Fugitive Wife Page 10

  She supposed that she must have cried herself to sleep, because the next thing she remembered was a confusion of voices and torches and a dog thrusting its wet nose into her hand. Dazedly she looked up into a face that was vaguely familiar. After a moment she realised it was the farmer whose land bordered the cottage.

  ‘Now then, lass, what’s to do?’ His voice was genial enough, but she sensed a puzzled note as well.

  ‘Could you not find your way down again?’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Masters !’ Briony scrambled to her feet, aware of her wan, bedraggled appearance. ‘I― I’m sorry. Have you been looking for me?’ She glanced round the small group confronting her, recognising two of the men who worked on the farm, and another whose identity she was not aware of.

  ‘It weren’t much of a search,’ Mr. Masters assured her. ‘just as well.’ He gave a slight guffaw. ‘You’ve left that man of yours in a right state. Wanted to come with us, he did, but I told him he was best to stay where he was and get the bed warm for you.’ He guffawed again, and the men with him joined in. Briony felt her cheeks flaming.

  ‘Get lost, did you?’ Mr. Masters sent her a narrow look as they began to make their way down the fellside.

  Briony noticed that the mist had pretty well cleared, and that the sky above was speckled with stars. ‘Daft sort of weather for walking in. What were you thinking of?’

  Briony forced a smile. ‘I just― felt like some air.’ she answered stiltedly. ‘1― I didn’t realise the mist was so bad.’

  Mr. Masters shrugged as if her behaviour was beyond him. ‘Happen you took a nasty chance.’ he observed unanswerably.

  It was almost like being taken back in custody, she thought hysterically, as they approached the cottage.

  Logan was waiting at the back door, and his expression was not encouraging. Briony went past him, not meeting his gaze, and walked through into the living room, crouching down on the rug and stretching her freezing hands out to the flickering flames in the hearth. She could hear Logan talking to the men in the kitchen, but their voices were pitched too low for her to catch the words.

  She guessed Logan was thanking them, and presently she heard a burst of rather ribald laughter and a chorus of goodnights. Then the back door slammed.

  She waited, unable to move, every nerve in her body stretched to screaming point.

  Eventually Logan came into the room. He moved as if he was intensely weary and his expression was unreadable.

  He was carrying a tray which held a steaming bowl, some bread and a spoon.

  ‘Soup,’ he said briefly, setting the tray down on the table.

  ‘Logan—’ she began apprehensively, sitting back on her heels.

  ‘Eat first.’ His voice and eyes were implacable as he gestured her towards the table. ‘The time for talking comes later.’

  The soup was out of a tin, but it warmed her all the way down to her toes, even though afterwards she could not remember what flavour it had been. She had to force the last few spoonfuls past the tight knot of nervousness in her throat. It seemed terribly important for some reason that she should finish every drop.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said when she had finished. ‘That was― delicious.’

  ‘Although far from what I had in mind.’ he returned with equal courtesy. ‘But then very little has been, so far.’ He got up from his chair and came towards her, and she could not prevent herself from flinching away from him.

  He paused and smiled grimly. ‘Don’t look so scared, Briony. I’m not going to touch you. I wouldn’t trust myself for one thing, and for another, I wouldn’t want to drive you into a second flight on our wedding night. I’m sure our neighbours are already wondering what sadistic perversions I’ve been threatening you with to drive you out on to the fells for refuge. A reputation as a Bluebeard,or worse isn’t quite what I’d bargained for on our honeymoon, I must confess.’

  ‘But it wasn’t like that,’ she began quickly.

  ‘Wasn’t it? Then suppose you tell me how it was?’

  She could feel the anger which blazed in him, though he had it well under control. ‘Or can the explanation be found in that pile of garbage in the other room?’

  ‘You found the cuttings,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Wasn’t I intended to? What I’d like to know is how they got there.’

  ‘She brought them― Mrs Chapman.’

  ‘Marina Chapman?’ His tone conveyed total incredulity. ‘You’re trying to tell me that she’s come out of tax exile in Jersey and travelled all the way to Yorkshire to deliver a pile of yellowing history to you? Oh, come off it, Briony!’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ Briony made a, helpless gesture. ‘She just arrived. I didn’t know who she was until she introduced herself. But I would have recognised her from her photographs anyway.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that,’ he said tautly. ‘Marina always had the gift of looking after herself, physically and in every other way. But what did she say to you that could make you run off like that? My God, you could have died of pneumonia― or exposure― up there! ‘

  ‘But I didn’t die, I’m very much alive. It’s her husband, Harry Chapman, who’s dead. That’s what she came to tell me about, Logan. She came to tell me about her husband and how he died, and the part you played in it.’

  ‘The part― I played?’ His brows rose as he stared down at her, and she saw his jaw tighten. ‘I’m beginning to see. You read the inquest reports, did you? Absorbed the coroner’s remarks about the gutter press and innocent men?’ He swore viciously. ‘There wasn’t a soul in that courtroom, the coroner included, who didn’t know that the whole investigation we’d mounted into Chapman’s affairs had gone to the Director of Public Prosecutions. His arrest was imminent, and his conviction was a certainty,so he shot himself.’

  ‘But his wife said he was innocent.’ she argued. ‘She said he’d never defrauded anyone and .. .’

  ‘I suppose he can be acquitted of that, technically at least. But innocent?’ Logan shook his head. ‘Let me tell you about Chapman, my sweet. He was a small-time builder with delusions of grandeur when he began. When he died, he was a wealthy man owning a number of companies and with a controlling interest in others. There were samples of his― handiwork as a builder all over the surrounding counties, and he was preparing to go country-wide. He had to be stopped.’

  ‘Because he was a bad builder?’ she asked bitterly.

  ‘Because he was totally corrupt.’ She had never heard such contempt in anyone’s voice. ‘Chapman would never have been awarded a contract to build an outside privy if he’d simply tendered in open competition ,so he devised his own method. He started in a small way by passing graft to a few poorly paid officials on local councils and gradually worked his way up until he’d bought chairmen of Planning committees, County surveyors― the lot.’ His mouth was hard. ‘I saw some of the monstrosities he put up. An old people’s home where the foundations hadn’t been properly laid-flats where you could get two fingers in the gaps round the window frames, houses where the bedrooms were so damp that there was actually fungus growing on the walls. No one could understand why he got so many contracts when people were saying openly he was nothing better than a jerry-builder, so my editor who happened to have the novel theory that human beings deserve decent places to live in decided to take a closer interest in his activities.

  We turned over a few stones, and all kinds of interesting things came squirming out into the light of day. Eventually someone who’d been on the take from Chapman and was now scared stiff of the consequences decided to talk to us― and to the police, incidentally, but that came later. But Chapman had taken his precautions. He’d salted away the money in his wife’s name― oh, his grieving widow knew exactly what he’d been up to all along― and bought her a tax haven in Jersey. All he had to do was stand trial and serve his sentence, along with all the other poor devils he’d drawn into his net, but he didn’t have the guts for that.’

  His voice sank
almost to a whisper. ‘So will you please tell me now what there is in the Harry Chapman story to make you run away from me― because that’s what you did, wasn’t it. Briony― even if not for the salacious reasons that your gallant rescue party have no doubt dreamed up by now?’

  ‘She said you’d murdered him. She said you were a jackal― that you’d printed lies about him― that he was an innocent man.’

  ‘And you were so ready to believe her that you couldn’t even wait to ask if it was true.’ He laughed softly and the sound of it seemed to flay her skin like a whip. ‘First rule of journalism, sweet wife― always get a quote from the other side before you print, even if it’s “no comment.’”

  She wrapped her arms round her midriff in an unconscious gesture of defence. ‘Logan, I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Sorry?’ he interrupted violently. ‘You’re supposed to be in love with me― for better for worse, the whole bit, remember? Yet we’ve only been married a couple of hours when you run out on me on the say-so of a complete stranger― and then you have the nerve to say you’re sorry! ’

  ‘I don’t know what you expect me to say.’ All the colour had drained ‘from her face during his tirade.

  ‘Exactly what you did say, I suppose. I’d forgotten that you’re your father’s daughter, Briony. Daddy’s brainwashing has really worked, hasn’t it? Gutter press―jackal―persecutor of the innocent. That’s why you were so ready to lap up Marina Chapman’s farrago of nonsense―because you half-believed it already. Because in spite of anything you may have said in the past, you really haven’t the slightest faith in my integrity at all.’ She closed her eyes. She did not dare to speak-to defend herself against what she knew was the truth of his allegations. She could have defended him, and shown Marina Chapman the door, but she had not done so. She had stayed and listened and wondered, then believed and run away.

  He said flatly, ‘I told you that there’d been things in my life that I hadn’t enjoyed doing. And I wondered if you could accept that. Well, now we both know the answer to that, don’t we?’

  ‘I really am sorry.’ She hardly dared lift her eyes to his face. ‘It was just such a shock―her arriving like that, and the things she said.’

  ‘Oh, the timing was perfect, I grant you.’ His mouth twisted satirically. ‘The only thing she couldn’t gauge was your reaction, and even that worked out just right.’

  He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Good for Marina! She’s waited a long time for her revenge, and travelled a long way for it. Your co-operation must have delighted her.’

  Briony said; ‘What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I think you’ve said and done enough.’ He gave her a level glance. ‘We’ll decide in the morning what to do. In the meantime, you’d better get some rest―you look completely bushed.’ He saw the startled expression on her face, the widening of her eyes, and lifted his brows interrogatively. ‘What’s the matter.’

  ‘What must I do―grovel?’ she demanded defiantly, a flicker of resentment beginning to burn at his cool dismissal of her.

  His aquamarine eyes assumed an enigmatic expression. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, we’ll talk in the morning. Goodnight, Briony.’

  Briony gasped. Her first assumption was quite correct. Logan was just―dismissing her, and in a particularly humiliating manner. The undoubted implication in his words was that she was to go to bed alone, and that he had no intention of joining her later.

  Her voice quivered a little as she said, ‘I don’t feel like going to bed. I think we should talk now. I―I made an error of judgment, and I’m sorty. I’ve admitted as much. But you’re treating me as if I’m guilty of some crime, and I won’t have it.’

  ‘I think that to dash off into the mist and stay away for hours because you’ve suddenly decided that your husband is a murderer ranks as slightly more than an error of judgment,’ Logan said grimly. ‘However, go on, Briony. Apparently it’s your turn to feel aggrieved, so let’s have the whole thing out in the open.’

  She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘This is―supposed to be our wedding night,’ she began.

  ‘The significance of the occasion hasn’t been exactly lost on me―nor on a number of people ,I suspect. Please continue.’

  She shrugged helplessly. ‘You know what I’m trying to say.’

  ‘I think so. You’ve deduced from my remarks that I have no intention of sleeping with you tonight. Well your deduction is correct.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘My God, Briony !’ He gave her a weary look. ‘Do I really have to spell it out to you? Let’s just say that the events of the last few hours have―cooled my ardour where you are concerned. Marriage isn’t just going to bed―it’s the building of a relationship which has to be founded on trust, and that’s what I was fool enough to believe we could do. Hellfire, if I’d wanted just to take you to bed, I could have done so weeks ago, and without marriage. Did it never occur to you to ask why I didn’t take what you were so patently ready to give me?’

  Her cheeks were burning and she did not know where to look. ‘No.’ she said chokingly. ‘But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘Let me remind you sweetheart that you wanted this confrontation not me.’ he gritted. ‘I left you untouched because I didn’t want to take advantage of you or rush you into something that you weren’t ready for. Oh, I don’t mean physically. You have a beautiful nubile body and nothing would stop me wanting you. But I felt that you were unready mentally and emotionally and God knows you’ve proved me right. It seems to me that to try and carry on with a conventional honeymoon in the circumstances would be a farce. Besides, although I’ve tried hard to control it, I’m bloody angry with you, and I don’t want to take you in anger.’

  ‘Fleet Street’s answer to Sir Galahad. Is that your new image? You―hypocrite!’

  The darkening of his face should have been warning enough, but she went recklessly on. ‘It’s a side to your nature the Chapmans wouldn’t recognise―or Hal Mackenzie for that matter. You’re a man who knows how to put the pressure on and keep it there―remember? All right, so I was shocked to hear the lengths you were prepared to go to maintain that pressure, but I think that’s a fairly normal reaction under the circumstances, and I refuse to be treated like some idiot child bride just because…’

  The words faltered and ran dry as she read his face.

  ‘So how do you want to be treated?’ He asked the question quite softly. but there was a note in his voice which made her blood run cold. ‘Like a bride, but not a child is that it? Well. I’ll accommodate you, sweetheart’―he made the endearment sound like an obscenity ― ‘in fact I promise you’ll leave childhood behind you for ever. But just remember that you asked for it.’ He came towards her, and she realised too late just what she had invited by her display of petulance. She jumped up and tried to dash past him towards the kitchen, but he caught her quite easily by the arm, his fingers bruising her flesh as he dragged her towards him.

  ‘You’re running nowhere else tonight, my dear wife.’ he said almost dispassionately.

  ‘Logan. please don’t!’ She beat at his chest with clenched fists as his arms closed round her. ‘I didn’t mean .. .’

  ‘Oh, you meant it.’ he said. ‘Just as I mean this.’ His mouth was savage on hers. bruising the softness of her lips making her taste the salt of her own blood. She moaned a little, twisting her head. trying to escape the harsh pressure, but his hands came up, twisting into her hair, forcing her brutally to stand still arid submit to his demands. When he released her her legs were shaking so much she felt as if she was going to collapse, and her protest was barely audible as he swung her up into his arms and started towards the door with her.

  They were climbing the stairs now, and she began to struggle in his arms, her sense of panic overwhelming her. ‘Pleases―Logan!’

  He snarled in reply, turning her head towards him so that her face was muffled in the thin dark wool of the sweater he was wear
ing. She couldn’t see, she could hardly breathe, but with every nerve in her body she was aware of the darkness in him, the violence.

  After the shadows of the staircase the bedroom seemed suddenly glaringly light, and agonisingly small.

  Briony stood in the middle of it, feeling like a trapped animal, watching Logan lock the door and put the key in his pocket.

  ‘There’s the bed you’re so anxious to share with me, my sweet.’ There was no softening in his face as he looked at her. He was a stranger, implacable and terrifying.

  ‘And you won’t need this.’ He picked up the nightdress she had laid on it a lifetime before and tore it from bodice to hem, before dropping it on the floor behind him. ‘Now take your clothes off.’ he said almost gently.

  ‘Unless you want the same thing to happen to them.’ Her mouth was dry and her hands clumsy as she obeyed him. She found she was folding each article of clothing neatly as she removed it, and placing it on the waiting chair as if she was still a child at boarding school.