Where have you been? 3 страница

"I wanted to make love to you," he stated brutally. "I thought you wanted the same."

"I - I did," she breathed unsteadily.

"I wonder?" His lips twisted. "And. would you have been prepared to forget all about it once this interlude is over?"

"Forget - about - it?" Helen struggled into a sitting position, dragging together the neckline of her dress. "Dominic, I - I don't believe you're - indifferent to me!"

He stared grimly down at her for a moment and then limped abruptly to his chair. Sitting down, he reached for the bottle of Scotch and a glass. "I wonder Why it is that women can never appreciate that men can be aroused without feeling anything more than a purely animal desire to mate," he said.

Helen's face mirrored her distaste at the crudity of his words. "I - I think that's a disgusting thing to say!" she declared.

"What else would you expect from someone as perverted and distorted as me?"

"Oh, Dominic-"

"Shut up!" he muttered, raising his full glass to his lips. "I don't want to talk about it any more. I don't want to talk to you any more. You make me sick!"

Helen caught her breath on a sob. "Stop it!" she cried. "Stop saying such things! You don't mean them. I don't believe you."

His eyes narrowed. "Why not? Do you have such a high opinion of yourself? I assure you the intimacies we have just shared, I have shared with other women, and with greater satisfaction."

Helen had heard enough. She scrambled to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster and stood looking down at him with tortured eyes. "I - I think you're vile!" she got out unsteadily, "vile! I don't know how I could have imagined you were a decent man - let you touch me! I - I despise you. I despise you utterly!"

"Good." He lay back in Ms chair with apparent unconcern. "That's the way I like it. Now, as this is my house, do you mind getting out of this room? I intend getting stoned out of my mind!"

Helen dragged herself up the stairs to her room. She dreaded the possibility that Bolt might appear and ask her if everything was all right and she knew if he had she would have broken down in front of him. As it was, once she was safely in her room, she collapsed on the bed in an agony of weeping that did not abate for several minutes. But when at last the storm was over, she lay feeling quite bereft of all emotion.

Then she got to her feet and tore off the crepe jersey dress. She felt she never wanted to see it again as long as she lived and she rolled it up in a ball and thrust it in the bottom of the wardrobe.

After that she stood in her long slip wondering how on earth she was going to survive another day in Dominic Lyall's house. It was useless telling herself the things she had blurted at him, that he was vile and despicable. It was useless telling herself she hated him. Because she knew it was not so. She loved him. She really loved him. And that was something harder to bear than the anger and frustration she had suffered in those first few days.

So Bolt had been right and it was up to her to do something about it. Of course, she couldn't go to Bolt for help, but there still remained the possibility of the Range Rover, and the more she thought about it, the more imperative it seemed that she should get away from here before something even more disastrous happened.

She sighed. What could happen that hadn't happened already? she asked herself, and supplied the answer. Living here with Dominic Lyall was doing strange things to her, and she was afraid that one day she would find the desire to know the forbidden fruit of sexual experience with him irresistible. And it could happen. Whatever he said, she knew he found her attractive, but his motivations lacked the sincerity of hers.

With a shake of her head she took off the long slip and searching in her drawers brought out jeans and a sweater. Once dressed again, she considered her position. It was already after ten o'clock. Bolt, she knew, would be coming to bed shortly, and if Dominic did as he said and got drunk, she would have no problems with him. That only left Sheba. Bolt had said she slept in the kitchen, so that meant she would have to leave the house by the main front door. It was unfortunate trial the front door was so near to the living room, but that couldn't be helped. It was now or never, she thought fatalistically.

By eleven-thirty the house was as silent as the grave. A peep through her curtains had shown her that it was still snowing, and she stifled a sigh. What did it matter? With the amount of snow about her tracks were bound to be visible for days. She went quietly down the stairs and extracted her coat from the hall cloakroom. Apart from her handbag, she was taking nothing with her. As far as she was concerned the rest of her belongings could stay here.

There was a bolt as well as a lock on the front door, but fortunately the brilliance of the snow outside provided an illumination she was thankful for. The bolt slid back smoothly, the lock turned, and the door was open.

Outside, she looked about her. The night air was cold, but not frosty, and the flakes of snow fell softly on to her upturned face. With a stiffening of resolve, she moved away from the front door and walked round the side of the building. She knew all the outhouses were at the back, and somehow she had to discover which was the garage.

It was easier than she had thought possible. The tyre tracks of days ago still marked the yard and she went confidently towards a barn-like building beyond the cowsheds. The double doors were not locked, merely closed and secured by a plank of wood. Panic nearly caused her to drop the plank as she lifted it out of its shafts when a sleek black body fled across the yard., but she realised in a moment that it was only one of the half-wild cats that made their home in the outbuildings.

Nevertheless; the small incident had served to unnerve her a little and she winced as the doors squeaked on their hinges. She peered inside, blinking to adjust her eyes to the darkness and then gasping as she saw that the vehicle in the barn was not the Range Rover as she had supposed but her small sports car. Until that moment she had scarcely thought about it, and if she had vaguely imagined it still buried in the snow. But now she remembered that Dominic had asked Bolt to see about shifting it, and obviously he had succeeded. She sighed. If only she had her keys! If only she knew how to connect the points to make contact possible.

Oh, well! She closed the barn doors again. It was useless anyway. The car might still be out of commission, and she could just imagine the noise she would make trying to get that useless engine started.

She looked round the yard again. There were lots of tracks now she came to study them, and they all seemed to criss-cross one another. But there was only one other building large enough to house a Range Rover and she approached it with caution.

This time she was lucky. The Range Rover stood just inside the doors, and wonder of wonders, the keys were hanging in the ignition. She could hardly believe it. Her hands trembled as she climbed inside and closed the door silently behind her. The controls looked much the same as she was used to and hunching her shoulders against the sound that igniting the engine would bring, she turned the key slowly. There was a moment when she thought it was going to fail, but then, with a touch of the accelerator, it roared to life and she knew that now she had only minutes to make her getaway.

She found a gear and the vehicle rolled forward out of the garage and onto the yard. She swung right, round the side of the house, remembering to put on her headlights in time to avoid a rain barrel, and careered across the cobbled yard at the front of the building. What was it Bolt had said about a four-wheeled drive vehicle being harder to drive? Heavens, it was easier, and the crushed wedges of snow held no fears for her. Her car would have been bogged down by now, but the Range Rover handled magnificently. She was following the tracks that Bolt must have made going to the post office and her excitement was sufficient to allay the feelings of betrayal that were rising in her. She would not think about the shock Dominic Lyall was going to get when he discovered that she was gone, or Bolt's reproachful disappointment that after everything that had happened they could still not trust her. She was escaping - that was all she was going to think about She had achieved the impossible.

A bank of snow lay ahead of her and automatically her foot weighed heavier on the accelerator to scale it. The Range Rover bounced forward at speed, taking the bank in its stride, and picking up speed on the slope beyond Helen felt the first twinges of alarm as she released the accelerator at once. She was going much too fast and she must slow down or she wouldn't make the next corner. She tentatively touched her foot to the brake even though she knew it was a hairy thing to do. The vehicle slewed sideways in a semi-circle and trying not to panic she drove into the skid. But the road was so narrow with its heavy drifts of snow that the rear end of the Range Rover hit a frozen mass and swung back across the road again. Her tongue protruding from her lips in her concentration not to panic, Helen again steered into the skid. The Range Rover's wheels slipped sideways and again she hit the opposite bank of snow. It was a terrifying experience, particularly as she was still moving at speed down the lane, rocking from side to side. She saw the corner up ahead of her and tried to swing the wheel, but she was out of control and the Range Rover ploughed into the mass ahead, throwing her forward to hit her head hard against the steering wheel...

When she opened her eyes she was lying on the road and a voice she had thought never to hear again was saying: "Helen! Helen, for God's sake, are you all right?"

Her eyes focussed on the man kneeling beside her, on the thick swathe of silvery fair hair falling across his forehead, the dark, deeply engraved features, the strange tawny eyes., curiously concerned now as he looked down at her.

"Dominic," she murmured faintly. "Oh, Dominic, I crashed!"

"I know." There were harsh lines of strain beside his mouth. "Little fool I You could have been killed!"

"Would you have cared?" she whispered, bunking rapidly.

"Yes, I would have cared," he muttered, and rose abruptly to his feet.

As he stood looking impatiently up the road, Helen gingerly lifted her head. But apart from a thumping headache there didn't appear to be anything wrong with her, and she sat upright, brushing the snow from her shoulders.

Dominic turned to look at her. "Stay where you are!" he ordered. "Bolt will be along presently with, the tractor. He can pull the Rover out of the ditch."

Ignoring his command, Helen got unsteadily to her feet and Dominic turned to her irritably. "I told you to stay where you were," he muttered, and her shoulders straightened in an attempt at defiance.

"You can't give me orders," she protested. "I'm not Bolt!"

Dominic's expression was brooding. "I had noticed. Bolt isn't half the nuisance you are."

"I'm sorry."

Helen was rapidly losing what little composure she had. It had all been too much for her - his cruel indictment of her this evening, the tension that escaping from the house had brought, and flow this crash and the miserable ending to all her hopes seemed the last straw. Her shoulders sagged and she felt tears rolling helplessly down her cheeks. She had never felt so wretched.

Dominic heard a stifled sob and turned to look at her. His eyes narrowed as they took in the pitiful picture she made, snow still clinging to her clothes and her hair, and an utterly defeated expression on her face.

"Oh, Helen!" he exclaimed impatiently, and before she realised what he was about to do, he had swung her up into his arms and begun walking up the road towards the house.

Helen's arms were about his neck, her head was pillowed against his chest, and she felt a sweet warmth welling up inside her. But then she remembered his hip and said anxiously: "Please - put me down! I - I can walk. You- you shouldn't be carrying me."

"I'm not completely helpless," he remarked, his jaw taut, and although she tried to get him to look at her, he wouldn't. Helen submitted and gave herself up to the pure delight of just being in his arms and for several minutes they went on in silence.

They had topped the rise which had been the start of Helen's troubles when she heard the sound of a tractor and turning her head she saw Bolt driving towards them. He stopped just ahead of them and swung down, his face eloquent of his disapproval.

"I've been as quick as I could!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Give her to me. Is she badly hurt?"

"I'm all right, Bolt, really." Helen raised her head, but she realised that most of Bolt's concern was for his employer.

Dominic allowed Bolt to take his burden and Helen felt rather like an unwanted parcel.

"If you'll put me down, I can walk," she protested again, but no one took any notice of her. They walked the few yards back to the house and Helen was made overwhelmingly aware that Dominic's limp was now markedly pronounced and that Bolt somehow blamed her for it And it was her fault, after all, she thought miserably.

There was a certain anti-climax about re-entering the building and Bolt set her on her feet in the hall and said: "Go along up to bed, miss. I'll fetch you a hot drink in a few minutes."

"That's not necessary -" she was beginning, but she was talking to herself. Dominic had limped into the living room and Bolt had followed him, closing the door on Helen with a firmness that was almost a physical reproof. She looked up the stairs, tears coming to her eyes again. They were clearly not concerned that she might make another attempt to escape tonight, and who could blame them? Besides, she felt so shattered that she doubted if she would ever be able to summon up enough enthusiasm to ever try such a thing again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Helen wasn't aware whether Bolt came up with a hot drink or not. Exhaustion closed her eyes almost as soon as her head touched the pillow and she didn't know another thing until a watery sun was pressing faint rays through the curtains drawn across her windows. She propped herself up on her elbows expecting to have a hangover from the headache of the night before, but she hadn't. And when she went to examine her forehead she found only a grazed bruise to signify the bump she had sustained, and her hair would conceal that.

She bathed and dressed in a short green pleated skirt and lemon shirt and was brushing her hair before the dressing table mirror when Bolt arrived with her breakfast tray.

"Mr. Lyall wants to see you", miss," he told her, as he set down the tray, and there was none of the usual warmth in his voice which she had come to expect from him.

"Do you know why?" she asked.

Bolt shook his head. "Mr. Lyall will explain when you see him, miss," he replied, and walked towards the door.

"Bolt!" Helen went after him. "Bolt, what's wrong? You're surely not - angry with me - for trying to get away?"

"No, miss."

"You are angry." Helen sighed. "Bolt, you said yesterday you didn't want to see me hurt. Surely you realise that the longer I stay here the more likely that possibility will be?"

"Yes, miss."

"Oh, Bolt, please! Try to understand-"

"I do understand, miss."

"So why are you - like this?"Her brows knit together. "Unless -unless you're soiry I didn't succeed?"

"Yes, miss."

Helen gasped. "You are? I mean - you wanted me to go?"

"It would have been the best thing."

"And you guessed I'd try," she murmured wonderingly. "It was you who left the keys in the ignition."

Bolt shrugged. "There are no thieves around here, miss. The keys are usually left in the ignition."

"Even so..." Helen shook her head. "I - I didn't realise you felt that strongly about it."

Bolt's jaw tightened. "You're doing no good here, miss. No good to anybody."

And with this cryptic comment, he left her.

Helen sat down to her breakfast with a heavy heart. For a week now, Bolt had been her shield against Dominic's indifference, her friend in spite of their unique positions. And now it seemed even his friendship was to be denied her. And what did Dominic want? What possible reason could he have for sending for her unless it was to issue some new punishment for last night's ill doings.

She examined the contents of the tray. Cereal, ham and eggs, toast and marmalade; they might as well have been sawdust for all the interest she had in them.

The idea of eating anything made her feel physically sick, but she did manage to drink a cup of coffee to calm her nerves.

When she eventually carried the tray downstairs she couldn't help but be relieved that Bolt was not in the kitchen. She quickly scraped her untouched food into the waste disposal and switched on, glad that Bolt was not there to see it. As she waited for the machine to do its work she noticed a neat pile of clothes laid on a chair. They were the things she had taken off the previous day after that scene in the sauna room, expertly laundered and ironed, and waiting for her. A lump rose in her throat She felt hopelessly emotional. How could she go and face Dominic Lyall like this?

Calming herself, she left the kitchen and crossed the hall to the living room. Opening the door tentatively, she peered inside, but Dominic was not there. Of course, no doubt he was working in his study at this hour. She knocked at the study door, but there was no reply. A look inside assured her that he was not there either. A frown crossed her pale face. Where could he be?

"Mr. Lyall's in bed, miss." Bolt was standing on the stairs. "If I'd known you'd finished your breakfast, I'd have come along to get you."

Helen's lips parted. "Is-is he ill?"

Bolt turned. "Come this way, miss."

They went back upstairs and turned left towards Dominic's rooms. Bolt opened a door and ushered her inside and she found herself in an austere bedroom, as unlike her own it was possible to be. The floor was polished wood, with only a couple of rugs for adornment, and the plain walls were bare. The bed was like the one in her room, but with a plain beige woven spread, and cool air issued from open windows. But although these things registered, Helen's eyes were irresistibly drawn to the man in the bed, propped on pillows, his dark face pale and drawn, a navy silk dressing gown visible above the bedclothes.

His gaze flickered over her to Bolt. "All right, Bolt," he said. "You can leave us."

"Yes, sir."

Bolt withdrew and Dominic returned his attention to Helen. "You must be wondering why I've had you brought here," he said quietly.

Helen's fingers curled into her palms. "Why are you in bed?" she burst out. "Is your hip very bad?"

Dominic's expression hardened. "Shall we leave my condition out of this?" he remarked harshly, "You're here because I've decided to let you go."

"To - to let me go!" Helen was astounded and looked it.

"That's right. Bolt has serviced your car and it's now in perfect working order. He's presently packing your cases in readiness for your departure."

Helen couldn't take it in. "But - but - what about you? I mean, are you ready to leave, too?"

Dominic shook his head. "I think not. We'll have to trust you not to reveal our whereabouts."

Helen licked her dry lips. Oh, God, she thought despairingly, she didn't want to go! Not now - with him here, in bed.

"What's wrong? Why are you in bed?" she exclaimed again. "Please, I want to know."

Dominic's lips thinned. "Why? Does it give you satisfaction to see how weak I am?"

"You're not weak-"

"Puerile, then. What does it matter? You'll soon forget all about me and my stupid ailments." His fingers clenched round the sheet.

"I won't." The words were torn from her. "Dominic, I—"

"Please leave." His voice was cold and final. "Goodbye. With the instructions Bolt willgive you, you should have no difficulty in reaching the main road."

Helen twisted her hands together. "I won't leave if you don't want me to," she whispered piteously.

But he was completely ruthless. "My dear girl, I never wanted you here in the first place!"

Bolt was coming out of her bedroom as she walked blindly along the landing. He had her suitcases in his hands and she thought that for a brief moment she glimpsed something like sympathy in his eyes. But then it was gone again and he was indicating that she should precede him down the stairs.

"I've got everything," he said, in that expressionless voice he had used earlier- "Willyou get your coat, or shall I?"

"I - I will." Helen opened the cloakroom door. "Oh, and there were some things I was going to thank you for attending to - "

"From the kitchen? They're in the case, miss. Is that all?"

Helen nodded and she had perforce to accompany him outside. Her car had been brought to the door, and she saw that he had taken the trouble to sluice it clean for her. He bent and put her cases in the boot and then handed her the key.

"The other key is in the ignition," he explained, thrusting his hands into his trousers' pockets. "Are you ready?"

Helen nodded again. She didn't trust herself to speak.

"Right." Bolt took out one hand and pointed in the direction she had taken the night before. "Follow that lane for about a mile and a half and you'll see a turning off to your left. Take it and you'll come to a village. That's Hawksmere. If you ask there, 'they'll put you on the right road for wherever you want to go."

Helen nodded once more. "Thank you,” she managed chokily.

Bolt made a dismissive gesture. "It's nothing. Goodbye, miss."

"Goodbye."

Helen took one last look at the house and then at the man standing by the door and without another word clim-bed--into the driving seat, started the engine and drove away without looking back.

She reached Hawksmere before she was able to think coherently. The postmaster there directed her to the motorway, and she drove automatically, refusing to allow her aching brain to think of anything but her immediate problems. She was driving buck to London, that much was certain. Any idea she might have had about spending several weeks in the Lake District no longer appealed to her, and even the house in Barbary Square which her father shared with. Isabel offered a haven to her bruised emotions.

She didn't bother stopping for lunch on the way south. She wasn't hungry, and as the road opened up before her and the weather improved the further south she came, she put down her foot and the car sped over the ground.

It was a little after two when she drove into the Square and saw her father's grey Mercedes parked before their town house. Her nerves tightened. This was something else she had to face and she had the feeling that it wasn't going to be easy.

She drew up behind the Mercedes and climbed out, her limbs stiffened after four hours' solid motoring. She had a headache, too, but that was nothing to do with driving. It was pure nervous tension.

She locked her door and climbed the steps to the house, letting herself in with her key. The sound of the door opening brought a small dark woman into the hall and she threw up her hands in surprise when she saw Helen.

"Oh- oh, Miss Helen!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Miss Helen, thank goodness you've come home!"

Helen closed the outer door and leaned back against it for a moment, summoning all her small reserves of strength. "Hello, Bessie," she greeted her father's housekeeper quietly. "Has there been a panic?"

"A panic!" Bessie came towards 'her shaking her head. "Oh, miss, where have you been?"

"Good God! Helen!"

Helen looked up at the sound of her father's voice. He was descending the stairs at speed, staring at her as if he couldn't believe his eyes. She felt a twinge of shame when she saw the haggard lines around his eyes, and thea she was swept into his arms and hugged close against his broad chest,

"Oh, thank God, thank God! " he was murmuring, disregarding Bessie's presence entirely. "Where on earth have you been, you independent little fool! "

Helen felt the tears hovering behind her eyes, but they must not be shed. If her father thought she was crying because of seeing him, the little advantage she had gained would be lost for ever.

"Didn't you get my note?" she protested at last, as he held her at arm's length, staring at her as if he couldn't bear not to do so.

"Note? Your note? Of course I got your note. If I hadn't I'd have been half out of my mind by now. In God's name, where have you been? I've had half the private detective force in Britain looking for you!" Helen managed a smile. "Have you?" "Yes, I damn well have. And I've driven Isabel almost mad with it all. Where the devil have you been?" Helen released herself from his hands and glanced apologetically towards Bessie. "Do you think I could have some tea, Bessie?" she requested appealingly. "I haven't had a thing since -since early this morning."

"Of course you can." Bessie looked to Philip James for approval, and when it was given in the form of a brief cod, she hurried away. Then Helen's father led the way into the library, and closed the double panelled doors behind them.

"Now," he said, when she was seated in a comfortable armchair, "I want to know all about it."

Helen sighed, looking down at her hands. "Well - really, there's not much to tell."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged. "I - I went to the Lake District."

"You did what?"

"You heard me, Daddy. I went to the Lake District. To - to that little hotel at Bowness where we used to stay when I was a child."

Philip James's eyes narrowed, and a frown came to mar his smooth forehead. "The Black Bull?"

"You remember it!" Helen forced an enthusiasm she was far from feeling. "Oh, we had some good times there, didn't we?"

Her father got up from the armchair he had placed opposite hers and walked impatiently across to the screened fireplace. Then he turned to look at her, one foot resting on the raised stone fender. "And you stayed there all this time?" he stated quietly.

"That's right." Helen uncrossed her fingers. "I expect it was the last place you'd think of looking for me."

"Indeed. The last place." He drew out a cigarette case and extracting a cigarette placed it between his lips. "And what did you hope to achieve by running away?"

Helen relaxed. It was going to be all right. Easier than she had thought, really. Her father was going to be angry with her, of course, once his initial relief at seeing her safe again had worn off, but she was confident she could handle it.

She looked at him affectionately. He wasn't so bad really, not deep down. And after the traumatic experience of this past week the problems she might have to face with him seemed trivial by comparison. A stirring of remembered agony brought a sudden devastating feeling of hopelessness and she tightened her lips and tried hard to think of what her father had asked her and nothing else.

"I - I needed time to think, Daddy," she said at last. "Time to be - on my own. To think things out for myself."

Philip James removed his foot from the fender and straightened. He was a man of medium height, but his stocky build made him appear taller than he actually was. "So," he said slowly, "I presume this conversation is indirectly to do with young Framley."

Helen shrugged. "In a way, I suppose,"

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