Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Innocent Sins
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

OLIVER could hear the phone ringing as he vaulted up the steps to the front door. Light shone out through the fan-shaped skylight above, illuminating the crisp piles of snow that he guessed Thomas had cleared earlier in the day. But although he was fairly sure his manservant was at home it seemed obvious that the old man was not going to answer the call.

Which pointed to the fact that he knew who it was. Which, in turn, led Oliver to believe it must be his mother. Only if Stella had been ringing fairly constantly all day would Thomas choose to ignore the summons. He and Stella had never liked one another, and the fact that his mother had expected her son to return yesterday morning would perhaps explain her eagerness to ask him about his trip.

Or not.

Oliver’s mouth eased into a wry smile as he inserted his key in the lock. In his experience, Stella was seldom interested in anything that didn’t immediately affect her, and if she had been ringing on and off all day there was probably something personal on her mind.

The warmth that accompanied the opening of the door was welcome. Oliver would have preferred not to return to London in the middle of one of the coldest spells of the winter. Particularly since he’d spent the last three weeks sweltering in the extreme heat of the Malaysian jungle.

‘Mr Oliver!’

To his relief the phone stopped its shrill bleating at the same moment that Thomas Grayson appeared at the end of the long hallway that ran from front to back of the house. Although Oliver had tried to persuade the old man that such formality wasn’t necessary, Thomas insisted on addressing him that way.

Now Oliver hoisted the bag containing his camera equipment inside and, closing the door, leaned back against it for a moment’s rest. He didn’t often take the time to appreciate the elegant beauty of the narrow, four-storey Georgian house that was his home, but he was always relieved to find that nothing had changed in his absence.

‘I expected you back yesterday, Mr Oliver.’

Thomas’s tone was almost reproving and Oliver wondered if he considered he was to blame for the delay. ‘The plane was late leaving Singapore, and there’s been a snowstorm over western Europe for the past twenty-four hours, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ he responded drily. ‘But, hey, don’t let that worry you. And it’s good to see you, too.’

Thomas, who had been about to wrest his employer’s rucksack and garment bag from his hands, straightened abruptly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Oliver,’ he said, with evident sincerity. ‘Of course it’s good to have you back. But—’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid there’s been something of an emergency while you’ve been away.’

‘What now?’

Oliver was wearily aware that he wasn’t in the best mood to suffer another of his mother’s crises, if that was what Thomas meant. Resignation replaced his earlier optimism. Where Stella was concerned, there were always emergencies, most recently occasioned by his mother’s inability to live within the allowance Griff gave her.

‘Your mother’s been trying to reach you for the past forty-eight hours,’ Thomas continued, and just for a moment Oliver wondered if Laura could be involved. His stepsister used to be a constant thorn in his mother’s side, but she’d gone to live in the United States almost seven years ago now. ‘I regret to have to tell you that your stepfather died two days ago,’ Thomas added gently. ‘Mrs Williams has been desperate to get in touch with you ever since.’

Oliver’s resignation vanished. ‘So that’s why you refused to answer the phone?’

‘Well, yes.’ Thomas was defensive. ‘Mrs Williams was getting rather—well, abusive. She accused me of not giving you her messages. She wouldn’t believe that I didn’t know where you were.’

Oliver pulled a wry face. He knew his mother must have said something upsetting for Thomas to ignore her calls at a time like this. ‘If she’d rung the airline, she’d have found out why I was late,’ he said wearily. He’d been travelling for the past forty-eight hours and he was tired. He’d been looking forward to nothing more exhausting than taking a hot shower and collapsing into bed. Now he was going to have to deal with his mother, and he could imagine how harrowing that was going to be.

‘I’d better give her a ring,’ he said, abandoning any hope of getting some rest. He picked up the bag containing his camera equipment and started up the stairs ahead of Thomas. ‘Perhaps you’d repack the rucksack with some clean underwear. If I have to go down to Penmadoc, I might as well be prepared.’

‘You’re not proposing to drive down to Penmadoc tonight!’ Thomas was horrified.

‘I’ll probably have no choice in the matter,’ replied his employer, entering the lamplit room on his left at the top of the stairs. The first floor of the house was given over to this room, which was Oliver’s study, the dining room, and a comfortable sitting room, with his bedroom suite and two guest suites on the second floor. He went straight to the wet bar to help himself to a small shot of whisky. ‘I know, I know,’ he groaned, when Thomas stood shaking his head in the doorway. ‘But I need some fortification. I’ll have a sandwich and some coffee before I leave, I promise.’

Thomas’s disapproval was apparent, but in the eight years since he’d come to work for Oliver he’d learned when to back off. Leaving his employer to make his call, he continued on his way to the second floor and Oliver heard him opening and closing drawers and sliding hangers about in his dressing room.

The phone seemed to ring for a long time before anyone answered it. Oliver was beginning to wonder if his mother had guessed it was him and was paying him back for not being there when she needed him. It was the sort of thing Stella might do, only not at a time like this, surely.

He could imagine the sound echoing round the draughty old hall, with its beamed ceiling and uneven polished floor. He couldn’t ever remember feeling warm at Penmadoc in the winter. Laura used to say the house was haunted and, when he was younger, he’d half believed her.

Laura…

‘Penmadoc Hall.’

A voice with a strong Welsh accent interrupted his maundering. ‘Oh, hello,’ he said, putting the past behind him. ‘This is Oliver Kemp. Is my mother there?’

‘Oliver.’ The tone was familiar to him now, and Eleanor Tenby was surprisingly amiable for once. ‘Your mother will be pleased to hear from you. I’ll get her for you.’

‘Thanks.’

Oliver didn’t attempt to detain her, even though it was unusual for Laura’s aunt Nell to show any consideration towards either him or his mother. Had it not been for the fact that she was Maggie Williams’ sister, and Penmadoc had always been her home, Stella would have got rid of her long ago. But, although Griff had indulged her in most things, where Eleanor was concerned, he wouldn’t be moved.

And, ultimately, it had suited his mother to have a readymade housekeeper, thought Oliver wryly. Because Laura’s mother had been ill for several years before her death, Eleanor had taken over the running of the household from her. When Maggie died and Griff married again, Eleanor had retained her position. Stella might have grumbled at first, but she’d never been the kind of woman to enjoy domestic duties.

‘Oliver?’

His mother’s voice came shrilly over the wires, and although he was used to her dramatics by now Oliver sensed she was more than usually distrait. There was a note of hysteria there that he hadn’t expected, and he prepared himself to comfort her as best he could.

‘Hi, Ma,’ he greeted her, with his usual irreverence. Then he said, gently, ‘I was so sorry to hear the news about Griff. You must be shattered.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ Stella’s response was taut and uneven. ‘Where the hell have you been, Oliver? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.’

‘I know. Thomas told me.’

‘Thomas!’ His mother fairly spat the old man’s name. ‘That little weasel had the nerve to tell me that he didn’t know how to reach you. As if you’d have gone away without leaving a forwarding address.’

Oliver heaved a deep breath. ‘He wasn’t lying, Ma. I left Singapore yesterday morning. But the plane was delayed with engine trouble in Bahrain, and then, what with the weather—’

‘You could have phoned home.’

‘Why?’ Oliver could feel his sympathy dissolving into irritation. ‘Thomas has eyes. He could see the problem the weather was creating for himself.’

‘Is that a dig at me?’

Stella’s voice wobbled a little now and Oliver realised that Griff’s death had hit her even harder than he’d thought. He was more used to her complaining about the disadvantages of being married to a man considerably older than herself, who apparently didn’t understand why she was perpetually short of funds.

‘It’s not a dig,’ he said gently. ‘Naturally, if I’d known about Griff—’

‘Yes.’ To his relief, his mother seemed to have herself in control again. ‘Yes, well, I suppose that’s a fair point. There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with him when you went away, did there? How was any of us to know that in three weeks he’d be dead?’ Her voice rose again, but she managed to steady it. ‘You’re coming down, of course?’

‘Of course.’ Oliver conceded to himself that there was no way he could avoid it. ‘I’ll get something to eat and then I’ll be on my way.’

‘Thank God!’ Stella was obviously relieved and Oliver acknowledged the fact that so far as his mother was concerned his feelings counted for little. But then, he’d always known that, hadn’t he? ‘I’ll wait up for you.’

She would have rung off then, but Oliver had to ask. ‘Griff?’ he said awkwardly. ‘I mean—how did it happen?’

‘He had a heart attack,’ said Stella shortly, clearly not prepared to elaborate on the phone. ‘Drive carefully.’

The line went dead and Oliver replaced his receiver with a troubled hand. A heart attack! As far as he knew, Griff had never had any problems with his heart. But what did he know? In the twenty years since Griff had married his mother, they’d hardly become bosom buddies, and although age had brought a certain understanding between them they’d never been really close.

There was still so much he wanted to know. Was Laura coming home for her father’s funeral? Of course, she must be. She hadn’t come home when her marriage to Conor Neill had foundered, but that was different. Her work was in New York. She’d made a niche for herself there. Why would she come back to England, or, more precisely, Wales, when she had a perfectly good job in the United States?

His lips twisted. Naturally, Stella had been relieved that she hadn’t returned to Penmadoc. The last thing she’d wanted was for her stepdaughter to come back and form an alliance with her father against her. Oliver couldn’t deny that Stella had always been jealous of the relationship Laura had had with her father. And Laura had never forgiven his mother for replacing Maggie less than a year after her mother’s death.

‘I’ve laid out some clean clothes in your bedroom, Mr Oliver.’ Thomas spoke somewhat diffidently from the doorway, evidently cognisant of the disturbed expression his employer was wearing. ‘I assume you’ll be taking a shower before you leave?’ he added. ‘I’ll have some coffee and a light meal ready when you come downstairs.’

Oliver flexed his shoulders. ‘Just a sandwich, thanks,’ he said wearily. ‘I had something to eat on the plane, and I’m not really hungry.’ He paused before saying gratefully, ‘But the coffee would be welcome. Is there plenty of fuel in the car?’

‘I expect you’ll use the Jeep?’ Thomas arched an enquiring brow and Oliver nodded. He owned a Mercedes, too, but the four-wheel-drive vehicle was obviously the safest choice tonight. It wasn’t the weather for breaking the speed limit, and he was likely to run into some really nasty conditions after he crossed the Severn Bridge.

By the time he’d had his shower and dressed again, it was dark. The short winter afternoon had given way to a bitterly cold evening and he wasn’t looking forward to the long journey into Wales. Downstairs, Thomas had the promised coffee, and some soup as well as a sandwich, waiting. ‘Just to warm you up,’ he said apologetically as Oliver came into the kitchen.

Thomas’s own apartments were in the basement of the building. Oliver had his darkroom there, too, and on summer evenings Thomas sometimes served his meal in the sheltered charm of the walled garden at the back of the house. Tonight, however, the paved patio was a transparency in black and white, the reflection in the windows of the room behind giving the scene an eerie beauty.

The phone rang again as Oliver was drinking the soup, and this time Thomas had no hesitation about answering it. ‘It’s Miss Harlowe,’ he said, covering the mouthpiece with his fingers. ‘Do you want to speak to her, or shall I tell her you’ve already left?’

‘And lie about it?’ mocked Oliver drily. Then, taking pity on the old man, he held out his hand. ‘I’ll speak to her,’ he said, deciding he owed Natalie an explanation of where he was likely to be for the next few days. ‘Hi, sweetheart. It’s good to hear your voice. Have you missed me?’

‘Do you care?’ Oliver stifled a sigh at the realisation that Natalie was angry with him, as well. ‘I’ve been expecting you to call all afternoon. I rang the airport and they said your plane had been delayed, but—’

‘I got back about half an hour ago,’ Oliver interrupted her quickly. ‘I was going to ring you, but—well, things came up.’

‘What things?’ Natalie was not placated.

‘A phone call from my mother,’ said Oliver, taking a bite from his sandwich. Then, chewing rapidly, he added, ‘She’s been trying to get in touch with me, too.’

‘Are you eating?’

Natalie sounded outraged and Oliver swallowed before attempting to speak again. ‘Yeah,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’m just trying to fortify myself for the journey. I’ve got to drive down to Penmadoc tonight.’

‘Penmadoc!’ Natalie gasped. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘I’m afraid I am.’ Oliver shook his head at Thomas when he mimed making him another sandwich. ‘My stepfather had a heart attack two days ago.’

‘Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Natalie was all sympathy now. ‘How is he? Is it serious?’

‘He’s dead,’ answered Oliver flatly. ‘That’s why my mother wants me to drive down there tonight. I am her only blood relative. Naturally she wants my support.’

Or did she? Oliver wasn’t absolutely sure what his mother wanted. She’d been decidedly strange when he’d spoken to her. Despite the years they’d spent together, he would never have expected Griff’s death to affect her so badly.

‘Would you like me to come with you?’

Natalie was speaking again, and for a moment Oliver was tempted. But then he remembered Laura and his refusal was automatic. ‘I don’t think so, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Funerals are family occasions, as you know. And I’m not sure what the arrangements are yet.’

‘Will your stepsister be there?’

Natalie’s enquiry sounded innocent enough, but Oliver sensed her irritation. Ever since he’d mentioned the fact that his stepsister had brains as well as beauty, Natalie had resented her; which was ridiculous really when they’d never even met.

‘She may be there,’ he said now, evenly. ‘But, if she is, I’ll be the last person she wants to see.’

‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ Natalie snorted. ‘I haven’t forgotten what you told me about her flinging herself at you when she was hardly more than a kid!’

Oliver swore silently then scowled. He must have been drunk if he’d told Natalie about that. ‘You didn’t believe me, did you?’ he scoffed, striving to sound incredulous. ‘Come on, baby, I was only kidding. For God’s sake, it’s been over eight years since Laura and I even met!’

Natalie was silent for a moment, and then she said cautiously, ‘So she didn’t come to your room and get into bed with you?’

‘No!’ Oliver stifled a groan. He must have been drunker than he’d thought.

‘And your mother didn’t find out and threaten the pair of you?’

‘I’ve said no, haven’t I?’ Oliver knew he could do without this. ‘Come on, Natalie, I was only having a bit of fun. You’re so gullible sometimes, I can’t resist teasing you.’

‘You bastard!’ Natalie swore now. ‘You were so convincing. I thought it was true.’

‘So sue me,’ he said, desperate to avoid any further revelations. ‘Look, sweetheart, I’ve really got to get going.’

‘But what about the Rices’ party?’ Fortunately, she was easily diverted. ‘Couldn’t you come back tomorrow? Surely there can’t be that much you can do.’

‘Except be there for Ma,’ suggested Oliver drily. ‘I’m sorry, baby, but you’re going to have to go on your own.’

‘Don’t I always,’ muttered Natalie, not altogether truthfully. ‘Oh, all right. But you will ring me and let me know what’s going on?’

‘I promise.’

Oliver was relieved to escape so easily, but after he’d hung up the phone the images Natalie’s words had evoked were not so effortlessly dispelled. This was not the time to be thinking about Laura, he thought impatiently, or to be remembering what had happened that unforgettable summer night. Or why, instead of taking up his place at university that autumn, he’d left the country, spending a year trekking around Europe, trying to get what had happened out of his system.

‘You do realise it’s after six, don’t you, Mr Oliver?’ Thomas’s anxious tone interrupted him. ‘I’m sure it’s not wise to drive down to Wales tonight. There’s reduced visibility on the M4 and the motoring organisations are warning people only to travel if it’s absolutely necessary. Don’t you think your mother would understand if you—?’

‘Forget it.’ Oliver pushed away from the table. ‘As far as Ma’s concerned, this is an emergency. Besides, there’s always the chance that the weather could worsen. I don’t want to find I can’t get there tomorrow because they’re snowed in.’

Thomas shrugged. ‘Well, if you’re determined…’

‘I am.’ Oliver was adamant. ‘But don’t worry, old man. I won’t do anything rash. If I find I’m getting into difficulties, I’ll find a motel.’

‘You hope.’

Thomas wasn’t convinced, and Oliver grimaced at the negative vibes he was giving off. ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got enough to contend with without you jumping all over me as well?’

Thomas sniffed. ‘I’m only thinking of your welfare, Mr Oliver.’

‘I know.’ Oliver paused to give the old man a rueful look.

‘But I must say, this is the first time I’ve seen you so determined to obey your mother,’ he added peevishly, and Oliver’s lean face creased into a mocking grin.

‘That won’t work either,’ he said, looping the strap of his rucksack over his shoulder. ‘Now, I’ll phone you tomorrow, wherever I am, and I’ll give Stella your condolences, shall I? I’m sure you don’t want her to think you don’t care.’

‘I’ve already offered Mrs Williams my condolences,’ retorted Thomas indignantly. ‘Although I have to say she didn’t seem to want any sympathy from me.’ And then, because the affection he had for his employer was genuine, he said, ‘Do take care, won’t you?’

‘I will.’

Oliver patted the old man’s shoulder in passing, and then, after a regretful thought about the photographs he’d planned to process tomorrow, he picked up his keys and started for the door.

CHAPTER TWO

LAURA shivered.

Despite the heat that was still emanating from the old Aga in the corner, the kitchen at Penmadoc was decidedly chilly tonight. The cold struck up through the soles of her mules and she wondered why Stella hadn’t had the stone floor removed and modern tiles installed in their stead. She could guess why, of course. The kitchen was still Aunt Nell’s domain and even Stella baulked at locking horns with her. Besides, she doubted if Stella ever entered the kitchen except to issue orders. Domestic duties and cooking had never appealed to her stepmother.

But it was a relief to find that some things at Penmadoc hadn’t changed when so much else had. Her father was dead. Impossible to believe, but it was true. Stella was the mistress of the house now. Laura was only here on sufferance.

Was it really only six months since she’d seen her father in London? He’d seemed as hale and hearty as ever, if a little more boisterous than usual. She’d put that down to his usual high spirits at seeing her again, but she wondered now if it had been a screen for something else. Stella had said that she’d known nothing about him having any heart trouble, but he could have been hiding it from her, as well.

Her stomach quivered. If only she’d known. If only she’d had some premonition that all was not as it should be. But although her grandmother had been a little fey, as they said around here, and had occasionally been able to see into the future, Laura never had. Whatever powers she’d possessed had not been passed on to her granddaughter.

According to her stepmother’s version of events, her father’s attack had been totally unexpected. He’d apparently been out riding earlier in the day. Although he hadn’t been a member of the local hunt, he’d always enjoyed following the hounds and, despite the fact that snow had been forecast, he’d ridden out that morning as usual.

Then, also according to Stella, he’d arrived home at three o’clock, or thereabouts, and gone straight to his study. She’d found him there a couple of hours later, she said, slumped across his desk, the glass of whisky he’d been imbibing still clutched in his hand.

Laura expelled a trembling breath. She hoped he hadn’t suffered. When she’d spoken to her boss at the publishing house where she worked in New York, he’d said that it was the best way to go. For her father, perhaps, she thought now, but not for the people he’d left behind. Aunt Nell had been devastated. Like Laura herself, she could see the writing on the wall.

She shivered again as tears pricked behind her eyelids, and, dragging the folds of her ratty chenille dressing gown closer about her, she moved nearer to the hearth. Thank heavens they still used an open fire in winter, she thought, hunching her shoulders. There were still a few embers giving out a tenuous warmth.

She sighed and glanced about her. She’d come downstairs to get herself a glass of hot milk because she couldn’t get to sleep. She was still on eastern standard time and, although it was after midnight here, it was still early evening in New York. She’d decided a warm drink might help, but the milk was taking so long to boil. Perhaps she should have looked for a hot-water bottle and filled that. At this rate, she’d be frozen before she got back to bed.

She started suddenly as an ember shifted in the hearth. At least, she thought it was an ember. There had definitely been a sound like something falling either in here or outside. She was feeling particularly edgy this evening and she was very aware of being alone downstairs. With the snow falling heavily outside, Penmadoc had an air of expectancy that was hard to ignore.

The milk came to the boil at the exact moment that someone tried the outer door. The sound was unmistakable, the latch rattling as it had always done when the bolt was still in place. Laura’s breath caught in her throat and she was hardly aware that the pan was boiling over until the hob started sizzling and the acrid smell of burnt milk filled the room.

‘Oh, God,’ she groaned, dragging the pan off the heat. But she was more concerned about who might be trying to get into the house at this time of night. As she listened, she was almost sure a masculine shoulder was applied to the door-frame, and while she stood there, frozen into immobility, an audible curse accompanied another assault on the latch.

Breathing shallowly, Laura left the smoking pan on the Aga and edged towards the long narrow lobby that opened off the kitchen. There was no door between the kitchen and the passage where boots and coats and other outdoor gear occupied a row of pegs. Stella called it the mudroom, but that was just an affectation. It was a lobby, plain and simple, that protected the kitchen from the immediate chill when you opened the outer door.

Breathing shallowly, Laura sneaked a look into the passage. There was definitely someone outside: a man, judging by the muffled oaths she could hear even through the door. But human, she assured herself, despising her timidity. Pushing away from the archway into the kitchen, she stepped nervously into the passage.

‘Who’s there?’ she called sharply, consoling herself with the thought that the door was apparently impregnable.

‘Who the hell do you think it is?’ the man snapped. ‘Didn’t you hear the Jeep?’

‘The Jeep?’ Laura frowned. She hadn’t known anyone was expected tonight. ‘Do you mind telling me who you are?’

‘What?’ His incredulity was audible. ‘Open the door, Ma, and stop f—mucking about.’

Ma!

Laura’s stomach clenched. Oh, no, it couldn’t be. Not tonight, not when she was wearing this old dressing gown that she’d found at the back of the closet upstairs. She’d put it on for comfort, because her father had bought it when she was a teenager. But it wasn’t particularly clean or flattering, and it clashed wildly with her hair.

‘O—Oliver?’ she ventured weakly, realising that she’d have to admit him, and he seemed to become aware that she wasn’t his mother, after all.

‘Laura?’ he exclaimed. Then, evidently reorganising his reaction, he said, ‘For God’s sake, is that you, Laura?’ She heard him blow out a breath. ‘What are you doing? Waiting up for me?’

Laura fumbled with the bolts at the top and bottom of the door and then, turning the heavy key, she pulled it open. ‘Hardly,’ she said, keeping her eyes averted as she stepped back to let him in. ‘Don’t you have a key?’

‘Don’t tell anyone, but they’ve yet to invent a key that can open a bolt,’ he retorted, and she guessed his sarcasm was an attempt to hide his own surprise at seeing her. He shook himself, dislodging snow from the shoulders of his leather jacket on to the floor of the passage. Then, sniffing expressively, he asked, ‘What’s that awful smell?’

‘I burnt some milk,’ said Laura defensively, closing and locking the door again before brushing past him into the kitchen. She knew she must look a sight with her hair mussed and her eyes still puffy from weeping. Not the image she’d wanted to present to the stepbrother who hadn’t seen her since she married Conor. ‘Did your mother know you were coming tonight?’

‘I thought so.’ Oliver followed her into the kitchen. Then he gestured towards the Aga. ‘Oughtn’t you to do something about that before anyone starts to think you’re trying to burn the old place down?’

‘Your mother, you mean?’ she asked tersely, plunging the saucepan into cold water before snatching up a dishcloth to mop the stove. Anything to avoid looking at him, she thought, though she was perfectly aware of how attractive he was.

‘Possibly,’ he said now, and she wished she hadn’t jumped so childishly to her own defence. She had told herself that if—when—she saw Oliver again she would behave as if the past was another country. She had no wish to go there; no wish to resurrect his memories of the naïve teenager she’d been. He set down his canvas rucksack and draped a garment bag over the back of the old rocking chair that stood on the hearth. ‘Anyway, I was sorry to hear about your father. It must have been a terrible shock.’

‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

Laura didn’t look at him. She merely lifted her shoulders before continuing to scrub the burnt-in stains off the hob.

‘It was a shock for me, too,’ he added softly. ‘Your father and I might not have always seen eye to eye about things, but in recent years I like to think we grew to respect each other’s views.’

Laura stiffened her spine and forced herself to glance in his direction. ‘In recent years?’ she echoed, as her eyes took in the fact that he was broader. But it only served to give his lean frame an added maturity without adding any fat to his long bones. ‘I didn’t know you spent so much time at Penmadoc.’

‘I don’t.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘But you were in the States whereas I was available. He used to come up to London occasionally and, less frequently, I’d come down here.’

Laura tried not to feel any resentment. After all, it wasn’t as if her father hadn’t wanted her to come home. But, after her marriage to Conor broke up, it had seemed to her that she was a failure. At that, as in everything else, she mused bitterly. And Stella would never have let her forget it.

‘He didn’t tell me,’ she muttered now, turning back to her cleaning, but she was aware of Oliver crossing the room to open the fridge door.

‘Why would he?’ Oliver asked, peering inside. ‘I doubt if he thought you’d be interested.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Is there anything to eat around here?’

Laura permitted herself to view his broad shoulders. ‘Didn’t you have any dinner?’ she asked, and he swung the fridge door shut again with an impatient snort.

‘Dinner?’ His amusement was bitter. ‘What dinner?’ He gave a grunt. ‘I just got back from Singapore late this afternoon. Ma had apparently been ringing for hours, trying to get in touch with me. I only stopped long enough to take a shower before driving down.’

‘Singapore?’ Laura’s curiosity was showing and she quickly changed what she had been about to say. ‘Haven’t you had anything to eat at all?’

‘Soup. And a sandwich.’ Oliver glanced into the fridge again. ‘Don’t people eat any meat these days?’

Laura hesitated. Then she said, ‘I expect Aunt Nell has the freezer stocked. She always used to do a weekly shop at the supermarket in Rhosmawr.’

‘So she did.’ Oliver gave her a sideways glance. ‘I guess I’ll have to make do with another sandwich.’ His mouth took on a humorous twist as he looked at what she was wearing. ‘That new?’

Laura held up her head. ‘Don’t you recognise it?’ she asked coldly, and had the dubious satisfaction of seeing a trace of colour enter his lean cheeks. The fact that her own face was red, too, offered little compensation, however. Once again, she’d betrayed what she was thinking and laid herself open to his contempt.

But instead of making some sarcastic comment Oliver merely closed the fridge again and leaned back against it, arms folded across his chest. ‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ His green eyes were narrowed and glinting with suppressed emotion. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Laura. I know this can’t be easy for you—’

‘You flatter yourself!’

‘I mean losing your father,’ he interjected harshly. ‘For God’s sake, can’t you think of anyone but yourself? I know you don’t like me, Laura, but this is one occasion when I’d have thought you’d have put other people’s feelings before your own.’

Laura trembled. ‘It’s late—’

‘Yes, it is. But not too late, I hope!’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘Look, like I said, let’s try and come to some kind of compromise, shall we? For—well, for your aunt Nell’s sake, if no one else?’

Laura dropped the dishcloth into the sink and tightened the belt of her robe. ‘Very well,’ she said, and heard his resigned intake of breath.

‘Very well?’ he mimicked drily. He cast his eyes towards the beamed ceiling. ‘Oh, Laura, don’t make it easy for me, will you?’

‘I said—’

‘I know what you said.’ He straightened away from the door. ‘Okay.’ He held out his hand towards her. ‘Friends?’

Laura moistened her dry lips. She didn’t want to touch him. Dear God, she’d have done just about anything rather than put her hand into his. But that was stupid! Stupid! Did she want him to think she was afraid of him, that she hadn’t got over that childish infatuation that had almost ruined her life?

‘Friends,’ she got out, almost gagging on the nausea that had risen into the back of her throat, and his strong brown fingers closed about her hand.

His fingers were cold but the impact Laura had was one of heat, a fiery heat that spread up her arm and into her breasts, making them tingle with an unwelcome awareness. The warmth of his breath invaded the neckline of her robe and she felt as if she was enveloped by his scent and his masculinity. An image of how he’d looked, lying naked and unashamed on his bed, flashed briefly before her eyes, and she suppressed a groan. But it was all she could do to prevent herself from jerking her hand out of his firm grasp.

‘Hey, you’re shivering,’ he said, and Laura had to bite her lip to silence the instinctive denial. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, you know.’

‘You didn’t.’

But her voice was high and strained and he seemed to sense it. With an odd expression playing about his mouth, he lifted his hand and stroked the backs of his fingers down her hot cheek, and this time she couldn’t prevent her automatic response. With a strangled sound, she jerked back from him, bruising her hip against the corner of the scrubbed pine table that occupied the centre of the floor.

‘Laura!’

His irritation was evident, but she suspected neither of them was prepared for his reaction. Instead of letting her go, he went after her, his hand closing on the nape of her neck now, his thumb forcing her face up to his.

‘Is this what an unhappy marriage has done to you?’ he demanded, and she realised incredulously that he thought she was reacting to some lingering torment from her relationship with Conor. That the panic she was barely controlling was something to do with her ex-husband.

As if!

‘I—’ She didn’t know what to say. Her head was swimming with the emotions his hard fingers were arousing inside her, and blaming Conor for feelings he had never been able to inspire seemed a cruel deceit. But… ‘Just let me go, Oliver,’ she said weakly. ‘I—I’m tired.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ His thumb was caressing her ear now and she thought how incredible it was that he thought he could give her any comfort. ‘Poor Laura. Do you have any idea how young you look in that robe?’

Laura felt faint. ‘Please,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Please, Oliver…’

‘It’s okay. I know.’ But just when she thought he was about to release her he changed his mind and, instead of moving aside, he pulled her into his arms. ‘You can rely on me, baby,’ he said huskily, pressing her face into his throat so that Laura could scarcely breathe. ‘I’m here for you. I just want you to know that.’

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

For a moment, Laura wondered if it was she who’d spoken. It was what she should have said, she knew that, but although the hand that had been stroking her shoulder slid away she sensed Oliver was reacting to a stronger will than hers.

A suspicion that was reinforced when Stella Williams’ shrill voice continued, ‘For God’s sake, Oliver, have you taken leave of your senses? She’s not back in this house for five minutes before she’s trying to cause trouble between us.’

Laura’s jaw dropped. ‘I hope you don’t think that I—that I—was encouraging him—’

‘So what are you doing down here at this time of night?’ demanded her stepmother scornfully. She sniffed. ‘And what’s that awful smell?’ Then, turning to her son without waiting for an answer, she said, ‘I suppose you got her to let you in. Why didn’t you come to the front door? I told you I’d wait up.’

‘I did come to the front door,’ retorted Oliver shortly, giving Laura a studied look in passing. ‘I thought no one was up. There were no lights that I could see.’

Stella pursed her lips. ‘I must have fallen asleep for a few moments,’ she said peevishly. ‘Goodness knows, I’ve had little enough sleep since Griff passed away.’ Her eyes glittered as they turned towards her stepdaughter. ‘Just because some people seem perfectly able to forget why they’re here—’

‘Forget it.’ Oliver’s voice was harsh as it broke into her provocative tirade. ‘Laura couldn’t sleep either. She came down to get herself a hot drink and I disturbed her. That’s why the milk boiled over. It was my fault. That’s what you can smell. Burnt milk. Nothing else.’

‘If you say so.’ Stella gave Laura a disparaging look. ‘Don’t you have anything else you could wear?’

Laura shook her head. She had no intention of getting into a discussion about her appearance with her stepmother. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, not caring whether they did or otherwise, and, putting his mother between her and Oliver, she made for the door. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

It was easier than she’d thought. Neither of them offered any objections as she slipped out into the hall. The smouldering embers in the hall grate lit up the door of her father’s study, giving her a moment’s pause. She was briefly tempted to go in there and try and calm her racing blood.

But the possibility that Stella might decide to show her son where her husband had been found deterred her. Instead, she hurried up the stairs and gained the sanctuary of her room with some relief. Leaning back against the panels, she wondered why she always let Oliver upset her. Whatever he said, whatever he did, he couldn’t help getting under her skin.

Straightening, she crossed the floor to the square four-poster she’d occupied when she’d lived here. Although her belongings had been removed and Stella had had the room redecorated, it was still reassuringly familiar to her. But this might be the last time she’d use it, she thought, tears filling her eyes again. Once her father’s funeral was over, she’d have no excuse for coming here.

Her reflection in the dressing-table mirror gave her a momentary shudder. For a second, the face that had stared back at her had been her mother’s. But she knew that was just because they looked alike. Pale face, pale grey eyes, wild red hair that rioted in an untidy mass about her shoulders. No wonder Stella had looked at her so contemptuously. Compared to her stepmother, she lacked any sophistication.

As for Oliver: well, she preferred not to think about him. She wasn’t at all deceived by his attempt at conciliation. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but she had no intention of making a fool of herself again.

She sighed now, loosening the belt of her dressing gown and flopping back on to the bed. It was impossible to come here without being assaulted by her memories. And, no matter how she might regret it now, Oliver had been an integral part of her growing-up.

She caught back a tear. She might have hated her stepmother for taking her mother’s place, but she had never hated Oliver. At ten years of age to his thirteen, she’d been pathetically eager to be his friend. She’d never had a brother or a sister before and she’d hero-worshipped him. She’d followed him around like a blind disciple, willing to do anything he asked of her, hanging on his every word.

She hadn’t been alone. He was a popular boy, and at the comprehensive in Rhosmawr that they’d both attended he’d never been short of companions. For almost six years, she’d deluded herself that the girls who came and went in his life meant nothing to him. Her infatuation had been such that she’d convinced herself he was only killing time until she grew up.

Stella had guessed how she felt, of course. Her stepmother had always had far more experience of life than Laura’s father, and to begin with it had amused her that her stepdaughter should have fallen so completely for her son. Stella hadn’t done anything about it. Perhaps she’d thought she could leave that to Oliver himself. But she’d got a rude awakening when she’d discovered them together, and despite the fact that Oliver had defended her she’d despised the girl from then on.

Laura groaned now and rolled over on to her stomach, trying to still the raw emotions that were churning inside her. That was all in the past, she told herself. She’d got over Oliver when she’d married Conor. And she’d grown up long before she took her vows. All right, so the marriage hadn’t worked out; but these things happened. Conor had been too young to make the commitment; too willing to leave all responsibility to her.

It was coming back here, she thought abruptly. She hadn’t spent any length of time at Penmadoc since she’d left to go to university over ten years ago. Like Oliver himself, she’d left home as soon as her schooldays were over—though he’d deferred continuing his education for a year to go backpacking across Europe instead.

Her lips twisted. It sometimes seemed as if fortune had always smiled on her stepbrother, and it was hard not to feel resentful when her own life had followed such a different course. Although being caught up in the conflict that had ensued after a country’s escape from a non-democratic government might not have seemed fortunate at the time, the pictures Oliver had taken and sent back to a London newspaper had ensured him a job in journalism after he’d got his degree. Since then, he’d become famous for his skill in capturing photographic images. Recently, a book of stylised black and white pictures of Alaskan wildlife he’d taken had made the best-seller lists. He worked free-lance these days, accepting commissions as and when it suited him. He also gave lectures: Laura knew because she’d attended one anonymously in New York.

Which was so very different from her own experience, she acknowledged ruefully. After—after what had happened between her and Oliver, she’d found it very hard to trust a man again. Besides which, although she’d got her degree in English, she was no genius. The fact that she’d got a job in publishing was due more to Conor’s father’s introduction to his brother, who owned the company, than any skill on her part, she was sure.

Conor’s parents had been good to her. They were Americans, like their son, and had sent him to England primarily to improve his social skills. He’d told Laura after their marriage that it was her independence and self-sufficiency that had drawn him to her. She’d never told him why she’d had to learn to depend only on herself.

Expelling a weary breath, she cast off the old dressing gown and crawled between the sheets. They were cold now, and she realised she should have filled a hot-water bottle, after all. So what’s new? she thought. Her whole life seemed to have been a study in retrospection. With Oliver Kemp the fulcrum at its core.

CHAPTER THREE

OLIVER awakened with a thumping headache.

For a while he lay quite still, trying to work out where he was and how he came to be there. He couldn’t understand why his room felt so cold. It didn’t get this cold in Malaysia. And if he wasn’t there why couldn’t he hear the steady hum of the Knightsbridge traffic? Despite double-glazing, he was always aware of the heart of the city, beating away just yards from Mostyn Square.

Then he remembered. Remembered, too, why his head was pounding as if there were a pile driver in his skull. He was in Wales; at Penmadoc, not in London. And it was the fact that he’d consumed the best part of a bottle of Scotch before falling into bed in the early hours that accounted for his hangover.

He groaned. He should have had more sense. But after seeing Laura again and learning why his mother had been so desperate to get in touch with him he’d needed something to fortify his strength.

The will…

Levering himself up on his elbows, he endeavoured to survey the room without feeling sick. But the bed swayed alarmingly, and although he swung his feet on to the floor he had to hold on to the mattress to keep his balance. Dammit, he was too old to be suffering this kind of nonsense. In future, he’d sustain himself with mineral water and nothing else.

Cursing whatever fate had decreed he should return to England at this particular moment in time, he got to his feet. Then, steadying himself on the chest of drawers beside his wardrobe, he shuffled across the room like an old man.

Despite a lengthy exploration, there were no painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. The light in there was blinding. He hadn’t thought to pull down the blind the night before and the brilliance of sun on snow was the equivalent of a knife being driven into his temple. It was the kind of light he usually only saw through a filter, but right now the idea of estimating aperture, shutter speeds and distance was quite beyond his capabilities.

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, jerking on the cord, only to have the blind rattle up again at lightning speed. He swore again, grabbing the cord and repeating the procedure. ‘This is just what I need.’

At least the water was hot and he stepped into the shower cubicle and ran the spray at a crippling pressure. He hadn’t looked at his watch yet, but he guessed it must be after nine o’clock. He could have done with a cup of Thomas’s strong black coffee. Instead, he would probably have to make do with the instant variety which was all Laura’s aunt ever had.

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.

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