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‘Norah?’ Paige repeated, her voice still rough with sleep.
The woman nodded. ‘The housekeeper, ma’am.’ Her eyes glinted with concern. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Fowler?’
Paige moistened her lips with her tongue. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I just…’ Memory returned with a rush. Mrs Fowler. That was who she was. But she wasn’t Alan’s wife, she was Quinn’s.
She sat up slowly and ran her hands through her hair. She felt light-headed, almost as if she’d had too much to drink. It was jet lag, she thought, the result of concentrating yesterday afternoon and evening into a four-hour flight on the Concorde from New York. And it was something more, it was the way her life had changed in the last hours.
Norah was saying something about it being a lovely day. Paige looked up and smiled tentatively.
‘I’m sorry, Norah. I seem to be a bit foggy. What time did you say it was?’
‘Just past eight, ma’am.’
Paige put her hands to her head. ‘Morning or evening?’ she asked with a little laugh.
Norah smiled. ‘Morning, ma’am. Would you like me to run a bath for you?’
‘No, thank you.’
The woman nodded. ‘I’ve set breakfast in the library. I hope that meets with your approval.’
After all that had happened to her, the thought that anyone should even wonder about her approval made Paige laugh. The housekeeper’s brows rose.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mrs Fowler? Perhaps I should send Mr Fowler to you.’
‘No,’ Paige said sharply, and then she took a breath. ‘No, thank you, Norah,’ she said carefully. ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled as she tossed back the covers. ‘A cup of coffee is…’
Her words tumbled to a halt as she glanced down at herself. She was dressed in a nightgown, one of the lace ones her mother had bought for her trousseau. But when… ? And who… ? She had a swift, heart-stopping memory of strong, tanned hands brushing against her skin, undoing the buttons of her blouse. But there was nothing after that image.
‘Ma’am?’
Paige drew a breath. ‘Just tell my—tell Mr Fowler I’ll be down in a few minutes. I’m just going to unpack.’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘I’ll do that while you’re at breakfast, ma’am. I’d have done it last night, after Mr Fowler sent me upstairs to help you into your nightgown. But he said not to disturb you, so…’
Paige laughed shakily. ‘You mean you… Thanks, Norah. I’m not usually so helpless.’
The woman smiled pleasantly. ‘You weren’t helples
s at all, Mrs Fowler. You were just exhausted. And who wouldn’t be, after such an exciting day? It’s so romantic.’ Paige, who had swung her legs to the floor and was pouring a cup of coffee, glanced up.
‘Romantic?’
‘Your elopement, ma’am. Who would have thought Mr Fowler would come home with a bride?’
A flush swept across Paige’s cheeks. ‘Indeed,’ she said, forcing a smile through stiff lips, ‘who would have thought?’
The artificial smile fell from her face as the door closed. Exciting, she thought bitterly. Romantic. Oh, yes, that was what everyone thought. No one dreamed that she’d come to this London house unwillingly, more a captive than a bride. Quinn had arranged for the world to see them as lovers, caught in a passion beyond their control, and he’d done a damned good job. The Fowlers believed it, her parents believed it—and Alan believed it. Only she and Quinn knew the ugly truth.
Paige put down her cup and walked to the window. Heavy curtains covered it, and she drew them aside and looked out into the sunlit street. London, she thought, watching the unfamiliar scene below. The house was on a quiet mews—Mayfair, Quinn had told the taxi driver who’d brought them from the airport. Under other circumstances, she would have been dancing with excitement, delighted by the charm of the cobblestone street, the narrow Edwardian houses, and the cars that drove on the wrong side of the road.
She let the curtain fall into place again. The street below only emphasised her feeling of displacement. She was in a strange country and she knew no one. There was only Quinn. It was as if the clock had been turned back four or five centuries and he had ridden in on a prancing stallion and stolen her away. She was his hostage.
Paige drew a deep breath as she began to dress. It was time to face Quinn and set the rules for her new life. There would be ‘compensations’, he’d said, a million years ago when he’d taken her from the Fowler house. She hadn’t answered him then; she’d been too stunned by everything that was happening. But she would answer him now. She would tell him that there were limits to what he could demand of her. She might be his prisoner, but she would never be his slave.
The hall outside her room was silent. She’d seen little of the house the night before. From the shelter of Quinn’s arms, she’d only glimpsed dark walls and shadowed corners. Now, daylight revealed a handsome, eclectically furnished home that bore a clear masculine imprint. No moats or drawbridges here, she thought with a nervous laugh as she started down the stairs.
The house was clearly Quinn’s. There were framed photographs on the walls, black and white studies of city streets and country lanes, all with the same quality of moodiness flowing like dark rivers just beneath. Paige knew immediately that Quinn had taken them. A stack of letters lay on a table in the entry hall, all addressed in the firm, flowing script she recognised as his. A tweed jacket lay draped carelessly over the back of a chair. His, she thought, touching her hand to it, and she felt the sudden, heavy thud of her heart.
