Brittle Bondage Page 8

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Rachel was losing all patience. ‘I didn’t know myself. Not until this morning. She rang me out of the blue—from the airport, would you believe? I did tell you she was visiting my brother David in New Zealand, didn’t I? Well, she got back earlier than I expected, and she’s decided she’d rather come and stay with us for a few days than go home. There: that’s the whole story.’

  Simon sniffed. ‘Are you sure you didn’t invite her here because you’re finding Leeming too hard to handle on your own?’ he muttered in an undertone, but Rachel’s furious expression had him raising a placating hand. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he apologised hurriedly. ‘Of course I believe you. You’ve never lied to me yet. But when I found out he was here, in the village—well, can you blame me if I jumped to the obvious conclusion?’

  Rachel sighed. He had a point, and were it not for her awareness of her surroundings she’d probably have responded to his accusations with less heat.

  ‘Tonight, hmm?’ was all she said in answer, and his bluff face creased into a rueful smile.

  ‘So long as your mother doesn’t mind you leaving her on her first evening back in England,’ he agreed, touching her cheek with a possessive finger. ‘If she does, I suppose we’ll have to humour her. I wouldn’t want to fall out with my future in-laws before I’ve even got you living under my roof.’

  Rachel managed a smile, but as Simon went jauntily out of the door she couldn’t help thinking how naive he was in some ways, if not in others. Mrs Collins had made no secret of the fact that Simon was not her ideal prospective husband for her daughter. She considered him both pompous and overbearing, and she lost no opportunity to belittle him in Rachel’s eyes.

  Rachel had no doubt that her mother would have plenty to say on the subject of her engagement, none of it constructive, she was sure. If only she could have had a little more time to get used to the idea herself, she thought. She was not looking forward to having to defend her decision to anyone.

  And, with Ben on hand, it was going to be doubly awkward. Natural allies, he and her mother were bound to share a similar point of view. It was amazing how selective her mother’s memory could be when it suited her. She’d apparently forgotten what Ben had done.

  She went home at lunchtime, and to her intense annoyance Ben’s Mercedes was once again parked in the drive. She was tempted to ram the back of it with her small Volkswagen, but, looking at the other car’s heavy fender, she had little doubt she would come off worst.

  Besides, it was no good letting Ben see he could rile her so easily. If she constantly behaved as if his being here upset her, he was bound to get the wrong impression. But remembering what had happened that morning made it difficult to behave in any normal way. No matter what she told herself, she was vulnerable.

  Which was one reason why she was glad she was going out that evening. The sooner Ben—and her mother—realised she was serious about her relationship with Simon, the quicker they would come to terms with it. She refused to take his threats about Daisy seriously. Children—especially little girls—always lived with their mother. He couldn’t take her away; he wouldn’t. It was just a cruel attempt to make her come to heel.

  All the same, she couldn’t deny the sense of apprehension she felt, when she entered the house and heard Ben and Daisy laughing together in the kitchen. She had the weirdest sense of déjà vu, and she wondered how many times she had come home and heard that so-familiar sound. Once, she would have shed her coat and joined them happily, eager to know what it was they were laughing about. But now, although she removed her jacket and hung it on the newel post, she hung back from entering the kitchen. She didn’t want to see Daisy and her father together. She didn’t want to feel any sense of guilt because she was making the final break.

  In the event, she didn’t have to make a formal entrance. Ben must have heard her come in, because he appeared in the kitchen doorway, a tea-towel tucked about his waist, a wooden spatula in his hand.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ he said, almost as if it was he who lived here and she was the visitor. ‘I thought I heard someone in the hall.’

  Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘Who did you expect? My mother?’

  The implications of that association were so obvious, to her at least, that for a moment she was appalled at her own paranoia. What price Simon’s neurotic accusations now? she thought wryly. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be as suspicious as he was.

  ‘Your mother?’ echoed Ben blankly, as Daisy appeared behind him, a pinafore covering her track suit.

  ‘D’you want some lunch, Mum?’ she asked. ‘Daddy’s making pancakes. They didn’t serve them at the hotel, and you know how much I love them.’

  ‘How nice.’ Rachel’s response was sarcastic, but she couldn’t help it. It was difficult not to feel resentful in the circumstances, and Ben’s assumption that he could come and go as he pleased filled her with a growing sense of desperation.

  ‘What’s this about your mother?’

  Clearly, Ben had not been diverted by Daisy’s innocent intervention, and the little girl’s eyes widened as she took in what had been said. ‘Nana?’ she exclaimed. ‘Is Nana back from New Zealand?’ She looked up at her father. ‘Nana’s been spending a holiday with Uncle David and Auntie Ruth. Did Mummy tell you?’

  ‘Your mother tells me nothing,’ replied Ben flatly, and then, with his eyes still on Rachel’s face, ‘Is your mother here?’

  Rachel felt suddenly weary. ‘Yes. Well—no, not yet,’ she muttered distractedly, too exhausted to tell him anything but the truth. ‘She phoned me from the airport this morning. She was planning on getting the morning train from Paddington. She apparently wants to prolong her holiday by staying with us.’

  ‘Oh, whoopee!’ Daisy’s shriek of delight filled the empty silence. ‘I wonder what she’s brought me,’ she added, with typical single-mindedness. ‘I hope it’s a koala bear. They’re ever so soft and fluffy. Melanie Carpenter had one at school——’

  ‘Koalas are from Australia,’ said Rachel automatically, but Ben was still determined to have an answer.

  ‘Why should you think I would know your mother was coming down here today?’ he demanded, as Rachel endeavoured to look beyond him, into the kitchen. ‘I haven’t seen your mother in God knows how long. Or am I supposed to be a mind-reader? Forgive me, but didn’t you just say you didn’t know she was coming until this morning?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Rachel had quickly realised her mistake, and was eager to distract his attention from it. ‘I think your pancakes are burning,’ she added, pointing at the cooker, but Ben barely glanced at the smoking pan.

  ‘I get it,’ he said abruptly. ‘You think I’ve recruited your mother as an ally. You think it was my idea that she’s coming to stay.’ He shook his head. ‘Give me a break!’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Your mother’s too fly an old bird for that.’

  Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘My mother is not an old bird,’ she retorted coldly and, making a decision, she pushed past him into the kitchen. Removing the pan to a safe place, she opened a window to let out the smoke. Then, with the support of the sink behind her, she gestured at the messy trail of flour and milk and egg-white that decorated the table. ‘I trust you intend to clean this place up. I can’t afford a housekeeper.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’

  Unfortunately, it was Daisy who felt the sharp edge of her mother’s tongue, and Rachel was sorry about that. Ben, of course merely arched one dark brow in cool awareness, and she was humiliatingly conscious of his undisguised contempt.

  ‘Don’t I pay you enough?’ he enquired, immediately consigning a mercenary tag to her complaint, and Rachel’s nails dug into her palms. It was so easy for him; so easy to ridicule her grievances and set her down. He did it without any effort, knowing that with Daisy there she was unlikely to make a fuss.

  ‘I’m not blaming you, sweetheart,’ she said, putting an arm around the little girl’s shoulders. Daisy was endeavouring to blo
t up the spillage with kitchen towels, and she looked at her mother with some relief.

  ‘It’s me she’s getting at,’ put in Ben drily, injecting a note of humour into his voice for the child’s benefit. He leant past Rachel to pick up the bowl of batter, and gave it a rueful look. ‘I guess we’ll have to abandon these for today, small fry. I’ll get Mrs Cornwell to make some, next time you come to stay.’

  ‘Oh—must we?’

  Daisy sounded plaintive, and Rachel, who was struggling to ignore the fact that she was not indifferent to Ben’s nearness, snatched the bowl out of his grasp.

  ‘I can make pancakes,’ she said, even though the very idea of doing anything under her husband’s eyes, when her hands were shaking, and she was in danger of spilling hot oil all over the floor, should have filled her with dismay. But anything was better than continuing this stand-off, when looking at him plumbed the dark depths of her soul.

  ‘Did I say you couldn’t?’

  Ben was looking at her again, and she had the uneasy feeling that nothing he said could be taken at face value. His expression was enigmatic now, his dark eyes veiled and guarded. They made her shiver, in spite of the heat in the kitchen, and it was with real relief that she turned to the cooker.

  So much for her intention of running a Hoover over the living-room carpet, and making up the spare bed for her mother, she thought, ladling a spoonful of batter into the hot pan. She didn’t really have time for this. Her lunchtimes were always short and fairly frantic. It wasn’t as if she cared if Mrs Cornwell was a cordon blue chef. Once again, she had let her feelings get the better of her, and Ben probably knew that and was enjoying her frustration.

  With Daisy occupied in setting the end of the kitchen table for herself and her father, Ben came to stand beside her, looking down into the bubbling pan. ‘I gather you don’t approve of us using your kitchen,’ he said softly, breaking a corner off one of the pancakes already made and keeping warm under the hob, and popping it into his mouth. ‘Hmm, these are good. Much better than I could make.’

  ‘It’s your mixture,’ retorted Rachel ungraciously, as she deposited another crepe on the plate. ‘And I don’t object to anything Daisy does in this house. She has as much right to it as me. It’s her home.’

  ‘But not mine,’ Ben observed quietly, helping himself to another piece of crisp pancake. ‘Tell me, exactly when are you planning to move in with Mr Barrass?’ Rachel’s head jerked in his direction. ‘Don’t you know?’ she demanded coldly, realising Daisy must have supplied Simon’s name.

  ‘If I did, I wouldn’t be asking,’ retorted Ben smoothly. ‘How many of these are you making? I don’t suppose any of us will eat more than a couple.’

  ‘Are you expecting me to believe you haven’t been pumping Daisy for information?’ Rachel countered, ladling another measure of batter into the pan.

  ‘No, I’m telling you you’re making too many pancakes,’ replied Ben, with annoying deviation. ‘I made too much batter. Shall I pour the rest away?’

  ‘Then how do you know Simon’s surname? I didn’t tell you. Or have you been gossiping about me to Charlie Braddock at the Swan?’

  Ben sighed. ‘As a matter of fact Daisy did tell me——’

  ‘I knew it!’

  ‘—but not because I asked her,’ finished Ben evenly. ‘Apparently, that’s what she calls him.’ His thin lips twisted. ‘I’d have expected Uncle Simon, at least.’ Rachel’s face was red, and it wasn’t just the heat from the stove. ‘Unlike you, I wanted to be certain before I introduced Simon as her new stepfather,’ she retorted scathingly. ‘I can’t imagine how many aunties she’s met at Elton Square!’

  Ben wasn’t perturbed. ‘Hasn’t she told you?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I haven’t asked her,’ she exclaimed, although that wasn’t precisely true. She had asked Daisy about who she met when she visited her father in London. The fact that no female—other than Mrs Cornwell—had figured in her narrative didn’t mean there hadn’t been any. Daisy could be economical with the truth too when it suited her.

  Ben’s expression was carefully blank now, but she doubted he believed her excuses any more than she believed his. He was still waiting for her to answer his question, and pretending she had forgotten was just playing into his hands.

  And with her mother due to arrive at any time …

  ‘Shall I set a place for Nana?’ As if reading her mother’s thoughts, Daisy chose that moment to look up from her attempts to fold one of the table napkins into a water lily. ‘Do you think she’ll like pancakes? Will there be enough?’

  ‘Oh, yes, there’ll be enough,’ said Rachel quickly, glad of the breathing space. She gave her daughter a rueful grimace. ‘But I don’t know if she’ll want any. You know how Nana worries about her figure.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Daisy smiled, and resumed her efforts at origami just as Rachel realised that in her haste to speak to her daughter she had inadvertently splashed batter on to Ben’s shirt. There was a wet smear of the milky liquid decorating the front of the navy blue silk shirt, and she caught her breath automatically as her anxious eyes sought his.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ she muttered, snatching up a tea-towel, and then hesitating over what she ought to do with it. Dabbing it dry wasn’t going to be very effective, and asking him to take the shirt off so that she could wash it was simply beyond her.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he assured her patiently, and then, grasping her wrist, he drew the hand holding the tea-towel to his chest. With what she felt was deliberate sexuality, he made her rub the surface damage away, retaining his hold on her wrist as she did so, holding her gaze, too, until she dragged her eyes away.

  ‘There—that’s much better, don’t you think?’ he remarked when she’d finished, and, aware that any violent struggle to free herself might frighten Daisy, Rachel didn’t argue. She simply stared in stony silence at the darker stain, still visible in spite of her efforts, wishing she’d had her lunch at work, wishing her mother would appear and save her.

  ‘Don’t you agree?’ he persisted, his breath fanning the damp curls of hair that had escaped on to her forehead. The scent of his body—warm and clean and essentially male—drifted to her nostrils. ‘You can wash it for me later,’ he added, his thumb moving sensuously against her skin. ‘I’d take it off now, but we wouldn’t want your mother to come and find me half-naked. She might get the wrong impression.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Rachel, stung into a retort. She knew he was just tormenting her, but that didn’t prevent the gibe from finding its mark. ‘Will you let me go now—please? I’d like to get on with what I’m doing.’

  ‘In a minute.’ Ben directed a swift sideways glance at his daughter and then continued softly, but with definite menace, ‘If you think that because I object to your ideas of moving in with Barrass he can move in here instead, think again.’

  Rachel caught her breath. ‘Simon wouldn’t move in here,’ she hissed coldly, and then, because Daisy had looked up again, she pasted an artificial smile on her face. ‘He wouldn’t even sleep in your house,’ she added triumphantly. ‘And don’t think I haven’t asked him, because I have! ‘

  But it wasn’t true. For all her fierce bravado, Rachel still hadn’t got over the abhorrence she felt towards sleeping with another man.

  Initially, she had told herself it was because she was afraid of getting pregnant again, but that wasn’t true either. A talk with a doctor soon after the separation—and some careful counselling—had convinced her that part of the problem she had had when she was living with Ben had been due to her own desperate longing to have another baby. The miscarriages—and her subsequent fear of conception—had all been explained to her, and she knew there was no reason now why she shouldn’t have another child.

  Another excuse she had given herself for not going to bed with Simon was that finding Ben and the au pair together had temporarily destr
oyed her own sexuality. But, once again, she was afraid that was very far from the truth. When Ben touched her—as he had touched her that morning—she had trouble controlling the very emotions she had previously believed were dead. Or if not dead, then frozen, she conceded ruefully. Yet Ben had awakened them, and left her more confused than ever.

  The trouble was, he knew her too well, she decided irritably. They had lived together for more than eight years, after all, and that was bound to give him an advantage. That, and the fact that he enjoyed tormenting her, she thought, wondering what he was thinking at this moment. Had she really convinced him that she and Simon were lovers? Or was he simply thinking of some other way he could turn her words against her?

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she exclaimed now, loud enough for Daisy to hear. ‘We don’t want the food to get cold.’

  ‘There’s not much chance of that,’ replied Ben pleasantly, leaning past her to take the dish of pancakes from the hob. His arm brushed the side of her breast as he did so, and she flinched as if he’d struck her. ‘So when do I get to meet this paragon of all the virtues?’ he murmured, as she turned her scarlet face towards him. ‘If he’s succeeded in getting into your bed, then he’s obviously smarter than I thought.’

  ‘Get stuffed!’ choked Rachel rudely, and, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth, she stalked painfully out of the room.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS the rattle of teacups that awakened her.

  For a moment, Rachel lay there, feeling totally disorientated. No one brought her tea to bed these days. Daisy was too young, and in any case she’d been warned not to handle boiling water.

  There was a fleeting second when she wondered if everything that had happened had all been just a dream, and that what she could hear was Ben, bringing the morning tea, as he’d often done in the old days. A pot of Earl Grey, some hot buttered toast, and the morning papers—bliss! But her mother’s voice dispelled that notion as quickly as it had been born.