The Girl at Danes' Dyke - Margaret Rome
"Women aren't welcome at Danes' Dyke," the inscrutable Thor Halden told Raine; nevertheless circumstances forced him to take her under his roof and to persuade her to masquerade as his wife for a time.
Even before she found herself falling in love with him, it was a difficult situation for Raine. Would she ever be able to make him trust her?
CHAPTER ONE
The hem of her raincoat was slapping a stinging tattoo against calves numbed by gusting wind and driving rain. Ahead, like a length of casually-flung grey ribbon, stretched an infinity of road across which moorland sheep meandered without fear, their immunity from traffic and pedestrians guaranteed by elements marshalling for one grand slam before the last hour of daylight became swallowed into dusk.
The girl stumbled on, head down, hands clasped tightly around the collar of her coat, oblivious to nature's warning signals, conscious only of overriding fear and an urge to put as much distance as possible between herself and the horror that lay behind her to the west. Mercifully, her mind was blank, otherwise the expanse of bleak, rain-slashed moorland, its only' relativity to man showing in a string of gaunt pylons, an occasional shepherd's hut and a scattering of sheep shelters, might have caused her to panic. As it was, she welcomed the absence of human life—people did not necessarily represent humanity, people could be cruel, savage and totally devoid of compassion.
She breasted a rise, then stopped dead, gasping as she caught the full impact of a demoniacal wind. It tore at her dragging feet when she tried to push on, punched unfairly behind her sagging knees, then when her stripling limbs were bent almost double rain turned to a deluge that did not cease until long after the battered figure had slid senseless to the ground…
Pain penetrated her stupor. A cruel grip around her arm preceded a vigorous shaking that continued, unheeding Of her gasped protest. A voice thundered: 'What the devil… Who are you?'
'Raine…' she murmured, hoping the small remnant of information might encourage the owner of the voice to leave her alone.
I’m well aware of the rain!' The voice boomed back, laced with sarcasm. 'Were it not that poor visibility caused me to slow down to a crawl you might well have felt the weight of my car across your body.' Her head snapped back as roughly he hauled her to her feet. 'You're another of those damned hippies, I suppose?'
The accusation ripped through the darkness accompanied by a flash of lightning that for a split second illuminated the figure towering over her. Through rain-tangled lashes she glimpsed massive shoulders shrugged into yellow oilskins, a, shock of hair, red as blood, plastered against a brow furrowed into deep channels and a face half obscured by a beard so that attention was directed to eyes glaring so fiercely they seemed to project green sparks.
Her look of naked terror so surprised him he released his grip, and. immediately she sagged and would have fallen but for the speed with which he scooped her back into his arms. Desperately, she tried to struggle out of his clutches, sobbing her fear of the intimidating giant built like a Viking and possessing a voice capable of shaking the ground beneath her feet. As if in fear of her life, she beat punitive fists against his chest and screamed hysterically: 'No! No! Please don't, I beg of you.. ' She fought until her small reserve of strength was exhausted, but the grip of the man who held her merely tightened all the more as she railed against his silent domination. Then finally, with a suddenness that caught him off guard, her slightly body crumpled against him and she slid gently into oblivion.
Happily, she was unaware of the muttered curses that accompanied his efforts to heave her into his car, nor did she hear his irritable voice calling for assistance when, after an hour's driving in treacherous conditions, he finally swung the car into a drive and drew up in front of a flight of steps leading up to a house shrouded in mist, its grim outline broken only by one small window throwing a beam of light upon tangled shrubs clinging to rough, grey walls.
'Simeon! Hurry, man, give me a hand out here!' In answer to his call, the door was thrown open and an elderly manservant stood gaping as his master brushed past him carrying a half-drowned creature in his arms. 'Don't just stand there, fetch towels, a hot drink—no, brandy might be better,' he decided, as lamplight fell upon the girl's face, emphasizing an alarming pallor.
'A girl!' The man's jaw fell open, "You've brought a girl to Danes' Dyke?'
'I did not bring her, she was foisted upon me, and the sooner you do as I ask the sooner she'll be on her way!'
Bombarded by heavy sarcasm, the old man backed away, scowling, .and went to do as he was bid.
Raine coughed. A stream of fiery liquid was burning her throat and her head was caught by a vice-like grip ready to foil any attempt she might make to turn away. 'Drink!' she was ordered, then made to obey. She almost choked when once again the glass was pressed against her lips and spirit poured forcibly down her throat. She spluttered, choked by brandy fumes, then felt suddenly afire as tingling warmth began penetrating her numbed body.
'Enough… please, no more!' she gasped when the hand holding the glass loomed back into view.
'Perhaps you're right,' the deep masculine voice boomed. 'The objective is to revive, not to intoxicate, though I've been told some of you people have quite a capacity for alcohol.'
Her head was swimming, but she sought out the owner of the voice, bewildered by his projected contempt. 'I don't understand…' When her voice wobbled she took herself to task and her resulting words sounded faintly prim. 'To which people do you refer?'
'Never mind that just now," he clipped, releasing her head so as to move directly in front of her. 'If you'll tell me where you are staying my man will go along and fetch someone back here to pick you up."
She slumped against a cushion, fighting the panic his words had aroused.
She could tell him nothing because she could remember nothing!
Frantically, she tried to recall from where she had come and in which direction she had been heading, but it was as if the cold that had penetrated her body had found its way to her brain.
'I can't…' she whispered, clutching hard to. whirling senses. 'I can remember nothing… nothing at all.'
'You must remember something!' he growled. 'Your name—what's your name?'
'Raine… !' she began eagerly, seizing upon the memory like a straw—but her surname remained elusive.
When her distressed glance pleaded for understanding he expelled an exasperated breath. 'The last thing you remembered before passing out was rain, so naturally rain is your first recollection. But what is your name?' he stressed. 'It is important that you should try to remember.'
'Master Thor!' A summons came from the direction of the doorway and the man swung round to answer.
'She's not ready yet, Simeon, I must prise out of her sufficient information to give a clue to her destination. Give me five more .minutes,' his tone held grim promise, 'by that time I'll have found out all I need to know.'
As he turned back to her his bulk wavered before her eyes. Drowsily, she forced "her eyelids apart, but warmth both inside and out was her undoing and gradually twin crescents of lashes began drooping against cheeks flushed to the colour of a rose.
'Your name?' Dimly she heard the hammered question. 'What is your name?'
Her limbs felt fluid as she nestled deeper into the comfortable sofa. 'Name,' she repeated. Then on a small note of wonder: 'Thor—Norse god of thunder!' She struggled to lift heavy lashes, then, with slumbrous eyes fixed on his glowering features, she rambled wildly, 'If you really are Thor, show me your hammer, your belt and your iron gloves…' before surrendering to the call of utter exhaustion.
/>
The roughness of calico sheets against her cheek was her first intimation of strange surroundings. Warily, she peeped from beneath half-closed lids and was depressed by the gloominess of a room darkened by curtains of heavy chenille. Soaring high above her bed was a ceiling stained brown with damp, and around the walls, like sentinels placed to guard the stranger occupying the giant four-poster, was ranged furniture carved from solid oak, a wardrobe broad enough to accommodate a giant, a chest of drawers, a dressing-table supported a yellowed, fly-blown mirror with a solitary china candlestick reflected upon its surface.
The fear that had become a part of her reared its head when a tap on the door echoed around the room. 'Come in…!' she quavered, wondering, as she fingered the lace collar nestling against her throat, who had helped her into the surprisingly attractive nightdress. A man entered in response to her call and to her relief she recognized Mm. 'Good morning! It's Simeon isn't it? How nice of you to bring me breakfast.'
She flinched when the tray he was carrying made noisy contact with the surface of a bedside table. 'You'll be wanting to go when you've finished this.' The statement, sounding almost like a threat, was accompanied by a suspicious scowl…
Her uncertain smile faded and was replaced by colour that flooded her cheeks a mortified pink. 'Will I… ?' she stammered, then when his scowl deepened, 'Yes, of course I will, I mustn't impose upon your hospitality.' .
A cackle which she supposed was meant to indicate mirth escaped the old man's lips, 'Hospitality? Necessity, more like! Women aren't welcome at Danes' Dyke, never have been and never will be!' he informed her with relish. He advanced with measured tread towards the window arid tugged a cord to swish back the curtains revealing window panes streaming with rain. 'Seems set for days,' he indicated with satisfaction. 'Your clothes are dry, I'll bring them up when I come back to fetch the tray.'
Raine bit into a piece of leathery toast and sipped slowly from a cup of tepid, milky tea. That she was unwelcome in this house was obvious, yet panic stirred within her at the thought of being turned away. She had no idea where she was or for what reason she had come, but instinctively she knew herself a stranger to the wild countryside she had traversed the previous night. Why else would she have kept expecting to see gently rolling hills replace the outcrops of grey granite or yearned to feel the caress of soft mist upon cheeks stung raw by driving rain? She choked on her toast when tears welled up and hastily she disposed of the tray in order to mop her eyes with a blue-ribboned, lace-trimmed cuff. Women are not welcome at Danes' Dyke, never have been nor never will be! Simeon's words seemed denied by the dainty femininity of her borrowed nightdress. Once, some woman had become ensconced deeply enough to have been allowed to deposit some of her belongings a woman, judging from her frivolous choice of night attire, who was as alien to this draughty house as she was herself!
She decided not to wait for Simeon's return, her luggage was bound to be about somewhere and a fresh change of clothing would help prop up her sagging spirits. After a short search she discovered a bathroom of sorts with antiquated fittings, pipes that chattered like machine-gun fire whenever she turned on taps that gushed icy water from out of corroded spouts.
She had a quick wash, then collided with Simeon when she left the bathroom clutching an eiderdown around her shivering limbs. He was carrying a pile of clothing which she recognized as her own, but her aversion to wearing impressed articles wrinkled into a thousand creases was apparent when she glanced away from the bundle and stated definitely.
'I shan't be needing those, Simeon, I'll get fresh clothes from my suitcase, if you'll show me where it is?'
'Suitcase?' he repeated dourly. ‘I’ve-seen no suitcase.'
Her startled glance doubted his statement. 'But I must have a suitcase, how else would 1 carry my belongings?' she faltered, her brow puckering as she strove to pierce the veil clouding her mind.
'If you had any belongings to start with,' he sneered, flicking a contemptuous look over her dejected figure. 'We may be isolated on the moors, but we're not fools, you know! Every summer we're plagued with young tramps such as yourself who'd rather beg their way through life than lift a finger in honest toil. But Master Thor gives them short shrift, I can tell you,' he boasted proudly, 'he's got no time at all for beggars with hands white as driven snow!'
Instinctively, her fingers curled into a bunch to avoid examining eyes' that were already fastened upon almond-shaped fingernails varnished iced-pink. With all the dignity she could muster, she defended, 'Though I have no idea who I am or where I came from, I feel certain I'm neither a tramp nor a beggar, merely an unfortunate person suffering a temporary lapse of memory. I'm sorry my stay has inconvenienced both you and your employer; as soon as I'm dressed I'll be on my way.'
As if to confound her brave statement, a rumble of thunder shook the house, rattling windows violently in their frames and causing floorboards to tremble beneath her feet. It came as no surprise when a tall figure loomed from out of nowhere: Thor, the master of Danes' Dyke, seemed at one with the element of thunder.
'You can't go just yet,' he Clipped before Simeon could draw breath. 'Reluctant though I am to encourage your decadent mode of living, you cannot be allowed to risk crossing the moors when Nature is in such a violent mood. Look there,' with a brief nod he indicated the rain streaked windows, 'it's barely noon, yet almost as dark as night.'
She followed his direction and shivered. The sky held a furious red tinge not unlike that she had glimpsed on her host's face the previous night. Outside, elements lay in wait for unsuspecting prey, while indoors resentment seethed behind the polite facade donned by the red-bearded giant whose green-flecked eyes were transmitting his dislike of feminine intrusion into his all-male domain.
'Get dressed!' She jerked to attention at his command. 'To be on the safe side, I've sent for Doctor Kendall, he'll be here soon to give you a check-up, so come downstairs when you're ready, don't keep him waiting!' As he strode off down the passageway she gaped at his retreating back. Insufferable, domineering man!
Simeon's self-satisfied expression was wiped clean at the sight of hauteur that had changed her delicate contours into a chiselled profile. 'Who do you think you are!' she heard him mutter as he brushed past her. 'I'm not impressed by your ladylike airs and graces!'
She returned to the bedroom carrying the bundle Simeon had thrust into her hands. Slowly she examined each article, searching for anything that might give some clue to her past. Items of underwear yielded only the brand name of a department store well known throughout the British Isles. Slacks, well-cut and of good material but showing signs of wear, gave away nothing of their place of origin and the hand-knitted jumper, though fashioned from thick, expensive wool, had no single characteristic to make it stand out from a hundred others.
She sank down on the. bed, pressing her fingers hard against a pulse throbbing at her temple. There had to be a reason for her presence in this lonely place 1 Instinct warned her that she had been running away—but from what, from whom and why? Except for the memory of her encounter with her host on the rain swept moorland road her mind was. a complete blank, but would he believe that, when at first sight he had labelled her shiftless? Even Simeon had practically accused her of lying in order to find a place to lay her head.
When, she finished dressing she had to laugh at her. mirrored reflection. Anyone less ladylike would be hard to imagine, she thought, remembering Simeon's accusation. Shrunken slacks stopped a good two inches above finely-boned ankles and her jumper was so stretched her outline could, have been that of an undeveloped boy. Dark hair, raggedly cut, helped further the illusion. Puzzled, she groped behind her back just above the waist as if expecting to feel the stroke of silken tresses. A shadow darkened the brilliance of blue eyes as for a second the mist around her mind parted—she floundered, madly anxious to grasp an elusive memory floating just out of reach, but the mist thickened, leaving her mind blank and her body weak with fear.
Heeding
her host's command, she hurried downstairs and was just in time to see Simeon ushering the doctor into a room leading off from the hall. She hurried after him, and was disconcerted to find her red-bearded host present and obviously prepared to remain during the examination which took the form of close questioning once the usual preliminaries of taking temperature and pulse rate had been concluded.
Doctor Kendall straightened his tie and began: 'Well, Miss———'
'Anonymous?' her host muttered from the depths of his beard.
The doctor ignored him and sent her a smile. 'Take no notice, my dear, Thor's bark is much worse than his bite, I assure you.' When she looked no less relieved, he sat next to her and coaxed, 'Try not to be afraid. Although distressing, amnesia is seldom lasting and provided you rest and try not to worry, pieces of your past will gradually be revealed to you until almost before you know it your mind's jigsaw will become complete.'
She was so relieved she clutched his hand. 'Then you believe me?' she trembled, holding her breath.
His eyebrows lifted. 'Why not, pray? Amnesia is not so unusual, more a common occurrence in these days of stress.'
Her glance flickered to her host, who was frowning. 'Rest and freedom from worry,' he quoted. 'And how will she obtain either, doctor, when the sum total of her possessions is the clothes she stands up in?'
'She could remain here,' he suggested mildly. 'I'm sure that after a few days' rest the young lady will not object to earning her keep.'
'That's out of the question!' Thor stood up, stretching intimidatingly tall.
But the doctor refused to be dominated. 'If you turn this girl away from the only surroundings with which she is familiar, then you must accept the blame for 'any tragic consequences,' he stated crisply. 'Come, Thor, reconsider,' he decided to employ reason against an outthrust chin, 'what possible harm could this infant wreck upon your male-dominated household? This place needs a woman's influence,' his glance around was derogatory, 'and so, too, does Vulcan, as I have so often, reminded you.'
The Girl at Danes' Dyke - Margaret Rome Page 1
