The Unexpected Mistress. SARA WOOD
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it difficult to live here,’ she said with dignity.
Cassian looked uncomfortable. ‘Laura,’ he said in a gravelly voice, ‘this is nothing to do with me. Not one of your arguments is sufficient reason for you to stay. Excuse me.’
He strode into the hall. She heard the sound of men moving about, presumably bringing in his possessions. She buried her head in her hands. She’d failed.
Cassian saw her emerging from the kitchen a few moments later, her eyes pink from crying, silver tear-track streaks glistening on her face. He gritted his teeth and continued to organise the stacking of his few belongings in the spacious hall.
Behind his bent back, he could hear the fast rasp of her breathing and sensed she was close to hysteria. And he felt as if he’d whipped a puppy.
‘All done, guv,’ announced one of the men.
Grateful for the diversion, he gave Len and Charlie his undivided attention. ‘Thanks. Great meeting you,’ he said warmly, shaking the men’s hands in turn.
He slid his wallet from his back pocket and handed over the fee plus a tip, brushing away their astonished refusals of such a large sum of money. What was cash to him? It came easily and went the same way.
Charlie had told him about his new baby and Len was nearing retirement. They could both do with a little extra and he believed passionately in circulating money while he had the earning power.
‘I had a windfall. Might as well share it, eh?’ he explained. Like an obscene advance from a film company.
‘Yeah? You’re a gent,’ said Len in awe.
‘Thanks,’ added Charlie, looking stunned.
‘Have a pint on me.’
Len grinned. ‘Treat the wife to a slap-up meal and a holiday, more like!’
‘Buy a baby buggy!’ enthused Charlie.
He saw them out, found them shaking his hand again and accepted an invitation to visit Charlie’s baby and to have tea and cakes with Len and his wife. After much scribbling of addresses, he returned to the tense and angry Laura.
‘What are you trying to do by gossiping out there—drive me to screaming pitch?!’ she demanded furiously, her hands on shapely hips.
He stole a moment to admire them. ‘Being friendly. Would you prefer I dismissed them with a curt nod and a growl?’ he enquired.
She flushed. ‘No…oh, you’re impossible!’
He felt pleased. Her eyes were sparkling, a hot flush brightening her cheeks. If only he could release her emotions…
He bit back an impulse to invite her to stay so he could do just that, and followed up her remark instead.
‘I just live by a different code from you. Now…will I push you into suicide mode if I just check I’ve got all my possessions here?’
She blinked her huge eyes, dark lashes fluttering as she eyed the stack of boxes, his luggage, and three bags of shopping.
‘Do you mean…that this is all you own in the whole world?’
‘It’s all I need. Books, computer stuff and a few mementoes. Plus a few changes of clothes and some food stores.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ she muttered.
‘Not many people do. Now, this is what I’ve decided,’ he said brusquely, suddenly needing to get away from the censure of her accusing eyes. ‘I’d booked a room in a hotel in Grassington because I didn’t know what state the house would be in. I’ll go there now and leave you to start looking for temporary accommodation. Someone will take you in for a few days till you can find somewhere permanent. I’ll be back in the morning. To take possession.’
He turned on his heel. Flinched at her horrified intake of breath as it rasped through emotion-choked airways.
‘Cassian!’ she pleaded in desperation.
But he’d opened the door, was striding up the path and ignoring the sound of her weeping. It would be good for her, he kept telling himself, wrenching at the door handle of his car.
She needed to find out the truth about her mother. But first she’d have to stand up for herself, to gain some strength of will—and being forced to move would make her take her life in her hands at last.
He crunched the gears. And accelerated away, angry with her for making him feel such a swine.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN he turned up the next morning she was beating the hell out of a lump of dough and he couldn’t help smiling because her small fists were clearly using it as a substitute for his head.
Her glare would have put off a seasoned terrorist but, knowing how normally reclusive she was, he could only be pleased. This was precisely the reaction he’d hoped for.
‘Any progress?’ he asked, coming straight to the point.
‘No.’ She jammed her teeth together and kneaded the bread with a fascinating ferocity. ‘If you must know, I didn’t try! And if you’re looking for coffee,’ she said, as he opened and shut cupboards at random, ‘you’re out of luck. There isn’t any.’
He went to find some in the supplies he’d brought, came back and put on the kettle. The bread dough looked so elastic she could have used it for bungy jumping.
‘You did discuss leaving with your son, didn’t you?’ he enquired.
Laura slammed the dough into a bowl and covered it with a cloth. ‘You didn’t give me a chance to tell you,’ she said grimly, pushing the bowl into the warming oven to prove and slamming the heavy iron door with some force. ‘Adam’s been with a friend. I won’t see him till this afternoon after school. Besides…’ Her face crumpled and he realised that she looked very tired and pale as if she’d been up most of the night. ‘I can’t tell him!’ she confessed helplessly.
‘You can. You’re stronger than you think—’ he began.
‘But he’s not!’
Quite frantic now, she began to fling fresh ingredients into a mixing bowl and he began to think that the resulting cake would weigh a ton.
‘In what way isn’t he strong?’ he asked quietly.
‘Every way,’ she muttered, measuring out flour carelessly. ‘Cassian, you know what it’s like to be uprooted from somewhere familiar. You loved the narrow boat where you lived with your mother before you came here after her marriage, and you loathed Thrushton—’
‘Not the house itself, or the countryside,’ he corrected, wondering what she’d say if he brushed away the dusting of flour on her nose and cheeks. It made her look cute and appealing and he didn’t want that. It was very distracting. ‘Just the atmosphere. The stifling rules,’ he said, miraculously keeping track of the conversation.
‘Well, moving is traumatic, especially when you’re a child. Can’t you put yourself in Adam’s place and see how awful it would be for him to leave the place of his birth?’ she implored, pushing away her hair with the back of her hand. ‘Making friends is hard for him. He’d find it a nightmare settling into another school.’
‘Life’s tough. Children need to be challenged,’ he said softly. He passed her a coffee.
‘Challenged?!’ She flung in the flour haphazardly and began to fold it into the cake mixture as if declaring war on it. ‘He’s sensitive. It would destroy him!’ she cried, her face aflame with desperation.
‘Here. That’ll turn into a rugby ball if you’re not careful. Let me.’
He took the bowl from her shaking hands, combined the flour and the abused mixture with a metal spoon then scooped it all into a cake tin. Gently he slid the tin into the