As he closed the curtains and quietly left the room, he thought he’d never forgive himself. There was only one thing he wanted to know now. Who was the man who’d raped the woman he loved?
CHAPTER TEN
Next morning Daidan was nowhere to be found. She’d rung the office in the city. Nothing. She’d contacted his people who were working at the castle. Nothing. And she needed to find him because now that the sedatives the doctor had given Taina had worn off, she could think clearly. The shock of pregnancy had disappeared leaving only happiness and relief. But, at that moment another fear was uppermost in her mind—had she really told Daidan everything, or had she dreamed it?
She paced the length of the lounge, trying to remember, trying to pinpoint her words to something concrete, something real. Then she stopped pacing as she caught sight of her mother’s painting and she suddenly remembered. She’d been looking at it when the words had formed on her lips—violence…rape. Looking at the same painting now, she had a sudden vision of Daidan’s shattered expression. She clasped her hands to her head and gasped. She hadn’t dreamed any of it. She’d told him. And he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Where the hell was he?
The phone went and she jumped. “Yes?” But it was just someone reporting somewhere else that Daidan hadn’t been seen.
She grunted in frustration, threw down the phone onto the sofa and went down the corridor to her room to get her sunglasses. As she passed Daidan’s dressing room she stopped. Maybe there would be clues in there? Besides, she desperately wanted to feel close to him.
She opened the door. Inside the room was orderly. Everything was in its place—shirts pressed and hung with clinical precision, shoes polished and stored on racks. She walked in and stopped suddenly. Why did she feel so strange? And then she closed her eyes as it came to her. It had been her father’s dressing room and the only time she’d been inside was when he hadn’t been around and she’d been secretly trying to find something of her mother’s—anything that would make a connection she so desperately craved. She hadn’t found anything then. And it didn’t look like she’d find any clues to help her locate Daidan now. Because, like her father, Daidan kept everything immaculate. Or almost everything, she thought as she walked to the tallboy, on which a few personal objects were displayed.
She picked up a small figurine she’d made. Her tutor had been world class; she hadn’t been. She smiled as she remembered her father’s pride, and placed it back in position. Why had Daidan kept it? Then she saw that he’d moved a family photograph that had been there in her father’s time—moved it to make way for another photograph—one of her and Daidan, shortly before they were married. The happiness that shone from their eyes as they embraced and smiled for the camera brought tears to her eyes. How had it all disappeared in such a short space of time? She’d do anything to see Daidan happy again.
But she knew he’d be far from happy at this moment. She could almost sense his feelings of anger and frustration. But how else would he react? He’d want to know who’d raped her and why she hadn’t reported it. She could lie and tell him she didn’t know the person but she didn’t want any more lies. That only left the truth. But she couldn’t do that yet, not before the launch. Nothing must go wrong with that. Because the truth could destroy all the work and hopes and dreams Daidan had for himself, for them, and for their future together.
She paced over to the windows and opened them to let the sea breeze cool her agitation. Think, Taina, think! He couldn’t have vanished into thin air. She stepped outside onto the deck and walked down the steps and turned away from the sea, toward the rear of the house where the gardens descended into a thick copse of trees. The boat was still here. He must be on the island, just not with anyone. And she knew the island better than anyone. If he was here, she’d find him.
It wasn’t until she reached the edge of the woods that she heard the sound of someone chopping wood. Strange. It was still summer. The handyman usually chopped the wood for the fire later in the year. She shrugged and was about to take a path that led around the water’s edge when she stopped once more. There was something in the sound of the chopping—something rhythmic and savage—that made her hesitate. Then she closed her eyes as she realized she was listening to a man venting his grief in the only way he could. She turned and ran down the path into the woods towards the sound.
Daidan swung the axe overhead, held it for an instant, relishing the feel of his muscles pumped and strong before bringing it down with a reverberating thud onto the block of wood, splitting it cleanly in two. He replaced half onto the block and once more swung the axe up over his head. Sweat trickled down his face, stinging his eyes, blinding him as he let it fall once more with a savage blow. He repeated the action with a rhythm that obscured the need to feel. The wood flew in different directions, piling up wherever it landed. All he wanted to do was use his strength against the wood. All he wanted to do was dull the pain.