by Sara Craven
During the winter, the Pritchards kept an eye on the place. Mrs Pritchard worked part-time in the nearby village shop, and Mr Pritchard was employed at the small boatyard upstream, where her parents’ much loved boat Naiad spent the winter.
Mrs Pritchard would have been happy to carry out any cleaning that was needed, but Tara preferred to do it herself. Anomalous as it might seem, it was work she thoroughly enjoyed.
When she and Becky had been younger, it had been her sister who’d been the potential high-flyer—the girl about town with the high-paid job and crowded social life. Tara had always been the quieter, more domesticated one.
No one could believe it when Becky met Harry, and opted for marriage and motherhood without even a backward glance at all she was giving up.
However, no one could pretend that housework would ever be Becky’s forte, Tara thought affectionately. But by bringing the same organisational skills to marriage as she had to her career she’d safely ensured she’d never have to do any.
It would be inconceivable to Becky that anyone would give up precious holiday time to scrub, polish and add the odd lick of paint to a shabby, elderly house. And equally incredible that the same person might actually revel in their self-appointed task, or find it positively therapeutic.
Tara glimpsed herself in the mirror as she finally headed for the door, cat basket in hand and a furious Melusine giving her a piece of her mind. Marchant Southern would have got the shock of their lives if they could see her now, she thought, grinning as she surveyed her faded denim skirt topped by an ancient sweatshirt. Her hair was bundled up into a baseball cap, and her bare feet were thrust into a pair of canvas slipons which had seen better days.
But what the hell? she thought as she locked up and went down to the car. I’m not going to be seeing anyone unless I choose. After all, there isn’t another house within miles.
Or at least another inhabited house, she amended quickly. Which Dean’s Mooring certainly wasn’t. Up to three years ago it had been occupied by old Ambrose Dean, white-bearded and fierce, a loner who had guarded his privacy jealously. After his death, the cottage, which stood about a hundred yards upstream from Silver Creek House, had remained empty, and was fast becoming derelict.
Ambrose had been a bachelor, and apparently had had no living relatives. Certainly no one ever came to see him. Jim Lyndon, Tara’s father, had spoken vaguely of contacting the lawyers dealing with the old man’s estate and perhaps making an offer for the cottage, but had never actually got around to doing anything constructive about it.
Maybe I will, Tara thought idly as she started out of London. After all, the parents won’t want to find themselves living next to an eyesore. And I’ve nothing booked in my diary but some serious peace and quiet. I could, maybe, start the ball rolling.
On the other hand, I could forget about everything that smacks of business and just—chill out. What utter bliss.
But the road to paradise was not an easy one, she soon discovered. Other people had also decided to make an early start to the Bank Holiday weekend, and traffic was grindingly heavy.
By the time Tara turned the car on to the rutted track which led to the house her head was aching, and Melusine was expressing vigorous disapproval from the rear seat.
She parked in the yard at the back and got out, stretching luxuriously and drinking in gulps of the cool early evening air. Then she reached into her bag and found the key.
The house felt chill and slightly damp as she stepped into the kitchen. There was a strange mustiness in the atmosphere too.
The smell of loneliness, Tara thought, looking around her. I’ll soon change that.
As usual, there was a box of groceries waiting on the scrubbed table, courtesy of Mrs Pritchard, and one of her magnificent steak and kidney pies covered by a teatowel resting beside it. Tucked under it was a note, stating that the gas tank was full and the log man had delivered the previous week, together with the various invoices for these services. And, waiting in the big old fridge, was a bottle of Tara’s favourite Chablis.
Already she could feel the stresses and strains of the past weeks easing away, she thought, heaving a sigh of pure satisfaction.
Mrs Pritchard, you’re an angel, she told her silently.
She went back to the car, sniffing at the tubs of lavender that her mother had planted the previous year, and collected the frantic Melusine, who gave her a filthy look and stormed up the clematis-hung trellis on to the shed roof.
‘Feel free,’ Tara told her as she unloaded the rest of her things from the car and carried them into the house. From past experience, Melusine would sulk until supper time, then appear as if nothing had happened, twining herself affectionately round Tara’s legs.
When the entire family was staying Tara contented herself with a small room at the back, but now she had the luxury of choice, and she opted for the large room at the front, which matched that of her parents, just across the landing. She might not be spending much time on the river—even the most cursory inspection downstairs confirmed she had plenty to do—but she could enjoy the view, and let the sound of the water lull her to sleep at night.
She tossed her travel bag on to the wide bed and walked to the window, flinging back the half-drawn curtains and opening the casement to take her first long look at the creek itself.
And stopped in utter astonishment and swiftly mounting anger. She’d expected the usual tranquil expanse of water, ruffled only by moorhens or a passing duck, with Naiad as a centrepiece.
Instead she was confronted by another boat, a large cabin cruiser, smart, glossy, and shouting money. And tied up, for pity’s sake, at their landing stage.
She said aloud, furiously, ‘What the hell...?’ and halted, her attention suddenly riveted by the loud, excited barking of a dog just below the window, and Melusine’s answering yowl of fright
‘No,’ Tara exploded. She was across the room in two strides, and flying down the stairs, dragging back the bolts on the front door with hands that shook with rage as well as fear for her pet.
She hurled herself outside, colliding heavily as she did so with another body, much taller and more muscular than her own. Was aware, shockingly, of bare, hair-roughened skin grazing her cheek. Heard a man’s deep voice say, ‘Ouch,’ and felt strong hands steadying her.
‘Let go of me’ She tore herself free. ‘My cat—where is she?’
‘She’s safe. She’s roosting in that tree over there.’
Swinging round, Tara saw Melusine crouching on a branch twenty feet from the ground. And, leaping joyously below, still barking, a golden Labrador dog, not long out of puppyhood.
‘Oh, that’s great,’ she said savagely. ‘That’s just bloody wonderful. Call your damned dog off, will you? And when you’ve got him under control, the pair of you can clear out. This is a private landing.’
‘But apparently not a happy one.’ The interloper’s faint drawl was composed, even amused. All she could see of him was a dark shape between herself and the setting sun. She took a step backwards, shading her eyes.
She registered dark blond hair, in need of cutting, and cool blue eyes. A strong face, with a beaky nose, high cheekbones, and a firm, humorous mouth above a jutting chin. Not conventionally handsome by any means, but searingly attractive, she thought with a shock of recognition. He had a good body, too, lean and tanned, and clothed only from the waist down in faded denim which emphasised his long legs and flat stomach.
She felt a sudden sensuous tingle quivering along her nerve-endings that she had not experienced since Jack. And she resented it. More than that, feared it.
Dry-mouthed, she hurried into speech. ‘There’s not much to be happy about. You’re trespassing, and your dog has tried to kill my cat.’
‘Dogs chase cats. That’s a fact of life. They rarely if ever catch them. That’s another. And if he did get near I wouldn’t give much for his chances.’
His laconic drawl was infuriating. He turned towards the Labrador
, put two fingers in his mouth to utter a piercing whistle, and called, ‘Buster.’ The dog came instantly to his side, eyes sparkling with excitement and tail wagging.
Tara glared at them both.
‘And what chance does my cat have—stuck there in that tree?’
‘Is she really stuck?’ he asked mildly. ‘I can probably do something about that.’
Tara took a deep breath. ‘The only thing that you can do is go. You’ve no right to be here. If you weren’t trespassing, none of this would have happened.’
‘And just what are your rights in all this?’
Tara jerked a thumb. ‘That happens to be my house.’
‘Really?’ The straight brows lifted. ‘Now I could have sworn it belonged to a Jim and Barbara Lyndon, who are both in their fifties and currently in South Africa. I must have been misinformed.’
‘They’re my parents.’ His easy assurance was unnerving. ‘And may I ask how you came by that information? ’
He shrugged. ‘People in the village are very helpful.’ He paused. ‘So it’s not really your house at all.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
Tara gritted her teeth. ‘If you want to split hairs...’
‘An excellent idea,’ he agreed affably. ‘You see, I was also told that this landing was a shared one with Dean’s Mooring.’
‘Back in the mists of time, perhaps.’ She hated the defensive note in her voice. ‘However, Mr Dean never used it. He didn’t even have a boat.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But, you see, I have. And as clearly no one is using the Dean’s Mooring share at the moment, I’m borrowing it.’
‘But you can’t—not without permission from the owner,’ she protested wildly.
‘And do you know how to contact him?’ He was grinning openly now.
Tara could have ground her teeth. ‘Hardly,’ she returned stiffly. ‘As I’m sure you’re already aware, Mr Dean died some time ago.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And I left the ouija board in my other jeans. Well, they say possession is nine tenths of the law, so it looks as if we’re going to be neighbours.’
‘But you can’t just—move in and take over like this.’
‘The evidence suggests I can—and I have. So why don’t we work out a co-existence pact.’
Because I don’t want you here, she thought. It’s too lonely—too remote to share with some passing stranger. And because you worry me in ways I don’t understand.
She hurried into speech. ‘You must see that’s impossible. You could be anybody.’
‘On the lines of escaped criminal, rapist or axe murderer, I presume.’ He gave her a weary look. ‘Would you like to see my driving licence—my gold card?’
‘The only thing I’d like to see is you and your boat sailing away,’ Tara said inimically. ‘There’s a marina about six miles upstream. You should find everything you need there.’
‘I think it’s a little premature to be discussing my needs,’ he drawled. ‘Besides, I’m quite contented where I am. And, as I was here first, maybe it’s you that should be moving on. But I won’t make an issue of it,’ he added kindly. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you don’t play loud music or throw wild parties. I like my peace and quiet.’
For a moment she couldn’t move or speak. Her eyes blazed into his—fire meeting ice. Then, with a small, inarticulate sound, she marched back to the house and went in, slamming the door behind her with such violence that a blue and white plate fell off the wall and smashed at her feet.
‘Oh, hell,’ said Tara, and, to her own surprise and disgust, burst into tears.
CHAPTER TWO
‘MELUSINE.’ Perched on an inadequate pair of steps, Tara held out a coaxing handful of meaty snacks. ‘Come on, darling.’
But Melusine only gave her a baleful glance, and continued to hang on to the precarious safety of her branch.
Tara groaned inwardly. She’d hoped against hope that Melusine would rescue herself somehow, but her pet clearly had other ideas. She wouldn’t climb down, and it was physically impossible for Tara to reach her.
Which left a drive to the village and a phone call to either the fire service or the local RSPCA, she thought despondently.
Nothing, but nothing, was going according to plan.
However, that still didn’t excuse or explain the pathetic bout of crying she’d indulged in earlier, she reminded herself. She didn’t usually walk away from confrontations, or behave like a wimp afterwards.
I handled the whole thing so badly, she thought, as if I’d forgotten every management skill I ever learned. But he caught me off-guard. Put me at a disadvantage.
But now, face washed, drops in her reddened eyes, and a modicum of blusher judiciously applied, she was back, firing on all cylinders. If she could just get Melusine down from this tree...
‘Having problems?’
The sudden sound of her adversary’s voice behind her made her jump. The steps lurched and Tara cried out, grabbing at the trunk of the tree in front of her.
‘Do you have to creep up on me?’ she snarled as she steadied herself.
‘It wasn’t intentional,’ he said. ‘I could see she wouldn’t budge, so I came to help. You need a longer ladder.’
‘Full marks for observation,’ Tara said between her teeth as she descended from the steps. The tatty jeans, she saw, had now been topped by an equally ancient checked shirt with a tear in one sleeve. ‘Unfortunately, this is as good as it gets.’
‘Not necessarily.’
She gave him a caustic look. ‘You have a ladder stashed on board your boat? How unusual.’
‘Not on board,’ he said. ‘But I noticed one earlier in an outhouse behind the cottage.’
‘You certainly haven’t been wasting your time.’ Tara felt cold suddenly. ‘And what about the contents of the cottage itself? Have you made an inventory of those too?’
‘I’ve had a look round.’ He nodded. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never been tempted. Especially,’ he added pointedly, ‘as I believe you have a key.’
Tara flushed, silently damning the kindly but eager tongues in the village. ‘That’s for security purposes. I don’t pry into other people’s business,’ she added, lifting her chin.
Although she had been in Dean’s Mooring, her conscience reminded her. After Mr Dean’s death, she’d helped her mother clear out what little food there’d been, and strip and burn the bedding he’d used. Amid the squalor, there’d been several nice pieces of furniture, she recalled uneasily. Things which could easily tempt someone for whom honesty wasn’t a major factor.
‘Then you must be a saint.’ He paused. ‘But you don’t seem to be working any miracles where your cat’s concerned, so shall I fetch that ladder?’
She wanted to tell him to go to hell, and stuff his ladder where the sun didn’t shine, but discretion suggested a more conciliatory approach. After all, she didn’t want to spend the night at the foot of a tree, wooing an unresponsive cat.
‘Thank you,’ she said unsmilingly.
‘God, how that must have hurt,’ he said mockingly, and set off towards Dean’s Mooring.
Frowningly, she watched him go, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, covering the ground with his long, lithe stride. No matter how grave her doubts about him, she could not deny he possessed a lethal physical attraction. Which was not the kind of thing she needed to notice, she thought, biting her lip.
Her safest course might indeed be to pack up and return to London. Or even go down to Becky’s, she reminded herself without enthusiasm.
But that would leave her parents’ house defenceless, as well as Dean’s Mooring. Knowing that she was there, able to keep an eye on both properties, might prompt him to cut his losses and depart. If, indeed, he was there to steal.
She couldn’t believe he had just stumbled on Silver Creek by accident. On the contrary, he appeared to have done his homework thoroughly.
But the shabby clothes and generally unkempt appearanc
e—at least two days’ growth of stubble, she’d noticed disapprovingly—didn’t match the glamorous cruiser. Unless he’d stolen that too, of course.
People with boats like that tended to enjoy showing them off on the broader stretches of the river. Mixing with others in a similar income bracket. So he must have a reason for hiding himself away in this secluded corner.
All in all, he was an enigma, and someone she could well do without. But he couldn’t be driven away. That was already more than clear.
Maybe sheer boredom and the total lack of amenities would do the trick in the end, and all she needed was patience.
I can only hope, she thought, sighing, as she watched him return, the ladder balanced effortlessly on his shoulder.
She watched him set it against the tree and wedge it securely, then stepped forward. ‘You’d better let me go up for her. She’s not very good with strangers.’
‘I wonder where she learned that,’ he murmured, his mouth slanting. ‘All the same...’
He put his foot on the bottom rung, and started to climb.
Melusine watched his approach, back hunched.
He’d either be scratched or totally ignored, Tara thought, smouldering with annoyance at his highhanded performance. And either would be more than acceptable to her. Serve him right for being an arrogant swine.
He reached the branch, stretched out a hand, and made a soft chirruping sound.
And Melusine, treacherous bloody animal that she was, rose gracefully, picked her way towards him, and jumped lightly on to his shoulder.
He murmured to her soothingly, then descended swiftly and competently, bending slightly so that Tara could retrieve her purring feline.
‘I have to thank you again,’ she said, her voice so wooden she could have spat splinters.
‘I’m sure it won’t become a habit,’ he returned. He scratched gently under Melusine’s chin, which she arched ecstatically to accommodate him. ‘She’s friendlier than you give her credit for.’
‘Not usually.’
