Innocent Sins

Olivia wanted to question her further. He was angry, and he wanted to know what she meant by making out there was some big secret about Griff’s death. There wasn’t, he assured himself. Men of Griff’s age had heart attacks all the time, and without doing anything as strenuous as riding to hounds.

As Laura’s aunt let herself out of the room, he moved to the windows to stare out unseeingly. As always, he never came off best in any encounter with Laura’s aunt, and while he knew she wasn’t a liar he suspected she’d do anything to cause trouble for his mother.

He scowled, pushing his hands into the waistline pockets of his trousers and forcing the sunlit garden into focus. It was a pretty scene, he thought, considering the frame of poplar trees whose bare branches formed a stark contrast to their surroundings. He would use a colour negative, he mused, to take advantage of the band of sunlight that was presently creating a rainbow of artistry in the thawing icicles. Some of his best work had been done spontaneously, and his fingers itched to capture it on film.

But then his gaze alighted on the line of footsteps that led to the gate and all thought of photographic composition vanished beneath a wave of frustration. Laura was out there somewhere. The footsteps led in only one direction, away from the house, and he wondered what she had thought of what had happened the night before. Was she aware that if his mother hadn’t interrupted them he’d been in danger of resurrecting the offence that had driven them apart all those years ago?

Dammit, was he crazy, or what? He hadn’t wanted Laura then and he didn’t want her now. What had happened had been a reaction to circumstances, that was all, and he ought to be grateful to his mother for preventing him from making an even bigger fool of himself.

And he was. He was! But that didn’t explain why he’d needed to anaesthetise himself with Scotch before he could get to sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_9015a576-ef98-5da5-a6c0-b3f0af3febdb)

LAURA stood in the shadow of a huge snow-covered cypress, warming her gloved hands beneath her arms. She’d been about to enter the garden when she’d seen Oliver standing at the kitchen window and she’d drawn back automatically, his dour expression warning her that he wasn’t in the best of moods.

Her heart skipped a beat. Damn, why had he had to be here? All right, perhaps that was unreasonable. His stepfather was dead and naturally his mother wanted her own flesh and blood around her at this time, but if only she hadn’t had to have anything to do with him.

She’d considered booking into a hotel in Rhosmawr, which was the nearest small town to Penmadoc, but she’d quickly discarded that idea. It wasn’t fair to her father—or to Aunt Nell—to behave as if she wasn’t the daughter of the house, and just because Penmadoc wasn’t her home any more that did not give her an excuse to stay away.

She wondered if Oliver and her father had become closer in recent years. It was possible. There was no doubt that her father regretted her unwillingness to visit Penmadoc, and with the width of the Atlantic between them they’d seen each other much less than he would have liked.

For herself, she’d thought it had been easier for all of them when she went to live in the United States. It had certainly been easier for her—to begin with, at least. In New York, she’d been able to put the past behind her, and, if the wounds she’d thought healed had only been buried beneath a layer of self-deception, by the time she’d realised it, she was able to cope with the pain.

She sighed. She would have to go in soon. It was threatening to snow again and her feet were freezing. She wasn’t used to living in the country in winter. Winter in New York was a much more civilised affair altogether. The paths were always cleared; shopping malls were always heated; and her apartment was always comfortably warm.

Unlike Penmadoc…

She took a deep breath. She shouldn’t complain about the house really. There’d been years when she’d considered it the most beautiful house in the world. Not that it was beautiful, she conceded honestly. Built of dark Welsh stone, it sometimes had a rather dour appearance. But its pitched roof was peppered with half a dozen tall chimneys, and when she was a child she used to tell everyone that she was lucky because Santa Claus would have so many to choose from.

She shivered, stamping the snow from her boots and preparing to open the gate into the garden. It was no use putting it off any longer. She had to go in and face whatever was required of her. What could happen in a few days, after all? Her father was dead. His funeral was all she should be thinking of.

And then she felt the breath freeze in her throat. Oliver was still standing in the window but his face was fading. As she watched, paralysed by the realisation that she was hallucinating, Oliver’s strong face gave way to older, softer features. Hardly breathing, she watched as her father’s face came into focus. He was gazing out at the garden with much the same expression that Oliver had been wearing—a mixture of anger and frustration.

Panic gripped her. This couldn’t be happening to her. She wasn’t psychic. She’d never been psychic. Her mother, perhaps: her grandmother, definitely. But not her. Never her.

But there it was. Her father was dead. Dead! Yet there he stood, wearing the russet-coloured lambswool cardigan she had sent him for his last birthday. His hair was grey, greyer than she thought it had been last summer, but just as neatly trimmed as ever, his military moustache framing the uncompromising curve of his upper lip. There was a thread of hectic colour in his gaunt cheeks and deep pouches beneath his eyes, as if he wasn’t sleeping too well. Sleeping! Laura stifled the hysterical sob that rose into her throat at the knowledge that her father was dead, dammit. You couldn’t sleep any sounder than that.

She groaned aloud. Dear God, what was happening to her? This had to be some wild hallucination, brought on by the thoughts she’d been having as she walked back from the village. She’d been thinking about her father and somehow her subconscious had conjured him up. It wasn’t as if there was any resemblance between Oliver and Griff Williams.

She blinked and, as if proving the point, magically her father’s image had disappeared. Oliver stood there as he had before, a cream Aran sweater hugging his much broader shoulders, his tanned features tough and uncompromising, perhaps, but blessedly normal. With knees that felt decidedly weak now, she opened the gate and trudged into the garden. She wasn’t going to think about what had happened, she told herself. It had been an aberration, that was all, brought on by her emotional state.

Oliver saw her immediately and a look of relief crossed his face. And, for once, she was glad to see him. After the experience she’d had, she’d have been glad to see anybody, she thought unsteadily. Even Oliver, she acknowledged. A man towards whom she ought to feel nothing but contempt.

He had the door open by the time she reached the house and she offered him a stiff smile of thanks as she stepped inside. ‘I was beginning to get worried about you,’ he said, attempting to help her off with her parka, but she shrugged his hand aside and finished the job herself.

‘Why?’ she asked offhandedly, sitting down on a wooden bench and removing her boots. Her hands were trembling and she prayed he wouldn’t notice. She’d hate for him to think that she was afraid of him.

‘Because it’s going to snow again,’ he replied, waiting until she stood up and walked into the kitchen in her stockinged feet. Following, he paused in the doorway, watching as she extended first one foot and then the other towards the heat of the fire. ‘And you look very pale.’

‘I’m cold,’ said Laura shortly, aware that the cold she was feeling came from inside and not out. ‘Mmm, that’s much better.’

‘Okay.’ Oliver was evidently prepared to accept her explanation. His eyes drifted disturbingly over the thigh-length flannel shirt worn over a black tee shirt and ribbed black leggings. ‘Did you manage to get any sleep?’

Laura tucked the sides of her hair behind her ears before answering him. ‘I slept very well, actually,’ she lied. Then, because it was expected, she asked, ‘Did you?’

‘No.’

He spoke flatly and, glancing his way, she wondered if that was true. There was a slight puffiness around his eyes, but he looked much as she remembered from the night before. Narrow cheekbones angled above an unshaven jawline, and his thin mouth had a surprisingly sensual curve. He had never had conventionally handsome features; his face was too strong for that. But he was the most attractive man she had ever seen.

‘Perhaps your conscience was troubling you,’ she said without thinking, and immediately regretted it. The last thing she wanted was to dredge up the past again, and she added quickly, ‘I mean, because you weren’t here when your mother needed you.’

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know about that?’

‘About what?’ Laura’s eyes strayed compulsively towards the window. She was half afraid she’d see her father’s image gazing in at her now and a shiver slid uneasily down her spine.

‘About the afternoon your father died,’ said Oliver shortly. And then, noticing her shiver, he added, ‘You are cold. Would you like some coffee?’

Laura was tempted to refuse, but the idea of a hot drink was appealing. More appealing than the isolation of her room at this moment, and she nodded. ‘Thanks.’

Oliver filled the kettle and plugged it in before taking a jar and two mugs from the cupboard above the counter. He placed the cups side by side and spooned some of the coffee into each. Then he turned, folding his arms and propping his hips against the unit. ‘What did your aunt tell you about—well, about what happened?’

‘Not a lot,’ murmured Laura, feeling another shiver feather her skin. Glancing round, she saw the rocker beside the fire and curled her long legs beneath her as she settled on to its cushioned seat. ‘What your mother told you, I expect.’

‘Yeah.’ But he didn’t sound convinced. ‘I thought you might know more about it, seeing that you’ve been here for a couple of days.’

‘I only arrived the day before you did,’ protested Laura, frowning. ‘Besides, what’s there to know? Daddy had a heart attack. Your mother found him.’ She swallowed. ‘End of story.’

Oliver waited until the kettle had boiled and poured hot water into the mugs before continuing, ‘So you don’t know what the old lady was talking about?’

Laura blinked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, accepting a mug from him, shaking her head when he offered milk. ‘Mmm, this is good.’

Oliver resumed his position against the counter. ‘Did your aunt tell you Stella was on her own when it happened?’ he asked casually, and Laura stared at him, at last realising that there was more to this than random interest.

‘I—yes. Yes, I think so.’ She paused, cradling her mug between her hands. ‘Why? What has she said to you? That there was someone else here?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘You know Aunt Nell. She didn’t actually say anything.’

‘Then—’

‘It was just an impression she gave.’ He scowled. ‘She implied it was odd that Griff had been dead for a couple of hours before Ma found him.’

Laura’s eyes widened. ‘Was he?’

Oliver pulled a face. ‘Surely she told you that?’

‘No.’ Laura was thoughtful. ‘At least, I don’t think so. Anyway, why should it be important?’

Oliver shrugged, taking a drink of his coffee. ‘No reason.’