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by Unknown

  Barbara hadn't yet got a job, considering the kind of employment Rachel had settled for to be beneath her. Manning the check-out at a supermarket was not something she would even consider, and ultimately her parents were prevailed upon to send her to a private secretarial college.

  Meanwhile, Rachel was working hard to pass her examinations. But it wasn't always easy, when the supermarket didn't close until eight o'clock in the evening, and she had then to go home and tackle an analysis of one of Arthur Miller's plays. On the evenings when she had a class, and finished early at the supermarket, she didn't go home at all between leaving work at five- thirty and attending night-school at seven. In conse- quence, during those winter months, she was chilled to the bone by the time she got to the night-school, her fingers so cold they could hardly hold a pen.

  Oh, she went into a cafeteria for part of the time, but there was a limit to the length of time one could make a burger and a mug of coffee last, and the proprietor of the cafe grew to regard her continued presence with a jaundiced eye.

  Then, one evening, she missed the last bus home. It wasn't her fault. Immersed in a discussion of the war poets, she hadn't noticed the build-up of snow against the windows of the college, and it wasn't until she emerged and found it lying several inches deep that she discovered what had happened. Because of the conditions, the bus service had had to be suspended, and Rachel was left with the unhappy realisation that she was stranded.

  What was worse, all her friends from the college had dispersed by the time she came hurrying back from the bus station. They were used to her dashing away as soon as classes were over, and no one wanted to hang about on a night like this.

  Endeavouring to suppress the sense of panic that gripped her as she contemplated the seriousness of her situation, Rachel tried to think positively. There were always taxis, of course, she acknowledged steadily, if she had had the money to pay for one, which she didn't. Or she could walk the seven and a half miles to Rothside. But, given the conditions and the fact that it was dark, that was hardly a credible alternative. And yet what else could she do?

  She thought, at first, that the man emerging from the college buildings at that moment was her English tutor. In the faint light filtering from the few windows that were still illuminated, and with snow driving into her face, it was a reasonable error. But as soon as she hurried across the car park she realised her mistake.

  Mr Evans was not as tall as the man presently turning up his collar against the cold, and when her quickened breathing caused him to turn his head and look at her she saw that he was much younger than the English professor. Besides which, she recognised him!

  Until that evening, her knowledge of the Conroys had been limited to the glimpses she had had of them about the village.

  Although her uncle had sometimes visited the house, on one charitable pretext or another, those were not really social occasions. Aunt Maggie had never gone with him, and her aunt's only invitations to Rothmere had been to organise the annual church fete, which was traditionally held in the grounds of the house. In consequence, all Rachel knew about them was what she had heard, and read in the local newspaper, and Aunt Maggie's gossip, which was not always reliable.

  Nevertheless, she recognised Matthew Conroy instantly.

  Only months before she had been among the crowd of sightseers standing outside the village church when his sister had married Gerald Sinclair, and as Matthew had been one of the groomsmen he had been much in evidence. Indeed, his presence had been the cause of much excited speculation from Barbara and her friends, who all regarded him as the local heart-throb.

  And he was good to look at, Rachel had to concede, although at this particular minute his appearance was the least of her concerns. The disappointment at discovering he was not Mr Evans, and therefore not someone she could ask to lend her the taxi fare home, was of greater importance, and her face fell when he arched dark brows in her direction.

  'I'm—I'm sorry,' she stammered awkwardly, backing away from him. 'I—er—I thought you were someone else.'

  'That's a shame!'

  Matthew's mouth lifted in a rueful grimace, but Rachel was in no mood to respond to his lazy teasing. She was wondering if there was anyone left in the building whom she could ask to help her, and she didn't even take the time to wonder why he might have been visiting the college.

  'I know you, don't I?'

  His next words took her completely by surprise, and, dragging her eyes from the lighted windows, she gave him a wry, disbelieving, look. 'Do you?'

  She didn't believe him, of course. She was used to boys making passes at her, and, although she didn't consider herself a beauty, she knew green eyes and blonde hair could disguise a multitude of failings. But Matthew Conroy wasn't a boy, he was a man—and definitely a complication she couldn't afford.

  'Yes,' he said now, startling her into an involuntary protest.

  'You're from the vicarage,' he added, taking the steps to close the gap between them. 'But you're not the daughter, are you?' He frowned. 'You're the niece.'

  Rachel caught her breath. 'How do you know that?'

  Matthew's lips curved. 'I've got eyes. I've seen you around the village. And you know who I am, too, don't you? Don't pretend. I can see you do.'

  'Oh, can you?' Rachel lifted a woolly gloved hand to wipe flakes of snow from her lashes, thinking how ridiculous it was that they should be standing, having this conversation, in a snowstorm.

  'Mmm.' Matthew cast a look around the car park. 'Are you waiting for somebody?'

  'Um—no.' Rachel took a deep breath.

  'So what are you doing hanging about here?' he prompted drily. 'It's late. Oughtn't you to be at home?'

  Rachel hesitated. And then, taking the most momentous decision of her young life, she said recklessly, 'I've missed the last bus home. At least, I haven't missed it, exactly—it's been suspended. Because of the weather. I was hoping to find someone to lend me the fare for a taxi. That's why I'm here. I—I don't suppose you would

  ?'

  'Are you serious?' Matthew's lean, dark face mirrored his sudden change of mood, and Rachel swallowed hard.

  'Yes ------ '

  'You must be crazy!' He glared down at her with eyes that glittered, even in the gloom. 'You were going to ask a complete stranger for a taxi fare?'

  Rachel stiffened. 'I wasn't going to ask a complete stranger!'

  she retorted. 'If you hadn't—hadn't been here, I had intended to ask my English tutor. That's who I thought you were. But don't worry. I'm sure there's someone else '

  'Wait!' As she would have stalked away, he caught the strap of her haversack and swung her round to face him. 'You mean—

  you're a member of this faculty?'

  Her cheeks flamed. 'If you mean do I take classes here, then yes,' she told him indignantly. 'What did you think? That I was trying to pick you up?'

  Matthew heaved a sigh, but he didn't let her go. 'Forget it,' he said abruptly. 'I'll take you home.'

  'You won't.' Rachel was too incensed to think sensibly. 'I don't need your assistance, Mr Conroy. Now— if you'll excuse me,' she added, with heavy sarcasm.

  'Don't be stupid!' Matthew wound the strap of the bag more securely round his hand. Then, casting a brief glance up at the thickening snow, he went on, 'What makes you think a taxi-driver will risk the journey to Rothside tonight? Remember, he'd have to make the return trip.'

  Rachel pressed her lips together, trying not to show how worried she really was. But he had a point. What if no one was prepared to drive her home?

  'Why should you be willing to take me home?' she asked at last, and, sensing her acquiescence, Matthew unwound his hand from the plaited denim.

  'Why not?' he countered flatly. 'Call it my good deed for the day. Come on. My car's over here.'

  She trudged after him to his car, her booted feet moving with some reluctance, in spite of her tacit acceptance of his offer.

  After all, for all her knowledge of his identit
y, he was as much a stranger to her as any taxi- driver would have been. And at least with a taxi-driver she would have felt she was paying for his services. What kind of payment might Matthew Conroy exact?

  The car, a huge, light-coloured Mercedes, was parked on the college car park, and for the first time Rachel wondered why that should be so. Unless he was taking classes too, she reflected. But that didn't seem likely, bearing in mind that he was reputed to have a university degree from Oxford, or somewhere like that.

  'Get in.'

  While she had been worrying over his motives, Matthew had unlocked the car and got inside. And now he was thrusting open the door beside her, urging her to join him. The comparative warmth from inside the car swept out to envelop her in its enticing folds, and she swayed a little unsteadily as the snow spun in a spiral about her. But, although she still had reservations, necessity overcame discretion and, taking a determined breath, she stepped into the car.

  She tried to slam the door behind her, but it didn't catch properly, and Matthew leant across her to deal with it himself.

  For a moment, the hard muscle of his shoulder was pressed against her chest, and she was disturbed by the strength of feeling it aroused. None of the youths she had danced with at church socials, or allowed to kiss her in the vicarage porch afterwards, had ever stirred her emotions in quite that way, and her breasts were tingling quite alarmingly when he withdrew his arm.

  'Can you fasten the seat-belt?' he enquired, securing his own in place, and Rachel felt the colour invade her cheeks once again.

  'I have ridden in a car before,' she retorted, more sharply than was warranted, but she was troubled by her reaction to him and the words were out before she could prevent them.

  'OK.' Matthew's response was mild by comparison, and he started the car as she was fumbling for the anchor point. 'I should have known better than to ask. You don't like accepting my help, do you?'

  Rachel thrust the clasp home at last, and sank back against the velour upholstery. Then, turning her head sideways, she murmured helplessly, 'I'm sorry.'

  'Hmm.' Matthew had reversed out of the parking bay, and was now driving fairly slowly across the car park. The roads would be easier, with the constant movement of traffic to keep them clear, but the college car park was never full in the evenings, and the snow had been allowed to drift. 'You don't have to worry, you know. I almost never get involved with older women!'

  For a moment, Rachel didn't understand him, but then, realising he was trying to put her at her ease, she allowed a soft laugh to escape her. 'Nor I with younger men,' she countered, beginning to relax at last. She paused a moment, and then added,

  'I do appreciate this, you know, even if it hasn't sounded that way up until now. I could have phoned the vicarage, of course, but— well, I don't think Uncle Geoff would have welcomed turning out on a night like this. And—and who was to know the buses would stop running? You never know, it might not be snowing in Rothside.'

  There was a long silence after this statement, and she wondered, somewhat anxiously, what he was thinking. The last thing she wanted to do was imply that her uncle and aunt wouldn't care how—or even if—she got home. It might be true—in Aunt Maggie's case, anyway—but she would never say so. Some things were too personal to share with anyone else.

  She turned her head and looked through the window at the driving snow. The car was a cocoon of warmth in a cold white world, and she shifted a little uneasily against the cushioned back of her seat. She wondered what it must be like to take a car like this for granted, and decided that in her world people would always be more important than possessions.

  There was some traffic about in Penrith, but by the time they had negotiated its one-way system of streets and emerged on to the dual carriageway that led to the motorway the cars they passed were few and far between. The road to Rothside crossed the M6 just west of Penrith, and then left the A66 a few yards further on to follow the route to Rothmere.

  'It's a filthy night,' remarked Matthew at last, as Rachel was racking her brains, trying to think of something to say, and she nodded in relief.

  'You—you might have been right about the taxi,' she murmured, settling the haversack more comfortably beside her feet. 'I don't know what I'd have done if I hadn't met you. Do you think they might have allowed me to sleep in the bus station? After all, it wasn't my fault that the service was closed down.'

  Matthew glanced her way, and the false illumination from outside the car mirrored his thoughtful expression. He really was a very attractive man, she thought unwillingly, her eyes drawn to his lean, narrow-boned features. Individually, heavy-lidded eyes above a prominent nose and a thin-lipped mouth would not have struck her as sexy, but he was. His skin was dark, as she knew, and although she guessed he would have shaved before leaving home that evening there was already a darkening shadow around his jawline. And his hair, damp now, and sparkling here and there with melting drops of snow, should have looked a mess because it was too long. But it didn't. It brushed his collar at the back, and fell over his forehead in untidy strands—and she had the most ridiculous urge to run her fingers through it and brush it back against his scalp

  'I don't think bus companies work that way,' he was saying now, and it took her a minute to comprehend what he was talking about. A wave of heat swept over her body at the realisation of what she had been thinking, and she struggled to find an answer before he noticed something was wrong.

  'Um—oh, well, I'd have had to find a hotel room, then, wouldn't I?' she muttered hurriedly, smoothing her damp palms over her knees. 'I'm glad I didn't have to do that.'

  'Particularly with no money,' observed Matthew drily, and she pretended to be absorbed in adjusting her seat- belt. 'So—

  what course are you taking at college? And couldn't you have missed it for one evening?' He shook his head. 'If I were your uncle, I don't think I would have let you go into town tonight.'

  'He didn't. That is,' Rachel licked her dry lips, 'I didn't come into town this evening. I—I work in Penrith. I went straight from work to night-school. I'm studying English to A level.'

  Matthew's dark brows descended. 'I see.' He hesitated. 'And do your employers pay your expenses?'

  'Heavens, no.' Rachel almost laughed now. 'I don't think they'd consider it important to understand Shakespeare, or even twentieth-century literature, if it comes to that.'

  'Why? What do you do?'

  Rachel sighed. 'I work in a supermarket. At least, until I pass my exams, anyway.'

  Matthew was silent for a few minutes, considering her words, and she wondered what he was thinking. Probably that she was very different from the young women he usually associated with, she decided. Particularly Cecily Bishop, whom her aunt said he was going to marry.

  'And what do you want to do?' he said eventually, and it took Rachel a minute to realise he was talking about her career.

  'Oh—well, I'd like to work in journalism eventually, but the chances of doing that aren't very good around here. There aren't many local papers, you see, and there are dozens of people with the same ambitions as me. In my class alone there are at least four others who'd like to work on a newspaper, and when you consider that newspapers are closing down all the time...'

  She was talking too much, and she knew it, but she couldn't help it. It was important that he shouldn't become conscious of her awareness of him, and at least when she was talking she was not staring at his hands on the wheel.

  'Journalism,' he echoed thoughtfully now, and she nodded.

  'That's right.' She took a breath. 'I like writing, you see. It's the only thing I'm any good at.' She grimaced. 'But I'll probably have to move to London or somewhere like that to find a job.'

  'Will you?'

  The snow was driving more thickly now, and Matthew set the wipers on a faster speed to keep the windscreen clear. For a while, it took all his concentration to distinguish the outline of the road ahead, the hedges, which were so pretty in summertime, spilling thei
r frozen burden as the car went by.

  As they neared the lake, however, it got a little easier.

  Nearer the water the snow was not lying so thickly, and the dark shadow of the lake was a familiar guide-mark in a totally white landscape. Even Rachel thought she could have found her way along the lake road, and Matthew, who had been born at Rothmere, knew it even better.

  'Almost there,' he murmured, as they passed the private drive that led to the Rothmere estate. 'Your aunt and uncle must be worried about you. You don't suppose your uncle might have set out to look for you, do you?'

  Rachel shook her head. 'I don't think so,' she replied, knowing that however concerned Uncle Geoff might be, her aunt would not countenance him turning out on a night like this.

  Besides, she argued reasonably, what was the point of her uncle risking getting stranded in a snowdrift?

  'No?'

  Matthew was looking at her now, and she was glad he couldn't see the wave of colour that swept up her cheeks at his words.

  'I don't think so,' she repeated, avoiding his gaze. 'Oh, look!

  There's the church. Doesn't it look pretty?'

  'Mmm.' Matthew gave the church only a cursory look before bringing the Mercedes to a halt at the gates to the vicarage. But, as Rachel released her seat-belt and bent to pick up her haversack as a preliminary to getting out of the car, he said quietly, 'You didn't tell me your name.'

  'What?' She sat back in her seat and looked at him blankly.

  'Um—oh, it's Rachel. Rachel Barnes. My father was Uncle Geoff's brother.'

  'Yes. I know the relationship,' declared Matthew surprisingly. 'Your father was a doctor, wasn't he? You had no inclination to follow in his footsteps?'

  'No.' Rachel shook her head, forbearing to mention that even if she had—which she didn't, luckily—there was no way she could have afforded the years of training needed for such a profession.