Innocent Sins

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in black trousers and a chunky Aran sweater, workmanlike boots over thick socks keeping his feet warm, he left the room. His hair was still damp and he hadn’t shaved, but he doubted anyone would notice. If his mother was still in the same state she’d been in the night before, his appearance was the least of his troubles. So long as she felt she could rely on his support in her conflict with Laura, she’d avoid doing anything to upset him.

Despite the intensive-heating programme his mother had inaugurated over the years, the corridors and hall at Penmadoc remained persistently chilly. Why Stella should want to stay here when she could buy herself a cosy apartment in Carmarthen or Llanelli, he couldn’t imagine. He found it hard to believe that she was so attached to the old place. There had to be more to it than that.

The stairs creaked as he descended them, but at least the fire had been lighted in the hall below. Flames crackled up the blackened chimney, and the logs split and splintered in the massive grate. Years ago, he supposed, the hall would have been the focal point of the whole house. According to Griff, parts of Penmadoc dated from the sixteenth century, but so much had been added on to the original structure that its origins were hard to define.

He had paused to warm his hands at the fire when a dark-clad figure emerged from the direction of the kitchen. He saw it was Eleanor Tenby, Laura’s aunt. Although he knew she could only be in her fifties, she looked years older, her straight hair almost completely white these days.

An angular woman, she had barely tolerated him as a teenager. But, because Laura had been fond of him, she’d treated him more kindly than she had his mother. Then, when the family had broken up, she’d blamed him for Laura’s exile, only softening again in recent years when she’d seen how much Griff looked forward to his visits.

‘So you’re up at last,’ she remarked without enthusiasm, proving that, as always, nothing went on at Penmadoc without her knowing about it. ‘I offered to bring you up some breakfast, but your mother said to let you sleep. If you’re hoping that I’ll cook you something now, you’re too late.’

‘All I want is some coffee,’ said Oliver flatly, the thought of grilled bacon and fried eggs turning his stomach. ‘Anyway, how are you? This—’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘It must have been a great shock.’

‘It was.’ The woman’s thin lips compressed into a fine line. ‘And you’ll not find any consolation in the bottom of a bottle. No one ever improved a situation with alcohol.’

Oliver might have disputed that on another occasion, but this morning he was inclined to agree with her. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘I’m regretting it. And I am sorry you had no warning that Griff was ill.’

‘Yes, well…’ Laura’s aunt sniffed deprecatingly, somewhat mollified by Oliver’s words. ‘You always had more sensitivity than anyone gave you credit for.’ She paused. ‘I expect you know that Laura’s here.’

Oliver nodded, and then regretted the action. His head thumped and he raised a hand to the back of his neck. ‘Do you have any aspirin?’ he asked, wincing. ‘I’ve got to do something before my skull splits in two.’

‘Come along into the kitchen,’ said Aunt Nell tolerantly, and without waiting to see if he was following her she started back the way she’d come. ‘What you need is something to eat,’ she added, despite the refusal she’d made earlier. ‘You’ll feel altogether better with a bowl of my oatmeal inside you. You don’t want to be poisoning your system by popping pills.’

Aspirin? Oliver grimaced. He’d hate to think what she’d say if she found out he’d been offered cocaine. Thankfully, he’d never been interested in what some people called ‘social’ substances, but these days they were increasingly hard to avoid.

The kitchen looked much different this morning than it had done the night before. As in the hall, a cheerful fire was burning in the grate and the scent of woodsmoke was not unappealing. There were other smells he was not so keen on, like the many species of herbs that grew in the pots on the windowsills and hung in dried bunches from the beamed ceiling. But there was the smell of freshly baked bread, too, and the crisp crackle of roasting meat from the oven.

Aunt Nell watched him take a seat at the table, and then busied herself pouring milk into a pan. The same pan that Laura had burnt the night before, thought Oliver ruefully. But clean now and sparkling like new.

The idea of drinking some of the thick creamy milk that was farmed locally made him shudder, and he wished he could just help himself to a cup of coffee instead. But there was no welcoming pot simmering on the hob, and he guessed he’d have to make some instant himself if he wanted it.

To distract himself, he glanced out of the window. As he’d noticed when he’d drawn his curtains upstairs, it had stopped snowing for the present and the sun was causing the icicles drooping from the eaves to drip. But it was a white world, only marred by the skeletal shapes of the trees. However, the evergreens that surrounded the vegetable garden outside looked like snowmen with their clinging mantle of snow.

‘Have you spoken to Laura?’

Aunt Nell’s question was unexpected. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked, with faint mockery. Then, because her lips had tightened reprovingly, and she was trying to help him, Oliver relented. ‘Yeah. She was up last night when I got here.’

‘Ah.’ Aunt Nell had made a pot of tea and carried it to the table. ‘I wondered why she didn’t have a lot to say before she went out.’

‘Went out?’ Oliver glanced at his watch. ‘What time did she go out?’

‘She said she wanted some air,’ replied Aunt Nell evenly. She set a cup and saucer and some milk beside the teapot. ‘Go on. Help yourself. It’ll do you more good than taking pills.’

Oliver could have argued. He knew where the coffee jar was kept. But his head was still thumping and he couldn’t be bothered. There was caffeine in tea, wasn’t there? he thought. For the time being, he’d make do with that.

The dish of oatmeal wasn’t long in following the tea. Laura’s aunt sugared it liberally before passing it over. ‘There,’ she said, as he put down his cup. ‘Get that inside you. I always say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’

Oliver was sure he was going to be sick, but he forced himself to swallow several mouthfuls of the oatmeal. He’d eaten worse things in Malaysia, after all. People there ate rice at almost every meal.

‘So where has she gone?’ he asked at last, reluctantly aware that he was actually feeling much better.

‘Into the village,’ replied Aunt Nell, tidying the dresser. ‘She didn’t have a lot to say, as I said.’ She turned to give him an appraising look. ‘What happened last night? Did you and she have a row?’

‘No.’ Oliver was indignant.

‘I thought your mother was supposed to be waiting up for you,’ continued the woman. ‘What was Laura doing down here?’

‘She’d come down to get a drink,’ said Oliver patiently, aware that he was falling back into the old patterns of defensiveness where Eleanor Tenby was concerned. ‘Ma had fallen asleep, or so she said. That’s why I came round the back.’

‘And Laura let you in.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But I imagine your mother eventually turned up.’

‘Yeah.’ Oliver regarded her with a wry expression. ‘But you know all this, don’t you? Laura went to bed as soon as Stella appeared.’

‘So she didn’t discuss her father’s death with you?’

‘No.’ Oliver was wary. ‘What was there to discuss? I already knew how he died. Stella told me when I rang. He had a heart attack. It must have been appalling for her, finding his body. Had he been seeing a doctor, do you know? If he had, he should have warned her.’

‘Griff hadn’t been seeing the doctor,’ replied Aunt Nell firmly. ‘When Tenniel Evans came to examine him after—afterwards, he was as shocked as anyone else. Who knows why he died? He’s not here to tell us. Perhaps he’d had a shock—or a fall from his horse. It may be that we’ll never know.’

Nevertheless Oliver sensed that Laura’s aunt had her own opinion. Not that she was likely to confide that opinion to him. But the very fact that she was asking questions was unsettling. For God’s sake, surely this was one occasion when she could have given Stella some support.

‘Do you know what’s in the will?’ he asked now, forcing himself to deal with facts, not fantasies, and Laura’s aunt lifted her thin shoulders dismissively.

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, turning away, which wasn’t an answer. But Oliver guessed it was the best he was going to get.

‘So—were you here when it happened?’ he probed, deciding that in spite of everything he deserved to know the details.

‘No.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I was away for the day visiting a friend in Cardiff. Griff had said he was going out with the hunt, and your mother had arranged to go shopping, or so she said. She told me she’d be eating out and not to bother preparing lunch before I left.’ She licked her lips. ‘But I did leave Griff a sandwich.’ She grimaced. ‘He never touched it.’

‘I see.’ Oliver’s headache was definitely easing now and his brain had started functioning again. ‘So she was alone in the house when she found him. Poor old Stella. God, she must have been frantic!’

‘I dare say.’

Oliver frowned. There was something about the woman’s tone that caught him on the raw. ‘Do you doubt it?’ he exclaimed. ‘For God’s sake, even you must feel some sympathy for her. There can’t be any advantage in finding your husband dead!’

‘Did I say there was?’

‘No, but—’ Oliver broke off abruptly. Then, in a calmer tone, he continued, ‘Look, I know you’ve never liked her, but in these circumstances we’ve all got to make compromises.’

Aunt Nell shrugged. ‘If you say so.’ She paused. ‘Did your mother tell you she was alone when she found—Griff’s body?’

Oliver stared at her shoulder blades, turned to him again now and jutting painfully through the fine wool of the sweater she was wearing over her worsted skirt. Her question disconcerted him. Why did she want to know that?

‘Of course she was alone,’ he said tersely. ‘You know that. You were in Cardiff, as you said earlier.’

‘Perhaps you should ask her why it was two hours before she discovered his body,’ Aunt Nell remarked, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘If she was here, why didn’t she hear him come in?’

‘Perhaps she did.’ Oliver blew out an irritated breath. ‘Have you asked her?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Of course it is.’ Oliver was impatient and it showed.

‘Not according to your mother,’ replied the woman smoothly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’

Olivia wanted to question her further. He was angry, and he wanted to know what she meant by making out there was some big secret about Griff’s death. There wasn’t, he assured himself. Men of Griff’s age had heart attacks all the time, and without doing anything as strenuous as riding to hounds.

As Laura’s aunt let herself out of the room, he moved to the windows to stare out unseeingly. As always, he never came off best in any encounter with Laura’s aunt, and while he knew she wasn’t a liar he suspected she’d do anything to cause trouble for his mother.

He scowled, pushing his hands into the waistline pockets of his trousers and forcing the sunlit garden into focus. It was a pretty scene, he thought, considering the frame of poplar trees whose bare branches formed a stark contrast to their surroundings. He would use a colour negative, he mused, to take advantage of the band of sunlight that was presently creating a rainbow of artistry in the thawing icicles. Some of his best work had been done spontaneously, and his fingers itched to capture it on film.

But then his gaze alighted on the line of footsteps that led to the gate and all thought of photographic composition vanished beneath a wave of frustration. Laura was out there somewhere. The footsteps led in only one direction, away from the house, and he wondered what she had thought of what had happened the night before. Was she aware that if his mother hadn’t interrupted them he’d been in danger of resurrecting the offence that had driven them apart all those years ago?

Dammit, was he crazy, or what? He hadn’t wanted Laura then and he didn’t want her now. What had happened had been a reaction to circumstances, that was all, and he ought to be grateful to his mother for preventing him from making an even bigger fool of himself.

And he was. He was! But that didn’t explain why he’d needed to anaesthetise himself with Scotch before he could get to sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

LAURA stood in the shadow of a huge snow-covered cypress, warming her gloved hands beneath her arms. She’d been about to enter the garden when she’d seen Oliver standing at the kitchen window and she’d drawn back automatically, his dour expression warning her that he wasn’t in the best of moods.

Her heart skipped a beat. Damn, why had he had to be here? All right, perhaps that was unreasonable. His stepfather was dead and naturally his mother wanted her own flesh and blood around her at this time, but if only she hadn’t had to have anything to do with him.

She’d considered booking into a hotel in Rhosmawr, which was the nearest small town to Penmadoc, but she’d quickly discarded that idea. It wasn’t fair to her father—or to Aunt Nell—to behave as if she wasn’t the daughter of the house, and just because Penmadoc wasn’t her home any more that did not give her an excuse to stay away.

She wondered if Oliver and her father had become closer in recent years. It was possible. There was no doubt that her father regretted her unwillingness to visit Penmadoc, and with the width of the Atlantic between them they’d seen each other much less than he would have liked.

For herself, she’d thought it had been easier for all of them when she went to live in the United States. It had certainly been easier for her—to begin with, at least. In New York, she’d been able to put the past behind her, and, if the wounds she’d thought healed had only been buried beneath a layer of self-deception, by the time she’d realised it, she was able to cope with the pain.

She sighed. She would have to go in soon. It was threatening to snow again and her feet were freezing. She wasn’t used to living in the country in winter. Winter in New York was a much more civilised affair altogether. The paths were always cleared; shopping malls were always heated; and her apartment was always comfortably warm.

Unlike Penmadoc…

She took a deep breath. She shouldn’t complain about the house really. There’d been years when she’d considered it the most beautiful house in the world. Not that it was beautiful, she conceded honestly. Built of dark Welsh stone, it sometimes had a rather dour appearance. But its pitched roof was peppered with half a dozen tall chimneys, and when she was a child she used to tell everyone that she was lucky because Santa Claus would have so many to choose from.

She shivered, stamping the snow from her boots and preparing to open the gate into the garden. It was no use putting it off any longer. She had to go in and face whatever was required of her. What could happen in a few days, after all? Her father was dead. His funeral was all she should be thinking of.

And then she felt the breath freeze in her throat. Oliver was still standing in the window but his face was fading. As she watched, paralysed by the realisation that she was hallucinating, Oliver’s strong face gave way to older, softer features. Hardly breathing, she watched as her father’s face came into focus. He was gazing out at the garden with much the same expression that Oliver had been wearing—a mixture of anger and frustration.

Panic gripped her. This couldn’t be happening to her. She wasn’t psychic. She’d never been psychic. Her mother, perhaps: her grandmother, definitely. But not her. Never her.

But there it was. Her father was dead. Dead! Yet there he stood, wearing the russet-coloured lambswool cardigan she had sent him for his last birthday. His hair was grey, greyer than she thought it had been last summer, but just as neatly trimmed as ever, his military moustache framing the uncompromising curve of his upper lip. There was a thread of hectic colour in his gaunt cheeks and deep pouches beneath his eyes, as if he wasn’t sleeping too well. Sleeping! Laura stifled the hysterical sob that rose into her throat at the knowledge that her father was dead, dammit. You couldn’t sleep any sounder than that.

She groaned aloud. Dear God, what was happening to her? This had to be some wild hallucination, brought on by the thoughts she’d been having as she walked back from the village. She’d been thinking about her father and somehow her subconscious had conjured him up. It wasn’t as if there was any resemblance between Oliver and Griff Williams.

She blinked and, as if proving the point, magically her father’s image had disappeared. Oliver stood there as he had before, a cream Aran sweater hugging his much broader shoulders, his tanned features tough and uncompromising, perhaps, but blessedly normal. With knees that felt decidedly weak now, she opened the gate and trudged into the garden. She wasn’t going to think about what had happened, she told herself. It had been an aberration, that was all, brought on by her emotional state.

Oliver saw her immediately and a look of relief crossed his face. And, for once, she was glad to see him. After the experience she’d had, she’d have been glad to see anybody, she thought unsteadily. Even Oliver, she acknowledged. A man towards whom she ought to feel nothing but contempt.

He had the door open by the time she reached the house and she offered him a stiff smile of thanks as she stepped inside. ‘I was beginning to get worried about you,’ he said, attempting to help her off with her parka, but she shrugged his hand aside and finished the job herself.

‘Why?’ she asked offhandedly, sitting down on a wooden bench and removing her boots. Her hands were trembling and she prayed he wouldn’t notice. She’d hate for him to think that she was afraid of him.

‘Because it’s going to snow again,’ he replied, waiting until she stood up and walked into the kitchen in her stockinged feet. Following, he paused in the doorway, watching as she extended first one foot and then the other towards the heat of the fire. ‘And you look very pale.’

‘I’m cold,’ said Laura shortly, aware that the cold she was feeling came from inside and not out. ‘Mmm, that’s much better.’

‘Okay.’ Oliver was evidently prepared to accept her explanation. His eyes drifted disturbingly over the thigh-length flannel shirt worn over a black tee shirt and ribbed black leggings. ‘Did you manage to get any sleep?’

Laura tucked the sides of her hair behind her ears before answering him. ‘I slept very well, actually,’ she lied. Then, because it was expected, she asked, ‘Did you?’

‘No.’

He spoke flatly and, glancing his way, she wondered if that was true. There was a slight puffiness around his eyes, but he looked much as she remembered from the night before. Narrow cheekbones angled above an unshaven jawline, and his thin mouth had a surprisingly sensual curve. He had never had conventionally handsome features; his face was too strong for that. But he was the most attractive man she had ever seen.

‘Perhaps your conscience was troubling you,’ she said without thinking, and immediately regretted it. The last thing she wanted was to dredge up the past again, and she added quickly, ‘I mean, because you weren’t here when your mother needed you.’

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know about that?’

‘About what?’ Laura’s eyes strayed compulsively towards the window. She was half afraid she’d see her father’s image gazing in at her now and a shiver slid uneasily down her spine.

‘About the afternoon your father died,’ said Oliver shortly. And then, noticing her shiver, he added, ‘You are cold. Would you like some coffee?’

Laura was tempted to refuse, but the idea of a hot drink was appealing. More appealing than the isolation of her room at this moment, and she nodded. ‘Thanks.’

Oliver filled the kettle and plugged it in before taking a jar and two mugs from the cupboard above the counter. He placed the cups side by side and spooned some of the coffee into each. Then he turned, folding his arms and propping his hips against the unit. ‘What did your aunt tell you about—well, about what happened?’

‘Not a lot,’ murmured Laura, feeling another shiver feather her skin. Glancing round, she saw the rocker beside the fire and curled her long legs beneath her as she settled on to its cushioned seat. ‘What your mother told you, I expect.’

‘Yeah.’ But he didn’t sound convinced. ‘I thought you might know more about it, seeing that you’ve been here for a couple of days.’

‘I only arrived the day before you did,’ protested Laura, frowning. ‘Besides, what’s there to know? Daddy had a heart attack. Your mother found him.’ She swallowed. ‘End of story.’

Oliver waited until the kettle had boiled and poured hot water into the mugs before continuing, ‘So you don’t know what the old lady was talking about?’

Laura blinked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, accepting a mug from him, shaking her head when he offered milk. ‘Mmm, this is good.’

Oliver resumed his position against the counter. ‘Did your aunt tell you Stella was on her own when it happened?’ he asked casually, and Laura stared at him, at last realising that there was more to this than random interest.

‘I—yes. Yes, I think so.’ She paused, cradling her mug between her hands. ‘Why? What has she said to you? That there was someone else here?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘You know Aunt Nell. She didn’t actually say anything.’

‘Then—’

‘It was just an impression she gave.’ He scowled. ‘She implied it was odd that Griff had been dead for a couple of hours before Ma found him.’

Laura’s eyes widened. ‘Was he?’

Oliver pulled a face. ‘Surely she told you that?’

‘No.’ Laura was thoughtful. ‘At least, I don’t think so. Anyway, why should it be important?’

Oliver shrugged, taking a drink of his coffee. ‘No reason.’

But she didn’t believe him. ‘Do you think your mother was lying?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’ And then, seeing Laura’s pained expression, he groaned. ‘God, I don’t know. Probably not.’

Leaving the stove, he dragged a chair from the table and, swinging it round, he straddled it across the hearth from where she was sitting. Resting one arm across the back, he regarded her consideringly. ‘What’s wrong?’

His change of topic was unexpected and Laura’s eyes were drawn towards the window again before she could stop herself. But, thankfully, her reaction meant nothing to him, and after assuring herself that she had imagined what had happened earlier she shook her head. ‘What could be wrong?’ she countered, feeling her hair brushing against her shoulders. ‘Daddy’s dead. What do you think is wrong?’

Oliver sighed. ‘Okay. Point taken. But you did look as if you’d seen a ghost when you came in. I wondered if anybody had said anything to upset you.’

‘Who?’

Laura resented his perception, and it showed. But, dammit, she was doing her best not to reveal how she was really feeling and having him daunt her at every turn was disturbing to say the least. Despite her best efforts, she was irresistibly aware of the taut seam of his trousers visible between the spokes of the dining chair, and the bulge of his sex evident beneath the soft cloth. His thighs were spread, long-muscled and powerful, his booted feet only a few inches from the legs of her chair.

‘I don’t know. Someone from the village, perhaps,’ he said now. ‘So—how long is it since you saw your father?’

Laura moistened her lips. ‘Um—about six months, I suppose. I came to London last year. There—there was a conference. Daddy came up to meet me.’