Return to Deepwater

by Lucy Gillen

  She mentioned nothing to her uncle, partly because she would have found it an embarrassing subject to discuss and partly because she felt sure he would think her a complete fool for being so impressionable. Also she had a discomfiting suspicion that he would be right, for at twenty-four years old she should surely have been able to accept a kiss without being shattered to the very depths of her emotions.

  The following day went fairly smoothly for her, thanks to the fact that Darrel was missing for most of the morning. He had gone off somewhere on business, so she understood, although he had had Gloria Stein in the car with him when he left, and Tarin was quite appalled to realise how much she hated the idea of them driving off together.

  Whether Darrel was simply giving Gloria a lift into the nearest town Tarin had no idea, but she could not think of them together without experiencing a strangely violent dislike for the American girl. It was some time after lunch when he returned, and he seemed to be in a somewhat preoccupied mood, so that once or twice when Tarin glanced at him she wondered if something could have happened while he was out with Gloria Stein.

  Mrs. Smith’s arrival with afternoon tea, however, seemed to do something to restore him, and when Tarin looked across at him again briefly, he was leaning back in his chair, apparently enjoying his tea. He caught her eye and, much to her discomfiture, lowered one lid in a broad, suggestive wink which she feigned not to notice. Although the fact that he made such a gesture so soon after yesterday’s episode made her feel oddly guilty.

  It was much earlier than usual when he looked at his wristwatch and suggested that she finished for the day. Glancing at her own watch, Tarin frowned at him curiously, her blue eyes questioning his reason. She was a little suspicious too, she had to admit, for he was leaned back in his chair, watching her with the end of a pencil clamped between his strong teeth.

  ‘It’s rather early,’ she suggested, wondering what motives lay behind the offer, ‘and there’s still an awful lot of work to catch up on.’

  He said nothing for a moment but continued to regard her with one raised brow expressing surprise at her reluctance to leave. ‘I expected you to be more than ready to leave early tonight,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you a riding lesson this evening?’

  Tarin nodded, unwilling to be reminded. ‘I’m supposed to be having one,’ she agreed, and that expressive brow shot swiftly upwards.

  ‘Only supposed?’

  She chanced a hasty look at the rugged face, half shadowed because he sat with his back to the light, and wondered if he realised just how reluctant she was to go on with something she had agreed to only on the spur of the moment.

  ‘I still don’t know for sure whether you’ve agreed to my using one of your horses,’ she reminded him.

  A grief glimpse of white teeth betrayed a smile and he shrugged. ‘You’re welcome to use any one you fancy, except Tarquin,’ he told her quietly.

  ‘Oh I Oh, I see—thank you.’

  She had half hoped that he would refuse when it came to the point, and it must have been evident from her reply, for the brown eyes were watching her closely and noting her lack of enthusiasm with a faint smile. He leaned back in the big leather chair with his fingers steepled under his chin and a hint of challenge in his eyes, as if he dared her to admit she had changed her mind.

  ‘Having second thoughts?’ he suggested softly, and Tarin wished she could deny it more convincingly.

  Instead she only vaguely shook her head and looked down at the letter still in her typewriter, only half finished. ‘Not really,’ she denied.

  ‘And what,’ he challenged with another, more definite smile, ‘does that mean?’

  Tarin hesitated, discomfited by his obvious amusement. ‘I—I’m not sure whether I want to start so soon. You did suggest I might hurt my hands if I tried too soon,’ she reminded him, and he nodded.

  ‘I did.’

  The brief, non-committal reply was scarcely helpful or encouraging and Tarin looked at him for a moment, mildly irritated. It had occurred to her that she might simply be using his rather offhand caution about her hands as an excuse to bolster her own reluctance, but his casual response did nothing to help her decide.

  ‘Do—do you think I should change my mind?’ she asked.

  ‘It depends.’ He shrugged his shoulders and another brief smile tugged at one corner of his wide mouth for a moment. ‘You’re the best judge of how you feel—whether you’re up to it or not. How do your hands feel?’

  She spread her hands in front of her and gazed down at her shiny fingertips for a second before she answered. She could quite truthfully say that they were a little sore after typing all day, but they weren’t too bad, and she was reluctant to have him think she was merely making excuses.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she decided after a second or two. ‘Not too bad, I suppose.’

  He reached out with his own large hands across the desk, and she instinctively got to her feet and walked across the room. ‘Let me see.’

  Her heart was thudding heavily as she put her hands in his and they were trembling as he engulfed them in the warm strength of his hold, his long brown fingers curled about her wrists. He studied her fingertips for a moment or two, then looked up at her with such suddenness that she found herself biting her lip when she looked straight into the brown eyes.

  ‘Why not tell Con you don’t feel like riding?’ he suggested.

  ‘You—you think I should?’

  It was rather unfair of her, she supposed, to put the onus of decision on to him, but she seemed incapable of coherent thought at the moment, and it would be so much easier to accept his decision instead of making her own.

  ‘I don’t propose influencing you one way or the other,’ he told her. ‘You know best how you feel, but if you don’t want to go—then tell Con you don’t.’ His words denied trying to influence her, but the deep voice suggested what he wanted her to do and Tarin shrugged uneasily, all too aware of the pulsing beat at her temple and the fluttering response of her heart to his touch.

  ‘Would—would he understand?’ she queried, and a raised brow questioned her meaning.

  ‘When he knows your hands are still painful?’ he asked. ‘Of course he’ll understand.’

  She stood looking down at her fingers for a moment, trying to decide, while Darrel still held her wrists, a curiously gentle and almost sensual pressure in the thumbs that covered her throbbing pulses. Almost as if he tried to persuade her without committing himself.

  ‘I—I suppose he will,’ she said.

  ‘Of course he will!’

  There was something hypnotic about the deep, quiet voice that for the moment mesmerised her into stillness except for the rapid and urgent beat of her heart. Then she realised with a start how near she was to allowing herself to be swayed by sheer sensual power, and pulled herself up sharply.

  Her hands were not nearly bad enough to warrant calling off her date with Conrad Stein, it was simply that she was seeking excuses and was more than willing to be persuaded. What Darrel’s motives were for trying to stop her going she had no idea, but she was determined to make up her own mind.

  ‘Oh, I’ll go!’ she said, suddenly impatient with her own indecision.

  For a moment the brown eyes held hers steadily, almost as if he knew her reasons for deciding and betraying a hint of amusement for her determination. ‘You know best,’ he said softly.

  ‘I’ll manage.’ She was determined to sound confident, even though it was evident he was laughing to himself at her efforts. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll need to do too much the first time, will I?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so.’ He was apparently ready to relinquish his objections without too much effort, for he shrugged and released his hold on her, picking up the pencil again and twirling it round and round in his strong fingers while he looked up at her speculatively. ‘I’ve chosen the quietest horse in the stable for you to ride,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll be able to manage Misty,
he’s as docile as a baby.’

  ‘You chose him?’ She blinked at him, her eyes puzzled.

  ‘Of course,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re my horses, remember?’

  The reminder irritated her and she felt a flush of warmth in her cheeks as she stuck out her chin. Obviously he meant to have some say in her riding lessons, even if it was deciding which horse she rode. ‘You did tell me I could have any of the horses except Tarquin,’ she reminded him. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d already decided which one I was to have.’

  ‘So you can,’ he said. He seemed quite unperturbed by her obvious annoyance and the smile was still in his eyes as he watched her steadily. ‘If you prefer not to ride Misty, you don’t have to, there are plenty to choose from. I was merely trying to make sure you had a mount you could handle, that’s all, and I know their temperaments better than Con does. I don’t want you being too ambitious the first time out—accidents can be frightening, especially to a beginner.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Tarin put a hand to her breast where her heart was thudding quite alarmingly hard, and all for nothing, she told herself ruefully, for it was simply common sense for him to choose the quietest horse in the stable for a learner rider. It had nothing to do with his making a personal choice for her, or having any special concern for her safety; he would give the same consideration to a visitor like Gloria Stein or a complete stranger.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ he asked softly, and Tarin hastily shook her head.

  ‘Yes, of course I believe you,’ she said, ‘and I’m grateful for your concern, Mr. Bruce. You can’t afford to have me off work again so soon.’

  Her choice of words, she realised too late, was open to misinterpretation, and his eyes narrowed briefly as he looked at her. ‘If you’re being sarcastic—’ he said, but she hastily shook her head in denial.

  ‘I’m not,’ she assured him.

  ‘If you are,’ he went on, disregarding her denial, ‘you can go ahead and take Tarquin and break your beautiful neck for all I care!’

  ‘Thank you!’

  For a moment the air between them was charged with emotion, then slowly he shook his head and visibly relaxed, a dark glitter of amusement in his brown eyes. ‘Very nearly another battle,’ he said softly. ‘There are times, Tarin McCourt, when you make me feel positively murderous!’ Then he shook his head again, his mouth smiling wryly. ‘Take Misty,’ he said. ‘You’ll find him just right for you, and he’s a neat little cuss too, not too big for you.’

  It was so often like this, Tarin thought ruefully. She was about to lose her temper with him and he suddenly became agreeable, making it impossible for her to be angry. He knew exactly how she felt too, she felt sure, for there was still that glitter of amusement in his eyes as he sat there looking up at her steadily.

  Reluctantly she met his eyes and almost at once looked down again, her pulses racing wildly as she tried to ignore the dark warmth that laughter brought to his eyes. ‘I’ll try not to do anything silly,’ she promised, and he laughed softly.

  ‘I’ll make Con supply me with another secretary if he lets you do anything silly,’ he told her. ‘Now you’d better go and change or something—you can’t go riding in that little bit of nonsense, no matter how pretty it is!’

  Tarin tried to ignore the dark gaze that lingered on every curve revealed by the soft green dress she wore, and shook her head. ‘If you’re sure you don’t need me any more today,’ she said in a voice that shook despite her efforts to control it. ‘I’ll go and cook an early dinner, then I’ll be finished in plenty of time to get ready and back here.’

  ‘Are you scared, Tarin?’

  The question was unexpected and she was half turned away to go back to her own desk, but she hesitated and looked at him with curious eyes. ‘I— I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Do you expect me to be?’

  His smile tugged crookedly at one corner of his mouth. ‘With you I’m never Sure,’ he admitted wryly, and Tarin shook her head, suspecting he saw her as too idiotic to be capable of learning to ride and too scared to cry off.

  ‘I don’t think I’m a complete fool,’ she told him. ‘I should be capable of getting on and off a horse without too much trouble.’

  ‘I didn’t suggest you were a fool,’ he denied with surprising candour. ‘I don’t for one minute believe you are, but you are pigheaded and I don’t want you going all out to prove anything.’

  ‘To you?’ The retort was instinctive and she saw the brief tightening of his wide mouth, and the glitter that showed in his eyes for a moment as he looked at her.

  ‘To anyone at all,’ he said quietly. ‘You chose to let Con Stein teach you rather than me, but that’s your affair, I’ve no doubt you had good reasons. I just hope you don’t manage to wind Con round your little finger until he doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going, and lets you have your head too soon.’

  Tarin coloured furiously at the bland assumption he was making. He constantly made references to some imagined affair she was having with Conrad Stein, and she suspected he did it mostly to embarrass her because it gave him some sort of per-verse pleasure. She found the American charming and attractive, the couple of times she had met him, but she had no desire at all at the moment to become as closely involved with him as Darrel was suggesting, and she meant to let Darrel know it.

  ‘You have quite the wrong idea about me and Mr. Stein,’ she told him in a small tight voice, and she stuck out her chin to let him know that she meant what she said.

  ‘Have I?’

  His voice was non-committal, but there was a speculative glitter in his brown eyes that challenged her, and she sighed at the almost inevitability of another quarrel. ‘If you think there’s anything at all between us—’ she began.

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  ‘No!’ Tarin bit out the denial shortly and felt the colour flood warmly into her cheeks again as she met his eyes. ‘You have no right to imply— whatever it is you’re implying,’ she went on in a soft, breathless voice. ‘No right at all!’

  ‘You weren’t so quick to deny it last Sunday when I saw you together,’ he reminded her with annoying calm, and she recalled with annoyance her own implication at that time, that he had interrupted a rendezvous with Conrad Stein. ‘Also,’ he went on relentlessly, ‘you had no hesitation in deciding which of us you preferred as a riding instructor.’

  Tarin’s wide blue eyes had a glow of anger as she looked at him behind the desk, but she felt an added urgency in her heartbeat when she speculated on whether it was resentment at being passed over or some other reason that made him remark yet again on her choice.

  ‘That really made you cross, didn’t it?’ she asked, without stopping to consider how rash she was being and she hastily looked away when Darrel gazed at her for a long moment with glittering dark eyes.

  ‘Cross?’ He echoed the rather childish expression with a hint of a sneer, and she felt the colour in her face again. ‘I was surprised, that’s all, Tarin. I’m a qualified instructor, it’s part of my job to teach beginners to ride, and I naturally, expected you to accept my tuition rather than that of a—so you claim—complete stranger—’

  ‘He is a stranger,’ she insisted firmly. ‘I’ve met Mr Stein only twice before yesterday morning. Once on your driveway, a day or two after I first came here, and again at Stonebeck, when you saw us last Sunday.’

  ‘Then your choice is even more surprising,’ Darrel countered swiftly. ‘You know nothing about him and yet you’re ready to entrust yourself to his care out in the wilds, on your own.’

  ‘Don’t you trust him?’ she asked impulsively, and he smiled wryly, shaking his head again as he twirled the pencil he held in his long fingers.

  ‘Not altogether, when there’s a beautiful girl involved,’ he told her frankly, and Tarin blinked at him for a moment, wondering if he could possibly be suggesting that she changed tutors.

  ‘You’re—you’re suggesting
I’d be safer with you?’ she asked.

  For a moment he said nothing, then he smiled faintly and looked up at her steadily, a hint of that disturbing warmth in his brown eyes. ‘Don’t you?’ he countered softly, and Tarin shook her head, almost without thinking.

  ‘How could I?’ she asked quietly. ‘History doesn’t suggest I would, does it?’

  ‘Still harping on that same old theme!’ He got to his feet, briskly impatient, and she heard her own sharp intake of breath as he came round the desk and stood for a moment looking at her before stepping back to perch himself on the desk edge with one foot swinging idly. ‘You just won’t bury the hatchet, will you, Tarin?’

  It was partly true, she realised ruefully, although she was not entirely to blame, he must take his share too. But she could no more forget about Jeanie McCourt and Darrel’s disreputable ancestor than her uncle could, when it came to the point, and yet she really wanted to break down the barrier between herself and Darrel.

  She looked at him now through the thickness of her dark lashes and wondered if she would ever rid herself entirely of that girlish passion for a boy who rode like the wind over the moors and scarcely even noticed her. The darkly tanned face was so familiar to her, with its rugged features and wide mouth, and the brown eyes that could look so warm and gentle. There was still so much of the youth left in the grown man and all too much of her schoolgirl self in the grown woman.

  There were so many reasons why she wanted to be on better terms with him, and yet always that indefinable something arose when she least expected it and made her say the wrong thing to antagonise him. She stood for a moment with her hands clasped together, seeking words, the right words that would heal yet another breach.

  ‘It—it isn’t all my fault,’ she said at last.

  ‘Agreed !’

  His frankness made her gaze at him uncertainly for a moment, then she shook her head. ‘If it will help I’m ready to say I’m sorry,’ she told him, and heard him sigh.

  ‘I wish you meant it, Tarin,’ he told her softly.