Alien Wife. Anne Mather
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you ever touched a man before?’
‘Don’t be silly!’ She refused to argue with him, turning aside to fondle Paris’s muzzle. ‘You’re beautiful, aren’t you?’ she murmured to the animal, but Luke would not let it go.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understood you were not averse to my company,’ he snapped, and she turned reluctantly to face his annoyance, aware that she was in danger of losing all the ground she had made.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘You—startled me, that’s all.’
‘Did I?’ He sounded unconvinced. ‘So come on—show me you don’t object to touching me.’
Abby’s breathing had quickened. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Like this!’ He grasped her wrist and brought her hand up to his forearm. ‘Go ahead. Take my arm.’
Abby looked up at him a little wildly. ‘I—this is silly,’ she protested, but he was uncompromising, and with a sigh she allowed her fingers to close round the hard muscle.
It was a peculiar sensation, particularly as in grasping her wrist he had brought her closer to him than she had been even in the car. She could smell the heat of his body after the hour of exertion, and the clean male scent of him was disturbing. Her eyes were on a level with the opened buttons of his shirt, and when she dared to look up, she found he was looking down at her. At once, she was conscious of the unbuttoned neckline of her shirt, and the way his eyes left her face to linger on the shadowy hollow just visible between her breasts. She shivered uncontrollably when his free hand slid up over her hip to her waist, his fingers probing the bones of her rib cage. She could feel herself stiffening, but before he could become aware of her resistance, he uttered an oath of self-disgust and turned away, long strides putting some distance between them.
Weakness enveloped her—weakness, and a clammy moistness all over her body which owed nothing to the effort she had expended. Oh God, she thought unsteadily, she had almost ruined everything. If only she had more experience! If only every time he came near her she wasn’t so overwhelmingly aware of his strength and her immaturity. He had been married, and latterly his relationship with Ella left little to the imagination. How could she expect him to understand the fears she nurtured?
Running her hands over the seat of her pants, she saw to her relief that Mrs Jameson had emerged from the bungalow carrying a tray which Luke had gone to take from her. She watched him through averted eyes. Would it have been easier if he had been a less attractive man? Undoubtedly, from her point of view—although the prospect of sleeping with any man would be equally terrifying.
‘You’re looking rather pale, Abby.’
Mrs Jameson voiced an opinion which Abby had no doubt was an honest one. She felt pale—drained! A trembling facsimile of her normal self. But she knew Luke was looking at her, and with admirable nonchalance she indicated the overcast sky.
‘It’s this heavy atmosphere,’ she claimed, accepting the cup of coffee Mrs Jameson handed her. She took a quick sip. ‘Mmm, this is good.’
Mrs Jameson gave Luke a cup and then turned her attention back to Abby. ‘Are you sure, my dear? You haven’t got a headache, or anything? If you have, just say the word—–’
‘I haven’t! Honestly!’ Abby took a deep breath. ‘We’re making quite good progress, aren’t we?’
‘Very good progress,’ Mrs Jameson agreed, smiling at Luke. ‘With your help, Mr Jordan.’
‘Please—call me Luke.’ Luke was perfectly controlled, and Abby wondered if she had imagined his momentary weakness. But then he looked at her, and she knew she had not as the hot colour flamed up her throat to her cheeks.
‘You’re a writer—Luke.’ Pauline Jameson rested against the stable wall. ‘I do very little reading, I’m afraid, but I should like to read one of your books.’
‘I’ll send you one,’ Luke told her easily. ‘If you really mean it.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Pauline laughed. ‘And how do you know Father McGregor?’
Luke finished his coffee and replaced his cup on the tray. ‘I didn’t,’ he amended. ‘But I work with Scott Anderson.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Pauline’s expression grew speculative as it shifted to Abby. ‘So you must know Abby’s aunt—Ella Mackay.’
‘Yes,’ Luke spoke flatly, ‘I know her.’
And how well! thought Abby fiercely.
‘It’s strange.’ Pauline was thoughtful. ‘That two sisters should be so totally different from one another. Abby’s mother seldom if ever left the village, while Ella—–’
‘Oughtn’t we to be getting on, Mrs Jameson?’
Abby didn’t care that she was being rude, or that Luke was staring frowningly at her. She had no desire to get into conversation about her parents, wading into waters that were both treacherous and forbidden.
‘Of course.’ Pauline straightened away from the wall, regarding her sympathetically for a moment. ‘That’s all old history,, isn’t it, Abby? Now, where did I leave that broom?’
It was after twelve when Abby and Luke left the Jamesons’. Pauline had invited them to stay for lunch, but Abby insisted that Uncle Daniel would be expecting them back. This time Luke took the wheel, and there was a tension between them that had not been there before.
Daniel McGregor was surprised to see Luke at the table. He glanced round at Mrs Tully bringing in a tureen of Scotch broth and exclaimed: ‘I thought you were having a picnic lunch today, Luke.’
Luke gave a faint smile. ‘I decided to wait until Abby could accompany me,’ he remarked levelly. ‘I took her over to the Jamesons’ myself.’
‘Indeed?’ Abby sensed that her uncle was not best pleased. ‘And where do you plan to go this afternoon?’
‘Where would you suggest?’
Daniel shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Well, Keilaig is nearest, I suppose.’
‘Keilaig?’ Luke frowned.
‘There’s an old castle there,’ put in Abby, needing to dispel the strained atmosphere between them. ‘It’s not much more than a ruin now, but it gives a magnificent view over Loch Keil.’
‘You know it well,’ said Luke. ‘Are you sure you still want to come?’
Abby looked down at her plate. ‘I should like to,’ she answered quietly, and sensed that he was no more pleased with her than her uncle.
Luke had changed back into his former attire before lunch, and after the meal was over, Abby hurried upstairs to put on a fresh shirt. She didn’t have a lot of clothes and her jeans would have to do, but at least she could wear a different top. Deciding it might be cold at Keilaig, she wore a somewhat faded purple sweater with a roll neck, which nevertheless was warm and serviceable. Its ribbed lines drew attention to her swelling breasts, and she thought impatiently that it was really too small for her now. Still, her windcheater hid its more obvious limitations.
Mrs Tully encountered her in the hall. ‘Mr Jordan said to tell you he’s waiting in the car,’ she said half disapprovingly. Then: ‘Ach, I don’t know what the Father’s thinking of—letting you go off with a man like that!’ jerking her thumb towards the door.
Abby made an indignant sound. ‘I’m not a child, Mrs Tully. I can go out with whoever I like.’
‘Well, I’d have thought after what your mother suffered, poor thing, and him a friend of your aunt—–’
Abby turned towards the door. ‘I’ll see you later, Mrs Tully.’
‘Well, you watch yourself, miss, that’s what I say,’ Mrs Tully was saying