Working With the Enemy

by Susan Stephens

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ Kissing her again, he drew her close until she fell asleep wrapped in his arms.

  Heath had gone by the time she woke up, leaving Bronte to wonder if she’d been dreaming. She’d certainly overslept, she realised, glancing groggily at the clock. And she had work to do.

  Heaving herself out of bed, still half asleep, she staggered to the bathroom for a wake-up shower. She wasn’t worried about where Heath was. He’d be here at Hebers Ghyll setting things right. There was nothing more certain in her mind.

  When she came downstairs the yard was full of builders’ vans and it seemed everyone from the village had come to help. And driving towards them was the biggest truck Bronte had ever seen, with huge prefabricated wooden sides and struts fixed onto the back of it with ropes. ‘What’s happening?’ she exclaimed with excitement, bursting through the door.

  ‘Come and see,’ Colleen cried, grabbing hold of Bronte’s arm and dragging her along.

  Heath was standing on the girders putting a heavy beam into place with the boys who hadn’t been involved in starting the fire helping him. Apparently oblivious to the cold, he was wearing his old worn ripped jeans and a tight-fitting top that could have been any colour it was so blackened by grime and dust, but he was setting a good example to the boys with his hard hat, work gloves, and steel-capped boots.

  Bronte felt so proud as she stared up at him. Everything had come full circle to its rightful place. Everything they had ever talked about flashed through her head—everything they’d ever done together—everything they’d learned about each other. And while that circle had been turning and becoming whole again, she thought about the journey they’d travelled. And the fun they’d had—the rows too, not to mention the frantic, fabulous sex … as well as the slow, sensual love-making. Right up to last night when Heath had held her in his arms as she slept, and had just been there for her, watching over her, silent and protective.

  As if he felt her staring up at him, Heath looked down. He hadn’t shaved this morning. Heath was a man on a mission—a man in his most deliciously unreconstructed state. Their eyes met briefly. It was all Heath had time for before he hefted the beam into place.

  ‘I’m going to go and get breakfast started,’ Bronte told Colleen, who was a gem for bringing her clean clothes from the cottage.

  ‘Lunch,’ Colleen said with a laugh. ‘It’s almost noon.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘Heath said you should sleep—and everyone agreed. No one worked harder than you last night, Bronte—and no one blames you for sleeping in. No one lost more,’ Colleen added when Bronte started to argue.

  ‘Heath lost more. You lost more. I don’t think I lost anything,’ Bronte murmured as she turned to take one last look at Heath directing his team. ‘We’ll keep the excess hay,’ she told Colleen as they walked back to the kitchen. ‘We won’t sell it as we’d planned to—instead we’ll use it to restock the new barn.’

  Heath was right, Bronte thought as she continued explaining her plans. All businesses suffered setbacks, but what had happened here, however dramatic and irreversible it had seemed at the time, was still something they could get round.

  She was back, Heath thought, rejoicing as he towelled down roughly after his shower. Bronte was back, and firing on all cylinders. He’d seen it in her eyes when she came to watch the new barn being raised. She had recovered her fighting sprit. He’d felt it then, and he felt it now, that huge surge of something he now accepted was love. He’d fought it, ignored it, scorned it, and trampled it—whenever he’d got half a chance. But now he craved it. He wanted Bronte. He wanted Bronte to love him as he loved her, and he wanted to build a lot more than a barn with her.

  The fire had been a terrible disaster, but out of it had come a reckoning of things that were important in life—things that could be rebuilt, regenerated, or reclaimed, and those that could never be. If Bronte had been harmed in any way he would never have forgiven himself. If the worst had happened, which he wouldn’t even think about, no amount of determination in the world would bring her back to him. And now they had got to know each other all over again he doubted Bronte’s nature could be ruined by anything—even him, because there was steel beneath that quirky daintiness, and fire beneath those caring, dreamy eyes.

  He had even shaved. Leaning on the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror, wondering if this new fierce passion would be as easy to turn into victory as expressing powerful feelings with his fists had been. He thought not. Bronte was tricky. She could never be called predictable. But he was ready for her. Straightening up, he reached for a towel and patted his temporarily smooth cheeks. His thick hair refused to dry however much he towelled it. He slicked it back roughly with his hands. Time was a-wasting. He fastened his shirt as he headed downstairs, though, unusually, he paused to take a deep breath outside the kitchen door.

  Blind to anything else in the room he only saw Bronte standing in front of the Aga. Apron tied round her waist and knotted in front, she was dressed in purple leggings and a flimsy top. The flip-flops and toe rings had been reinstated and her hair was hanging in crazy tangles to her waist. She had never looked lovelier—though that might have had something to do with the huge tray of delicious-looking food she was holding in hands—tiny hands—currently concealed beneath huge black oven mitts.

  ‘I love you,’ he announced, walking straight up to her.

  Taking the gloves and the tray in one slick move, he put them aside. And then, because he was so tall and she was so tiny, he knelt at her feet holding both her tiny hands in his. ‘I love you more than anything in the world.’

  He only realised when he heard the raucous applause that they weren’t alone, but nothing was going to distract him from his purpose. He waited for the noise to die down, and then he asked her clearly and steadily, ‘Will you marry me, Bronte?’ She hadn’t said a word up to now, and he was in no way confident of the outcome.

  Then she knelt too. Or maybe her legs gave way with shock.

  ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he said, looking down. ‘I’m supposed to be the supplicant here.’

  ‘Better we face each other for this,’ she said. ‘I love you too,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve always loved you, Heath, and I always will.’

  ‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Patience,’ she told him. ‘I’m just getting to that.’ Breathless silence surrounded them, which was released in a shiver of sighs when she added, ‘Heath, that was the most romantic proposal any girl could receive.’

  ‘And?’ he demanded impatiently.

  ‘Of course I’ll marry you,’ Bronte whispered as the kitchen exploded in a frenzy of cheers.

  He wanted to give Bronte something very special to show how much he loved her—but what to give the girl who had everything? Bronte had nothing in a material sense, but she didn’t want anything. Nothing he could buy her with money would mean a thing—she’d rather have a good load of quality manure to spread on her precious vegetable garden. He’d had to think laterally and go that extra mile …

  And so he did. Swinging out of the Jeep just before Christmas, he dragged Bronte into his arms. They were getting married at the end of the week, so his timing had never been more important.

  ‘Okay, Mr Mysterious,’ she said, trying to peer inside the cab. ‘What are you hiding in there?’

  ‘Not what. Who …’

  There was a pause, and then she said, ‘Mum? Dad?’

  He left them to it. He had been introduced to emotions, but they still weren’t his best friend.

  Bronte had her own way of thanking him. He was okay with that. Sunshine was streaming through the curtains by the time they could talk coherently. ‘You’re an excellent student,’ he murmured as she dozed in his arms, ‘if a little hasty sometimes.’

  ‘Practice makes perfect—and seeing as I’ve got a lot more practice ahead of me…’

  ‘Pr
esents first,’ he said, reminding her of their arrangement. ‘You said you have something for me—and I’ve certainly got something for you.’

  ‘You certainly have,’ she said, punching him playfully.

  She thought back to the youth Heath had been and the man he had become, and just hoped she’d got it right. ‘I hope you like it,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure I will. Whatever you’ve chosen will be perfect—it had better be,’ he teased her as she leaned out of bed to retrieve the tiny package she’d hidden away from him. ‘Did you use a whole roll of sticky tape on this?’ he said as he picked it open.

  Freed from its wrappings, the small wooden chess piece lay in his palm. He stared at it for a long time.

  ‘I do have the rest of them,’ Bronte reassured him, ‘and I found the board in the attic, as well as the table you used to play chess on with Uncle Harry. I had them renovated—they’re downstairs. I would have given them to you—’

  Heath stopped her with a kiss, and from his expression when he pulled away Bronte knew she’d got it very right indeed.

  ‘That’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me,’ he admitted. ‘And now I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Bronte said, frowning when Heath handed over a large manila envelope. ‘Is it another contract? A permanent one?’

  ‘Why don’t you open it and find out?’ Heath suggested.

  Tearing the envelope open, she started to read, and as she did her expression was slowly changing from interest into shock. ‘Heath, you can’t do this.’

  ‘Why can’t I?’ Heath said. ‘Hebers Ghyll is mine to do with as I like—so why can’t I give half to you?’

  ‘Be serious, Heath,’ Bronte exclaimed, laughing as she shook her head, ‘You can’t just hand over half of an estate like Hebers Ghyll.’

  ‘I expect you to take half the responsibility for it.’

  ‘Of course, and I’d love to do that, but—’

  ‘No buts,’ he said. ‘It’s done.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Bronte murmured, still not able to believe what Heath was giving her.

  ‘Never more so,’ he assured her. ‘Oh—and there’s something else. I’ve been carrying this around all evening.’

  What a great sight, Bronte thought as Heath leaned out of bed to rumble in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Just stay there,’ she said. ‘That’s a good enough gift for me right there.’

  ‘What?’ Heath said as he swung back to join her. Narrowing his eyes, he gave Bronte a stern look. ‘Were you staring at my butt?’

  ‘As if I would.’

  ‘I might have to punish you,’ he warned.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Okay, your punishment is to wear this on every occasion—even in the stables when you’re mucking out.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Guess,’ Heath said dryly, handing over the small red velvet box.

  It was one of those ‘don’t dare to hope moments', but she did dare. She had always dared, or she wouldn’t be here, Bronte thought as Heath raised a brow.

  ‘Maybe I’d better put some clothes on before you open it,’ he said. ‘I feel a little underdressed.’

  ‘You’ll do just as you are,’ Bronte insisted. Opening the box, she gasped. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘You’re definitely underdressed. You should be wearing running gear—no way am I giving this back.’ Removing a ruby the size of a plum surrounded with fabulous brilliant cut diamonds, she allowed Heath to place it on her wedding finger.

  ‘Do you like it?’ His eyes were dancing with laughter. ‘I realise it’s a little bold for someone who lifts hay bales for a living.’

  ‘I’ll get round it,’ Bronte promised dryly. ‘But, seriously, Heath, you didn’t need to buy me anything—a piece of cord would do the job just as well.’

  ‘Would you settle for a tent instead of Hebers Ghyll?’

  Bronte laughed as Heath drew her into his arms. ‘Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?’

  EPILOGUE

  THE wedding was held in the newly renovated Great Hall at Hebers Ghyll a couple of days before Christmas. There was snow on the ground and a great spruce tree stood sentry outside the doors. Decorated with lights and stars and shimmering ribbons, it gave just a hint of the glorious scene inside. The log fire was blazing, and the hall was filled with workmates and friends, Bronte’s family and just about everyone from the village. They turned expectantly as she reached the door, but all Bronte could see was Heath, looking like some latter-day Mr Darcy—though much better looking, she thought as the breath caught in her throat. There was a touch of Heathcliff about him too—all that darkly glittering glamour. Heath’s hair was just as thick and black and as unruly as ever, though she knew he would have tried to tame it, just as he would have tried to shave so his face remained smooth for longer than five minutes. Both attempts had failed, she was pleased to see, though his tail suit was magnificent and skimmed his powerful frame with loving attention to detail. He must have gone to Quentin’s tailor, she guessed as Heath’s groomsmen took their place at Heath’s side. Not even Quentin had dared to argue when Heath had named Quentin his best man.

  The vast, welcoming space was decorated with Christmas flowers—spray roses, aptly named warm heart, crimson hypericum and frosted twigs, vivid gerberas and frowzy amaranthus, and the room was lit by candlelight, which gave the burnished wood panelling an umber glow. The scent of pine and wood smoke in the great stone hearth was such a wonderfully evocative smell, and as Bronte walked in on her father’s arm and saw everyone who had helped to make this possible wishing them well she felt she were being carried along on a wave of goodwill.

  She had found her dream wedding dress in the city—a simple fall of cream chiffon that floated as she walked, it was cut straight across her breasts and the delicate fabric was swathed and draped over a boned bodice. The gauzy skirt was drawn up on one side over a matt silk Dupion underskirt and had been formed into a delicate camellia on the hip.

  Quentin, who had appointed himself wedding-advisor-in-chief, had all but swooned when Bronte had come out of the dressing room wearing this one. ‘Perfect,’ he’d said. ‘We need look no further.’ And then he had gusted with relief, because it had taken a solid week of looking for something that wouldn’t be too grand, as Bronte put it, but wouldn’t look as if she could cut it down to wear with flip-flops and toe rings either.

  She had finally, after much argument, given way to Quentin over the veil. She hadn’t wanted to wear one, but Quentin had insisted, and so she was wearing a floating three-tiered confection composed of creamy cobwebby net, dusted with the tiniest sparkling diamanté that fell into a long, floating train behind her. Even Bronte had been amazed at how feminine it made her look.

  ‘Tiaras and tattoos?’ she had said, laughing when Quentin had agreed she could wear one toe ring.

  ‘Heath wouldn’t want you completely changed,’ Quentin observed, adding a discreet band of crystals to Bronte’s hair while he distracted her.

  ‘Quentin, you’re wicked,’ she had exclaimed.

  ‘I had the best teacher,’ Quentin had informed her and they both knew who he meant.

  So now she was walking down the aisle towards the man she loved, dressed by royal appointment—as Quentin insisted she must think of it—in the stratospherically high heels Quentin had chosen for her. ‘Heath is so much taller than you,’ he had pointed out. ‘And I refuse to listen if you start to argue with me.’

  The one thing Bronte couldn’t argue about was Heath’s size. Heath was built on a heroic scale in every department, she thought happily, keeping those thoughts under wraps as she did her best to glide gracefully in front of her bridesmaids, Maisie and Colleen, both of whom were dressed in powder-pink Grecian-style gowns. She was trembling all over by the time she turned to pass her wedding bouquet to Colleen. Lush cream orchids with an intimate flash of purple at their core, the bouquet had be
en created to Heath’s design, and when her father put her hand in Heath’s Bronte was sure everyone must have heard her swift intake of breath. At this range he was even more devastating with his stubble-shaded face, and dark, slumberous eyes. The sweeping ebony brows and thick black hair curling rebelliously over the collar of his winged shirt gave him the appearance of some ruthless buccaneer who had sailed into this quiet harbour and taken it by storm—which was pretty much what had happened, Bronte reflected.

  ‘Okay?’ Heath whispered, heat and concern mingling in his eyes as he looked at her.

  ‘I am now,’ Bronte confirmed, meeting that fiery gaze. Now, if she could just concentrate on the ceremony and put the pleasures of their wedding night out of her mind, she might stand a chance of remembering what she was supposed to say and do.

  And then Heath’s lips brushed her ear. ‘Good,’ he murmured, ‘because I’ve got plans for you …’

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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