Caitlin took a steadying breath. "I think you're exaggerating."

"Am I?" He regarded her disparagingly. "So it's not because of our-disagreement, shall we say-that you conceived this idea of spending the weekend with your folks?"

"No." Caitlin endeavoured to concentrate on the road. "It was my father's idea, actually. Naturally-naturally, he and my mother want to-to assure themselves that you're- all right."

"Not lying, you mean?" he said, disconcerting her intentionally. "I guess you had to think of something to tell your father when I wasn't available. What excuse did you give, just so I know the score?"

Caitlin pressed her lips together. "I didn't give any excuse," she replied tersely, realising that once again he had assumed the upper hand. "I'm not a child, you know. I don't have to report all my actions to him. But I could hardly tell him where you were, because I didn't know."

"True." Nathan was laconic now. His lips twisted. "I doubt if I'd have had an answer for you if you'd asked. London is-familiar, but not Knightsbridge. At least-I've heard of Harrods, of course, but not Wellsley Square."

Which was where the flat was situated, as Caitlin well knew, and for a few moments she sensed his feelings of despair. But the junction for Wendover and Princes Risborough distracted her attention, and putting all negative thoughts aside, she turned the car off the motorway and joined the minor road that eventually led to Brook's End.

She did notice that Nathan was studying the signposts, too. But he made no comment, and she guessed they meant nothing to him. Evidently, the villages of Bledlow and Owlswick were as unfamiliar as their flat, and she felt a sense of pity for his loss.

Still, Caitlin couldn't deny a certain lifting of her spirits. Despite the fact that she'd lived in London since she was twenty-one, she had always preferred the country, and Brook's End was one of those sleepy villages that seemed rooted in a previous century. Situated off the beaten track, with no main road to divide it, and a pond where a handful of ducks had taken up residence, it was delightfully rural. Even the atmosphere was decidedly Victorian, with little traffic to disturb its calm civility.

A row of pretty cottages faced the green, with a general store-cum-post office at one end and a tearoom at the other.

St Aiden's and its adjoining vicarage provided for its spiritual needs, while The Bay Horse accommodated the rest.

Fairings was situated at the far end of the village, with wrought-iron gates that stood open beside a single-storied lodge. Beyond the gates, a stretch of parkland surrounded a mellow building, and the tyres clanked noisily over a metal grid.

"Very feudal," remarked Nathan drily, his tone intimating that so far as he was concerned, their previous discussion was at an end. "Tell me, are your parents the lord and lady of the manor? Don't tell me you're an Honourable, as well."

"No."

Caitlin decided not to start anything else she couldn't finish, and as they came off the cattle grid, Ted Follett, who lived at the lodge, appeared from around the side of the house.

"Afternoon, Mrs Wolfe," he greeted her warmly, doffing his tweed cap. Then, his eyes darting inquisitively to the man beside her, "Mr Wolfe," he appended politely. "Nice to see you up and about again, sir."

Nathan exchanged a swift glance with Caitlin, and then forced a thin smile. "Thank you," he said stiffly. "Um-it's good to be back."

"The hedges are looking pretty, Mr Follett," Caitlin put in quickly, realising Nathan hadn't recognised the man. She gave her husband a sideways glance, and then continued, "There are so many berries. Are we going to have a hard winter?"

"That's what they say," agreed the old man, but his attention was clearly fixed on Nathan. "What do you say, Mr Wolfe? I reckon you'll be looking forward to a few days' rest."

"Maybe."

Nathan's response was wary, and as if sensing this, Mr Follett scratched his bald pate before replacing his cap. "We was sorry to hear about the accident," he added. "I said to Ellie, I said, it must have been terrible for you."

"Indeed."

Nathan's tone had hardened almost imperceptibly, and Caitlin guessed he was well aware of Ted Follett's efforts to pry. But for all that, she prayed he wouldn't say anything outrageous. The last thing she wanted was for him to offend the old man.

However, "It's good to see you again, Mr Follett" was all Nathan offered. "Perhaps we'll meet again before I leave. Please give your wife my good wishes, won't you?"

Fortunately, Caitlin had anticipated what was coming and had put the car into gear and pulled away before her husband could finish what he was saying. Looking back through the rear-view mirror, she could see the old man staring after them with some bewilderment, but she was fairly sure he'd missed Nathan's final words.

"There is no Mrs Follett," she said in answer to her husband's silent indignation, and he uttered a muffled oath beneath his breath. "Mr Follett's a bachelor. He always has been. Ellie is his niece. I should have explained."

Nathan grimaced. "Oh, well-I don't suppose it matters. He'll probably think I'm drunk or on drugs-something like that." He gave her a rueful smile. "You'll have to give me some tuition. I'd hate to make the same mistake again."

"You won't."

Caitlin tried to sound confident, but she was afraid it came out rather differently than she'd hoped. The trouble was, when Nathan smiled at her like that, she found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on anything but him, and the knowledge brought a sudden tension to her words.

11.

He sprawled indolently on the cushioned window seat, one leg outstretched on the carpet, the other drawn up on the seat beside him, a resting place for his chin. He was supposed to be relaxing, looking out at the darkening garden beyond the windows, but half his attention was on Caitlin as she moved about the bedroom behind him.

She was nervous. He knew that. Even though his view of her was only a reflection in the glass, it was obvious from the agitated speed of her movements that she was constantly on edge. She was unpacking their suitcases. She was removing skirts and dresses from one, jackets and trousers from the other and hanging them away in the massive closets to be found in the dressing room next door.

He didn't know what she was doing with their underwear. From time to time, she'd bustle out of the room with something held closely against her chest. He didn't kid himself it was his boxer shorts that were receiving such special attention. Rather that she didn't want him to glimpse her lingerie.

She was behaving as if he was about to jump on her, he thought idly. And perhaps she had some justification for that. She knew he'd made no objections when her mother had explained the sleeping arrangements. But it was obvious they made no sense to her.

It was ironic, really. Despite what she'd said in the car, he knew she'd been eager to leave the apartment. He supposed she'd thought that at Fairings she'd be safe. But that was before her mother had told her that someone called Marshall O'Brien was spending the weekend with them and that, she'd given him Caitlin's old room while he was there.

Of course, Caitlin had made some objection. But she'd couched it in terms that wouldn't reveal to anyone but him exactly what she meant. He didn't believe she really thought O'Brien was invading her privacy. No, he was fairly sure she'd planned on occupying that room herself.

But her plans were thwarted, and he couldn't help feeling slightly amused by it. Particularly as she'd gone to great pains to assure her mother there was nothing amiss. Her excuse-that he would rest more easily without her tossing and turning beside him-had met with little sympathy. On the contrary, Mrs Webster had been of the opinion that she should be there in case he needed her through the night.

He was sure there must be other rooms-other suites, even-but these days, without an army of servants to run the place, they were evidently not prepared. And why shouldn't Caitlin share a bedroom with her husband? In his opinion, that was what marriage was all about.

All the same, judging from the look she'd given him as Mrs Goddard, the housekeeper, escorted them upstairs, he knew he had no reason to feel optimistic about the situation. He felt sure that if his wife had anything to do with it, she'd prefer to spend the night on the floor rather than share the generously sized double bed with him.

He just wished he knew what had gone wrong with their relationship. It wasn't that Caitlin lacked passion; he was fairly sure of that. She should have been indifferent, but she wasn't; she was powerfully aware of him. Whenever he came near her, he could sense the raw emotions she was trying to hide.

But why? Why was she afraid of her feelings? Why was she so nervous? What had he done to make her fight the attraction between them? Because he sensed it wasn't his choice that they remained apart.

There seemed to be only one solution. One of them must have had an affair with someone else. And as Caitlin clearly treated him as the usurper, he could only assume that he had been to blame.

Briefly, he explored this new consideration. But for all he allowed the thought to germinate, he wasn't convinced. For all he couldn't remember their wedding, he was sure he must have been in love with her when he married her. Was in love with her still, he mused. So why would he turn to someone else?

Conversely, the alternative to this was no less unpalatable. The idea of Caitlin with someone else filled him with an anger he could barely control. She was his, he thought violently, and he'd do anything to keep her. Including taking her against her will, if he was forced.

The lid of an empty case banged behind him, and he swore as the unexpected noise caused him to start. The lamps in the room and the darkening sky beyond the windows revealed the irritation Caitlin was feeling, and his nerves tightened impatiently at the sight.

Dammit, what was wrong with her? he wondered harshly. It wasn't as if she could blame him for what had happened, and her mother had treated him without any censure as far as he was aware. On the contrary, she had spoken to him affably, almost with affection. So whatever he had done, Caitlin had kept it to herself.

He had yet to meet her father, of course, and he had to admit that that prospect was more daunting. Caitlin had described Matthew Webster as a committed workaholic, who cared little for his health and expected a similar commitment from his staff. The man had survived a serious heart attack and had been warned not to continue running the company, but in spite of that, he still retained control.

It had crossed his mind that he might have been being groomed to be Matthew Webster's successor, but again, according to Caitlin, that was not in the cards. The other man, Marshall O'Brien-he was proud he remembered his name-was now acting as Webster's deputy, so he apparently had what was needed to take his place.

Which, unwillingly enough, brought him back to the present situation. Was it possible that it was this that had caused the rift between him and his wife? He refused to consider a connection between the two alternatives. Matthew Webster could not have found out that he was having an affair...

"Are you going to get changed for supper?"

Caitlin's inquiry was delivered in a cool, dispassionate voice, and he guessed she had decided to act as if nothing was wrong. How she really felt was anyone's guess, but she was prepared to be civil. Even if there was an edge to her voice that hadn't been there before.

"Are you?" he countered, turning to run his eyes over her dark-suited figure, and Caitlin seemed to recoil from his appraisal. She had worn the three-piece outfit to go out this morning, and she hadn't bothered to change when she returned.

"Of course," she responded now. "My father always expects us to observe the formalities." But it was his guess that she'd wear something just as prim. It wasn't her intention to provoke his interest, whatever her father's wishes, and his eyes moved half-mockingly to her face.

"Then you should know I wouldn't do anything to offend your father," he countered. "Or were you hoping to make me look a fool?"

"Not at all," she said defensively, but her cheeks were bright with colour. "And as you apparently prefer casual clothes these days, I couldn't be sure."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you saying I normally wear a suit?"

"It has been known." Caitlin moved a little uncomfortably now. "Not all the time, of course. But you didn't used to like jeans until-until the crash."

His stomach hollowed. "I can't believe it."

"Nevertheless, it's true." Caitlin glanced behind her. "Look-you can use the bathroom first. I'll-er-finish my unpacking while you change."

He got to his feet. "I thought you'd finished the unpacking," he said tersely, aware of the void yawning at his feet again. He remembered telling her to buy jeans. He remembered it distinctly. God, what was wrong with him? The implication was that his brain had been impaired.

"Oh..." she murmured now, turning away, as if even the sight of him disturbed her. "I've still got one or two things to sort out. You go ahead. I've-er-I've put your shaving gear on the shelf, and there are plenty of towels. If you tell me which suit you want to wear this evening, I'll lay it out for you."

He scowled. For all his raw uncertainty, his strongest impulse at this moment was to grab hold of her and take her in his arms. He badly needed reassurance, and she was the only one who could give it to him, but he sensed she wouldn't appreciate being mauled.

"Any suit will do," he muttered now, tugging the thick sweater he had been wearing over his head. He was un-aware of any impropriety until he saw her staring at him, but her startled eyes were wide with shock, not contempt.

If he hadn't known better, he'd have said she was gazing at him with unguarded fascination. He could feel his muscles tensing beneath her wide-eyed stare. His nipples reacted correspondingly; he could feel them. They were button hard in their fine nest of hair.

He wanted to do something, anything, to capitalise on the suddenly potent intimacy between them, but as soon as she realised what she was doing, she looked away. With the silken weight of her hair hiding her expression from him, she put a little more space between them, and he felt his heavy arousal start to subside.

"Are you scared of me, Kate?" he demanded, needing some reason for her withdrawal, and the memory of what he had considered in the hospital came back to taunt him. But dammit, he'd thought he was used to wearing jeans, and he'd been wrong about that, so how did he know if he'd ever treated her like a beast?

"No," she denied now, flicking a glance towards him. And then, "Aren't you going for your shower? It's getting late."

"To hell with the shower," he muttered harshly. "We need to talk, Kate. And I don't mean about trivialities. When are you going to tell me what I've done?"

She sighed, allowing the sound to escape her lips lightly, though he sensed she wasn't feeling that way at all. But he couldn't go on behaving as if it would all turn out all right tomorrow. Who knew but what tomorrow might never come?

"I don't think this is the time to have any kind of meaningful discussion," she declared after a few moments, and he noticed how she avoided looking at his bare chest. If she wasn't scared of him, she was scared of something. Clearly, his uninhibitedness had shocked her, and he wondered what she'd do if he got completely undressed.

Putting his thoughts into action, he snapped open the button at the waist of his trousers and lazily hooked his thumb around the tab of his zip. He was wearing silk underpants, for heaven's sake, he assured his reluctant conscience, though his reviving arousal made a mockery of that defence.

Her reaction was swift and predictable, but although he had expected her to express some objection, he was not prepared for the horror in her eyes. "I'll leave you to it," she said tightly, heading unmistakeably for the door. "I'm sure you would prefer to be alone."

"Shit!" He swore angrily, but somehow, perhaps because of his longer legs, he reached the door when she did and slammed his fist against it, keeping it shut. "Just a minute," he said roughly. "Do I really disgust you that much? Or can I believe you've never seen me naked before?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

Her denial was automatic, but somehow he wasn't totally convinced by her words. He was beginning to wonder if they'd ever consummated their marriage. Dear God, he couldn't believe that! He doubted he could have kept his hands off her for three days, let alone three years!

"Then what's wrong?" he persisted, aware that when her eyes dropped nervously to his gaping zip, his body responded accordingly. He could feel his hard arousal forcing the zip to part, and the pain was quite exquisitely intense.

"Must we go into this again?" she said unevenly, looking away, and he felt the urge to bury his face in the scented hollow of her neck. And not just his face, he thought bitterly. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to find his own heaven in the sweetness of her sheath.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't force her to have sex with him-even though he sensed she wouldn't stop him if he tried. With her mother within earshot, and her father and his cohort probably equally as accessible, whatever he did, she wouldn't run the risk of embarrassing anyone else.

And he found that knowledge a distinct turn-off. As far as he knew, he'd never had to force a woman in his life. He didn't want her that way; he didn't want to make love to a martyr. But there was more to her resistance than she'd admitted so far.

"All right," he said at last, moving away, aware that she remained where she was, frozen against the door. "If I'm wrong, there has to be another explanation. Is what you're not admitting the fact that there's someone else?"

Her silence was unnatural, charged, and when he swung round to face her, he found her pressing the back of one hand to her lips. Until that moment, he hadn't believed it. Even though he'd made the accusation, he'd been boxing in the dark. But the consternation in her face was unmistakeable. She looked-guilty, and he felt gutted at the thought of what it meant.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she declared at last, and he felt a sudden surge of anger at his impotence. Dammit, what did she think he was? Some idiot colonial who wouldn't care if she was unfaithful? Some hick country boy she could dupe without remorse?

"I think you do," he snarled angrily, thrusting his face into hers. "There's another man. Isn't there? Goddammit, is it someone I should know?"

Caitlin caught her breath. "There's no other man," she protested, her face a picture of bewilderment now, and if he hadn't been so incensed, he'd have realised she was telling the truth. "Honestly, Nathan, I'm not that kind of woman. You've always said I was..."

What?

He stared at her in raw frustration when she didn't finish the sentence, but whatever she had been going to say, she had evidently decided she had gone far enough. Pressing herself back against the door, she took her lower lip between her teeth, and no amount of silent prompting on his behalf could persuade her to go on.

He wanted to shake her then, was tempted to shake her, only he was afraid that if he touched her, he wouldn't be able to stop. Her tension had made her vulnerable, and he was intensely aware of her femininity. Beneath her cream silk blouse and the ridiculously formal waistcoat, her breasts were heaving anxiously against the cloth.

The sight of the dusky hollow, just visible above the vee of the blouse was electrifying. Just a glimpse of her flesh and he was again at the mercy of his sex. He wanted her; he didn't care if she'd been unfaithful, he just wanted her. She was his wife, and she had no right to keep him at arm's length.

"If-if you think threatening me is going to prove anything, forget it," she got out eventually, and he realised she had completely misread the way he felt. Across her throat, he could see a fine vibration, and there was a feathering of goose bumps up her neck.

"Dammit, Kate," he groaned as guilt made him run restless fingers into his hair. He could feel the same covert trembling within himself. "I'm your husband. I'm not a monster. I'm not going to hurt you. If you're afraid of me, for God's sake, tell me why."

His words, obviously as unexpected to her as they'd been to him, seemed to disarm her. No doubt she'd anticipated another angry outburst, and his hoarse plea for understanding seemed to neutralise her response.

"I'm-not-afraid of you," she protested, though her eyes were still wary. "And I want to help you, if I can. But you can't expect to absorb everything at once."

He drew in a breath. "And what I said?" he asked, unable to leave it be. "About there being someone else. You swear it's not true?"

"I swear-I've not-I've never been unfaithful to you," she said. "Now, do you think we could talk about something else?"

He gave in because it was easier, and because, quite frankly, he didn't feel as if he had the strength to go on. All this emotion was exhausting. He could feel his temples throbbing. God, what he'd really like to do was go to bed.

"Are you all right?"