Authors: Sara Craven
face of the earth.' He shook his head. 'I'm not prepared to oblige you that far,
but I'll guarantee to keep out of your way as much as I can. And Grantham
will be back later today, which will release you from my exclusive company
anyway.' He went out of the office, closing the door behind him.
She watched his tall figure cross the yard and go under the arch, then she
slumped into her chair, hands shaking, body trembling.
She felt as if she'd been reprieved. She knew only too well—she'd known
from the beginning what Grantham was hoping for. In this very office, that
first day, he'd been none too subtle about it.
He might huff and puff, but he would be secretly delighted if he learned that
Eliot and herself were involved in an intimate relationship—would insist
righteously on it being legalised...
Her mind closed, wincing, against the prospect. She'd already been locked
into one marriage with a man who cared more for the main chance than he'd
done for her, although she hadn't realised it at first. But she couldn't allow it
to happen again, because this time she wouldn't have a single illusion to
sustain her. Marriage to her would simply increase Eliot's share, his control
of Wintersgarth. Grantham might have barred her from the running of the
stables, but she was still his heiress. And she was no longer the starry-eyed
innocent who believed such things didn't matter.
It was what Tony had married her for, after all, she thought wearily. He'd put
on a good act for a while, until he became too bored to bother any more.
And herself? Well, she'd been carried away by his boyish good looks, by the
glamour that he was a rising star of National Hunt racing. But had she really
loved him any more than he'd loved her? Wouldn't she have found some way
of overcoming her aversion to his sexual advances, if she had loved him?
And wouldn't it have been more than her pride that was hurt when she
eventually found out about his infidelities?
For three years now, she'd kept all these questions locked away at the back
of her mind. Now Eliot had released them, opened her own private Pandora's
box to scrutiny.
Suddenly everything had changed, she thought. And in spite of his
assurances, nothing would ever be simple again.
'Natalie, come and look at this horse.' The sound of her father's voice from
the doorway made her start guiltily and thrust the letter she'd been reading
back into its envelope, and back into concealment amongst the pile of mail
in front of her.
She got to her feet. 'Another delivery from Mr Strang?' Over the past seven
weeks, the new extension had been finished, and the horses had been
arriving. Their transfer had caused a lot of comment and speculation in the
sporting papers, and it was widely rumoured that Kevin Laidlaw might be
declaring himself bankrupt before too long.
'Ay, his latest acquisition, the big, awkward devil.'
In spite of her inner preoccupations, Natalie couldn't help wondering
whether Grantham was referring to the animal or its owner.
'What's the matter with it?' She followed him into the yard and under the
arch to where the lads were gathered in a semi-circle around a horse box.
'Just about everything. The previous owner bred the colt himself. He had a
son who wanted to ride as an amateur, it seems.' Grantham shook his head in
disapproval. 'But he didn't know how to break it properly, and it was too
much for the lad, so they put it up for sale, and one of Strang's agents bought
it. And now we have to cope with the result,' he added with obvious relish. 'It
tried to kick its way out of the box before we could get the back down, and
then it nearly bit a chunk out of young Micky. Eliot's with it now, trying to
calm it down.'
Natalie's body clenched in swift automatic reaction. 'Oh.' She turned away
with an ostentatious shiver. 'It's rather too chilly this morning to stand about
watching Mr Lang be his usual brilliant self. Tell me when it's over.' She
turned away, ignoring the look of disfavour Grantham sent her, and began to
make her way back to the office, but a shrilly enraged whinny and a sudden
plunging of hooves made her swing back again, in spite of herself. Hidden
by the archway, she watched dry- mouthed as Eliot coaxed his wild-eyed
sweating charge down the ramp into the yard. Midstream clearly didn't like
his new surroundings, or the silent audience awaiting him, because he lashed
out vigorously with his back legs, with Eliot hanging on to him, nothing in
his face or attitude to suggest he found this behaviour in any way untoward.
'There's gipsy somewhere in the lad's genes,' Grantham had said more than
once, and Natalie knew what he meant. It was no wonder he'd been able to
get the best out of so many of his horses, on his way to becoming champion
jockey, she thought, as she watched Midstream circling restively. He
seemed to cast some kind of spell on even the most bad-tempered and
recalcitrant mounts. When Midstream rode out to exercise, she knew exactly
who would be on his back.
She stayed, peeping round the wall until the rearing and plunging animal
began to subside, and Eliot turned him to lead him to his new stable. She
despised herself for hiding round corners like this, but she had to admit Eliot
had kept to his pledge, betraying by neither word nor look that they'd ever
exchanged more than the common courtesies. And she'd done her best to
play along with that too, which meant that forming part of an admiring
crowd when he was exercising his gifts on a new and excitable horse was
strictly taboo.
As soon as Midstream was safely bestowed, Eliot would be wanting coffee
for himself, and the driver of the box, and the lad who had travelled with the
horse— although a lot of good he'd been, Natalie thought caustically, as she
filled the new coffee machine and switched it on.
She was on her way back to her desk when the telephone rang.
It was a woman's voice, collected and businesslike. She was ringing, she
announced, on behalf of Miss Oriel Prince.
'I understand you have two of her horses in training,' she went on. 'Miss
Prince plans to visit them when she returns to Britain in a fortnight's time. I
presume this is in order?'
'Perfectly.' Natalie grimaced at the receiver. Owners visited all the time, and
were generally welcome, but Sharon with open dismay had been predicting
this descent since the newspapers had announced that Oriel Prince had
signed a contract to make a mini-series for television in the near future.
'Why couldn't she have stayed in America?' Sharon had grumbled. 'It's not
the horses she's coming to see anyway,' she added. 'She doesn't give a damn
for them, except when they win for her.'
Natalie had murmured something non-committal and turned away, aware
this was the kind of discussion it was unwise to get involved in. The
woman's voice had taken on a trace of uncertainty. 'Wintersgarth—where is
that precisely?' Natalie gave patient directions, which were clearly being
written down at the other end. When she'd finished, the other woman said
with patent disapproval, 'It's a very long way from London.'
'A lot of places are,' Natalie agreed levelly.
She had replaced the receiver, and made a note of the projected date of Miss
Prince's visit in the diary kept for the purpose, when Eliot walked in.
'The coffee's nearly ready.' She kept the usual neutrality in her voice, and
avoided looking at him directly.
'Thank you.' He sat down. 'Can you check when that damned Micky had his
last anti-tetanus. He claims he can't remember.'
'In that case, he probably needs a booster. He hates injections.' She walked
towards the table in the corner, where the paraphernalia for coffee-making
was set out. The aroma of the freshly-percolated brew was filling the air, and
Natalie found she was wrinkling her nose as she assembled the cups, trying
consciously not to breathe in. She'd never noticed before what a nauseating
smell coffee had. And on the thought there was a sudden lurch in her
stomach, a bitterness in her throat, and gagging, she ran for the tiny
washroom.
She just made it to the basin, her hands clutching its cool porcelain as she
retched weakly over and over again. In the middle of it, with a kind of
embarrassed horror, she realised Eliot was beside her.
'Go away,' she managed, before another paroxysm intervened.
'Presently.' He ran the cold tap on to his handkerchief, wrung it out, then
gently wiped her forehead and lips, as she clung shivering to the basin.
He said, 'Don't move. I'll get you a chair.'
She wanted to protest, but it was altogether easier to accede, and she was
thankful to sit down. Her legs seemed to have been transformed into jelly,
and her head felt as if it didn't belong to her. She was aware of Eliot wiping
her face again, then he left the washroom, closing the door, and leaving her
gratefully in peace. She could hear voices in the office, and could only be
thankful they hadn't arrived a few minutes sooner.
The next time the door opened Beattie was gazing at her, her face twisted
with concern. 'My dearest girl! What is it?'
Natalie shook her had, wincing. 'Something I ate, I expect. I feel all right
now.'
'It's more likely to be a virus.' Beattie surveyed her with misgiving. 'You
look like a ghost. Anyway, you're coming home with me to lie down. Oh
yes, you are, my girl.' Firmly she stifled Natalie's protest. 'The boss's orders.
And if you're no better tomorrow, I'll get Doctor Bishop.'
'I'll be fine tomorrow. I'm fine now,' Natalie said desperately. 'And I have
things to do. I've hardly started on the morning mail and...'
Beattie said something vulgarly and cheerfully dismissive about the
morning mail. She put an arm round her stepdaughter and lifted her tenderly
to her feet.
As they reached the office door, Natalie tried to hang back. 'I really ought
to...'
'Later,' said Beattie, and meant it.
In spite of her inner misgivings, Natalie found it pleasant to be tucked up as
if she was a little girl, with a hot water bottle. Later Grantham came in to see
her, walking gingerly as if approaching a deathbed.
'I thought there was something up when you moaned about the cold.' He
frowned at her. 'It's not like you to be ill.'
'I'm not ill.' She smiled at him, recognising the concern under his words. 'I
feel a total fraud lying here.'
'Well, Beattie says you've to stay where you are,' he said, and that settled the
matter.
When he'd gone, Natalie lay staring at the ceiling, her mind beginning its
journey on a new and frightening treadmill. Eventually she dozed, and when
she opened her eyes, found Eliot standing by the bed, looking down at her,
his face expressionless.
'How are you?' he asked quietly.
'I'm fine.' In spite of the fact that she was wearing a long-sleeved,
high-necked print nightgown, Natalie had to resist an urge to draw the
covers up to her chin. 'It—it was just a passing thing.'
'I doubt it.' He sat down on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving her
face. 'Morning sickness in pregnancy rarely passes as easily as that.' He
reached into his pocket, and took out the letter she'd been reading earlier,
tossing it on to the bed between them. 'Or was the result of your test going to
be your little secret?'
THERE was a long and terrible silence.
'Well, answer me,' said Eliot. 'Did you have any intention of telling me I was
going to be a father?'
Natalie found a voice from somewhere. 'How—how dare you read my
letter?'
He shrugged. 'I didn't mean to. I thought I'd help out by going through the
correspondence and dealing with anything vital.' He flicked the envelope
with his finger. 'This—was amongst it all, and I read it before I realised what
it was.' His face was unsmiling. 'And when I did realise, the ethics of the
situation became irrelevant. Now, will you answer my question. Were you
going to tell me?'
She said huskily, 'No—no, I wasn't.'
His brows lifted. 'You didn't think I'd find it of marginal interest to learn you
were carrying my child?'
Her chin jutted defiantly. 'To use your own words— the ethics of the
situation became irrelevant. Anyway, how do you know it's yours?'
His voice was icy. 'Oh, stop pretending, Natalie! A girl who was as shy and
virginal in her responses as you were that first time with me doesn't sleep
around. And your reaction afterwards did not, frankly, suggest you were
going to leap out and grab the first man you saw, so that you could compare
notes about us.'
She bit her lip. 'Well, it doesn't matter. It makes no real difference.'
'I'd have said it made one hell of a lot of difference.'