Witch's Harvest. Sara Craven
‘It is not important.’ He lifted his hand. ‘Because, in any case, I would never marry any woman capable of making such a threat.’
‘Oh, Vasco, no! She’s confused—unhappy. She didn’t realise what she was saying—how it would affect you …’
‘She knew.’ His voice was flat, the short syllables sounding like a knell.
Abby tried again. ‘But you love her. You have to forgive her.’
‘If she had loved me in the way that I believed—had been the kind of woman I wanted for my wife, then she could not have behaved in this way,’ he said, the words slurring faintly. ‘Anyway, it is finished. She is in Paris with her lover, and I am going to get another drink. Forgive me if I do not, this time, invite you to join me. I prefer my own company.’
She watched unhappily as he made his way to the bar. He was walking steadily, but she knew he was already near some dangerous limit, although this was probably more emotional than alcoholic.
She was shattered by what he had told her. How totally Della had misjudged him by holding Jeremy Portman, rich, blond, and not over-burdened with brains, over his head. Abby shook her head. How could Della even contemplate marrying a man like that, when she could have Vasco?
Yet it was all too probable she had no such intention. Della undoubtedly had expected Vasco to be on the phone immediately, chastened and contrite, agreeing to everything she wanted.
She could imagine Della’s increasing agitation when zero hour came and went without a word from him. She groaned silently. Her cousin was probably at this minute flying back to seek him out. If so, it looked like a wasted journey, although he might feel differently in the morning, when he’d sobered a little.
She glanced up and saw him returning, drink in hand. He sat down, directing an insolently caustic glance at her.
‘Still here, senhorita? How can I convince you I don’t need a handmaiden?’ The slurring was more evident now, and his tone was an insult, but Abby stayed put.
‘I’ve told you, I don’t like being out on my own at this time of night. And you’re surely not too far gone to find me a cab,’ she said with a matter-of-fact shrug.
The dark eyes glinted ominously at her. ‘So—the quiet mouse can roar when she wishes. If I find you this taxi, will you promise then to leave me in peace?’
‘Of course.’ Abby shrugged again. ‘There’s no point in reasoning with you when you’re in this condition.’
He swallowed what remained in his glass and stood up. ‘Come, then.’
It was cool outside the pub, with a hint of rain in the air. A taxi cruised past as they emerged, and Abby watched anxiously as Vasco advanced to the edge of the kerb to hail it. The fresh air was clearly having an effect on him.
When she got there he was leaning against the side of the cab, eyes closed, a faint beading of sweat on his forehead.
She was about to tell the driver to drive them both to Vasco’s flat, but then she thought of the lift, the long corridor to negotiate, possibly having to search his pockets for the key, and her heart quailed. Hastily she gave her own address instead.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ the driver jerked a thumb at Vasco. ‘As if I couldn’t guess,’ he added grimly. ‘I’m not taking him in that condition.’
‘Oh, please,’ Abby said urgently. ‘He—he’ll be all right, I swear he will.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll pay you double fare if you’ll take him.’
‘Not necessary,’ the driver said. ‘As long as you understand, if he’s ill, I’m going to dump the pair of you, no matter where we are.’
Abby nodded. ‘Agreed,’ she said, then hesitated. ‘Could you—help me with him, please?’
‘Gawd help us!’ grumbled the driver, but he left his seat.
He kept a wary eye on them both in the mirror all the way back to the quiet street where she lived, but the journey was completed without mishap. Vasco lay in his corner of the seat, unspeaking, with his eyes closed. When they arrived at their destination the driver had mellowed sufficiently to offer to help her in with him.
‘Glad I won’t have his head in the morning,’ he muttered, as he supported Vasco’s tall body up the single flight of stairs. ‘Right, I’ll hold him, ducks, while you get the door open.’ As Abby complied, ‘Now where do you want him?’ He looked round the room. ‘On that couch?’
‘I think perhaps on the bed,’ Abby said hurriedly. ‘It’s behind that screen.’
He gave her a good-naturedly knowing look. ‘Just as you like, love, but your boyfriend won’t be much good to you tonight.’
Abby bit her lip. ‘He’s just a friend,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you for your help.’ She added a generous tip to the fare on the meter, and saw him off the premises.
When she returned, Vasco was lying on top of the covers where the driver had left him, breathing stertorously. She shook him slightly, but he did not stir. Moving gently, she removed his shoes, and the silk socks beneath, then unfastened his tie, and after a struggle eased him out of his jacket.
And that, she thought ruefully, is as far as I go.
She pushed and heaved him into a more comfortable position, and arranged the bedspread over him, then switched off the bedside lamp and went back into the living area. She found a couple of spare blankets and spread them on the couch, before removing her own coat, dress and shoes and wriggling into their shelter.
The couch felt hard, and she was cramped, but if she’d been occupying a feather bed, she knew she would still not have slept. She lay staring into the darkness, thinking what a mess everything was. Della in Paris with a man she didn’t really love, Vasco drinking himself into a stupor, and herself involved up to her neck once again, and no happier for it.
She didn’t know how Vasco would react when he woke in the morning and discovered where he was, but she could guess. She had given him more than sufficient reason already to resent her interference.
She sighed, burying her face in an unfriendly cushion. It would be hard if she were to find herself the target for his anger and bitterness at their very last encounter, but she supposed it was inevitable.
And there was a curious, bitter-sweet pleasure in knowing that he was lying only a few yards away from her, sharing a roof with her for the first and last time, even if the circumstances were in no way what she had envisaged in her dreams.
She was glad too to know that she had been of service to him, although he was unlikely to welcome the fact.
Abigail Westmore, she thought painfully. The eternal handmaiden. And on that prosaic reflection, she fell asleep.
THE CRASH SEEMED to shake the room.
Abby sat up gasping, totally disorientated for a moment. It was early, she realised, probably not long past dawn, to judge by the pale grey light stealing in between the curtains. She struggled free of the morass of blankets and ran towards the flimsy partition which separated her sleeping area from the rest of the accommodation, her hand frantically searching for the switch of the overhead light.
As the light came on, she saw Vasco sitting up in bed, raking a hand through his dishevelled hair, his eyes blank with astonishment as they met hers. Clearly, he had woken before, because the rest of his clothes were now scattered across the floor. The bedside lamp was with them, she noticed, which explained the crash.
She said, ‘Are you all right? Were you having a bad dream?’
He said ‘Deus!’ and touched his forehead, wincing. ‘If I am, I think it