Read Online His Wedding-Night Heir by Sara Craven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara Craven
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his
claim.
As they reached the main door, she said tautly, 'Why don't you
just give me a label to wear—"Nick's Woman"?'
'I thought I had.' His tone was clipped. 'In St John's church,
twelve months ago.'
Cally winced, but could think of nothing to say in reply.
Everyone was waiting outside the Centre to see them leave,
and the euphoria was almost tangible.
Tracy came rushing up and enveloped her in a hug. 'You don't
look as if you slept much last night, you lucky girl,' she
whispered with a giggle. 'Be happy. And don't forget us.'
There was a terrible irony in that, thought Cally, forcing a
smile and nodding.
'Come along, darling.' Nick drew her close to his side again,
his fingers laced with hers in a parody of intimacy as they
walked to the car. He turned to give a last smile—-a wave.
Like visiting royalty, she thought, swallowing back the bubble
of hysteria that was threatening to overwhelm her.
It was almost a relief to find herself inside the car and driving
away from it all.
I should have done that a long time ago, she thought
broodingly. Instead of hanging around, waiting tamely to be
found. And now it's all too late...
'Will you miss Wellingford?' Nick's tone was casual.
'No,' she said. 'I never planned to stay. Especially after Mrs
Hartley died. She was a terrific lady.'
'But not particularly blessed in her sons.' he commented
ironically.
She shrugged. 'Perhaps they take after their father,' she said,
adding pointedly, 'It can happen.'
And heard him laugh softly.
They were soon on the motorway, the big car comfortably
eating up the miles, transporting Cally swiftly and silently to
her new life and all that it implied.
Although it seemed she would at least be miserable in luxury,
she told herself wryly. The car was air-conditioned, its
windows tinted to diffuse the brightness of the sunlight.
And Nick was a good driver, she was forced to admit, stealing
a sideways glance at him from beneath her lashes. She'd never
before accompanied him on a long journey, and had expected
their progress to be aggressively conducted, with him cutting
a triumphal swathe through the traffic. But she was wrong. He
handled his beautiful vehicle with sure skill, driving fast but
safely, with surprising tolerance for the vagaries of his fellow
motorists.
He'd discarded his jacket and loosened his tie, and his shirt-
sleeves were rolled back to reveal tanned forearms.
He looked totally relaxed—even as if he was enjoying him-
self, she thought, biting at her lower lip.
He asked if she wanted music and she agreed, simply because
it was preferable to conversation—especially if he had
questions she'd no wish to answer. But he seemed to prefer to
concentrate on the road, rather than be diverted by contentious
issues.
She was aware of die music, a smooth blues combo, but she
wasn't listening to it. She couldn't. Not when every mile was
taking her nearer to Wylstone, and the associations of misery
and humiliation that haunted it. Memories that she would be
forced to endure, along with so much else, she thought, swal-
lowing convulsively.
She'd tried to use the last twelve months to wrench them out
of her brain and dismiss them for ever. She'd thought she'd
succeeded. That she'd cured herself of the virus that was Nick
Tempest. Yet she'd only had to see him again and they were
all back, clamouring obscenely for her attention.
Telling her that all she'd really done was use a sticking plaster
to cover a mortal wound.
How could this have happened to me? she asked herself
numbly. Was there nothing—nothing that I could have done?
But she already knew the answer to that. The path of her life
seemed to have led her straight to him.
Even the impulse mat had caused her to absent herself to
London safely out of Nick's orbit, had been cancelled out by
the breakdown in her grandfather's health that had summoned
her back so arbitrarily.
I was all my grandfather had, she thought
claim.
As they reached the main door, she said tautly, 'Why don't you
just give me a label to wear—"Nick's Woman"?'
'I thought I had.' His tone was clipped. 'In St John's church,
twelve months ago.'
Cally winced, but could think of nothing to say in reply.
Everyone was waiting outside the Centre to see them leave,
and the euphoria was almost tangible.
Tracy came rushing up and enveloped her in a hug. 'You don't
look as if you slept much last night, you lucky girl,' she
whispered with a giggle. 'Be happy. And don't forget us.'
There was a terrible irony in that, thought Cally, forcing a
smile and nodding.
'Come along, darling.' Nick drew her close to his side again,
his fingers laced with hers in a parody of intimacy as they
walked to the car. He turned to give a last smile—-a wave.
Like visiting royalty, she thought, swallowing back the bubble
of hysteria that was threatening to overwhelm her.
It was almost a relief to find herself inside the car and driving
away from it all.
I should have done that a long time ago, she thought
broodingly. Instead of hanging around, waiting tamely to be
found. And now it's all too late...
'Will you miss Wellingford?' Nick's tone was casual.
'No,' she said. 'I never planned to stay. Especially after Mrs
Hartley died. She was a terrific lady.'
'But not particularly blessed in her sons.' he commented
ironically.
She shrugged. 'Perhaps they take after their father,' she said,
adding pointedly, 'It can happen.'
And heard him laugh softly.
They were soon on the motorway, the big car comfortably
eating up the miles, transporting Cally swiftly and silently to
her new life and all that it implied.
Although it seemed she would at least be miserable in luxury,
she told herself wryly. The car was air-conditioned, its
windows tinted to diffuse the brightness of the sunlight.
And Nick was a good driver, she was forced to admit, stealing
a sideways glance at him from beneath her lashes. She'd never
before accompanied him on a long journey, and had expected
their progress to be aggressively conducted, with him cutting
a triumphal swathe through the traffic. But she was wrong. He
handled his beautiful vehicle with sure skill, driving fast but
safely, with surprising tolerance for the vagaries of his fellow
motorists.
He'd discarded his jacket and loosened his tie, and his shirt-
sleeves were rolled back to reveal tanned forearms.
He looked totally relaxed—even as if he was enjoying him-
self, she thought, biting at her lower lip.
He asked if she wanted music and she agreed, simply because
it was preferable to conversation—especially if he had
questions she'd no wish to answer. But he seemed to prefer to
concentrate on the road, rather than be diverted by contentious
issues.
She was aware of die music, a smooth blues combo, but she
wasn't listening to it. She couldn't. Not when every mile was
taking her nearer to Wylstone, and the associations of misery
and humiliation that haunted it. Memories that she would be
forced to endure, along with so much else, she thought, swal-
lowing convulsively.
She'd tried to use the last twelve months to wrench them out
of her brain and dismiss them for ever. She'd thought she'd
succeeded. That she'd cured herself of the virus that was Nick
Tempest. Yet she'd only had to see him again and they were
all back, clamouring obscenely for her attention.
Telling her that all she'd really done was use a sticking plaster
to cover a mortal wound.
How could this have happened to me? she asked herself
numbly. Was there nothing—nothing that I could have done?
But she already knew the answer to that. The path of her life
seemed to have led her straight to him.
Even the impulse mat had caused her to absent herself to
London safely out of Nick's orbit, had been cancelled out by
the breakdown in her grandfather's health that had summoned
her back so arbitrarily.
I was all my grandfather had, she thought
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