Elizabeth Oldfield - Dark Victory

‘I believe it was Miriam who submitted them.’

‘I see,’ Cheska said thinly.

Shortly after her departure two years ago, there had been a mention in one of her stepbrother’s letters about him renewing his friendship with Miriam Shepherd, a former childhood sweetheart and near-neighbour who had not long been widowed. Miriam was a dreadfully well broughtup, insufferably bright individual who loved to take charge, and while Rupert’s increasing references had made it clear that he did not object to the woman being around, Cheska had always found even a small dose of her extremely trying. But having a commercial made at the manor would give Miriam much to talk about at her bridge games and coffee mornings, and, as its instigator, would put her firmly centre-stage.

‘You’ve met Miriam?’ Cheska enquired.

Lawson nodded. ‘When I came to discuss filming on a couple of earlier occasions and again on my arrival yesterday. She seems to be a constant visitor.’

Cheska uttered a silent scream. From Rupert’s letters it had appeared that the woman might be muscling in and attempting to establish herself— which would be easy because her stepbrother was far too malleable—and this was confirmation. Her brow furrowed. Now that she thought about it, it seemed likely that using the oast-houses as holiday homes had been Miriam’s idea. The fiftyish blonde had a keen eye for money; which was doubtless one of the reasons why she had decided to set her cap at Rupert again, Cheska thought scathingly.

‘How old were you when your mother married Rupert’s father?’ Lawson enquired.

‘Er…ten,’ she said, surprised by the veer in subject and surprised that he should be interested.

‘How did you get on with your stepfather?’

Cheska smiled. ‘Very well, though, as he was in his sixties, he seemed more like a grandfather than a father. Desmond Finch was a gentle man, the same as Rupert.’ Her smile faltered. ‘Unfortunately he and my mother were only together for—’

‘Yoo-hoo,’ a voice shrilled, splitting through the still of the morning, and they both looked up to see a corseted figure in a vividly floral dress and pearls flapping a hand from the manor’s pillared porch.

Cheska’s heart sank. Miriam Shepherd might be a constant visitor, but did she have to arrive so early?

‘Yoo-hoo, Lawson! the woman yodelled.

She shot him a glance. ‘Lawson?’ she queried tartly. ‘It sounds as if the two of you are friends.’

‘The best of,’ he said, stopping as they reached the semi-circle of the metalled forecourt, ‘and don’t crinkle your patrician nose like what. Miriam’s a good-hearted type.’

‘Good-hearted? Huh! What are you doing?’ Cheska protested, as she was abruptly tipped off her feet and swung up into his arms.

‘Carrying you to the front door.’

She frowned at him. ‘Why?’

Lawson set off across the forecourt. ‘Because chances are you’ll either step on a stone in your bare feet or, if you put on your sandals, you’ll slip.’’ And I thought the age of chivalry had died,’ Cheska said archly.

He prowled effortlessly on, like a big cat bringing home its prey. ‘I hadn’t finished. In either case, it’ll be me you make a grab for, and, as I have no desire to be sent flying, carrying you seems the most prudent course of action.’

So much for chivalry! All he had been thinking about was himself. But she did not want to be carried, Cheska thought edgily. She did not want to be held so close in his arms. She did not want to feel the warmth of his hands on her bare legs or the rub of her body against his body as he walked.

‘My flip-flops have dried—see?’ she said, flourishing them in front of his nose. ‘So I shan’t slip and you can put me down.’

Lawson shook his head. ‘My self-preservation instincts say no.’

‘But I say yes!’

‘You’re in the hands of someone bigger and more powerful than yourself,’ he informed her, ‘so why not just lie back and enjoy the ride?’

Cheska’s temper fizzed. Self-preservation came a low second, she thought darkly, what he was really doing was demonstrating his control over her—in a patronising, condescending, infuriating kind of way. And what made it even more infuriating was the sight of gossipy Miriam watching from the porch. Doubtless by this time tomorrow half the population of the county would know how she—an independent, intelligent young woman—had been toted around like some daffy doll.

‘Put me down! ‘ Cheska commanded, in her most majestic tone. “Twitching your pectorals like this may be doing wonders for your machismo, but—’

‘Relax. If you wriggle, you could make me drop you,’ Lawson said, and loosened his grip. ‘Do you want that?’

Able to recognise a threat when she heard one, Cheska hooked a hasty arm around his neck. Being unceremoniously dumped would be even more demeaning than being carried.

‘No, thanks, she muttered.

‘I thought not.’ His eyes dipped to the swell of her breasts in the low neckline. ‘Besides, carrying you like this is…stimulating.’

‘For you, maybe, Cheska retorted, ‘but not for me.’

‘No?’ Slowly and deliberately, Lawson lowered his gaze again. ‘That’s odd; all the evidence points to—’

Her cheeks flamed. He had not bothered to finish his sentence, but he did not need to. Belatedly— and to her dismay—she realised that being carried in his arms had aroused her. Her nipples had tightened and, without looking down, Cheska knew they would be jutting like miniature thimbles beneath the black Lycra.

With agile ease, Lawson took the steps up to the porch two at a time, where he set her down on her feet.

‘I didn’t want my lady to slip,’ he told the eagleeyed Miriam.

Cheska seethed. If he called her ‘my lady’ once more, she would slap him. She would. And never mind Miriam broadcasting the news far and wide.

‘Sir Galahad,’ the older woman declared, with a simpering smile of admiration. She cocked a curious head. ‘Do you two know each other?’ Intimately,’ Lawson replied, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and standing with long legs set apart. ‘The truth of the matter is’

Cheska’s nerve ends shrieked. He couldn’t tell her…He mustn’t…

“That he’s joking and we met just now, down at the pool, she gabbled, shooting a daggers-drawn look which defied him to argue.

The last thing she needed was for Miriam to know that something had happened between them—no matter how long ago. An avid ferreter and something of a prude, if the blonde sniffed a whiff of something untoward she would not cease digging until she had unearthed the facts. All of them. Cheska shuddered. Her behaviour may have been less than circumspect, but she refused to be branded as a scarlet woman.

‘Yes, we did,’ Lawson said, being dutifully obedient, though an impudent gleam shone in his dark eyes. ‘You were calling me?’ he asked Miriam.

“There’s a phone call from Mrs Croxley, Janet’s mother.’ Ushering him indoors, she wafted a beringed hand down the wide, oak-floored hall with its worn Persian rugs, to where a door stood open into the library. ‘She promised to hold on.’

“Thank you,’ he said, and strode away.

‘Francesca, how nice to see you again,’ Miriam declared, with a gracious smile. ‘Rupert tells me you had a good flight.’

She nodded. ‘It was fine. Where is Rupert?’ she asked, for her stepbrother was usually an early riser.

‘He’s getting up. After such a late night last night, he overslept.’

Wondering if she could be being blamed for her plane’s midnight arrival time, Cheska shot a suspicious look, but all she saw was raging affability.