Fugitive Wife

Fugitive Wife

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

THE track was too steep and stony for the car, so she parked it at the bottom, just off the village road, and walked the rest of the way, the heels of her elegant boots sliding a little on the uneven surface.

She was hurrying, almost running, and deliberately she made herself slow down because the last thing she wanted to risk in this isolated spot was a sprained ankle.

She rounded the slight bend in the track, pausing to catch her breath and shift her suitcase to her other hand, and saw the cottage up ahead of her looking small and rather squat. The full force of the wind caught her, penetrating the thickness of her sheepskin coat as easily as if it was a chiffon veil. ‘A lazy wind,’ Aunt Hes had always called it. ‘Too idle to go round, so it goes straight through you instead.’

It was degrees colder here. It had been quite a pleasant late autumn day when she had left London, with a misty sun shining through the bare branches of the trees, and an invigorating nip in the air. But the further north she had driven, the greyer the skies had become. And here they were slate-dark and threatening over Kirkby Fell, and almost close enough to touch, she thought with a shiver.

It would be good to get inside and get warm. That was, if there was any fuel in the cottage. She wished she had been able to contact Mrs Barnes in the village who kept a friendly eye on the unoccupied house for Aunt Hes. She made sure there was fuel, and usually a stock of provisions for when Aunt Hes wanted to use the cottage. Or to lend it for a holiday retreat or a honeymoon …

But she wouldn’t think about that now. That was what she had come here to escape from. To forget about, if she could. Suddenly there had been this desperate need to evade all the pressures, both subtle and overt, which were being exerted.

And so she’d flung a few things into a case and driven away north without telling a soul where she was going. She’d not even been able to contact Aunt Hes and make sure she had no objections to her using the cottage, because this was the time of year that her aunt always visited friends in the South of France. And who could blame her? she thought as she mounted the last few yards of the track. No one in their right mind faced with a choice between November in the South of France or on the side of a North Yorkshire fell would choose the fell.

She had left a note at the London house stating simply that she was going away to think things out, and would everyone please leave her alone, and not try to find her or contact her. Seen in retrospect, it had been a melodramatic thing to do, an overreaction, she supposed, to the events of the past week. But wasn’t she entitled to that, under the circumstances?

And no one would guess that she had come here—of all places. That was what had kept her going when other destinations had beckoned her from the road signs on the motorway. Destinations with no painful associations, where there would be people to talk to and things to see. Not an isolated cottage at the top of a cart track with only sheep for company.

She pushed open the small white gate in the low grey stone wall, and went in. The flower borders on each side of the narrow path were lank and overgrown with weeds which brushed her legs as she moved between them. The gate needed painting, she noticed, and so did the whole of the outside of the cottage. If the weather had been warmer, she might have tackled it; the physical effort of stripping down the woodwork and applying undercoat and gloss might have been just what she needed.

She’d said she’d come away to think, but wasn’t it nearer the truth to say that she’d come to escape from her thoughts?

All that remained now was to find the key to the front door. She mentally crossed her fingers that Mrs Barnes had not removed it for safe-keeping, or Aunt Hes found a new and safer hidey-hole for it. But it was still there, where it had always been left, under the piece of broken paving stone to the right of the front door.

The door yielded under her hand with a slight protesting squeak, and she went in, closing it behind her and leaning against it while her breathing steadied, feeling oddly like a small animal which had reached its refuge just ahead of the hunters.

She closed her eyes and let the silence surround her, and gradually the small sounds of the cottage and its environs began to impinge on her consciousness—the rustling and stirrings of the ancient fabric of the building itself, the whine of the rising wind in the eaves, the harsh calling of rooks from the fields behind, the distant bleat of a sheep, and nearer at hand the slow reassuring beat of the bracket clock which occupied pride of place on the overmantel of the room Aunt Hes always insisted on calling the parlour. The air smelt faintly musty, but it was only the inevitable odour of a house which had been shut up and untenanted. There was no tell-tale smell of damp or dry rot. Mrs Barnes did her job well, she thought. The place was regularly aired and warmed.

Briony opened her eyes and glanced round. There was a small flurry of envelopes just inside the door and she bent and picked them up. Mostly circulars by the look of things, she thought, tossing them negligently on to the hallstand. She left her case at the foot of the narrow stairs and walked into the living room.

Mrs Barnes did her job not just well, but superlatively, she thought appreciatively as her eyes fell on the fire laid ready in the grate, with the filled coal bucket, and the wicker basket full of sweet-smelling logs all to hand. It was almost as if she was expected. But that was silly. The impulse which had driven her here had not permitted any advance warning. No one knew where she was. No one at all.

No one, she repeated soundlessly, and her hands met in front of her, gripping each other with an odd painful intensity so that her rings bit into her flesh. She looked down wincing, and saw the flat gleam of the plain gold band on her left hand. She dragged it over her knuckle and threw it across the room with all her might. She heard the tinkle as it landed and rolled on the flagged floor. But she did not see where it went, and she did not want to see.

‘I’m Briony Trevor,’ she told herself fiercely. ‘Briony Adair never existed. Never. And nothing that’s happened makes the slightest difference to that.’

A tiny lean-to scullery opened off the living room, and she went through to make sure there was water, and that the electricity supply was switched on. Even if it wasn’t, she could manage for one night, she thought. She knew where Aunt Hes kept the candles, and a small camping stove. But everything seemed to be in working order, and she filled the kettle, and set it to boil while she looked about her. There was a jar of instant coffee, which she sniffed dubiously, and some rather dusty-looking tea-bags in a brightly coloured caddy. Beggars could not be choosers, she thought, opting for probably nasty coffee, drunk black. Tomorrow she would go to the shop in the village and see about milk, and other provisions. But she would make do for tonight.

When she’d made her drink, she would light the fire, and see about airing some bedding.

The fire had been laid in the old-fashioned way, with spills of tightly rolled newspaper and kindling. It caught as soon as she put a match to it, and she knelt placing lumps of coal on the blazing edifice and watching the greedy tongues of flame licking round them.

She fetched her mug of coffee and sat on the high-backed wooden rocker close by the hearth to drink it.

She felt tired suddenly and drained as if this last small effort had finally exhausted her resources. She knew she ought to go upstairs to lie down, but it all seemed too much trouble. Presently she would find the bedding she needed. Presently. But for the moment it was enough to sit quietly with her hands clamped round the comforting warmth of the mug and feel the first tentative heat from the fire reaching out to her. She needed very badly to feel warm. There was a chill deep inside her.

But was this really the right place to come to dispel it? The coffee tasted suddenly bitter in her mouth and she set the mug down with a faint grimace. It had seemed a good idea. The ideal place to exorcise all her demons, to lay her ghosts to rest, she had thought. The only place, in fact. But now as darkness came crowding outside the small windows and the shadows gathered about her, she was not so sure any more.

She should get up and draw the curtains, and light the lamps—one on the square table by the window and the other in the book-lined recess beside the fireplace. But there was no hurry for that.

She was no longer a child to be frightened of the dark, she thought wryly. Her fears and hang-ups were all tangible now, and all to do with reality. Shadows could not hurt her, but people could, and had, and still might.

Sighing, she stretched her legs out in front of her. Slim-fitting trousers in grey cord covered her to her ankles, and a cream-coloured lambswool sweater with a high roll collar reached almost to her pointed chin. A broad-faced watch, its bracelet made of fine gold mesh, encircled her wrist. On her right hand a moonstone ring gleamed. Her left hand looked strangely bare without her wedding ring. Logan’s ring.

She touched the mark on her marriage finger which showed where it had rested, her lips twisting slightly. Throwing it away had been a gesture, that was all. It had altered nothing. Legally, she was still Logan’s wife, even though for months she had believed she was Logan’s widow.

She lifted her hands and removed the two tortoiseshell combs which confined her shoulder-length copper hair behind her ears, shaking it loose around her face. She pressed her fingertips against her temples in an effort to relieve the slight tense ache which was beginning to build up there.

She bent forward and added another shovel of coal to the now brightly glowing fire, then leaned back, her eyes closed, trying to shut out the thoughts, the tantalising memories which buzzed and vibrated in her brain.

Logan standing in this very room, the usually cynical lines of his mouth relaxing into unexpected tenderness. His voice husky as he said ‘Hello, wife,’ and his arms reached for her.

At the time, she’d reckoned that to be the happiest moment of her life, happier than the actual wedding ceremony only a few hours before in London, because, then, in the register office, she’d been aware of her father’s absence and of his continuing resentment of her marriage. But here in this room, alone with Logan, nothing else had seemed to matter. Her father’s disapproval had seemed a long way away, and almost immaterial.

As Logan’s arms had closed around her, and her lips had parted eagerly beneath his kiss, it had seemed that they would share this closeness for ever, that nothing or no one could ever separate them.

A mirthless smile curved her mouth. In retrospect, that conviction had a terrible irony.

She didn’t want to look back now, to remember everything that had happened. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow when I’m less tired—more able to cope. But even as the thought formulated itself, she knew it was self-deception. So far she had signally failed to manage any aspect of her life. Wasn’t that why she was here? Why she had fled to this little retreat in the wilds of Yorkshire, just to escape from a situation which she could neither control nor understand. She had come, telling herself that she had to think things out. This was the reason for her presence here. She could not, must not allow herself to escape again.

Besides, memories were pressing on her brain, presenting her with images, that she believed she had safely shut away for ever. No, her mind cried out in rebellion. I don’t want to look back. I don’t want the pain of it. In the past year she had made herself a tight safe cocoon where troubling memories could not pursue her. She had thought it was impregnable, but now she recognised that for the illusion it was. Where emotions were concerned, was anyone ever totally invulnerable, she wondered?

She passed a weary hand across her eyes. Was it really only eighteen months ago that she had accompanied her father to her first really adult party since leaving school—the annual presentation of awards within the United Publishing Group in the penthouse suite of their towering City building? The girl who had arrived at the party on Sir Charles Trevor’s arm, in a secret flutter of excitement, seemed to have come from a different world. Not long past eighteen, with three good ‘A’ levels under her belt, and the world her oyster, it had seemed. Or, at least, the world as delineated by her father. It had disappointed her to discover that her dreams of university were to remain dreams for the time being. Sir Charles, it seemed, needed her to act as his hostess, and he had informed her that it would do her no harm to learn how to run the London house, and Branthwaite, his home in Berkshire. Briony had been frankly unenthusiastic at the prospect. For one thing, she could imagine the reaction from Mrs Lambert, their briskly efficient housekeeper, if she attempted to interfere in the clockwork running of either establishment. For another, she had always planned on having a career of some sort, and she told her father so.

Sir Charles had raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve no objection to you finding yourself a job of sorts in time, Briony,’ he said. ‘But I do hope you’re not intending to turn yourself into one of these strident females, always demanding equal opportunities, and other nonsense. Besides, I did think you might wish to give me some of your time now that your full-time education has been completed. I’ve been very lonely since your mother died, and I was looking forward to your companionship.’

Which was emotional blackmail at the very least, Briony thought gloomily as she murmured reluctant acquiescence. She was neither blind nor stupid, and she was quite aware that her father had consoled himself during the latter years of his widowhood with a succession of attractive ladies, many of whom had been only too willing to act as his hostess. She wondered rather acidly whether the subtle pressures on her father to remarry had proved rather overwhelming of late, and if that was why she was being dragged kicking and screaming into the picture.

But she consoled herself with the thought that the next year or so could be fun. There would be dinners and receptions, and even trips abroad, and a greater contrast to the boarding school life of past years could scarcely be envisaged. Her father had been too busy controlling the publishing empire of which he was chairman to have paid her a great deal of attention up to now.

The dinner which had preceded the awards party had been rather a disappointment to her. She had been introduced to a number of young executives, who had paid her flattering attention, but she was realistic to know that this was what she could expect as the chairman’s daughter, even if she’d had two heads. She was not unaware of her own attractions—her slender figure, the sheen of her coppery hair, and the charm of her wide-set grey-green eyes with their heavy fringing of lashes—and was becoming used to the glances which tended to follow her these days. But at the same time she knew there had to be a happy medium between the overt flattery of the younger men at U.P.G. and the almost paternal deference of the older ones. She guessed that her father’s reputation of being a hard man to cross was responsible for the respectful distance which seemed to be maintained from them for most of the evening.

When the actual moment for the awards came, Briony quite enjoyed handing over the small silver replicas of quill pens, and the accompanying cheques, and uttering a few shy words of congratulation to writers, photographers and artists who had been merely names to her up to now.

She was just beginning to shed some of her inhibitions and enjoy being the centre of the stage, when she became aware of a man watching her across the room. For a moment their eyes met and locked, and Briony was teased by an odd sense of familiarity. But she knew he was not one of those she had met at the dinner.

And in the same moment she realised that the expression in the aquamarine-pale eyes, looking her over from head to foot, was neither paternal nor deferential. It was coolly challenging, even faintly amused, and it told Briony quite clearly and unequivocally that wherever the sex war was waged, this man would expect to emerge as a victor. Nor did she have to wonder how anyone of her age and inexperience, only recently released from the shelter of school, could have known this. It was pure instinct, and she recognised it as such.

But all the same, she turned away hurriedly, aware that embarrassment mingled with indignation was heightening the colour in her face, and was annoyed to find that her mind still retained an image of him, tall and lean, his tawny hair bleached into blond streaks, and his eyes startlingly pale against the deep tan of his face.

All she had to do, of course, was wait until her father, deep in conversation with Hal Mackenzie, the editor of the Courier, the group’s leading and influential daily paper, was free, and then ask the man’s name. But she was reluctant to do this, for reasons she only dimly perceived herself. Something told her that if her father wished her to know this man, then he would have arranged for there to be an introduction earlier in the evening.

In the event, she did not have to wait to be told who he was. When the time came for the prestigious ‘Journalist of the Year’ award to be made, and the name Logan Adair was called, he walked forward. As she picked up the award, Briony discovered crossly that the palms of her hands were damp, but she managed to present a calm exterior as Logan Adair shook hands, first with her father, who was murmuring a few conventional phrases of congratulation, and then turned to her.

She said politely, ‘Well done, Mr Adair,’ in a small, cool voice, and held out his award and envelope. Everyone else had taken their award, thanked her, shaken hands and walked away, usually back to the bar with ill-concealed relief. But not Logan Adair.

He said with elaborate courtesy, ‘On the contrary, thank you, my dear Miss Trevor,’ and his hand reached out to clasp not her fingers as she expected, but her wrist, pulling her forward towards him slightly off balance, so that she looked up in quick alarm and saw the amused glint in his eyes before he deliberately lowered his mouth to hers. The pressure was quick and light, and casual in the extreme, so there was no reason on earth why Briony should jerk back as if she had been branded, only to find the little incident had been witnessed in the loudest silence she had ever heard.

Logan Adair said smilingly, ‘A pleasure to have met you, Miss Trevor,’ and turned away.

Briony’s cheeks were stained with bright colour and her fragile poise was shaken to its core. The chatter round the room had broken out again, but too loudly, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Sir Charles, frowning thunderously, wheel on Hal Mackenzie. She wished with all her heart, in spite of her embarrassment, that her father would treat it as the joke it had undoubtedly been, or else forget it altogether, but she knew this could never happen.

Sir Charles was well known for his ambivalent attitude to the empire he controlled, she thought unhappily. He was proud of his newspapers and magazines and the influence they wielded, yet he had little time for the rank and file journalists and photographers who provided the words and pictures for his millions of readers to pore over. United Publishing had had its fair share of industrial troubles in the past, and Briony was aware that many people in the organisation believed that their chairman’s intransigent attitude towards his workforce was at least partly to blame.

‘What Charles would really like to see would be complete automation in the industry, complete with robots to press the right buttons,’ an old friend had remarked recently at a private dinner party, and though Briony had joined in the laughter which followed, the comment had troubled her slightly. It occurred to her that a newspaper’s quality was largely dictated by the people who wrote for it. People like Logan Adair, whose byline appeared above hard-hitting eye-witness reports from the trouble spots of the globe.

Briony had seen his name often in the Courier, and had looked out for his stories, relishing his laconic style and the dry humour with which he often laced the bitter truth he had to tell. She knew from comments she had heard that he was regarded as one of the feathers in the Courier’s cap, and that there were plenty of rival newspapers who would have paid over the odds to obtain his services, but she was also aware that her father did not share these sentiments.

She heard Hal Mackenzie say placatingly, ‘Sir Charles, isn’t this all rather a storm in a tea-cup?’ and walked away hastily. The presentations were over, fortunately, and someone had opened the french doors at the end of the room which led out on to the rooftop terrace. She was glad to be able to escape there, and glad too to find herself alone. If indeed she was alone. She’d only taken one long steadying breath of the crisp night air when she was aware that she was being watched, and turned quickly. When she saw just who it was standing between her and the door, she stepped back involuntarily, her heart missing a beat.

Logan Adair said acidly, ‘There’s no need to panic, Miss Trevor. Our brief encounter just now didn’t drive me so mad with desire that I’ve rushed out here to ravish you.’

‘Then why precisely did you—rush out here, Mr Adair? To insult me again?’

The pale eyes held a wry gleam as he looked at her. He said, ‘My God, that has the authentic Trevor stamp on it! As a matter of fact, I think I had some vague idea of making amends, but I’m sure your father’s daughter would regard that as a sign of weakness, so I think I’ll return to the more congenial atmosphere at the bar.’

He was already turning away as she said, ‘I’m sorry if I overreacted. You—startled me, that’s all.’

‘And not for the first time this evening.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘I always understood that sweet sixteen was the limit for never having been kissed. You’re two years out of date.’

‘How do you know how old I am?’ she demanded.

‘Elementary, my sweet. The Courier too has its gossip column, and your eighteenth birthday was featured with photographs—remember? “The lovely Briony Trevor comes of age” it said, rather predictably. Claridges, wasn’t it? My invitation must have been mislaid somewhere.’

She tried to match his own light tone. ‘You mean you would have accepted one?’

‘Probably not,’ he said drily. ‘But I think I’d make a point of being around the day you really come of age.’