Fire Under Snow (13 page)

“I don't exactly think that. I think he'll want to hear Jamie's side of it. And Jamie has a very plausible tongue.” Was she afraid to tell him? Was that the reason for her hesitancy? Did she think that because she hadn't been open with him from the beginning, it would go against her? Would he think she'd been reluctant to speak up because she had something to hide, and would that influence him to take Jamie's part?

“I suppose, having waited until now, it will keep for another week, but don't be afraid of anything that smooth-tongued hypocrite of a husband of yours might say. In Other words, don't underestimate Noel, and don't take him for a fool. Does that help any?”

“Thank you, it does.”

Leonora's casserole was consumed with great appreciation and received high praise. While they were eating, Lorraine suddenly bethought herself to ask, “Aunt Leonora, I know I didn't give you much warning, but did you manage to arrange time off from work?”

“Yes, I did. But that was before I knew that Noel was coming with you. Not that the time will be wasted. I can find plenty to do in the cottage, so you two can go gadding off with a clear conscience.”

“What about your conscience, Leonora? Could you be so cruel?” Noel paused. “You said you were a family who didn't stand on ceremony, so I'm presuming that it's all right to call you by your first name?”

“Thank you, I'd be most grateful if you would. When someone says Miss Craig I feel like taking a peep over my shoulder to see where she is. But – cruel? I thought – tactful.”

“I'd much rather take out two pretty ladies than one. So it's definitely cruel to deny me the pleasure of your company.”

“The tact is yours, Noel. And there I was, being so self-sacrificing. Sorry, Lorraine, I tried. If I were you I'd want him all to myself and I'd scratch the eyes out of any female who offered to horn in, but I simply cannot resist that charmingly put invitation to join you at least some of the time. He's exclusively yours for the morning exercises if he's crazy enough to join you.”

“The operative word being crazy, I take it?” Noel said with an intrigued lift of one brow. “Exercises? Explanation, please.”

Leonora supplied it with laughter in her voice. “This ridiculous child gets up practically at dawn and goes galloping over the moors and scrambling along the clifftop and generally seeking out and renewing her acquaintance with all her old haunts. Basic close-to-nature stuff, although I can't see anything natural in it. I told you it was crazy. I leave her to her madness and rise at a more civilized hour.”

Next morning, tiptoeing softly so as not to waken a sleeping house, Lorraine sniffed as she approached the kitchen. The rich aroma of coffee was joined by a crackling noise and the equally distinctive smell of bacon being fried.

Looking up from the stove, Noel said, “Your aunt said I should make myself at home, and that's what I'm doing. How do you like your bacon?”

“
After
I've taken my morning walk, when I've worked up an appetite.”

“Really? What's wrong with before
and
after? It's my theory that the first breakfast provides the sustenance to find the energy to go out and work up an appetite for the second breakfast.”

He cut deeply into a loaf of bread, then took two rashers of bacon from the frying pan and transferred them to the two slices of wholemeal bread. “Here you are. No arguments.”

“You're too bossy,” she said. “I can see I shall have to get my Aunt Leonora to take you down a peg for me.” But she accepted the offering, a mouth-watering combination that was heftier than any sandwich she would have prepared for herself.

Taking a giant bite, she wondered why she'd assumed he wouldn't want to accompany her on her more strenuous jaunts. If his splendid physique was anything to go by, he would be able to out-scramble, out-climb, out-race, out-anything her. She ought to have realized that he practiced some regular form of exercise to keep in such good shape. His firm, powerful body was the antithesis of what one might expect in a successful executive. Desk men could often be identified by their paunches and their unhealthy complexions. In his chunky sweater, which complemented the width of his shoulders, and jeans that molded to his lean waistline, slim hips and long, muscled legs, he looked – and her scrutinizing eye speeded the message to her brain on electric waves of awareness – quite undeniably superb.

She brought her eyes back up to his face and was dismayed to see the way his mouth was curling up at the corners, as if he knew she was eating up the sight of him with as much gusto as she was eating her sandwich. Negligible blessing that it was, because his eyes scorched her, he brought his own plate and mug of coffee to the table without comment.

They walked along the clifftop, and because she was familiar with every part of the crumbling coastline, she knew when it was reasonably safe to walk close to the edge and when to keep a healthy distance:

“It's like a scene from a childhood holiday,” he observed unexpectedly. “Except that then the sea was blue, not slate gray, and the morning didn't have such a bite and you didn't catch your breath from the cold of it.”

“Your holidays were obviously spent on a kinder part of the coast.”

“No. Same coastline, further down, that's all. Robin Hood's Bay was a favorite spot. I'm not saying it was
like
that, only that I remember it as being like that.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, going along with his nostalgic mood and taking some license of her own when she added, “And there would be no buffeting wind to whip up the sea and toss the gulls around as though they were scraps of paper. Right?”

“Wrong. There was always a good kite-flying wind.”

Her mind's eye painted a picture, and she ached because she hadn't known him when he was a volatile boy racing with the wind, poised on the edge of manhood. He had met the challenges that make or break a man and had grown strong with the years. It was inevitable, because nostalgia is catching, that her thoughts should drift back to her own childhood. The endless waiting, the anticipation, then the glorious conclusion of the school term would be upon her, marked by the ending of exams and a languorous leniency stealing over the teaching staff. The sadness at leaving a best friend or special boy, and then off to Kittywake at last for the long summer vacation. Bracing and breezy, rarely warm enough to lie on the beach in a bikini unless you knew where to find the sheltered sun traps, but somehow a blue and gold summer when touched by memory's alchemy.

They left behind their separate memories and his arms came out and he drew her into a shared memory-in-the-making. The wild roar of the sea and the plaintive mew of the gulls in her ears, his mouth tasting of the salty sea-air cherishing hers in a kiss of sweetness and passion. This would be a memory moment to take out and polish lovingly in the less happy times that were to follow. She knew, with a chill insight that was unexplainable, that pain and heartache were in store for her.

She shivered, and he said quickly, “You're cold. Let's have done with this doddering pace. We'll turn the clock back twenty years and run down to the sea like irresponsible children.”

“If the clock were turned back twenty years, that would make me three years old. My legs would be tired and you'd have to carry me.”

“What a delicious idea,” he said. He clasped an arm around her waist, secured the other under her legs, swept her feet off the ground and started the downhill journey.

She was too frightened to wriggle out of his clasp because of the rocky, steep and dangerously inadequate path. The slightest movement on her part would have them both crashing down, with little hope of finding a sympathetic landing.

Her fears proved to be unfounded. He was as sure-footed as he had claimed to be and deposited her on the beach without mishap and only a little out of breath.

“What do you do for an encore?” she inadvisedly asked, and mentally backed away at the look on his face. “Oh – no.” The laughter died on her lips. She couldn't back away physically because, although he had set her feet down on the sand, his arms were still anchored around her.

Two jutting slabs of rock gave them complete privacy. The world was reduced to a narrow spit of sand, a triangle of slate-gray sky flecked with countless mewing kittiwakes, the immensity of the sea and the two of them.

His hands pushed their way under her thick- knit sweater, slid along the smoothness of her back and moved around to the front. So adeptly was it accomplished that she wasn't aware that the slight dalliance in the vicinity of her spine was to unfasten her bra until his fingers came in contact with the bare flesh of her breasts. He stroked and smoothed and molded and held her on points of pleasure; his fingers applied just enough pressure to send her thoughts into a heightened state of exquisite delirium, enough gentleness to make her heart sing at his caring and solicitude.

When he muttered hoarsely, “Oh, God, I want you,” the craving was mutual. “It would be idyllic here,” he said, his voice a soft groan, a whisper of persuasion across her hot cheek. “Sheltered and peaceful. I can think of no other spot on earth that is so close to nature. You are so beautiful – so desirable. You're driving me insane.”

She could feel his urgency in the thickening of his speech, the harshness of his breathing. Even as she shared his torture she put up a hand to push him away, but, instead, her fingers stroked sensuously down his cheek, touching the working nerve at the corner of his mouth.

What had come over her? She could not blame him if he took this gesture as a sign of her willingness, a signal that she would put up no resistance to the natural progression that would take them from the lighter preliminaries of love- play into the searing no-turning-back depths that had but one inevitable outcome.

She couldn't believe it when he was the one to call a halt. It was such an anti-climax to find herself suddenly released that for a moment she almost gave way to hysterical laughter. Her wildly disbelieving eyes raced up to his for explanation.

If anything, the torture was more intense than before. One dark eyebrow lifted in sardonic comment and dark resignation. “It seems that you are to be protected for a while longer by my strong sense of propriety. It might not be your aunt's house, but I am her house guest. It would be like breaking a trust.”

In the absurd moment before she regained her senses she found herself wishing that he wasn't such a gentleman. In all her wildest imaginings she could never have foreseen any situation where she would think it a drawback to have a conscience.

They continued to enjoy their early morning walks together, irrespective of the changeable weather, which veered from cold and blustery with rain in the teeth of the wind to perfect summer conditions. On one particularly benevolent golden morning it was difficult to resist the treacherous invitation of the sea. Swimming was dangerous because of the strong tides that swept in both directions around the headland, so they walked as usual.

Noel was not the kind of man to keep his hands by his sides on these occasions, but he guarded against a recurrence of that first morning and passions never again flew out of control.

The rest of the time Leonora's objections were overcome and she accompanied them on the excursions by car. Guided by whim, sometimes they ate out at the local hotel or, more often, farther afield; sometimes they returned to the cottage for their evening meal, buckling down to the chores together in friendly compatibility. Once, Noel locked Lorraine and her aunt out of the kitchen, insisting on cooking the meal without female help. Although his voice was quieter on the subject of washing up, Lorraine was impressed. She hadn't expected him to be so domesticated or such an expert. The meal merited her aunt's laughing comment that she was going to have difficulty in following it.

On the last full day, they drove down the coast to picturesque Whitby, where for a thousand years fishermen and boat-builders had chosen to build their houses as close as possible to the water's edge.

They parked the car and sauntered along the bustling harbor at a pace that was out of tune with the industry of the fishermen, rugged, leather-skinned types who sucked on their pipes and exchanged seamen's yarns as they worked on their boats, repairing the ravages of one trip in preparation for the next. It was fascinating to watch, and they dragged themselves away with extreme reluctance.

The strong link with the sea was inescapable. They found constant reminders of Captain Cook, who spent the first years of his seagoing career sailing colliers from the port, and of Captain William Scoresby, perhaps a lesser known figure but commemorated with as much enthusiasm for his invention of the crow's nest.

A bangle made of Whitby jet caught Leonora's eyes, and Noel promptly went into the bow- windowed shop and bought it for her.

In thanking him, she said, “I always think it's a great pity that jet lost its popularity because of its association with mourning. It's ironic, really, because if Queen Victoria hadn't taken to wearing it after the death of Prince Albert it might never have been so highly popularized in the first place.”

“I hope you share Leonora's liking for jet,” Noel said, turning to Lorraine. “I thought you might like these.”

The tissue-paper wrapping parted to reveal the wink of black jet in the sensuous shape of long dangling earrings.

“They're lovely,” she said with a gasp of delight.

“On you they will be. Ostentatious earrings should only be worn by girls with exceptionally pretty ears.”

His eyes laughed darkly into hers, causing fluttering sensations to erupt in her stomach. It was the kind of look he'd avoided giving her during the past week, a deprivation that had not been entirely to her liking even though it had meant she could relax in the company of an extremely entertaining male without holding her breath in constant awareness of his overpowering masculinity.