A Haunting Compulsion

CHAPTER TWO (#u176f2fec-a4e6-5c77-8c59-645ea83faec2)

HIS SARDONIC WORDS had a steadying effect, reminding her as they did of their last interview. He had been mocking then, and scathing too, and violently angry, although he had tried hard to control it, and a feathering of anticipation ran over Rachel’s skin at the memory of how it had ended.

‘What do you want, Jaime?’ she enquired now, making a display of leaning close to the mirror again, smoothing a delicate finger over the curve of her eyebrow. ‘I should have thought any contact we have to have could be more suitably expressed in the presence of your parents, and I see no reason for us to exchange anything more than the time of day.’

She spoke coolly, controlling the tendency her voice had to quiver a little, and felt quite pleased with her efforts. He should not imagine their previous relationship gave him any prior rights where she was concerned, and it was better to make her position clear, right from the start.

‘You think that, do you?’ Jaime’s voice was low and flat, devoid of expression, concealing his feelings. ‘So we’re to behave like strangers, are we?’

‘We are strangers,’ she retorted, realising she could not go on avoiding looking at him. ‘I told you—I never knew you. Now, if you don’t mind—’

She moved then, as if to go past him, but he was standing squarely in the doorway, and her downcast eyes could not avoid the sight of his booted feet, set slightly apart, with the narrow base of the walking stick that he favoured on his right.

Her eyes moved upward almost involuntarily then, over the cream-coloured corded pants, that enclosed his hips like a second skin, over the dark green shirt he was wearing, the neckline unbuttoned to reveal the brown column of his throat, to the swarthy features of his lean dark face, that she remembered so well. She was a tall girl herself, but he had always been taller, easily six feet, with a lean, muscular body, that owed its hardness more to the tough life he led than to any particular prowess in physical sports. He was not a particularly handsome man. Like his body, his face had a toughness that denied simple good looks. But he was attractive—how attractive, Rachel knew only too well, and the hooded depths of his eyes and the sensual twist of his mouth had an appeal that was purely magnetic. She had felt that magnetism once, she could even feel it at this moment, but now she knew the selfish nature that lay behind that sexy exterior, and despised herself for allowing even a trace of the old charisma to disturb her.

‘Will you let me pass?’ she demanded now, fixing her gaze on the central button of his shirt. ‘I want to put on some make-up and brush my hair, and your mother and father are waiting for their supper.’

Jaime made no move to accommodate her. ‘Aren’t you going to ask how I’m feeling?’ he asked, using his free hand to massage his hip. ‘Don’t you want to know how it happened, and whether they got the bullet out?’

‘I really don’t see that it matters to me, one way or the other,’ Rachel returned callously, hardly aware of what she was saying in her urgency to get away from him—from being alone with him—from this impossible situation. ‘Your mother explained all I needed to know. She told me you got away with it, as usual. You always had the luck of the devil!’

‘Damm you, Rachel!’ His harshly expressed denunciation brought her head up with a jerk, and she stared tautly into his angry brown eyes. ‘Have you any idea how bloody painful it was, dragging myself in here? Just so that you shouldn’t be embarrassed! And you stand there and tell me you don’t care! You—little hypocrite!’ He used a word then that Rachel would never care to repeat.

Rachel quivered, but she refused to be intimidated. She was alarmed to see the sallow cast of his features beneath their swarthy tan. He had not been lying when he said the effort of coming in here had drained him, and in spite of her angry bitterness, compassion stirred.

‘Don’t you think this conversation has gone far enough?’ she suggested quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I sound unfeeling, but I’ve just had a long journey, and I’m tired, and I didn’t know I’d have you to face at the end of it—’

‘You’re tired!’ he grated, bearing his weight on the stick as he moved nearer to her. ‘You’re sorry if you sound unfeeling!’ His mouth tightened ominously. ‘My God, do you think that’s sufficient recompense for the way you’re treating me?’

‘Jaime, listen—’

‘No, you listen! To me!’ He jerked her towards him as he spoke, bringing her close enough to be touching him, her thigh brushing his uninjured leg. ‘I didn’t come in here to quarrel with you, or to beg your sympathy. I came because I knew it was going to be difficult for you, for both of us, and I wanted to—smooth the passage.’ He made a sound of derision. ‘But you don’t want it that way, do you? You want to keep me at bay, to erect all those old grievances you’ve managed to perpetuate against me, to create a situation where it’s impossible for us to behave normally with one another.’ His eyes blazed angrily. ‘Oh, I know you refused to answer my calls, and you didn’t acknowledge any of my letters, but I thought—I really thought—we might be able to talk to one another here—’

‘Well, you were wrong.’ Rachel could not let that go unchallenged. For the first time, she tried to get away from him, but in spite of his injury he was still a lot stronger than she was, and by struggling with him she was only making the situation more volatile. ‘Jaime, we have nothing to say to one another,’ she exclaimed, then froze into immobility when he dragged her arm across his body and pressed her hand deliberately against his right leg.

‘Feel it!’ he commanded thickly. ‘I want you to feel it,’ and she averted her eyes quickly from the disturbing violence in his. But rather than promote another outburst, she flexed her fingers tentatively against the corded cloth. Beneath the dark material of his trousers she could detect the taut ribbing of the bandages, and sensed the heat of his flesh rising to meet hers. ‘Well?’ he muttered. ‘Can you feel it throbbing like a septic pulse? Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think we still had something to say!’

‘Jaime—’

Her use of his name was not a plea for remission, but when she tilted her face up to his, his tormented expression was almost her undoing. Dear God, she thought dizzily, no one could disrupt her carefully controlled emotions like Jaime could, and for an insane moment she wanted him to touch her. She swayed weakly, as her head swam, and her breasts pressed briefly against his chest, but then Liz’s voice, from the foot of the stairs, called irresistibly, ‘Rachel! Darling, are you coming?’ and cold reason replaced the heated urgings of her senses.

She did not have to ask Jaime to release her. He turned, as his mother spoke, his lean face taut and brooding. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t embarrass you!’ and walked with evident difficulty out of her room.

Downstairs, Robert had poured drinks, and Rachel accepted a cocktail gratefully, hoping the alcohol would calm her nerves. She had only had time to apply a little lip-gloss, and brush her hair, and she hoped that the Shards had not noticed her state of agitation.

‘I wonder whether Jaime intends to join us,’ Liz said at last, after Robert had asked Rachel about her journey, and received only monosyllabic replies. She gave the girl an apologetic look. ‘Dr Manning actually suggested that he should spend some time in bed, to allow his wound to heal, but you know what—I mean—well, Jaime wouldn’t listen.’ She offered an embarrassed smile. ‘Er—perhaps you ought to go and see what he’s doing, Rob,’ she finished appealingly. ‘We can’t keep Maisie waiting indefinitely.’

‘All right.’

Robert got up from his seat beside Rachel on the couch, and with a good-natured grimace left the room. In his absence, Liz offered Rachel another drink, and after she had refused said:

‘You’re not worrying about this, are you, darling?’ She sighed. ‘I know it can’t be easy for you, but after all, you and Jaime are civilised people. You can meet as old—acquaintances, can’t you?’

Rachel concentrated on the clear liquid in her glass. ‘If—if that’s what—Jaime wants.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it is.’ Liz was fervent. ‘I think he may be glad of the opportunity to—well, repair the damage. Oh, not for any personal reasons, but simply because he would like to heal the breach.’

Rachel could not answer her, not least because her own preconceived ideas were in shreds. She had thought she could handle Jaime, now she wasn’t so sure whether she could handle herself. And the knowledge that he still had the power to disturb her was terrifying.

‘He’s not coming, after all.’ Robert breezed back into the sitting room with a distinct air of relief. ‘He says he’d rather have supper in his room. He’s got a little pain, I think, and he doesn’t feel like making the effort to come downstairs.’

‘Oh!’ Liz bit her lip and looked uncertainly down into their guest’s taut face. ‘Well—but what about Rachel? Doesn’t he want to see her? To say hello?’

‘He asks to be excused this evening,’ Robert explained, as Rachel started to make her own protestations. ‘He says he’ll see her tomorrow—which I’m sure will be time enough for both of them,’ he concluded, with another grimace. ‘Now, shall we eat?’

The meal was served in the intimate dining room, that overlooked the cliffs at the back of the house. Tonight, of course, the curtains were drawn, and the only evidence of their proximity to the ocean was the persistent murmur of the sea on the rocks. The fog had reduced sound as well as visibility, and its muted cadences were low and resonant.

The food, as always, was excellent, but Rachel ate little, making the excuse that she had had a sandwich on the train. ‘I expect my appetite will improve with all the fresh air I’m going to get,’ she explained, breaking the protracted silence, and Liz smiled her understanding.

‘I think you need time to relax, and get used to us again,’ she declared, as Maisie served their coffee. ‘Don’t worry about anything. It will all work out, you’ll see.’

It was a relief, nevertheless, to escape to her room later. Closing her door, Rachel wished ardently that there had been a key, but there wasn’t, and she could hardly jam a chair under the handle. What possible explanation could she give Liz and Robert, if they discovered her in such a predicament? And besides, if Jaime was in pain, he was unlikely to come to her room again tonight.

Someone had turned on the electric blanket on her bed, and after a cursory wash and a cleaning of her teeth, Rachel unplugged it before climbing wearily between the heated sheets. It was deliciously warm and comfortable, and with the distant murmur of the sea from the other side of the house, she endeavoured to relax. But she couldn’t forget that the last time she had stayed at Clere Heights she had not slept alone, and the knowledge that Jaime was there, only a few yards away across the corridor, filled her with apprehension.

Eventually she slept, and although her sleep was shallow and punctuated with turbulent nightmares, she awakened feeling at least partially rested. Outside, the fog seemed to have given way to a brighter morning, and after watching the play of light between the heavy curtains at her windows for several minutes, she at last thrust back the covers and went to investigate for herself.

As she had suspected, the mist had lifted, and the view from her window encompassed the whole of the garden at the front of the house, and the village of Rothside in the distance. Although the trees were bare now, and the lawns had lost their lambent greenness, the thick hedges were dense and sturdy, with here and there a budding sprig of holly to provide a splash of colour.

The village lay below them, its roofs grey-tiled and solid, with the spire of the church just visible above a cluster of poplars. The road to the village ran beyond the barrier of rhododendrons, and wound its way down between fields, that Rachel remembered as being pastureland. Now, however, they had been ploughed, and left to turn their dark furrows to the blue sky, ready for sowing when the frosts of winter were over.

It was all much as she remembered it, she thought unwillingly, admitting that until now she had not realised how sharply it had remained in her memory. The house, and the village, and the tussocky cliffs sloping down to the river estuary, where the Roth spilled its waters into the North Sea.

She shivered suddenly, as the coolness of her room struck through the thin satin of her nightgown, and was starting back to warm herself beneath the covers when there was the lightest of taps at her door. She stiffened for a moment, and then, realising that Jaime would be unlikely to knock and announce himself, she opened her mouth to call: ‘Come in!’ when the handle turned and Maisie’s head appeared.

‘Oh, you’re up!’ she exclaimed, opening the door wider to reveal the small tea tray in her hands. ‘I thought you might still be sleeping, and Mrs Shard said not to disturb you if you were.’

Rachel relaxed. ‘I was just re-acquainting myself with everything,’ she admitted, taking the tray from her eagerly. ‘Hmm, I could just do with a cup of tea. Especially yours, Mrs Armstrong.’

‘Indeed!’ The housekeeper sounded sceptical, but she looked pleased, and Rachel perched on the side of the bed, setting the tray beside her.

‘Is—is everyone up?’ she asked, raising the wide-rimmed china cup to her lips. ‘What time is it? My watch seems to have stopped.’

‘It’s a quarter to nine,’ replied Maisie chattily, plainly disposed to linger. ‘Oughtn’t you to put on a dressing gown or something? You’ll be catching your death in that flimsy thing.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Well, I was beginning to feel a bit cold,’ she admitted. ‘But your tea has warmed me up beautifully.’

‘Mmm.’ Maisie pulled a wry face. ‘Well, so long as you’re sure.’ She twitched the fringe of the bedcover into position, then added: ‘Mrs Shard is downstairs, taking tea in the morning room, while she opens the mail, but Mr Shard isn’t up yet, and nor is Jaime.’