That Tender Feeling

by Dorothy Vernon

  The next idea that came into her mind was infinitely more appealing. Why didn’t she do what she used to do when her gregarious aunt had filled the cottage with people to bursting point, that is, beg a bed for the night at Holly Cottage? That would only entail going partway down the dark and treacherous road and taking the other fork. She had called at Holly Cottage the last time she was there, but no one had been at home. In the old days, it had been Mrs. Heath’s habit to trek across the moor to the farm in the next hollow to buy dairy produce, so that’s where she could have been. On the other hand, it was possible that she felt too old to be living in such an isolated spot on her own and had found accommodation elsewhere. The thought skipped across her mind that she remembered hearing Mrs. Heath say that if ever Aunt Miranda left, she would make a home for herself with one of her children. She had just one daughter; Ros recalled that her name was Alice. And one son, Howard, who was Heathcliff’s father.

  In a matter of minutes, she brought the car to a stop outside Holly Cottage. It was in darkness, but that told Ros very little, because old ladies tended to go to bed early.

  Ros opened the gate, noticing how easily it swung back on its hinges, and, without hazard, walked up the evenly flagged path. M’m—strange. The door, like the gate, was also new. The last time she had been there, the cottage hadn’t been in a much better state than Aunt Miranda’s. Obviously, Mrs. Heath had set her home in order. Or someone had.

  If Mrs. Heath still lived there, would it be an imposition to knock on her door? A voice in her head seemed to say, ‘Certainly not, girl. Don’t be fainthearted. Get on with it.’

  Upon that, Ros raised her hand to the door knocker, bringing it down three times. If Mrs. Heath had sold out and she found that she had roused a stranger from his or her bed, surely, in the circumstances, her explanation and apology would gain sympathy, and then she could follow her first idea and try her luck at the Gillybeck Arms.

  Although she knocked again, still no one answered, and a thread of suspicion, already alerted, began to weave itself deeper into her thoughts. She remembered all those instances in the past when the two cottages had been confused, when someone had taken the left fork instead of the right, or vice versa. Mistakes were made. Only last week she read an account in the newspaper of the wrong building’s being demolished. She had a sheaf of invoices in her possession to prove that repairs had been carried out somewhere. Not at Hawthorn Cottage, to be certain. So . . .

  There was one sure-fire way to find out. She took from her pocket the key that the agent had sent to her. If that fitted the lock, there would be little doubt in her mind that the repairs she had paid for had been carried out at Holly Cottage by mistake.

  The key slid in effortlessly and turned with the same ease. Ros located the light switch without difficulty. She entered, not without a certain amount of trepidation. She supposed the ethics of the situation would still amount to trespass, but no way could she not have gone in and looked round. It was a tremendous relief to see Mrs. Heath’s homely furniture in the newly decorated rooms even though, when she ventured upstairs, her tentative peep into the master bedroom brought no trace of her old and very dear friend.

  That brought a sigh of gentle regret to her mouth. She felt frustrated and perplexed.

  Tomorrow, someone would have some explaining to do. As far as tonight was concerned, she knew what she was going to do. She was going to sleep in the spare room at the end of the passage, the one she’d always been given in the old days. In her child’s imagination, the strip of corridor had been the drawbridge leading to her own private domain. How could that be trespassing?

  Feeling better, she trotted back down to the car and took out the suitcase that contained the necessities for an overnight stay, leaving the rest of her things where they were. She took the trouble to lock the car out of city precaution. Silly, because there was no likelihood of anyone’s taking anything out there in this remote place.

  Her night-time preparations were less meticulous than usual. She washed her face sparingly ‘’round the moon,’ as Aunt Miranda used to say, skimping on ears and neck, and her teeth were accordingly brushed in a hand count of seconds. She promised her ears, neck and teeth a more thorough clean in the morning. It was out of character for her to be slatternly like that, but she was too dropping tired to be anything else. She pulled her nightgown over her head, removing the pins from her hair, which billowed out and then ran down her back like a shimmering flame. She picked up her hairbrush, applied a few indifferent strokes, abandoning the effort at the fast tangle, and then reveled in the ultimate joy of sinking into bed and closing her eyes. Her last drowsy thoughts concerned the fact that the bed was made up, as if in expectation of her coming. Surely that must be a good omen?

  Her long and peaceful night’s sleep was not to be. She woke with a start to hear someone moving about downstairs. Her first disoriented thought was that she was back in the flat she had shared with Glenis and the tenant who had the flat below was making more noise than usual.

  The realization of where she was gave her heart a guilty jolt. The footsteps were now coming up the stairs. She sat up in bed, hugging her knees and trying to decide what to do. She didn’t feel menaced, even though she knew the tread was too heavy to belong to Mrs. Heath. The thought that it might be a burglar never entered her sleep-bemused mind. Burglars had richer pickings in mind and wouldn’t waste time on an apparently humble cottage.

  No, obviously someone other than Mrs. Heath lived there. The question was should she make her presence known or hope that he—because those footsteps were definitely male—went into his own bedroom? In which case, two more alternatives would be facing her. She could wait until he’d fallen asleep and then creep out and make her escape. Or she could do what she had planned to do: spend the night where she was and face the consequences in the morning.

  Even as her bedroom door was flung open so savagely that it crashed back on its hinges, she saw the flaw in her reasoning. He would have seen the car parked outside and knew that he had a squatter.

  The voice, one that was painfully familiar to her since she had heard it so recently, shot out at her in the darkness. ‘All right, I’m going to put the light on. In case you’re about to try anything foolish, it’s only fair to warn you that I’m a judo black belt.’

  The light went on one second before Ros had the presence of mind to draw the bedclothes up to her chin. And then it was too late, and the opportunity was lost to her. Her wrists were clamped in a viciously cruel hold, she was flung back down on the bed, and her arms were propelled swiftly above her head; simultaneously, the springs creaked under his additional weight.

  In petrified, horrified dismay, she stared into woodsmoke eyes that held on to their fierceness for a moment, positively glinting with murderous intent, then smoldered with amusement as he ejaculated, ‘What the hell! If it isn’t Rusty again.’

  His use of that childhood pet name, the name her father still called her by, told all.

  ‘Heathcliff,’ she said weakly.

  He frowned, just as he had used to in the old days, as he corrected, ‘Cliff. Did you know who I was back at the Arms?’

  ‘No. Your face was familiar, somehow, so I thought you must be a lookalike of someone I knew. The suspicion came later who you might be. The fact that you’re here, in your grandmother’s cottage, proves conclusively that you are. Did you know me? I mean before you came upon me now?’

  ‘No. Like you, I was puzzled. I thought you reminded me of someone. I expect I would have gotten it eventually. You must have been about eleven or twelve when I last saw you. A skinny little thing with carroty pigtails. Since then, you’ve—er—done some growing up.’

  He hadn’t let go of her wrists, and her arms in their captive position above her head made the modest covering of her brushed nylon nightgown strain immodestly across her breasts. His eyes made a deliberate play upon the points that more visually differentiate between child and woman. His lusty, tormenting a
ttention burgeoned her nipples to such an extent that the twin buds seemed about to prod through the material. He would know by that fact alone that the pulses pounding beneath his powerful fingers were beating out—more than anger or fear—her shameful awareness of his masculinity.

  Before bounding in on her, he had removed his jacket and tie, she supposed so that he would be less hampered if he was called upon to use brute strength to evict the intruder. She was conscious of the powerful muscles rippling across his chest and down his arms, the warmth and desirability that radiated from him as he remained poised above her. His nearness bothered her; the intimacy of lying on the same bed with a man who was so overwhelmingly male was too much to take. Her eyes drifted up to his face, surmounting each obstacle that seemed hellbent on seducing her senses, the solid strength of his chin, the sensuality of his mouth, the lopsided nose that hadn’t been that way the last time they met, finally coming to rest upon the most dangerous feature of all, those soul-burning eyes. Eyes that were capable of enticing a girl beyond the bounds of common sense into self-destructive madness.

  In the old days, she had always skirted round him with extreme caution, sensing that he was someone to be feared. She couldn’t have known that that was only the tip of the iceberg and that the danger about him would have these whirlpool depths. She knew it wasn’t the fierceness of his grip that was stopping her circulation but the pounding fury of her own blood that threatened to block her arteries.

  ‘As fascinating as it is to share a bed with you, do you mind removing yourself? You’re hurting my wrists.’

  The words were fine, as flippant as she would have wished; it was the delivery of them that was all wrong. She hadn’t reckoned with the lack of control she would have over her voice. The husky drawl that emerged did not have the intended mocking impact and was received with sardonic amusement, even though that did accompany the release of her wrists.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, swinging away from her, rolling over on his hip and standing up. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever apologized for sharing a lady’s bed.’

  Only pausing long enough to pull the bedclothes up to her chin, she said, ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘You always did have a vivid imagination,’ he replied, the smile that hovered on his mouth increasing and with it her consternation at her own gaucherie. Because she had asked for that.

  ‘Explanation time, do you think?’ he said. ‘There must be a reason other than the strange attraction that flared between us back at the Gillybeck Arms. I don’t usually score this early. Or did I—’ His head went to one side. ‘And has the lady had a change of heart?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m not the least bit attracted to you,’ she lied valiantly. ‘I hated you as a child, and our meeting up again hasn’t caused me to revise my opinion. You used to frighten me deliberately, and that hasn’t altered. You’re still doing it. You are even more obnoxious than I remembered.’

  ‘You reckon? Obnoxious enough to turn you out into the bleak, cold night?’

  She bit on her lip. He wouldn’t—would he? He wouldn’t turn her out, but he could make it pretty uncomfortable for her. It might be in her own best interest to back down gracefully, hateful as that idea was, before he forced her to.

  ‘Not that obnoxious,’ she retracted with more discretion than liking.

  ‘Would you like some hot chocolate?’ he asked. At her startled glance, he added, ‘I’ve an idea that it’s going to be a long and involved tale. That being so, it might be as well to prime the pump.’

  ‘In that case, yes, please, if you’re having some.’ She giggled despite herself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘The absurdity of being offered something as homely as hot chocolate by a man who has just grabbed me with murderous designs on my body.’

  ‘Ah . . . but the designs were only murderous to begin with. They changed quite rapidly when, instead of the husky male I expected to tackle, I found myself in combat with a delectable female in my bed, dressed in—or should I say?—in a state of undress.’

  ‘You’re doing it again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Frightening me.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘No. But only because I’m not easily frightened. I’m warning you, I will not tolerate this—this persecution.’

  ‘No?’

  The one-word taunt made its mark on a temper that was too easily provoked, and her mouth compressed itself around an equally challenging ‘No!’

  He leaned over, moving in close enough for his breath to fan her temple and for her to be enveloped in the sensuous net of his expensive aftershave. Neither was it just the way he smelled, but also the way he looked at her under sliding lids in a manner that was most damaging to her good intentions, which were not to let him goad her into flaring up at him in antagonism. And, conversely, to keep feeling antagonistic toward him, having decided that that was less dangerous than allowing herself to respond to his compelling male attraction. How could anyone so polished in satire and derision flaunt his masculinity in a way that was earthy in its primitiveness? Even though there was ice in his clipped one-word taunt, he had started a fire in her veins. It didn’t help to cool the active cauldron of her emotions to see the glint of intelligence in his eyes that told her that he was aware of the this-way-that-way tug of her impassioned, overzealous thoughts.

  He placed a kiss on the tip of his finger and transferred it to her mouth. It was a featherlight touch that had the impact of a rain of hailstones and raised goose bumps all over her skin. The satisfaction of jerking her head back in rejection was denied her by the withdrawal of the finger, which was removed as swiftly as it had come.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.

  Ros couldn’t make out the intonation. Threat or promise? She had no intention of waiting to find out. She couldn’t think of anything more beset with hazards than having him sit on the edge of the bed, with her explaining her presence in it over a cozy cup of hot chocolate. At least she had a sporting chance of keeping her equilibrium intact with the kitchen table between them.

  The moment he went through the door, she got up, pulled on her warm plaid dressing gown and unconsciously followed the natural feminine instinct of brushing her hair. When she realized what that gesture implied, namely, that she was making sure her appearance was pleasing to his eye, she jerked her hair back in her fingers so angrily that her scalp tingled in painful protest. She confined the silken red cloud into a tight coil at the nape of her neck, knowing that she would be grateful for the extra composure the severity of that style would give her. Long hair seemed to have a sensuous appeal; the color of hers was noted for firing a man’s imagination. As she followed Heathcliff down the stairs, she lamented silently to herself that she could do little about its vibrant color. It was a lament not often made these days. As a child, she had hated its color, but the years had had a pleasant mellowing effect on it that in no way detracted from its richness, and she had come to recognize it as an asset. In this instance, however, it was one asset she could do without; it might even be regarded as a liability.

  He was heating milk at the stove. His eyes acknowledged her presence and then marked her progress as she crossed the kitchen and pulled a stool up to the table. From this perch, she meditated further on her position. She couldn’t see him being gallant enough to take himself off to the Gillybeck Arms for the night, and as she had already decided that she didn’t fancy venturing out, she could surmise that they would be spending the night under the same roof. That being so, she would be prudent if she behaved with natural coolness and decorum and ignored totally his shameless baiting. She didn’t really believe that he was drawn to her in that way. There was something too calculating about his manner; it was cold, mockery based. The methods he’d used to frighten her as a child would have no impact anymore, so he had resorted to other tactics to fit the updated situation. It was difficult to assess, and she could be wrong, but she didn’t think he was flirting with h
er for the usual reasons of attraction but rather because of his perverse streak—that she had first perceived in him all those years ago—that delighted in tormenting her. She realized that it would be to her advantage, if she could manage it, to treat him as an annoying figure of her past whom she’d had the misfortune to meet up with again. At the same time, because of the vulnerability of her position and because of her wish not to be turned out at this unearthly hour, a certain amount of diplomacy would be advisable.

  A foaming mug of hot chocolate was placed before her.

  ‘That was some sigh,’ he observed.

  ‘I was wondering how to begin explaining,’ she admitted, not untruthfully. ‘An appalling mistake has been made—at least I think it has. Unless you or your grandmother authorized the modernizations that have been carried out here, by any chance?’

  His eyes glanced over the streamlined, modern kitchen with its practical wall units and appliances. ‘No, neither of us did,’ he said. ‘I’m managing my grandmother’s affairs for her. At her time of life, she can do without the hassle. When I let myself in yesterday, it came as a huge surprise to find the reverse of what I expected. Instead of looking forlorn and broken down, everything was in immaculate order.’

  ‘The locks have been changed. It would be interesting to know how you did get in.’