BOOKS BY ANNE MATHER 3 страница

She moved across to the fireplace, keeping an alert eye on the cheetah following her. The fire had been built up with logs in her absence and the occasional table where they had had their tea was now spread with a cloth.

Dominic indicated the armchair she had occupied before. "Please - sit down," he said. "Can I offer you a drink before supper?"

He might have been addressing an expected guest, and Helen felt a rising frustration. Did he expect her to behave as though that was the case? Was she to offer no obstruction to his plans? How dared he assume that she had nothing to say in the matter?

"As a matter of fact I didn't come down to have supper with you!" she declared, saying the first thing that came into her head. "I want my keys - the keys to my suitcases. You have no right to keep them. I couldn't even get a change of clothes after taking a bath! "

Dominic frowned, thrusting a hand into his trousers' pocket and bringing out the leather key-ring. He examined the assortment of keys 'thoughtfully, and then said: "I'm sorry. Naturally you want the keys to your suitcases. If you'll point them out to me ..."

Helen stared at him mutinously for a few moments and then without stopping to consider the consequences she rushed forward and tried to snatch the keys from his hand. She didn't really know what she intended doing with them even if she had been successful. Wild ideas about running out into the night, starting her unstartable car and driving away, were pure fantasy. But she had to do something, anything, to show him that she was not as helpless as he imagined her to be.

Her efforts were doomed to failure. His fingers closed over the key-ring as she sprang forward, and all her frenzied attempts to prise them apart were useless. If she had supposed him weakened in some way, if she had thought that because of his disablement he no longer possessed the strength to withstand attack, she soon realised how wrong she had been. When she flew at him she had half expected him to lose his balance, but he didn't, and there was an unyielding resistance in his hard body. She was totally unaware that the cheetah was watching them with alert, intelligent eyes, prevented from intervening by a quiet command from its master, but as she continued to pry desperately at his fingers she could not help but be aware of Dominic Lyall. She could feel the heat of his body, she could smell the faintly musky scent that emanated from him, but when she looked up and saw the cruel smile of derision that was twisting his lips, she drew back with a dismayed gasp.

"You - you brute!" she cried tremulously. "They -they're my keys. I want them."

"Don't you think you're behaving rather foolishly?" he asked, raising eyebrows several shades darker than his hair, "I had already offered to give you the keys you wan-led."

Helen moved her head from side to side in a hopeless gesture. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded, in a defeated voice. "Why can't you let me go?"

"Tonight?" he mocked.

"No. In the morning." She made one last appeal to him. "Please!"

"Don't plead with me," he exclaimed, contempt colouring his tone. "I despise weakness!"

Helen felt as though he had struck her. With a hand pressed to her throat she turned away from him, gripping the back of the couch in a desperate effort to gain control. Tears burned at the back of her eyes and she badly wanted to give in to them. She felt utterly lost and alone, incapable of any coherent thought. Not even the malevolent stare that Sheba was directing at her for daring to challenge her beloved master could arouse a spark of antagonism inside her.

"Here! Drink this!"

Dominic Lyall thrust a glass into her hand and she looked down at it blankly. "What is it?"

"Brandy," he replied briefly. "It may help to restore your common sense."

Helen was tempted to throw the glass to the floor and scatter its contents likewise, but she was badly in need of a restorative. Raising the glass to her trembling lips, she swallowed a mouthful jerkily and then finished it all in a sudden gulp. The spirit stung her throat and she coughed as tears came to her eyes, but she could feel its warmth tingling to the surface.

Dominic Lyall limped round the couch and without waiting for her to join him, seated himself in the armchair at the far side of the blazing fire. He poured himself some Scotch from the bottle on the tray beside his chair and then extracted a narrow cigar from a box on the bookcase nearby. He held a taper to the flames and lit his cigar with evident enjoyment, and Helen stood watching him from behind the couch wondering how he could behave so casually when he must know how she was feeling.

When his cigar was litto his satisfaction, he put it between his teeth and felt in his pocket for her keys again. He examined them carefully, extracted two keys, and then tossed the others towards her. She was not quick enough to catch them and they fell on the floor at her feet. With a feeling of humiliation she bent to pick them up and saw that he had taken the car ignition key and the smaller key which opened the boot.

"Now," he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, "are you going to sit down? "

Helen pressed her lips together. "No," she said unsteadily, "I'm going to my room. I shall just hope that by the morning you'll have come to your senses."

His smile held the mockery she had come to expect. "Don't be too disappointed if I haven't," he commented, removing the cigar from his mouth.

"I -I think you're despicable!"

"Your opinion of me isn't important." He watched her as she walked to the door. "And haven't you ever heard that a war is fought on the stomachs of its troops?

If you don't have any supper, you're going to be awfully hungry by the morning."

Helen 'Stiffened her shoulders. At least in this she could decide for herself. "I - I couldn't touch your food!" she stated, anger strengthening her determination. "It would make me sick."

Before she could make a dignified exit on those words of finality, the door opened and Bolt entered the room carrying a tray. She couldn't see everything he was carrying, but the aroma of curry sauce was unmistakable and she observed a jug of cream that was intended to accompany a mouthwatering fruit pie that balanced on her side of the tray. The manservant looked at Helen in surprise, and then said:

"I thought I'd serve supper in here, sir, seeing chat it's such a wintry night"

"A good idea,” said Dominic Lyall, smiling with rather more amusement than usual. "Will you join me, Bolt?"

Bolt glanced at Helen again. She was still hovering by the door, almost hypnotised by the smell of food. She was only beginning to realise how ravenously hungry she was, and she half regretted her impulsive rejection of his hospitality.

"But I thought - the young lady -" he began, but Dominic shook his head.

"Miss James - isn't hungry. Bolt. She said something about feeling - sick?"

His eyes moved to Helen's uncertain face and their hardness moved her to action.

"That's right," she declared, her lower lip quivering in spite of her determination that it should not. "I - I'm rather more particular who I eat with!" And she stalked out of the room, banging the door behind her.

She stood for a moment in the hall after the door had closed, half expecting him to come after her and take some retaliatory action. But all she heard was a burst of laughter which unmistakably issued from Dominic Lyall's throat, and she realised that the second glass on the tray was used by Bolt...

CHAPTER THREE

Helen's bed was superbly comfortable, the hot water bottles reminding her of when she was a child and her mother used to tuck her up with a bedtime story. Only now there was no bedtime story, only the similarities between her plight and that of Beauty and the Beast...

She had not expected to sleep, but exhaustion had played its part and when next she opened her eyes the room was filled with the brilliance of sun and snow. For a few moments it was difficult to remember where she was, but all too soon the memories came crowding back to her. Not that she knew where she was exactlyj unless a house in the Lake District constituted knowing one's whereabouts, but she did remember her host and the unreal events of the night before.

She brought her arm out of the bedclothes and looked at her watch. It was almost nine-thirty, and she bunked in surprise. Nine-thirty! She had slept over twelve hours I

Thrusting back the covers, she sprang out of bed and went across to the windows. Now that it was daylight she would be able to see where she was, possibly even glimpse some other habitation.

But her view was, from her point of view, depressing-ly disappointing. All she could see was the snow-covered garden at the back of the house and beyond fields of unbroken white. Directly below her windows, a yard had been cleared, no doubt by Bolt, and there were melting footprints suggesting that someone had already gone out.

She drew back the curtains and looked round the room. In daylight it was no less attractive, although the tumbled mess of clothing overflowing from her suitcases did look rather untidy. But last night she had been too upset to do anything but find a nightdress and tumble into bed.

Now she ignored the mess and went into the bathroom. She would have liked a shower, but there was no shower fitting and a bath would take too long. So she contented herself with a thorough wash, and then went back into die bedroom to find something to wear.

She was in the process of fastening orange corduroy jeans about her slender waist when there was a tentative knock at the bedroom door. Immediately her heart began to pound and she stood silently for a moment wondering who it could be.

"Miss James? Miss James, are you awake?"

Bolt's voice was reassuringly normal.

"Y - yes, I'm awake," she answered. "What do you want?"

"I've brought you some breakfast, miss. I thought you might be feeling hungry."

Helen hesitated. She was tempted to order him away, to tell him to give his master the message that she was on a hunger strike until they let her go. But somehow she sensed that such tactics would not work with a man like Dominic Lyall. He was quite likely to allow her to faint from exhaustion before he would trouble to show any concern. And even then she doubted whether he would give in.

"I - just a minute," she called, and reaching for an emerald green sweater quickly pulled it over her head, releasing her hair from the rounded neckline as she opened the door.

Bolt stood outside, tall and broad and almost familiar. In his tartan shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled above his elbows to reveal the bulging muscles of his forearms, and loose flannels, anyone less like a housemaid could not be imagined, and yet the tray he brought into the room and set down on her bedside table was as neatly set as any woman could do it.

"Cornflakes, eggs and bacon, toast and marmalade and coffee," he announced, with a wry smile. "Is that all right?"

Helen looked down at the loaded tray and then up at Bolt, and a faint colour stained her cheeks. "It - it sounds marvellous!" she admitted honestly. "I'm starving!"

"Mr. Lyall thought perhaps you might be," remarked Bolt dryly, and Helen's lips tightened.

"Oh, he did, did he?"

Bolt sighed. "Now you're not going to tell me to take it all away again, are you ?" he exclaimed.

Helen hesitated. "I'd like to," she muttered mutinously.

"Why cut off your nose to spite your face? It's no skin off Mr. Lyall's back if you choose to starve yourself."

Helen hunched her shoulders. "I know that-"

"There you are, then. Don't be churlish. Eat your breakfast. I'll come back later for the tray."

Helen looked up at the husky manservant doubtfully. "How long does - he -" She refused to say Mr. Lyall.

"How long does he expect to keep me here?"

Bolt walked towards the door. "Eat your breakfast, miss," he advised quietly, and left her.

When the door had dosed behind him Helen stared impotently at the panels. Why had she supposed that Bolt might feel a sense of compassion for her? She should have known it was useless to try and alienate his loyalties.

For the moment, however, the scent of fried bacon was too much for her. She lifted the perspex covers and was soon eating ravenously. Normally, toast and coffee was sufficient for her, but this morning she ate everything Bolt had provided, finishing with three sticky slices of toast and marmalade. The coffee was good, continental, she guessed, and when she had finished she felt marvellously replete.

Wiping her fingers and her mouth on her napkin, she rose from the side of the bed and walked once more to the window. What was she supposed to do now? Bolt had said that he would come back for the tray. Did that mean that she was expected to stay here, in her room?

Her whole being revolted against such an idea. In spite of the unpleasant aspects of her situation, it was a beautiful morning and she longed to be out in the clean air. She thought of the little hotel in Bowness she had been making for. She had planned to spend her days walking and motoring, enjoying the unaccustomed freedom from her father's increasingly possessive demands, but now it seemed she was in an even more difficult position, confined more convincingly than her father could ever have imagined.

Thinking of her father made her wonder if he had received her note yet. She had posted it in London the day before on her way north. She had not wanted any significant postmarks pointing the direction of her flight. Now she wished she had not covered her tracks so completely. Nobody would dream of looking for her here, and even if they did, how would they find her? If Dominic Lyall had lived here in solitude for the past few years, no one was likely to disturb that solitude now. In fact, she doubted that anyone was aware of his existence...

She frowned. But someone must be, she thought eagerly. Someone had to supply milk and eggs, and what about mail? Her spirits rose a little. If they intended keeping her here, feeding her, they would need more provisions, and perhaps whoever supplied their groceries would notice an increase in the order.

Then she heaved a sigh. Bolt could well tell storekeepers that they had a guest, and who was to dispute it? Her only chance in that direction seemed to be if someone should happen to come to the house. The postman, for example.

Refusing to be downhearted, she considered ways in which she might attract attention to herself. She was intelligent enough to realise that Dominic Lyall would not allow her to be seen, so therefore she had to contact assistance some other way. A note, perhaps, tossed from an upstairs window. No! It would either disappear beneath the snow or be completely invisible or the wind would gust it away. Perhaps that was an even better idea. Putting her name and the address... A sense of despair filled her. How could she put an address? She had no idea where she was - where this house was! It was useless. She couldn't even remember the name of the village where she had asked for directions the previous day.

Another wave of hope washed over her. The people at that village. The Postmaster! He might remember a strange young woman asking for directions. Surely there were not so many strangers about at this time of the year. Yes, if he was asked she was almost sure that he would remember. And he would be able to say which way he had directed her.

Her hands clenched in her pockets. What lengths the mind would go to find a grain of hope in a hopeless situation. Who was she fooling? Everything hinged on her father looking for her, and he might decide to wait and see how long it would be before she returned. But if he did look for her, if he exhausted the places he might imagine she would go, if he suddenly thought of their holidays in the Lake District, if he came north and found the village where she had asked directions...

So many ifs. It was impossible. And as the days -maybe even weeks - went by, the postmaster at that tiny village store would surely forget. And even if he remembered, she had taken so many turnings after leaving there that she could be in any number of places.

There finally remained publicity. Her father might get sufficiently worried about her to give the story to the press. If her picture was on the front page of every paper in the country, maybe someone might remember her...

A knock at her door again disturbed her.

"Yes?" she called.

Bolt opened the door and put his head round. "Have you finished?"

Helen nodded, indicating the empty tray. "Yes, thank you. It was delicious. I'm afraid I've been very greedy."

Bolt grinned. "Good. Everything looks brighter on a full stomach."

"You think so?" Helen was dry.

"Undoubtedly." Bolt opened the door wider and came into the room. "Are you coming downstairs?"

"Am I allowed to do so?"

"You can please yourself, miss."

"Can I?" She moved her shoulders irritatedly. "Where - where is your employer?''

Bolt picked up the tray. "In his study, miss. I shouldn't disturb him."

Helen raised her eyes heavenward. "Did you think I might?"

Bolt shrugged. Then he looked at her untidy suitcases. "I'll attend to your things later, when I make the bed."

Helen was horrified, "No - I mean, don't bother."

"It's no bother, miss."

"I can do them."

Bolt made no reply to this. Instead, he walked to the door. "It's a beautiful morning. Wouldn't you like to go outside?"

Helen stared at him. "Outside?" She shook her head helplessly.. "What would - that man say to that? I might escape,"

Bolt's expression was sardonic. "I wouldn't advise you to try, miss. Sheba's trained for hunting deer. I shouldn't like to see you as her prey."

Helen made an involuntary exclamation. "Then it's as well you weren't with us yesterday," she retorted, shivering at the remembrance of that nerve-tingling experience.

"Yes, miss, so I heard," remarked Bolt, and with a slight nod of his head he left her.

Helen took one look round her room and then followed him, down the broad panelled staircase and into the sunlit hall below. Bolt went through a baize-covered door at the back of the stairs, and on impulse she followed him.

She found herself in an enormous kitchen. The tiled floor was scrubbed and shining, and although it had been extensively modernised with steel draining boards and a steel sink, there remained the huge range which had once provided the only cooking facilities, and a black-leaded fireplace where logs sparked cheerfully. An open door gave a glimpse of a cold store, but there were no hams hanging from the ceiling, only a coffin-like deep-freezing cabinet. All the same, the kitchen was a homely room and Helen looked about her with genuine interest.

Bolt deposited her tray on the draining board and began unloading the dirty dishes into the sink. He gave Helen a brief grin and said: "I expect you think this is a strange job for a man, don't you?"

Helen lifted her shoulders indifferently, moving towards the scrubbed wooden table that occupied the centre of the floor. Tracing the grain with her fingernail, she said honestly: "I don't think it's such an odd occupation for a man nowadays, but I must admit, you don't look the part."

Bolt chuckled. "No, I don't suppose I do."

Helen looked up. "But it hasn't always - well, I mean, this isn't your only occupation, is it?"

"It is now." Bolt plunged his hands into the soapy liquid in the sink. "But I guess you could call me a Jack-of-all-trades. I was in the Army to begin with - joined when I was just a kid. Then when I left the service I was a wrestler for a time. But I got bored. Nothing to it, you see. So I became a motor mechanic" He paused. "Now I'm a housekeeper."

"You're very - fond of your employer, aren't you?" Helen ventured.

"He's a fine man," he replied with quiet determination.

"Yes." Helen digested this. "Well, you'll pardon me if I reserve judgement." She frowned. "Have - have you known him long?"

"Twenty years, give or take a month or two."

"But you haven't worked for him all that time?"

"For him - with him - who cares? His father was my commanding officer when I was in the Army."

"I see."

Helen moved to the draining board. Wide windows overlooked the yard at the back of the house, flanked about with sheds and outbuildings.

"Tell me," she said, with what she hoped was only casual enquiry in her voice, "how do you get supplies? Fresh things like milk and eggs - and the mail?"

"Well, the mail is collected from a poste restante address," replied Bolt calmly, quietly dashing any hopes she might have had in that direction. "And we have a couple of cows and some chickens, and in the summer we grow our own fruit and vegetables and deep-freeze them for use later on. We're pretty self-sufficient. I even make my own bread. Why?"

"Miss James is speculating on ways of outwitting us, Bolt," remarked a lazily sardonic voice behind them, and Helen swung round to find Dominic Lyall resting negligently against the door jamb. He had returned to his black attire and in spite of the silvery lightness of his hair he had a disturbingly satanic appearance. He inclined his head politely towards Helen, and went on: "Good morning, Miss James. I trust you slept well. Bolt tells me you were ready for your breakfast. Did you enjoy it?"

Helen would have loved to have been able to say that she hadn't touched his food, but that, of course, was impossible. Instead, she took a defiant stance. "Just what do you think my father will do when he eventually discovers that you kept me here against my will?"

Dominic straightened. "I imagine it could create difficulties for you."

"For me! " Helen was aghast. "For you, you mean!"

"Why should it create difficulties for me? I won't be around. You will."

"Do - do you think he'll let it rest there?" Helen warmed to her subject. "He'll find you, wherever you are!"

"Oh, really?" Dominic's eyes were mocking. "Forgive me if I doubt your father's investigative powers. If the whole of the press media were unable to discover my whereabouts several years ago, I somehow can't drum up a great deal of anxiety about your father's efforts."

"He - he can give the story to the press! He can afford any number of detectives."

"Can he?" Dominic stroked his sideburns thoughtfully. "That's interesting. And this from someone who only yesterday was endeavouring to assure me that should I allow her to leave she would mention my whereabouts to nobody."

Helen's cheeks burned. "I meant what I said."

"Did you? But now you've changed your mind."

"Yes. No. I mean ~" She sought for words. "I'm only trying to show you that if you thwart my father you'll have to pay for it."

"Threats, Miss James?"

Helen shook her head impotently. "Stop tying me up with words. If you let me go, I'll forget you're here. If you don't - well, I can't be held responsible for the consequences."

Dominic's lips twitched. "Yes. Very interesting, I'm sure." He looked across at Bolt. "Do you think we could have some coffee? I'm taking a break for a few minutes."

"Of course," Bolt nodded, and Helen scuffed her feet, feeling ridiculously petulant and childlike.

Dominic regarded her sulky face tolerantly. "Will you have coffee with me?" he suggested mildly, and she glared at him.

"I'm not thirsty!" she stated rudely.

"As you like."

Dominic shrugged and went out, letting the door swing closed behind him. Contrarily, as soon as he had gone, Helen wished she had not been so hasty. Her only chance of escape lay in persuading him to change his mind and so long as she was behaving like a spoilt schoolgirl what possible opportunity had she for doing that?

She perched moodily on the edge of one of the wooden chairs which faced the scrubbed table and watched Bolt plugging in the coffee percolator, setting a cup and cream and sugar on a silver tray. His gaze flickered over her once and then, as though taking pity on her, he said: "Do you want to take it through?"

She looked up. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. The tray. The coffee. Do you want to take it to Mr. Lyall?"

Helen hunched her shoulders. "If you like," she agreed offhandedly.

Bolt considered her flushed face. "Do you want a bit of advice, for what it's worth?"

She frowned. "What kind of advice?"

"Just go easy on the threats, will you? Mr Lyall isn't the kind of man to take that sort of attitude lightly."

"Oh, really?" Helen resented his assumption that Dominic Lyall must always be obeyed. "And what do you expect me to do? Sit back and wait until he decides to let me go?"

"It might be the best thing to do."

"You've got to be joking!"

Bolt shrugged his massive shoulders. "Don't underestimate him, Miss James. Don't make the mistake of thinking that because of his - disability, Mr. Lyall is any less of a man!"

Helen's cheeks burned as she got to her feet. "I don't see your point."

"I think you do, you know." Bolt unplugged the bubbling percolator and filled the coffee pot which was set on its own small burner to keep its contents steaming hot. "Just because he chooses to live here without a woman it doesn't mean that he lacks the normal needs of any virile male!"

Helen's fists clenched. "I should have thought that you could satisfy all his needs, Bolt!" she declared offensively, but Bolt merely gave her a long and steady appraisal.

"No, Miss James," he replied quietly. "Mr. Lyall is not that kind of a man."

Helen didn't know where to look. She had never behaved so badly before, and the knowledge that Bolt, who had shown her nothing but kindness, should bear the brunt of her ill-conceived outburst filled her with shame.

"Oh - I'm sorry! " she exclaimed, pressing her palms to her hot cheeks. "That was - unforgivable."

Bolt put the lid on the coffee pot and pushed the tray across the table towards her. "You're overwrought," he explained gently. "Calm down. Nothing's ever as bad as we anticipate. Now - are you going to take the coffee through to Mr. Lyall. You'll find him in the living room. I've put out two cups just in case."

Helen's hands fell to her sides and her mouth tilted slightly at the corners. "You never give up, do you?"

"Let's say I'm basically optimistic," he commented, flexing his shoulder muscles. "Do you know which door you need?"

Helen nodded. "I think so." She picked up the tray and walked to the kitchen door. Then she turned. "And -thank you, Bolt."

He shook his head. "All part of the service, miss."

When Helen opened the living room door it was to find Dominic Lyall lying on the couch, his eyes closed. They flickered open at her entrance, however, and when he saw who was bringing in the tray of coffee, he swung his legs to the floor and tried to stand up But a spasm of pain crossed his face as he did so, and he fell back against the cushions, a hand pressed in agony against his forehead.

Helen caught her breath and hurrying forward she set down the tray and said: "Are - are you all right?" in a concerned tone.

His hand fell to his side and his jaw was taut and bitterly self-derisive as he looked up at her. "Oh, yes," he muttered grimly, "I'm quite all right. Thank you."

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