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Uncaring whether she was seen or not, she stumbled back to her car. Her throat was dry and her eyes were burning, but she couldn't cry. That would come later, at a point she couldn't even envisage yet.
She only knew that her life was sick, cold and empty, and that there was nothing left for her here. That her betrayal was as cruel as it was complete.
I can't face him, she thought. I can't let him see what he's done to me. I can never do that. It would destroy me.
Young, Adele had said, and besotted. She'd failed to mention abysmally, unforgivably stupid, although the implication had probably been there.
And now, somehow, she had to save herself from further folly. And that meant distancing herself from Nick, as far and as fast as she could. Hiding out somewhere until enough time had passed for her to demand that the marriage be legally and immediately terminated.
And I did it, Cally thought now, lifting her face to the sun. I ran away. First to London, to cover my tracks and empty my account of any money there was. Thereafter by dint of sticking a pin in a map.
She'd been so sure he'd want to be rid of her as quickly and quietly as possible, without further damage to his male pride, and he'd agree to anything she asked when they finally caught up with each other.
Yet how wrong could anyone be? Because here she was, back at Wylstone—and on his terms, not hers.
Living with him, sharing his bed, and ultimately giving him a child. Those were the requirements she had to fulfil. And she would need every scrap of icy indifference that she could conjure up merely to survive.
Because, in spite of everything Nick had done, and all the reasons he'd given her to hate him, Cally was not sure, even now, that she could wholly trust herself where he was concerned.
In fact, she realised that she could be on the verge of a totally catastrophic self-betrayal.
From the moment they'd met she'd been aware of a dark, bewildered excitement stirring deep within her. Every time he'd looked at her, or smiled or spoken, it had seemed as if a silken thread was drawing her ever deeper into a maze of confused emotion she was too inexperienced to understand.
And the terrible damning truth was that nothing had changed.
It had been that day by the river when she'd first acknowledged his potential power over her. It had not, however, been the first time she was aware of it, but her consciousness had been submerged by all the sudden, overwhelming changes which had overtaken her.
The shock of her grandfather's death had been enough to cope with. And then she'd found herself knocked sideways with the news of the financial morass he'd left behind. She'd
still been stunned and grieving when Nick had asked her to marry him—except that his quiet, contained words had been less a proposal than a statement of intent, which had told her there was no need to be frightened of the future, because he would look after her.
She'd found herself longing with utter thankfulness to throw herself into his arms and feel them holding her in safety against the world. Just when everything seemed lost, all the dreams she'd ever had were coming true. She hadn't been able to see further than that.
She'd allowed him to take charge, making no demur when he suggested that in view of her recent bereavement they should have a completely private early-morning wedding, with the vicar's wife and the verger as their only witnesses.
No Adele, she'd thought, her heart lifting. Just the two of us.
But, however quiet the ceremony, she'd still been determined to wear a special dress, and she'd found one in a Clayminster boutique, designed simply in plain ivory silk, short-sleeved, with a soft swirling skirt and a V-necked bodice fastened by a row of tiny-silk covered buttons.
And Nick, in turn, had insisted on a traditional honeymoon, even if it meant working long hours to clear his desk in preparation.
In the fortnight leading up to the wedding she'd hardly seen him at all, so it had been a major surprise when he'd arrived at the flat one sunlit afternoon, only a couple of days before the ceremony, and announced he was taking her on a picnic.
It had occurred to her, as she changed into shorts and a white cotton shirt, that this was the first time since he'd proposed to her that they would be alone together for any length of time, and she'd felt her throat close in excitement and trepidation.
He'd found them a sheltered spot under a tree, a few yards from the water's edge, and spread out a rug and cushions. The food had been simple enough—-cold chicken, crusty bread, cheese, fruit and a bottle of wine—but Cally had thought she'd never tasted anything so wonderful.
Nick, stretched out beside her, had been relaxed and un-alarming, his grey eyes warm with laughter as he chatted to her about everything and nothing, making her forget her shyness as she responded to him.
