Married to a Stranger (Danger and Desire 3)

Sophia followed him. ‘I suppose we should look at the kitchens and servants’ quarters.’

Those proved to be perfectly satisfactory. Callum did not, to her relief, suggest they look at the bedrooms. ‘It is a very good house,’ Sophia said as they returned to the front door.

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nbsp; ‘And you do not like it.’

‘It is not for me to say,’ she responded, earning a sideways look from those penetrating hazel eyes. ‘Do you?’

‘Not much. It is … dull. I cannot imagine us living here.’

‘What are houses in India like?’ Sophia asked, steering the conversation away from marriage as they went back to the stables.

‘The Europeans live in single-storied houses called bungalows, with a wide and shady veranda around the sides. You spend a lot of time out on the veranda. When I was holding court I would sit there and the petitioners would assemble in the courtyard in front. In the evening that is where we would all sit and talk and drink.

‘There are wide windows covered with slatted shutters to let in the breeze, and each room has a big fan in the ceiling that is moved by the punkah-wahllah, a man who sits outside in the passageway and pulls the string with his toe. The bathroom has a door to the outside so the water carrier can come and fill up the tanks and take away the waste. The kitchens are separate because of the heat and the risk of fire. Servants are very cheap so one becomes lazy easily,’ he added.

‘How?’ Sophia asked. Callum, she thought, would not take to a life of indolence. Now, recovered physically from his ordeal, he gave her the sense of suppressed energy. Or perhaps it was simply impatience with her indecision.

‘Oh, you could be carried everywhere if you wanted. You reach out for your glass and someone puts it into your hand. You forget something and a bearer scurries off to get it the moment you frown, apologising as though it was his fault and not yours. Some of the mem-sahibs—the European wives—had constant battles with their cooks, wanting them to make English dishes. If you get used to Indian food it is much easier.’

‘Would you want Indian food in England?’ she asked, seized with trepidation at the thought of explaining dishes she did not understand to a temperamental English cook or, worse, a French one. Stop thinking like that! It is not my problem. Not yet.

‘I could always employ an Indian cook, I suppose,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ she said, politely, and then saw the amusement in his eyes. ‘You are teasing me, are you not? Seeing how far I would be prepared to accommodate your whims.’

‘Whims? A man’s dinner table is almost the most important priority.’

‘What is more important?’ Sophia asked. ‘No, do not answer that! I walked right into it.’

‘I cannot imagine what you mean.’ Callum sounded all innocence. But the man had a sense of humour, thank heavens, even if he was using it to bait her with.

Sophia tried to recall the brothers nine years ago. Daniel was usually laughing and joking. He rarely took anything seriously, except when they were together. Callum, as he had grown up, had become quieter, more intense. More private, she supposed. Or perhaps he was simply being tactful and not intruding on his twin’s courtship.

At least, he had kept out of it until that last day when he had tried to stop her tying herself to Daniel. Why had he done that? At the time she had been too hurt and indignant to puzzle over it, too distressed at Daniel’s departure to worry about what Callum thought. He had been perceptive, it seemed, and had had his twin’s best interests at heart. The love had not lasted—at least, not on her part. She could not guess at Daniel’s feelings.

She brought her mind back to the present and found Callum was taking a back lane through the woods. ‘This is charming. And mysterious,’ she added as they came out of sunlight into shade. The great beeches soared on either side; their smooth grey trunks rose like pillars in an outdoor cathedral, and the tracks that led off on either side wound their way deep into the wood.

‘I came this back way because I wanted to see if the house is still as I remember it, and this is the way we came when I was a child,’ Callum said. ‘You are going to love it or hate it, I think. It is not possible to be indifferent.’

The lane became a track, swung round to the right and opened up into a wide clearing. To the left there were views over the valley and a decent metalled carriage drive heading off to the valley road. To the right stood the house. Or, rather, there it grew, for it was hard not to think about it as anything but organic, rooted in the earth. It was built mainly of soft pinkish-red brick with a section of white stone that looked as though it might have been robbed from a ruined castle, and here and there were the signs of an oak frame, twisted with age. The roof was of clay tiles, moss-covered and irregular, and chimneys sprouted in profusion.

‘I love it.’ Sophia stared, enchanted, not realising that she had put out her hand until she found she had covered Callum’s bare fingers. He did not move away, and after a moment he curled his fingers into hers. She wished she was not wearing gloves, could feel the texture of his skin, whether he was cold or warm, sense his pulse. She gave his fingers a little squeeze, needing to share the moment.

‘I like it, too. I have only a vague recollection of it; we did not come here very often, for Great-Aunt had fallen out with Grandmama and was a trifle eccentric.’ He freed his fingers and jumped down to tie the reins to a branch. ‘Shall we see if it is as welcoming inside?’

‘You feel it? The welcome?’ That was good: they seemed to be in agreement over it. I am thinking as though I have decided. Too fast … I need more time. He is a stranger after all these years.

Callum reached to lift her from the seat, his hands hard at her waist, and she caught her breath as his eyes darkened. He let her down, slowly. Her toes brushed against his boots, her hems must have touched his thighs. Her heart thudded and she was uncertain whether it was more with nerves or desire. ‘I am down now,’ she said after a moment when he still held her.

‘On terra firma?’ His thumbs just brushed the underside of her breasts and a strange aching shiver ran through her.

‘I am not certain I have been on that since you walked back into my life,’ Sophia confessed and Callum laughed and released her.

He opened the door with a huge old key that had been left under a stone by the path and stood aside for her to enter. The house was not musty exactly; rather it smelled of old wood and fabric, faded lavender and the ghost of wax polish and wood smoke. It creaked a little as they stood there.

Somehow it swept away her jittery nerves. ‘I love it,’ Sophia repeated as they stood in the hall. ‘It feels warm, as though it wants to hug us.’ It sounded fanciful as soon as she said it, but Callum did not laugh, only looked at her a trifle quizzically.