just a few minutes before, nor resentment over an uninvited guest. If she had noticed that his breathing was tightly controlled, then apparently it did not disconcert her in the slightest.
‘I will be taking a boat down to Porto in a few days’ time on business. You could come with me,’ she suggested. ‘I can recommend places to stay until you find a ship to give you passage home, which will not be difficult.’
‘Thank you. That would suit me very well.’ Possibly by tomorrow he would have recovered the use of his brain and could produce some arguments for her returning with him.
‘I am sorry you have had a wasted journey,’ she said as he put down the glass and got to his feet.
‘It is not over yet. Who is to say whether it will be wasted or not? Goodnight, Miss Frost.’
‘Goodnight.’ Gaby looked at the closing door, then down at the dregs of her port, then back at the door. Neither glass nor wooden panels gave her any insight into why she had made that idiotic suggestion. What was she thinking of, giving Gray the opening to stay for five more days? And then to commit to his company for a day on the river and perhaps another day in Porto was madness.
He was a threat. Not that she believed for a moment that he would succeed in persuading her to go to England against her better judgement. But that was hardly the problem, was it? The problem was that she found herself strongly attracted to him and, it seemed, that feeling was reciprocated. He hid it well because he was a sophisticated, experienced man, but she had recognised the signs. It was merely a physical attraction, obviously, but even so...
She found she was on her feet and pacing. It was really insufferably hot indoors. No, she was insufferably hot. It was a long time since she had lain with a man and, apparently, the hard, distracting work was no longer enough to keep any yearnings at bay.
Gaby rehearsed a string of the riper Portuguese oaths that she had heard at the height of the harvest when everyone was hot, tired and at the end of their tether. They did not help. Why couldn’t she desire one of the numerous charming gentlemen who came her way both in local society and among the English and Scottish merchants and shippers in Porto?
There were enough of them, for goodness’ sake. Intelligent men, handsome men, amusing men. Men she could probably marry if she got to know them better, if marriage was not such an impossible trap. Marry and she lost control of everything, became a chattel of her husband’s, surrendered Frost’s totally to his mercies.
It was cooler out on the terrace with the breeze from the river rustling the creepers on the walls of the house. She closed the double glass doors behind her and walked up and down, smelling the night-perfumed flowers, watching the bats harrying the moths, willing her nerves to calm.
It was time to move on. She had sensed that for a few months now in the restlessness of her body, the way the sharpness of grief had mellowed somehow into sadness and regret. Betrayal was no longer the word if she found another man to...love? No, desire. She had been close to loving Laurent and perhaps, if they had had longer together, then their feelings would have become even deeper, more intense, but she thought not.
If I did find a man I could like and we had a child, but without marrying...
Gaby stopped dead in her tracks. That had never occurred to her as a solution. What was the Portuguese legal position on illegitimate children inheriting? Possibly it was the same as in England and they would have no claims by right, but she could will her property to whomever she wished if she was not married, she was sure of that.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before? It would take a great deal of working out, of course. Gaby paced more slowly. The position of a child born out of wedlock in this conservative country would be at least as difficult as in England, if not worse. She would have to seem to be married and yet without the legal burden of a husband controlling everything. A widow, in fact.
Now, how—short of marriage and murder—did one achieve that?
* * *
‘O senhor está fora,’ Baltasar informed her as he brought in her breakfast.
‘He is outside? Since when?’
‘He has been there since early. He asked for his hot water and his breakfast for six o’clock and he was already awake when Danilo took them over. I think he has been walking. Now he is sitting on the dock, watching the river.’ Baltasar rolled his eyes. ‘I do not understand these English gentlemen. He is a lord. He does not have to rise so early. He has no work to do. Why does he not sleep?’
‘I think he is a restless man, if he has nothing to occupy him,’ Gaby suggested. ‘He is a man used to action, to having a purpose.’ And that purpose, that sense of duty, however misguided, had driven him here. He had failed in his mission and now he had an enforced holiday.
How dreadful for him, to have to try to relax and enjoy himself, to be a tourist.
She finished her breakfast and went to the window. Yes, there was that dark head, just visible through the screen of bushes. She poured another cup of coffee, filled up her own and went out across the terrace, carrying them in steady hands to the steps down to the dock, just above where he was watching the Douro’s relentless flow.
Gray was sitting on the boards, left leg drawn up, supporting his weight on his right arm, the other resting casually on his knee. She felt a fleeting regret that she could not draw. All it would take would be a few economical lines to catch that long, supple, relaxed body.
‘Good morning.’ He did not turn his head and she was certain she had made no sound.
‘You have sharp ears.’
‘I can smell the coffee.’
She came down the steps, set the cups down and sat beside them, an arm’s length away from him. ‘It might have been Baltasar.’
‘Not walking so softly.’ He turned his head, then smiled faintly. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her and then he went back to studying the water. ‘Thank you.’
‘You have shaving soap on the angle of your jaw.’ She extended one finger, almost close enough to touch, then he turned his head and the tip of her finger made contact with smooth skin. Gaby jerked her hand back.
He was freshly shaven, his hair slicked down with water, but the rest of him was casual, relaxed. He put up his free hand, scrubbed along his jaw.
‘That has got it.’ Her voice was quite steady, considering that she felt as though she had been stung.
She leaned back on both hands, her legs dangling over the water as she watched him from the corner of her eye. A loose linen shirt, a sleeveless waistcoat, a spotted kerchief tied at his neck like a coachman, loose coarse cotton trousers tucked into a battered pair of boots, a broad-brimmed hat discarded on the planks by his side. He was dressed like a man who understood the heat of this valley in summer, one who had fought through the dust and the baking sun while wearing uniform. Now, in the milder warmth of October, the costume was still practical for wandering about the countryside.
‘Is it strange being back here in peacetime?’ she asked, following through her train of thought.
Gray was silent and she wondered if she had been tactless and he would not answer her. She had no idea what his experience of war in this country had been like. For some, she knew, it had been hell. For others, luckily placed, a jaunt. But he was simply marshalling his thoughts, it seemed.
‘It is a pleasure to see the country tranquil, to watch children playing, people working, young men flirting without having one hand on a weapon,’ he said. ‘But it feels like a dream. There are moments when I hear gunfire and have to remind myself that it is hunters, when I smell smoke and tell myself it is a farmer burning rubbish, when the birds stop singing