The Eden Inheritance (24 page)

‘M
UMMY
–
MUMMY
–
GIVE
me your counter. Look – I won again!'

Guy tapped out the spaces to the centre of the board, laughing in delight. Three games in a row and he had won every one of them!

‘All right, Guy, I give in. You're the champ,' Kathryn said, laughing a little at his obvious pleasure and knowing that his triumph could be accounted for not only by luck but also by her own total inability to concentrate. ‘I think that's enough for one afternoon, don't you? Off you go and find something else to do.'

‘I'll give you a game if you like, Guy,' said Bridget, who had just finished preparing the vegetables for dinner. ‘ See if you can beat me too.'

Kathryn smiled at her and escaped gratefully. She did not think she could have played another game if her life had depended on it – and, she thought grimly, perhaps it did, since the ability to behave normally was an absolute necessity. It was also a charade that was difficult beyond belief – and not merely for the obvious reasons. Yes, she was still desperately worried about what was likely to happen, not only this evening but in the future too. Yes, she was terrified that Charles might be beginning to be suspicious of Guy's tutor. And yes, she was sick with dread as to what von Rheinhardt might do in retaliation for the killing of two of his men. But in spite of all that, in spite of the nightmare that had closed in around her, she was also irrationally, singingly happy. It bubbled in a deep well somewhere inside her, that crazy feeling of anticipation, inexplicable even if everything had been normal, and given the present circumstances, quite ridiculous. But there was no denying it, and she knew that the reason for it was what was happening between her and Paul.

Crazy as it might seem, dangerous as it certainly was, she was falling in love. She had not experienced anything like it since she had first met Charles, and she had forgotten how potent an emotion it could be, like drinking a glass of her father-in-law's fine brandy too quickly. Her head was spinning, she felt like a young girl again, and all the privations of the past year, all the resentment and helplessness, all the fears for the future, paled into insignificance beside it. She was falling in love. That was the reality. Upstairs was a man who had touched her heart in a way she had forgotten it could be touched. The wonder of it transcended everything else.

At five she went to his room. It was too early by far to be getting ready for dinner but she wanted to fix the sling before Charles returned from the distillery. She did not want to have to worry that he might wonder why she should be visiting Paul's room, and in any case she could not wait another minute to see him again.

The château was quiet. Guy was in the kitchen, having his tea under the supervision of Bridget, who was preparing dinner. Kathryn knocked on Paul's door, feeling shy suddenly.

‘Come in.'

The sound of his voice made a pulse beat deep within her. She opened the door.

He was standing by the bed and had obviously begun the process of getting himself ready for dinner. He had changed from the sweater and cords into a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, the sleeve of which strained over his bandaged arm, and which was still open at the neck. His efforts – and the resultant pain – had made him pale again, but he smiled at her and she found herself marvelling at his resilience.

‘Hello.'

‘HelIo. How are you feeling?'

‘Don't ask! I'm sure you wouldn't want to know.'

Oh, I do! she thought. I want to know everything about you.

Aloud, she said: ‘I've brought this scarf. I can make a sling with it – if you're sure you can go through with tonight.'

‘I have to. You haven't heard yet whether we are to have the pleasure of von Rheinhardt's company?'

‘I haven't heard, but I should think it's likely. He doesn't usually pass up an opportunity to dine with us. He's a cultured man, which is more man can be said for some of his friends. I think he enjoys our company.'

‘He certainly enjoys yours,' Paul said drily. ‘I've seen the way he looks at you.'

‘Don't be ridiculous! I hate the man and he knows it.'

‘Perhaps knowing you hate him adds a certain spice. And besides, you are a very attractive woman.'

She felt the colour burning in her cheeks and changed the subject abruptly.

‘What are we going to do about your arm, then?'

‘First see if I can get a jacket on over the bandage. I couldn't manage it myself. If it's too tight a fit we'll have to think again.'

The jacket was hanging over the rail at the foot of the bed. She picked it up, resisting a crazy urge to bury her face in it.

‘Let me help you then. Left arm first.'

She eased his hand through the armhole, trying to wriggle the sleeve on without hurting him too much, but the.wad of the bandage prevented it. He swore, a mixture of frustration and pain.

‘We'll have to take off some of the bandage.'

‘But supposing it starts bleeding again?'

‘It won't if it's up in a sling. Anyway, I can hardly go down to dinner wearing a sweater.'

‘All right. I'll get some scissors. But don't try to do it yourself. Leave it to me.'

A few minutes later she was back with her dressmaking shears. She rolled up his shirtsleeve, took out the safety pins securing the bandage and began to unwind it. The doctor had done a thorough job; soon the wad was considerably thinner and the dressing still not exposed.

‘Let's try the sleeve again.'

She was bending over, concentrating on fixing the safety pins neatly, when she felt his good arm go round her waist. For just a second she froze, her heart pounding, then she pushed the pin into place and fastened it.

‘Try that.'

She looked up, straight into his eyes. He was gazing down at her, not moving, not speaking, but his look said it all.

‘Paul …' she said, a catch in her voice.

His arm tightened round her waist; he leaned towards her very slowly. Her throat felt constricted; she could scarcely breathe. His face was close now, going out of focus, yet somehow she could see him more clearly than ever before, every line, every shadow. She knew she should poll away, end this now, but she could not She stood, mesmerised, still holding his bandaged arm carefully, and felt the first gentle touch of his lips on hers. Just a brush, the smallest, lightest caress, yet it started a fire within her. She stood unmoving, savouring the tenderness of the moment within the maelstrom of seething emotions, feeling as if she were suspended somewhere in space with only the stars for company and the terrors of the past twenty-four hours nothing but a dark shadow on the earth far beneath. He lifted his mouth momentarily and she wanted to cry out at the loss, then he was kissing her again, harder, deeper, and she moved her own month in response, returning the pressure, parting her lips beneath his.

When he released her she was breathless, dizzy, achingly aware yet somehow unreal.

‘I've been wanting to do that for days. Longer. I've been wanting to do it ever since I first met you.'

‘Have you?'

‘Yes. I want you, Kathryn.'

‘And I want you.' It was little more than a whisper.

‘But this is not the right time. I have a job to do and so do you.'

‘Yes.' He was right, of course, but she still felt bereft. Her whole body was alive with the urgent need of him, every nerve ending tingling with sharp awareness, every tiny muscle straining towards him as if drawn by a powerful magnet, and aching with desire. She longed for him to kiss her again, longed for the feel of that hard seeking mouth on hers, and more, much more than that – his hands on her breasts and between her thighs, his body against hers, in her. Without a single coherent thought she knew she wanted all these things more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Yet at the same time she knew he was right – this was not the time or the place.

As if understanding and responding to her longings he tilted her chin up with his hand, looking deep into her eyes.

‘When this is all over, Kathryn. If we get out of it alive.'

He kissed her again, lightly this time, subjugating his own desire with the iron will that was so much a part of his make-up. For a few moments he had allowed his personal need to rule his professional judgement. It must not happen again.

With a movement almost brutal in its decisiveness he pulled the jacket round his shoulders, forcing his injured arm into the sleeve. She fixed the scarf around his neck to form a sling but like a sleeper awakening from a dream she did not feel in full control of herself. Her hands were clumsy, not deft, and with the new awareness each touch revived the desire, sparking it to new life so that normality was merely a pretence, a thin veneer covering the seething cauldron of her emotions.

‘That's fine,' he said briskly when it was done. ‘I'll see you at dinner.'

He touched his finger to his lips then pressed it briefly against hers.

‘Be brave, Kathryn,' he said.

By dinner Kathryn's nerves were taut as a well-strung violin and she did not know how she was going to get through the evening. Charles had come home and told her von Rheinhardt had soil not confirmed acceptance of his invitation.

‘Does that mean he won't come, do you think?' she asked hopefully.

‘It means I don't know,' Charles snapped. He was a worried man and anxiety made him ill-tempered. ‘He's still busy with the investigation into the deaths of his men, I suppose, which is hardly surprising. If I were in his position I would feel exactly the same – that everything else had to take second place to finding the murderer.'

‘It's quite different!' Kathryn flared back. ‘ If it was your men who had been shot you'd be concerned because you cared for them and their families. Von Rheinhardt isn't. He simply sees it as an insult to him, to Nazi Germany and the efficiency of his forces. That most of all. Inefficiency is the most heinous of crimes to the Boche, isn't it?'

‘For God's sake, Katrine,' Charles said wearily. ‘You never give up, do you? Not even when the lives of your own family might be at stake.'

A cold shiver ran over her skin.

‘What do you mean? He isn't holding any of us responsible for what happened, is he?'

‘I don't know. But he is a powerful man and you would do well to remember it.'

How could I forget? she thought bitterly. But at least perhaps all the activity meant von Rheinhardt would not come. She prayed he would not.

They had still not received word one way or the other by the time they assembled for dinner. Christian was first down; he was already in the salon with a drink in his hand when Kathryn and Charles went in, and she was glad to know that at least she had an ally in the camp.

‘How is Monsieur Curtis' arm?' Christian asked with perfect naturalness and a tiny conspiratorial glance at her that was quite unnoticeable to the others.

‘Painful, I think,' she replied carefully.

‘What is wrong with Monsieur Curtis' arm?' Guillaume enquired, coming in with Louse in time to catch the end of the conversation.

‘He fell off his bicycle and sprained his wrist.' Her voice was tight but fortunately Guillaume was scarcely listening.

‘This is a bad business,' he said, pouring a sherry and handing it to Louise. ‘I dread to think what the outcome of it will be.'

‘How could anyone be so foolish as to shoot German soldiers?' Louise wondered aloud, sipping her sherry. ‘Such a very dangerous thing to do.'

But as always she looked remarkably unworried. Louise hasn't a brain in her head, Kathryn thought irritably. To her the most trying aspect of the war is the fact that she can't go to Paris and order a new wardrobe of fashionable clothes each season as she used to.

‘I'd put my money on it being someone from outside the district,' Guillaume said testily. ‘I'm sure everyone around here has too much sense.'

‘Especially considering the example you set them,' Louise murmured.

‘I just hope to God von Rheinhardt gets whoever was responsible. Coming here and making trouble! If he doesn't, we may well see the innocent pay the price for the guilty.'

As he said it the door opened and Paul came in. Kathryn's heart seemed to stand still, partly from nervousness, partly because the sight of him was making her stomach turn somersaults.

‘Good evening,' he said pleasantly. ‘I hope I'm not late. It took me a little longer than usual to get ready tonight.'

‘You fell off your bicycle, I hear,' Guillaume said. ‘How did you manage to do that?'

Paul was saved from replying by the sound of a car coming up the drive. They all looked towards the window. Bright lights were cutting a swathe through the darkness, a large black staff car drawing up outside.

‘Von Rheinhardt. He's here then.' Christian spoke for all of them.

Otto von Rheinhardt swung his tall frame out of the staff car and straightened, looking for a moment at the château and absorbing, as he always did when he came here, the sense of history that emanated from every stone of the centuries-old building.

What was it about great institutions, he sometimes wondered, which could inspire him with such passion? Where his fellow human beings were concerned he had no feelings at all. His men he treated like robotic machines, nameless ranks who were there to do a job and who he would see were severely ctisdplined if they failed in their duty in even the smallest degree. The French natives were the enemy, but for the most part, in his opinion, were stupid and weak, unworthy of anything more than his scorn – unless, of course, they stepped out of line, in which case he would exert his authority with cold fury. Even his family, at home in Germany, meant little to him. His mother had died some years ago and he and his father had little in common. Otto senior was a coffee importer – the coffee he selected and distributed was drunk in the finest establishments across Germany and Austria – and he had always been too concerned with the business to have much time for building a close relationship with the son he found hardhearted and aloof.