Captive Destiny Page 6

  She saw the way the muscles of his face tightened at her words, bracketing his mouth with deeply drawn lines, and thinning his lips. She waited for the counter-attack, steeling herself against the fury she was sure was to come, and was almost disappointed when it was denied her. Instead, he inclined his head, as if in silent admiration of her outburst, and rising to his feet swallowed the remainder of the Scotch in his glass.

  She watched him covertly as he crossed the room to refill his glass, feeling ridiculously contemptible for having said what she had. But it had been the only weapon in her possession, and desperate needs warranted desperate measures. All the same, she had the feeling that in hurting him she was hurting herself more, and the implications of that acknowledgement were more than a little disturbing.

  Having replenished his glass to his satisfaction, Jordan returned to his former position on the hearth. Studying the amber liquid through narrowed eyes, he startled her still further when he unexpectedly asked: ‘Are you happy, Emma? Has Ingram been a good husband?’

  For several seconds Emma was too shocked to answer him, and it was only when she realised he was waiting for her reply that she sought for words to satisfy his interest.

  ‘He—well, I—David has had a hard time adapting to the limitations of life in a wheelchair,’ she ventured at last, and felt a quiver of apprehension at the deepening perception of his regard.

  ‘I didn’t ask how Ingram was coping with his life,’ he retorted quietly. ‘I asked whether he’s made you happy.’

  Emma thrust her teacup aside and rose abruptly to her feet, not realising how close she was to him until her skirt brushed the fabric of his trousers. ‘I—I don’t see—what my happiness has to do with anything,’ she protested. ‘As—as a matter of fact, David and I have had quite a good life together.’

  ‘Had?’ he probed, raising the glass to his lips without taking his eyes from her. Lowering it again, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You talk as if it was over.’

  ‘Do I?’ Emma shifted sideways, edging towards the door. ‘I expect that’s because you disconcert me. As you say, this has been a wasted conversation. And I ought to be going. David will be wondering where I’ve got to—’

  ‘To hell with David!’ Jordan tossed the now-empty glass on to the chair behind him. ‘It’s you I’m concerned with. I want to know what’s making you hesitate about coming with me. If everything was rosy there would be no hesitation, would there?’

  Emma held up her head. ‘You tell me. You seem to know all the answers.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ He thrust his hands deep into his trousers’ pockets, tautening the material across his powerful thighs, staring down moodily at the carpet at his feet. ‘If anything, I’m confused.’ He looked up at her. ‘Are you going to enlighten me?’

  ‘What about?’ Emma was uncomfortable now, feeling she was getting into deeper water by the minute. ‘Jordan, I have to go…’

  ‘Wait…’ The thick lashes, the only uncharacteristic feature of his hard masculine face, veiled his eyes. ‘Tell me, Emma, are you really happy?’

  She took a backward step. ‘Why do you want to know? What’s it to you?’

  He hesitated, then he said flatly: ‘Call it a—a brotherly interest.’

  A brotherly interest!

  Emma trembled. He didn’t honestly expect her to be able to treat him as a brother, did he? Just being near him like this recalled too well the occasions he had seemed unable to keep his hands off her, when even standing beside her at a party his fingers had been permanently round her wrist, his thumb probing the sensitive skin of her palm. How could she dismiss thoughts like these when she could remember his warmth and his ardour, the feel of his skin against hers, the urgent hardening of his body, and the passion which had swept her far beyond the limits of physical restraint? How could she forget the things he had taught her about herself, even if the lessons she had learned had not all been easy? Looking at him in his immaculate suede suit, the fastidiously buttoned waistcoat concealing the muscular expanse of his chest, she knew a crazy wish that she dared tear the trappings of refinement from him and reduce him to the trembling supplicant he had once been in her arms.

  As if aware of her thoughts, his tone roughened as he exclaimed: ‘Emma, please! I want to know. Is it such a difficult question to answer?’

  Unable to lie to him, she spread her hands in a mute gesture, shaking her head helplessly. ‘We—manage,’ she conceded tautly. ‘Why? Does it give you some sort of perverted satisfaction knowing that no other man has—’

  She broke off, unable to go on, and dark colour swept up his face. ‘No!’ he muttered harshly. ‘No. It doesn’t satisfy me at all. But for God’s sake, why did you marry him? After the way he’d behaved, there was no compunction on your part to compensate the selfish swine!’

  Emma blinked at him, staring blankly. Then she gathered herself and whispered in a hoarse voice: ‘What—what do you mean? A-after the way he’d behaved? What do you know about David’s behaviour?’

  Jordan met her agonised gaze, and then with an ungodly imprecation he raked long fingers through his hair, resting his hand impatiently at the back of his neck. ‘You know!’ he insisted. ‘You must.’

  ‘What must I know?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Emma!’ Jordan paced restlessly across the room, standing staring out the window at the fading light. With his back to her, he was no less disturbing, and her gaze lingered on the width of shoulders that tapered towards his hips. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t know what kind of a man Ingram was!’

  Emma didn’t immediately answer him, and he turned slowly to face her, his eyes demanding a response. ‘If—if you mean what I think you mean, I—I didn’t know—’ she was beginning, when the ugly word he used overrode her nervous explanation.

  ‘You didn’t know!’ he declared. ‘But you must have done. Half of Abingford could have told you.’

  ‘Could have told me what?’ Emma was feeling distinctly sick now. ‘That—that David was having an affair with a girl called Sandra Hopkins?’

  ‘You said you didn’t know!’ he accused her angrily. ‘Are you trying to make a fool of me?’

  ‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘He—I—if you’d let me finish, I would have told you I didn’t know until—until this morning.’

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘Yes. I found—I found her handbag in the attic. She—she was with David the night—the night he had his accident, you see, and there were—letters inside. I didn’t read them, but they were addressed in David’s handwriting.’

  Jordan’s features were drawn into a scowl. ‘I see. And that’s all you know.’

  Emma gulped. ‘What else is there?’

  But Jordan shook his head. ‘No,’ he muttered, almost speaking to himself. ‘Why should I tell you? It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Jordan!’ She went towards him then, her eyes dark and troubled. ‘You know you can’t leave it there. What else should I know?’ She touched his sleeve. ‘Please—I have the right…’

  Jordan bent his head. ‘I don’t. Ask him yourself. Ask him how the accident happened. You do have that right.’

  Emma’s lashes flickered. ‘What do you mean? David was always such a careful driver, particularly on ice. What are you saying? That he was carrying on with—with the girl while he was driving.’ She moistened her upper lip. ‘She wasn’t—injured, was she?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Is—is she still living in Stratford?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Jordan flexed his shoulder muscles and glanced out the window. ‘I’d better take you back, hadn’t I? Before it gets dark.’

  ‘Jordan!’

  ‘Don’t ask me, Emma. I can’t answer you.’ He reached past her for her coat and held it towards her. ‘Here. It’s getting late, and I have a meeting at five o’clock.’

  Emma’s silent appeal went unanswered, and with a feeling of angry indignation, she pulled on her co
at. Then picking up her handbag, she returned to the reason for her being there: ‘You haven’t asked me whether I’m coming with you. Don’t you want to know?’

  His sigh was a weary admonition. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m coming,’ she announced tautly. ‘I’m sorry if you were hoping I’d refuse, but I’ve decided to accept. Why shouldn’t I have some freedom, too? Let everyone pity David, as they’ve been pitying me all these years!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JORDAN drove her all the way home. In spite of a moment of weakness in the town when she suggested he might drop her in the High Street, she retained her mood of recklessness, and when the Lamborghini stopped outside the house in Mellor Terrace she half hoped David was looking out of the window.

  ‘Well?’ he said, as she made to get out. ‘Changed your mind?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head firmly, although her mouth was dry. ‘Thank you for the lift.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he assured her, his eyes lingering on her hair, and she pushed it back with a nervous hand. ‘Can my secretary get in touch with you tomorrow to fix the details? You’ll need a valid smallpox vaccination certificate, too. You’d better arrange to have that done immediately.’

  ‘All right,’ she nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  He gave her a rather searching look, and then, as if regretting his gentleness, he leant past her and thrust open her door with suppressed violence. ‘There’ll be three of us on the flight,’ he said. ‘You, me and Stacey. You know Stacey, don’t you? Or rather you’ll have seen her, I expect. She and I are—good friends.’

  Emma felt as if he had just delivered a blow to her solar plexus, and it was all she could do to crawl out of the car and stand on the kerb as he drove off. Stacey! Stacey Albert, of course. Just as Gilda had predicted.

  She felt physically sick, the tea rising like bile in her throat, and to complete her humiliation, the door of the house opened at that moment and David’s mother stood there looking down at her, like some avenging angel.

  ‘That was Jordan Kyle’s car, wasn’t it?’ she demanded, as Emma reluctantly climbed the steps towards her. ‘What were you doing in his car? I didn’t know you ever saw him these days.’

  ‘I don’t. That is—I didn’t. Not until yesterday,’ admitted Emma wearily, and brushed past her into the hall.

  David was waiting at the drawing room door, and judging by his expression, he too had seen who had brought her home. But unlike his mother, he didn’t immediately say anything, and his silence was in some way more ominous than his anger might have been.

  ‘Tea’s ready,’ announced Mrs Ingram, ushering them both into the drawing room. ‘We couldn’t wait for you any longer, Emma. Wherever have you been?’

  Emma wondered whether it would be easier to break the news to David when they were alone, and then decided against it. David could easily take himself off to his study, as he had done in the past, when he didn’t want to listen to what she had to say, and she sensed that right now he was wishing his mother wasn’t here. Of course, he had no idea why she had been seeing Jordan, but he had the fore-knowledge of what had happened that morning, and he had had time to build his own defence. He had denied that his mother had known about his affair with Sandra Hopkins, and despite what Jordan had told her, she was inclined to believe him. For one thing, Mrs Ingram would never hear a word said against her son, and if there had been gossip, she would have discounted it.

  Now, seated before the fire in the drawing room, Mrs Ingram returned to the subject of Jordan Kyle. ‘Emma tells me she saw Jordan yesterday, David. You didn’t tell me he had been to visit you.’

  ‘He hasn’t,’ stated David flatly, accepting the cup of tea his mother had just poured. ‘I didn’t know Emma saw him yesterday either.’

  They both turned to look at her, and Emma quickly set her own cup down on the glass-topped table. ‘He—er—he came to the shop,’ she volunteered, reaching for a biscuit, although the last thing she wanted to do right now was eat anything. Breaking the biscuit between her fingers, she added, ‘His father’s very ill. He came to tell me. He knew how—how close Uncle Andrew and I had been in the past.’

  Unaware of her son’s incensed features, Mrs Ingram snorted. ‘If that man’s sick, you should be pleased, Emma,’ she declared. ‘After what he did to your father! If you ask me, justice has been a little late in asserting itself.’

  Emma’s fists clenched at the woman’s callous words, and it was all she could do not to blurt out there and then that Andrew Kyle was more than twice the man her son was. Instead, she schooled her features and said quietly: ‘My father had no one to blame but himself. The Kyles had every right to take over the company. My father was a bankrupt, and you know it. The mercy was that he didn’t bankrupt the company as well.’

  ‘Andrew Kyle!’ sneered Mrs Ingram. ‘He was a charlatan. Coming to Abingford from London, buying into your father’s business, bringing his East End roughness into a company that was known for its politenes and courtesy.’

  ‘Trace Transmissions was dying, Mrs Ingram, and you know it. Without Andrew Kyle’s money, my father would have gone bankrupt years ago.’

  ‘How can you say that, Emma?’

  Mrs Ingram was shocked, but David interrupted their exchange by saying shortly: ‘You still haven’t told us why he brought you home this afternoon. Did you meet him accidentally in town? Or was it a planned arrangement?’

  Emma coloured then, but she refused to allow him to subdue her. ‘As a matter of fact, I did arrange to meet him,’ she replied, much to his obvious amazement. ‘But only after I went out. I rang him, you see.’

  ‘You rang him?’

  Mrs Ingram gasped, but again David silenced her with an impatient stare. ‘Why did you ring him?’ he asked. ‘Had it anything to do with what happened this morning?’ And as her eyes widened now, he added: ‘I wouldn’t have expected that of you, Emma. What’s past is past. Do you think I haven’t suffered enough as it is? Knowing how I must have hurt you?’

  Looking down at her hands, when she could drag her eyes away from David’s triumphant ones, Emma had to admit that he was clever. By bringing the matter up himself, he had successfully spiked any attack she might have made, and already his mother was agitatedly speculating about what might have happened. Of course, David was assuming she had only contacted Jordan in an effort to get even with him, but nevertheless he had drawn her fire and left her on the defensive.

  Unable to keep silent any longer, Mrs Ingram exclaimed: ‘Emma, what is going on? What happened this morning? Why should you contact Jordan Kyle because of it? Surely you can tell me!’

  Before Emma could speak, however, David gave his explanation.

  ‘I’m afraid my wife has found out that before our engagement, I was having an affair with another girl,’ he said, astounding Emma by his audacity. ‘It was all over, long before we got married, but I’m afraid it is true that at one time I was going out with both of them simultaneously.’

  ‘David!’ Mrs Ingram stared at him. ‘Who was it? Do I know her?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ David shook his head. ‘She was just a little typist from Stratford. A pretty little thing, but not really my type at all.’

  ‘David!’ It was Emma who spoke now, the words bursting from her. ‘How can you tell such lies?’ She turned to her mother-in-law. ‘Mrs Ingram, what David has told you is true, up to a point. The point is—he was going out with her up until the week of our marriage. She was with him when he had the accident!’

  ‘No!’ Mrs Ingram was pale, and she turned back to her son for reassurance. ‘Is this true? Is what Emma says true? Because if it is…’

  ‘No, of course it’s not.’ David was brusque, the anger in his eyes directed at Emma. ‘It’s just a tale made up by my dear wife to justify her reasons for running after Jordan Kyle!’

  ‘How can you say that, David?’ Emma was horrified. ‘The handbag—’

  ‘What handbag?’ Mrs Ingram looked from one to the ot
her of them. ‘What handbag is she talking about, David?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ drawled David coldly, and too late Emma realised she had left the bag with him when she went out. He must have disposed of it as he had intended to do years ago. And with it her only chance of proving she was not a liar.

  ‘Well?’ Mrs Ingram was looking to Emma to explain, but she could only shake her head.

  ‘There was a handbag,’ she said. ‘A girl’s handbag, in the attic. I found it this morning.’

  ‘She’s lying!’ David’s laugh was almost convincing. Certainly it convinced his mother. ‘I’ve told you, this is some ruse to gain your sympathy before she tells us why she was really seeing Kyle.’

  ‘All right.’ Emma rose abruptly to her feet, unable to take any more of this without defending herself. ‘Believe what you like. And believe this, too. Andrew Kyle is dying, and he wants to see me. To see me! But, as you know, he lives in the West Indies. That’s why Jordan came to see me. That’s why I rang him this afternoon. I’m going with him to Valentia. I’m going to see Uncle Andrew. And nothing either of you can do will stop me!’

  * * *

  A week later, suffering the after-effects of her smallpox vaccination, Emma thought she had never felt lower in spirit. Not even when her father died had she felt this personal sense of bereavement, and only her feelings when she realised Jordan had finished with her compared to the sense of impending disaster she was experiencing now.

  It had been a terrible week: a week of rows and recriminations, a week when David had alternated between efforts to placate her about his own shortcomings and a violent urge to hurt and humiliate her into giving up her resolution to go to the Caribbean. But the lies he had told his mother had been further proof of his desire to protect himself at all costs, and any doubts she had had about her decision had been dispelled by his cruelty and his selfishness.

  There had been no need to arrange for anyone to take care of him. As soon as Mrs Ingram learned that her son was to be left on his own for several days, she had immediately volunteered to look after him herself, at once making Emma feel like a visitor in her own home, and an unwelcome visitor at that. Naturally, Mrs Ingram had taken David’s side against his wife, although Emma sensed that loyalty played a greater part than conviction. But she cared so fanatically for her son, she paid lip service to his protestations of innocence.