Uncertainly she drew level with him. He inclined his dark head, a silvered coolness in the scrutiny he sent fleetingly over her. ‘I will keep in touch,’ he told her.
‘I’ll miss you.’ It was dragged from her.
He elevated an ebony brow. ‘I think you have much to keep you occupied here.’
And that was that. He strode out of the door, down the steps and into the car. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t look back once. He took his leave of her with no more emotion than he would have used with a servant. He left her behind, and she was white-faced and sick inside. He made her painfully conscious that, for all his patience and kindness, he had not even kissed her since they left Dharein. Generally she had been too tired and too busy to refine too much on that restraint. But once or twice, yearning for that comfort that only intimacy with a loved one could bring, Polly had been very tempted to drop hints—only to be forestalled by the embarrassing fact that she didn’t know how to be subtle or even clumsy in that direction when Mrs King had put them in a room with single beds.
She pressed a shaking hand to her lips. They had had so little time here alone together; she had spent long hours with the children to keep them from under her mother’s feet. Raschid hadn’t come looking for her, though. In retrospect it seemed to her now as if he had been steadily withdrawing from her ever since they arrived.
* * *
‘Really, darling,’ snapped Anthea when her daughter reached for a second scone, ‘I’m not surprised you’re putting on weight!’
Encountering Janice Jeffries’ sympathetic eyes, Polly flushed. ‘Actually I’ve lost some,’ she said.
‘Nonsense! The buttons on that blouse are pulling.’ An astonishingly coy look banished her mother’s irritation. ‘That was always my first sign. Don’t be prissy, Polly. Are you pregnant? You can tell me—I am your mother.’
Freezing, Polly studied her plate. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Then I suggest you cut out the sweet things.’ In disappointment Anthea became sharp.
Janice, whose weekend stay was due to conclude that afternoon, tactfully turned the conversation. ‘I understand that you’re leaving on Thursday, Polly.’
Anthea sniffed, ‘Everybody’s abandoning me!’
Chris’s mother laughed. ‘Ernest will be home on Tuesday and Peter and I will be down the weekend after next. Polly must be missing her husband. She’ll soon have been here a month.’
Anthea frowned. ‘Good lord, is it really that long?’
Leaving the two older women chatting, Polly went for a walk outside. In two weeks it would be Christmas. It was very cold. She dug her hands into the pockets of the old coat she had taken from the gunroom. The emergency here was over; it was her own personal crisis that raged on. Raschid hadn’t phoned in five days. Contact had slowly wound down in frequency as her father’s health steadily improved. Raschid had not once prompted her return. She had finally made her own arrangements. She would just darned well turn up—Hey, remember me, I’m your wife!
Her strained face convulsed and suddenly she was crying. It was happening just as he had said it would happen. Her attraction had faded. Raschid might not be ready to think of divorce yet, but he was in no hurry to reclaim her. When she heard steps behind her, she stiffened in dismay.
‘I thought I’d give our mothers an extension before I broke up the party,’ teased Chris as he drew level. He peered at Polly’s turned-away profile. ‘Here, what’s wrong?’
In embarrassment she shook her head, praying that he would leave her alone again. On his couple of visits to Ladybright before his parents’ return from abroad, she had been uneasily conscious of his searching glances, his efforts to take their conversations into more personal channels. But some things weren’t for sharing. One of them was the conviction that Raschid was making the most out of a cast-iron excuse for their separation. Even his father could not question a daughter’s attendance on a sick parent.
‘It’s that damned odd marriage of yours, isn’t it?’ he persisted curtly.
A choked sob escaped her. When she would have turned away, he prevented her by closing his arms round her. ‘Oh, Chris, don’t be nice,’ she begged. ‘It’ll only make me worse.’
His hold tightened uncomfortably. ‘He can’t force you to go back to him!’
‘But I want to go back,’ Polly said in surprise.
‘You don’t need to pretend with me.’ As he stared into her lovely, tear-drenched eyes, his features tightened. ‘Polly, I…’
‘I’m not pretending.’ Her hand was braced against his shoulder, trying to press him back. Even as she dazedly read his intent expression, it was too late. He was kissing her. For a stunned second she was still before she jerked her head angrily back. ‘For goodness’ sake, Chris!’
Abashed and awkward now, he let out a groan. ‘Hell, I’m sorry. I got a bit carried away.’
In her high heels she could see over his shoulder. A hundred yards away beneath the trees lining the rear entrance to the estate, a dark male figure was stationary. In bemused horror Polly blinked. Raschid was already swinging away to retrace his steps. Her pulses had no time to go off on the Big Dipper ride he usually inspired.
‘I could kill you!’ she launched fiercely at Chris before she set off across the sodden lawn in pursuit. When she breathlessly reached the driveway, the silver limousine was still parked. Raschid was lodged by the open rear door, darkly magnificent in a navy suit and inhumanly still.
‘You will have your divorce,’ he pronounced flatly.
The cold menace of his chilling stare killed the words of explanation bubbling on her lips, and when she moved f
orward, he slashed a hand through the air, forcing her to a halt. ‘Do not return to Dharein. I will neither see you nor speak with you again.’
The blazing, earth-shattering row Polly had anticipated was nowhere in sight. Tried and sentenced without a hearing and dismissed with a snap of his aristocratic fingers, she was in shock. Before she could recover, Raschid slid into the car and slammed the door. Her eyes were maintaining a glazed contact with the receding car when Chris reached for her. Raschid hadn’t even been angry enough to lose his head, she was thinking numbly. Possibly he had seen what he wanted to see—the excuse to end their marriage.
‘Polly, I don’t know what to say,’ Chris muttered tightly. ‘Ever since your wedding, when I realised you weren’t a kid any more, I guess I’ve had this feeling that I missed the boat, but I didn’t mean to come on to you. Holding you like that…well, you’re very tempting and I just lost my head for a moment.’
Barely listening, she mumbled, ‘It’s not contagious.’
Anger flared briefly within her. Had Raschid no faith in her at all? No trust? No respect? If only she had slapped Chris like some outraged Victorian maiden! Raschid had been too far away to see her annoyance, hear her angry words.
‘What are you going to do?’ Chris pressed. ‘I feel terrible. This is my fault.’
Polly shrugged jerkily. ‘It’s just a stupid storm in a teacup. Forget about it,’ she advised tautly. ‘I’m flying back in a few days anyway.’
He sighed. ‘If there’s anything I can…’
‘Nothing.’
‘How do you intend to cover his departure?’
‘I don’t think he’d entered the house and the car was parked out of view. He could see us from here,’ she pointed out, tight-mouthed. Raschid had spied on them, he hadn’t advertised his presence, and what had he been doing arriving by the back entrance? A kiss, and she was in the divorce court. How dared he condemn her out of hand!