Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (reading an ebook TXT) 📕

tentatively to the zipper at the back of her dress. The soft red silk slid to the floor. Beneath it she wore nothing but a black lace slip. He pulled the straps down over her shoulders and the slip followed the dress, leaving her quite naked. Keeping an iron control over himself, Nick led her gently to the bed and pulled back the covers, watching as obediently she turned to climb in. Across her shoulders was a fading welt, the mark of Sam's belt. At the sight of them Nick felt a wave of blind fury sweep over him. For a moment he did not move. He clenched his fists, feeling the icy drench of perspiration across his shoulders as he closed his eyes.

"Nick?" He heard Jo's whisper from the bed.

She had pulled the sheet over herself and was staring at him. He could see the sudden fear behind her eyes.

He forced himself to smile. "It's okay, Jo. " He sat down beside her. "It's not you. I just had this tremendous urge to kill my brother. " He touched her face gently, then slowly he began to unbutton his shirt. "I won't hurt you, Jo. I promise. " He reached out to turn off the lamp. Then he pulled her into his arms.

She slept lightly, waking twice in the night to reassure herself that Nick was still there, snuggling against his warm, relaxed body before drifting back into a restless, dream-haunted sleep. Once she cried out and Nick turned to her without waking and held her close against him. They both woke early. Jo was pale and there were dark rings under her eyes as she made their coffee and toast while he was shaving. He glanced at her once or twice as they had their breakfast, concerned at her unnatural quietness.

"Jo, are you all right?" he asked at last.

She nodded. "Tired, that's all. I didn't sleep very well. "

He smiled. "Not my fault, I hope. "

"No, not your fault. " She made herself smile back over her coffee cup. "Nick, Ceecliff took my car. If you don't need yours, would you lend it to me this morning?"

He glanced at her sharply. She was taut as a wire again, her knuckles white on the handle of her cup.

"Of course you can borrow it. " He reached into his pocket for the keys. "Where do you want to go?"

"I've got one or two things to do. " She made a visible effort to pull herself together. "I've been away so much. If I'm going to Suffolk tomorrow, I must get some things sorted out today. "

"Okay. " He finished his toast, drained his coffee, and stood up. "I'll call you later. If you're very good, there might even be a glass of champagne for you at the office this evening. " He paused as he was about to put on his jacket. "Do you want me to come back here this evening?"

"You know I do. " She stood up and reached up to kiss him. "I want you to come back here always, Nick. "

As soon as he left she showered and dressed in a blue linen skirt and blouse. She straightened the apartment, put her camera and notebook in her bag, and picked up the keys to the Porsche. Then she hesitated. She looked at the pile of books on the table.

She knew what she had to do. She had to find out where Matilda had died. No more trances, no more hypnotism. Just plain fact, to finish the story off. When she got there she would know. She opened the notebook and stood staring down at the scribbled lines of writing; notes taken so many weeks ago, which had meant so little then. Now they were a shorthand mockery of a lifetime of love and hate and hope and fear.

She ran her finger down the page. "Matilda and her son were sent from Bristol to a dungeon at Windsor"... Windsor or Corfe. She gazed across the room unseeing. Windsor or Corfe. She would know at once. She would feel Matilda's fear. That would be enough. There would be no last trance; no more. Just the final stark sentence in her story.

She closed the notebook resolutely and, picking up her bag, let herself out of the apartment.

The Porsche ate up the miles to Windsor, streaking down the fast lane of the M4 without regard to the speed limit. From far away the huge towers of the castle showed from the road, shimmering in the haze that hung over the willow-lined water meadows which bordered the Thames. Jo swung the car into the old town and parked it in a side street below the massive castle walls. For a moment she did not move. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel and closed her eyes, trying to steady the uneasy pounding of the pulse beneath her ribs. Then, taking a deep breath, she swung the car door open and pulled herself out. The town was very crowded and she was jostled back and forth on the pavement as she made her way resolutely toward the gatehouse at the entrance to the castle.

The lower ward was thronged with people. Gray stone; walls; towers; the flying buttresses of St. George's Chapel; emerald grass, clipped as if by nail scissors. Up toward the hill on which stood the huge round tower. Cameras; children; everywhere people staring; people laughing; people talking; people only superficially aware of the ghosts that walked around them. Hitching her bag up higher onto her shoulder, Jo stared up at the vast bulge of the gray walls. High above, rippling from the flagpole, was a flag. She felt her stomach tighten as she stared up, half expecting to see again the snarling leopards of John's standard against the stormy sky. Her mind made a tentative shadowy probe toward the dream, rejected it, and drew back. It was not John's standard. She could see the brash red, white,