An Ocean Between Us

by Serenity Woods

  He smiled. “You look as fresh as the May morning. And just as beautiful.”

  She blinked at him—was he being sarcastic? He didn’t look it. He looked...interested. “Oh. Um, well, thanks.” The compliment took the wind out of her sails. “Do you...um...want a cup of tea?”

  His smile turned into a grin. “How terribly British. Everyone else in the world drinks coffee in the morning, but the Brits must have their tea.”

  “Would you like a cup or not?”

  “Yes please, I’d love one.”

  Giving him a wry smile, she nipped inside to fetch him a cup and returned to find him lounging in the seat opposite hers, his long legs stretched out. She cleared her throat, sat, and poured the tea. “You Kiwis have such a strange accent. You pronounce your ‘e’s as ‘i’s. You said yis, not yes.”

  “Yeah. So when we say ‘please come and sit on my dick,’ it’s not what you think.” He tipped his head, his gaze floating down her, soft as a feather. “Or maybe it is.”

  She dropped her cup onto the saucer with a clatter. “Goodness! What a thing to say at seven o’clock in the morning!” Heat spread through her at the memory of him shoveling earth naked in her dream. Just the notion of him being bare-chested and bare-arsed had been enough to get her hot under the collar. The notion of seeing any other part of his anatomy—let alone sitting on it—gave her goose bumps.

  He laughed. “I’m sure the sun’s over the yard arm somewhere in the world.” Meeting her gaze, he had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I forgot whose company I was in for a moment, milady.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t actually have to call me lady—just tone down your language a little, please.”

  “Wait a minute—are you telling me you are actually a lady? Lady Spencer?”

  “Yes. Well, no. Strictly speaking I’m Lady Hermione—my mother’s Lady Spencer. My father’s an earl. Sir William Spencer.”

  “Holy fuck.”

  She glared at him. “Mr. Mellors, please.”

  He clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry. You took me by surprise. I’ve never met a real toff before.”

  “Then I’m certainly not taking you to meet the queen.”

  He laughed, and she couldn’t stop her lips curving up. The guy was rude and cheeky, but it was difficult to be angry with such an incredibly hot man when he looked at her with a twinkle in his eye.

  Where he sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he sipped his tea, his T-shirt stretched across impressive biceps and a muscular chest. In his huge hands, the teacup looked like something Alice in Wonderland would have drunk from after eating the mushrooms that made her grow.

  Everything about him was down-to-earth and working class. He was practically prehistoric, Neanderthal man come back to life. He probably ate his dinner with his fingers and wrote holding a pen in his fist. When it came to sex, no doubt he ripped off his women’s clothing and took them roughly, probably from behind like an animal.

  Ooh.

  He chuckled. “What are you thinking about? Your eyes have glassed over.”

  She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “I was thinking how much like a caveman you are.”

  “Homo erectus?” He winked at her.

  “Ha! More like habilis, I’d say.”

  “Cheeky. I can make fire. With a decent supply of matches.”

  “Wow. You know Latin and some archaeology. I’m impressed.”

  He sat back and cocked his head at her. “Not as much as you, I assume. Let me guess, you went to Cambridge and gained a Masters degree studying Palaeolithic bone combs or something just as obscure.”

  “It was Oxford, it was Business Studies, and I’m guessing you left school at fifteen with not a qualification to your name.”

  He looked down at his cup, his smile fading.

  She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, that was terribly rude. Normally I have better manners. But there’s something about you that appears to bring out the worst in me.”

  He finished off his tea. “I know what you mean. I should apologize too. You probably won’t believe me, but I’m not normally as crude as I have been this morning.”

  “You’re right. I don’t believe you. But you don’t have to apologize. Daddy brought me up to be comfortable in any company, no matter how vulgar.”

  Having said she was sorry, she’d meant the statement to be provocative and funny, but it was only when it left her lips that she realized how downright insulting it sounded.

  Luckily, Danny didn’t look affronted, but his eyebrows did rise up into his hairline. “Did you really just call your father Daddy? Wow. Haven’t done that since I was five.”

  Her cheeks warmed. In her family, everyone called their parents mummy and daddy even when they were adults, but when she’d gone to Oxford she’d soon learned it wasn’t the done thing in normal society. She’d adjusted her speech, along with many other things that had helped her to fit in, but today she hadn’t been concentrating, and that had been a slip.

  He smiled. “You’re blushing.”

  “I’m embarrassed.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You’re fascinating. I’ve never met royalty before.”

  Fascinating? Nobody had ever called her fascinating.

  Hiding her pleasure at the compliment, she rolled her eyes. “I’m not royalty.”

  “Spencer? You’re not related to Princess Diana?”

  She hid her surprise that he’d remembered the princess’s maiden name. “Only distantly. Third cousin once removed...or something.”

  “Even so. I’m going to call you Your Royal Highness from now on.”

  “Oh, please don’t.”

  “Okay, Your Grace.”

  A reluctant smile crept onto her lips. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. He really was very handsome. If she’d been a shop girl or a barmaid, he’d have been quite a catch.

  He held her gaze, and the blush that had begun to cool in her cheeks rose again as heat flooded the rest of her body. This guy would have no concept of polite society, of dining in fine restaurants, or of going to the opera. He wouldn’t read Shakespeare or poetry, and he would play console games involving car chases and machine guns, not tennis or croquet.

  He’d expect sex on the first date, and she doubted he’d even heard of foreplay. His sultry eyes told her he was ready to drag her onto his lap, crush his lips to hers, and take her immediately, right there on the lawn.

  But in spite of the voice in her head that insisted he wouldn’t be able to find a woman’s clitoris with a map, her heart told her he’d be amazing in bed.

  No prizes for guessing what she would be dreaming about tonight.

  Clearing her throat, she put her teacup back on the tray. “Is Mr. Love an early riser like you? When do I get to meet him?”

  He scratched the back of his neck. “Actually, I’m afraid to tell you he’s been called away to another job. He won’t be here for the rest of the week.”

  She paused, then placed his cup on the tray with a rattle. “That’s not good enough. He’s supposed to be overseeing the landscaping of my parents’ garden. They’re paying well for his services and I expected him to be here.”

  Danny’s lips curved up again. “I’m more than happy to carry out any services you require.”

  “I’m sure you are!” The direction of her lustful thoughts made her cross, and she glared at him. “Does he also expect you to be so familiar with his customers, and to be so loutish?”

  He pursed his lips, and she suspected he was trying not to laugh. “Probably. But I take your point. I promise to behave myself from now on.” He smiled and got to his feet. “The guys will be turning up soon. Thank you very much for the tea. I’ll leave you to enjoy the morning, and I apologize for any noise or mess that might ruin your day.”

  With that, he walked off toward the sheds.

  Hermione watched him over her shoulder, turning back as he reached the sheds in case he saw h
er. Infernal man. Rough, coarse, and as vulgar as it was possible to be.

  Sliding down in her chair, she smiled as she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun.

  Chapter Three

  True to his word, Danny attempted to behave himself with the lady of the manor for the rest of the week. Conscious that he’d let his mouth run away with him and said things she appeared to have found offensive, he didn’t want to jeopardize the job, and he decided to keep himself to himself until the work was done.

  He’d meant what he said—normally he wasn’t overly crude, or at least he didn’t think he was. All the guys he knew swore, as did most of the girls. Gentle teasing and sexual innuendo often played a part in their chat, so he hadn’t thought his conversation with Hermione particularly over the line.

  When he’d made that comment about her sitting on his dick, however, her face had been a picture. His girl friends would have laughed, but instead she’d looked as startled as if he’d stood and dropped his trousers. Oops, he’d thought, and had tried to rein himself in and behave for the rest of the time it took to complete the landscaping.

  Hermione didn’t make it easy, though. For a start, she seemed to spend most of the day outside, either sitting at the large table working, or lounging on the swing seat drinking endless cups of tea. In the cool mornings she wore a woolen wrap, but by lunchtime she discarded it and bared her limbs to the sun.

  Every time he glanced over, he saw her there, a vision in her prim dresses, looking every inch the upper class posh bird with her hair in a chignon and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. All she needed was a parasol and a butler standing behind her with a glass of iced tea on a tray to complete the picture.

  Halfway through Tuesday, Danny looked up just before midday to see her at the table with her nose buried in a mound of paperwork, unmindful of the sun beating down on her uncovered head.

  He blew out a breath, put down his shovel, and marched up the lawns. Jumping onto the deck, he strode up to the table and reached across her. She exclaimed loudly—a very decorous “Goodness me!”—but he ignored her, pulled the string dangling beneath the large umbrella, and tugged it hard until it opened.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “I’m trying to get a bit of color to my face.”

  “The hole in the ozone layer is right above your head.” He slotted the metal bar in to keep the umbrella open. “I know it’s nearly midwinter, but the sun’s rays are much stronger here than in the UK. You have to be careful not to burn.”

  “Oh.” She touched the back of her fingers to her cheek, which bore an attractive pink flush. “I don’t want to get sunstroke.”

  “No, you definitely don’t want that.” He smiled. Her blush was deepening, suggesting something other than the sun had caused it. He’d leaned right across her, so she must have caught a glimpse of his abs when his T-shirt rose as he lifted his arms. It appeared she’d enjoyed the view.

  He looked at the paperwork spread out around her, held down by various empty teacups and paperweights to stop it fluttering away in the autumn breeze. It consisted of lists—hundreds of them, neatly handwritten, occasionally surrounded by doodles.

  To his surprise, many of the doodles were love hearts of various sizes. He would have thought she was far too tight-laced and prim to be interested in matters of the heart.

  He gestured to the papers. “Planning the invasion of Normandy?”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “I happen to find writing lists the easiest way of getting my brain in order.”

  “Very sensible. Especially when D-Day is just around the corner.”

  She slammed her pen down. “You promised you wouldn’t bother me anymore. Please leave me alone. I can’t concentrate when you’re around.” She bit her lip and closed her eyes briefly, as if aware she’d said too much.

  Danny chuckled as her gaze flicked over his biceps and chest before returning to her paperwork. Perhaps she was more like Lady Chatterley than he’d thought. From her previous words, he’d assumed his filthy clothes and rough talk had disgusted her, but he was beginning to think it might have had the opposite effect.

  For the first time, he wondered if a Lord Chatterley existed. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything nowadays. Judging by her demeanor, she probably hadn’t slept around. Maybe the notion of getting down and dirty with the gardener fulfilled a secret fantasy for her.

  She looked up at him, met his gaze, and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue before looking back at her work. Her hands shuffled papers, although he suspected she had no idea what she was doing.

  On Friday, when he’d made the joke about the Lawrence novel and adopted the gamekeeper’s surname, he hadn’t thought much about the class division in the UK. In New Zealand there wasn’t a class system—just rich people and poor people like there were anywhere else. He’d never understood how an upper class English family could be poor but still consider themselves superior to a working class family who’d come into money.

  Now, though, he began to comprehend the difference. He and Hermione really were re-enacting Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It wasn’t about money—or not all about money, anyway. It was about birthright and education and social standing, and she considered herself above him in all three factors because he worked with his hands and she assumed he hadn’t gone to university. Which he hadn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

  Part of him was hurt and angry about her assumption that he was somehow “less” because he was a working man. He’d had a difficult childhood, and his teenage years had proven even more of a challenge. He hadn’t been lucky enough to have been born into money—he’d had to work for every cent, and the reputation he’d gained as one of the best landscape businesses in the Northland had been entirely his own work.

  But in spite of feeling irritated, the notion of taking this woman to bed was one of the most erotic ideas he’d had for a long time.

  All the women he knew were true Kiwi girls—they enjoyed swimming, camping, and sports, they were well-tanned and fit, and they were all spirited, outspoken, and more than a match for any guy both in and out of the bedroom.

  This girl was an enigma, a puzzle to be solved. She intrigued him with her soft English rose skin, her haughty demeanor, and the look she got in her eye whenever he flexed his muscles. She wanted him, or at least the notion of taking a rough, dirty, working hand to bed turned her on. What would she be like in the sack? Reserved and polite? Would she lie there like a limp lettuce, or did a sex kitten reside beneath the posh accent and superior manner?

  An idea began to grow. If she wanted a bit of rough, then he’d give her a bit of rough. Never let it be said that Danny Love backed away from a challenge.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. Pushing himself off the table, he yawned, linked his fingers, and stretched, noting the way she glanced at his abs when the T-shirt rose up. “It’s warm again today.” Catching his top at the back of the neck, he yanked it off, then wiped his forehead with it.

  Her eyes bulged, and he was surprised her tongue didn’t unroll and lay on the table.

  Trying not to laugh, he ran a hand through his hair, knowing the movement would highlight his generous biceps. “Guess I’d better get back to work. Lots of heavy lifting and dirt-shoveling to do.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly, “you’d better get on with it.”

  “Have a nice day, ma’am.” He walked off, chuckling to himself. This was going to be easier than he’d thought.

  *

  For the rest of the week, he played up to the image of a rough working guy, making sure he went topless whenever possible, and only going to see her when he was covered in dirt and sweat. He spoke to her politely and deferentially, but didn’t hesitate to throw in the occasional swear word, following which he apologized for his uncouthness.

  Hermione said little, but he felt her eyes on him as he worked, her gaze burning into his skin as he dug, lifted, carrie
d, and worked hard to finish the main structural part of the landscaping that William Spencer had requested.

  By Friday lunchtime, he and his men had completed the basic layout of the new grounds. They’d finished the palm island in the center of the large lawn, created terraces down to the beach and re-laid the turf, and planted lots of new palm trees along the drive and around the edge of the property. It needed some prettying up, but it was well on the way.

  Over the past week, he’d watched her put down her pens and close her laptop at one o’clock every day, then disappear into the house before emerging with a salad or a small sandwich for her lunch.

  Today, around twelve thirty, he had a quiet word with the guys and gave them some instructions, washed his hands and face using water from the tap by the sheds, and then walked across to where Hermione sat at the table. As usual, she’d discarded her woolen wrap, and now a thin cardigan hung from her shoulders, covering a pretty light blue sundress. She wore matching blue jandals, and she’d plaited her shiny brown hair into a braid that fell over one shoulder.

  A thin strip of lace from her bra peeked above the bodice of her top.

  Danny’s groin tightened at the thought of stripping off her dress and filling his hands with her pale breasts. The next hour or so was going to prove very interesting depending on her reaction to his plans.

  “Afternoon.” He stopped in front of the deck and pulled off his T-shirt.

  She stared, then wrenched her gaze back to her paperwork and cleared her throat. “Hello, Danny. How are you?”

  “I’m very well thanks, Your Grace.” He tugged on the clean top he’d brought with him—an All Blacks short-sleeved rugby shirt that fit snugly to his large frame.

  Her wry gaze flicked up to him, assessed his muscles in the new T-shirt, then dropped again.

  “It must be nearly lunchtime,” he said, hiding a smile. “I wondered whether you would like to come for a walk with me and check our progress. I thought you might be talking to your father over the weekend.”

  She sat back, smothering the look of surprise that had appeared on her face. “Um, yes. Okay.”