And the Bride Wore Prada (11 page)

She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t keeping up with my studies, Mum, that’s all. My grades were poor.’

‘And?’ her mother prodded. ‘You wouldn’t be kicked out of school merely for poor grades, Cait.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed and levelled a shrewd gaze at her daughter. ‘There’s something more, isn’t there?’

She said nothing.

‘I’m waiting. I can wait all night, if necessary. And this time, my darling girl, I want the truth.’

Caitlin glared at her mother, and defiance darkened her grey eyes. ‘I missed some classes,’ she said, her expression still sullen. ‘I wasn’t turning in assignments. I just...couldn’t keep up any more, so I gave up trying.’

There was a moment of silence. ‘You graduated top of your class,’ Mrs Campbell said finally. ‘You’ve never once struggled with schoolwork, Caitlin, never! You expect me to believe this load of bollocks? Because I don’t – I’m not buying it for a minute.’

‘Believe what you want. It’s true. I’m just not cut out for university, Mum. I’m completely h-hopeless.’ Her lower lip began to wobble, and she tried – and failed – to blink back incipient tears.

‘Who is he?’ Penelope’s voice was soft in the stillness of the room.

Caitlin’s head shot up at the unexpectedness of the question. ‘Who is
who
? What are you talking about?’

‘Who is this man you’re so willing to throw your future away for? Is it Jeremy?’

‘
Jeremy
?’ She stared at her mother, nonplussed. ‘Lord, no! We’re friends. I only asked him to bring me here because he’s got the Land Rover and I was desperate to get home.’

‘And how did you manage to persuade him to do that? Doesn’t Jeremy have exams, finals to take? Unless
he
was expelled, too?’

‘No, of course he wasn’t!’ Caitlin snapped. ‘I told you, we’re friends. He agreed to bring me here after I told him I’d been expelled. He spoke with his professors and got permission to take his finals a week early.’

‘How lucky for you.’

‘Jeremy’s been wonderful. And he’s staying in a separate room down the hall, if you hadn’t noticed,’ she added.

‘There’s nothing to stop him sneaking into your room at night. Or you into his.’

‘You can’t be serious.’ Caitlin shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m twenty, mum, not fifteen. I’ve been on my own for almost two years. I’ve even had
sex
.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ she replied, refusing to rise to her daughter’s bait. ‘But you’re home now, and there’s your father to consider. I won’t have you disrespecting him or his wishes while you’re here.’

‘Oh, crikey, Mum,’ Caitlin groaned, ‘don’t start with the clichés, like “as long as you’re living under our roof”, please?’

‘No clichés.’ Penelope rose to her feet. ‘But I expect you to behave with decorum whist you’re here. And I expect you to formulate a plan and tell me –
and
your father – exactly what you intend to do about this current state of affairs.’

She strode to Caitlin’s door and left, closing the door quietly but firmly behind her.

Caitlin flung herself back against the pillows and stared up at the canopy of pink silk over her head. What an unholy mess...and she’d no one but herself to blame. Tears leaked out and slid down the sides of her face, dampening her collar as thoughts chased themselves back and forth in her head.

She’d never finish school now...daddy was the angriest she’d ever seen him...what was she thinking, to do such a daft and irresponsible thing...

Gradually she became aware of the ringing of the phone in the upstairs hallway. She waited for someone – anyone – to pick it up, but no one did, and it continued to ring.

With a mutter of irritation, she flounced out of bed and flung the door open. ‘Hello!’ she snapped as she snatched the handset up.

There was no reply, only silence. But someone was definitely on the other end.

Her annoyance deepened. ‘Who is this, please?’

And although she waited, no one spoke; but Caitlin was certain someone was on the other end of the line. She was about to hang up in disgust when a sudden, crazy-hopeful but impossible thought occurred to her.

‘Niall?’ she asked in a low, intense voice. ‘Niall, is that you?’

Chapter 18

Rhys grabbed his coat and went downstairs, his face set and his thoughts churning. He needed to get away from the castle, and away from Natalie. He needed time alone to think.

Relieved that he ran into no one as he crossed the entrance hall on his way to the front door, Rhys let himself outside and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. Bloody
hell
, but it was cold. He’d forgotten how bone-chilling a Scottish winter could be.

And it was much worse if you were small and didn’t have a decent coat to keep you warm.

He strode down the drive, lost in black thoughts as he listened to the sound of his feet crunching over the hard-packed snow. His breath came out in plumes as he walked.

For some reason, his thoughts strayed to his one – and only – pony ride. His stepfather had taken him and his mum to a local fête when Rhys was five, or perhaps six. Pony rides were on offer in a fenced-off field, 50p for a couple of circles around the paddock on a knackered mare. As the attendant lifted Rhys up onto the horse’s back, he clutched the animal’s mane with white-tipped knuckles and tried hard not to cry.

‘Look at you, holdin’ on for dear life to that harmless creature!’ his stepfather exclaimed, and shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s just a wee bloody pony, Rhys! It’s a shame, a lad as big as you, blubbering like a girl. Good thing you’re no son of mine,’ he’d muttered under his breath.

But Rhys had heard him. And he’d had no use for horses – or his stepfather – ever since.

He remembered other things, too. How he’d cowered in fear, his stomach churning, as his stepfather beat his mother. How he hid under his bed, huddled with his adopted brother Jamie, dreading the sound of his father’s key turning in the lock in the evening.

I’ve plenty of experience with fatherhood
, Rhys reflected grimly, a
nd all of it bad
.

How in hell could he ever hope to be a decent father to his own son or daughter when he knew nothing about it? He had no basis for comparison.

And how could he ever hope to make Natalie understand?

His footsteps slowed as he heard the distant, rhythmic thwacking of an axe echoing from somewhere within the woods nearby. He and the groundskeeper, Colm, spotted one another through the trees at the same instant. Rhys lifted a hand briefly and turned to go.

‘It’s a mite cold out to be walking,’ Colm called out as he shouldered his axe and approached Rhys.

‘I needed to get away. For all its size, the castle was beginning to close in on me.’ He glanced at the stack of freshly split logs piled nearby. ‘Need a hand?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

Rhys took the axe Colm handed him. He hefted a log onto the top of a stump, swung back the handle, and split it open with a single, satisfying crack. The scent of pine filled the air. Before long, an impressive stack of firewood piled up between the two men, and Rhys found that the physical effort calmed him and focused his thoughts.

When they finished, he helped the groundskeeper load a nearby truck bed with the cord of wood they’d just cut.

‘Thanks,’ Colm said. He glanced at a stone cottage a few yards away. ‘I’ve whisky inside, if you’ve time for a dram,’ he offered.

Rhys masked his surprise at the offer. He and the ginger-haired man hadn’t exchanged so much as a word before today. But he agreed. ‘I’d like that.’

He followed Colm’s broad back inside the cottage. The sitting room was small but cosy, with a fire burning in the great stone fireplace, and a sofa and chairs covered in faded chintz arranged around it. The smell of wood smoke permeated the room.

‘Nice,’ Rhys observed as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it across the back of a chair. ‘Does this place go along with the job?’

Colm nodded. ‘Aye. It’s one of the perks, if you will.’ He turned away to pour their drinks.

‘And what are the other perks?’

He shrugged and handed Rhys over a tumbler of whisky. ‘Solitude. Quiet. Being my own boss.’

‘Thanks.’ Colm’s life, Rhys realized, wasn’t that much different than his own. Oh, they were worlds apart in terms of their livelihoods; but they both held fast to their independence.

Yet more and more, Rhys’s old life – flying all over Europe on business travel, living out of a hotel, indulging in the occasional brief (and meaningless) relationship, the freedom to do as he damn well pleased – was slipping away. From the time he’d left home at sixteen, he’d been responsible for himself, and himself only. Soon he’d be responsible not only for his wife, Natalie, but for their yet-to-be-born son or daughter as well.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

Colm lowered himself to the sofa and Rhys followed suit, and the men lapsed into silence as they sipped their whiskies, content for the moment to mull over their thoughts as the fire spit and crackled before them. The warmth of the room and the whisky soon spread through Rhys.

‘My wife’s pregnant,’ he said after a moment, and frowned down into the amber depths of his glass. ‘I just found out this morning. I’m not sure how I feel about it.’

‘You’re not happy?’

‘Yes. No. Oh, hell...I don’t know.’ Rhys glanced up. ‘What about yourself? Do you have any kids?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Nor a wife, either.’

‘You never married?’

‘Once.’ The word was abrupt. ‘It was a long time ago. Why don’t you want a bairn, then?’

Rhys drained his glass. ‘The thought of a baby, helpless and dependent on
me
, scares the hell out of me. My stepfather...he beat my mum, and hurled abuse at me on a regular basis; he came home most nights in a drunken stupor. How can I hope to be a proper father, with him as my only example?’

Colm shrugged and reached out to pour them each another dram. ‘No man knows what he’s doing when he becomes a father, I reckon. You just muddle through it as you go. And the fact that yours was a bastard should show you what
not
to do with your own wee one.’

‘What about you?’ Rhys asked, emboldened by the whisky burning its way down his throat. ‘What was your father like?’

Colm gazed into the fire, his expression unreadable. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said finally. ‘I never knew him.’

‘Why not? What happened?’

Colm pushed himself to his feet. ‘The day’s getting on, Gordon, and I’ve plenty to be doing. If you’ll pardon me now, I’d best get back to it.’

Chapter 19

Natalie lifted her head from the pillow as someone knocked on the door.

‘Rhys?’ she asked hopefully, and sniffled.

There was a pause. ‘No, it’s Gemma. Can I come in?’

Disappointment swamped her.
Gemma. Not Rhys
. ‘Just a minute,’ she called out, and got up to peer into the dressing table mirror. Quickly, she added a flick of mascara to her lashes and ran a brush through her hair.

A moment later she opened the door. ‘Hello, Gemma. Come in.’

‘Nat, I need your help,’ Dom’s girlfriend said without preamble, and marched inside. A bridal magazine was tucked in the crook of her arm. ‘I’ve a million wedding details to take care of, such as whether to serve roast duck or beef en croute at the reception, and I’m in really desperate need of your advice—’

She broke off as she caught sight of Natalie’s face. ‘You’ve been crying,’ she exclaimed, and tossed the magazine aside to take her by the arm. ‘Come and sit down and tell me what’s wrong, right this instant!’

‘Are you quite sure you have time?’ Nat asked with a trace of bitterness. ‘We haven’t spoken in
months
, ever since you got engaged to Dominic.’

‘We haven’t?’ Gemma blinked in surprise. A guilty look flitted over her face. ‘Oh. No, I suppose we haven’t. Sorry – I’ve just been so consumed with wedding stuff. Never mind that,’ she added, ‘tell me what’s going on
now
. Why are you crying? Is it Rhys?’

Nat sniffled again. ‘Yes. No. Oh, it’s all such a mess!’ she choked out, and burst once again into tears.

Gemma leant forward and slipped an arm around her heaving shoulders. ‘Shh,’ she murmured as she patted Natalie awkwardly on the back. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

‘Th-thanks,’ Nat hiccupped. ‘But it
is
that bad.’

‘What’s Rhys done, then?’ she demanded as she drew back. ‘Shall I have a word? Give him a piece of my mind?’

‘No, Gemma. It’s not the sort of thing you can “have a word” about.’ Natalie pulled away and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘What sort of thing
is
it, then? Tell me! Whatever it is, it’s got you upset.’

‘It’s me.’ She lifted her tear-stained face to Gemma’s. ‘I...I’m pregnant.’

‘Pregnant?’ Gemma echoed, and squealed. ‘But that’s fabulous news!’ She engulfed Natalie in a lengthy, Prada-scented hug. ‘A baby – that’s what you’ve longed for, isn’t it?’ She leant back and regarded her with a frown. ‘Why the long face and tears, then?’

‘It’s Rhys,’ Nat admitted. ‘He’s furious. When we got married, we agreed to wait a year or two to have children, and enjoy being a couple first. And I was fine with that. Truly, I was. But now I’m pregnant, and he thinks-he th-thinks…’

‘He thinks you did it on purpose,’ Gemma finished grimly.

Natalie nodded miserably. ‘Yes. We had a huge row, and we shouted at each other, and he said awful things to me. And then he stormed off.’

‘Oh, Nat,’ Gemma reassured her, and reached out to take her hands, ‘you know Rhys. He’s got that temper, he always has done. He’ll calm down after a bit. And once he does, he’ll come back, and he’ll see that he was wrong, and apologize, and you’ll have spectacular make-up sex.’

‘Do you...do you really think so?’

‘I know so. Now, in the meantime,’ she reached for the bridal magazine she’d tossed aside earlier and began flicking through the pages ‘what do you think of this peau de soie for the bridesmaids’ gowns, instead of the silk...?’

With nothing else to do but read until dinner time, Helen threw her book aside and decided to go outside for a walk. She’d seen Rhys striding off down the drive earlier. He’d looked decidedly angry.