Bride Required Page 10

  ‘Who’s that?’ Edward asked quickly.

  Dee almost relished saying, ‘My fiancé.’

  ‘What?’ His shock was evident. ‘He can’t be.’

  Dee knew what he meant. The man climbing the stairs had an air of maturity and confidence that made an infatuation with a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl seem highly unlikely.

  ‘Think he’s too old, do you?’ The irony in her voice couldn’t be missed.

  Baxter arrived at the top of the stairs, aware of the other man’s scrutiny. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  ‘No,’ Dee said with uncompromising rudeness.

  He was left to introduce himself. ‘Baxter Ross… You must be Dee’s stepfather.’

  ‘Yes, Edward Litton.’ Edward briefly took the hand offered to him. ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage on me, Mr Ross.’

  It was Dee who corrected, ‘Dr Ross.’

  Baxter slid her a questioning look.

  ‘You’re a GP,’ Edward concluded, in his I’m-a-senior-consultant manner.

  ‘Actually, no, he’s something terribly important in the Red Cross in Africa,’ Dee invented liberally. ‘Or at least he was. He’s about to switch to a top research post in tropical medicine.’

  Baxter raised a brow in Dee’s direction, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Impressive,’ Edward commented briefly. ‘I prefer hands-on medicine myself. Much more rewarding.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ Dee agreed deceptively. ‘How much is it these days for varicose veins? A couple of grand?’

  Edward’s face constricted before he forced a laugh. ‘I’m afraid Deborah can have quite a sharp sense of humour.’

  ‘So I’ve discovered,’ Baxter concurred.

  ‘Though you can’t always take too seriously what she says,’ Edward qualified.

  Dee saw immediately what he was doing—covering his back, should she have confessed all.

  This time Baxter Ross remained silent, his eyes narrowed slightly in her stepfather’s direction. Dee wondered what he was thinking.

  Edward dropped his confiding air as he went on to say, ‘For instance, she’s just told me the two of you are engaged. I assume that’s a joke.’

  Baxter’s eyes switched back to Dee. Her face was mute with appeal.

  ‘Really, why do you assume that?’ His answer gave little away.

  ‘Well, naturally…you are aware Deborah’s only seventeen?’ Edward took the moral high ground.

  The hypocrisy of it left Dee speechless.

  Baxter Ross didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘In law it certainly is,’ Edward blustered. ‘You need parental permission to marry anyone under the age of eighteen.’

  ‘So what?’ Dee shrugged. ‘Mum will give it. She’d let me marry Jack the Ripper if it meant an easy life.’

  ‘Your mother will do what I advise,’ Edward claimed with some confidence. ‘And, no offence to you, Dr Ross, but we’d have to know you much better before we could contemplate a man so much older marrying our daughter. I’m sure you understand.’

  Baxter nodded. ‘I’m beginning to.’

  ‘Good.’ Dee’s stepfather thought he’d won this round.

  Dee wasn’t so sure. She’d learned not to underestimate Baxter Ross.

  ‘So why don’t we go down to my study and discuss this matter?’ Edward suggested in almost cordial tones. ‘There could be things, after all, that you’d like to know about us or Deborah,’ he added with a smile.

  Baxter smiled back, and Dee’s heart dropped. Five minutes of Edward playing concerned stepfather with troubled daughter and Baxter would be in his car and away.

  But, no, Baxter Ross seemed to be playing his own game as he glanced at his watch and said, ‘I’m afraid we’re running late. Some other time, maybe… Dee, are you ready?’

  Dee stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then curbed an impulse to hug him. ‘I’ve collected some stuff in the bedroom I’d like to take.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’ He walked past Edward, treating him like furniture, and went into the room Dee indicated.

  Edward looked apoplectic. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  ‘Sir Galahad.’ Dee felt a little high and frivolous. ‘And, if I were you, I wouldn’t get in his way.’

  Edward took this as a physical threat, which Dee had fairly much intended, and, with an impotent look of anger, he hurried downstairs.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Baxter asked when he rejoined her on the landing.

  ‘Nothing!’ Dee snapped rather too fiercely.

  He raised a brow, but let it go for now, and fell in by her side as she began limping back down to the hall.

  They were at the front door when Edward reappeared with her mother in tow.

  ‘Tell her, Barbara,’ Edward commanded. ‘Tell her she can’t possibly disappear again, especially with some man old enough to be her father.’

  All eyes turned to Barbara Litton. She was visibly nervous.

  ‘Darling, Edward says if you come back everything will be fine,’ she finally relayed.

  Dee didn’t know whether to despise or pity her mother.

  ‘You don’t really believe that, do you, Mother?’ She caught and held her mother’s eyes, and willed her to face up to the truth.

  ‘I—I…’

  ‘Barbara!’

  Her stepfather’s hectoring tone was insistent, but, for once, it had the opposite effect.

  Slowly her mother shook her head from side to side, and, having found courage from somewhere, appealed to Baxter, ‘You will look after her, won’t you?’

  Dee glanced sideways in time to see Baxter nod his head with a gravity that could almost have been real.

  It certainly deceived her mother, because the briefest smile crossed her face before she drifted off—both mentally and physically—towards the living room.

  Edward cursed under his breath.

  Dee ignored him, picking up the flute case and rucksack she’d left earlier. Baxter took the rucksack from her, shouldered it and held the extra bag in one hand while he put the other to her elbow and led her outside.

  Reaction was setting in, and Dee felt shaky on both legs. She leaned against the side of the car and waited until he stowed away her bags before asking, ‘Will you fetch Henry for me?’

  Baxter glanced towards her stepfather, who was now standing in the doorway. ‘You’ll be all right?’

  Dee nodded, and he left her to walk round the side of the house, ignoring Edward.

  Edward saw his chance and approached. Dee stood her ground rather than scuttle into the car. She had suddenly stopped fearing this man.

  ‘Deborah, please,’ he appealed to her once more. ‘You can’t go like this. What do you know of this man?’

  Very little, Dee could have admitted, but said instead, ‘I know he isn’t going to attack me when he’s drunk!’

  Her stepfather flinched. ‘I suppose I deserved that. But if you could just understand how it is, living with your mother. I thought she was so serene, so beautiful when I married her, but there’s so little substance to her. She hasn’t half your intelligence or your courage, your passion… Is it any wonder that I feel the way I do about you?’

  He reached a hand up to touch her face, a gesture of seemingly genuine tenderness.

  Still Dee recoiled from him. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘I can’t help it.’ He caught her arm when she would have walked away. ‘Little Deborah… I stayed for you, you know.’

  His gaze told her he was serious, but all Dee felt was anger. If he loved her—really loved her—he wouldn’t be playing on her emotions like this.

  She twisted from his grip. ‘Leave me alone, Edward, or I’ll call for Baxter,’ she threatened.

  It worked, especially as they both glanced round to find that Baxter was already standing at the corner of the house, restraining Henry, while he watched the tense scene between the two.

  He approached, his face tight with anger, and E
dward went into rapid retreat to the house.

  Baxter threw a dismissive glance at the other man before ordering, ‘Get in!’

  Dee didn’t argue. She wanted to get away, too. She just wondered what Baxter had overheard.

  He slammed the boot door on Henry, then climbed behind the driver’s wheel, turned on the engine and accelerated rapidly.

  At length Dee muttered, ‘I don’t know why you’re mad with me. I told you not to get involved.’

  ‘That was all you told me,’ he responded, his tone clipped and harsh.

  Any gratitude Dee might have felt went out of the window. ‘So what did you expect?’

  His mouth thinned even more. ‘Some indication of what was going on between you and Litton might have been useful.’

  ‘Going on?’ Her voice rose with her temper. ‘What do you mean?’

  Baxter found his own temper rising. He was tired of this girl taking him for a fool. He spotted a layby ahead and pulled off the road.

  He confronted her. ‘What do you think I mean…little Deborah?’

  Dee’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Don’t call me that!’

  ‘Then stop playing games,’ he threw back. ‘I may not have heard it all, but I certainly got the gist from his body language!’

  And the wrong idea, Dee realised, if he imagined she’d welcomed it.

  She could have protested, could have tried to explain, but what was the point? He wasn’t going to believe her. She came from a nice middle-class home with nice middle-class manners, and no one was ever going to believe her.

  He took her silence for guilt, and wounded her further with, ‘No wonder your mother wanted you gone.’

  That was no more than the truth, but it hurt; oh, how it hurt.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, a catch in her voice.

  ‘Then explain it!’ he bit back.

  But Dee didn’t have the heart for it any more.

  The reality of her situation suddenly overwhelmed her. Her mother had closed the door. She was nobody’s daughter any more. She was finally, irretrievably homeless.

  Baxter watched in disbelief as the first tear slipped down her face.

  ‘God, you’re not going to cry on me!’

  ‘No!’ Dee denied, even as a second tear followed it.

  She swallowed hard and turned her face to the window. She didn’t want to cry in front of this man.

  He sighed loudly. ‘Look, forget it. You don’t have to explain anything. It’s none of my business.’

  Dee was too choked to answer. She shook her head. She wanted to be left alone.

  Baxter realised then that he was incidental. These tears weren’t for him.

  Still angry, he tried to remain immune. Her back was to him, but he saw her shoulders heave, heard the first sob, listened to the despair in the next.

  Soon she was crying like a child, and it was too much for him. He released both their seat belts and reached to comfort her.

  She resisted, pushing at his shoulders, sobbing, ‘You understand nothing, nothing, nothing…’ She was angry with him, angry with the world.

  She balled her fists into his chest but he went on holding her, urging softly, ‘Tell me, then. Tell me.’ He was ready to accept her grief and pain.

  Dee shook her head even as she stopped struggling to be free, and began to rock like a baby in his arms, crying out in anguish, ‘I have nobody!’

  No words could answer such desperation so Baxter just gathered her closer, with a hand to the back of her head, stilling it against his shoulder, while he murmured against her hair—soothing noises he would have made to a young niece.

  She continued to cry, but the sobs diminished until only silent tears slid from her eyes.

  Dee felt him stroking her hair, and it was comforting at first, but then her emotions seemed to shift and she trembled in awareness of him. It wasn’t fear exactly, but she stirred in his arms, conscious once more of the fact he was a man.

  He let her draw away but held her at arm’s length. She felt his eyes on her face, and was embarrassed to realise she was still crying.

  ‘Have you a handkerchief?’ he asked her quietly.

  She raised her eyes to his and shook her head. ‘I’ll stop in a moment,’ she promised, feeling foolish.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he told her softly, one hand lifting to tilt her head up while he used the other to wipe away her tears.

  She stared at him, transfixed, while long, tapering fingers smoothed over her cheekbones. His gentleness was overwhelming, a revelation. Her tears dried, by some miracle, although the breath caught in her throat as he finally cradled her face with one hand.

  ‘What are we going to do with you?’ He spoke as if to a child, but it only added to Dee’s confusion.

  She didn’t want to be a child to him. She wanted…

  He leaned towards her, meaning to place a light kiss on her cheek, but she raised her head slightly and his mouth brushed hers by accident.

  It was unintentional, but Baxter had no excuse for his next action other than the flicker of response he’d felt from her lips and her apparent willingness to be kissed like this.

  All he remembered was that one moment he’d been thinking of her as a kid and the next she was a soft, warm woman in his arms, kissing him back so sweetly the blood raced through his veins.

  It was over almost before it began as sanity returned and he broke away, breathing hard.

  He swore at himself, not her, then caught her stricken look. ‘I’m sorry. It’s no answer. I shouldn’t have touched you.’

  But he had. He had touched her with his gentleness, slipping past her guard for a heartbeat or two. She had laid herself open to being hurt, so why be surprised when it happened?

  He said something else; Dee didn’t bother listening. She curled away from him and turned her face to the window. She had an idea that she’d made a fool of herself, but was suddenly too tired to care.

  When he asked simply, ‘Scotland or London?’ she answered with a shrug. Neither place meant anything to her. No place did any more.

  The decision was left to Baxter. He wished he hadn’t kissed her. It made him feel guilty even as it reinforced his growing belief that taking her to Scotland was a recipe for disaster.

  He had to harden his heart and remind himself that he was no longer in the business of saving the world. Two years of war had earned him the right to some peace, and nothing about this girl promised that.

  Why was he even debating it? He had walked away from the dead and dying. He could surely walk away from one girl.

  He started the car and headed for London.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘ARE we here?’ Dee asked at the end of their journey.

  He nodded. ‘Finally, yes.’

  She rubbed sleep from her eyes and peered out. There was no moon, no street lights, no houses, just darkness. They were sitting at the end of a dirt track in the middle of nowhere, facing some ruined tower.

  Dee felt a twinge of alarm. ‘I thought you said you lived in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Outside Edinburgh,’ he corrected.

  She looked round for some sign of habitation. ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘There, exactly.’ He nodded towards the lump of stone in front of them.

  ‘You’re kidding.’ She laughed. He didn’t laugh back. ‘In that…thing?’

  She couldn’t think of another word for it.

  ‘You know what they say,’ he responded. ‘Be careful of what you wish for and all that.’

  ‘Come again?’ This ruin had never been on Dee’s wish list.

  ‘You told your mother I had a castle in Scotland,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Yeah,’ she conceded. ‘Well, I was thinking more in the line of Balmoral… Is this really yours?’

  Dee still wasn’t sure if it was some kind of joke. In fact, the whole journey had had an unreal air. She remembered crying, of course, after they’d left Oakfield, and him holding her until her tears had
dried. She remembered his tenderness and the surprise of it, and the feelings it had stirred in her, so that when they had kissed, almost by accident, she had not pushed him away. She’d tried to forget the rest, but it kept coming back to her—the way she’d felt as his lips moved over hers, the sweet, painful urge to respond. That was the most unreal thing of all, yet it remained the most vivid.

  Everything after that had passed in a dream. She’d stared out of the window, vaguely aware of signs stating miles to London, exhausted into a blessed emotional numbness before sleep actually began to overtake her. She hadn’t fought it, knowing she might later have to spend the night awake in a doorway, too scared to shut her eyes.

  She didn’t know how long she’d slept but when she’d woken it was to find the signs were now recording places like Sheffield and Barnsley, and she’d realised they were many miles from London.

  ‘I’m taking you home for a while,’ was all Baxter had said.

  It was all he’d needed to say for Dee to go along with it. One place seemed the same as another now that she was rootless.

  They had stopped at a couple of motorway service stations en route. He had eaten and drunk coffee. She had smoked and ignored his disapproval. They had made no plans past getting up here.

  ‘Here’ being this godforsaken spot in a dark, desolate landscape that could have stepped out of the pages of a Robert Louis Stevenson novel—only it was all too real as he confirmed dryly, ‘Yes, it really is mine.’

  She pulled a face in vague apology as she realised she was insulting his home, which presumably he loved, gloom and doom notwithstanding.

  ‘It’s more habitable than it looks,’ he assured her, stepping out of the car.

  Dee sincerely hoped it was.

  She tried to get out her side, but her knee had stiffened once more. He came round and helped her out, keeping a guiding hand at her elbow. They picked their way over rough grass, then through a gate in a low wall, before a floodlight suddenly came on, illuminating the ground surrounding the tower.

  Dee looked up and saw a series of small windows cut into the black stone. They were recent additions to a building that must be several centuries old. She counted four, maybe five floors. Even lit, it looked a cold, inhospitable place.