Alien Wife. Anne Mather

again. ‘What was your impression?’

      Abby frowned. What had been her impression of the man her aunt was reputed to be going to marry? Yesterday afternoon he had seemed amiable enough, and certainly attractive in a hard, masculine kind of way, but during and after dinner he had been broodingly morose, only speaking when spoken to and contributing nothing of his own experiences to the conversation. She had hoped he would talk, perhaps about her aunt, but instead he had concentrated on the food on his plate, and only occasionally had she encountered his gaze upon her in frowning meditation.

      Now she shrugged her slim shoulders, and said: ‘He—he seemed withdrawn.’

      ‘Last evening, you mean?’ McGregor nodded. ‘Yes, I noticed that. Perhaps the man was tired.’

      ‘He didn’t seem so in the afternoon.’

      ‘Until after he had met you …’ murmured her adopted uncle thoughtfully.

      Abby looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well, you know he didn’t know of your existence, don’t you?’

      ‘I—yes.’

      ‘Mmm.’ The priest wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘I wonder why Scott refrained from telling him.’

      ‘You might say the same of Aunt Ella,’ Abby interposed quickly, before she could stop herself.

      McGregor sighed. ‘You are bitter, Abby. I was afraid you might be.’ He leant across the table to imprison one of her hands beneath his gnarled one. ‘My dear, Ella has her own reasons for eschewing her responsibilities towards you, and we both know what they are. Who knows? Perhaps she regrets what happened as much as we do—–’

      ‘I don’t believe that.’

      Abby’s tone was flat, and the priest released her hand and rested back in his chair regarding her disappointedly. ‘Abby, Abby! Things haven’t been so bad for you, have they?’

      Abby felt a twinge of shame. ‘Of course not, Uncle Daniel. But—without you …’

      ‘But there was me,’ he replied quietly. ‘And believe me, Ella will have suffered for her thoughtlessness.’

      ‘Thoughtlessness!’ Abby pressed her lips tightly together. She could think of other words more apt.

      ‘Well …’ McGregor pushed back his chair and got to his feet, ‘I must go. Mrs Lewis was taken ill again in the night, and I promised I’d go over this morning. If you see our guest, will you tell him I will have to postpone our tour of the village?’

      Abby replaced her coffee cup in its saucer. ‘I—er—I have the morning off,’ she volunteered. ‘I could—show Mr Jordan the village.’

      McGregor hesitated. Then he shook his head as if dismissing the problem. ‘Why not?’ he agreed. ‘I’m sure the choice of courier will not cause any dissension.’

      Abby felt a momentary pang of remorse, and reached for his hand. ‘You’ve always been like a father to me, Uncle Daniel,’ she mumbled unhappily.

      The priest patted her head reassuringly, but there was an anxious expression in his eyes. ‘You said that as if you regretted it, Abby,’ he protested, and she forced a smile and lifted her head.

      ‘I—as if I could!’ she exclaimed, and then coloured anew as a tall figure darkened the doorway.

      ‘I’m sorry. Am I late for breakfast?’

      Luke Jordan stood regarding them both apologetically, lean and disturbing in black suede pants which hugged the bulging muscles of his thighs and emphasised the length of his legs. A black roll-necked sweater completed the ensemble, throwing the lightness of his hair into sharp relief, a startling contrast to his tanned skin. Tall and powerful, he emanated a sexual attraction that was both unconscious and disruptive.

      McGregor released Abby’s hand, and greeted his guest warmly. ‘Of course not, my son,’ he told him firmly. ‘Mrs Tully will provide you with whatever you wish. And …’ he paused, glancing at Abby half doubtfully, ‘… as I have parish matters to attend to this morning, Abby has offered her services as your guide.’

      ‘Abby?’ Luke’s green eyes turned in her direction, and she could see the guarded expression in their depths. ‘That’s—very kind of her, but it’s not necessary. I can make my own way.’

      Abby’s smile felt fixed and artificial, but she insisted she had nothing else to do. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

      ‘But I understood you looked after some children,’ he interposed smoothly, and she had to compel herself to go on with the charade.

      ‘I’m free this morning,’ she explained, aware of the old priest’s eyes upon her. She forced a light laugh. ‘If you say much more, I shall think you don’t want my company!’

      Luke recognised defeat, but there was a grimness about his mouth which belied her victory. Mrs Tully appeared to see whether their guest required breakfast, and McGregor took his leave, mentioning he would see them both at lunchtime.

      Abby finished her meal quickly, and went to change her shoes while Mrs Tully attended to Luke Jordan. She guessed he was not pleased with her offer of companionship, but if she was to go through with this she must not be put off at the first obstacle. Besides, he was aware of her—how could he not be?—and once they got to know one another … She refused to consider her own feelings.

      She zipped her slender legs into long boots and added a crimson windcheater to her attire of jeans and denim shirt. Her hair she left loose for once, aware that its silky strands looked well against the brilliant colour of her jacket.

      Luke Jordan was still at the breakfast table when she returned, reading the morning newspaper and apparently in no hurry to begin his sightseeing. But he was polite enough to get to his feet when she entered the room, and his gaze flickered briefly over the attractive picture she made.

      ‘I’m ready,’ she said unnecessarily, and he inclined his head.

      ‘So I see.’

      ‘Have you finished breakfast?’

      He indicated his empty plate, the dregs in the bottom of his coffee cup. ‘It would appear so.’

      Abby sighed. ‘But you don’t want to come out with me?’

      Luke regarded her dourly for a few moments, and then he folded his newspaper and laid it beside his plate. ‘I—there’s no urgency, is there?’

      ‘No.’ Abby wished she could control her colour, but right now she didn’t seem to be having much success at controlling anything.

      Luke frowned. ‘Tell me something—how well do you know Scott Anderson?’

      ‘Scott?’ Abby was glad she was red now. It disguised any further embarrassment she might have exhibited.

      ‘Yes, Scott. You do know him, don’t you?’

      ‘Of course.’ Abby lifted her shoulders awkwardly. ‘He—well, he used to live in the village.’

      ‘I know that.’

      ‘He was—a friend of my mother’s.’

      ‘Was he? How close a friend?’

      Abby’s eyes sparkled angrily now. ‘What do you mean?’

      Luke made a gesture of innocence. ‘Nothing detrimental, I assure you. I’m merely trying to ascertain Scott’s relationship to you.’

      ‘Well …’ Abby sought for words. ‘When—when my father first left my mother, Scott’s father was still alive and living in Ardnalui. He used to come up to see him, and he used to visit my mother at the same time.’

      ‘So he and your mother—and your aunt—were much of an age?’

      ‘No.’ Abby