Innocent Sins

Was it really only six months since she’d seen her father in London? He’d seemed as hale and hearty as ever, if a little more boisterous than usual. She’d put that down to his usual high spirits at seeing her again, but she wondered now if it had been a screen for something else. Stella had said that she’d known nothing about him having any heart trouble, but he could have been hiding it from her, as well.

Her stomach quivered. If only she’d known. If only she’d had some premonition that all was not as it should be. But although her grandmother had been a little fey, as they said around here, and had occasionally been able to see into the future, Laura never had. Whatever powers she’d possessed had not been passed on to her granddaughter.

According to her stepmother’s version of events, her father’s attack had been totally unexpected. He’d apparently been out riding earlier in the day. Although he hadn’t been a member of the local hunt, he’d always enjoyed following the hounds and, despite the fact that snow had been forecast, he’d ridden out that morning as usual.

Then, also according to Stella, he’d arrived home at three o’clock, or thereabouts, and gone straight to his study. She’d found him there a couple of hours later, she said, slumped across his desk, the glass of whisky he’d been imbibing still clutched in his hand.

Laura expelled a trembling breath. She hoped he hadn’t suffered. When she’d spoken to her boss at the publishing house where she worked in New York, he’d said that it was the best way to go. For her father, perhaps, she thought now, but not for the people he’d left behind. Aunt Nell had been devastated. Like Laura herself, she could see the writing on the wall.

She shivered again as tears pricked behind her eyelids, and, dragging the folds of her ratty chenille dressing gown closer about her, she moved nearer to the hearth. Thank heavens they still used an open fire in winter, she thought, hunching her shoulders. There were still a few embers giving out a tenuous warmth.

She sighed and glanced about her. She’d come downstairs to get herself a glass of hot milk because she couldn’t get to sleep. She was still on eastern standard time and, although it was after midnight here, it was still early evening in New York. She’d decided a warm drink might help, but the milk was taking so long to boil. Perhaps she should have looked for a hot-water bottle and filled that. At this rate, she’d be frozen before she got back to bed.

She started suddenly as an ember shifted in the hearth. At least, she thought it was an ember. There had definitely been a sound like something falling either in here or outside. She was feeling particularly edgy this evening and she was very aware of being alone downstairs. With the snow falling heavily outside, Penmadoc had an air of expectancy that was hard to ignore.

The milk came to the boil at the exact moment that someone tried the outer door. The sound was unmistakable, the latch rattling as it had always done when the bolt was still in place. Laura’s breath caught in her throat and she was hardly aware that the pan was boiling over until the hob started sizzling and the acrid smell of burnt milk filled the room.

‘Oh, God,’ she groaned, dragging the pan off the heat. But she was more concerned about who might be trying to get into the house at this time of night. As she listened, she was almost sure a masculine shoulder was applied to the door-frame, and while she stood there, frozen into immobility, an audible curse accompanied another assault on the latch.

Breathing shallowly, Laura left the smoking pan on the Aga and edged towards the long narrow lobby that opened off the kitchen. There was no door between the kitchen and the passage where boots and coats and other outdoor gear occupied a row of pegs. Stella called it the mudroom, but that was just an affectation. It was a lobby, plain and simple, that protected the kitchen from the immediate chill when you opened the outer door.

Breathing shallowly, Laura sneaked a look into the passage. There was definitely someone outside: a man, judging by the muffled oaths she could hear even through the door. But human, she assured herself, despising her timidity. Pushing away from the archway into the kitchen, she stepped nervously into the passage.

‘Who’s there?’ she called sharply, consoling herself with the thought that the door was apparently impregnable.

‘Who the hell do you think it is?’ the man snapped. ‘Didn’t you hear the Jeep?’

‘The Jeep?’ Laura frowned. She hadn’t known anyone was expected tonight. ‘Do you mind telling me who you are?’

‘What?’ His incredulity was audible. ‘Open the door, Ma, and stop f—mucking about.’

Ma!

Laura’s stomach clenched. Oh, no, it couldn’t be. Not tonight, not when she was wearing this old dressing gown that she’d found at the back of the closet upstairs. She’d put it on for comfort, because her father had bought it when she was a teenager. But it wasn’t particularly clean or flattering, and it clashed wildly with her hair.

‘O—Oliver?’ she ventured weakly, realising that she’d have to admit him, and he seemed to become aware that she wasn’t his mother, after all.

‘Laura?’ he exclaimed. Then, evidently reorganising his reaction, he said, ‘For God’s sake, is that you, Laura?’ She heard him blow out a breath. ‘What are you doing? Waiting up for me?’

Laura fumbled with the bolts at the top and bottom of the door and then, turning the heavy key, she pulled it open. ‘Hardly,’ she said, keeping her eyes averted as she stepped back to let him in. ‘Don’t you have a key?’

‘Don’t tell anyone, but they’ve yet to invent a key that can open a bolt,’ he retorted, and she guessed his sarcasm was an attempt to hide his own surprise at seeing her. He shook himself, dislodging snow from the shoulders of his leather jacket on to the floor of the passage. Then, sniffing expressively, he asked, ‘What’s that awful smell?’

‘I burnt some milk,’ said Laura defensively, closing and locking the door again before brushing past him into the kitchen. She knew she must look a sight with her hair mussed and her eyes still puffy from weeping. Not the image she’d wanted to present to the stepbrother who hadn’t seen her since she married Conor. ‘Did your mother know you were coming tonight?’

‘I thought so.’ Oliver followed her into the kitchen. Then he gestured towards the Aga. ‘Oughtn’t you to do something about that before anyone starts to think you’re trying to burn the old place down?’

‘Your mother, you mean?’ she asked tersely, plunging the saucepan into cold water before snatching up a dishcloth to mop the stove. Anything to avoid looking at him, she thought, though she was perfectly aware of how attractive he was.

‘Possibly,’ he said now, and she wished she hadn’t jumped so childishly to her own defence. She had told herself that if—when—she saw Oliver again she would behave as if the past was another country. She had no wish to go there; no wish to resurrect his memories of the naïve teenager she’d been. He set down his canvas rucksack and draped a garment bag over the back of the old rocking chair that stood on the hearth. ‘Anyway, I was sorry to hear about your father. It must have been a terrible shock.’

‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

Laura didn’t look at him. She merely lifted her shoulders before continuing to scrub the burnt-in stains off the hob.

‘It was a shock for me, too,’ he added softly. ‘Your father and I might not have always seen eye to eye about things, but in recent years I like to think we grew to respect each other’s views.’

Laura stiffened her spine and forced herself to glance in his direction. ‘In recent years?’ she echoed, as her eyes took in the fact that he was broader. But it only served to give his lean frame an added maturity without adding any fat to his long bones. ‘I didn’t know you spent so much time at Penmadoc.’

‘I don’t.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘But you were in the States whereas I was available. He used to come up to London occasionally and, less frequently, I’d come down here.’

Laura tried not to feel any resentment. After all, it wasn’t as if her father hadn’t wanted her to come home. But, after her marriage to Conor broke up, it had seemed to her that she was a failure. At that, as in everything else, she mused bitterly. And Stella would never have let her forget it.

‘He didn’t tell me,’ she muttered now, turning back to her cleaning, but she was aware of Oliver crossing the room to open the fridge door.

‘Why would he?’ Oliver asked, peering inside. ‘I doubt if he thought you’d be interested.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Is there anything to eat around here?’

Laura permitted herself to view his broad shoulders. ‘Didn’t you have any dinner?’ she asked, and he swung the fridge door shut again with an impatient snort.

‘Dinner?’ His amusement was bitter. ‘What dinner?’ He gave a grunt. ‘I just got back from Singapore late this afternoon. Ma had apparently been ringing for hours, trying to get in touch with me. I only stopped long enough to take a shower before driving down.’

‘Singapore?’ Laura’s curiosity was showing and she quickly changed what she had been about to say. ‘Haven’t you had anything to eat at all?’

‘Soup. And a sandwich.’ Oliver glanced into the fridge again. ‘Don’t people eat any meat these days?’

Laura hesitated. Then she said, ‘I expect Aunt Nell has the freezer stocked. She always used to do a weekly shop at the supermarket in Rhosmawr.’

‘So she did.’ Oliver gave her a sideways glance. ‘I guess I’ll have to make do with another sandwich.’ His mouth took on a humorous twist as he looked at what she was wearing. ‘That new?’

Laura held up her head. ‘Don’t you recognise it?’ she asked coldly, and had the dubious satisfaction of seeing a trace of colour enter his lean cheeks. The fact that her own face was red, too, offered little compensation, however. Once again, she’d betrayed what she was thinking and laid herself open to his contempt.

But instead of making some sarcastic comment Oliver merely closed the fridge again and leaned back against it, arms folded across his chest. ‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ His green eyes were narrowed and glinting with suppressed emotion. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Laura. I know this can’t be easy for you—’

‘You flatter yourself!’

‘I mean losing your father,’ he interjected harshly. ‘For God’s sake, can’t you think of anyone but yourself? I know you don’t like me, Laura, but this is one occasion when I’d have thought you’d have put other people’s feelings before your own.’

Laura trembled. ‘It’s late—’

‘Yes, it is. But not too late, I hope!’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘Look, like I said, let’s try and come to some kind of compromise, shall we? For—well, for your aunt Nell’s sake, if no one else?’

Laura dropped the dishcloth into the sink and tightened the belt of her robe. ‘Very well,’ she said, and heard his resigned intake of breath.

‘Very well?’ he mimicked drily. He cast his eyes towards the beamed ceiling. ‘Oh, Laura, don’t make it easy for me, will you?’

‘I said—’

‘I know what you said.’ He straightened away from the door. ‘Okay.’ He held out his hand towards her. ‘Friends?’

Laura moistened her dry lips. She didn’t want to touch him. Dear God, she’d have done just about anything rather than put her hand into his. But that was stupid! Stupid! Did she want him to think she was afraid of him, that she hadn’t got over that childish infatuation that had almost ruined her life?

‘Friends,’ she got out, almost gagging on the nausea that had risen into the back of her throat, and his strong brown fingers closed about her hand.

His fingers were cold but the impact Laura had was one of heat, a fiery heat that spread up her arm and into her breasts, making them tingle with an unwelcome awareness. The warmth of his breath invaded the neckline of her robe and she felt as if she was enveloped by his scent and his masculinity. An image of how he’d looked, lying naked and unashamed on his bed, flashed briefly before her eyes, and she suppressed a groan. But it was all she could do to prevent herself from jerking her hand out of his firm grasp.

‘Hey, you’re shivering,’ he said, and Laura had to bite her lip to silence the instinctive denial. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, you know.’

‘You didn’t.’

But her voice was high and strained and he seemed to sense it. With an odd expression playing about his mouth, he lifted his hand and stroked the backs of his fingers down her hot cheek, and this time she couldn’t prevent her automatic response. With a strangled sound, she jerked back from him, bruising her hip against the corner of the scrubbed pine table that occupied the centre of the floor.

‘Laura!’

His irritation was evident, but she suspected neither of them was prepared for his reaction. Instead of letting her go, he went after her, his hand closing on the nape of her neck now, his thumb forcing her face up to his.

‘Is this what an unhappy marriage has done to you?’ he demanded, and she realised incredulously that he thought she was reacting to some lingering torment from her relationship with Conor. That the panic she was barely controlling was something to do with her ex-husband.

As if!

‘I—’ She didn’t know what to say. Her head was swimming with the emotions his hard fingers were arousing inside her, and blaming Conor for feelings he had never been able to inspire seemed a cruel deceit. But… ‘Just let me go, Oliver,’ she said weakly. ‘I—I’m tired.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ His thumb was caressing her ear now and she thought how incredible it was that he thought he could give her any comfort. ‘Poor Laura. Do you have any idea how young you look in that robe?’

Laura felt faint. ‘Please,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Please, Oliver…’

‘It’s okay. I know.’ But just when she thought he was about to release her he changed his mind and, instead of moving aside, he pulled her into his arms. ‘You can rely on me, baby,’ he said huskily, pressing her face into his throat so that Laura could scarcely breathe. ‘I’m here for you. I just want you to know that.’

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

For a moment, Laura wondered if it was she who’d spoken. It was what she should have said, she knew that, but although the hand that had been stroking her shoulder slid away she sensed Oliver was reacting to a stronger will than hers.

A suspicion that was reinforced when Stella Williams’ shrill voice continued, ‘For God’s sake, Oliver, have you taken leave of your senses? She’s not back in this house for five minutes before she’s trying to cause trouble between us.’

Laura’s jaw dropped. ‘I hope you don’t think that I—that I—was encouraging him—’

‘So what are you doing down here at this time of night?’ demanded her stepmother scornfully. She sniffed. ‘And what’s that awful smell?’ Then, turning to her son without waiting for an answer, she said, ‘I suppose you got her to let you in. Why didn’t you come to the front door? I told you I’d wait up.’

‘I did come to the front door,’ retorted Oliver shortly, giving Laura a studied look in passing. ‘I thought no one was up. There were no lights that I could see.’

Stella pursed her lips. ‘I must have fallen asleep for a few moments,’ she said peevishly. ‘Goodness knows, I’ve had little enough sleep since Griff passed away.’ Her eyes glittered as they turned towards her stepdaughter. ‘Just because some people seem perfectly able to forget why they’re here—’

‘Forget it.’ Oliver’s voice was harsh as it broke into her provocative tirade. ‘Laura couldn’t sleep either. She came down to get herself a hot drink and I disturbed her. That’s why the milk boiled over. It was my fault. That’s what you can smell. Burnt milk. Nothing else.’

‘If you say so.’ Stella gave Laura a disparaging look. ‘Don’t you have anything else you could wear?’

Laura shook her head. She had no intention of getting into a discussion about her appearance with her stepmother. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, not caring whether they did or otherwise, and, putting his mother between her and Oliver, she made for the door. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

It was easier than she’d thought. Neither of them offered any objections as she slipped out into the hall. The smouldering embers in the hall grate lit up the door of her father’s study, giving her a moment’s pause. She was briefly tempted to go in there and try and calm her racing blood.

But the possibility that Stella might decide to show her son where her husband had been found deterred her. Instead, she hurried up the stairs and gained the sanctuary of her room with some relief. Leaning back against the panels, she wondered why she always let Oliver upset her. Whatever he said, whatever he did, he couldn’t help getting under her skin.

Straightening, she crossed the floor to the square four-poster she’d occupied when she’d lived here. Although her belongings had been removed and Stella had had the room redecorated, it was still reassuringly familiar to her. But this might be the last time she’d use it, she thought, tears filling her eyes again. Once her father’s funeral was over, she’d have no excuse for coming here.

Her reflection in the dressing-table mirror gave her a momentary shudder. For a second, the face that had stared back at her had been her mother’s. But she knew that was just because they looked alike. Pale face, pale grey eyes, wild red hair that rioted in an untidy mass about her shoulders. No wonder Stella had looked at her so contemptuously. Compared to her stepmother, she lacked any sophistication.

As for Oliver: well, she preferred not to think about him. She wasn’t at all deceived by his attempt at conciliation. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but she had no intention of making a fool of herself again.

She sighed now, loosening the belt of her dressing gown and flopping back on to the bed. It was impossible to come here without being assaulted by her memories. And, no matter how she might regret it now, Oliver had been an integral part of her growing-up.

She caught back a tear. She might have hated her stepmother for taking her mother’s place, but she had never hated Oliver. At ten years of age to his thirteen, she’d been pathetically eager to be his friend. She’d never had a brother or a sister before and she’d hero-worshipped him. She’d followed him around like a blind disciple, willing to do anything he asked of her, hanging on his every word.

She hadn’t been alone. He was a popular boy, and at the comprehensive in Rhosmawr that they’d both attended he’d never been short of companions. For almost six years, she’d deluded herself that the girls who came and went in his life meant nothing to him. Her infatuation had been such that she’d convinced herself he was only killing time until she grew up.

Stella had guessed how she felt, of course. Her stepmother had always had far more experience of life than Laura’s father, and to begin with it had amused her that her stepdaughter should have fallen so completely for her son. Stella hadn’t done anything about it. Perhaps she’d thought she could leave that to Oliver himself. But she’d got a rude awakening when she’d discovered them together, and despite the fact that Oliver had defended her she’d despised the girl from then on.

Laura groaned now and rolled over on to her stomach, trying to still the raw emotions that were churning inside her. That was all in the past, she told herself. She’d got over Oliver when she’d married Conor. And she’d grown up long before she took her vows. All right, so the marriage hadn’t worked out; but these things happened. Conor had been too young to make the commitment; too willing to leave all responsibility to her.

It was coming back here, she thought abruptly. She hadn’t spent any length of time at Penmadoc since she’d left to go to university over ten years ago. Like Oliver himself, she’d left home as soon as her schooldays were over—though he’d deferred continuing his education for a year to go backpacking across Europe instead.

Her lips twisted. It sometimes seemed as if fortune had always smiled on her stepbrother, and it was hard not to feel resentful when her own life had followed such a different course. Although being caught up in the conflict that had ensued after a country’s escape from a non-democratic government might not have seemed fortunate at the time, the pictures Oliver had taken and sent back to a London newspaper had ensured him a job in journalism after he’d got his degree. Since then, he’d become famous for his skill in capturing photographic images. Recently, a book of stylised black and white pictures of Alaskan wildlife he’d taken had made the best-seller lists. He worked free-lance these days, accepting commissions as and when it suited him. He also gave lectures: Laura knew because she’d attended one anonymously in New York.

Which was so very different from her own experience, she acknowledged ruefully. After—after what had happened between her and Oliver, she’d found it very hard to trust a man again. Besides which, although she’d got her degree in English, she was no genius. The fact that she’d got a job in publishing was due more to Conor’s father’s introduction to his brother, who owned the company, than any skill on her part, she was sure.

Conor’s parents had been good to her. They were Americans, like their son, and had sent him to England primarily to improve his social skills. He’d told Laura after their marriage that it was her independence and self-sufficiency that had drawn him to her. She’d never told him why she’d had to learn to depend only on herself.

Expelling a weary breath, she cast off the old dressing gown and crawled between the sheets. They were cold now, and she realised she should have filled a hot-water bottle, after all. So what’s new? she thought. Her whole life seemed to have been a study in retrospection. With Oliver Kemp the fulcrum at its core.

CHAPTER THREE

OLIVER awakened with a thumping headache.

For a while he lay quite still, trying to work out where he was and how he came to be there. He couldn’t understand why his room felt so cold. It didn’t get this cold in Malaysia. And if he wasn’t there why couldn’t he hear the steady hum of the Knightsbridge traffic? Despite double-glazing, he was always aware of the heart of the city, beating away just yards from Mostyn Square.

Then he remembered. Remembered, too, why his head was pounding as if there were a pile driver in his skull. He was in Wales; at Penmadoc, not in London. And it was the fact that he’d consumed the best part of a bottle of Scotch before falling into bed in the early hours that accounted for his hangover.

He groaned. He should have had more sense. But after seeing Laura again and learning why his mother had been so desperate to get in touch with him he’d needed something to fortify his strength.

The will…

Levering himself up on his elbows, he endeavoured to survey the room without feeling sick. But the bed swayed alarmingly, and although he swung his feet on to the floor he had to hold on to the mattress to keep his balance. Dammit, he was too old to be suffering this kind of nonsense. In future, he’d sustain himself with mineral water and nothing else.

Cursing whatever fate had decreed he should return to England at this particular moment in time, he got to his feet. Then, steadying himself on the chest of drawers beside his wardrobe, he shuffled across the room like an old man.

Despite a lengthy exploration, there were no painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. The light in there was blinding. He hadn’t thought to pull down the blind the night before and the brilliance of sun on snow was the equivalent of a knife being driven into his temple. It was the kind of light he usually only saw through a filter, but right now the idea of estimating aperture, shutter speeds and distance was quite beyond his capabilities.

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, jerking on the cord, only to have the blind rattle up again at lightning speed. He swore again, grabbing the cord and repeating the procedure. ‘This is just what I need.’