BOOKS BY ANNE MATHER 4 страница

Helen moved uncomfortably under that tawny gaze although she could see a faint glazing of the pupils of his eyes, and there were beads of sweat standing on his forehead after the exertion of trying to getup.

"I - is there anything I can do?" she suggested tentatively, and he gave her a scornful look.

"What do you suggest?" he demanded. "A gun at my temple, or a knife in my stomach?"

"Neither of those alternatives," she answered swiftly, looking helplessly round the room. "Don't you have anything to take? Some tablets, perhaps? Or shall I fetch Bolt?"

"I have tablets," he conceded at last, closing his eyes.

"Well, where are they?"

"You don't have to help me. Bolt can get them."

"For heaven's sake!" she exclaimed. "I'll get them. I want to. Just tell me where they are."

He half opened his eyes, resting his head back against the tapestry cushions. For a moment he looked at her through the thick veil of his lashes and it was a disturbing experience. She felt a devastating weakness attacking her lower limbs and a quickening of the blood through her veins. Then he closed his eyes again and said: "They're in a bottle in the top drawer of my desk."

Helen started forward and then halted uncertainly. His desk? Where was his desk? Did he mean the bureau in the corner, the bureau above which she had seen the revealing photograph of the accident? As she began to cross the room, he said wearily: "My desk is in my study."

His study!

Helen hesitated. Where was his study? She opened her mouth to ask him and then closed it again. It had to open off the hall and there were surely not so many doors left that she couldn't identify. If she remembered which was the cloakroom and which the dining room, and the kitchen door was covered with green baize.

She went quickly out of the room, thankful that the cheetah was not presently in evidence, and looked round. There was only one other door, she saw with satisfaction, and turning the handle, she looked inside. It was his study. It had to be. A huge mahogany desk dominated the central area, liberally strewn with books and papers, and pushed to one side was a typewriter.

But it was not the desk itself that riveted her attention. Perched precariously on a window ledge in the corner, half concealed by heavy red velvet curtains, was a cream telephone I

Her immediate impulse was to use it to call for help, but recent events had made her wary. If she delayed long enough to make a phone call, Dominic Lyall could only become suspicious and if he came after her ... And there was always the chance that Bolt might decide to come for the tray. If once they knew that she was aware of the presence of the telephone she would get no further chance to use it. But if she pretended she had not seen it...

Dragging her eyes away from that tempting link with the world outside, she moved to the desk and seated herself in the brown leather chair behind it. No wonder he had not wanted her to get his tablets for him. But obviously his ultimate need had got the better of his judgement. A remembrance of his face distorted with pain brought her hand to the handle of the top right-hand drawer. No matter how her feelings revolted at his deliberate duplicity she could not ignore his suffering.

A swift resume of the drawer she had opened assured her that there was no bottle of tablets there, and she closed it again. The left-hand drawer seemed full of files, but pushed towards the back she found what she was searching for. A small brown bottle containing white tablets.

Casting an uncomprehending glance at the mass of papers on his desk, she closed the second drawer and rose to her feet. She had reached the door when Bolt came out of the kitchen and her knees felt weak at the thought that if she had used the telephone he would have caught her in the act.

He frowned, however, as she closed the study door and said: "Are you looking for something, miss?"

Helen could not prevent the wave of colour that washed her cheeks. She felt guilty, and it showed. She held up the small bottle. "Your employer has a migraine," she explained, walking towards the living room once more with more confidence than she felt. "I was just getting his tablets."

"I see." Bolt was genuinely concerned. "I'll get some water."

Helen made an involuntary movement of her shoulders. "If you like," she said jerkily.

Bolt went back into the kitchen and she entered the living room. Dominic was still lying on the couch with his eyes closed and she had to force herself to remember that this was the man who was holding her here against her will.

She walked to the coach and looked down at him. "Here are the tablets," she said quietly. "Bolt's getting you some water, to take with them, I suppose."

His eyes opened. They had a bruised darkness. "Thank you," he replied, levering himself into an upright position, and taking the bottle. "It's my own fault. I've been spending too many hours working."

Helen frowned, watching him unscrew the bottle and extract two tablets. "Working." she echoed in surprise, unable to prevent herself.

His gaze flickered upward. "That's right - working. Did you think I spent my days in idleness?"

She shrugged, moving away from the couch. So close, his eyes had a disturbing penetration even in this weakened state. "I - I haven't thought about it," she answered, not quite truthfully.

The door opened and Bolt came into the room carrying a jug and a glass. He came straight to the couch and looked down at Dominic with gentle impatience. "Here you are," he said pouring water from the jug into the glass. "And then I think you ought to go to bed."

Dominic threw the tablets to the back of his throat and swallowed them with a mouthful of the water before handing the glass back to Bolt. "I don't think so," he said dryly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Bolt looked reproving. "You know you should."

Dominic cast a derisive look in Helen's direction. "What? And leave our guest to have coffee alone?"

Helen gasped indignantly, but Bolt shook his head when she would have said something. "After coffee then," he said firmly, but Dominic merely closed his eyes again as though the effort of keeping them open exhausted him.

"I'll let you know," he agreed resignedly.

Bolt sighed and spread his hands towards Helen in a helpless gesture, and she felt a ridiculous sense of alliance with him in their mutual concern for the man on the couch.

"For Christ's sake, stop making signals that I'm not supposed to know about," snapped Dominic suddenly, as though completely aware of their silent correlation, and Bolt walked abruptly to the door.

"I'll come back in fifteen minutes," he said, and left them.

After he had gone, Helen remained where she was standing wondering why she didn't leave too. Then perhaps he would go to bed and that, after all, was the only sure cure for migraine. Thinking of him in bed brought a prickling warmth to the surface of her skin. His temporary vulnerability was dangerously appealing, and she had to force herself to remember that like the predator he kept as a pet he was ruthless and totally unpredictable. All the same, he had opened his shirt at the neck and she could see the beginnings of the hair that grew at the base of his throat and she knew the strongest desire to touch him. She would have liked to have massaged his temples with her fingertips and seen the muscles relax under her ministrations...

His eyes opened unexpectedly and found her eyes on him. "Sit down," he directed shortly. "I can stand it. I'm not about to lose consciousness or anything foolish like that."

Helen's eyelids hid the revealing awareness of her gaze. It was with difficulty that she moved to the armchair facing the fire and perching on its edge wanned her hands unnecessarily at the blaze. It would be as well when she could use tine telephone, she thought rather shakenly. She was becoming altogether too interested in Dominic Lyall.

Thinking about the telephone brought her to the problem of when she might use it. The only safe time would seem to be after he was in bed at night, although the thought that Sheba might have the run of the house at that time was almost a deterrent.

"Aren't you going to pour the coffee?"

His quiet voice broke into her reverie and she started violently. "What? Oh - oh, yes. If you want me to." She swung round to the low table and clattered cups into saucers. The smell of the coffee was restoring, but her hand shook as she held the pot. "Cream and sugar?"

"As it is," he replied, sitting up to take the cup she held out to him. 'Thank you."

Helen poured her own coffee, added sugar, and stirred it vigorously. She was intensely conscious that he was watching her and wondered what he could be thinking. Her own thoughts were easier to define, but no less disruptive to her piece of mind.

"Why did you change your mind?" he asked abruptly.

"Change my mind?" For a moment Helen was all at sea. "About what?"

"Taking coffee with me."

She drew a trembling breath. "Oh, I see." She shrugged. "It seemed - pointless to avoid any opportunity to persuade you to change your mind."

He lay back, his eyes narrowed. "Do you think you can do that?"

She put down her empty cup with jerky movements. "I don't know."

"But you're willing to try?"

She sighed. "I might hope to appeal to your - your sense of honour."

"My honour?" He shook his head. "That's a curiously old-fashioned notion. And how do you propose to go about it? By making me feel indebted to you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do. Your solicitude just now was almost credible."

Helen, who had been avoiding his eyes, now looked directly at him. "What a foul thing to suggest!"

He shrugged. "You act well, I'll say that for you. But I thought I'd better tell you that I'm not deceived that easily. I'd hate you to go on and get yourself into a position you might find even harder to recant."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded unsteadily.

His eyes were almost closed. "Simply that you have no peed to try your feline wiles on me in the hope that I might weaken towards you -"

Helen sprang to her feet. "You - you flatter yourself! "

"No, I don't," he assured her dryly. "That's why I'm giving you fair warning. I thought it was the least I could do after the way you've... looked after me."

The mockery was evident and her fists clenched. She was tempted to blurt out that she knew about the telephone in his study, and that at least she wasn't a liar as he was. But she remained silent. What hurt almost unbearably was that he had somehow sensed her awareness of him and had put the wrong interpretation on it. He imagined she was contemplating using her youth and beauty to seduce him from his purpose, but nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, the knowledge that this grim, even cruel man, with his distorted body, could inspire the most wanton longings inside her filled her with disgust. She didn't want to be attracted to Dominic Lyall. She didn't want to feel the pull of his disturbing personality. And most of all she didn't want to contemplate the sensuous consummation of that attraction that feeling his hard hands upon her and his lean body crushed against hers would bring...

"I - I think you're hateful!" she exclaimed, her lips trembling. "You - you're perverted. You've allowed the distortion of your body to distort your soul!"

His eyes opened wide, as hard as the topaz stones they resembled. "Yes, I have," he agreed harshly. "And you'd better remember it!"

Helen took one last look at him and then made for the door. She was feeling distinctly sick, and an awful nagging ache had begun behind her temples. For a short while he had seemed almost human, and she had stupidly responded to that gentler identity.

CHAPTER FOUR

Helen spent the rest of the morning in her bedroom. Much against her will, she took the rest of her belongings out of the two suitcases and put them away in the dressing table drawers and the huge wardrobe. Some things were crushable, and although she tried to tell herself that it was pointless unpacking when she would be leaving soon somehow it didn't quite ring true.

At one o'clock Bolt came to tell her that lunch was ready. When she came downstairs a few minutes later, he opened the door of the kitchen and said: "I hope you don't mind, but I've served our lunch in here. Mr. Lyall's not having anything to eat, and I thought perhaps you'd prefer my company to no company at all."

Helen followed him into the kitchen. "Of course I would," she agreed, her shoulders hunched despondently. "But I'm not very hungry either."

Bolt made no response to this but seated her at the scrubbed wooden table and began putting vegetable tureens in front of her. Whatever it was he had prepared smelt good and she felt her appetite reviving.

It turned out to be a steak and mushroom casserole, preceded by a dish of savoury tomato soup. There was some of the fruit pie she had seen on Dominic Lyall's tray the night before to finish; and the cream Bolt poured over it was thick and yellow. To her astonishment, Helen did not find it difficult to finish what he gave her, although she refused to have any second helpings.

"That was delicious, Bolt," she exclaimed at last, as he poured them both a second cup of coffee. "You're going to make me fat if I'm not careful."

Bolt's broad features broke into a grin. "I doubt that very much," he remarked, surveying her small breasts pressing against the close-fitting contours of her sweater, "Besides, you can do with a couple of inches here and there."

Helen had to smile. She felt completely relaxed for the first time since getting up that morning. Bolt was such an undemanding companion, not like his master...

At the thought of Dominic Lyall some of her contentment fled. She must never forget that she was here under duress, and no matter how sympathetic her jailor, that was what he was.

Playing with the teaspoon in her saucer, she said: "Did - did your employer go to bed?"

Bolt nodded, cradling his cup in his large hands. "Yes. Over an hour ago."

Helen nodded. She ought to have left it there, but she couldn't. "What - er - what work does he do?" she asked casually.

Bolt looked down into his cup. "He's writing a book, miss."

"A book?" Helen was instantly interested. "What kind of book?"

"I really don't think I should discuss Mr. Lyall's affairs with you, miss," said Bolt, almost apologetically. "Why don't you ask him?"

Helen sighed. "Why indeed?"

Bolt put down his cup. "Let me ask you something now, miss. What happened between you this morning?"

Helen concentrated on the dregs of coffee left in the bottom of her cup. "Nothing much," she said offhandedly.

Bolt frowned. "What did you say to him?"

"What did I say to him?" demanded Helen indignantly. "I didn't actually say anything. I just got his damned tablets for him."

"I gather he didn't appreciate tile gesture."

"That's the understatement of theyear! Your employer is an absolute - boor!" she declared.

Bolt rose to his feet and began gathering their dirty dishes together. "You have to understand -" he was beginning, when she broke in on him resentfully.

"Why do I have to understand anything? Why doesn't he try and understand me - how I feel? I didn't ask to be brought here. And I certainly don't want to stay."

Bolt looked down at her compassionately. "I shouldn't like to see you hurt," he said.

"Me hurt?" exclaimed Helen angrily. "Why should you suppose that I might get hurt? I think he's rude and insolent and completely selfish! How could he possibly hurt me?"

Bolt raised his thick eyebrows. "You tell me," he said cryptically, and carried the dishes to the sink.

Although he protested, Helen insisted on helping him with the washing up, and afterwards, when everything was put away and the kitchen was bright and shining again, he said: "Mr. Lyall will probably stay in bed for the rest of the afternoon. How would you like to come outside with me and see the other animals?"

Helen looked towards the windows. The bright sun of the morning was partially obliterated and it looked as though it might snow again, but the temptation to get some fresh air was irresistible.

"I'd love to," she said simply, and he looked pleased.

"Well, do you have any boots - waterproof boots, I mean? And something warm to wear."

"I have some Wellingtons," she nodded. "I expected to be doing quite a long of walking." Her wry smile was self-derogatory. "And if you've dried my coat..."

"Of course. It's in the cloakroom in the hall. I hung it there this morning."

"All right." Helen walked eagerly to the door. "Just give me about five minutes, will you?"

Running up the stairs to her room, she wondered whether she ought to take this opportunity to use the phone. Bolt was busy in the kitchen, getting ready to go out, and Dominic Lyall was in bed.

But no. The prospect of spoiling the relationship she had with the burly manservant wasn't appealing and she would hate for him to catch her out in damning circumstances. It could wait until tonight. After all, nobody was going anywhere.

Downstairs again, her corduroy jeans tucked into the rubber boots, and an extra sweater to supplement the emerald green one, she retrieved her red suede coat from the hall cloakroom and saw to her relief that it had suffered no ill effects from its soaking. She tucked her hair inside the hood and went in search of Bolt.

It was a delightful afternoon, the kind of afternoon Helen could only vaguely remember from her childhood. Since moving to London, winters had become horrible cold periods, when the pavements were filthy with slush, and cars became havens of warmth to take you from one heated building to another. It was a time to plan winter holidays in places like Jamaica and Barbados where the sun could always be relied upon to speed the winter's gloom.

But here it was different. The snow was dean and white, the air so fresh it was intoxicating. And she didn't feel the cold at all. She was young and healthy, she had just had a delicious meal, and her whole body tingled with well-being.

Bolt attended to the cows in the byre, clearing out the stalls and bringing fresh hay. Helen, who was a little dubious now of the doe-eyed beasts, did what she could to help, but she was more at home in the hen-house, bringing out the brown eggs, still warm from the nests.

She saw a sledge leaning against the wall of the outbuildings and when she pointed it out to Bolt he explained that he sometimes used it to carry feed for the animals.

"I found it in an old shed when we came here," he went on. "Probably belonged to the kids whose parents used to farm here."

Helen's eyes twinkled. "Could we use it?"

"How do you mean?" Bolt was surprised.

"Well, isn't there a slope around here somewhere that we might use it on?"

Bolt chuckled. "Go sledging, you mean."

"Yes. Could we?" Helen was very appealing as she looked up at him. "Please." Bolt took a considering look around. Then he said, "Well, there is a slope at the side of the house. But it goes down to the stream. It's got a covering of ice on it now, of course, but it wouldn't bear anyone's weight. You'd have to avoid that."

"I'd be careful. I can steer. Oh, do let's."

Bolt finally gave in and they trudged round to the side of the building. Here the snow was pristine and untouched, and Helen found a childlike enjoyment in making footprints where none had been before.

The sledge was big enough for two, but to begin with Bolt insisted on standing at the foot of the hill, near the stream, so that she didn't have an accident However, once it became apparent that she could handle the sledge, he agreed to join her and together they sped down the slippery slope, laughing at themselves and each other when the sledge upended at the bottom and tipped them both into the snow. The hardest part was trudging back up the hill again, and Helen's legs ached by the time Bolt decided to call it a day. They walked back to the house in easy companionship, and She realised that for the last couple of hours she had not once thought of escape.

She took a bath before the evening meal and after some hesitation dressed in a soft jersey wool hostess gown, patterned in shades of blue and green. The colour complemented the blue-green colour of her eyes, and the long skirt drew attention to the rounded curve of her hips. Although she refused to acknowledge it, her desire to look her best stemmed from Dominic Lyall's malicious taunts earlier. How she wished he might compliment her on her appearance so that she could set him down and salve a little of her pride.

But her hopes were not realized. When she entered the living room a few minutes later she found it deserted, and she was hovering uncertainly in the middle of the floor when Bolt came in.

"Mr. Lyall is not coining down for supper," he explained apologetically, and Helen immediately wished she had not taken any trouble with her appearance. "I'll bring your meal in a couple of minutes."

Helen linked her fingers together. "Er - won't you join me, Bolt?" she asked, making an expressive gesture. "I mean - I wish you would."

Bolt looked down at his rough trousers and rolled-sleeved shirt. "Like this, miss?"

"Of course." Helen was warmly impatient. "I don't care how you look. I just don't find the idea of eating alone very appealing."

Bolt relaxed. "All right, miss. You sit down and I'll be with you directly."

Tonight he served slices of pork cooked in a sauce of onions, mushrooms, peas and carrots, and there was a chocolate meringue pie to finish. He also provided a bottle of rose wine and they both had several glasses.

Afterwards, Helen lay back in her chair and smiled lazily at him. "You really are the most marvellous chef!" she exclaimed. "Were you a chef in the Army?"

Bolt shook his head. "No, miss. I was in the Marines."

"Were you?" Helen frowned. "I thought that was the Navy?"

"No. They're soldiers who can serve on board ship, that's all."

"I see. So how did you learn to cook?"

Bolt shrugged. "I taught myself, miss. Like I said - I'm a Jack-of-all-trades."

Helen looked into the glowing depths of the fire. "And now you work for Dominic Lyall."

"Yes."

"Did you - were you working for him before - before the accident?"

"Yes."

"So you were a mechanic for him?"

"I was."

Helen considered this. "It was a terrible accident, wasn't it?"

"Two men were killed outright," said Bolt dispassionately.

Helen nodded. "I suppose -I suppose you knew them."

"One of them was Mr. Lyall's brother."

Helen's eyes widened. "I didn't know that."

Bolt shook his head. "It wasn't widely known. He raced under another name. Not to be confused with Dominic, you see."

"How awful!" That stirring sense of compassion refused to be denied.

"Yes." Bolt put the empty wine bottle on the tray and began collecting their dirty plates. "I suppose you were still a schoolgirl at the time."

Helen sat up. "I was sixteen, I think. But my father was very keen on motor racing, and he had all the pictures -and the press reports. He was quite shattered by it."

"Weren't we all?" murmured Bolt almost inaudibly. Then: "So let's talk about something else. Tell me about London. It's years since I was there."

Helen stroked her fingers over the tapestry-covered arm of her chair. "London? It's just the same, I suppose."

"You don't sound enthusiastic."

She half smiled. "I'm not."

"Why? It's your home, isn't it?"

"It's where I live," she amended slowly.

"But you have parents, haven't you? A father at least."

"I have a father and a stepmother. The traditional stepmother! "

"Don't you like her?"

"Isabel?" She shrugged. "She's all right, I suppose. Let's say we tolerate one another."

"Does she have other children? Does your father have other children?"

"Unfortunately, no. I'm their one and only." She wrinkled her nose. "Much to Isabel's regret."

"Why?"

"Oh, it's a long story. You wouldn't be interested."

"I would."

She frowned. "Well, I was only twelve when Daddy married Isabel. It was her first marriage, his second. My mother died when I was quite young. Naturally, Isabel expected to have children, but it wasn't to be. And my father refused to adopt any." She gave a faint laugh. "I suppose I ought to feel gratified, but I don't."

"And your father runs this big company?" Bolt frowned. "Some engineering firm, isn't it?"

"Yes. Thorne Engineering. He's the managing director. He's done very well for himself considering that when Mummy died we were almost going out of business."

Bolt listened intently. "So how did he become successful?"

"He married Isabel Thorne."

"Oh, I see." Bolt nodded. "Very shrewd."

"Yes, wasn't it?" Helen gave a wry grimace. "And I was sent to boarding school until I was old enough to mix in company."

Bolt's eyes were gentle. "I'm sure your father only did what he thought was best."

"Best for whom?"

"For all of you, I guess."

"My father was - is an ambitious man. I think my mother was his only saving grace, and when she died..." Helen sighed. "He still has ambitions, only now he needs my help to achieve them."

Bolt put his head on one side, "And that's why you ran away."

"Yes."

"What did he have in mind? A man, I suppose."

Helen gave him a rueful smile. "You're very shrewd, too, aren't you?"

Bolt chuckled. "I should say it was pretty obvious. Who is he? Class or expediency?"

"A little of both, I guess. His father owns a controlling interest in a company my father would like to merge with, and his grandfather is a member of what they call the landed aristocracy."

"I see." Bolt nodded. "A formidable choice."

Helen made an involuntary gesture. "Oh, Mike's all right. I like him. We've: had some fun together. But I don't love him."

"You're very sure of that."

"Yes, I am. Bolt, I've known lots of boys - men young and not so young, but I've never met one with whom I could imagine spending the rest of my life. Besides - besides, I don't think men interest me all that much. Not -not in that way."

Bolt's eyes twinkled. "Oh, really? That's a grand assumption."

"No, it's not." She shook her head. "Oh, that wine's loosened my tongue. I'm not in the habit of unburdening myself to - to anyone."

"Then perhaps it's time you did," asserted Bolt calmly. "Don't you ever talk to your stepmother?"

"Isabel? Heavens, no! Not in the way you mean, anyway."

"Why not?"

"She wouldn't be interested. She has far too many interests of her own to bother about my affairs."

"And your father?"

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