Tomorrow's Bride(23)

'Of course.' He shook his head reprovingly. 'It will surprise you to  know that I have heard the word. I'll just go and get a pen...' As he  crossed the hall she could hear him whistling timelessly, while she,  slowly drying a plate, glanced down at the folded newspaper, eyes  searching for another clue... Mmm, that could be... possibly was... But  that one... She was still puzzling over the second clue when a name  jumped out at her from the small news items on the back page. She drew  in a startled breath, her heart beginning to thump against her ribs as  the significance of the words was absorbed.                       
       
           



       

'Mrs Kay Lessor, wife of MEP Mr Kyle Lessor, is seeking a divorce,' she  read, her eyes wide with shock. She skimmed the brief news item and  reached the implication in the last line. 'It is understood that Mrs  Lessor intends to name a secretary, Miss Anna Craig, in her petition.'

No. She dropped on to a chair, raked a shaky hand through her hair. No.  She couldn't believe it. Not Kyle. And more especially not Anna, not shy  and slightly colourless Anna. Frowning, she shook her head. But if it  should be true, how was it she had never guessed...?

The door was pushed open as her father reappeared, wandered over to the  boiler, picked up his pipe, began to tap down the tobacco...

'Any luck, Leigh?'

'What?' Her eyes were without comprehension.

'Any more luck with the crossword?'

'No, I'm sorry...'

'Well, I'll take it with me, and if you want me I'll be in the study. As  I said, you go out into the garden, get some colour back in your  cheeks.' Even as he spoke he was on his way back to the study; she could  hear him reading another clue under his breath.

Still in shock, and without being completely aware of what she was  doing, she picked up her book and drifted down to the far end of the  garden to where the hammock was suspended. She remembered it being there  from way back in the days of her early childhood, between the two  ancient apple trees always jokingly referred to as the orchard. She  swung herself into it and lay back, one long bare leg allowed to droop  over the side, a disregarded sandal slipping from her slender foot as  she adjusted the pillow to support her head.

Kyle...well, on reflection she could just about understand it of him,  but Anna. How completely out of character it seemed, and yet...  Pondering, she lay back, contemplating the patches of blue sky chequered  with leaves. A few bees buzzed lazily about a clump of daisies and a  butterfly settled momentarily on her hand, fluttering away as she  reached out for her book. And as her mind went chasing round in circles  various tiny clues and signs which had lodged at the back of her mind  began to click into place, to make sense. But, although it was on Kyle  and Anna that she was determined to concentrate, her brain would have  none of it. It was Patrick Cavour who was there in front of her, so  dominating, so accusing. And for the first time she knew what he had  meant.

She drew in several shuddering breaths, blinked once or twice to clear a  persistent film about her eyes, then, with some deliberation, pressed  her lips together, closed her eyes and willed herself, with every ounce  of strength she could summon, to relax. Starting at her head, working  right down to her toes.

This, then, was what it was all about-the hints and innuendo. All the  time Patrick had been accusing her of an affair with her boss. With  Kyle, for heaven's sake. She gave a tiny scoffing laugh which very  nearly translated into a sob. Kyle Lessor who had, it was true,  propositioned her in her first month in Strasbourg, but who had at least  taken her refusal with grace, had never mentioned the subject again,  and who had, for all she knew, gone on immediately to someone else.

Kyle. But surely Patrick must have realised that she knew and was  friendly with Kay Lessor? Did he think she was the land of woman who...?  She struggled to bring things down to earth from the high emotional  plane which could wreak such havoc. Besides, apart from anything else,  Kyle was half a head shorter than she was, and...

Oh, God. If only he had come out with it all there and then instead of  so many hints and evasions... In spite of all her resolve, she felt  tears on her cheek, reached into the pocket of her brief skirt, found  she was without a handkerchief then used the hem of her faded T-shirt to  dry her face.

She would not, would not think about it any more. She had wasted too  many years of her life already. She would ignore the persistent and  uncomfortable pressure in her chest and read a few pages of her novel...  Sniffing, she opened the book at the marked page, tried to concentrate  on the text instead of her own stupid feelings, read a few lines...

Then, with a weary, defeated sigh, she put the book aside. Later, there  would be plenty of time. She leaned the side of her face against the  softness of the cushion, allowed her eyelids to droop. She felt so  indescribably weary, so hopeless... At last her breathing calmed... her  lashes lay like tiny fragile fans against her creamy, sun-dappled  skin...                       
       
           



       

Slowly the idyllic afternoon wore on and she began to slide away,  blissfully away, from all the anguish of reality, drifting in and out of  sleep without opening her eyes, only vaguely aware of the subtle  changes of light, of lengthening shadows and a slight easing of the  exhausting heat of earlier on in the day. In the comfort of lying there,  so quiet and undisturbed, it was almost possible to switch off from  what had happened, to blot from her mind all Patrick's bitter,  incomprehensible accusations...

A sudden twist of pain in her stomach contradicted her; she murmured a  protest as she tried to push away the recent hurtful memories. Even that  long-ago agony had been nothing to compare with this, she admitted to  herself.

'Can you forgive me, Leigh?' His voice was so close, so real, despite  being all in her head. So real, so precious and yet so unutterably sad.  There was no way she could refuse, or want to, especially here, where  all things were possible.

'Of course.' Her lips moved with the thought. 'Of course I can forgive.'  For she had learned the hard way about forgiveness. All those years of  regret-what comfort had they offered...? Her heart leapt in her breast  as a hand touched her, circling the foot dangling so invitingly over the  side of the hammock, as fingers curved over the tender skin of her  instep, impossibly arousing... In her veins an irresistible tingling  rose. She wanted to retreat into dreams, where it was safe, but  something stroked delicately, and the impossibly long, incredibly dark  lashes swept back. And she forgot to breathe.

For a long time neither of them spoke, she from fear that the vision  would evaporate with the same stealth of its arrival, and he-who  knew?-possibly because at that moment to look was enough; that was what  the dark eyes hinted, with their searching warmth. And maybe it was the  intensity of his regard which reminded her of how she must look. One  hand rose in an effort to restrain the tumble of untidy hair, then her  fingers trailed apologetically across a face devoid of make-up, and  panic set in as she recalled her none too clean shirt and her skirt,  which was a left-over from her schooldays. She must get up and try to...

'No.' A firm hand restrained her. 'No, don't move. Please. I just want to look...'

'Patrick.' Her breath was released in a tormented sigh. 'For a moment I  thought... you weren't really there, that I was seeing things.'

'And...' still his eyes refused to move from her face, from her  mouth'...what did you hope? That you would blink once and find I had  gone, replaced by a frog, perhaps?' He smiled bleakly.

'No-I don't know.' Feverishly she bit her lip. 'At least...'

'Tell me.' When he spoke like that, commandingly, imperiously, it was  impossible to refuse. 'Tell me what you felt.' His fingers were still  about her foot, moving almost imperceptibly against that tender skin  with totally devastating effect.

'Surprised, you could say. Even shocked.' Her shoulders moved under the  thin cotton. 'And-----' she forced her eyes from his, sightlessly  looking across the wide meadow which surrounded the garden '-I don't  want any more... confrontation, Patrick.' For a moment, faced with loss  of control, she gnawed at her lower lip, then, finding some remnants of  courage, she faced him again. 'I can't take any more of that. I've had  enough to last me forever and I've come back here to get over it. To try  to get over it.' Her manner was weighty with misery.

He frowned, shook his head briefly. 'Everything you say, every reproach,  I deserve. But, as to confrontation, I too hope that's all in the  past.'

"Then...' In some strange way she was detached, in a sort of limbo,  hovering halfway between inexpressible joy and utmost despair-to neither  of which, she determined, she would give way. But, strangely, something  of the recent anguish had eased; it was enough for the time being that  he was here with her, that she was looking into his eyes and seeing  neither indictment nor damnation. It was very much like the dream, that  perfect reprieve from much of the awful abrasiveness of reality...