Page 73 of A Night of Secret Surrender
‘I have already refused such help.’
‘I know.’ It was the only thing she could think to say there in the darkness of a cold London night. When he did not answer she simply walked to the balcony and climbed down the latticed frame under it. Her place beneath the tree opposite would be out of the wind and there she could watch the house for any untoward shadows.
He might not want her, but she needed him. More so now after seeing him again than she ever had before. It was only that simple. She pushed away hurt and uncertainty as she buttoned up her jacket, jerked down her hat and sat among the numerous autumn leaves.
* * *
Shay finished his brandy and poured himself another. Where the hell would she go at this time of night in a city she did not know well? He smiled savagely. She was a woman who dissolved into her surroundings. Anywhere might do it. Still, he resisted the urge to watch for her, closing the doors instead and locking them firmly, curtains pulled across the night.
She had left her pistol on the floor next to where she had sat. When he reached down for it her warmth still remained in the metal and he closed his eyes to feel it.
He had seen her the instant he had returned home with Lian, bathed in the shade of the trees. He had always been aware of even the slightest change in his surroundings, long years of jeopardy imprinting such necessity into him. The shock of seeing her had made his world blur momentarily and he was glad Aurelian had not commented on his unease.
He had known she would come up the trellis and in through the doors when she was able. He’d left the lattice there when first he had taken over the house from his brother, reasoning that an easy way in meant he could monitor any suspicious activity. He wondered what Celeste had thought of such laxness when first she had spied the entrance. In Paris the stone walls were unassailable and every apartment had supplementary locks. She would have thought it easy. He hoped Guy Bernard would think the same.
She had looked different. Softer, perhaps, and more filled out. He was glad of it for her sake. She had jumped when he had come closer and he knew to the very marrow of his bones that she had not wanted him to touch her.
Another difference.
The lavender perfume had gone, too, and there had been a scent on her that he did not recognise. Unfamiliar and alien. The anger in him grew.
It had taken him a good year to recover from the loss of her in France. The last few months had been easier, though, more social. Politics had taken the place of the military and he had made himself attend more of thetonsoirées and balls in all their elegant dysfunction.
Crystal Smithson had become a friend. If she had wanted more than that, she had never mentioned it and he was glad of that. Celeste Fournier’s swipe at such a relationship had surprised him. Did others think he was angling to marry the girl? The thought had him frowning.
Lytton Staines had intimated much the same the other day when he had run across him in Regent Street. God, if he was not careful he could wind up married, pining all the rest of his days for another woman and a time when he had felt free.
He crossed the floor and sat where Celeste had sat, viewing the room from that angle. She would have noticed his books, the spines from here easily seen in their neat lines on the shelf. She would have seen the painting of his parents, too, above the bed, which also had him and his brother as boys included in it.
He’d seen her observe it closely, the likenesses well drawn in red pastel and watercolour. A soft and gentle rendering that he had always admired.
Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back just as she had.
What did he want? What did she want? Things had changed between them, time having clawed away ease and comfort. Now they were confused and estranged. He wished he might have the energy to go out into the night to find her. But even in France she had never declared her desire for more than the bedding and her indifference today had suggested she now fancied even less than that.
And therein lay the crux of it all, he ruminated. He’d wanted so much more when he had returned to England and it had shattered him, leaving him broken and uncertain for months. He could not withstand another round of loss.
He shook his head. No, if she came again he would allow her no glimpse into the hurt she had smote him with. He swore this on the departed soul of his brother.
* * *
Loring looked exactly like Summer as a child.
The picture behind the bed had been a revelation. The same shape of eyes and line of nose. The same fairness of hair and length of body. Her breasts prickled at the knowledge and she was pleased she had thought to bind them so tightly. The smell of her milk lay on the air and prompted a desire to hold Loring that was so vital it almost undid her.
Was he happy at Langley? Was he unsettled? Please God, let Guy Bernard be here tomorrow so that I can go back, she prayed.
But Summer needed her, too, and seeing him in the flesh for the first time in fifteen months had brought forth a barrage of feelings.
She wanted to lie with him and tell him all the things that had happened to her, all the hurts and the secrets. She longed to whisper everything she knew of Loring to him, all the small insignificant triumphs and worries that only another parent might understand and savour.
Bernard would be here either tomorrow or the next day, she was sure of it. He would come with his stealth and his anger and he would attack when they least expected it. She had to be ready. She had to be prepared. The gun in her pocket was loaded and primed. All she had to do was to wait.
* * *
She was asleep, curled into the base of the tree in a bed of leaves. This uncharacteristic defencelessness was so surprising Shay simply stood there watching her, the sun newly rising in the east over a waking city.
‘How long have you been here?’ she asked gruffly a few moments later.
