She was suddenly quite sure she didn’t want to read the confession.
But she knew she had no choice. Not after the accusations she’d flung at Callum almost three years ago. Not after her hostility and resentment over the past few weeks.
It hurt unbearably to read of her father’s desperation. Of his admission of stealing-
“One million pounds!” Shocked, her eyes flew to Callum’s.
“By a false claim on a bogus life policy.”
She bit back a stream of questions. Drawn inexorably back, she read the confession through to the end, her heart clenching when she reached her father’s familiar signature at the end of the document.
Had he written that sweet, loving note absolving himself of all responsibility after this stark admission of his guilt?
She’d never know.
“In case you think that’s a forgery-the police have the original along with a certificate of identification. Once your father died, they dropped the criminal charges against him-and the company chose not to pursue civil action against your father’s estate after the bulk of the funds were recovered.”
The slim thread of hope that Callum had been mistaken or misinformed snapped. The charges against her father had never been unfair or trumped up. And Callum was clearly in no way responsible for her father’s death. “Where did you find the money?”
“From accounts in your father’s name.”
Callum stood a few feet away, arms folded, offering none of the support she’d become accustomed to. And Miranda knew she deserved none. The distance between them yawned wider than it had ever been.
She said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“And before you point out the confession could have been forced, the bank manager identified your father as the person who’d opened an account in the name of the fictitious deceased. When the large deposit arrived, he became suspicious. And when he discovered that your father’s name-the only contact telephone number on the account-didn’t match the account holder, he notified the bank’s fraud department. His statement was corroborated by video footage showing Thomas entering the bank on the date that the fictitious account was opened.” Callum related the facts in a remote tone that gave no comfort. “There are other equally damning statements on file. No way such a body of evidence could be falsified.”
Her father was guilty.
For years, hatred for Callum had sustained her, given her someone to blame for the hopeless sense of loss and disorientation after her father’s death. The unanswerable questions that had haunted her.
Now she knew. Her father couldn’t clear his name. And he hadn’t been able to face up to what he’d done. Hadn’t been able to face a prison term.
She pushed the pages back into the envelope, feeling as if she’d opened Pandora’s box. Her life would never be the same again. “He had a family. A home. A great job. Why would he have done such a thing?”
“Thomas lived to a certain standard of living and he wanted to maintain that. He told me once that his wife was a real lady and he was her humble servant, that he would always give her everything she wanted.”
“I remember him saying that, too.” She’d thought it wildly romantic. “But I wouldn’t have wanted him to commit fraud for our family to have such a lifestyle. We could’ve sold our house, found a cottage. I could have hired Troubadour out to the local riding school. There were so many expenses we could have saved.”
But it was true, Flo had always liked to maintain a certain lifestyle. With her husband gone, Flo had simply moved on to make free with Callum’s largesse.
“That reminds me-you never did stop Mum’s accounts, did you?”
He shook his head.
“She’s been running them up again with Christmas spending.” Miranda sighed. “We’re going to have to pay that amount back to you.” Perhaps she should just become his hostess indefinitely without pay to offset the debts her family owed him, she thought blackly. And Flo would simply keep running them up. She would never be free of Callum.
When she got back to London, she was going to have to take Flo in hand.
“You can’t take responsibility for what Flo owes.”
“She’s my mother.”
His brows jerked together. “Flo is an adult.”
“I’m not sure she’s ever been treated like an adult in her life.”
The housekeeper popped her head around the doorjamb. “Sorry to interrupt, but dinner is served.”
“Give us a few minutes to clean up and we’ll be there.” Callum’s frown had vanished abruptly.
When the housekeeper had gone, he took two steps closer.
Feeling unaccountably nervous, Miranda gestured with the envelope between them. “I’ll run upstairs and put this away.”
“Miranda…” A strange, almost hesitant expression flitted across his face. “I hope we can start afresh-put the past behind us.”
The veil had been ripped off what she had believed for years, revealing a truth so sordid it had shaken her to the roots of her self. “I hope so, too. But I need time to absorb this. I don’t even know if I can ever be the same person I was this morning. My whole life has shifted.”
The winter night air was crisp and cold.
Miranda closed the door of the Daimler behind her and hitched her scarf more snugly around her neck as she gazed around. After the shock of reading her father’s confession earlier, she’d expected the world to look different.
But it didn’t. It was still winter. That hadn’t changed. Even though her world had tipped upside down around her, the seasons had at least remained constant.
Only she had changed.
Wrapped up in a warm coat and her new scarf, Miranda trudged through the snowy sludge beside Callum, past homes lit with merry Christmas lights, to a village green beside a little church.
She took a proffered song sheet with small smile of thanks before hurrying to catch up with Callum. In the glow of the flickering tree lights, they found his family near the village Christmas tree, where a brass band had set up. Minutes later the bells in the church tower pealed out, heralding the arrival of the carolers.
The crowd pressed closer and as the band launched into an overture, a tall man moved in front of them, blocking Miranda’s view.
Callum’s hand pressed against the small of her back, guiding her to a place where her view was unobstructed. “Better?”
“Much.” She threw him a quicksilver smile over her shoulder. “Thank you.”
In the light of the lampposts she watched his gaze soften. She’d hated the sense of alienation between them. The first notes of “We Three Kings” struck up and she turned to watch the carolers, acutely conscious of Callum’s bulk behind her.
As more people arrived, the crush shifted forward and he pressed up against her. The heavy warmth of his body crept into hers and a delicious, unfamiliar contentment stole through her.
He said something she couldn’t hear.
“What?” She tipped her head back and the top of her head brushed his chin.
“Your hair smells of vanilla and cinnamon,” he said into her ear. “It’s a heady fragrance.”
The heat of his breath in the whorls of her ear caused tingles to ripple along her spine. Her awareness of him, never long absent, rocketed up.
“Just ordinary shampoo,” she said, tilting her head so she could see his face.
“There’s nothing ordinary about you,” he said.
The moment stretched. Tension built within her as their eyes held. Her breathing quickened.
She forced herself to look away.
No.
She didn’t want this.
Not now. Not with Callum.
