BOOKS BY ANNE MATHER 5 страница

"Well, I suppose he would let me talk to him, but he never listens to what I say. Particularly not if it's something he doesn't want to hear."

Bolt picked up the tray and got to his feet. "I think that's a great pity," he remarked, shaking his head.

Helen stretched luxuriously. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're a good listener? " she asked lazily.

Bolt pulled a face. "No. But I'm always prepared to listen to compliments." He walked a couple of paces.

"And now I'm going to do these dishes and then I'm off to bed. I'm tired."

"Yes, so am I," admitted Helen, stifling a yawn.

And then she remembers, d what she had to do!

"By the way," she said, standing up, "I - er -I haven't seen Sheba today."

"Haven't you?" Bolt looked round. "No - well, she was in the yard this morning, and she's been in Mr. Lyall's room since he went to bed."

"Does she sleep in his room?"

Bolt shook his head. "Bless you, no. I'll bring her down before I go to bed. She needs to be taken for a walk."

"She has the run of the house at night, then?"

Bolt gave her an old-fashioned look. "Now you're not thinking of making a dash for it, are you?"

Helen flushed. "No. I -I was curious, that's all."

"Well, as it happens, she sleeps in the kitchen."

"I see." Helen nodded. "She - she's rather a strange pet to have, isn't she?"

"Maybe so." Bolt shrugged. "Mr. Lyall was given her by a friend, but this chap - the one who gave her to Mr. Lyall - he's going to have her back soon, for breeding purposes."

"Oh! " Helen digested this. "Well - goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, miss."

Helen managed a smile and the manservant went out and left her. She wondered what she could do. Ought she to stay here until Bolt had been upstairs, brought the cheetah down, taken her out and then gone to bed himself? No. That was bound to arouse suspicion. Her best plan was to go up to her room and wait until the house was quiet.

The decision made, she went upstairs slowly. Now that she knew that Sheba was somewhere about she couldn't help me hairs on the back of her neck prickling, but she reached her room without incident. She took off the long dress, put on her jeans and sweater again and sat down to wait.

Her room, for all its radiator, was by no means as warm as the living room downstairs, and after a while she began to shiver. It seemed ages before she heard Bolt come upstairs for the first time and then she heard voices in a room at the other end of the landing which proved that Dominic Lyall was not asleep either.

She got to her feet and paced about the room, but she still felt cold and kicking off her shoes she pulled back the bedspread and got beneath it, huddling the thick cover up to her chin. That was much warmer and she could feel the heat from the hot water bottles Bolt had put between the sheets.

The snow gave the room an eerie illumination and she could hear the wind whistling under the eaves. It was remarkably cosy and she yawned sleepily. It had been quite an exhausting day, one way and another, and perhaps she had tune to take a nap while she waited for Bolt to finish his chores and go to bed.

She closed her eyes. Bolt was really awfully nice. But she had done most of the talking that evening. He knew all about her now - even about Mike. She yawned again. Oh, well, what did it matter? It was no secret

Her eyes felt heavier and heavier and with a sigh she drifted off to sleep. It wasn't until daylight was filling the room that she opened her eyes again and realised, to her dismay, that it was morning.

CHAPTER FIVE

Fortunately, Helen had time to wash and change her clothes before Bolt appeared with her breakfast. She would have hated for him to see that she had slept fully clothed. He might have got entirely the wrong impression. As it was, she was standing brushing her hair before the dressing table mirror, slim and attractive in cream flared tweed pants and a long-sleeved scarlet blouse, when he knocked at her door.

"Good morning," he greeted her smilingly. "Sleep well?"

Helen managed not to look as guilty as she felt "Yes, thank you," she replied. "Did you?"

"Like a log," remarked Bolt, putting down the tray he was carrying on her bedside table. "I've made you porridge this morning - oh, and scrambled eggs."

"Marvellous." Helen nodded, glancing towards the windows. "Has it been snowing again?"

"I'm afraid so. It's not as bright as yesterday by any means. Colder, too."

"Oh, well, never mind," Helen sighed. "Shall I bring these things down to the kitchen when I've finished?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"I'd like to." She seated herself beside the tray. "Er -how is - how is your employer this morning?"

"Much better," said. Bolt, with evident satisfaction. "See you in a little while, then."

"Yes." Helen smiled and the manservant left the room.

She enjoyed her breakfast, perhaps not quite as much as the previous day, but then she had been ravenous, while this morning hunger came second to the annoyance she felt at having fallen asleep so soundly the night before. Even so, she made a good meal and then carried the empty tray down to the kitchen.

Sheba was in the hall, lying on the carpet outside Dominic Lyall's study, and she raised her head as Helen came down the stairs. The hair on the back of Helen's neck prickled at that unnerving appraisal, but the cheetah didn't move, and Helen walked quickly into the kitchen.

Bolt was not about and on impulse she put the dishes in the sink and turned on the taps. She hadn't washed dishes since leaving boarding school and it was quite a novelty squeezing washing-up liquid into the water and watching die suds form. She gathered some in her hand and blew them gently, smiling as enormous bubbles floated on the air.

"Good morning, Miss James. Am I interrupting anything?"

Helen forced herself not to react revealingly to that sardonic tone. Adopting a defiant expression, she turned and said: "Good morning, Mr. Lyall. You're not interrupting anything. What can I do for you?"

In denim jeans and an open-necked denim shirt he looked lean and attractive. The tight trousers accentuated the muscular length of his legs, and until he moved the limp was not evident. But even when he did, shortening die space between them, Helen found nothing to dismay her. On the contrary, the way he moved was singularly part of the man himself.

"I came to apologise," he said quietly. "I behaved rather badly yesterday, and I'm sorry."

Helen almost gasped. She had expected many things -anger, rudeness, impatience - but not this. Not him apologising to her! She wished he hadn't. She didn't want him to. It was much easier for her to hate him when he treated her with contempt.

"I - I - that's not necessary," she exclaimed ungraciously.

"I disagree." There was only a few feet between them now, and the tawny eyes, were too discerning. "My only excuse is that I was - well, in some pain. Even so, I had no right to say what I did. In spite of your opinion of me, I was not always so ill-mannered."

Helen drew her hands out of the soapy water and dried them vigorously on the roller towel which hung on the door of the cold store. She was supremely conscious of his nearness and she half thought he knew it "Well, all right Is - is your migraine better?"

"Much better." He was supporting himself with, one hand on the steel drainer and Helen's eyes were riveted somewhere between the bottom button of his shirt, and the narrow belt of the jeans that hung low on his hips.

"Good," she managed inadequately.

"There's no need for you to wash your own dishes, you know."

"I wanted to." She forced herself to look up at him. "Do - do you know where Bolt has gone? "

"Yes, I know." He was non-committal. "Why?"

She glanced round. "I just thought I might go outside for a while. It looks as though it's going to snow again, and -"

"Can you make coffee?" Dominic interrupted her quietly, studying her embarrassed face.

Helen looked puzzled. "I -I think so."

"Good." Dominic straightened, one hand massaging his hip again. "Make us some. Please."

Helen's lips parted. "Us?" she echoed.

"Of course." He limped back to the door. "Bring it into the study when you're ready. We'll have it there."

The door closed behind him and Helen stood staring at the spot where he had been a moment before. She didn't know whether to feel honoured or indignant. She wasn't used to being given orders, but then it was in the nature of an olive branch, too. But the study! He wanted her to join him there! And what about the telephone?

She shrugged and gave a helpless look round the kitchen. She knew where the coffee was kept. She had watched Bolt make some for them the day before. And a percolator held no mysteries for her.

She found she enjoyed setting the tray with two of the brown earthenware coffee cups and saucers that Bolt had used, and she even discovered the whereabouts of the small burner which kept the jug hot. Every minute she expected Bolt to return and ask her what she thought she was doing, but he didn't, and when it was ready she opened the door and carried the tray across to the study.

Sheba had disappeared again, but her whereabouts soon became apparent when she knocked at the study door. Dominic opened the door to her and the cheetah was at his heels. However, at his order it walked out into the hall again and took up its previous position.

Dominic stood back to allow her to enter the room and as she did so she saw he had cleared a space on his desk for the tray. Her gaze flickered irresistibly towards the window ledge in the corner. There was no sign of the cream telephone and her heart skipped a beat. Had she imagined it? Or had he perceived her discovery and had it moved? And then she realised the red velvet curtains partially concealed the window ledge. They could be hiding it from view. Deliberately? She couldn't be sure.

Dominic indicated a chair he had placed on the opposite side of the desk and after she was seated he limped back to his own chair. Realising she was expected to pour the coffee, Helen busied herself with the cups, pouring a cup for him and leaving it black.

"Thank you," he said, as he took the cup and set it down before him. "I'm ready for this."

Helen didn't know how to answer him, and she made an effort to speak naturally as she said: "Bolt - Bolt told me you're writing a book."

"Did he?" The level tawny eyes made her wonder whether she had said the wrong thing again.

"Yes. But - but that was all. I mean, he wouldn't discuss it with me or anything."

"Did you ask him to? "

"Well, yes." Helen flushed. "I was interested."

Dominic tilted his head. "Why?"

"I - I think writing a book must present a tremendous challenge."

He considered this. "It rather depends on the type of book one is writing, I suppose," he said at last. "Some books must be harder to write than others."

Helen frowned. "I should think non-fiction is harder to write than a novel."

"Not necessarily." He shook his head. "If one is writing a factual account then it's simply a question of how convincingly one presents the facts. Fiction demands a whole new approach, with no preconceived assessments."

"I didn't think of it that way." Helen sipped tentatively at her coffee and found it as enjoyable as Bolt's. "And -and are you writing a novel?"

"Me?" He made a negative gesture. "No. My work is purely factual."

"About - motor racing? " she ventured warily.

"This time-yes."

She raised her dark eyebrows. "You've written other books?"

"One other book."

"And what was that about?"

His smile held slightly sardonic amusement. "I'm sure you're not really interested."

"Oh, I am." Helen flushed. "Honestly."

He hesitated and then pushing his cup across the desk, hesaid: "I wrote a biography of my father."

"Your father?" Helen was intrigued. "He was an officer in the Marines, wasn't he?"

Dominic looked impatient. "Bolt told you that, too, I presume."

"Yes, he did. But only indirectly. He was telling me that he'd been in the Army, and - well, it just slipped out." She looked appealingly at him. "You won't be angry with him, will you?"

Dominic sighed. "Why? What else did he tell you?"

"Nothing much." She shrugged her slim shoulders. "Tell me about your father. I am interested. Is he still alive?"

"No. He's dead." Dominic spoke dispassionately. "He died six years ago."

"About the time of your accident," she exclaimed impulsively, and then wished she hadn't when she saw the look on his face.

"About that time, yes," he agreed flatly. "May I have some more coffee before you go?"

"Of course." Helen was glad to have something to do. She had spoken without thinking and now it seemed she had destroyed the faint thread of communication which had been developing between them. "There you are." She paused, looking anxious. "Won't you go on? About your father, I mean."

Dominic said nothing for a few minutes, and she thought he wasn't going to answer her, but then he said slowly: "He commanded an assault force in the Far East during the war. He was awarded the Victoria Cross for spearheading an attack on a Japanese command post when he and his men were apparently quite hopelessly outnumbered."

"How fantastic!" Helen was impressed. "You must have felt very proud of him."

"Well, my mother did," he acceded, his lips twisting. "I'm not quite that old, and Francis was only a baby."

"I didn't mean that ~ that is -"

Helen felt herself colouring again, but at least the embarrassment she felt prevented her from asking the question which had sprung to her lips. Was Francis his only brother - the brother who had been killed in that fatal accident? If she had betrayed her knowledge of his brother's identity, Dominic might well have assumed that Bolt had discussed the accident with her, when in fact, on that subject he had been determinedly reticent.

Dominic finished his second cup of coffee and put his empty cup aside, drawing a file of papers towards him. It was dismissal, and Helen felt unreasonably disappointed. But she was obliged to get up and collect together the items from the tray preparatory for leaving. Dominic looked up as she clattered saucers together and she realised he was aware of her ill-concealed irritation.

"Bolt should be back soon," he remarked mildly. "There's no need for you to attend to those."

"I can manage."

Helen picked up the tray and marched to the door, but he moved with amazing agility and was there before her, his breathing quickened by the sudden exertion. Helen's eyes were drawn to the pulse vibrating at the base of his throat and the disturbing glimpse of his skin between the straining buttons of his shirt. Her eyes lowered to his hand automatically massaging his hip and she felt a terrible pounding in her ears. For a moment there was between them an almost tangible awareness and she was sure that had she moved closer to him she would have felt his undeniable response. It was an intoxicating experience and the eyes she raised to his were eloquent with the emotions she was feeling.

But his expression chilled her, bitter with a savage rejection of the emotions she had bee certain of arousing in him. He wrenched open the door abruptly and although she was sure he had been going to say something, he remained silent.

In the kitchen, Helen gave way to a shivering reaction. For a few moments there she had behaved in a totally incomprehensible fashion, and the knowledge frightened her. What was happening to her> She had only known Dominic Lyall three days, and yet in those three days he had almost completely taken over her conscious reasoning to the extent that she was now imagining a physical association between them that simply did not exist, except in her imagination ... She pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. She must get away. She must get away from here before something irrevocable happened. She closed her eyes, thanking whatever deity had prevented Dominic Lyall from acting on her stupid provocation, and almost jumped out of her skin when Bolt said concernedly:

"Hey, what's the matter? Helen, are you crying?"

Helen opened her eyes wide. "No. No, I'm not crying," she exclaimed, shaking her head to shake away the sense of foreboding she was feeling. She blinked. "Where did you come from?"

Bolt grinned. "I got back about five minutes ago. I was just hanging up my coat.''

"Where have you been?"

Bolt sighed. "Actually, I've been to post some letters."

Helen stared at him. "Where?"

"Would you believe the post office?"

"Oh, of course. And naturally I couldn't be invited along."

Bolt looked at her impatiently, "No." His eyes dropped to the tray on the table before her. "What's this? Have you been making coffee, miss?"

Helen nodded. "You called me Helen a few minutes ago. You can go on doing so, if you like. I prefer it to miss!"

Bolt shook his head. "I was concerned about you. It just-slipped out."

"Something else slipped out," murmured Helen moodily. "I happened to mention that I knew his father had been in the Army."

"So?" Bolt shrugged.

"I think he imagines we've been discussing bis affairs." She sighed. "Oh, well -what are you going to do now?"

"If Mr. Lyall's had his coffee I suppose I can get on with lunch."

Helen thrust her hands into the pockets of her pants. "And what about me? What can I do?"

"What do you want to do?"

Helen's mouth turned down at the corners. "You've got to be joking!" she declared unsteadily.

"Apart from that."

"Oh, I don't know." She scuffed her toe. "Don't you ever see anyone here ? I mean, don't you ever have any visitors?"

"Occasionally."

"Who?"

"Friends of Mr. Lyall's."

"Male-or female?"

"Both." Bolt tackled the coffee cups.

Helen digested this. Somehow she had thought he never had visitors. The general assumption that he was either dead or living out of the country had led her to assume that no one knew of his whereabouts. But of course he would have friends - and possibly relatives - who knew he lived here. She would have liked to have asked about his female visitors, but somehow she sensed that on that topic, as with others, Bolt would be uncommunicative.

All the same, she could not prevent the picture of him with some woman from entering her head, and she found the associations distasteful.

"I'm going to my room," she said abruptly, and Bolt looked up in surprise.

"You don't have to," he protested, drying his hands on the towel, but she shook her head and left him.

In her bedroom, she flung herself on the unmade bed and stared moodily up at the ceiling. She felt utterly depressed; everything oppressed her - this house, her circumstances, and most of all Dominic Lyall. What was it about him that disturbed her so? He wasn't handsome, be wasn't even good-looking, although she imagined some women might find his harsh features and deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes a more than adequate compensation. But his attitude towards her had almost always been derisive, and he could be painfully insolent when he chose. So why did he occupy her thoughts like this? Why wasn't she thinking of her father, of the ultimate effect this might have on him? Instead of indulging herself in this wholly unwarranted feeling of emotionalism. It wasn't natural - it wasn't normal; and she deserved to feel depressed.

She deliberately brought a picture of Mike Framley to mind. He was the man her father wanted her to marry. Young, wealthy, good-looking - he was the envy of her friends. And yet he left her cold ... She pulled distractedly at a strand of silky black hair, remembering the revulsion she had felt when he had first kissed her. His lips had been full and moist and she had felt stifled and impatient for it to be over. After that he had kissed her many times and she supposed she had got used to it, but she never enjoyed it. Oh, what was wrong with her? she thought desperately. Why wasn't she attracted to Mike? Why did she stiffen every time he reached for her? Why did the idea of marriage with him fill her with revulsion?

She had thought it was her, that there was something lacking in her make-up, but now she was not so sure. Recalling the way she had reacted to Dominic Lyall's nearness caused a moist heat to dampen her flesh, and she realised she had felt no shrinking inside her at the prospect of the touch of his hands. She felt an overwhelming sense of impotence at the duplicity of her own body. Was she no longer in control of her emotions? Was this what people meant when they talked about a physical attraction? Was that what was wrong with her? Was she becoming infatuated with that cruel, destructive man downstairs? It didn't seem possible, but what other explanation was there?

She jack-knifed into a sitting position. This would not do. She was becoming more and more fanciful. It must be spending so much time on her own, so much time thinking - imagining things.

She slid abruptly off the bed and went into the adjoining bathroom. She felt hot and uncomfortable and decided to take a bath. It would give her something to do and pass a little of the time between now and tonight when she was determined to use that telephone.

During the afternoon she went for a walk with Bolt.

Dominic Lyall ate lunch alone in his study and she had hers with the manservant in the kitchen. Afterwards, when the washing up was done, Bolt suggested they went out for a while and Helen sensed that be was trying in some part to make up for not being able to take her to the post office with him that morning. All the same, she couldn't help but wonder exactly how far to the post office it really was. If Bolt could be there and back in a little over an hour, it couldn't be that far, could it?

But when they went outside she saw tyre tracks flattening the snow leading; towards the lane which she and Dominic had followed to reach the house when he had first brought her here, and she realised they must have a vehicle of some sort.

"Do you - have a car?" she enquired tentatively, as she stood just inside the cow byre watching Bolt shovelling manure from the stalls. If they did, and it seemed likely, perhaps she could use that to make her getaway. Sheba couldn't harm her if she was inside a car.

Bolt leaned on his shovel, looking across at her. "We have a Range Rover," he said amiably.

"Have you?" Helen tried to hide her elation. "I - er -I haven't seen it about."

"Probably because it's kept in a garage," remarked Bolt, returning to his task. "Have you ever driven a four-wheeled drive vehicle?"

Helen forced a light laugh. "Heavens, no. I wouldn't know how to begin," she said blithely.

Bolt seemed to believe her.

"It's not always easy," he said, straightening to rest his back. "Not if you're not used to it."

Helen changed the subject. She had the feeling that Bolt was trying to tell her something, but she didn't want to listen.

Afterwards he took her walking up the hill behind the house. It was, as he had said earlier, much colder, but the exercise sent the blood circulating warmly through her body. She returned to the house feeling distinctly more cheerful, although whether that was because of the walk or because of the knowledge of that Range Rover sitting patiently in its garage she could not be absolutely certain.

She wore another long dress for supper that evening. It was one of her favourites, sapphire blue velvet, with a scooped-out neckline that showed the purity of her camellia-white skin, and long sleeves that came to a point at the wrists. She looped up the wings of ebony hair at each side and secured them with a diamond clasp on the crown of her head, leaving two curling tendrils to hang beside her ears. She wore little make-up at the best of times and tonight she merely enhanced the colour of her eyes with some green eye-shadow and smoothed an amber lipstick over her soft mouth.

Dominic Lyall was in the living room when she entered, helping himself to some Scotch from the bottle beside him, and his eyes flickered over her speculatively without showing any of the admiration she had half hoped for. He did not get up either and she hovered uncertainly by the door, eyeing the cheetah on the hearth, at his feet.

He routed the animal with one suede-booted foot and then said: "Sit down. You'll have to excuse me if I don't get up, but I'm afraid I find it easier to remain seated this evening."

Helen linked her fingers together and moved forward. She wished she had not taken such trouble with her appearance. She felt decidedly over-dressed, -while he, in the black garb he had worn the day before, looked like a silver-haired devil.

When she was seated he poured a small measure of Scotch into a glass, added a splash of soda, and handed it to her. Helen took it because he expected her to do so, but she didn't greatly care for whisky.

"Well?" he said, his tawny eyes insolently appraising. "Is this for Bolt's benefit - or for mine? "

Helen refused to be intimidated. "I'm used to dressing for dinner," she stated coolly. "My father always says that it's good for morale."

"Does he?" Dominic inclined his head in acceptance of this. "And how is your morale this evening?"

Helen was taken aback by his question. "I - I - why do you ask?"

, "Why do women invariably answer one question with another? I'm curious to know how you're enjoying your stay with us."

Helen was angry. "You must know I'm not enjoying it at all! " she exclaimed.

"On the contrary, Bolt tells me you've been walking and sledging and getting plenty of fresh air. Wasn't that what you came north for?"

"I came - north to be independent," she declared impatiently, "not to exchange one bondage for another! "

"Is it as bad as that?"

All of a sudden the mockery was gone from his voice, and that awful weakness was invading her lower limbs. She stared tremulously at him, trying to read the expression in the narrowed eyes between their thick growth of lashes. His mouth had a sensual curve as he returned her gaze and she felt her antagonism towards him melting beneath a surge of wanton longing such as she had never experienced before. The blood was rushing madly through her veins and her breathing was shallow and rapid. She wanted to go to him, to wrap her arms around him, to tell him that if he wanted her here she would never leave, but it was mindless insanity. Her lips parted and her tongue appeared, but before she could speak he rose abruptly to his feet, wincing as he jarred his leg.

He moved across the room, but his pain transmitted itself to her with almost physical perception. On impulse, she rose too and went after him. He was standing with his back to her, his knuckles supporting him on the opened lid of the bureau, and his attitude was one of such dejection that she stood behind him helplessly, and said:

"Are - are you all right?"

"Yes," he muttered, through gritted teeth, without turning. "I'm perfectly all right."

She twisted her hands together. "Are you sure? Is there anything I can get you? Is there anything you need? Are you in pain? Shall I tell Bolt?"

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