One Summer At The Castle: Stay Through the Night / A Stormy Spanish Summer / Behind Palace Doors. Anne Mather
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He’d had no right to lie about his identity, however desperate he was to retain his anonymity.
The fact that he must have been equally stunned to learn that he was supposed to have met her sister at a pop festival and offered her a screen test made it marginally excusable. But she wouldn’t have come here at all if he’d been honest with her from the start.
Pushing back the duvet, Rosa swung her legs out of bed and padded, barefoot, to the windows. The floor was cold beneath her feet, but she thought she’d never get tired of the view. She was on the second floor of the castle and her windows looked out over the headland. She had an uninterrupted view of the restless sea that broke against the rocks.
It was so beautiful, the sun already tingeing the tips of the waves with gold. But there were clouds on the horizon, brooding things which threatened rain later. Perhaps this afternoon, she considered, wondering where she’d be sleeping tonight.
The realisation that it must be later than she’d thought occurred belatedly. Or perhaps it was the appetising aroma of warm bread drifting to her nostrils that reminded her she hadn’t eaten much the night before. She turned with a start to find there was a tray resting on the chest of drawers standing by the doorway. Someone had evidently put it there. Was that what had woken her?
She’d been resting her bare knee on the wide sill, but now she straightened and headed back to the bed, where she’d left her watch. Snatching it up from the nightstand, she saw it was already half-past-nine. Good heavens, she must have slept for at least eight hours.
She hesitated, torn between getting washed and dressed or investigating the contents of the tray. The tray won out, and, deciding that whoever had put it there deserved to be compensated, she picked it up and carried it back to the window seat.
A flask of what was obviously coffee invited her to try it. There was milk and cream in small jugs, brown sugar, and a basket of warm rolls. These were what she’d smelled, she realised, touching them reverently. Warm rolls, giving off the delicious scents of raisin and cinnamon.
Had Liam Jameson arranged this for her? More likely Mrs Wilson, she thought, remembering how rude she’d been to her host the afternoon before. But learning that he had been Liam Jameson all along had been so humiliating. When he’d told her he was the man she’d been waiting to see, she’d felt hopelessly out of her depth…
‘You?’ she’d said stupidly. ‘You’re Liam Jameson?’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t be.’
He was annoyingly laconic. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you don’t look anything like your picture,’ Rosa protested, remembering the young man with a moustache and goatee beard she’d seen on the back cover of one of his novels. This man’s face was clean-shaven, if you didn’t count the shadow of stubble on his chin.
‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I really am Liam Jameson,’ he said. ‘The picture I think you’re referring to was taken about twelve years ago.’
‘Then you ought to have it updated,’ she snapped.
As if!
Liam shrugged. ‘As I believe I told you earlier, I’m a fairly reclusive soul. I prefer not to be recognised.’
‘That’s no excuse.’ Rosa was trying hard not to feel too let down. ‘So, what about Sophie? Do you know where she is?’
‘Of course not.’ The exasperation in his voice was unmistakable. ‘If I did, don’t you think I’d have told you?’
‘I don’t know what to think, do I?’ Rosa’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You bring me here under false pretences…’
‘Now, wait a minute.’ Liam didn’t know why her words stung him so much. That was, in effect, what he’d done. Taking a different tack, he went on, ‘Would you have believed me if I’d told you who I was? You’ve just accused me of not looking anything like my picture.’ He paused. ‘If you must know, I felt sorry for you. You’d obviously been sent on a wasted journey, and whatever I’d said you would still have been stuck here for three more days.’
Rosa lifted her chin at this. ‘There was no need for you to feel sorry for me, Mr Jameson.’
‘Wasn’t there?’ Liam couldn’t help but admire her courage. He’d obviously judged her too harshly when he’d thought she had no spirit. ‘So—what? If I’d told you who I was, you’d have just booked into a bed and breakfast and waited for Thursday’s ferry? You wouldn’t have been at all suspicious that I might not have been telling you the truth?’
‘Well, I would have asked you about Sophie,’ said Rosa, her shoulders slumping. ‘You should have told me who you were,’ she added again. ‘Who is Luther Killian anyway? Someone who works for you?’
‘You might say that.’ A trace of humour crossed his face, and she was annoyed to feel herself responding to his charm. ‘Luther Killian is the main character in all my novels. Which just proves that you’re not a fan.’
‘I’ve told you, Sophie is the one who reads your books.’ She shook her head bitterly. ‘You must think I’m such a fool.’
‘Why would I think that?’
He had the nerve to look indignant, but Rosa was way past being understanding. ‘Because I was too stupid to suspect anything,’ she retorted. ‘Even when it became obvious that you knew too much about him not to be involved.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Why did you do it, Mr Jameson? Were you just playing a game? Did making a fool of me turn you on?’
Now, where had that come from?
Rosa was still gazing at him, horrified at what she’d said, when someone knocked at the door. There was a moment when she feared Liam Jameson was going to ignore it, but then he turned and strode across the room. Once more, he was dragging his leg, but Rosa was too dismayed to feel any compassion for him. God in heaven, he would think she was no better than her sister.
The housekeeper was waiting outside. She was carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches, and Liam let her into the room with controlled politeness.
‘This is Mrs Wilson,’ he said, his voice as cold as she’d heard it. ‘Enjoy your lunch. I’ll speak to you later.’
But in fact he hadn’t. When Mrs Wilson had come in to collect the tray again, she’d offered the news that Mr Jameson was resting. He’d apparently asked the housekeeper to provide a room for her, where she could freshen up and so on. And that was how Rosa came to be here, almost twenty-four hours after her arrival.
Not that she’d ever expected to stay the night. When she’d had as much of the tea and sandwiches as she could stomach, with her conscience making every mouthful an effort, she’d ventured downstairs with the tray, hoping to run into her host. But the only person she’d encountered was Sam Devlin, and he’d taken some pleasure in telling her that Mr Jameson was indisposed and wouldn’t be able to speak to her that afternoon after all.
Naturally, Rosa had blamed herself for Jameson’s condition, sure that her behaviour had contributed to his malaise. But when she’d asked how she could get back to the village, Devlin had reluctantly admitted that his employer didn’t want her to leave until he’d spoken to her again.
‘Mr Jameson suggests that you might like to spend a little time exploring the grounds of the castle,’ he’d said tersely. ‘I can come with you, if you like? Or, if not, you’re free to relax in the library. There are plenty of books to read, and Mrs Wilson can supply anything else you need.’
In the event, Rosa had agreed to go for a walk, though not with Sam Devlin. She’d a managed to convince the dour Scotsman that she wouldn’t get lost, and she’d spent a fairly pleasant hour wandering through gardens bright with late summer flowers, with only the dogs for company.
Back at the castle, and not knowing what else to do, she’d retreated to the library. Though not to read. She’d seen what manner of books were on the