lounge-cum-diningroom as she reached the bottom of the stairs and she followed him slowly, sniffing suspiciously as he set the dish on the table and removed the cover. 'All your own work?' This time it was her turn to raise an eyebrow, and at least it brought a smile to his face to relieve the sternness and the look of strain she thought she saw there. 'Certainly not. Scotty left it ready. I rang The Pele to say I'd recovered you and she told me what to do with it.' 'You don't mind my lending her to Grandfather for a while?' 'Not a bit.' Brett ladled a generous portion on to her plate, served himself and changed the topic of conversation. 'That scarf's the wrong colour for you, Eden, the pink's too bright.' 'I know.' Here was her opportunity and she took it. 'A present from your ex-girl friend. She bought it in Newcastle while you and she were both there.' 'But not together.' Eden didn't think she imagined the wry twist to his mouth and she had no hesitation in believing him. Daphne Hunter and her possessive jealousy seemed to have paled into insignificance, Eden somehow had the idea that even if Brett and Daphne had been together, it was a thing she could accept— provided it never happened again, of course! 'No? But I didn't say you were,' she murmured softly. 'It's my inbuilt innocence, I think. D'you know, I never even thought it! You've often said I was short on trust, but I don't think you can accuse me of that now. Like a perfect lady, I went on eating cream cakes. That's trust for you!'

'And was speared with a cake fork for your pains! No,' as she opened her mouth to protest, 'don't bother to invent another rusty nail, did you think something like that could go entirely unnoticed?' He snorted softly, 'Not in as small a place as a tea shop in Alnwick. You may not know anybody but they all know you, word gets around, and you're something of a romantic figure. Somebody saw what happened and it came over the grapevine after the usual delay. Why didn't you tell me the truth?' 'It wouldn't have helped.' She studied her plate. There'd been a lot of food on it and now it was nearly empty, yet she couldn't remember eating it, couldn't even recall what it had tasted like. Her fingers felt sticky with nervousness as she pulled the scarf from her neck and dropped it to the floor. It had been a mistake to put it on, it had led the conversation away from the main issue. Just over an hour ago it had seemed to her that everything was coming right, but somewhere along the way, the rightness had slipped through her fingers. She now felt further away from Brett than ever. He'd changed, he must have! She hadn't imagined what she'd felt in that wild kiss by the Rover, she hadn't imagined passion, need and desire in him as well as herself. She wasn't very experienced about lovemaking—except in its more horrific aspects—but she knew when a man wanted her and Brett had, he had! 'I haven't even asked where you've been this time,' she ventured boldly. 'More trust, you see.' 'You call that trust?' Brett eyed her darkly. 'I thought it was pure uninterest. As a matter of fact, I've been in Durham and—before you ask if Daphne was there as well—she wasn't.' Eden shrugged gracefully. 'I wasn't going to ask.' And because she didn't quite know what else to say next, she gave him a small smile, muttered an inaudible excuse and went off to the kitchen to make coffee. When she returned with the tray, Brett had finished his share

of the makeshift meal and was waiting for her in his usual chair. The wing was hiding his face from the light of both fire and table lamp so that she couldn't see his expression, or judge what sort of a mood he was in. Playing it safe, she handed him his cup, trying to be chatty. 'I suppose that means another case? And in Durham. When does this one come to court?' Brett took the coffee, leaning forward in his chair so that now she had a good view of his face, but it was so lacking in expression, she could make nothing of it, and his eyes were very dark and quiet with no threatening storm in their depths. But beneath the lack of expression, Eden thought she saw weariness and an odd, sad pity. 'It won't.' He said it almost to himself. 'No evidence, no witnesses.' His heavy lids lifted, he held her gaze with his own—it was pity she'd seen, it was there now; pity, regret and something like understanding—and she wanted to cry out that she didn't need those things; that when she had needed them, nobody had offered, and it was too late now. He put down his cup and somehow he captured her hands, holding it gently but firmly. 'I love you, Eden,' now he smiled, a smile full of self-mockery, 'I always have and as the poet said,' at this point the self- mockery spilled over into his voice as he quoted, ' "I have been faithful to thee, Cynara—in my fashion"— and if your actions earlier this evening are anything to go by, I think you love me too and you've just said you trust me, or words to that effect. Will you trust me a bit further? 1 want you to tell me exactly what happened from the time you left that wedding reception with Peter Nairn until the car crash which killed him?' Despite her resolution to tell him, her instant "No!' burst out involuntarily. She was a coward after all and she could have wept

for that cowardice. She loved him and love was supposed to make people strong, but not her! She was too weak, too unsure even to keep faith with herself! She felt battered and shabby with misuse, she was afraid he'd turn from her in disgust! 'If that's an example of this trust you're so proud of. I don't think much of it.' He'd risen and his swift jerk at her wrist brought her out of her chair and in a stumbling step against him so that he could hold her easily with one hand and tilt her face towards him with the other. It was a firm grip but not cruel, she wouldn't be hurt unless she struggled. 'If you really trusted me, you'd tell me what I want to know, what I need to know.' She saw his nostrils flare and the thundercloud grey of his eyes darken as he watched her face. 'It's there again,' he said savagely. 'The fear's back, isn't it, Eden? You're filled with it, and what sort of life will we ever have with fear between us? For pity's sake, tell me what it is. We can't go on much longer like this. Come out of that little hell you've built for yourself and tell me what it's all about!' His insistence beat at her, weakening her, and this time she felt as though a cord binding her had snapped, the broken ends springing apart and the tension released at last. She heard her voice starting to say things she'd never said aloud before. It went on speaking, without any conscious volition on her part, and she couldn't stop it. 'Tell you! You want me to tell you about my wedding night? All right, I'll tell you and you listen, you listen good because when I've finished, you're going to regret marrying me. I'm spoiled, Brett.' Her voice rose hysterically in a squeaky wobble before she drew in a deep breath and calmed down. 'What do you want me to say? That I lost my love, that there'll never be another man for me?' She shook her head, turning it away, so she wouldn't be able to see the disgust on his face. It wasn't there yet but it would come.

'You don't know how right you are.' She choked back on tears. 'But it all depends which way you look at it.' She was trembling violently and her breathing was harsh, thinning her nostrils but some sort of control was coming back although she still couldn't stop the words tumbling from her lips. 'Oh yes, I loved Peter. My first love, the kind every girl dreams of, just like in a novel, only it didn't end happily ever after. Peter was my whole world, I didn't even notice that Grandfather didn't much like him, not that it would have made any difference if I had,' she admitted. 'I had the good old sexual drive bit between my teeth, and I wouldn't have paid any attention to his opinion.' Tears had sprung to her eyes and were spilling over and running down her cheeks; she dashed them away savagely as if she was ashamed of them. 'My Peter,' her lips twisted in a sneer at her own stupidity, 'my parfit, gentil knight. And do you know how long it lasted?' She gasped for a breath to steady herself and continued, grinding out words as though each one cost her her heart's blood. She was writing her own death warrant but she couldn't stop. 'It lasted till he took me to bed!' She beat at his chest with small, clenched fists to emphasise every word. 'Just picture it, Brett, I was barely eighteen! I was a virgin but I wasn't an ignoramus. I knew about sex, you can't live among farmers and cattle breeders without knowing about it. So there was I, eyes still full of stardust, waiting for the wonderful part, the view from the top of the mountain, but instead, what did I get? I'll tell you!' Her mouth went dry with pain and her eyes darkened with remembrance; 'Abuse! That's what I got. Plain, old- fashioned sex wasn't good enough for my wonderful young husband. He was a sadist, only turned on if he knew he was hurting; he wanted his loving kinky and he knew all about that!' Eden heard her voice rising until it reached a pitch where she didn't recognise it as her own. She clenched her hands together, twisting

them this way and that in an agony of remembering. She wanted to stop but she couldn't. It all had to be lived through again. 'You want to know what made me the way I am? He did! He hurt me again and again; there was nothing but hurting. He wanted me to do things, horrible things, and when I wouldn't, he said I was an arrogant, killjoy of a bitch who needed humbling. He wanted me to crawl to him, beg, and when I wouldn't do that either, he beat me; he beat me insensible and when I came round, he was asleep! Sleeping like a log as though he hadn't a care in the world! That's when I ran way, and I was so frightened he'd wake before I could leave, I didn't even dress, not even my slippers. I just grabbed my robe and ran. God knows where I thought I was going, I didn't even know where we were; it was a cottage somebody'd lent him for the honeymoon. Honeymoon!' Her voice cracked on the word and when she continued, it was deep and dull with weariness. 'I think I just wanted to hide but he must have wakened because he came after me in the car, dragged me in with him and started on that crazy drive.' She paused for a moment, there was more to be said. That one last thing which she'd never said aloud even to herself; but this time, she would say it, then maybe she could forget. She lifted a paper-white face set hard with purpose and her sherry-brown eyes darkened almost to black. 'I prayed for him to be dead.' She said it grimly in a voice devoid of emotion. 'He died and I was glad! I would have killed myself before I let him touch me again and I mean that, I hated him! I wished him dead but I didn't kill him. He was the one who was driving, not me. I kept as far away from him as I could, I couldn't bear to touch him. He was obscene, he made my flesh crawl.' As she finished speaking the tears started again, pouring down her face, and Brett was holding her close, cradling her like a child while he murmured sweet, silly things and mopped away at her tears with his big, cologne-scented handkerchief.

Three and a half years of tears took a long time to fall and when they finally ceased, Eden felt empty, drained of everything, even memory, and she was cold. She couldn't stop shivering, her teeth were chattering and she bit hard on her bottom lip to stop them; bit until she tasted the saltiness of blood on her tongue. 'I've made a mess of your shirt,' she muttered, touching the damp linen with trembling fingers, 'but you wanted to know. You've nagged until now you do know.' She raised her chin defiantly. 'A hell of a woman you've married, Brett, haven't you? Not only second-hand goods but damaged as well. You deserve better than me. You should have settled for Daphne.' 'I married the woman I loved and wanted,' he murmured, his hands cupping her face, turning it towards him while his thumbs stroked the last traces of tears from her cheeks. 'The one I've always wanted, and nothing you've just told me will ever make any difference to that. It's a life sentence, my dear one. I loved you when you were a young girl, I love you now and I'll go on loving and wanting you for the rest of my life.' His hands left her face to capture hers and draw them about his neck, and with her face once more buried in his chest, she gave a watery hiccup. 'I—is that an example of your "1-lovely, impassioned style"? The one that brings tears to a jury's eyes?" 'No.' He took a backward step and slid down on to the couch, pulling her with him so that she rested against the length of him and searching for her mouth with his own. His kiss was sweetly gentle and the warmth of it banished the last chill from her body, leaving it warm and responsive to his touch. 'That's the simple truth. I told you once,' he continued softly, 'I didn't care about anything else either. You weren't to blame,' he gave her a little shake, 'd'you hear me,

darling? But you should have told me before, it would have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble, like spending time in Durham when I wanted to spend it with you.' 'Why?' She frowned enquiringly. 'I thought it was business...' 'Not exactly business, just a last, desperate attempt to straighten you out, my love.' Brett pulled her closer and his mouth closed hungrily on hers. For an instant, she stiffened and then relaxed completely while need and desire flooded through her to match the need and desire she felt in him. This was how it should be. She smoothed her fingertips against his cheek and let them pass on to investigate his ear, tracing the whorls of it tentatively and then more surely as she felt a sense of possession steal through her. The back of his neck was good too, the skin beneath her fingers was as smooth as satin, warm and slightly damp; she could feel the play of muscles under his skin and his hair was like silk through her fingers. A little moan parted her lips and his kiss grew deeper while she felt the arrogant, demanding thrust of his body against hers. For a brief moment she felt the old fear, but it .died as swiftly as it came, blotted out as though it had never been by a tidal wave of sweet urgency to please him. This was love; real, proper love; this being aware of him, everything about him, just feeling him against her as if every nerve in her body had suddenly come alive, and there wasn't an inch of it which wasn't responding to him, wanting him. 'You're putting me off,' he complained huskily as he reluctantly raised his head. 'I was explaining something and you've made me lose the thread." Eden heard herself giggle hysterically and struggled one hand up to clamp the fingers of it over her lips until the giggle died away. As if

talking was all that important—but if it pleased him, she'd talk. If it pleased him, she'd drink hemlock! 'You'd gone to Durham,' she murmured against his throat where her mouth could taste the saltiness of his skin. 'You were going to straighten me out.' 'So I was.' His arm tightened about her and his hand lingered on her breast where it strained tautly against the thin cotton of her shirt. 'But it's suddenly occurred to me,' his fingers trailed down to her hip, closed on it and pulled her even closer, 'we seem to be a bit overdressed but on the other hand,' he chuckled softly, 'any other way and we'd never get the talking done. I've been waiting too long to waste time, but there are things which have to he said.' 'Now let me see.' He was teasingly slow. 'Charles traced the matron of the cottage hospital where you were taken after the accident. She'd retired and was living with a sister in Durham. I rang her and she agreed to speak to me. Then, like most women, she changed her mind. When I eventually got to see her, she was buttoned up tight again—she didn't ever discuss her patients and so on. All she'd say was that she remembered you, that you'd been in shock and that—in her opinion, which she admitted carried no weight— your injuries were not entirely consistent with a car crash. Not very much help, but it made me think again and I didn't like what I was beginning to see, but it explained the fear I could never understand. You should have told me .. .' 'I couldn't,' she muttered against his shoulder. 'Please, Brett, try to understand now. I felt dirty, as though I'd rolled in a muckheap. I couldn't tell anybody and you, you were so nearly a stranger. Later, when I started to know you, I still couldn't.. .' 'You were afraid of me?' 'A bit at first,' she admitted ruefully, 'but that didn't last. Afterwards, I was afraid for myself and then I was scared for you, how you'd feel

if I couldn't go through with it. ..' And at his groan, she pummelled his chest with a small, clenched fist. 'Don't you dare laugh at me!' 'Stupid girl.' He reproved her softly. 'I thought you were beginning to trust me . ..' 'I was, I do!' Eden burrowed closer into his shoulder, feeling the warmth and the heavenly normality of him. Her man to ride the water with. She could leave everything in his hands. She felt the touch of his finger as it made slow circles on her breast, stroking, soothing, stimulating, and her dislike of being touched seemed to have vanished. It was as though the dreadful memories didn't belong to her any more, they belonged to another, long-ago girl; a silly teenager she couldn't identify with. She felt scoured clean and empty as though she'd just been reborn and had nothing to remember. 'Mmm.' He rested his cheek on the top of her head while he stared into the dying fire. 'So now, we can put it all behind us, my love.' 'Can we?' Despite the strength of his arms about her, Eden couldn't kill off her last lingering doubt, it sounded in her voice, and Brett moved abruptly. His hand ceased to caress her, instead it fastened on her shoulder, pulling her round to face him. 'As much as it was anybody's, it was my fault,' he told her sternly. 'Mine and your grandfather's, but mostly mine. I've told you before, I wanted you and as soon as you were old enough, I asked the old man for his permission. He refused, as I've already told you, and he wasn't polite about it. He—we, both of us, said a lot of unforgivable things and I went back to London with a chip on my shoulder. Yes,' he stilled her protest with a finger across her lips and continued, 'but I was in a hell of a temper—no man likes to be told what he's offering isn't good enough . . .' 'Not the way Grandfather would have put it.' Eden made a face.

'Don't interrupt.' He silenced her in a practical fashion and she emerged rumpled and dishevelled with buttons undone and a dazed look in her eyes. 'I didn't read his letters to me,' he went on and she admired his self-control; her own had vanished. 'To be honest, I didn't even open them. I cut myself off completely, I didn't know, I didn't want to know. I didn't know you'd married.' 'Brett, don't, please.' She lifted her hands and held them, one on either side of his face, hurting with the regret she saw in his eyes. 'It doesn't matter now . . .' 'It does matter,' he contradicted her gravely, 'and you'd better know the worst. When I came back north, I got all the news. I was too late, but I started to work on the old man. Despite all his brave talk, he loved you and he was missing you, but he was too full of pride to do anything about it. Then one day, just casually, I happened to wonder aloud if there was any possibility you'd had a child, and he came to life. I had to find you and to hell with the expense! So my man started the search and when he found you and Philip, your grandfather .was cock-a-hoop, but the difficulty was getting you to come back here. Left to himself, the old man would have been like a bull at a gate and I didn't think he'd succeed. You'd have had warning, you'd have been prepared ...' 'I'd have sold the shop and bought another Dormobile,' she grinned at him, 'Dormobiles are a good way of remaining anonymous . ..' 'Exactly! Or something equally hare-brained. We'd have been back to square one and I couldn't take the chance of losing you again. By that time, I had a complete run down on you so I showed the old man how to. go about it; how to put the pressure on, buy up your mortgage and all the rest of it.' 'Oh, that was playing dirty!' But she smiled contentedly into his eyes as she said it.

'You think so?' He looked at her ruefully. 'There's worse to come, my lass. I came down to Gloucester and I painted as black a picture as I could. I wanted to scare you silly, get you so off balance you'd think there wasn't any other way out and you'd accept what I was offering you as being the only means of keeping Philip.' Brett looked at her gravely and continued with a wry look about his mouth, 'I nearly gave up when you asked me what my angle was, what I'd get out of it. I couldn't think of a reasonable answer that wouldn't scare you off. But luckily, you jumped in and answered your own question.' He turned his mouth into her hand and kissed her palm. 'And you were partly right.' He gave her a smile full of rueful self-mockery. 'I did want to get even with the old devil!' 'Was there another way out?' She leaned forward and kissed his mouth gently and felt him tremble against her. 'Given time, I'd have thought of something.' Brett's voice was tranquil, but against her breast she felt his heart thudding and his fingers, which had been gently caressing her, tightened. 'But you don't really want another way out, do you, sweetheart?' 'No.' Slowly she raised wide, honest eyes to his and there was a little, shivery silence between them as soft colour stole into her cheeks. 'I'm not afraid any longer and I love you, Brett. So very much.' 'God, you know how to keep a man waiting, don't you, Eden? What do you want? Ask for anything, my love,' he was generous, 'except freedom!' 'I don't want freedom,' she blushed vividly. 'I want you! I want you to take me up that mountain, the one I've never climbed, and show me the view from the top. I want to see that with you, only with you and always with you. Oh dear,' she caught her breath as she felt him stiffen against her, 'have I said something wrong?'

'No, my darling, you've just said something very right.' His arms closed about her, hard and firm. Bars, not to imprison her but to keep the world out of their private heaven. 'It's something I've been hoping to hear you say ever since you were about sixteen. You're sure about this? You want to climb that mountain with me?' 'Quite sure.' She nodded firmly and touched his mouth with a tender finger, becoming bold. 'Take me to bed, please. Now! Right now!' 'Darling.' His voice deepened and she felt him tremble but she didn't think it was laughter, although there was a thread of very tender humour in his voice. 'Darling.' He repeated the trite little endearment, but to her it sounded the sweetest word in the world. 'I've been waiting for this for a long time.' His mouth was honey sweet and hot on hers and she was amazed at how well they fitted together, curve into curve, almost as though they'd been made for each other. She sensed a hunger long denied in him and it woke an answering hunger in herself so that her breath caught in her throat. 'I've given you a lot of very heavy hints lately, but without any luck.' He murmured it lightly against her lips although his voice was a bit ragged. He raised his head, his hand gently smoothed back her tumbled hair and she watched his eyes. There were little flames leaping behind the thunderclouds—a fire which would warm them for the rest of their lives—and there was love, passion and tenderness as well, together with a quite unexpected glint of mischief and his deep murmur held a plaintive, martyred note, 'I was beginning to think you'd never ask!'