Setting Him Free (11 page)

Fifteen days later, Danielle finally made it back to
the States. Fifteen days of crying and sleepless nights, holed up
at one of the quieter resorts, unable to face her frantic family.
Her mom called every day, begging her to come home. She couldn't.
Not yet. She needed time to make a bridge between Taylor and the
real world. To sort out the tangle of feelings their meeting had
left her with. And to get herself into some sort of state that
would allow her to go on without him.

She missed him. That went without saying, but she
hadn't realised quite how it would be. He'd given her life a
different kind of purpose. Made her care in a way she never had
before. And, dammit, he needed her. How could he think of not
finding her? Now all she could do was sit and wonder where he was,
and whether she'd dreamed the whole thing.

Every night she slept in his
Tropicana
tee-shirt, remembering what a fuss he'd made about wearing it. Her
mom continued to call and plead. On the fifteenth morning after the
rescue Danielle finally gave in and went home to her worried
family.

* * * *

Two weeks after the crash Taylor stepped off a
trawler onto the north-east coast of England. It took even less
time to decide what to do. Without Danielle the future was bleak,
so he'd do the job. Do what was necessary. She didn't have to know.
Then he'd go find her. And his soul? That was so black, what
difference would one more stain make? He stood at the window of his
stone cottage, remembered that last kiss, and missed her with an
intensity that made him ache.

With angry stabs, he punched in the numbers on the
telephone keypad. Numbers that would make him what he was. A fair
exchange.
A life for a life
. If some poor bugger had to die
so he and Danielle could be happy, then so be it. The thought made
him slam the receiver down, then pick it up again and redial.
Don't think about it. Just do the job and walk away, like you
used to. No sweat.

An upper-crust voice answered, asked what he
wanted.

"Lord Carrington." Taylor put thoughts of Danielle
from his mind and concentrated on the business at hand. She didn't
have to know about this. "Message for him. Just tell him I'm
back."

* * * *

"You look tired, Danielle."

Danielle continued studying the file. "Thanks for the
compliment, Marc. I can always rely on you."

"You're welcome." Her boss perched on the corner of
the desk. "Go take a break. You hardly had any time out after the
plane crash."

"I'm fine, really." Danielle made an even bigger show
of perusing the document.
Why didn't he just go?
His concern
was touching, but she didn't need it right now. All she needed was
to be left alone.

Marc deftly slipped the document from between her
fingers and held it high in the air when she tried to retrieve
it.

"You need to take a break. And, as your boss and
friend," he added, "I'm ordering you to take one."

Danielle stood and snatched the file back from him.
"And this work's not going to do itself. Just let me get on with my
job, Marc. That's all I ask."

"Danielle." He said it kindly, gently and she
couldn't bear him being so sweet about all this, refusing to
believe her protestations of being okay and back to normal. She had
everyone else fooled, but not Marc. He'd never been in a plane that
had literally dropped out of the sky. Couldn't know the guilt that
came with surviving when others had died. And he would never
understand what she'd found and lost. But still he looked right
through her and seemed to know she was hiding something.

The strain of it all was killing her. Missing Taylor,
wondering where he was, what he was doing. The ritual of thinking
about him at ten o'clock. Endless phone calls to England,
following-up leads on the family crest. Everything focused on
August.

Everyone wanted her to be okay. She knew that, so she
smiled and pretended she was. Told them they could all stop
worrying about her and would they please leave her alone? Most of
them did. Her family, her work colleagues. They all joined in with
her little deception and commented on how well she was looking, and
wasn't it wonderful how quickly she'd got over it
, and
hey, you'd think she'd never been away.

Everyone except Marc.

Danielle slumped back into the chair, wearily pushing
her hair from her face. "You couldn't understand what I'm going
through."

Marc lifted his hand and attempted to stroke her
cheek. He let it drop when she turned away. "I think I can. Look at
me Danielle. I died in a car crash ten years ago."

That got her attention. "You did what? How?"

"Technically I was dead. Para-medics brought me back.
If they'd arrived a few minutes later I wouldn't be here now. I was
the only one to survive, so yes, I do know what you're
feeling."

Danielle nodded slowly, "I survived without a scratch
and two nuns died. Surely they deserved to live more than me?"

He shrugged, and stood up. "Maybe there's something
you need to do. I don't know. Maybe it was important that you
survived and not them." This time he did stroke her cheek, a light,
lingering touch. A brief look of pain clouded his features. He
quickly turned away. "I think you know what it is. Go sort out
this, whatever it is you can't tell me. I can't bear seeing you
like this."

Danielle brought her hand to her cheek, staring at
him wide-eyed.

"Marc, I can't..."

"No, don't say anything." He clapped his hands
together, suddenly back in full boss-mode. "Take yourself off for a
couple of months. Combine it with a business trip. Look out some
hotels for me. Full expenses, of course." His voice lowered, almost
to a whisper. "Remember to come back when you're done."

Danielle walked slowly around the desk. "Thank
you."

Marc nodded and turned back to her. "No sweat. You're
my best employee, and more. I don't want to lose you is all."

She managed a smile, feeling his pain, knowing this
was hard for him too.

"Where will you go, Danielle?"

"England."

* * * *

Taylor stretched out his legs and leaned back against
the wooden bench. A few gulls screamed and squabbled over a
half-eaten burger, the sound of children's laughter floated up from
the shingle beach. He stared out at the cold, grey sea, took a long
drag from his cigarette and tried to focus on what he was about to
do. There'd be photographs, places, dates. All the information he
needed to turn things around. Get it over with, get it done. That
was the plan. Then go and find Danielle. He could do this.

He didn't look up as the black Rolls Royce drew up
alongside the promenade. Ignored the elderly gentleman who got out
and shuffled painfully slowly towards him. He continued smoking and
staring at the waves crashing on the beach. A typical early
summer's day in the north of England, grey and overcast. Wouldn't
have mattered if the sun had been out. He wouldn't have
noticed.

All his energy went into either thinking about
Danielle or about what he had to do to see her again. He missed her
with a quiet desperation. Spent what seemed like hours thinking of
her, trying to remember the sound of her voice, the feel of her
skin under his hands. At night he lay alone in his bed, wondering
how someone he'd been with for barely a day could have made such an
impression on him that it felt as if a part of him was missing. He
shook his head to clear the images, dropped the cigarette and
crushed it with his boot. Self-pity? He was turning it into an art
form.

The old man sat down, carefully leaning his stick on
the side of the bench. Reaching into his coat, he took out a large
envelope. "Do you want this?" he said quietly.

"No, not really." Taylor continued to stare at the
sea. "But I'll have it anyway."

The old man nodded in approval. "The weapon?"

"Sorted."

The envelope slid across the bench. Taylor picked it
up and stared at it for a few moments before slipping it under his
jacket. "And the file?"

"Safe."

"But you can get it for me?" He couldn't keep the
note of anxiety out of his voice. Knew how these people worked.
What a bunch of double-dealing back-stabbers they were.

"You'll have to trust me on that one." The old man
picked up his stick and hauled himself up. He nodded at the plaster
cast on Taylor's broken arm. "I heard it was a bad break. Is it
healing?"

Taylor looked at the old man for the first time,
eyebrows raised. "Like you'd care?"

"Now, now," the old man chided. "You're family. I
worry about you."

That made Taylor laugh out loud. "I'm touched,
Grandpa.
"

"No need to take that tone. You've caused me no end
of trouble, young man. If the Prime Minister had found out, well,
the scandal, you know."

"Yes, I noticed how you stood by me. Thanks for the
support." Taylor stood up and raised his broken arm. "Soon as this
is off, I'll sort your little problem. And you'd better get me that
file or the shit will really hit the fan."

The old man's face softened for a moment. "Taylor,
you know I'd help you if I could. Do you think I like seeing you
like this?"

"I don't think you give a toss. What would it have
taken? A couple of phone calls? You could have helped me." Taylor
looked away, hating having to beg. "You still can."

The old man leaned over and patted him. "It's too
complicated, my boy. Just do the job. By far the easiest way."

"Get me the file." Taylor spoke so quietly, his voice
was barely audible. "Don't make me do this."

The old man sighed and dropped his hand. "I don't
have that kind of influence any more."

"Like hell you don't." Taylor heard the note of
regret in the old man's voice. Knew this was his one and only
chance, and would have got down on his hands and knees if he
thought it would make any difference. "Forget politics and do
something real for once. You know who killed Helen. Get me my life
back."

He held his breath. There was that spark of hope
again. Okay, so he'd just made a monumental fool of himself, but
for a brief moment he actually believed his grandfather might do
it. Might actually care.

The old man stared at him, long and hard, before
shaking his head. "I can't," was all he said before turning and
walking back to the waiting car.

* * * *

"So. Miss Wilson, is it?" The old man extended a
wrinkled hand toward Danielle. "I believe you're writing a book
about the English aristocracy?"

"Yes." Danielle stood up and shook hands, wondering
if she should curtsey, or something. "Thank you for seeing me at
such short notice, Lord Carrington. I know you're a busy man."

The old man indicated the chair. "Sit down, please.
I'm never too busy for a beautiful young lady."

Danielle nodded graciously. She could see where
Taylor got it from. Lord Carrington had the same smile, and his
blue eyes still had a youthful twinkle in them, even though he had
to be well into his eighties. She made herself comfortable in the
wingback armchair, hoping she looked casual and relaxed. Lord
Carrington lowered himself into his own chair and reached for a
telephone.

"Will you take tea, my dear?" He chuckled when he saw
her staring at the phone. "We don't ring those little silver bells
any more. Yes, Sandra, tea for two in my study."

He switched off the phone and placed it on the end
table. Danielle continued to smile, rehearsing the story in her
head. Trying not to feel intimidated by the ostentatious wealth on
display all around her. The heavy period furniture, ornate
silverware, the portraits boasting of a heritage going back
hundreds of years. Danielle could well imagine that someone in this
family had been present at every significant turn of British
history. This would take every ounce of nerve she had.

Lord Carrington wasn't what she'd expected. From what
she'd managed to find out, he'd been a hard-nosed politician with a
reputation for ruthlessness that would have put Attila the Hun to
shame. She found it hard to reconcile those stories with this frail
old man who gave off such waves of genial, grandfatherly charm.

Maybe he'd mellowed with age? In any case, it made
her job easier. She'd been prepared to be scared to death by him.
So, start with the family crest, then some general chit-chat
about the family, bring the conversation round to traditions,
rituals, holidays...

Tea arrived on a silver tray, was poured and served.
The cup shook in her hand. The old man was still smiling kindly,
wheezing slightly on every inhale, his fingers tapping absently on
the arm of his chair. His gaze direct and unwavering. They sipped
politely for a few moments, then Danielle swallowed the butterflies
that were threatening to fly right out of her stomach, put down her
cup, and reached into her purse for a notepad and pen.

"Can we start with the family crest? It's a very
interesting configuration. How old it is?"

"Ahh, the family crest. That dates back to the Norman
invasion. I assume you mean the one on the ring?"

Danielle faltered, regained her composure and gave a
little laugh. "There's a ring?"

"Yes, there's a ring."

"You mean like a signet ring?"

"Exactly. A family tradition going back centuries.
All the males in this family are presented with one on their
sixteenth birthday."

Danielle gripped her pen and willed herself calm.
"Would you describe it for me?"

"I have a better idea." Lord Carrington leaned back
into his chair. "Why don't you?"

There was a moment's silence during which Danielle
realised what an idiot she'd been. Like a lamb in a lion's den. The
old man stared straight back at her. Not so genial now. A hardness
that hadn't been there before set his face in stone.