Outsider (17 page)

If peace was going to be declared, there could be no better setting for it, she

thought with a little sigh.

Eliot returned about an hour later. Natalie had been dozing lightly, but she

woke instantly as the door opened, and lay tense and tingling as he moved

quietly round the room. She was aware of him using the bathroom, of the

rustle of his clothes as he removed them, and the shift of the mattress as he

came to lie beside her.

Suddenly that night when he had driven her slowly and wildly insane in his

arms seemed light years away, if it had ever happened at all. Far more real

were the nights of painful, nerve-wrenching submission to Tony.

Trembling, she thought despairingly, Oh, don't let it be like that again. I

couldn't bear it...

His hand touched the curve of her shoulder, absorbed the rigidity and the

trembling, and was instantly withdrawn.

He gave a brief, harsh sigh, and turned away from her. His voice was bitter

as it reached her. 'Stop shaking, Natalie, and get some sleep.'

She turned towards him, her hands seeking him blindly across the expanse

of bed which separated them. 'Eliot—I...'

'No,' he said. 'No, Natalie. You've made your point. Now I'll make mine.

This time I want you to leave me alone.'

His back was turned uncompromisingly towards her. She lay staring into the

darkness, stunned, bewildered, and lonelier than she'd ever been in her life.

THEY drove back to Wintersgarth early the following day. At breakfast,

Eliot said bitingly, 'I see no point in extending our stay here, do you?'

Natalie shook her head, looking wretchedly down at her plate.

There was a car parked in the yard as Eliot drove under the arch and stopped

near the garages, a Rolls-Royce with a chauffeur seated in the front.

'We have visitors, it seems,' Eliot said laconically, switching off the engine.

'Was anyone expected today?'

'No.' Natalie tried to visualise the diary. Sunday was the day most of their

owners made the trip to the stables to see their high-bred darlings. Terence

Strang came more often, but he invariably drove himself.

'Well, no doubt Grantham is dealing with them.' Eliot lifted the cases out of

the back and carried them up to the flat, Natalie following.

He put the baggage down in the bedroom and looked at her. He said, 'I'll use

the room next to the bathroom—there's a single bed in there. I'm sure I can

count on you to make it up for me. You've had so much practice, after all.'

Colour burned along her cheekbones. She said, 'Eliot, listen to me, please...'

'I should have listened to you before,' he said curtly, cutting across her

faltering words. 'The message was coming over loud and clear, but I chose to

ignore it.' His mouth twisted. 'To think I accused you of being self-

133centred! I had no right to coerce you into this marriage, or this baby. But

I was arrogant enough—obsessed enough...' He made an impatient gesture.

'Oh, what the hell does it matter? The point is we've made a mistake, but it

needn't ruin both our lives. I'd prefer you to live under my roof until the child

is born, but after that we can—rethink the situation.'

Natalie hugged her arms across her body. The flat was warm, but she had

never felt colder in her life. Tony's rejection of her had been painful, but this

was agony, every word a laceration.

She tried to say something, to drag some words together from the wound in

her mind, but they wouldn't come. Nothing—nothing made any sense.

Then from the foot of the stairs, Wes's voice shouted, 'Are you there, boss?'

Eliot swung round and went out of the bedroom. 'Yes, what is it? Is

something wrong?'

There was a grin in Wes's tone. 'I'd say that depends how you look at it.

There's a lady here—Miss Oriel Prince, the actress. She's come to see her

horses, seemingly, but she keeps asking for you. Mr Grantham's taken her up

to the house for a drink, to get her out of the way. There's been no work done

since she got here—those daft devils have been standing round gob-struck!'

Eliot said something sharp and violent under his breath. 'All right, I'll come

now,' he called. He looked back at Natalie. 'I thought she was due in two

days' time—or did you get the message wrong?'

Natalie straightened her shoulders, stung at the rebuke in his voice. 'No, I

didn't,' she returned crisply. 'The arrangement was made by someone else on

Miss Prince's behalf. The liaison must have gone wrong at that end.'

He made an impatient sound and plunged off downstairs, leaving Natalie

alone in the golden room.

Slowly she unpacked and put her things away, then changed into cord jeans

and a sweater. She supposed she had better go down to the office, where

Beattie had been nobly holding the fort during her absence, but she lingered,

wandering round the flat, at once so familiar and so strange, and trying to

imagine what it would be like living there with Eliot, but apart from him in

any real sense.

To all intents and purposes she'd been let off the hook—so why wasn't she

rejoicing? All she could think of was that when Eliot had turned away from

her the previous night, it was as if all the warmth and safety the world held

had abandoned her too.

She shook her head in self-derision. I'm crazy, she thought. It's my hormones

in uproar because of the baby, that's all.

She was still sitting staring into space half an hour later, when she heard

footsteps and voices coming up the stairs. A woman's laughter, she thought

in disbelief, staring down in dismay at the elderly jeans.

Oriel Prince came into the room on a gust of perfume. She was of medium

height, but the upswept black hair and the delicate spiky heels she wore

made her seem taller. She was wrapped in furs which even Natalie's

inexperienced eye could see were sables. Her skin was flawless like

porcelain, her violet eyes were dark-fringed and luminous, and her smile

was radiant, although some of the radiance dimmed a little when she saw

Natalie.

She stopped, and said, 'Oh,' and it was a question for Eliot who came into the

room behind her.

He said quietly, 'Oriel, I don't think you've met my wife, Natalie.'

'Your wife?' Oriel Prince repeated the words as if they'd been said in some

alien language. 'But, Eliot darling, no one told me you were married!'

'It happened only recently.'

'Then you should have invited me to the wedding,' the actress said

reproachfully.

'It was a very quiet affair.'

'Yes.' There was a multitude of meanings in that simple monosyllable. Oriel

Prince smiled brilliantly. 'Well, I wondered what charm the provinces could

possibly have for you, darling, and now I know. She's a sweet child, and

we're going to be great friends, I'm sure of it.'

And pigs will grow wings and fly, Natalie thought detachedly.

She said, 'Would you like some coffee, Miss Prince?'

'I'd adore some.' Oriel Prince shrugged off the sables to reveal a woollen

sheath dress the same colour as her eyes, clinging to every curve and contour

of a perfect figure. 'And call me Oriel, won't you? Your husband and I are

such very old friends, after all.'

She might as well have said 'lovers', Natalie thought. The implication was

there, direct and unadorned in the casual words. A barb to pierce her, to tear

and rend her to the heart, and aimed with deliberate malice. Clearly, the

romance with the Arab dignitary was at an end, and the beautiful Oriel had

expected to find Eliot single and available.

She said politely, 'I'll go and see about that coffee.'

The first thing she would have to do was find it, she thought, giving a

despairing look round the immaculate kitchen. She began opening

cupboards at random, her mind elsewhere, whirling, seething.

She found some coffee, and a filter machine, but no sign of any filter papers.

She hunted around while the kettle boiled, then realised with a sigh that she

would have to ask Eliot where they were. She'd hoped to avoid that. She

didn't want Oriel Prince to know how much a stranger she was in her

environment.

She went down the passage to the sitting-room. The door was standing ajar,

and she pushed it open, in time to hear Oriel Prince say breathily, 'Eliot, you

fool!'

Paralysed, Natalie watched as she moved forward into his arms, watched the

sinuous curve of her body as she pressed against him in blatant invitation,

saw her arms go round his neck and draw him down to her kiss.

She took a step backwards, then another, her fist pressed against her mouth.

Then she turned and went swiftly and silently back to the kitchen, and sank

down on to one of the chairs.

From a distance, she could hear someone moaning softly, and realised with a

shock that it was herself. Pain seized her, lashed her, tore at her. It was

impossible to hurt so much and remain whole—remain sane.

She thought, The baby. I'm losing the baby. And it's all I have of him.

There was nausea, hot and bitter in her throat, and she fought it. Fought the

clenched fist in the pit of her stomach, and the searing, scalding tears.

With a jerk, the world steadied. The inner agony receded to a manageable

distance, making her aware that it wasn't physical in origin, letting her see it

for what it shamefully was—jealousy.

She looked blankly across the room.

'All this time,' she whispered silently. 'All this time, I've been falling in love

with him, and I never realised—not until this moment. I had to see him with

another woman to know...'

She shook her head in bewilderment and disbelief. It couldn't be true, she

tried to argue with herself. Eliot was the outsider, who had turned her world

upside down. She had resented him from the moment he had arrived at

Wintersgarth. Apart from that one incredible, disastrous night, she'd fought

him unceasingly.

Or had she really been fighting herself?

She'd told herself so many times that she hated him, loathed his devastating

authority with the horses which even her own father had never matched,

disliked the teasing mockery with which he'd answered her overt

resentment, was revolted by the physical attraction towards her he had made

no attempt to disguise.

And yet, at the same time, she'd never felt more stimulated—more alive. Her

reaction to the incident with Michelle Laidlaw should have warned her to

examine her motives, her emotions more closely. Instead, she had ignored

the danger signals and thrown herself recklessly into his arms.

No, she thought, chewing at her thumbnail, it hadn't been the champagne. It

had been the sheer passionate, overwhelming need to touch and be touched,

know and be known by the man she loved.

A man who had never shown her more than a transient desire. Who had

married her solely to protect his unborn child.

She got up wearily, put cups and saucers on a tray, with cream and sugar,

and made coffee from a jar of instant granules.

There was no danger of them not hearing her coming this time, she thought,

as she carried the rattling tray along the passage. She almost knocked at the

door before entering—but not quite.

Oriel was sitting on one of the sofas, legs elegantly and revealingly crossed,

while Eliot was standing in front of the newly lit fire, one arm resting lightly

on the mantelpiece. The atmosphere, Natalie thought tautly, could well be

described as—loaded.

She put the tray down. 'Sorry for the delay.' She looked at Eliot. 'We seem to

have run out of filter papers, darling.'

'Oh, it really doesn't matter,' Oriel broke in sweetly. 'I'm sure it will be

delicious anyway. And Eliot and I haven't noticed the passage of time at

all—we had so much to catch up on.'

Natalie wondered what would happen if she took the entire tray and upended

its contents in Miss Prince's violet lap. Her pulses throbbed with the effort to

appear calm, and unsuspecting.

Oriel turned the dazzle of her smile towards Eliot. 'I suppose I'll have to

forgive you, darling, for bringing my sweethearts to this backwater. They

seem to be in excellent condition. That rather surly girl who sees to them

seems to know her job.'

'She's an excellent worker in every way,' Natalie said briefly. And a shrewd

judge of character, she added silently.

Oriel bestowed a vague look at her, as if surprised to hear her speak, and

switched her attention back to Eliot, her voice intimately lowered. 'I had a

stopover in Rome, to do some shopping, and I dined with the Contessa. She

said to tell you that colt Genista is turning out just as you said—and why

didn't you go and work for her, if you wanted to train horses.' She turned to

Natalie. 'Your clever husband could have chosen any stables in Europe, I do

believe. And he winds up here, working for that extraordinary man! Very