Mistress On Loan. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ found herself thinking. And so would the other one. The one whose name she wouldn’t speak. The one who’d caused all the nightmares…

      Well, all that was in the past, and the past couldn’t hurt her. Firmly, she slammed the gate of memory shut again, regretting that she’d allowed it to open even fractionally.

      It was only ten days later that news came that Angus Stretton had died at his villa in Spain, and would be buried out there.

      The vicar, however, decided to hold a memorial service at the parish church, and, to Adrien’s astonishment, Piers arrived to attend it.

      It was assumed locally that, having done his duty, he’d simply put the place on the market and get on with his life elsewhere.

      But how wrong we were, Adrien thought—smiling to herself as she walked down the long corridor which led to the master suite.

      He came—we saw each other again—and suddenly everything was different and wonderful.

      She opened the door and stepped into the main bedroom. It was a large room, with doors leading to its own dressing room and a bathroom, both of them completely remodelled.

      There was no furniture yet in the bedroom, which smelled of fresh paint and newly papered walls, now the colour of thick cream. The floor had been sanded and polished, and a square of deep green carpet laid.

      Adrien couldn’t help wishing that Piers had kept some of his uncle’s furniture. Much of it was old, and she suspected valuable, and it had suited its surroundings.

      But he’d insisted on a clean sweep. And since then, of course, she’d found the bed.

      She’d discovered it at a country sale, lying in pieces in an outbuilding. A genuine four-poster bed, needing a lot of restoration work, admittedly, but she’d got it cheaply and handed it over to Fred Derwent, who specialised in such things and who’d received it with a delight bordering on reverence.

      Soon, Adrien thought dreamily, it would be installed—the centrepiece of the room—and of their marriage.

      And Zelda had unearthed some fabulous fabric, incorporating a heavily stylised pattern in blue, green and gold, from which she was making the hangings for the bed and the windows.

      Three months from now, she thought, I’ll be sleeping in that bed with Piers.

      Happy colour rose to her face, and she laughed softly to herself.

      She would still keep this morning tryst with the house, however. Only she’d wear the peignoir in ivory silk and lace that she’d bought on her last trip to London instead of the jade towelling robe which had seen better days, she thought, giving it a disparaging look.

      And her dark auburn hair would be cascading over her shoulders instead of hauled up into an untidy topknot.

      She would save this room until last, as she’d always done. Keeping it special. And once the new window curtains were pulled back, and she’d looked out over the wide lawns at the rear of the house, she’d go over to the bed and kiss Piers awake. And he would draw her down into the shadowed softness, back into his arms.

      So far it was only a fantasy that stirred her blood and brought her senses to trembling life. But very soon now it would be reality.

      She walked slowly to the window and looked out at the view she’d come to love.

      And stopped, gasping, her hand flying to her mouth.

      A man was standing in the middle of the expanse of grass, looking up at the house. A man dressed all in black, with an overcoat hanging from his shoulders like a cloak and early mist coiling round his legs, giving him an air of unreality, as if he’d come from another age and been caught in a time slip.

      He was so still that for a moment she thought he wasn’t human at all, but a statue that someone had placed there during the night as some kind of bizarre joke.

      But then she saw the breeze lift the skirts of the coat and ruffle the dark blond hair, and realised that, whatever else, she was confronted by flesh and blood.

      She thought, But not Piers, and her heart plummeted, shock replaced by disappointment. Piers wasn’t quite as tall as the figure below, and his hair was raven-dark. And yet—just for a second—she’d experienced this curious sense of familiarity.

      Who is he? she asked herself. And what is he doing here?

      The Grange had its share of visitors, most of them driven by curiosity to see how the work was progressing. But they didn’t come at sunrise, and usually they asked first.

      Adrien swallowed. A visitor who came unannounced this early in the day had to be an intruder. Someone who was up to no good. A potential burglar casing the place? she wondered frantically. She’d heard of empty houses being stripped to the bone, their fixtures and fittings carried off. And downstairs there was a brand-new kitchen, as well as Angus Stretton’s library, its walls still lined with books.

      She said fiercely under her breath, ‘But this house isn’t empty. And you’re not taking anything.’

      She turned and ran to the door, tearing along the corridor to the wide oak staircase, launching herself downwards.

      The drawing room was also at the rear of the house, to take advantage of the view, and French windows led on to the terrace. She ran towards them, grabbing the keys from the pocket of her robe.

      It was the stark chill of the stone flags under her bare feet that startled her into awareness of what she was doing. She hesitated, staring around her, scanning the now-deserted lawn, recognising that the black-clad intruder was nowhere to be seen.

      And at the same time she heard in the distance the sound of a departing car. He must, she thought, have parked at the side of the house, where he wouldn’t be seen. But how had he known that?

      Adrien realised she was holding her breath, and released it, gulping as common sense belatedly intervened.

      What on earth did she think she was doing? she asked herself. Charging down here like a maniac, with only a bunch of keys for protection. Quite apart from wearing nothing except an elderly robe. Hardly confrontation gear, she acknowledged, tightening the belt protectively round her slim waist. And just as well the stranger had disappeared.

      But why the hell hadn’t she stayed in the house and used her mobile phone to call for assistance? How could she possibly have taken such a stupid risk?

      After all, he could have been violent, and she might have ended up badly injured, or worse.

      He must have assumed she wasn’t alone, or else he’d have stood his ground.

      Because he’d known she was there. She was convinced of it. Certain that he’d seen her, somehow, standing in the window. And that his dark figure had stiffened.

      But that’s crazy, she thought, beginning to shake inwardly at the realisation of her narrow escape. He couldn’t possibly have picked me out from that distance. I’d have simply been another shadow inside the house.

      And I couldn’t have noticed such a detail either. I’m letting my imagination run away with me.

      She straightened СКАЧАТЬ