Page 44 of The Heiress's Secret Baby

‘What? I don’t have to worry about the battery running out or a system relapse wiping everything.’

‘No, you just have to keep it dry and hope you don’t lose it.’ They had reached an information point and he picked up a map and guide, handing it to Polly. Her hand was cool, soft. Comforting. A sudden urge to take it in his, to stroll through the streets together, no notebooks, no reports, no memories, hit him but he pushed it aside. It took more effort than he cared for to refocus.

‘I promised Claire I’d call in at her tourism and marketing pavilion.’ Was she really so oblivious to his momentary inner struggle? Evidently so. She was frowning at the map in utter concentration. ‘If I look at that part of the market why don’t you go into the wine quarter to start? Your father’s there on the regional wine stand this afternoon. And no...’ her eyes met his clearly ‘...I’m not interfering, just being polite.’

She held his gaze, cool and self-possessed before inclining her head, a curiously old-fashioned gesture. ‘I’ll see you back here, then.’

Gabe watched as she swivelled and walked away, her head held high, the dark gold sweep of hair still loose, covering the slim line of her back. It was odd to see her hair down, not in the customary loose knot, for her to leave it unfettered. It made her seem younger, relaxed.

What would it be like to tangle his hand in that hair? Let the silken tresses fold around his fingers?

She was wearing the pink dress she’d bought at the vintage fair and as Gabe followed the proud, straight figure as she disappeared into the crowd he had a curious sense of being out of time.

Okay, time to push such fanciful thoughts out of his head, time to get on. To find his father, say hello, compliment him on the stall and the vintage just as Polly suggested.

As for the rest? It was ridiculous. He wasn’t punishing them. He was protecting them.

Protecting himself.

If you had no ties then you couldn’t get hurt. It was that simple.

The food and drink quarter was situated on one of the several windy streets that led off the square, opposite the church. Just a few minutes’ walk up there and he would be among old friends and neighbours, watching his father do what he did best—enthusing about wine.

A smile curved his lips as he pictured the scene: a laughing group of tourists pulled in by his father’s practised patter, sipping and tasting before parting with what would no doubt be a considerable amount of money.

Just a few minutes’ walk. He should go, say hi.

He could even offer to help.

Gabe stood for a moment and then slowly turned to face the church.

A deep breath shuddered through him as if an icy fist had clenched his heart.

He hadn’t set foot in that church for ten years and yet he could clearly picture the aged, wooden beams, see the sunlight dancing through the coloured glass in the ancient windows, the expression on the faces of the cold marble statues. He could smell the incense as it burned hot and heavy.

He could see the coffin.

Without conscious thought, without decision, he walked across the tree-lined square, away from the festival, past the church, to the narrow street that led out of town. Towards the old walled cemetery.

To Marie’s grave.

Was it really ten years since he had stood by the open grave, pale faced and dry eyed as the white coffin had been slowly and solemnly lowered in?

White! She would have been horrified! Demanded black and velvet with silver clasps—or nothing at all, a quiet spot in a wooded glade. No X to mark the spot.

But burials weren’t for the dead, they were for those left behind and her parents had needed every last trimming to get them through the day.

His mouth tightened. He hadn’t written or contacted the Declors for years, unable to face another visit down memory lane. Not wanting to sit in the claustrophobic salon, sipping wine while looking through photo albums preserving the memory of a dead girl, pink cheeked and full of health. He had never known that girl. The Marie he had known had been like him, clad with a hospital pallor.

They were supposed to live or die together. He hadn’t kept his part of the deal. Had she known, when she slipped away, that he wouldn’t be joining her? Not yet.

Which was the worst betrayal? That he hadn’t died with her or that she hadn’t lived with him?

Had she forgiven him? He wasn’t sure he had forgiven her yet. Or himself.

‘Gabe?’

He jumped, a shiver running down his spine at the softly breathed words.

‘Gabe!’ No, not a ghost. Not unless Marie had developed a clipped English accent in the last ten years, had swapped the Converse low tops for high-heeled sandals that tapped smartly on the old cobbles.

He stopped and turned. Waited. Relieved to have the present intrude on the past.

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