The Rebel and the Heiress. Michelle Douglas
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My mother and father were so angry. And then the policeman frightened me so much I…I eventually just told them what they wanted to hear. It was cowardly of me and I’m truly sorry if that episode caused a lot of trouble for you.’
It’d caused trouble all right. It was the first time he’d come to the police’s attention. It hadn’t been the last time he’d been labelled a thief, liar and troublemaker by them, though.
They’d just been two kids exchanging treasures and trying to forge a connection. Her father, the police and his background had all conspired to blow it out of proportion.
But none of it had been Nell’s fault and he’d always known that. ‘Don’t sweat it, Princess.’ He used the nickname to remind himself of all the differences between them, to reinforce them.
She sat back, her chin tilted at that unconsciously noble angle that made him want to smile. ‘Don’t worry. I was let off with a caution, but I didn’t know the police had questioned you too.’ The poor kid had probably been terrified. He had been.
She nodded to the letter balled in his hand. ‘But John hasn’t hassled you about any of that?’
He shook his head and her shoulders slumped in relief. She straightened again a moment later. ‘So…do you have any questions?’
She looked as puzzled and bewildered as he felt. He wondered if she was counting down the minutes until this interview ended. Did she find it awkward and wrong for him to be sitting across the table from her? Or did it feel weirdly comfortable?
He shook off the thought and set the crumpled letter on the table and did what he could to smooth it out.
‘I won’t beat around the bush,’ he read, ‘but you might as well know that I’m your father.’
Nell’s mug wobbled back to the table. She stared at him. Her mouth opened and closed. ‘But he chased you away.’ And then her eyes filled.
Rick knew then that she’d had no notion of what John’s letter contained.
He glanced back at the letter and continued reading. ‘I may be better served taking this knowledge to the grave as it’s brought me no joy. I don’t expect it to bring you any either.’
Nell’s intake of breath reverberated in the silence.
‘I have no faith in you.’
Her hands slapped to the table.
‘But you might as well know you have a sibling.’
She practically leapt out of her chair. ‘Who?’ she demanded, and then forced herself back down into her seat. ‘Really?’ She frowned. ‘Older or younger?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not going to tell you who it is. If it matters to you then you’ll have to prove it.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘But that’s… How…how can he be so hard and cold? He’s supposed to have looked after you and…’ She swallowed and sat back again. ‘Sorry.’ She smiled, a weak thing that did nothing to hide her turmoil. She made a zipping motion across her mouth.
Rick shrugged. ‘He ends by simply signing it John Cox.’
She shook herself, frowned. ‘I know the questions belong to you, but, Rick, I have no idea how to answer any of them. I haven’t a clue who your sibling could be. I had no idea John was your father. I’ve never seen him with either a woman or a child. I—’
He handed the letter to her. He watched her face as she read the remaining lines. It darkened, which gladdened his heart.
And then it went blank. Rick eased back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Nell ignored the first lines John addressed to her in the letter. Miss Nell, if you think Rick is in any way redeemable and you can find it in yourself to help him… She snorted. What kind of nonsense was that? What kind of father just turned his back on his child? She thought about her own father with all of his demands and bit back a sigh.
‘You’ll find a clue where the marigolds grow.’ She turned the letter over, but there was nothing written on the back.
‘Any idea what that might mean?’ Rick asked, slouching back in his chair as if they were discussing nothing more interesting than the weather.
She opened her mouth. She closed it again and scratched her head. ‘My best guess is that, as he was a gardener and this is where he gardened, it refers to a garden bed somewhere on the estate, a garden bed where he grew marigolds, but…’
‘But?’
Rick sounded bored. She glanced at him, tried to read his face, but couldn’t. She lifted one shoulder. ‘The thing is, I don’t recall John ever growing marigolds. Apparently my mother didn’t like them.’
She stabbed a finger into the Passion Fruit Delight cupcake, glowering at it. ‘Why couldn’t he have just told you who your sibling is?’ She stabbed it again. ‘Why couldn’t he have told you the truth from the start and been a proper father to you?’ Stab. Stab. ‘I’d never have guessed any of this in a million years and—’
She pulled herself up and collected herself. None of this was helping. She wiped her finger on a napkin. ‘Okay, so what else could marigold mean?’
Rick picked up the Strawberries and Cream cupcake and pushed nearly half of it into his mouth. She watched, mesmerised, at the way his lips closed around it, at the appreciation that lit his eyes and the way his mouth worked, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed…the way his tongue flicked out to seize a crumb from the corner of his mouth.
She wrenched her gaze back. ‘It could be a girl’s name.’ Her voice came out strangled.
‘Do you know a Marigold or two?’
The words came out lazy and barely interested. Didn’t he care? She tried to focus on the question he asked rather than the ones pounding through her. She frowned, thought hard and eventually shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t even think I know any Marys.’ She leapt up, seized her address book from the sideboard drawer and flicked through it…and then searched the list of contacts in her mobile phone. Nothing.
She stood. ‘Okay, maybe there’s marigold wallpaper somewhere in the house or…or moulding in the shape of a marigold…or an ornament or a painting or—’
‘Princess, you’ve lived here your whole life. Do you really need to go through this mausoleum room by room to know whether it has marigold wallpaper?’
No, of course not. She sat. She knew every room intimately. She could remember what it looked like ten years ago as if it were only yesterday. There hadn’t been any marigold paintings on any of the walls. There’d been no marigold wallpaper or bedspreads or curtains. No marigolds. Anywhere.
She glanced at Rick again. She could deal with his devil-may-care teasing and that tough-guy swagger. In fact, those things gave her a bit of a thrill. Considering she didn’t get too many thrills, she’d take them where she could. She could even deal with the cold, hard wall he retreated behind. She could relate to it, even if she did feel he was judging her behind it and finding her lacking. But this… This nothingness hidden behind mockery and indifference. She was having no part of it.
She folded her arms. ‘Don’t you care?’
‘Why should I?’ He licked his fingers clean.
‘Because…’
‘What did he ever do for me?’
‘Not about