Down from the Mountain. Barbara Gale

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ said softly. “John was very good to me.”

      “Yes, well…” David left off, unsure what to say. He was grateful when she walked away, disappearing through a side door. Taking the steps slowly, he studied the winding staircase, trailing a light hand along its polished banister. Reaching the upstairs landing, he fought an impulse to throw his leg over the handrail and hurtle back down to the ground floor. Older and wiser, his long stride guided him down the familiar hall to his bedroom. His hand on the doorknob, he entered cautiously, but Ellen Candler was right. It felt as though he’d been gone hours, instead of ten years, thanks to the vigilance of that efficient housekeeper. No doubt his father had given strict orders to have his room kept in readiness. Still, it was creepy to think that a stranger had been rooting among his possessions, lifting things, peeking into drawers, glancing through his books. But it was what he himself did now, feeling like an outsider as he discovered the treasures of his childhood. A battered copy of The Catcher in the Rye, his bottle top collection, pristine baseball cards still encased in their slender plastic cases.

      Noticing his frowning reflection in a nearby mirror, David leaned in for a closer look. Silky, raven hair drooped across his forehead, skirting the long-lashed blue eyes his unruly hair tried to hide, balanced against a fine straight nose. The Black Irish lineage of his ancestors stared back beneath a thick and unforgiving brow, eclipsed by a violent network of lines that mapped the entire right side of his face.

      He might have grown to be amazingly handsome, but he never thought about that anymore. Nearly fifteen years ago a cruel automobile accident had sent him flying through the windshield of a car and ended that possibility. The finest plastic surgeons in the country had done everything they could for the young teenager. The slim hope that modern medicine now offered with its newly developed techniques wasn’t remotely tempting to the man that child had become. David simply refused to endure any more skin grafting—and the excruciating pain that went with it—to effect only the slightest chance of change. Even now his right eye ached—nerve damage that no amount of surgery would ever repair. His raging headache he attributed to jet lag.

      He hardly noticed his scars anymore, they had become such an integral part of him. On the other hand, rubbing his stubbly, hard jaw, he realized that he desperately needed a shave, and a shower wouldn’t hurt any, either. Stripping down to the buff, David soon had the bathroom steaming, his calloused hands lathering a hard, lean body toughened by eight years in forestry service. But he was tired, and the hot shower too soothing because, when he finished shaving, he collapsed on his bed, jet lag winning out.

      Four hours later he woke to darkness outside his bedroom window. Switching on the low bedside light, he saw that someone had left a tall glass of orange juice, some hard cheese and a plate of biscuits. The redoubtable Miss Ellen, he guessed wryly as he gratefully devoured the cookies. Many thanks, ma’am, he silently saluted with the icy glass. And I do hope you enjoyed the view, he grinned as he glanced down at his naked body.

      Oh, but she would not have, he reminded himself with a twinge of guilt for his foolish thoughts.

      Half an hour later, dressed in chinos and a light summer sweater, David sauntered into the library. He frowned as he paused by the bar. Fortification? But before he could pour himself a drink, a faint rustle distracted him. He glanced in the direction of the fireplace, where a fire had been lit against the evening chill.

      Nestled on the sofa, a book resting in her lap, Ellen Candler faced the fire. “David?”

      “Yes, ma’am, it’s me,” he answered promptly.

      She really was lovely, he thought, her pale skin glowing in the firelight, her red hair a golden waterfall burnished by the fire. How on earth had she managed to live here these past ten years, and he never heard a word of her existence? How careful the old man had been, to never mention her. How strange.

      “Up kind of late, aren’t you? I was thinking of a drink. Care to join me?”

      “I…um…” Ellen flushed, feeling foolish at her inexplicable attack of shyness. But David’s deep voice was so devoid of emotion, she wasn’t sure how to respond.

      “Don’t feel obliged. I don’t mind drinking alone,” David said briskly as he splashed some bourbon into a glass and settled on the sofa. “By the way, thanks for that midnight snack I found beside my bed. I fell asleep, just as you predicted.”

      “You had a very long day. When you didn’t show for dinner, I understood, but I thought you might want something when you woke.”

      “You were right absolutely right. Those biscuits didn’t last a minute.” Tossing off half the bourbon, David rested an arm along the back of the sofa and stretched his feet toward the fire. Looking around the library, he could see that nothing much had changed here, either, aside from the presence of the young woman. Sitting beside her, David enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of perfume suddenly wafting to his nostrils. A flowery concoction, delicate and faint. Gardenias again. He hadn’t smelled perfume in years and discovered that he missed it. Wrapped in its elusive magic, he turned his head her way, wanting more.

      “Is it hard to master Braille?” he asked, glancing at the spine of her book.

      “Not if you want to read,” Ellen smiled, unaware of the captivating picture she made.

      “What’s it called?” David teased, running his fingers over the dots and dashes. “I don’t know Braille.”

      “The Return of the Native.”

      “Never read it.”

      “I love Thomas Hardy and— Oh, I never thought!”

      David laughed even though it was something only half his face could do. Somehow, though, because Ellen could not see his distortions, he felt freer to emote. “Please, don’t apologize! There is an irony here that is irresistible! After all, I am a native returning home, too, in my own way.”

      “Yes, well,” she said uncertainly, “as long as you understand that I meant nothing by it. I’m plowing my way through all Hardy’s books.”

      “Jude the Obscure, too?”

      “Jude the Obscure, too!” she admitted. “Hey, I thought you just said you’d never read Thomas Hardy.”

      “I never said I hadn’t read old Thom Hardy, I just said I’d never read The Return of the Native.”

      “Oh. Well, it’s my favorite.”

      “Then I’ll put it on my list of books to read. Brilliant and beautiful! Seeing you now, I understand why my father kept you under wraps.” He was glad he could openly admire her, she certainly was a pretty little thing. More than pretty, quite beautiful, actually, even if she did look drawn and tired. John had shown good taste, but how on earth had he had the nerve to rob such a cradle? He watched as she played with her book, her face an easy read as she searched to uphold her end of conversation. Failing miserably, she gulped her silence like a fish and he supposed she was grieving, which would make conversation even more difficult. Theirs even more so. He wondered, too, how she felt about his father.

      “Did you love my father?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Even David was shocked to hear the tactless question floating on the air. But he couldn’t bring himself to retract it. Something wicked in him wanted to know. No one who knew him would believe the way he was acting, behaving like a fool, barely in control of a conversation he’d never meant to begin.

      “Sorry, Miss Candler. That was СКАЧАТЬ