Husband For Real

‘What’s the matter, Rose?’ he asked bluntly.

Her eyes met his with candour. ‘I was just thinking that this isn’t what I expected when I started out this morning.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d prefer the transport cafе?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then don’t look so scared. I’m perfectly harmless.’

She grinned involuntarily. ‘So I’ve heard.’

He glared, his eyes suddenly wintry. ‘And just what have you heard, little girl?’ he drawled, ice in every word.

Rose blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Only that you’re more interested in getting a double first than chasing after girls.’

His eyes softened. ‘True enough. My surplus energies expend themselves on the track and the rugby pitch. The rest goes into this lot here.’ He waved a hand at the encroaching books, then gave her the slow smile which made her insides dissolve. ‘The rumours about my sexual preferences are false, by the way, in case you’re wondering, spread in my first year by a female who resented my lack of interest.’

‘I wasn’t wondering,’ she assured him blithely, and began on her second sandwich with more relish.

‘Why not?’

Rose regarded him steadily. ‘Because it’s none of my business.’

Sinclair stared back in surprise. ‘You’re very blunt. Want some tea?’

‘Yes, please.’ He filled a beaker, added a splash of milk and handed it to her, pleasing Rose enormously because he’d remembered how she liked it.

‘So you don’t care whether I’m gay or not?’ he demanded.

‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘I fail to see why race, religion or sexual leanings should matter when it comes to friendship.’

Sinclair leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees as he peered down into her face. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Rose gave him a crooked little smile. ‘Wet behind the ears I may be in your eyes, but I have my beliefs.’

‘Your parents fostered them?’

Her face shadowed. ‘They began the process, but they died when I was fourteen. I live with my aunt. Minerva holds strong views on everything, so I suppose I’ve taken some of them on board myself without even realising it.’

Sinclair got up, seeming taller than usual to Rose from her seat on his sofa. He took her mug and plate from her and put them on the tray, then to her astonishment he sat beside her and took her hand.

‘Would you like to tell me about your parents?’ he said gently.

Rose gave him a startled, sidelong glance, deeply conscious of the hard, warm hand grasping hers. Then after a moment’s hesitation she told him about the joyrider who’d put an end to her parents’ lives one afternoon on a narrow country road in Warwickshire.

‘They were on their way to fetch me from school.’ Rose bit her lip. ‘For a long time I just couldn’t accept that they were gone, even after I went to live with my aunt. Minerva owns a bookshop in a small town in the Cotswolds, and after—after the accident I moved into the flat over the shop with her.’

‘Poor little kid,’ said James quietly. ‘It must have been tough for you.’

‘I won’t pretend it wasn’t. But I’ve been fortunate, too. My father was a lot older than Minerva, so I look on her more as friend than aunt now I’m older. And I still have my memories of a happy childhood, and the holidays I spent with Mother and Dad.’ Feeling horribly guilty, she recalled herself to the matter in hand. ‘We even went to Scotland once, to Skye.’ The last bit, a vital part of Con’s strategy, was her first real lie, and she gulped down some tea to cover the rush of guilty colour to her face.

‘Skye!’ exclaimed Sinclair. ‘When my father was alive we went there once a year. I love it there. How about you?’

‘I don’t remember much about it. I was quite young, and it rained a lot,’ said Rose, deliberately vague. ‘My father went fishing, and Mother and I visited woollen mills.’

‘Did your father do much fishing?’ he asked with interest.

‘Yes. When he could. Trout, like you.’ She went cold for a moment. ‘I saw the books on your shelves,’ she said hurriedly, and went on talking to cover her blunder. ‘Dad made the most beautiful flies. He’d sit with a special little vice at the kitchen table, listening to opera tapes while he created tiny works of art. I still have some of them. The fishing flies, I mean. His rods were sold.’

The grasp tightened. ‘You still miss him.’

‘I miss them both.’ Rose hesitated. ‘But it comforts me to know that they’re together.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘Yes.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Because I need to believe it.’

There was silence between them for a while.

‘My father died when I was twelve,’ said Sinclair abruptly.

Rose sat perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined he’d confide in her in return.

‘He died in his sleep,’ he went on. ‘When my mother woke up one morning he was just—gone. Dad was a workaholic with a heart problem. Fatal combination.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Rose tightened her fingers in sympathy.

‘When I was eighteen my mother married again. He’s a good man, and they’re happy together. But…’ he paused.

‘You feel left out?’

He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never thought of it in quite those terms, but, yes, I suppose I do. That’s why I applied for a college down here. I could have gone to Edinburgh or St Andrews, but I opted to get right away to leave the newlyweds in peace. I even took off for a year between school and college. Went backpacking round Australia.’

‘Sounds wonderful. I’ve never done anything adventurous like that,’ said Rose enviously. ‘Do you mind? That your mother remarried, I mean?’ Then she held her breath, afraid she’d trespassed.

But Sinclair shook his head. ‘No. I don’t mind at all. She waited until I was ready to leave home, though Donald would have married her long before then from choice. My mother was only fortyish when they finally tied the knot. And even in a son’s eyes a very attractive lady.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Donald’s a successful advocate, and a very self-contained sort of bloke, but it was obvious, even to me, that he was mad about my mother from the moment he met her. Still is. Mother sold our home when she moved in with him. His house is a big, rambling place, and there’s a room in it kept solely for me, but I can’t help feeling like a visitor there—’ He stopped dead, shaking his head.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I can’t believe I’m telling you all this stuff. I don’t usually bore people rigid with my life history.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘You must be a very good listener, young Rose.’

Now, she thought reluctantly, would be a good time to leave. She detached her hand gently and got up. ‘I’d better leave you to your books. Thank you for breakfast, and—and for talking to me.’

Sinclair got to his feet and stretched, suddenly so overpoweringly male in the small room Rose felt a sudden urge to run, like an animal scenting danger.

‘The average man doesn’t need much persuading to talk about himself,’ he said wryly.

‘Average’ was the last word Rose would have applied to Sinclair. ‘I must go—or should I help you wash up first?’