The Marriage Truce
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘ARE you telling me that Ross is here—staying in the village? That he’s come back and you didn’t warn me?’ Jenna Lang’s face was ashen, her eyes blazing. ‘Oh, Aunt Grace—how could you?’

‘Because we didn’t know until a couple of days ago—not for certain.’ Mrs Penloe’s kindly face was crumpled with worry as she looked pleadingly back at her niece. ‘I thought—I hoped—it was just a bit of village gossip, and Betty Fox had got it all wrong. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.’

She shook her head. ‘It never occurred to me that Thirza could really be so insensitive …’

‘Ross’s besotted stepmother—in whose eyes he can do no wrong?’ Jenna’s voice was icy with bitterness. ‘The woman who blamed me for the break-up of our marriage? Oh, I can believe it.’

‘I suppose she’s bound to be loyal,’ Mrs Penloe said, trying to be fair. ‘After all, he was only seven when she married his father—another one with too much charm for his own good,’ she added grimly. ‘And that’s sure to create a bond. Although that’s no excuse for what she’s done …’

‘What’s Thirza doing back in Polcarrow, anyway?’ Jenna demanded. ‘I thought she was supposed to be spending the whole year in Australia.’

‘Too hot and too many insects,’ her aunt said distractedly. ‘Or so she claims. Interfered with her inspiration. She came back about three weeks ago.’

‘Brilliant timing.’ Jenna laughed shortly and mirthlessly. ‘She always knew how to pick her moments.’

‘She claims she had no choice.’ Mrs Penloe hesitated. ‘Apparently Ross’s been really ill—picked up some ghastly virus on his last trip. When he was discharged from hospital he needed somewhere to recuperate.’ She sighed. ‘Knowing Thirza, I don’t suppose she gave Christy’s wedding, or your role in it, even a second thought.’

‘No,’ Jenna said bitingly. ‘I’m the one who’ll have to seriously reconsider.’

‘Oh, Jenna, my dear—you’re not going to leave—go back to London?’ Mrs Penloe asked anxiously. ‘Because Christy would be devastated. And it’s all my fault. I know I should have said something. I suppose I hoped it might all—go away.’

‘Or that I might never find out?’ Jenna asked ironically. ‘Hardly likely when Thirza will probably bring him with her to the wedding.’

‘Oh, Jenna—surely not even Thirza …’

Jenna shrugged. ‘Why not? She’s capable of anything. And I presume she’s been invited?’

‘Well, yes, but we never thought she’d come. We thought she’d still be in Australia.’ Mrs Penloe ran a hand through her greying curly hair. ‘Oh, what a mess. Why couldn’t Christy have chosen a June wedding instead? Ross would be long gone by then. And the weather would have been better, too,’ she added, momentarily diverted by the threatening sky with its ragged, hurrying clouds framed by the drawing room window. ‘Not that it matters, of course, compared with the sheer embarrassment of Thirza’s behaviour.

‘Surely she could have found a good nursing home somewhere—and don’t tell me that Ross can’t afford it, for he earns a fortune and probably has the best health insurance money can buy. Or she could have looked after him in his own home—wherever that is now. Anything rather than this.’

‘Maybe it isn’t too late for that, even now,’ Jenna said slowly. ‘Do you think Uncle Henry would talk to her—persuade her?’

‘Darling, that was the first thing I thought of. All he said was that Thirza might be his cousin but she was a law unto herself and always had been.’ She drew a long breath. ‘Also that he had enough on his plate with the bills for the wedding, and that as you and Ross had been divorced for two years it could be time for you both to move on.’ She paused, giving her niece another pleading look. ‘And I suppose, in a way, he does have a point.’

‘I’m sure he’s right,’ Jenna said. ‘But, unfortunately, it’s a point I haven’t reached yet. Because it wasn’t just the divorce …’ She stopped, biting her lip.

‘I know, dearest, I know.’ Mrs Penloe hunted for a handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘So much sadness—and no one could expect you to forget …’

‘Or forgive.’ Jenna’s voice was stony. She got to her feet, reaching for her brown suede jacket. ‘I’m going for a walk, Aunt Grace. I need to think, and some fresh air might help.’

‘Fresh air?’ Mrs Penloe echoed. ‘It’s blowing a force eight gale out there.’

But her protest fell on deaf ears. Jenna was already heading out of the room, and a moment later Mrs Penloe heard the front door bang shut.

She sank back against the sofa cushions and indulged herself with a little weep. She had every sympathy with Jenna, but she was also the mother of a beloved daughter who was getting married in three days’ time, and who might find herself walking up the aisle of the village church without her only cousin in attendance behind her.

Grace Penloe was not a violent woman, but she felt strongly that if she could have got her hands round Thirza Grantham’s throat she would probably have strangled her.

Meanwhile, Jenna was striding through the garden, her face pale and set, her tearless eyes staring rigidly ahead.

Spring had come softly to Cornwall that year, and then, suddenly and maliciously, reverted to winter with driving showers of hail and sleet, and gales that sent the seas battering at the coastline.

The Penloes, who’d built Trevarne House on the headland that tapered into the Atlantic, had protected their grounds from the prevailing winds with high stone walls, but Jenna chose not to remain within their shelter.

Instead, after a brief battle with the heavy latch, she pushed open the tall iron gate at the end of the garden, and stepped out on to the short, stubby grass of Trevarne Head itself.

As she turned to pull the gate shut behind her the wind tore at her loose knot of chestnut hair and whipped it free, so that it streamed behind her like a bright, silken pennant.

For a moment she paused, trying to subdue it into a braid, then realised her fingers were shaking too much so gave up the unequal struggle and walked on, digging her hands into the pockets of her jacket, her head bent and shoulders hunched as she met the full force of the wind.

She had the headland to herself. The hurrying clouds and harsh wind had kept other people away, but for Jenna the weather suited the bleakness of her mood.

Long before she reached the small concrete observation platform which had been built into the turf she could feel the icy spray from the sea chilling her face, tingling against her skin, and paused, gasping for breath.

She would not, she decided, go any closer to the edge. She was not prepared to risk the odd, erratic gust which might carry her over to the sharp rocks and boiling surf far below.

She might be upset. She was certainly angry. But she was sure as hell not suicidal.

She gripped the back of the bench seat, which was bolted to the platform, and looked at the dramatic panorama in front of her.

The sea was alive and furious, streaked in grass-green and indigo as it flung itself against the granite promontory. She could hear its boom and hiss as it raced up the inlet that divided Trevarne from the cliffs of Polcarrow itself, then fell back in frustration.

Lifting her head, she watched the sea birds that swooped and dived, and rode on the waves.

Tossed by fate, she thought ironically, as she was herself.

And she had not seen it coming, although she couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Natasha, her business partner, had asked, her slanting brows drawn together in a concerned frown. ‘Isn’t it asking for trouble?’

Jenna shrugged. ‘Christy and I promised each other years ago that she’d be my bridesmaid and I’d be hers. She kept her side of the pledge. Now it’s my turn, and I can’t let her down.’ She paused. ‘Nor would I want to.’

Natasha gave her a wry look. ‘Not even when it’s the very same church that you were married in?’ she queried. ‘With all the memories that’s bound to entail?’

Jenna bit her lip. ‘It’s a very old church,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’m sure a lot of happy marriages have been celebrated there, so it will have good vibes, too.’

‘Well, it’s your decision,’ Natasha said. ‘But I helped pick up the pieces the first time, remember, and I don’t want to find you back at square one for the sake of a family wedding.’

Jenna lifted her hands. ‘That’s all in the past, I promise. Now all I care about is the present—and the future.’

Brave words, she told herself now, staring sightlessly at the grey horizon. And I might—just —have got away with them. If only Ross hadn’t come back …

She couldn’t believe the pain that had seized her—torn at her when she’d heard the news of his return. Or how easily her carefully constructed edifice of control and self-belief had crumpled.

She wasn’t suffering from some reality bypass. She’d always known it was inevitable that she and her ex-husband would meet again one day. But she’d hoped desperately that the meeting would be far, far in the future, when she might finally have come to terms with his betrayal of her.

Yet it seemed it was to be here and now—in this remote Cornish peninsula which she had always regarded as her personal haven.

It was to Trevarne House that she’d come as a scared ten-year-old after her mother’s death, to the care of her aunt and uncle, leaving her father free to assuage his own grief by abandoning the desk job he hated and roaming the world as a troubleshooter for the giant oil company he worked for.

And here, on her mother’s soil, she’d put down faltering roots in the Penloes’ kind, easygoing household, while she and Christy, both only children, had found in each other the sister they’d always wanted.

And when, a couple of years later, her father had been killed in a freak accident when his car tyre had burst on a tricky mountain road, she had been absorbed seamlessly into the family as another daughter of the house.

All the same, she’d thought long and hard before accepting Christy’s invitation to the wedding, in spite of their childhood vow. Eventually she’d allowed herself to be swayed by the knowledge that Thirza Grantham, the only potential fly in the ointment, was on the other side of the world.

Where Ross himself was to be found had been anyone’s guess. She went out of her way to ignore the scraps of information that filtered through concerning his whereabouts.

Impossible, of course, she’d discovered, to cut him out of her awareness completely. To forget, as she longed to do, that he’d ever existed. For that she’d need some kind of emotional lobotomy, she thought broodingly.

Besides, there was evidence of him everywhere. The photographs which he sent back to his agency from every trouble spot in the world were still winning him prizes and awards with monotonous regularity.

‘It can’t be a real war,’ someone had once joked. ‘Ross Grantham isn’t there yet.’

No, his profile was far too public for her to be able to exercise any kind of selective amnesia where he was concerned, and somehow she had to live with that.

It was strange, she thought, that she hadn’t run into him in London before now. On dozens of occasions she’d thought she’d glimpsed him on the street, or across busy restaurants, even among the interval crowds at the theatre, and had felt the swift wrench of panic deep in her guts, only to realise, belatedly, that she was running scared of some complete stranger.

But then wasn’t that what Ross himself had always been? she asked herself with bitter irony. A charming stranger who had murmured words of love to her, slept with her, given her for a few ecstatic weeks the prospect of motherhood, then abandoned her to pursue a casual affair while she was still recovering from the pain and trauma of her loss.

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip until she tasted blood. That was forbidden territory to her now, and she would not go there.

She’d persuaded herself that, with Thirza away, Polcarrow would be safe enough. That Ross would not come visiting unless his stepmother was there—had, indeed, not been back since the divorce.

Only, unpredictable as ever, Thirza had returned …

And as a result her life had been sent spinning once more into confusion—and fear.

Although there was no reason for her to be scared of any confrontation, she told herself defiantly. She, after all, had been the innocent party in the collapse of their brief ill-starred marriage. It was Ross who’d been the guilty party—the deceiver—the betrayer.

He, she thought with sudden savagery, was the one who should be afraid to face her.

And maybe that was true. Perhaps he was equally disturbed to hear she was in the vicinity. Just as reluctant to undergo their eventual meeting.

Because, sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Polcarrow was too small a place for them to be able to avoid each other, even for a short time.

Although Aunt Grace had said he was ill. Too ill, perhaps, to leave Thirza’s house?

Jenna shook her head, almost derisively. No, she thought. That couldn’t happen. Impossible to imagine Ross as a sick man. To see that strong, lithe body suddenly vulnerable, aware of its own humanity. To hear him forced to acknowledge personal weakness when he didn’t even know the meaning of the words.

When he had nothing but contempt for people who gave way to their emotions, no matter what the reason.

No question, either, of him tactfully pretending to be more ill than he was to dodge any possible confrontation.

Ross, she thought, her mouth twisting, had always erred on the side of brutal candour—as she had such bitter cause to know. No white lies or cover-ups. Just the truth, coldly told. Whatever the cost …

I should have known that, she told herself. Should have realised that, once the layers of charm, intelligence and sexual charisma were peeled away, I’d find ice at the core.

I suspected it years ago, when I first met him. How was it I could be more perceptive as a child than a woman?

Well, she knew the answer to that. As a child, her thinking hadn’t been muddled by the treachery of love—the bewitchment of sexual desire. And yet …

She’d been just thirteen when Thirza had been widowed and returned to take up residence in the village. And it was only a few months later when her stepson Ross had paid her a first visit.

He’d been twenty-one then, and had already embarked on his high-flying and successful career as a photojournalist.

A tall, self-contained young man, black-haired and tanned, with eyes as dark as a moonless night. And as impenetrable.

Nor was he conventionally handsome. His straight nose was a fraction too long and his eyes too heavy-lidded for that. But the high cheekbones and the firm, sensuous mouth were exquisitely chiselled, and when he smiled Jenna, for one, felt her heart turn over.

‘The looks of a fallen angel,’ Aunt Grace had commented privately, her lips pursed. ‘And trouble down to his handmade shoes.’

But Jenna and Christy hadn’t considered him troublesome at all. From the first moment they’d been open-mouthed at the sight of him, bowled over by the aura of easy confidence and sophistication that clung to him. Starryeyed at this answer to all their burgeoning adolescent dreams, who was even—oh, joy—some kind of distant cousin by marriage. Unable to believe that for all this time they had been barely aware of his existence. But Thirza herself had been hardly more than a name to them either.

They’d been more than ready for breathless, unequivocal hero-worship—had Ross Grantham shown any sign of wanting their adoration.

But he hadn’t. He greeted them with a cool civility bordering on indifference, and then appeared oblivious to their existence for the remainder of his stay.

Even after all this time, and in spite of everything that had happened since, Jenna could still wince at the memory of the lengths they’d gone to in their unavailing attempts to attract his attention.

Christy, who been reading Jane Austen’s Emma, had bewailed the fact that all her shoes were slip-ons, and she couldn’t stage an encounter by breaking a lace outside Thirza’s cottage.

Jenna had had notions of persuading one of the amiable hacks they rode at the local stables to bolt with her when Ross was passing, so that he would be obliged to save her.

But before she’d been able to put this daring plan into action Ross had gone. He’d called briefly at Trevarne House to say goodbye, but the girls had been taken shopping in Truro by Mrs Penloe, so they’d missed him. And he had left no message for them either.

‘Beast,’ Christy had said hotly, her pretty face pink with indignation. ‘Well, good riddance to him.’

Jenna had said nothing, aware only of a curious mixture of emotion churning in the pit of her stomach. Her almost agonised disappointment at his sudden departure had warred with an odd relief that such an unsettling presence had been removed, and her life could resume its usual placid path.

Except that, in retrospect she could see it never really had. Ross had remained there, a shadow in the corner of her mind, never completely banished, even though it had been seven years before she saw him again, and when they finally met it had been miles away in London.

He’d been back to Cornwall, of course, during those years. He’d come regularly to visit Thirza—never alone, and rarely bringing the same girl twice, which had set local tongues wagging. But his visits had invariably taken place at times when Christy and Jenna had been away, first at school, then at college, pursuing their respective courses.

She suspected that this had probably been quite deliberate, because they’d made such pests of themselves the first time around, but Ross had always insisted it was just a coincidence.

And she’d believed him, just as she’d somehow convinced herself that someone who so clearly liked to play the field could change and become focussed and faithful.

Because he’d made her think that all that time he’d simply been waiting for the right woman to come into his life. And that she was that woman.

She’d let herself believe too that his wanderlust—the need to be where the action was—could be subdued, that he could be tied down to a desk job, running the agency in London, even though she had the example of her own father to warn her how unlikely this was.

Perhaps if he’d lived he would have uttered a word of caution about how hard it would be for a man who’d enjoyed Ross’s kind of freedom to be suddenly fettered by domesticity.

Her aunt and uncle, when she’d told them the news, had the other concerns.

‘Are you really sure he’s the man for you, darling?’ Mrs Penloe’s brow creased. ‘It’s not just an extension of that silly crush you once had?’

‘Oh, don’t remind me.’ Jenna shuddered, blushing a little. ‘And this is entirely different. As soon as I saw him again—I knew. And it was just the same for Ross. As if we’d always been waiting for each other.’

Her aunt pursed her lips doubtfully, exchanging glances with her husband. They’d enjoyed a happy and tranquil marriage, based on affection, respect and shared interests, and in her heart Grace Penloe believed that was the right basis for a sound relationship.

‘Well, it all sounds very romantic,’ she said at last. ‘But I have to tell you, Jenna dear, that Thirza’s marriage to Gerard Grantham was volatile, to put it mildly, and no one should pretend otherwise.’

Jenna nodded. ‘Ross told me about it—and that’s why he’s waited to settle down. Because he didn’t want the same thing to happen to him. He needed to be sure.’ Her voice quickened easily. ‘And now we’ve found each other—and we are.’

Mrs Penloe looked as if she wanted to say more, but the blaze of happiness in her niece’s clear hazel eyes seemed to forbid any such thing, so she sighed soundlessly and kept quiet.

Memo to self, Jenna thought, biting her lip as she remembered the exchange. Stop thinking I know best and occasionally listen to the people who love me, like Uncle Henry, Aunt Grace, and Christy. And Tasha, of course, who’d had reservations from the first about Jenna’s new relationship.

Tasha maybe most of all, she thought. Because I owe her so much.

They’d met originally through work. Her art course completed, Jenna had found a job in a smart London gallery, where Natasha Crane was already working. She was several years older than Jenny, tall and slim and striking, with black hair drawn severely back from her face. At first Jenna had found her manner faintly chilling, and had been in awe of her new colleague, but eventually there’d been a thaw and they’d become friends. So much so, indeed, that, both unhappy with their flatsharing arrangements, they’d moved into a place of their own together.

The gallery had been a successful one. The owner, Raymond Haville, had had a sure eye for talent, and a good commercial sense, but he’d been nearing retirement and basically indolent, preferring to leave the day-to-day running of the business to his assistants. In many ways this had been a baptism of fire for Jenna, but she’d soon found herself gaining confidence and enjoying the challenge.

‘We make a good team,’ she’d once said buoyantly to Natasha, who’d nodded thoughtfully.

‘Something we should bear in mind for the future, perhaps,’ she’d returned.

But shortly after that Ross had come back into Jenna’s life, and it had seemed as if her future was certain—settled, and all else had been forgotten.

Until, of course, her new world had come crashing down in ruins around her, and then, suddenly, Tasha had been there for her, strong and supportive, and offering a different kind of hope.

Raymond Haville was finally giving up, she’d told her, and her elderly godfather had also died, leaving her his antiques business, which had seen better days but was based in excellent premises.

‘So why don’t we go for it?’ she’d urged. ‘Pool our resources and open our own gallery. Raymond will let us use his contacts, and we know more than he does about the admin side.’

At first Jenna had been reluctant, unsure whether she was ready to cope with such hectic demands on her time and energy, but Tasha had been firm.

‘I think it’s exactly what you need,’ she’d said. ‘Something to take your mind off—everything else. I know you still need to grieve, honey,’ she’d added, more gently. ‘But you won’t have time to brood. So, let’s give our team a chance.’

So, almost before she knew it, Jenna had found herself a partner in a modest gallery, selling paintings, pottery and small sculptures. And discovering success.

Ross had moved out of the house they’d shared, and disclaimed any financial interest in it, so Jenna had sold up. Impossible to remain there alone, haunted by her delusions of happiness. She’d bought a smaller place, investing the surplus funds in the business and giving herself an equal stake with Natasha.

So now, two years on, she had a home and a career, for both of which she was inordinately grateful. Professionally, her life was fulfilling. Socially too she kept busy. She went to the theatre and the cinema, with Natasha and other friends. And as her circle of acquaintance had widened she’d begun to attend dinner parties. She smiled and chatted to the pleasant men who’d been invited to partner her, and, watched with wistful anxiety by her hostesses, politely evaded the inevitable follow-up invitations.

There would come a time when her personal life would need fulfilment again; she was sure of it. But that time was not yet. At present, celibacy seemed much the safer option.

And right now she had another choice to make. Should she stay, or should she run? Her primary instinct told her to get out, and fast. She had suffered enough already at Ross’s hands.

But reason advised caution. Maybe this meeting, so long dreaded, was the very catalyst she needed in order to close the lid on the past once and for all. Achieve some kind of closure on a relationship that should never have existed in the first place.

And there were other factors to take into account—Christy’s disappointment at losing her matron of honour not being the least. It would be selfish and unkind to upset arrangements that had been months in the planning. And it was improbable that anyone else could possibly wear the slender sheath of primrose silk that she planned to wear as she followed Christy up the aisle.

Besides—and this was important too—Ross would doubtless be expecting her to vanish back to London—to take the coward’s way out, she thought, her mouth twisting. And why should she oblige him by being so predictable?

Far better to let him see how little she cared about the past by standing her ground and toughing it out.

After all, it was only three days to the wedding, and then she could quite legitimately return to London—although she knew her aunt and uncle had been hoping she might stay on for a few days.

I, she thought, can survive three days.

‘Jenna.’

Over the boom of the surf, and the mourning of the wind, she heard her name spoken.

For a moment she was very still, telling herself with a kind of desperation that it couldn’t be true. That it was just a figment of her imagination, conjured up because she had allowed herself to think about Ross—to indulge memories that were best ignored.

‘Jenna.’

She heard it again, and knew there could be no mistake—and no respite either. The moment she had feared all these months was upon her at last.

Because no one else had ever said her name with quite that same intonation, the first syllable softened and deliberately emphasised.

There was a time when that sound alone had had the power to melt her bones, as if she felt the touch of his hand, the brush of his lips on her naked skin.

Now it seemed as if a stone had lodged, hard and cold, in the pit of her stomach. Her hands tightened briefly, convulsively, on the back of the bench, and the roar of the sea was no louder than the thunder of her own pulses as slowly she turned to face him.

He was, she discovered, startled, only a few yards away from her. How could she not have known—not been aware of his approach? Her emotional antennae must have been dulled by all those false alarms in the past.

Striving for composure, she balled her hands into fists and thrust them deep into the pockets of her jacket. If they were going to start shaking it was no one’s business but her own, she thought, and she made herself meet his gaze.

Although it was not easy to do so. His eyes went over her, slowly, searchingly, the straight black brows drawing together in a slight frown.

She knew exactly what he was seeing. The brown suede covered a tawny jersey. A silk scarf was knotted at her throat, and her long legs were booted to the knee under a brief skirt in pale tweed.

A successful, even affluent look—casual, but confident.

And she needed every scrap of confidence that was at her disposal.

He, she saw, was wearing black. Close-fitting pants that stressed the length of his legs, a roll-neck sweater and a leather jacket.

Belated mourning? she wondered bitterly, as the block of stone inside her twisted slowly. Agonisingly.

He said abruptly, ‘You’re thinner.’

It was so totally typical of him, Jenna thought, almost stung to unexpected laughter. None of the niceties or formalities of polite conversation for Ross. No cautious breaking of the ice between two people who had parted badly and never met since.

Well, if that was how he wanted to play it …

She shrugged. ‘Then I’m in fashion.’ She kept her tone cool to the point of indifference.

He smiled, that familiar, ironic twist of the mouth. ‘Since when did you care about that?’

‘Perhaps I’ve changed,’ she said. ‘People do.’

He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘You haven’t changed so much,’ he said. ‘Or how would I have known where to find you?’ He gestured towards the sea. ‘This was always your favourite place.’

‘You came—looking for me?’ She could not suppress the note of incredulity, but managed a tiny laugh to cover it. ‘And I thought it was just a ghastly coincidence.’

‘I thought perhaps we should—talk a little.’

‘I really don’t think we have anything left to talk about,’ Jenna told him crisply. ‘Our lawyers said all that was necessary quite some time ago.’

‘However, they’re not here,’ he said softly. ‘But we are. And that’s the problem.’

‘Is there a problem? I didn’t realise …’

He sighed. ‘Jenna—do you want to play games or talk sense?’ He paused questioningly, and when she did not reply went on, ‘Can we at least agree that this isn’t a situation either of us would have chosen?’

‘Your stepmother clearly thinks differently.’

‘Thirza is a genuinely kind woman,’ he said. ‘But sometimes her kindness leads her in strange directions.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say?’ He was silent again for a moment. ‘Please believe that she didn’t see fit to mention to me that Christy was to be married at this time—or that you would be attending the wedding. Otherwise I would not be here.’

‘Well,’ Jenna said, trying for crisp lightness, ‘no one told me about you either. You’d almost think they were playing a late April Fool on us.’

‘And I think, unless we are careful, we could both end up looking like fools,’ Ross returned tersely. ‘So, if you’re thinking of doing a runner back to London, I advise you to forget it.’

Jenna gasped. ‘May I remind you that you no longer have the right to dictate my actions?’

He said gently, ‘And may I remind you that it was never a right I chose to enforce, anyway?’

She bit her lip. ‘You realise the local gossips will have a field-day if we both stay.’

‘They will have even more to enjoy if we leave.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they will think it means that we still matter to each other—when we know that’s not the case.’

‘On that,’ she said, her tone gritty, ‘we can agree, at least.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’re making progress.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, it will be equally harmful if we each pretend the other does not exist—and for the same reason.’

‘Ye-es,’ she acknowledged, slowly and reluctantly. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Then I suggest that for the duration of the wedding celebrations we maintain a pretence of civility with each other.’ He spoke briskly. ‘Not for my sake, of course, or even yours, but for Christy.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want her big day to be marred by the spectacle of us making ourselves ridiculous—or an object of speculation for the whole community, either,’ he added grimly. ‘I’m sure that’s a point of view you can share.’

‘How reasonable you make it sound,’ Jenna said with a snap.

‘Fine,’ he threw back at her. ‘Then go back to London. Let them think that you still care too much to be near me, even in public.’

‘Now you really are being ridiculous,’ she said coldly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d already made up my mind to stay. But I admit I hoped you’d have the decency to keep out of the way.’

‘Decency was never one of my virtues.’ His drawl taunted her. ‘And I gather Thirza has already told the Penloes that I will be escorting her to the wedding. So I think we’re going to have to—grin and bear it.’

‘By taking refuge in clichés?’

‘By doing whatever it takes.’ He paused again, and she was uneasily aware of that intent, assessing stare. ‘So, shall we each take a deep breath and declare a temporary truce—for the duration of the wedding?’

Jenna bit her lip. ‘It seems there is no alternative.’

‘Then shall we shake hands on it?’ He walked towards her, closing the space between them, and she couldn’t retreat because the damned bench was in the way. Could do nothing about the fact that he was now standing right beside her.

He held out his hand, his dark eyes mesmeric, compelling. Then a mischievous gust of wind suddenly lifted her loosened hair and blew it across his face.

Ross gasped and took a step backwards, his hands tearing almost feverishly at the errant strands to free himself.

For a crazy moment she wondered if he was remembering, as she was, the way he’d used to play with her hair when they were in bed together after lovemaking, twining it round his fingers and drawing it across his lips and throat.

And how she would bury her face in his shoulder, luxuriously inhaling the scent of his skin …

Sudden pain wrenched at her uncontrollably. Blood was roaring in her ears. Hands shaking, she raked her hair back from her face and held it captive at the nape of her neck.

She said hoarsely, looking past him, ‘I—I think the weather’s getting worse. I—I’ll see you around—I expect …’

She walked away from him, forcing herself not to hurry, across the short, damp grass.

And if he said her name again as she went the wind carried it away and it was lost for ever. And she could only be thankful for that.

Once safely inside the garden she began to run, stumbling a little as her feet crunched the gravel.

She fell breathlessly through the front door and met Christy, back from her shopping trip to Truro, coming downstairs.

‘Darling,’ Christy’s blue eyes searched her face. ‘Are you all right? Ma was worried about you …’

‘I’m fine,’ Jenna said, eyes fiercely bright, cheeks hectically flushed. ‘And, for good or ill, I’m staying. But on one condition—and it’s not negotiable.’

‘Oh, Jen.’ Christy hugged her. ‘Anything—you know that.’

Jenna took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’m going into Polcarrow tomorrow—and I’m having my hair cut.’ She paused. ‘All of it.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE wind dropped during the early hours of the morning. Jenna could have timed it to the minute, if she’d felt inclined, as she’d done little else since she got to bed but lie staring into the darkness and listening to the grandfather clock in the hall below sonorously marking the passage of the night.

If I don’t get some sleep soon I’m going to look and feel like hell in the morning, she told herself, turning on to her stomach and giving her inoffensive pillows a vicious pummelling.

Even so, there was no way she would look as bad as Ross had done yesterday, she realised with a pang of reluctant concern. Any doubts she might have had about the seriousness of his recent illness had shattered after the first glance. Because he’d looked as if the virus he’d picked up abroad had taken him to death’s door and back again.

He had told her she was thinner, but he too had lost an untold amount of weight, and his dark face had been haggard, and sallow, with deep shadows under his eyes. He’d looked older, too, and quieter. And oddly weary. For a moment she had found herself confronted by a stranger.

She could understand now why Thirza had been so worried about him, even if she did not relish the solution that worry had produced.

She sighed, burying her face in the pillow. For a while she’d been seriously tempted to keep quiet about their encounter on the cliff, but she’d soon realised that would be impractical. Besides, the way that she and Ross planned to deal with each other would have a direct bearing on the next few days, and affect her family, so they probably had a right to know.

She’d broken the news of their truce over dinner, keeping her voice light and matter-of-fact.

‘The last thing either of us wants is to make the situation more awkward than it already is.’ She had tried to smile. ‘So, we plan to be—civil.’

There was a silence, then Aunt Grace said, ‘Oh, my dear child, how desperately sad.’ She directed a fulminating stare at her husband, who was placidly eating his portion of chicken casserole. ‘Henry—how long have you known that Ross would be bringing Thirza to the wedding—and why on earth did you agree?’

‘She rang to inform me just this morning.’ Mr Penloe smiled at his wife. ‘And she didn’t ask my permission,’ he added drily.

‘Typical,’ Grace Penloe said hotly. ‘Absolutely typical. If she’d had the least consideration for us all she’d have stayed away herself.’

Jenna laid a placatory hand over her aunt’s. ‘Darling, it’s all right—really. I admit I was upset when I first heard Ross was here, but that was—just me being silly.’ She gave a resolute smile. ‘It could be all for the best,’ she added, with a sideways glance at her uncle. ‘After all, we had to meet again some time.’

‘Probably,’ said Mrs Penloe. ‘But, for preference, not under the Polcarrow microscope. Oh, Betty Fox will make a meal of this,’ she added, stabbing at a mushroom as if it were the lady in question.

‘Betty Fox will have enough to do, criticising what we’re all wearing and finding fault with the decorations in the church hall and the caterers,’ Christy said, pulling a face. ‘Even she can’t make much capital out of a divorced couple being polite to each other.’

‘That’s what you think,’ her mother said tartly. ‘Oh, damn Thirza.’ She paused ominously. ‘And, Jenna, what’s this Christy tells me about you making an appointment at the hairdresser tomorrow to have your hair cut?’

Jenna shrugged. ‘New attitude—new image. I’ve had long hair all my life. It’s time for a change.’

Mrs Penloe gave the smooth chestnut coil at the nape of her niece’s neck an anguished look. ‘Oh, Jenna, don’t do it. At least, not now. Wait until the wedding is over, please.’

Jenna stared at her. ‘Aunt Grace, I’ll be wearing a spray of freesias in my hair. The style won’t make any difference.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of the headdress.’ Mrs Penloe shook her head. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘You’d think,’ Jenna said later, as she gave the condemned hair its final nightly brushing, ‘that I was having my head cut off instead.’

Christy, who was sprawled across the bed, turning over the pages of House and Garden, frowned. ‘Ma did overreact slightly,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t say I’m entranced with the idea myself, but it’s your hair, and your decision.’

She pulled a face. ‘Perhaps the wedding is starting to get to her at last. She’s been amazingly calm and organised so far, until dear Thirza dropped her bombshell, that is. I’ve told Pops that when it’s all over he should take Ma away for a holiday.’

A sharp gust rattled the window, and the girls exchanged wry glances.

‘Preferably somewhere warm and peaceful,’ Jenna said drily, putting down her brush.

‘Thank heavens we decided to have the reception in the church hall, instead of …’ Christy paused awkwardly.

Jenna sent her a composed smile. ‘Instead of a marquee on the lawn as I did?’ she queried. ‘It’s all right. You can mention it without me having hysterics.’ She pulled a face. ‘I suspect I’ll need to grow another skin over the next few days, anyway.’

Christy shut the magazine and sat up. ‘Jen—I’m so awfully sorry you should be put through this.’ She paused. ‘The village rumour mill had Ross totally bedridden and being fed intravenously, of course, so you’d hardly expect him to pop up on Trevarne Head, being civilised.’ She gave Jenna an anxious look. ‘Seeing him again—was it as bad as you feared?’

‘Heavens, no,’ Jenna said lightly. Worse—much worse.

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Christy shook her head. ‘Not that it lets Thirza off the hook. As a contributor to consideration and family unity, she makes a terrific fabric designer.’

‘Well, she’s certainly that, all right,’ Jenna agreed. ‘In fact, I’ve often thought I’d like to stage an exhibition of her work at the gallery.’

‘You could always suggest it.’

Jenna shook her head. ‘She’d refuse. I was never her favourite person, even before the divorce.’

‘I could never figure that,’ Christy said thoughtfully. ‘After what she went through with her own husband, I’d have said her sympathies would have been with you.’ She paused ruefully. ‘Ouch, my big mouth again. Jen, I’m so sorry …’

‘Don’t be,’ Jenna said briskly as she applied her moisturiser. ‘Now, tell me about the best man instead. He’s supposed to be my perk, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, Tim’s adorable.’ Christy cheered noticeably. ‘He works in the City, too, and he and Adrian have been friends since university. They’re arriving in time for lunch tomorrow.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And I happen to know Tim’s not seeing anyone just now.’

‘Christy,’ Jenna said gently, ‘be content with your lovely Adrian, and don’t try matchmaking for other people. I was thinking of having a dance with Tim—nothing more.’

‘Why not have two or three dances?’ Christy suggested, unperturbed. She gave a sly smile. ‘He’ll make excellent camouflage, if nothing else.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Jenna rose from the dressing table. ‘Now, push off, bride, and get some beauty sleep.’

‘There are still three days to go,’ Christy protested as Jenna ushered her inexorably to the door.

‘True, but you need all the help you can get,’ she said wickedly, and closed the door, laughing, on her cousin’s outrage.

Now I’m the one who needs help, she thought drily, as she turned over in bed yet again, trying to relax and failing. This insomnia is probably Christy’s curse on me.

But in her heart she knew that it was not that simple. That her restlessness and unease were really due to Ross’s reappearance in her life and nothing else.

Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself forcefully. Because he wouldn’t be losing a moment’s sleep over her, in Thirza’s slate-roofed cottage on the outskirts of the village.

Once again so near, she thought, yet so far away. Which seemed to sum up the entirety of their brief marriage.

Once before, on the night before their wedding, when she hadn’t been able to sleep because she was too keyed up with joy and excitement, she’d tried to work out exactly what the distance was that separated them from each other, mentally retracing her steps down the drive from Trevarne House to the lane, narrow between its high summer hedges, and down its winding length to the steep sprawl of Polcarrow, counting her paces as she went. Imagining him opening the door of the cottage to smile at her. Holding out his arms to enfold her …

Suddenly Jenna found herself sitting up, gasping for breath. She was shaking all over and her nightdress was clinging to her sweat-dampened body. She fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp, then poured herself some water from the carafe on the night table, gulping its coolness past the constriction in her throat.

‘Oh, you idiot,’ she whispered to herself. ‘You pathetic fool.’

The phrase ‘don’t even go there’ had never seemed more appropriate, yet she almost had. She’d created a trap for herself and nearly fallen into it. Because she couldn’t afford these memories. They brought too much pain with them.

The ending of her marriage had been a war zone, and she still bore the wounds. And this truce that she’d agreed on with Ross was meaningless, because it would never lead to a lasting peace.

That was impossible, she thought. Too much had happened.

Most of it she’d managed to block out over the past months by working hard and making sure her leisure hours were full, leaving little time for introspection. But now there was a crack in the dam, and she was terrified of what might follow.

She switched off the lamp and lay down again, aware that her stomach was churning and a mass of confused thoughts were jostling for precedence in her tired mind. And, with them, memories as sharp as knives.

Memories that she needed to deal with and forget. As Ross himself, no doubt, had done long ago.

And that, she realised unhappily, was no comfort at all.

‘Are you sure about this?’ said Stella, picking up a length of Jenna’s hair and brandishing it.

She was short, wiry and feisty, with hair that—this week—was the colour of pewter. She was an ‘incomer’ too—someone who’d come to Cornwall on holiday and fallen in love with it, then decided to throw up her job in a top London hairdressing salon and make a new life for herself in Polcarrow.

She’d lost no time in opening her own premises in the village’s steep main street, and her skills had attracted clients from all over the Duchy.

On Saturday she would be bringing two assistants and a friend who was a beautician and manicurist to Trevarne House to attend to the needs of the bride and her family.

In the meantime she’d agreed to squeeze in an appointment for Jenna. But she clearly wasn’t happy about it.

‘What happens if I start and you change your mind?’ she demanded pugnaciously, hands on hips. ‘I can’t stick it back on, you know.’ Her tone changed, became wheedling. ‘Why don’t I just give it a good trim instead?’

‘I’m quite serious.’ Jenna said flatly. ‘I want it short.’ She opened the style book and pointed. ‘Like that.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ said Stella, blinking. ‘All right, then, love. But it’s your funeral.’

Three quarters of an hour later, Jenna found herself regarding a stranger in the mirror. Her chestnut mane had been reduced to little more than a sleek cap, skilfully layered, which emphasised the shape of her head and lay in feathered fronds across her forehead and over her ears.

‘Actually, it works,’ Stella conceded unwillingly. ‘It shows off your cheekbones and that. And on Saturday I can fix your flowers—like this.’ She demonstrated.

Jenna smiled at her. ‘Stella—you’re a genius.’

‘Yeah,’ said Stella, who did not count mock-modesty as a virtue. ‘But I still say it’s a shame. All that lovely hair.’ She paused. ‘Want a bit to keep? Reminder of past glories, eh?’

‘No,’ Jenna said quietly. ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’

Her head felt incredibly light as she emerged into the street, and the sun had come out too—doubtless in honour of her new image.

She had parked her car down by the harbour, and progress back to it was slow. Every few yards, it seemed, people were stopping her to welcome her back, to tell her she looked wonderful, and say that it looked as if the weather might clear up after all for the wedding.

And she smiled back, and thanked them and agreed, saying she would see them on Saturday.

Amid the general euphoria of welcome it took a moment to register that she was being watched with less than warmth from across the street. She glanced up and saw that Ross was standing on the narrow pavement, outside Betty Fox’s general stores. He was still to the point of tension, staring at her, his brows drawn together in thunderous incredulity.

Jenna’s instinct was to make a dash for the car, but instead she made herself smile weakly and lift her hand in a half-greeting.

He moved then, crossing the street, weaving his way between two vans and a bicycle with the long, lithe stride that was so hauntingly familiar.

What a difference a few hours could make, Jenna thought in astonishment as he reached her. Yesterday on the cliff he had looked tired, almost defeated. Today he was clearly incandescent, and her heart began to thud in alarm.

His hand closed, not gently, on her arm. ‘In the name of God,’ he grated, ‘what have you done to yourself?’

‘I’ve had my hair cut.’ She tried unavailingly to free herself from his grasp. ‘It’s not a crime.’

‘That,’ Ross said crushingly, ‘is a matter of opinion.’

‘And, anyway,’ Jenna went on, her own anger sparking into life, ‘it’s none of your damned business what I do.’

‘So, if I see an act of vandalism being committed—a work of art being defaced—I’m to say or do nothing? Or should I stand back and applaud?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not the same thing at all, and you know it.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s far worse. It’s a travesty—a sacrilege.’ His eyes held hers. The noise around them—the hum of voices, the stutter of traffic, and the crying of gulls from the harbour—seemed to fade, enclosing them in a strange and potent silence.

Then, over his shoulder, Jenna saw Betty Fox emerge from her shop, ostensibly to rearrange the newspapers in the outside rack, her glance darting avidly towards them, and the spell was sharply broken.

She said tautly, ‘I thought we had a truce. Yet here we are brawling in public, for all the world to see. Now, will you kindly let go of me?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

He set off down the street, still holding her arm, taking Jenna with him whether she wanted to go or not, turning the corner on to the harbour.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing.’ She was flushed, breathless with indignation at being whirled along in this undignified manner.

He had always done this, she thought. Starting with that night in London when they’d met again. Recognised each other in a totally new way …

‘Come.’ He’d taken her arm then, hurrying her from the room—from the building and into the street. Striding so fast that she’d had to run to keep up with him.

‘Where are we going?’ She’d been overwhelmed by all she felt for him—scared, joyous and hungry all at the same time.

And he’d stopped suddenly, and turned to her, his hands framing her face with heart-stopping tenderness. ‘Does it matter?’

Now, even though there was nothing remotely lover-like in his touch, she was shocked to find it could still shake her to the core. Or was that the memory it evoked?

‘Making amends, darling,’ he flung back at her. ‘Being amazingly civilised.’

He pushed open the door of the Quayside Café and marched her in. For a startled moment the buzz of conversation at the occupied tables faltered, then resumed at a slightly higher pitch as Ross ushered Jenna to a table beside the window and ordered two coffees from the flustered proprietress.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked Jenna, glancing towards the counter laden with cakes, biscuits and scones.

‘Thank you, no,’ she returned glacially.

His face relaxed into a sudden grin. ‘Because it would choke you?’

It did not help her temper to know she’d actually been tempted, just for a moment, to smile back. ‘This is all a big joke to you, isn’t it?’ she said in a furious undertone.

His brows lifted. ‘Far from it, sweetheart,’ he drawled. ‘A tragedy, perhaps.’ He paused. ‘Now, perhaps we should find some bland neutral topic to keep us from each other’s throats until the coffee comes.’

‘You think of something,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m not into small talk.’

‘Fine.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Are you planning to go on holiday this year?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’ She looked down at the checked tablecloth. ‘I might go for a last-minute booking on some Greek island.’

‘Alone?’

She shrugged. ‘I can hardly go with Natasha. One of us has to be there to run the gallery.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said softly. ‘Thirza told me that you were now in business together.’

There was a note in his voice that reminded her that Natasha’s low opinion of him had been entirely reciprocated.

She lifted her chin. ‘How kind of your stepmother to take such an interest in my affairs.’

‘A slight exaggeration.’ The dark eyes glinted. ‘She merely mentioned it in passing.’

‘I see.’ She hesitated. ‘What about you? Are you—planning any kind of vacation?’

He smiled faintly. ‘For me, as ever, a holiday is simply to stop travelling.’

But you did stop—when you married me. You said you’d finished with that kind of life. The thought forced itself upon her before she could prevent it.

‘But I suppose I’ll go back to the house in Brittany,’ he went on. ‘Apparently the last lot of tenants weren’t the most careful in the world, and it needs some work.’

‘You’ve been renting out Les Roches?’ The place where we spent our honeymoon? ‘I—I didn’t know.’

Ross shrugged. ‘Houses shouldn’t be left empty, or the heart goes out of them.’

Jenna examined a fleck on her thumbnail. ‘You’ve never considered selling it?’

‘No.’ The response was crisp and instant. ‘It’s always been a family home.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘And one day I intend to have a family there.’

She had not seen that coming, and she felt as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus. There was an odd roaring in her ears, and when she parted her lips to say something—anything—no sound would come.

The arrival of the coffee saved her. By the time the cups had been placed on the table, and cream and sugar brought, she was able to speak again. To cover, she hoped, the momentary hiatus.

‘My God.’ She even managed a little laugh. ‘Is the rolling stone coming to rest at last?’

‘It would seem so.’ His mouth twisted. ‘As they all do—eventually.’

‘I thought you might prove to be the exception.’ She could only hope the lightness in her tone was convincing. ‘What’s caused the change of heart?’

‘I became ill.’ His gaze met hers. ‘And, as you know, I’m not used to that. It made me think. Perhaps—adjust my priorities.’ He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Also, there is—someone in my life. Someone important.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say?’

‘There’s nothing that needs to be said.’ Stunned as she was, somehow she found the words. Made her lips utter them without faltering. ‘After all, we’re both—free agents. When—when’s the happy day?’

‘Nothing’s been decided yet. It is still a little too soon for her. She’s been married before as well, and there are adjustments to be made.’

‘Well,’ she said, smiling resolutely, ‘naturally you’ll want to be sure—this time.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I will.’ His brows lifted. ‘You’re—very understanding.’

She murmured something and looked down at the table. The compliment was undeserved, and she knew it. She understood nothing. Under her façade of composure she was seething with questions that she would not—could not ask him.

Do I know her? being the foremost. To be followed by, Is it Lisa Weston? And, if not, why not? What happened to the woman for whom you ended our marriage? And, Did you tire of her, too, in the end? The words were tumbling over themselves in her mind, demanding answers.

But these were places she dared not go. Because once the questions started she might not be able to stop them.

And the inner ice she relied on might crack, and all the pain—all the loss—might come pouring out at last. Betraying her utterly.

Revealing to him, once and for all, how deeply he had wounded her.

And revealing, most damagingly of all, that she still bled—still grieved in spite of the two years’ total separation between them.

And if he ever suspected the healing process in her had not begun, he might ask himself why. And she could not risk that particular humiliation, she thought breathlessly, or any other.

Aware that the silence between them was lengthening, she looked up and smiled brightly at him across the table.

His own glance was hooded, meditative. ‘And what about you, Jenna? Is there someone for you?’

‘No one that special.’ She lifted a nonchalant shoulder. ‘But I’m enjoying playing the field. I never really did that before.’

‘No,’ he said. He drank some coffee, grimaced and put down his cup. ‘This place serves the worst coffee in the world.’

‘You’ve said that every time we’ve been here.’ The words were out before she could stop them. They were loaded with shared memory. And just when she needed to make him think the past was a closed book, she thought, biting her lip.

‘That could be because it’s always true.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Maybe it’s time to bring our demonstration of ex-marital harmony to an end.’

‘Yes—yes, of course.’ She made a business of picking up her bag, watching from under her lashes as he walked to the counter to pay the bill, smiling at plump Mrs Trewin and saying something that made her bridle girlishly.

But that was Ross, she told herself stonily. He could use charm like a weapon, and it was something to which his new lady would have to accustom herself.

However, she couldn’t get over the astonishing change just a few hours had wrought in him.

He looked, she thought wonderingly, as if he’d woken, refreshed, from a deep sleep. He was still too thin, of course, but the lines of his face looked sharper, more dynamic this morning, and the old glint was back in his eyes—sexy, humorous, and as devastating as ever.

Perhaps he was looking for closure, too, wanting to go into his new relationship without baggage from the past to slow him down.

And that, of course, was what she should be seeking, too. Had always told herself that she was striving to attain.

Christy’s wedding was supposed to be a step on the path to her own regeneration. She had known ever since she received the invitation that she would have to be strong to cope with all the implications and resonances of the occasion. But that had been before the bombshell of Ross’s presence had been exploded, and all that had happened since.

Culminating in the revelations of the past half-hour.

And now, she knew, she was going to need every single weapon in her armoury of self-protection to get her unscathed through the next few days, let alone the eternity to come. And she was frightened.

She walked ahead of him out on to the cobbles, and stood for a moment, shading her eyes, looking at the familiar mix of fishing boats and sailing craft in the harbour, thankful to have something else to focus on.

Ross came to stand beside her. ‘You must miss this place—the sea—very much. Do you think you will ever come back?’

‘It was a wonderful place to spend my childhood.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘But I’m grown-up now, and my life is—elsewhere.’

‘London?’ His mouth twisted. ‘Even when we lived there together I was never convinced it was the right place for you.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t the environment,’ she said tautly, ‘but other factors that were wrong. Anyway, I’d prefer not to discuss it.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘My car’s over there. Do you want a lift back to Thirza’s?’

He said slowly. ‘That would be kind. But are you sure you wish to do this?’

She didn’t look at him. ‘We may as well keep the charade going to the bitter end.’

There was still a breeze, but it was turning into a perfect spring day. The clouds were high and broken, and the sun was hot and bright on Jenna’s newly shorn head as they walked along the quayside. She slipped off the quilted gilet she was wearing and pushed up the sleeves of her thin wool sweater.

He said suddenly, his voice faintly hoarse, ‘Dear God—did I do that?’

Glancing down, Jenna saw the red marks, clearly visible on her bare arm, where his fingers had gripped her.

She said, ‘It’s—not important. And the dress I’m wearing for the wedding has long sleeves. Besides,’ she added, coolly and pointedly. ‘I always did bruise easily.’

His swift smile was humourless. ‘Ah, yes. Of course. How could I forget? Whereas I, on the other hand, remained unmarked and untouched by everything—always. As if I have chain mail instead of skin. Is that what you’re saying?’

She bit her lip. ‘Not exactly. I—I couldn’t expect you to care about—some things in the same way as I did.’

‘Presumably because I am an insensitive boor of a man, who understands nothing of a woman’s innermost feelings.’ His tone was suddenly icy. ‘You have a short memory, Jenna. In those first few months of our marriage I came to know all your most intimate secrets—including some you’d never been aware of yourself until then.’

Her suddenly flushed cheeks owed nothing to the heat of the day.

She said in a suffocated voice, ‘You have no right to talk to me like this. No right at all.’

‘I need no reminder,’ Ross said softly, ‘of all the rights in you that I was fool enough to surrender.’

His words seemed to hang in the air between them, challenging, even threatening. Reviving old memories—old hungers. Shocking her with their potency.

He was watching her, the dark eyes glittering as they travelled over her in unashamed exploration. The cream round-necked sweater and close-fitting blue denim jeans she wore were no barrier to the intensity of his scrutiny, she realised as she stared back at him, eyes dilating, lips parted. Aware of a small, unwelcome stir of excitement deep within her.

Because he knew—none better—how she looked naked, after all the times he’d removed her clothes, his hands sometimes tender, often fiercely urgent. His lips caressing the warm skin he’d uncovered.

She was horrified to feel her nipples hardening involuntarily under the sudden force of the recollection.

This was what she’d always feared, she thought, swallowing. This was why she’d refused to allow any personal contact between them during the divorce, even in the safety of the lawyers’ offices. Or afterwards.

Because she knew she could not guarantee to control her physical responses to him.

However much she might have trained her mind to reject him, her body still shivered with remembered desire in his presence.

Suddenly she felt heat blaze from him like a dark sun.

And realised with swift, scared certainty that all she needed to do was reach out her hand …

Her throat tightened. She thought, ‘I can’t do this.’ And only realised she had spoken aloud when she saw his face change. The firm mouth harden.

Saw him take a step backwards, deliberately distancing himself from her.

He said quietly, ‘Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice, Jenna. And neither do I.’ He paused. ‘However, it might be better for me to walk back to Thirza’s. I’ll see you later.’

He turned and strode off down the quay.

For a moment Jenna stood where she was, watching him go, then, slowly and shakily, she made her way across the cobbles to her car.

She unlocked it and got in, stowing her bag on the passenger seat. Even fitting the key in the ignition. But she made no attempt to start the engine.

Her heart was thumping rapidly and noisily, and she felt slightly sick. Certainly she didn’t trust herself to drive. Not unless she wanted to find herself, and the car, on the bottom of the harbour.

She thought, I have to pull myself together.

But that, of course, was easier said than done.

She drew a deep breath and made herself review the situation. It had been lousy luck running into Ross two days in a row, but she’d make sure it didn’t happen again.

She was bound to see him at the wedding, of course, but there would be plenty of other people around, and he would be easier to dodge in a crowd. And there would be the unknown Tim to act as safeguard, anyway.

Apart from the wedding rehearsal tomorrow, there was no need for her to leave Trevarne House at all, and she would make sure that her every waking moment was full—even if all she could find to do was soothing Aunt Grace.

She folded her arms on the steering wheel and leaned her forehead against them, feeling the prickle of tears against her closed eyelids.

But who, she thought, with sudden desolation, is going to soothe me?

And for that she could find no satisfactory answer at all.

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