Dangerous Temptation (26 page)

And then Flora barked.

The spaniel had evidently detected the presence of someone else in the woods, and Caitlin barely had time to drag her coat about her before Ted Follett and his two retrievers came strolling out of the trees. Flora's barking increased in volume as she went to investigate the intruders, and Caitlin took advantage of the dogs' frenzied reunion to slide out from between Nathan and the tree.

She probably wouldn't have been able to escape so easily if Nathan hadn't taken rather longer than she did to pull himself together. As it was, she noticed rather worriedly that he slumped weakly against the trunk when she pulled away. But his groan of frustration seemed to reassure the elderly gardener. He evidently thought the walk had tired him out.

"I say," he exclaimed, ignoring the dogs in his haste to offer his assistance, "is Mr Wolfe all right? If you need any help to get him back to the house, just say, Mrs Wolfe. It's pretty chilly at the moment, and Mrs Goddard was just telling me your husband wasn't even well enough to come down to supper yesterday evening."

"I'm fine."

As if he was resentful of the other man talking to her about him as if he couldn't answer for himself, Nathan turned and braced himself against the tree. He didn't look fine, Caitlin thought guiltily. In fact, he looked exhausted. But he forced a smile to reinforce his claim.

"Thanks for the offer," he added, directing his remark to Ted Follett. "But perhaps you're right. I think I have had enough." His eyes were guarded as they flickered over Caitlin. "However, I'm sure my wife can manage. We'll have to miss out on the view for today, Kate. Come on. I'm ready to go back to the house."

Supper that evening was a fairly formal affair.

There were six of them at the table: Matthew and Daisy Webster, Marshall O'Brien, himself and Caitlin, and Nancy Kendall, a young schoolteacher from the village, invited, he was sure, to even the numbers.

Or to keep Marshall from monopolising Matthew's attention, he pondered, still sure there was something not quite right about their relationship, no matter what Caitlin said. The conclusion might have been obvious, but for all his doubts, they didn't act like lovers. But they sure as hell didn't act like employer and employee.

Then there was Mrs Webster's attitude towards Marshall to consider. It was apparent she had no love for the young man. Yet, if that was so, what was he doing here? Surely she had the right to say who came into her house.

It was curious, he reflected, that he should feel so certain about some things, and yet totally unsure about something else. He had the feeling Daisy Webster was not unaware of the connection between her husband and Marshall, but did she know what it really was?

Caitlin didn't, he decided, thoughts of his wife too easily conjuring up memories of the afternoon. It was ironic that what had happened between them in the past should have vanished so completely, yet every new encounter was emblazoned on his mind.

And on his loins, he appended dourly, remembering how he'd felt when Flora had warned them of the gardener's approach. It didn't really surprise him that since they'd gotten back Caitlin had done her best to avoid him. Her response had blown her previous complaint of needing to get to know him again to ribbons.

She'd wanted him; he was sure of it. And if Ted Follett hadn't come blundering out of the woods, God alone knew what might have happened. He could still feel her soft fingers fumbling with his belt, and his reaction to that was better left unseen.

He was glad he was sitting at the table, glad that the lower half of his body was safely hidden by the heavy damask cloth. He could torment himself by watching her, by anticipating what would eventually happen; for whatever she said—or did—he was going to have his way.

He'd never imagined it would turn out the way it had after their altercation this morning. When she'd awakened to find him making love to her, she'd almost convinced him he disgusted her as much as she said. She hadn't wanted to touch him then—or if she had, she'd hidden it very successfully. When she'd discovered how he'd loosened his trousers, she'd practically jackknifed out of the bed.

Still, he mused, it was her own fault for wrapping herself up like a mummy. Had she really thought that ugly nightgown would put him off? But he'd never yet had to force himself on a woman. Which was another little certainty he couldn't explain.

This afternoon, though, he'd had to revise his opinion of her reasons for acting the way she had. If it didn't sound so unlikely, he'd say she was only pretending she didn't care about him. Perhaps the stranger she feared most was herself.

It was all very Freudian, and he suspected he didn't know everything that was going on. But the memory of how she'd made him feel was totally believable, and he couldn't wait for an opportunity to rekindle the fire.

Yet, glancing at her now as she spoke to Marshall, he wondered if it would prove as easy as he hoped. In spite of the way she had responded, in spite of the way she had yielded to him, arching herself against him, tonight she'd resumed that almost-untouchable pose.

Whatever had happened in the woods, he'd be a fool if he didn't realise that she would just as soon forget it. Just because he'd broken down the barriers once was no reason to believe he could break them down again. In fact, because of what had happened, she'd be that much more on her guard against him. He may have been proved victorious in a skirmish, but the real battle was still to be won.

Her mother had seated her daughter diagonally across from him at the table, and so far she'd barely glanced his way. When she wasn't eating, or talking to Marshall or her father, she was hiding behind her wineglass. And for all she appeared to be at ease, he sensed she wasn't enjoying it at all.

His lips twisted at the memory of waking and finding her already dressed for supper. When they got back from the walk, he'd needed no persuasion to take a rest, and he'd been unconscious for a couple of hours. Evidently, he'd used up what small amount of stamina he'd accumulated. But whether it was the walk—or his tortured emotions—that had exhausted him, he didn't know.

Anyway, by the time he lifted his head from the pillow, she'd been dressed in the ivory silk jersey tunic she was wearing this evening. He guessed she'd arranged it that way, making sure she didn't disturb him until she was safely ready to go downstairs. Her excuse, that he had needed the rest, was one with which he couldn't argue. Though he'd promised himself he wouldn't be quite such a pushover again.

And there was no doubt that in one way Follett's intervention that afternoon had proved beneficial. He had been frozen, and his legs had felt like jelly by the time he got back to the house. It would have been embarrassing if he hadn't been able to finish what his raging hormones had started. It was easy to be confident after the event.

And, after all, the doctor had told him it would take him some time to recover completely. Apparently, shock could do that to you. Shock, and the blow he'd taken to his head. Just because there was nothing to see, the damage was no less debilitating. He was still considered convalescent, but if he was patient, he'd eventually recover his strength.

And his memory…

But he didn't want to think about that, and there was no doubt his weakness had proved beneficial to his wife. He'd given her the perfect chance to regain her composure and that annoying air of vulnerability that she wore around her like a shield.

He wondered what she'd been doing while he was sleeping. Socialising with Marshall? He found he didn't like that idea at all. And she certainly seemed to be getting on well with him this evening. He'd noticed her mother kept giving them a thoughtful look.

As for Matthew Webster, he guessed the events of the day had tired him, too. What had Caitlin said? That he wasn't supposed to suffer any stress? Well, that was a joke, if this morning's interview was anything to go by. Despite the fact that O'Brien had asked most of the questions, the older man was still the guiding force.

"Mrs Goddard is a marvellous cook, isn't she?"

Beside him, the young schoolteacher had evidently decided he'd been silent long enough. And although he wasn't really in the mood to indulge in pleasantries, it would have been rude not to acknowledge her words.

"Are you an expert, Miss Kendall?" he inquired, and was gratified to see his smile had found its mark. It was a relief to find that she welcomed his attention. After the way Caitlin behaved, he was getting quite a complex where his amnesia was concerned.

"Who, me?" she exclaimed now, her eyes full of humour. "Heavens, no. I've been known to burn water. But I do appreciate good food. Particularly Mrs Goddard's. I've tasted the cakes she sometimes makes for the church's coffee mornings. They're sold out in no time, believe me. And they're delicious."

"Oh, I see." He pulled a wry face. "So I suppose you couldn't resist an invitation to Fairings. Even if you've been stuck with the oddball of the bunch."

Nancy Kendall looked surprised. "The oddball?" she echoed, a trace of embarrassment staining her cheeks. "I don't think I understand what you mean."

"Oh, I'm sure you do," he replied feelingly, and then realised he was using her to expunge the frustration he felt towards Caitlin. "At least, you should. You must have heard what's been going on."

Nancy frowned. "What has been going on?"

He gave her a bleak look. "Don't tell me you don't know about my condition."

"Well, I know you were on that plane that crashed on take-off in New York." Nancy shrugged. "I heard that you weren't seriously injured. But that you've had some temporary loss of memory since it happened."

His smile was ironic now. "Some temporary loss of memory." He repeated her words. "You make it sound almost normal."

"Well, it's not uncommon, is it?" she exclaimed. "And the accident must have been a terrible shock to your system. I once went over the handlebars of my bike, and I couldn't even remember where I lived for about an hour. I know that isn't really comparable, but it shows that sort of thing can happen. You just have to be patient."

His smile widened. "Is that so?" he said mockingly. "All I have to do is get on with my life, and my memory will come back?"

"Well, it's better than feeling sorry for yourself, isn't it?" she countered. "At least you're not paralysed, or anything like that."

"No." He nodded. "You know, you've made me feel a whole lot better. The amnesia is only temporary. I've got to remember that." He grimaced. "It's just going to take a little time. I guess I'm not a freak after all."

"Who said you were?" Nancy was horrified, but he found he couldn't blame anyone else for that. It was his own hypersensitivity to any criticism that was really the problem. And Caitlin's unwillingness to share her fears with him.

"I guess I did," he said now, as the maid Mrs Goddard had hired for the evening came to clear their soup plates away, and Nancy relaxed as she realised he had made a joke.

"So long as I haven't upset you," she murmured. "I'm not always the most tactful person around."

"On the contrary." He was finding it was easy to talk to her. It was a relief to speak to someone who didn't have a stake in him getting well. "As a matter of fact, I'm very glad you came."