'I cared,' he said through his teeth, and tried to take hold of her again.
'Oh, sure you did!' Sian muttered, slapping his hands away. 'Don't try to touch me, or I'll hit you so hard you won't get up for a week!'
He eyed her ominously. 'Don't threaten me, Sian.'
'Then stay away from me!'
'I just want to tell you the truth!'
'The truth? You?' She laughed and his brows twitched together, black and heavy.
'Yes, damn you! The truth! Do you think I was flattered when I realised you thought I was a hit-and-run driver?' His voice seared her, harsh and burning with sudden rage. She flinched away, frowning.
'You had an option! You could have told me I'd made a mistake!'
'At first I was too shaken. Insulted, incredulous—not to mention as angry as hell. It all happened too fast, then you went off to hospital with Piers and I talked to Magda and realised she'd deliberately run you off the road. I didn't know what to do, but I was afraid of the police coming into it because that might push he
r right over the edge. Her grasp on reality isn't too strong.' He paused, hesitating. 'And she's my little sister,' he added flatly. 'I have to take care of her, whatever she's done.'
Sian understood that, and couldn't think of anything to say in response. After all, he hardly knew her—but Magda was his sister! Of course he had chosen to defend Magda, however much he hurt her.
'Then why have you told me now?' she asked. 'Why not let me go on thinking it was you?'
'Magda has to face up to what she did; she has to admit it and take the blame, or else she'll do something like that again—even worse, maybe! She can't be allowed to think she has some sort of immunity, can do as she likes.' He sounded stern, remote, and Sian shivered. His reason for telling the truth, then, had nothing to do with her; he was still concerned only with his sister.
'I still don't think you realise what might have happened!' she accused, and he looked down at her, his eyes brilliant with anger.
'Of course I realise! Whenever I think that you could have been killed I feel sick…'
She wished she could believe the feeling in his eyes, but she dared not trust him any more. There was too much hidden between them; too many question marks in her mind.
'And it wasn't even me she wanted to kill!' She met his eyes and saw them flick away, as they always did at the mention of Annette—the biggest question mark of all. Something else occurred to Sian then, and she frowned, watching him closely.
'If you knew she hated Annette, why were you going to marry… ?' She broke off the question because she didn't think she could stand hearing him talking about Annette; she didn't want to know any more. He must have been deeply in love with her, or he wouldn't have risked marrying someone his sister hated that much. Or hadn't he realised until too late that Magda still hated Annette like poison?
He wasn't answering her, anyway; he was staring at nothing, his face in hard profile.
Sian made for the door suddenly. 'I'm going for a walk in the garden!'
He followed. 'I'll show you the roses and the croquet lawn—can you play? We could have a game. They've set it up so that people can play this afternoon. They're charging them, of course—it's all for charity, everything is being done to make money.'
Sian didn't look round at him. 'I'd rather be alone,' she said in a stiff, cold voice, then began to run, and this time he didn't follow.
It was a relief to be out of the house, in the sunlight, although she found herself surrounded by people at first. Workmen, ladies with armfuls of books, junk, plants which they were heaping up on the stalls, children setting up a crazy golf course on one lawn, while in another corner some boys were arranging coconuts on battered wooden cups for a coconut shy. She felt people looking at her, curious eyes following her. No doubt they wondered who she was—but she ignored them all, making for the distant part of the garden she could see: a wilder area of trees, rough grass, shrubs. At least there she could be alone to think.
One group of women discussed her so loudly that she could hear every word, and maybe was meant to! 'Is it her?' one asked.
Another said, 'No, she isn't old enough. The pictures in the papers made her look thirty, at least, and this one can't be more than twenty-five.'
Sian wanted to run, to get away from the speculative eyes, the faintly malicious voices, but she made herself walk steadily, her eyes fixed on nothing.
'I think it is her,' someone else said.
'Well, I don't think much of his taste! The other one was better-looking.'
'Men like blondes, though, don't they?'
Sian was almost out of earshot; the last words floated to her on the summer air, making her grind her teeth. What made people think that blonde hair meant there was nothing underneath the scalp? Why did people think in stereotypes?