Goldie thought he was referring to some girlfriend until Sam began to chuckle again. 'Aye, I heard you had a bit of a tumble the other day.'
'Bit stiff in the shoulder. Thought I was going to have to have it strapped up. I said to Harold, "Look, you've given Queenie a shot of something, what about me?" but he wasn't having any.' He turned to Goldie. 'Sorry about all this village gossip. Harold's the local vet.' His eyes were brilliant, almost black, and instead of turning away he simply looked at her, smiling. It was a challenging look, as if to underline the fact that he knew she thought they were all country yokels and he was playing up to it with his talk of vets and horses.
'Go ahead,' she said faintly, wondering what would happen next. In fact, she had quite enjoyed listening to them talk. Now he was so close that she could see the lines on either side of his eyes as he crinkled them up. His lashes were coal-black and his skin had that lovely, firm, healthy look of somebody who spent a lot of time outdoors. The thought made her ask, 'I suppose you farm the de Maine estates?' Collecting pictures must be a hobby.
'I suppose I do,' he replied, averting his glance.
'Sam,' he said, 'I know you all think I was a bit hotheaded this afternoon, but I didn't even get through the front door before somebody was asking me to sell the Halliwell on. What do you make of that?'
'You know about these things. Don't ask me how. Must have taught you more in the Army than they did in my day.'
'He was a dealer,' Lucas went on to explain. 'He's seen me around at salerooms now and then. Part of a ring. I've always steered clear of him.'
'How's that part going, then?'
'Very well. It's really taken off. I guess people realise they can trust me.'
Goldie was mystified and looked it, but nobody bothered to explain. As they talked she wondered when Lucas would get around to admitting why he was here. There was obviously some reason up his sleeve. She remembered him saying she owed him, and wondered if he still thought that. Although he gave every appearance of being a man sitting at ease, with his legs stretched out towards the fire and a teacup and saucer and some of Hetty's slab cake balanced beside him on a plate, she could feel the tension in him. At any moment he would explode.
Eventually he said he'd better be going. 'Hugh and Violet think I'm not eating properly, so they've invited me to dinner.' He smiled down at Goldie. 'You'll see me out, won't you?'
'Can't you find your own way? I'm hardly the person to ask.' She scowled. It was making her nervy, sitting next to him while he boiled and steamed with some inner heat that was practically scouring the surface of her skin.
He pulled her up beside him as he rose, and a quick glance at Sam and Hetty showed her that they fully approved. But then they had always been partisan in their affections—not many people had been on Ravelin's side. Even at twelve, Goldie had known that. The cool encounter with the woman Goldie now remembered as Violet had brought back memories of the same response in other folk. She remembered that particular coldness when they had mentioned Ravella, or referred to 'Ravella's child'.
When they reached the door and were out of earshot of the older couple, Goldie turned to him. 'You shouldn't have done this. They'll think you're interested.'
'I am.'
'Much good may it do you. I leave on Monday.' She hadn't made any decision, but it was as well to get the record straight.
'That gives me two evenings and one full day to get you to change your mind and stay longer.'
'Lucas!' His name came naturally to her and she was about to remonstrate, taking him at his word, when she thought she caught a gleam in his eye that might have been humour. She bit her lip, angry at having been caught out. Damn it, she'd wanted him to want her to stay!
'Well, if I do decide to stay on and have a short holiday,' she said stiffly, 'I hope you won't go thinking it's because I'm interested in you!'
'Might you stay on?' he asked, eyes sharpening.
'I don't know. I don't have any plans. That's how I like it.'
'Lucky you to have the choice.' He shrugged, not smiling, and opened the door. 'I was exaggerating, anyway, I wouldn't be able to work my charm on you tonight, because I've promised Hugh and Violet.' He gave her a lingering, up and down look. 'I'd take you along with me, but I can just imagine Violet's face if I walked in with someone looking like you.'
She gasped.
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be hurtful.' He looked concerned when he saw her expression. 'No need to take it to heart. We're blunt round here. I thought you would remember that. You spent your formative years here, didn't you?'
'Blunt or not, it's a horrible thing to say.' She must have got him completely wrong—she really had thought he was interested, despite him saying she wasn't his type. There was no other explanation for his unexpected visit here. But obviously she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion.
'Dear Violet prefers the conventional type,' he went on to explain, 'the type I'm supposed to install as lady of Burgh Hall. Not even you would claim you fit the bill there, would you?'
She curled her lip, but before she could utter another word he said abruptly, 'See you later.' He was down the steps and half-way along the drive before she recovered. She watched as he reached the gate. When he got there he swung left across the lane without even glancing back.
Hmm, she thought. It was the only comment that came to mind. What on earth was she to make of him? Returning to the sitting-room she was conscious of Hetty's satisfaction at seeing Lucas de Maine flirting in public. Matchmaking, she remembered, had always been a favourite topic of Eva's and her mother's.
'Where's the rest of your luggage, Goldie?' asked Sam as she helped Hetty clear away.
'That's all I brought,' she said, indicating the flight bag in the doorway. 'I hate queuing for baggage, so I always squeeze whatever I'm going to need into a bag I can take on board with me. When I get to the other end I buy anything I really need.' It was also part of her new aim to start living simply. Sam didn't say anything, but she knew he, too, thought her clothes outlandish and not at all smart.
She went upstairs with Hetty and was shown into a pretty blue and white bedroom. It looked out over the garden at the very apple trees she used to climb against all orders when she was a child. They'd grown somewhat, and one of them had had to have a wooden support fixed under it.
Later she helped Hetty prepare an evening meal. By the time they had eaten she was already feeling sleepy, and was glad Hetty and Sam would be turning in soon after ten o'clock. If nothing else, she could catch up on her sleep this weekend.
Soon, cocoa-mug in hand, she went upstairs. It had been cosy sitting round the fire after Hetty's excellent cooking and chatting about local matters, and she yawned comfortably, hearing Sam put the chain across the front door after settling the dogs in the yard. She waited until the bathroom was free, then went along to have a quick shower and clean her teeth. Then, ready for bed, she climbed in and switched out the light. A few minutes later she was almost asleep when a sound at the window disturbed her.
Turning over, she was just about to drift off again when it came a second time. It was a rattling sound against the glass. Like a bird pecking ... or a shower of small stones. She sat bolt upright. There was a pause. Then again, the same sound.
Anticipating trouble, she leaped quickly out of bed and crossed the room, pushing back the curtains until she could peer down into the garden. It was pitch-black outside, but when her eyes became accustomed to the dark she could just make out a blur on the grass which she couldn't account for. It moved. And again there was a shower of something pattering against the glass.
Gravel. Somebody was throwing gravel! And there could only be one answer to the question who. Edging the window open, she whispered down as loudly as she dared, conscious of Sam and Hetty asleep across the landing.
'Who is it?'
'Come on, you're not asleep. Get dressed and come out for a drink before closing time.'
'Don't be ridiculous. I'm in bed.'
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'Want me to come up and join you?'
'For goodness' sake, Lucas!'
'Come on down, then. Put any old thing on; we'll go to the Coach and Horses.' He named the pub on the village green.
'I can't.' She searched for a reason. 'It's a crazy idea,' she said lamely.
'It's an excellent idea. I thought of it half-way through dinner, and couldn't wait to come and tell you. And, anyway, if you don't come down this instant, I promise I'll wake everyone up—including the dogs,' he added darkly.
They're supposed to be guard dogs, she thought crossly to herself as she closed the window with care and went over to her bed. It looked very inviting. But she had no doubt that Lucas would carry out his threat.
She started to fumble around in her bag for something to put on. It wouldn't hurt to have a little drink, she supposed. But what to wear? Her other clothes were in a heap on the floor, and somewhat travel-stained. All she had was a mini-shift in white silk. Heavens knew why. she was so impractical when it came to packing for herself. Probably because the studios always took good care of her appearance. Now she slithered into the shift, not bothering with a bra or slip, simply pulling on a clean pair of panties and tights. It would have to be the ankle boots again. And the same coat. She would keep it pulled tightly around her, and nobody need ever know what she had on underneath. She just knew what it would be like at the Coach and Horses. All men. All dressed in identical tweeds. Darts. Dominoes. Country talk. She would be the only woman there. The whole idea was mad. But she 'couldn't help smiling as she crept quietly down the stairs. Lucas was extraordinary. He looked so conventional, yet here he was throwing gravel at windows. She wondered if he made a habit of it.
CHAPTER THREE
'You realise this is blackmail?' she demanded as she let herself out through the front door to find him waiting for her in the porch.
'Of course it is. Everyone has their price. I knew I'd got you when I mentioned the dogs.'
'Lucas de Maine --'
'Shush, sound carries at night—and anyway, they'll be calling last orders soon, so there's no time for talk.' Contrary to what he had said, he talked all the way as he tucked her hand in his and made her jog-trot along the pitch-black country lane towards the village. He told her how boring it had been at dinner, and how he couldn't wait to get away, and he did a hilarious imitation of another couple Violet had invited, whose sole topic of conversation had been the price of houses. He had wondered if she'd been as bored as he had, having to make polite conversation when she'd rather have been with him.
Before she could make some scathing reply to cut him down to size, he went on, 'Then it struck me what a good idea it would be if we both finished off with a night-cap here.
Actually,' he added as they reached the door, 'once we're in, we're safe for an hour or two. After last orders Bert locks up and switches the lights off in the front parlour, and everyone repairs to the saloon bar at the back. Good,' he poked his head round the door, 'just made it.'
This was another thing Goldie had forgotten. Brief trips back to the UK after she'd reached the age to drink in bars had included one or two village pubs, though not this one. She'd forgotten the Saturday night frenzy as people tried to drink enough in the time allotted. Contrary to expectations, though, this wasn't a place full of old men playing dominoes. Everyone was well under thirty—the age at which she began to write people off as has-beens—and there seemed to be some kind of party going on.
When she hung back he said, 'Don't be silly. It's always like this. I know most of them—I was at school with three-quarters of the chaps. Just ignore them. We'll find a quiet corner.' He settled her in an ingle-nook and went to the bar. Judging by the response he got, he hadn't been boasting when he'd said he knew everyone. And he was obviously well-liked. Goldie felt a twinge of envy to think there was nowhere apart from the studio she could go where she would get this sort of treatment. If people did come up to her in restaurants, it was only because she was the daughter of a star and they could tell their friends they'd spoken to her. Here it was all so natural. People greeted Lucas because they liked him.
He confirmed this obliquely when he returned. 'Take no notice of what anybody says,' he told her. 'They'll tease you unmercifully for sitting here with me. It's known as lovers corner. They've been trying to get me to sit in it for years.'
He put out a hand. 'Don't get up, idiot. You can handle this crowd, can't you? Look,' he went on, 'they're only old schoolfriends. That guy over there, you see?' She followed his glance. 'He was great at rugby—school captain. He now farms Lea Holme. Remember that?'
She frowned.
'Big, old white house at the head of the valley. Beautiful land. And the chap next to him owns one of the best shoots around, up on the moors at Scardale. And that other guy—his old man's a high court judge, and Ruan's all set to follow in his footsteps. Looks as if he's laying down the law to somebody now. And that bearded guy coming over to us is—Harold! Just warning her off you,' he said as a young man with a full black beard leaned confidentially towards them.
He addressed Goldie directly. 'You've got some stiff competition, be warned. Goes by the name of Queenie.' He winked. 'Give him the boot and come with me. I'm a much better bet.'
'Just go away, Harold. He's a vet,' he said to Goldie. 'Keep well clear. Harold,' he said, turning back, 'I'm trying to have a tête-à-tête with this lovely young visitor to our shores, so will you please remove yourself? And you might warn the clods over there to keep away, too,' he added as Harold, grinning broadly, walked over to join another crowd.
'You are lucky, Lucas. It's like having a large, happy family.'
'I don't know about happy. But I know what you mean about family. As laird designate I suppose I do regard them as family.'
'As what?' She looked at him curiously.
He frowned. 'All this tommy-rot about being lord of the manor. Burgh Hall has been the manor house since the year dot. We built this village, for heaven's sake. Put it on the map. Boring, isn't it?'
'I think it's fascinating.'
'Now I know you're American.'
'I didn't think I'd got any kind of accent.'
'I didn't mean the accent.' His eyes sharpened and she thought he was going to go on, but instead he simply looked thoughtful.
'I don't really belong anywhere,' she went on, not trying to work out what that look had meant, 'so I don't cultivate an accent. I worked it out long ago. An accent is a bit like the clothes you choose. It shows which club you want to belong to. Usually people fit in with their background. Like you,' she added. 'Your voice is just so upper-class English, you would just have to wear the clothes you do and live in a place like this.'
'You find it quaint, I suppose?'
She looked surprised. 'No. It's real. It's very—solid.'
'Like a well-made film set?'
She laughed. 'You sound serious.'
'I'm always serious, Goldie.' She caught the look in his eye and this time there was no ambiguity.
'You know it's no good,' she said, feeling uncomfortably aware of how close they were forced to sit in the nook.
He ran his little finger up the inside of her wrist under the cover of her sleeve. She felt it make little whorls on her suddenly responsive skin.
'Please, don't.'
'I can't help it.'
She snatched her hand away and pushed it into her pocket. 'I don't like being played with.'
'Who's playing?' His lips were close to her ear, but there was nowhere to move to, and something other than physical constraint held her chained in position. She felt his breath, warm, teasing her earlobe. Then his lips were brushing lightly, almost as If by accident, against the side of her cheek. He moved away and reached for his drink. 'Maybe this lovers' seat wasn't a good idea,' he murmured. 'I don't think I'm going to be able to keep my hands off you.'
'I'm tired, actually. I think I'd like to go back after this drink.'
He didn't reply, but they linge
red a little longer, keeping up a pretence of conversation, though all the while underneath Goldie was aware of something else fermenting. It was fizzing away like champagne, and she wondered if it would explode as soon as they got outside. And whether she could handle it. Him. Her own unexpected emotions.
'You didn't tell me why the painting by Brendan Halliwell was so important to you,' she reminded him, hoping this was a fairly neutral topic by now.
'It isn't particularly. It's important to my client,' he informed her abruptly.
'Client?' she queried.
'I do a little buying and selling now and then,' he admitted, as if it was something to be ashamed of. 'I have to earn a living somehow.'
'I thought you had the estate?' she asked, surprised.
'You did, did you?'
'Well,' she frowned, not able to read the expression on his face, 'that's what I thought.'
There was no expression on his face as he explained, 'The estate is run by a very efficient team of professionals. Certainly I'm involved. But I don't draw an income from it yet. That won't come until Uncle Martin goes, God bless him. In the meantime he keeps me on a very small stipend. That's the way it's always been,' he added, to forestall what he obviously thought was going to be an exclamation about how unfair it was. 'He rather looks down on my dealing. Calls it a lot of arty nonsense. Luckily I can ride and shoot, so he hasn't lost all faith in me. And, as I tell him, one has to earn one's crust somehow. Actually, I do well enough, though I'd hate to have to go on dealing forever. It would be soul-destroying. You see, when you said you could top my bid, personally you were right. You've probably got ten times as much of a personal fortune as I have. Do you want to go now?'
'What? Now?' Taken aback by the suddenness of the question, she shook her head. Then her face broke into a smile. 'Oh, I see. You think I'm after your millions! And, now you've told me the horrid truth, you think I want to run out? Let me remind you, Lucas de Maine, it was you who came round to my bedroom window with your pockets full of gravel.'
'So maybe I'm after your millions?' His lips brushed her hair. 'You do see why I'm not free to do what I want, don't you?' His tone told her he was being deadly serious. 'I could be well into middle age before I have an income worth having. Not a good marriage prospect, as any girl would agree.'
Hazard of Love Page 3
