Innocent Sins

But her voice was high and strained and he seemed to sense it. With an odd expression playing about his mouth, he lifted his hand and stroked the backs of his fingers down her hot cheek, and this time she couldn’t prevent her automatic response. With a strangled sound, she jerked back from him, bruising her hip against the corner of the scrubbed pine table that occupied the centre of the floor.

‘Laura!’

His irritation was evident, but she suspected neither of them was prepared for his reaction. Instead of letting her go, he went after her, his hand closing on the nape of her neck now, his thumb forcing her face up to his.

‘Is this what an unhappy marriage has done to you?’ he demanded, and she realised incredulously that he thought she was reacting to some lingering torment from her relationship with Conor. That the panic she was barely controlling was something to do with her ex-husband.

As if!

‘I—’ She didn’t know what to say. Her head was swimming with the emotions his hard fingers were arousing inside her, and blaming Conor for feelings he had never been able to inspire seemed a cruel deceit. But… ‘Just let me go, Oliver,’ she said weakly. ‘I—I’m tired.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ His thumb was caressing her ear now and she thought how incredible it was that he thought he could give her any comfort. ‘Poor Laura. Do you have any idea how young you look in that robe?’

Laura felt faint. ‘Please,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Please, Oliver…’

‘It’s okay. I know.’ But just when she thought he was about to release her he changed his mind and, instead of moving aside, he pulled her into his arms. ‘You can rely on me, baby,’ he said huskily, pressing her face into his throat so that Laura could scarcely breathe. ‘I’m here for you. I just want you to know that.’

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

For a moment, Laura wondered if it was she who’d spoken. It was what she should have said, she knew that, but although the hand that had been stroking her shoulder slid away she sensed Oliver was reacting to a stronger will than hers.

A suspicion that was reinforced when Stella Williams’ shrill voice continued, ‘For God’s sake, Oliver, have you taken leave of your senses? She’s not back in this house for five minutes before she’s trying to cause trouble between us.’

Laura’s jaw dropped. ‘I hope you don’t think that I—that I—was encouraging him—’

‘So what are you doing down here at this time of night?’ demanded her stepmother scornfully. She sniffed. ‘And what’s that awful smell?’ Then, turning to her son without waiting for an answer, she said, ‘I suppose you got her to let you in. Why didn’t you come to the front door? I told you I’d wait up.’

‘I did come to the front door,’ retorted Oliver shortly, giving Laura a studied look in passing. ‘I thought no one was up. There were no lights that I could see.’

Stella pursed her lips. ‘I must have fallen asleep for a few moments,’ she said peevishly. ‘Goodness knows, I’ve had little enough sleep since Griff passed away.’ Her eyes glittered as they turned towards her stepdaughter. ‘Just because some people seem perfectly able to forget why they’re here—’

‘Forget it.’ Oliver’s voice was harsh as it broke into her provocative tirade. ‘Laura couldn’t sleep either. She came down to get herself a hot drink and I disturbed her. That’s why the milk boiled over. It was my fault. That’s what you can smell. Burnt milk. Nothing else.’

‘If you say so.’ Stella gave Laura a disparaging look. ‘Don’t you have anything else you could wear?’

Laura shook her head. She had no intention of getting into a discussion about her appearance with her stepmother. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, not caring whether they did or otherwise, and, putting his mother between her and Oliver, she made for the door. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

It was easier than she’d thought. Neither of them offered any objections as she slipped out into the hall. The smouldering embers in the hall grate lit up the door of her father’s study, giving her a moment’s pause. She was briefly tempted to go in there and try and calm her racing blood.

But the possibility that Stella might decide to show her son where her husband had been found deterred her. Instead, she hurried up the stairs and gained the sanctuary of her room with some relief. Leaning back against the panels, she wondered why she always let Oliver upset her. Whatever he said, whatever he did, he couldn’t help getting under her skin.

Straightening, she crossed the floor to the square four-poster she’d occupied when she’d lived here. Although her belongings had been removed and Stella had had the room redecorated, it was still reassuringly familiar to her. But this might be the last time she’d use it, she thought, tears filling her eyes again. Once her father’s funeral was over, she’d have no excuse for coming here.

Her reflection in the dressing-table mirror gave her a momentary shudder. For a second, the face that had stared back at her had been her mother’s. But she knew that was just because they looked alike. Pale face, pale grey eyes, wild red hair that rioted in an untidy mass about her shoulders. No wonder Stella had looked at her so contemptuously. Compared to her stepmother, she lacked any sophistication.

As for Oliver: well, she preferred not to think about him. She wasn’t at all deceived by his attempt at conciliation. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but she had no intention of making a fool of herself again.

She sighed now, loosening the belt of her dressing gown and flopping back on to the bed. It was impossible to come here without being assaulted by her memories. And, no matter how she might regret it now, Oliver had been an integral part of her growing-up.

She caught back a tear. She might have hated her stepmother for taking her mother’s place, but she had never hated Oliver. At ten years of age to his thirteen, she’d been pathetically eager to be his friend. She’d never had a brother or a sister before and she’d hero-worshipped him. She’d followed him around like a blind disciple, willing to do anything he asked of her, hanging on his every word.

She hadn’t been alone. He was a popular boy, and at the comprehensive in Rhosmawr that they’d both attended he’d never been short of companions. For almost six years, she’d deluded herself that the girls who came and went in his life meant nothing to him. Her infatuation had been such that she’d convinced herself he was only killing time until she grew up.

Stella had guessed how she felt, of course. Her stepmother had always had far more experience of life than Laura’s father, and to begin with it had amused her that her stepdaughter should have fallen so completely for her son. Stella hadn’t done anything about it. Perhaps she’d thought she could leave that to Oliver himself. But she’d got a rude awakening when she’d discovered them together, and despite the fact that Oliver had defended her she’d despised the girl from then on.

Laura groaned now and rolled over on to her stomach, trying to still the raw emotions that were churning inside her. That was all in the past, she told herself. She’d got over Oliver when she’d married Conor. And she’d grown up long before she took her vows. All right, so the marriage hadn’t worked out; but these things happened. Conor had been too young to make the commitment; too willing to leave all responsibility to her.

It was coming back here, she thought abruptly. She hadn’t spent any length of time at Penmadoc since she’d left to go to university over ten years ago. Like Oliver himself, she’d left home as soon as her schooldays were over—though he’d deferred continuing his education for a year to go backpacking across Europe instead.

Her lips twisted. It sometimes seemed as if fortune had always smiled on her stepbrother, and it was hard not to feel resentful when her own life had followed such a different course. Although being caught up in the conflict that had ensued after a country’s escape from a non-democratic government might not have seemed fortunate at the time, the pictures Oliver had taken and sent back to a London newspaper had ensured him a job in journalism after he’d got his degree. Since then, he’d become famous for his skill in capturing photographic images. Recently, a book of stylised black and white pictures of Alaskan wildlife he’d taken had made the best-seller lists. He worked free-lance these days, accepting commissions as and when it suited him. He also gave lectures: Laura knew because she’d attended one anonymously in New York.

Which was so very different from her own experience, she acknowledged ruefully. After—after what had happened between her and Oliver, she’d found it very hard to trust a man again. Besides which, although she’d got her degree in English, she was no genius. The fact that she’d got a job in publishing was due more to Conor’s father’s introduction to his brother, who owned the company, than any skill on her part, she was sure.

Conor’s parents had been good to her. They were Americans, like their son, and had sent him to England primarily to improve his social skills. He’d told Laura after their marriage that it was her independence and self-sufficiency that had drawn him to her. She’d never told him why she’d had to learn to depend only on herself.

Expelling a weary breath, she cast off the old dressing gown and crawled between the sheets. They were cold now, and she realised she should have filled a hot-water bottle, after all. So what’s new? she thought. Her whole life seemed to have been a study in retrospection. With Oliver Kemp the fulcrum at its core.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e722b55a-d84f-5cef-b095-21d89ac3da9f)

OLIVER awakened with a thumping headache.

For a while he lay quite still, trying to work out where he was and how he came to be there. He couldn’t understand why his room felt so cold. It didn’t get this cold in Malaysia. And if he wasn’t there why couldn’t he hear the steady hum of the Knightsbridge traffic? Despite double-glazing, he was always aware of the heart of the city, beating away just yards from Mostyn Square.

Then he remembered. Remembered, too, why his head was pounding as if there were a pile driver in his skull. He was in Wales; at Penmadoc, not in London. And it was the fact that he’d consumed the best part of a bottle of Scotch before falling into bed in the early hours that accounted for his hangover.

He groaned. He should have had more sense. But after seeing Laura again and learning why his mother had been so desperate to get in touch with him he’d needed something to fortify his strength.

The will…

Levering himself up on his elbows, he endeavoured to survey the room without feeling sick. But the bed swayed alarmingly, and although he swung his feet on to the floor he had to hold on to the mattress to keep his balance. Dammit, he was too old to be suffering this kind of nonsense. In future, he’d sustain himself with mineral water and nothing else.

Cursing whatever fate had decreed he should return to England at this particular moment in time, he got to his feet. Then, steadying himself on the chest of drawers beside his wardrobe, he shuffled across the room like an old man.

Despite a lengthy exploration, there were no painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. The light in there was blinding. He hadn’t thought to pull down the blind the night before and the brilliance of sun on snow was the equivalent of a knife being driven into his temple. It was the kind of light he usually only saw through a filter, but right now the idea of estimating aperture, shutter speeds and distance was quite beyond his capabilities.

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, jerking on the cord, only to have the blind rattle up again at lightning speed. He swore again, grabbing the cord and repeating the procedure. ‘This is just what I need.’

At least the water was hot and he stepped into the shower cubicle and ran the spray at a crippling pressure. He hadn’t looked at his watch yet, but he guessed it must be after nine o’clock. He could have done with a cup of Thomas’s strong black coffee. Instead, he would probably have to make do with the instant variety which was all Laura’s aunt ever had.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in black trousers and a chunky Aran sweater, workmanlike boots over thick socks keeping his feet warm, he left the room. His hair was still damp and he hadn’t shaved, but he doubted anyone would notice. If his mother was still in the same state she’d been in the night before, his appearance was the least of his troubles. So long as she felt she could rely on his support in her conflict with Laura, she’d avoid doing anything to upset him.

Despite the intensive-heating programme his mother had inaugurated over the years, the corridors and hall at Penmadoc remained persistently chilly. Why Stella should want to stay here when she could buy herself a cosy apartment in Carmarthen or Llanelli, he couldn’t imagine. He found it hard to believe that she was so attached to the old place. There had to be more to it than that.

The stairs creaked as he descended them, but at least the fire had been lighted in the hall below. Flames crackled up the blackened chimney, and the logs split and splintered in the massive grate. Years ago, he supposed, the hall would have been the focal point of the whole house. According to Griff, parts of Penmadoc dated from the sixteenth century, but so much had been added on to the original structure that its origins were hard to define.

He had paused to warm his hands at the fire when a dark-clad figure emerged from the direction of the kitchen. He saw it was Eleanor Tenby, Laura’s aunt. Although he knew she could only be in her fifties, she looked years older, her straight hair almost completely white these days.

An angular woman, she had barely tolerated him as a teenager. But, because Laura had been fond of him, she’d treated him more kindly than she had his mother. Then, when the family had broken up, she’d blamed him for Laura’s exile, only softening again in recent years when she’d seen how much Griff looked forward to his visits.