I want to marry you in the church at Lower Mychett, in view of everyone. I don't want us to have to get married. I want you to myself, at least for a while.'

Which had been just as well, thought Olivia now, shaking her head. What a mess that would have been! If she had found she was expecting Matthew's baby! She wondered what her mother would have done then...

Of course, she and Matthew had spent every moment they could together from then on. For the next six months, they had devised a hundred ways of being alone together, once even spending a weekend in the Cotswolds, staying in a thatched-roofed cottage they had leased through an agency.

There had been a tantalising delight in pretending they were married, in sleeping together in the big old four-poster bed, and sharing their breakfast in the sunlit parlour. Olivia had known she had never been so happy in her life before"or since"and it had seemed impossible that anyone could take it all away from her.

But, in June, it had happened. On her eighteenth birthday, to be precise, she remembered"though why her grandmother had chosen that occasion to break the news to her, Olivia could only imagine.

Perhaps, for a while, the old lady had hoped nothing would come of their relationship. It was an unlikely alliance, after all: the squire's son and the tenant's daughter; she might have believed that Matthew's father would not allow their a.s.sociation to continue. Or her daughter-in-law...

That jealousy might have played some part in her grandmother's scheme of things, Olivia had tried not to believe.

In spite of everything, she was the woman who had brought her up, who had, in many ways, taken her mother's place. Could she have hated her so much? Olivia could only speculate. Whatever, she had maintained that as a Christian"as a loyal member of the church"she could not, in all conscience, allow this abomination to continue. And Olivia had been in no state to deny her.

Nevertheless, she had chosen to reveal the information she possessed on the most important evening of Olivia's young life.

The evening when she came of age, and Matthew's parents were throwing a party in her honour. Matthew had said it was their way of announcing to the district in general, and to the Stoners in particular, that they approved of their son's relationship with her, and Olivia's mother had even cajoled Robert Stoner into wearing a dinner-jacket for the occasion.

Looking back on it now, Olivia recalled her own feelings as she accompanied her parents to Rycroft. There had been antic.i.p.ation, certainly, but not any pleasurable intent. Indeed, she had tried to get out of going, but of course that had been impossible. Instead she had gone with them, feeling as if someone had drained every drop of blood from her body; as if the waxy pallor of her face was in some way indicative of the fact that the girl she had been that morning had died and been replaced by a zombie.

And all because her grandmother had come into her bedroom as she was getting ready for the party, and told her that Matthew was her brother... Well, half-brother, really, Olivia amended now, her eyes flickering irresistibly over his lean dark face. The stories she had never really believed, that Matthew's father had been something of a philanderer in his youth, were true. He really had sown his wild oats, both before and after his marriage to Lady Lavinia. He and Felicity Stoner"or Felicity Jennings, as she had been then"had had an affair. And she, Olivia, was the result of that unhappy alliance. Robert Stoner wasn't her father at all.

Matthew's father was.

Naturally, she hadn't believed it. Hadn't wanted to believe it, anyway. Even though it had explained her grandmother's att.i.tude towards her over the years. Besides, she argued, her mother would have told her. She, of all people, must know how she and Matthew felt about one another.

But here her grandmother destroyed what little hope she had left. No one knew, she said. Matthew's father didn't know. So far as he, and everyone else was concerned, Olivia was Robert Stoner's child. Even the man she called her father believed that she was his daughter. How could Felicity have told her, when it would mean the destruction of her own marriage?

For a while, Olivia had felt numb, incapable of thought, and certainly incapable of reason. The magnitude of what her grandmother had told her was such that for a few minutes she couldn't even remember what she was doing.

But then the pain had come, sweeping down on her like the sword of Damocles, that had been hanging over her, unknowingly, all these years. And with the pain had come the need to deny what she had heard, to refute the things her grandmother was saying, and argue that, if it had been such a closely guarded secret, how could anyone prove that it was true?

And that was when Harriet Stoner had produced the letters, the letters Matthew's father had written to her mother, and which had proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they had been having an affair. She hadn't wanted to read them. They were private, she'd said. But her grandmother had made her, standing over her as she did so, pointing out the relevant phrases that revealed the intimacy of their relationship.

How her grandmother had got hold of those letters, Olivia had never found out. It had been sufficient to know that they were still around, that Felicity had felt incapable of destroying them, even after all these years. Had she kept them because she had intended telling her daughter one day? Or were they simply a memento, a reminder of the recklessness of youth?

But it was one of Felicity's own letters that betrayed her guilt.

My darling Matt, I am going to have a baby; our baby. I'm telling you, because I know it's what you've always wanted, and I wanted to share it with you. But I know you have Lavinia to think about, and it's not going to be easy, for either of us.

Indeed, sometimes I think it would be better if we never saw one another again. Bob loves me. I know that. And I love him. But I'll never love anyone as I love you. Believe that. Fliss.

'But"how do you know that----?' Olivia had begun desperately, as she put the hateful letter aside, and in answer her grandmother had produced two certificates. One was her parents'

marriage certificate, the date, in December, only now acquiring some significance. The other, as if she had needed to see it, was her own birth certificate, dated some seven months later.

'But if"if you knew my mother was expecting another man's child when she married my"father,' Olivia had stumbled, 'why didn't you tell him?'

'Because I didn't know,' her grandmother had replied quellingly. 'Your mother didn't leave these letters lying around, you know. It was only after you were born that I became suspicious.'

Olivia had shaken her head. 'I don't understand----'

'Your mother and my son were childhood sweethearts,' the old lady had declared coldly. 'It was always expected that one day they'd get married, and that was how it was. Matthew Ryan"the older Matthew Ryan, I mean"was probably just an aberration. She never loved him. Oh, I know what she says in her letter, but the facts don't bear this out. Felicity loved my son. She had always loved my son. She was just"flattered by Matt Ryan's attentions. And that man took advantage of it.'

Of course, she had asked more questions, desperately trying to Find some loophole in her grandmother's story; but there was none. When she asked why her grandmother hadn't confronted her mother with the evidence, Mrs Stoner had been quite pragmatic. What would have been the point? she said. They were already married, happily married. So far as her son was concerned, he had a new baby daughter. Why should she destroy his happiness for the sake of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child?

Olivia had been sick then, violently sick. She had locked herself in the bathroom, and wished she had the courage to use her father's razor on her wrists. Life had lost all meaning. She no longer wanted to go on living. If the man she loved was forbidden to her, what earthly use was there in going on?

Looking back now, Olivia realised how melodramatic she had been. Hearts didn't break; they only cracked a little. But at eighteen, she had been young, and desperately in love. Desperate enough to see no future, just the wreckage of the past.

But, somehow, they had persuaded her that she had to go to the party. Of course, her parents hadn't known what had turned the light-hearted girl who had wakened up that morning into the pale ghost they accompanied to Rycroft, but they had been determined that she shouldn't let them down. They probably thought she and Matthew had had a row, she reflected, and, sure enough, before the party was over, that was what had happened.

Matthew had been much less tolerant of her reasons for appearing like a skeleton at the feast. His sympathies had been decidedly strained, and when he had produced an engagement ring and she had turned him down, the angry words had come, thick and fast.

However, Olivia had found that anger had given her the strength to get through the rest of that dreadful evening. Even though she had had to contend with her father's contempt, too, on the way home. Robert Stoner had been blind to everything but the fact that, somehow, his daughter had shamed him, and without the right to reveal the truth Olivia hadn't said a word in her own defence.

But it must have been harder still for her mother, Olivia reflected now. Had she guessed what had happened? In the days that had followed, when Olivia went around silent and uncommunicative, had she suspected anything? There was no way of knowing, even now. It was a subject that had always, and must always, remain taboo. And Olivia had had too hard a time keeping Matthew at bay to feel much sympathy for anyone else.

CHAPTER NINE.

The day of the funeral proved to be just as hot as the day before. Olivia could feel the sun beating down on the shoulders of her navy silk suit, as she stood beside the open grave in the churchyard. She felt sorry for her sister, wilting beside her. In these latter stages of her pregnancy, Sara was feeling the heat, and Olivia guessed she missed the support of her absent husband.

Across the grave, Olivia saw that the Ryans had turned out in force. Matthew's father" her father? "was there, and Lady Lavinia. And Matthew himself, of course, dark and disturbing in his charcoal-grey suit. Would she ever look at Matthew objectively? she wondered. Even now, knowing what she did, he still made her senses burn.

Surprisingly, Helen wasn't with him. Or perhaps not so surprisingly, she thought, trying to think impartially. After all, she doubted Helen even knew of her grandmother's existence.

And just because she was married to Matthew was no reason to share all his responsibilities.

She allowed her gaze to move to Matthew's father, trying to be impartial about him, too. And, whatever way she looked at it, she couldn't feel that he had any connection with her life. He might be her natural parent, but Robert Stoner was her father.

She had wondered how she would feel, seeing him again, but she felt nothing. She wondered how he felt, looking across the grave at the woman who had once been his mistress. Did he feel anything? Did her mother feel anything? Or had it been, as her grandmother had said, just a fleeting aberration?

The vicar's words came to an end, and the silence in the graveyard was broken only by the patter of soil falling on the coffin. Robert Stoner had stooped to make his final farewell to his mother, and Olivia turned aside, ashamed of feeling so little.

And it was then that she saw the look that pa.s.sed between her mother and Matthew's father. She doubted anyone else noticed. Like all good Christian men and women, most were intent on paying their last respects to the deceased"or appearing to do so, which, in a place like Lower Mychett, was equally important. But, when Lady Lavinia turned to speak to one of the estate workers standing beside her, her husband's eyes were drawn to those of the woman sitting in the wheelchair opposite.

And Olivia, sensitive to every nuance of the situation, glimpsed a raw emotion she had never before seen displayed.

It was over almost instantly. Her father came to his feet, to take charge of his wife's wheelchair, and Felicity looked up at him, her face alight with compa.s.sion. She knew how he was feeling, and she was showing she shared his grief; but the warmth between them was a pa.s.sive thing, compared to the pa.s.sion Olivia had intercepted.

And it shook her. As she followed her parents on to the stone path that led to the lych-gate, Olivia found she was trembling.

And not just because she had caught Matthew's eyes upon her, with much the same kind of bitter anguish in their depths. Until that moment, she realised, she had always held out the hope that perhaps her grandmother had been mistaken, that maybe, somewhere, there was some other 'Matthew' whom her mother had known. Now, she no longer entertained such a belief.

Whatever she might have thought of her grandmother for telling her, it was true. Her mother had had a relationship with Matthew's father, and she was the living proof.

Later that afternoon, Matthew cornered her in her father's study.

The funeral over, family and friends had returned to the farm, where a buffet lunch, prepared by Mrs Davis, was waiting. Not surprisingly, the house was soon filled to overflowing with the many mourners whom Harriet Stoner had known through her work for church committees, but after three gla.s.ses of sherry Olivia had sought refuge away from the crowd, in the hope of avoiding the many expressions of sympathy she felt she didn't deserve.

Even so, she was restless, pacing about the stuffy room, regretting now her decision to stay on after the funeral. She had phoned Perry the night before, in the hope that he might rea.s.sure her, but he had been annoyed that she was staying in England.

New York was her home now, he maintained, and her family hadn't cared about her all these years, so why should she care about them now?

Of course, she had tried to explain. She had told him about her mother's heart attack, and her subsequent disablement, but Perry had not been sympathetic. He was missing her, he said. She was neglecting the agency. That should be of more importance than something that had happened so long ago, and for which there was no solution now.

It wasn't what she had wanted to hear, she acknowledged.

After talking to Matthew"after putting herself through the agony of remembering what had happened ten years ago"she had needed Perry's support, not his condemnation. She had been hoping to re-establish her links with the life she had now, but all Perry had done was leave her feeling even more confused.

Last night, she had been disturbed by the feelings Matthew still aroused inside her. She had wanted to prove to herself that she was exaggerating their importance, and that as soon as she heard Perry's voice she would come to her senses. But it hadn't happened that way. And today, after that incident at the funeral, she was very much afraid she was heading towards disaster.

Consequently, when the door opened and Matthew came into the room, she was in no mood to be conciliatory. 'What do you want?' she demanded irritably, as he closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. 'Just go away and leave me alone, Matt. I warn you, I'm not good company right now.'

Matthew took no notice. He just ran the palms of his hands down the panels of the door behind him, before pushing himself forward into the room. He had loosened the top two b.u.t.tons of his shirt, and pulled his black tie away from his collar, but he still looked better than any man she had ever seen. And she still wanted him, she thought despairingly. The desire to slip her hands inside his collar and stroke the brown column of his throat was a burning temptation, and she turned her back on him to try and silence the forbidden clamouring of her senses.

'Are"are people leaving?' she asked offhandedly, picking up the gla.s.s she had carried into the study with her, and swallowing the remainder of its contents. That was four sherries she had had now, she warned herself, wondering if the wine was responsible for the appalling lack of control she seemed to have over her body. She had shed the jacket of her suit, but her arms inside the black chiffon blouse she was wearing were still too hot. And every time she looked at Matthew she could feel the beads of sweat trickling between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

'I don't know,' Matthew answered now, his hand taking the empty gla.s.s from hers, revealing that he had come to stand beside her. 'I don't particularly care, do you? I'm sorry the old lady's dead, but she was never any friend of mine.'

'No.' Olivia swallowed the urge to turn towards him, and looked away. Towards the window, this time, and the sun-bleached vegetation of the kitchen garden, where her mother grew the peas and carrots they had eaten at supper the previous evening.

'Nor yours either, if what you told me was true,' Matthew continued softly, lifting his hand to loop a tendril of hair behind her ear, and Olivia flinched away from him.

'What do you mean?' she exclaimed, incapable in that moment of remembering what she had said, and Matthew expelled his breath on a sigh.

'When she told me you'd been planning to leave all along,' he reminded her evenly. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I got the impression that wasn't the way it was.'

'Does it matter?' Olivia put a little more s.p.a.ce between them, and leaned on the sill. The window was ajar, and the coolness that came through the gap was very welcome. 'It's so hot,' she added, half to herself, smoothing the moist skin in the hollow of her throat. 'There's no air.'

'It's the sherry,' remarked Matthew, coming to prop his hips on the sill beside her. 'You've been knocking it back pretty consistently since we got back from the service.'

'How do you know?' Olivia looked at him then, her eyes dark with indignation, and Matthew lifted his shoulders.

'I've been watching you.'

'You have no right to!'

'Don't I?' He arched a speculative brow, and Olivia could feel her heart pounding as she dragged her eyes away from his.

'No.'

'Liv.' His voice was persuasive now. 'Why did you really walk out on me? G.o.d"I've got to know!'

'You do know,' she retorted, in a constricted voice, concentrating on a bee, that was buzzing in and out of a head of cauliflower that had gone to seed. 'I"our relationship was getting too"heavy. You wanted to get married. I didn't.'

'I don't believe that.'

Matthew's response was driven from him, and Olivia had to hold on to the sill very tightly, in an effort to avoid the urge to console him. But when he gripped the edge of the sill and tipped his head back, to rest it against the window pane, the need to touch him became irresistible, and although she knew she would regret it later, she ran the palm of her hand across his taut knuckles.

His hand moved then, turning over to grasp hers, and his fingers slid between her fingers in a totally sensuous gesture.

'Liv,' he said hoa.r.s.ely, and even though she knew what she was doing was wrong she didn't pull away. 'I love you, Liv,' he muttered, lifting her hand to his lips, and pressing his mouth against her palm. 'I always have. I always will.'

'No----'

She tore her hand away from his then, pressing both hands against her chest, as if he had done her some terrible injury. And that was how it felt, she thought, gazing down at her balled fists.

With that small action, he had opened a wound that had never properly healed, and now it was raw, and bleeding.

'For pity's sake, Liv,' he said now, getting up from the window sill and coming towards her, and although she backed away from him it was a futile gesture. He caught her easily, and when he put out his hands and gripped the curve of her neck she didn't resist him.

She thought he was going to kiss her, but he didn't. Not then.

He just pulled her into his arms and pressed his face into the silky ma.s.s of her hair. And Olivia held him, too, her arms around his waist, inside his jacket, with only the fine silk of his shirt between her and his warm flesh. Her cheek was against his chest, just beside the loosened knot of his tie, and the musky smell of his skin invaded her nostrils.

'G.o.d, do you know how good this feels?' he muttered, after a minute, and although Olivia was in total agreement his words aroused her from the sensual stupor of her senses.

'You're right,' she said, but when his hand moved to her nape, to tip her face up to his, she pressed her hands against his chest.

'I"have had too much to drink,' she continued, knowing it was not what he had expected to hear. 'I think you'd better let me go---'

Matthew's mouth contorted. 'You don't mean that.'

'I do mean it.' She succeeded in pushing him to arm's length.

'You forget " you're " married, and I"I am going to marry Perry----'

'Like h.e.l.l,' swore Matthew angrily, disposing of her resistance effortlessly, jerking her back against him so hard that she almost lost her breath. 'I won't let you marry that creep! I won't let you marry anyone! You're" mine.' And, forcing her to look at him, he covered her mouth with his.

Her eyes were open and so were his, so that she could see the raw pa.s.sion in their depths. And then the hungry possession of his tongue in her mouth robbed her of all reason, and her lids wouldn't stay open any longer. Her world narrowed to encompa.s.s only the two of them; there was just Matthew's hands, and Matthew's lips, and the hard strength of Matthew's body straining against hers.

She sagged against him helplessly, clutching his shirt-front to prevent herself from falling as her knees gave way, and only realised she was hurting him when he took a sudden intake of breath.

Her eyes opened then, but her dilating pupils only solicited a m.u.f.fled protest. 'It doesn't matter,' he said when she blinked her disbelief, and, releasing her mouth with reluctance, he shoved his hand between them, and dragged open the remaining b.u.t.tons of his shirt. 'You grabbed a handful of hair, that's all,' he explained, his arm around her waist supporting her. 'And while you're welcome to strip me naked I'd rather you didn't skin me first.'

'Oh, Matt!

His humour was so familiar to her, and although it was her chance to bring some sanity to the situation it had the opposite effect. Instead of drawing away from him, she cradled his face between her hands and studied him, as if she needed to commit his image to memory. But she knew every pore of his lean features, from the laughter-lines around his eyes to the muscle that pulsed below his jawline. She had once covered every inch of face with kisses, and as she continued to look at him she knew he was remembering that, too.