Passionate Protectors?

Chapter Eight

SARA spent the rest of the morning in her room, trying to come to terms with what Matt had told her.

Max wasn’t dead, she repeated incredulously. He was alive. The fears she’d had on his behalf had been groundless. He’d been taken to hospital, sure, but he’d been well enough to discharge himself the following morning. And since then he’d been trying to cover himself by pretending that she had disappeared, that she might have been kidnapped.

She trembled. After Matt had left her, she’d taken up a position on the window seat, gazing out at the sun-drenched cliffs and the water beyond with a feeling of disbelief. She still found it hard to accept that she was here, hundreds of miles from London; that she’d escaped. However grateful she was that Max had survived, the manner of her departure remained a constant source of amazement. How had he let her get away?

Of course, he had been unconscious at the time. He must have hit his head when he fell and for a few minutes he’d been dead to the world. Dead to her, too, she thought bitterly. She should have known it would take more than a simple fall to kill a man like Max Bradbury.

Not that she wanted him dead, she assured herself. That was too high a price to pay, even for her freedom. But if only he had been a reasonable man, a man she could appeal to. When it had become obvious that their marriage was not what he had expected, that she was not what he had expected, why couldn’t he have let her go? It was what any other man would have done; any normal man, that was. But it hadn’t taken her long to find out that Max was anything but normal.

She supposed they must have been married for about six months when he’d struck her for the first time.

She’d already learned not to contradict him, particularly if he’d been drinking. He had said some incredibly cruel things to her, things he’d said he regretted bitterly when he was sober again, and she’d believed him. The crude words he’d used, deriding her for the smallest thing, belittling her intelligence, accusing her of being something she was not, had seemed so uncharacteristic of the man she’d believed she’d married. She’d been sure that it was the alcohol that was responsible for his ungovernable rage, and for a while he’d been able to hide his real nature from her.

But then everything had changed. It had only taken the discovery that she was on first-name terms with the commissionaire who worked in the lobby of their apartment building to invoke an almost insane fury. She’d been totally unprepared for the fist that had suddenly bored into her midriff and she’d been doubled over, gasping for air and sanity, when he’d stormed out of the duplex.

Of course, he’d apologised when he’d come back. He’d made the excuse of stress at the office, of being madly jealous of any man who spoke to her, of his own uncontrollable temper. He’d sworn it would never happen again, showered her with expensive presents until she’d been convinced of his regret.

Until the next time…

But she didn’t want to think about that now; didn’t want to consider what a naïve fool she had been, or how easily Max had managed to persuade her that she was actually to blame for his outbursts. In the beginning, desperate to make her marriage work—for her mother’s sake as well as her own—she’d seized any excuse to explain his violence. The truth was, she hadn’t been able to believe what was happening to her. She’d deluded herself that once Max realised she wasn’t interested in any other man he’d come to his senses.

It hadn’t happened. The violence had just got worse and there’d been nothing she could do. Max had made it very clear that he would never let her go, and she’d had the very real fear that if she did try to free herself he would turn his anger on her mother.

She was glad now that they’d had no children. Max would have had no compunction about using them in his unequal struggle for possession. Besides which, she realised now that his jealousy would never have allowed a third person to dilute the complete submission he demanded of her.

Thrusting these thoughts aside, she got to her feet and crossed to the small pile of clothes Matt had left on the loveseat. There were jeans, which she judged might fit her very well, a couple of tee shirts, two changes of cheap underwear, the kind that was available in supermarkets, and a pair of trainers.

She pressed her lips together after she had examined the clothes, her eyes filling with tears suddenly at his kindness. This presumably was the ‘gift’ he’d brought her, only to find her cowering behind the bathroom door. She’d been so afraid of him seeing her, of him finding out what Max had done to her, but now she was glad he knew. It was such a relief to have someone she could talk to, someone who wouldn’t judge her. And, although she’d admitted nothing, she suspected Matt knew exactly what had been going on.

Sooner or later, she knew, she would have to go back, but please God not yet. Whatever excuse she gave, Max was never going to believe her version of events. Apart from anything else, she had shamed and humiliated him—or at least that was how he would see it. He was never going to forgive her for that.

Trying to ignore the inevitable, Sara carried the jeans and one of the tee shirts into the bathroom and took off her dress. The voile dress had been new, bought to go to the art exhibition Max had been planning to visit the evening when fate had overtaken both of them. It was strange to think it was the dress that had led to Max’s accident. But then, it was on such simple things as these that her marriage had foundered.

As she hung the dress on the back of the bathroom door she thought how foolish she’d been to think that Max might like it. He hadn’t chosen it, and for a long time now he had chosen all her clothes. But he had encouraged her to attend the fashion show with the wife of one of his colleagues, and, after seeing it modelled, Sara had fallen in love with its style and elegance.

Its style and elegance! Sara’s lips curled in painful remembrance. Max hadn’t thought it was either stylish or elegant. He’d said it was the kind of dress only a tart would wear, that she’d chosen it because she’d wanted to flaunt herself. She was quite sure that if he hadn’t fallen down the stairs he’d have torn the garment off her, and she wished now that she’d taken the time to grab a change of clothes before fleeing from the apartment. She didn’t like the dress now; she hated it. She took a breath. Hated him! God help her.

The jeans were a little big, but that didn’t matter. At least they weren’t tight on her hip. The tee shirt was cropped and ended a daring inch above her navel, which she worried about a little. But then she remembered Max wasn’t going to see her. For now she could please herself what she wore.

The trainers fitted beautifully. Sara guessed Matt must have checked the size of her shoes before buying them. Whatever, she looked infinitely better. She felt almost her old self as she went downstairs at lunchtime.

The first person she encountered was Mrs Webb. The housekeeper was setting the table in the dining room again and Sara halted uncertainly, not sure she wanted to face another grilling.

But Mrs Webb had seen her and, straightening, she arched her brows appreciatively. ‘You look nice,’ she said, with none of the animosity that she’d exhibited earlier. ‘Matt’s got good taste.’

Sara gave a rueful smile, realising there was no point in pretending that she’d brought the garments with her. ‘Where is—Matt?’ she asked, for want of anything else to say, and the housekeeper returned to her task.

‘He’s in his office, study, whatever you want to call it.’ She sounded indulgent. ‘He said to tell you to go ahead and have lunch without him. I believe he’s got a lot of work to catch up on, and he’s got to pick Rosie up at three o’clock.’

Sara came a little further into the room. ‘I didn’t realise he was writing a book at the moment,’ she said, feeling a familiar sense of inadequacy. ‘I should apologise. I’ve taken up so much of his time.’

‘Did I say he was complaining?’ The older woman gave her a sideways glance. ‘If you ask me, he’s more than happy to have you here. Writing can be a lonely existence. And since Hester retired he’s had to make do with Rosie’s and my company.’

‘Hester.’ Sara remembered the little girl mentioning that name yesterday afternoon when she’d been trying to prove how grown up she was. ‘Who—who is Hester?’

‘She used to be Rosie’s nanny,’ explained Mrs Webb, straightening from the table again. ‘She came north with Matt when he bought this place. She was from around here originally, just as he was.’

Sara nodded. ‘But she left?’

‘She retired,’ replied the housekeeper, heading for the door. ‘Now, you sit yourself down. I’ll be back in a minute with your meal.’

Sara would have liked to ask if she could just have her meal in the kitchen, as she’d done the day before, but she was chary of getting too familiar with Mrs Webb. She didn’t know what Matt had told her, if anything, and until she did it was probably safer to maintain a certain detachment.

The housekeeper returned with an appetising dish of lasagne and new bread, fresh out of the oven. She advised Sara to help herself and, although her appetite had been virtually non-existent since she left London, Sara found to her surprise that she was hungry.

She refused the glass of wine Mrs Webb offered, however. A diet cola was far more appealing, and by the time the housekeeper returned to see how she was doing she’d made a modest dent in the pasta.

‘That was delicious,’ she said, feeling pleased with herself. ‘Did you make it?’

‘Well, I didn’t buy it,’ remarked Mrs Webb drily. ‘I don’t hold with all those ready-made meals, although I suppose if you’re a working girl you can’t always spend half the day in the kitchen, can you?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

Sara thought longingly of those occasions when she’d made a meal for her mother and herself. But that was in the days before Max came on the scene; before he’d come to the school to present a cheque to the governors to equip a new gymnasium and decided she was going to be the next Mrs Bradbury. Before Sara’s mother had seen him as her last chance to escape from what she regarded as the near-poverty that had dogged her married life.

‘So—can I get you anything else?’ asked Mrs Webb, gathering the plates together. ‘Some ice cream, perhaps?’

‘Nothing else, thanks.’ Sara took a deep breath, once again dispelling Max’s image from her mind. ‘Do you think Matt would mind if I took the dogs for a walk?’

The housekeeper looked surprised. ‘I’d say he’d be delighted,’ she replied drily. ‘But are you sure you can manage them on your own? They’re pretty wild.’

‘I’m not as helpless as I look,’ declared Sara with a smile. ‘But I won’t go down to the beach. I’m not that stupid.’

‘Well, actually, you could now,’ said the older woman thoughtfully. ‘The tide’s turned.’

Sara hoped so; she really did. But she wasn’t thinking about the water that had trapped her earlier.

She accompanied Mrs Webb into the kitchen, helping her to load the lunch dishes into the dishwasher before going out into the garden. The two retrievers in their compound, sensing an outing, immediately set up a noisy greeting which completely masked the arrival of the young woman who suddenly appeared around the corner of the house.

Sara didn’t know who was the most shocked: herself, because of her fear of being recognised, or the other woman, who clearly wasn’t pleased to find her there. Sara didn’t know how she knew the stranger didn’t approve of her presence. She just sensed it. So who was she?

Mrs Webb supplied the answer. Following Sara out of the house, she saw the newcomer almost as soon as Sara did herself, and her lips parted in a pleasant smile.

‘Mrs Proctor,’ she said. ‘What a surprise!’

The young woman came towards them. In a cream silk shirt tied stylishly at her waist and pleated linen trousers in a subtle shade of taupe she made Sara instantly aware of the limitations of her own attire. Mrs Proctor’s hair was dark, a smooth silken cap that tucked confidingly beneath a most attractive chin. Sara guessed, too, that the hazel eyes set in a flawlessly oval face would miss little.

But for now the woman was obliged to acknowledge the housekeeper’s greeting. Sara thought it was lucky that she hadn’t let the dogs out. Mrs Proctor didn’t look the type to appreciate having their paws on her clothes, and she ignored them as she produced an answering smile. ‘Hello, Mrs Webb,’ she said politely. ‘Isn’t it a perfect afternoon?’

And it was, thought Sara, glancing up at the clear blue sky above their heads. She just hoped the newcomer wasn’t going to spoil it.