English Lord on Her Doorstep

by Marion Lennox

  And then she was there, standing uncertainly in the doorway, in her standard uniform of jeans but in a new, fresh windcheater. She was dragging a battered roller suitcase behind her. Her curls were tousled and her eyes were shadowed.

  She looked battered herself, he thought. Thinner. The last weeks had been tough and once again he felt the tug of remorse that he hadn’t been able to stay and help her pack.

  He watched her for a moment more, soaking up the sight of her, her presence, the almost primeval surge of joy that said his woman was here. His woman? Surely it was too soon, but that was how it felt as he edged his way through the sea of balloons and flowers and hugging relatives. Finally she saw him and her face broke into a smile he thought he’d remember all his life. Relief was there in spades, but there was more. There was deep, abiding trust and it worked both ways. As he reached her and gathered her into his arms he truly felt that he’d come home.

  * * *

  The moments from alighting from the plane, going through Immigration, waiting for the baggage carousel to do its interminable thing, had been some of the longest of Charlie’s life. During the flight itself she’d felt almost numb. The last weeks had been filled with legalities, practicalities, emotion. She’d packed up the farm, putting the things she most treasured into storage. She’d done the same with her studio in Melbourne. She couldn’t afford to keep it.

  Everything she possessed was now in a tiny storage shed or in the suitcase she carried—or in quarantine in Melbourne waiting to catch a following plane.

  How much trust did she have in this man waiting for her? When she’d boarded the jet in Melbourne she was so tired she could hardly think. She’d dozed her way to London, but when she’d landed, when the seat-belt light went off and her feet were walking, taking her closer to where Bryn had promised to be, the sense of panic was almost overwhelming.

  What was she doing, trusting this man to do what he’d said he’d do? Was she mad? She should turn around, get back on the plane and go home now.

  But he’d offered her animals a home. She’d seen the paperwork. Their transport had been paid in full. And for her...this was just a holiday, she told herself. It was simply a part of his generosity. A two-week break on his farm.

  But deep down, she knew it was so much more. She knew he wanted her.

  Why?

  What was the catch?

  Stop it, she told herself as panic started again. He’s just a farmer, solid, a guy who has enough money to make a wonderful, generous gesture. He’s a guy who couldn’t resist driving his sleazy uncle’s supercar but, still, he’s a guy with no frills. A guy with a smile to die for.

  A man whose body made her melt.

  But as she was waved through Customs, her feet seemed to be moving all by themselves. She was in some crazy dream. She’d been sucked in by that smile, that tenderness, that care, and who knew what lay in front of her?

  ‘He’s a farmer,’ she whispered to herself. ‘A farmer like Grandpa. He has a toe-rag uncle who’s conned him like he conned everyone else but otherwise he’s solid. Sensible. Kind.’

  The doors slid open to reveal the sea of waiting faces, the balloons, the crowds waiting for their loved ones.

  And then, across the sea of heads, she saw...a smile. A smile that said it was okay, no, more than okay. A smile that said that solid, sensible and kind didn’t begin to describe this man.

  A smile that said Bryn was here, waiting to welcome her home.

  Home? That was a crazy thing to think, because this was only a holiday. In two weeks she’d go back to Australia, find herself a job, another place to live and get on with her life.

  But Bryn was coming towards her, cutting through the crowd with ease. He was wearing what she guessed many farmers wore when they came to town—decent chinos, an open-necked, gingham shirt and a casual oilskin jacket. His smile creased his weather-worn face and lit his eyes.

  He was walking toward her, a big man with quiet authority. He was smiling and thanking as people moved aside to let him through, but he had eyes only for her. The people moving might think his smile was for them but she knew...

  And maybe the crowd knew too, because eyes were turning to her, to see where this man was moving. Were they sensing romance? Sensing a happy ending?

  It was no such thing, she thought breathlessly, but then he reached her and his arms caught her and swung her high. He smiled up into her face, his eyes loving, laughing, joyous.

  And then he tugged her back down and into him. His mouth met hers and the crowd around them burst into spontaneous applause.

  But Charlie didn’t hear. All that mattered was that Bryn was holding her. She was in his arms and, dumb or not, the sensation was totally consuming.

  Charlie Foster had come home.

  * * *

  What followed was a gorgeous, peaceful drive back to the farm.

  They were in his battered farm vehicle. ‘Sorry, love, Mum has a meeting with the church ladies in the next town. She says she’s very happy you’re here, Charlotte Foster, and she sends a big welcome, but you’re not seventy and you don’t have arthritis so that means you get this and she gets the padded leather sedan.’

  It made her chuckle. It made Bryn’s mother seem...less scary. ‘I need to warn you, she’ll be matchmaking like mad. You’ll have to wear it, I’m afraid. Like I’ve had to wear it all my life.’

  She chuckled again. Bryn’s mum didn’t seem a threat. The morning was gorgeous and she was sitting by Bryn’s side taking in a world she’d never seen.

  His farm was almost on the Welsh border, he’d told her, three hours’ drive away. That was fine by her. By Australian standards it was close and the vehicle felt good. It smelled strongly of dog and other things, indescribable farming stuff. There was a box of businesslike tools in the back and the duco was liberally mud spattered.

  ‘I should have got it cleaned for you,’ Bryn told her but she shook her head.

  ‘I like it the way it is. It smells...like Grandpa’s truck. It smells normal.’

  ‘And you the interior decorator.’ He smiled across at her. ‘I’m shocked. I hoped you might make a few suggestions while you’re here about sprucing things up. For instance, this. Interior suggestions?’

  ‘You mean...the car?’ she asked cautiously and he grinned.

  ‘I do mean the car. Let’s start small. If you do a good job here I might let you into my shed by the end of your stay.’

  ‘You’d let me decorate your shed? Isn’t that sacrosanct?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s messy.’ There were, in fact, many sheds, but he’d had one heated for use when he was mending things. Or pondering mending things. Guy’s stuff, he thought and he grinned.

  ‘You don’t really want me in your shed,’ she said and it was an accusation.

  ‘Not until you’ve proved your mettle. Okay, the car...suggestions.’

  She gazed around her at the battered vehicle that looked as if it had been used for years doing tough farm stuff. She couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted to improve.

  Like its owner. There was not a thing she wanted to improve there, either.

  But he was waiting, smiling, daring her to suggest.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, bending her mind to the challenge. ‘The first thing we need...you carry livestock in this car, right?’

  ‘Right,’ he said cautiously. Dogs all the time. The occasional calf.

  ‘Okay, then pests are going to be a problem. I suggest a fly sticker.’

  ‘A fly sticker?’

  ‘A cute little yellow sticker that hangs from your visor and catches any bug that dares enter. Then I’m thinking dream catchers to match. Very tasteful.’ She gazed around at the dog-hair-covered interior—he’d obviously made an effort to brush her seat clean but nothing was going to get rid of the evidence of years of dog occupancy. ‘Then ther
e’s the dog hair,’ she said happily. ‘If you can’t beat it, join it. I’m recommending faux-fur seat covers. I can order online if you like, maybe rainbow to match the dream catchers? Or faux leopard skin? That’s practical. The dog hair will disappear so you’ll never notice. You’ll need two sets so you can toss one set in the wash if things get really messy.’

  ‘You’re...very kind,’ he said faintly.

  ‘Don’t mention it. And then outside...’ She stared thoughtfully into the distance, formulating plans. ‘I know. We could transform it into an oonce car. How cool would that be? Driving over the farm ooncing like anything.’

  ‘Um... Ooncing?’

  ‘I’ve only seen a couple, in Melbourne on the nightclub strip late at night, but they’re amazing. You need a powerful sound system, by which I mean head-blowing-off powerful, and rainbow-coloured strobe lights underneath that can be synced with the music.’ Then, at the look on his face, she chuckled and relented. ‘You think that’s over the top? You may be right. Let’s make it uni-coloured. Purple seat covers? Purple dream catchers? We can find strobe lights that make the entire underside of the car flash purple. The cows will love it. Imagine coming home late at night, across the fields, with your oonce car...’

  ‘Why is it called oonce?’ he asked faintly.

  ‘Because that’s what it feels like—oonce, oonce, oonce—like a heartbeat. It stays with you for weeks.’

  ‘I can...no, I can’t imagine...’

  ‘And then your shed,’ she said happily. ‘Ooh, Bryn, I can’t wait to get my hands on it. I think I’m going to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You do trust me?’ she said and twisted so she was looking directly at him. ‘After all, I’ve trusted you to come all the way to England. The least you can do is let me convert a wee car.’

  ‘If you really want to.’

  There was a moment’s silence at that. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘You’d let me?’

  ‘Charlie, I trust you.’ He searched for the biggest commitment a man could make. ‘Even with my shed. Such is my trust.’

  Wow, Charlie thought, and she sank back onto her seat and gazed ahead in stupefaction.

  Trust...

  This man...

  Where was this going? She had no idea.

  It scared her but there was something building inside, a warmth, a strength, a surety.

  It wasn’t to be trusted, she told herself, but there was that word again.

  Trust.

  And then they slowed and Bryn took a right-hand turn from the highway. The roadside sign said Ballystone Hall. And then, before she could respond, he turned again, through grand stone pillars and onto a private road.

  Ballystone Hall.

  The name was like a slam to the side of her head.

  The brochure.

  This was the seat of the Barons Carlisle and it was also the home of the magnificent Ballystone Hereford Stud. It was the place Thomas had used for his scam. Photographs of this Hall, this property, even the cattle she could see grazing in the distance, had been plastered over the glossy literature used to cheat and to swindle.

  The Hall loomed ahead, a vast pile of grey-white stone, three storeys high, surrounded by sprawling lawns. There were acres of paddocks...no, fields...stretching away to mountains in the west. It looked as if it had been here for centuries, settled, magnificent, grand.

  A stately home.

  Ballystone Hall.

  ‘Where...why are we here?’ she stammered.

  ‘Because we’re home.’

  To say she was stunned was an understatement. There were no words for how she was feeling.

  She’d been looking forward to a comfortable farmhouse, solid, yes, substantial even, as he’d told her money wasn’t a problem. But this...

  ‘Stop,’ she whispered, struggling to get the word out.

  Bryn nodded as if he’d expected this response. He came to a halt in the middle of the driveway.

  Driveway?

  Massive oaks formed a grand avenue, sweeping up to the Hall in the distance. It’d take ten minutes to walk the length of the driveway alone.

  ‘Is this...?’ She could barely get the words out. ‘Is this where you live?’

  ‘It is,’ he said gently and then before she could get the next question out, before she could even begin to form the sentence, he answered it for her.

  ‘I’m Bryn Morgan,’ he told her. ‘Charlie, I know I should have told you earlier but to be honest... I thought if you knew you might not come. So I am Bryn Morgan but I’m also a baron. Since my grandfather’s death I’m Lord Carlisle of Ballystone Hall.’

  The words were doing her head in. Thomas... Fraud... Ballystone Hall...

  ‘Thomas...your uncle...he said he was Lord Carlisle.’

  ‘Thomas was Thomas Morgan. He was my grandfather’s third son. My father was second in line, so when he and his elder brother and my cousin were killed I became the heir. Morgans have held the Carlisle title for generations.’

  ‘But... Lord Carlisle’s in his nineties,’ she managed. ‘It says so on the internet.’

  ‘I suspect the site you saw hadn’t been updated, or you looked before he died. My grandfather only died three months ago. His death was probably hastened by the shock he felt at Thomas’s scam. He was the Eleventh Baron Carlisle. I’m the Twelfth.’

  ‘I-I have no idea of what’s going on,’ she stammered, staring out at the intimidating driveway. ‘Bryn, you’re scaring me.’

  ‘The last thing I want to do is scare you.’ He was watching her as a cat watched a mouse, she thought, even as she acknowledged her thoughts were verging on the hysterical. But that was what it felt like, that he was watching for what her next move might be.

  There were lies everywhere. When would she ever learn?

  ‘I haven’t lied to you,’ he said and that scared her even more. Could he read her mind? ‘I thought...if I threw the title at you back in Australia...well, it still seems unreal to me and I wasn’t sure how I could make it real for you. But I’m a farmer called Bryn Morgan, Charlie. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ She waved wildly in the direction of the Hall. ‘How do I know anything’s real? You’ve probably just rented this for the weekend. Or this is some sort of blow-up stately home you’ve hired from a theme park?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I have no idea, but nothing’s making sense.’ Her thoughts were swinging wildly but suddenly they focussed. ‘The dogs,’ she gasped. ‘They’re already kennelled in the transit holds. They’ll be here in three days. I have to stop them coming.’

  ‘Why would you want to stop them coming?’

  ‘Because they can’t come here.’ She was staring at the Hall as if it were some sort of monster. That was what it felt like, she thought. It was as if the building itself were mocking her.

  The last few weeks she’d felt the burgeoning of faith in this man, the slivers of light that said here was something, someone solid... But who was he? An hereditary baron. Lord Carlisle of Ballystone Hall. It sounded like a hero in a romance novel. He should be wearing breeches and cravat and riding boots, with valet in attendance.

  She took a deep breath and made a valiant effort to be rational.

  ‘So you own this place,’ she said and was proud of the way her voice sounded.

  ‘I do.’ He was sounding cautious, as if not sure where to jump. That made two of them.

  ‘And you’re saying... You’re Lord Carlisle.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But you call yourself Bryn Morgan.’

  ‘I am Bryn Morgan.’

  ‘Thomas called himself Carlisle—Thomas Carlisle.’

  ‘Thomas is Thomas Morgan. He is my uncle. He used the name Carlisle to evade p
olice, and also to make the use of the title seem more plausible.’

  His answers seemed to be wafting over her head, an irrelevance. She was staring at the great house and remembering the glossy brochure with photographs of exactly what was before her now. Pictures of a historic mansion at the end of an avenue that was truly breathtaking.

  The promise of money, money and more money.

  ‘This must be part of his scam,’ she whispered. ‘The Ballystone Stud Herefords. Known the world over. What did he tell Grandma? A lifetime opportunity. Step right in, suckers, and let me bleed you dry.’

  ‘Charlie...’

  But she didn’t want to hear. She’d been stupid to come. Stupid as she’d been stupid before. ‘Just take me to the nearest railway station,’ she said wearily. ‘Or let me out here and I’ll hitch but I’m going home.’

  ‘What, now?’ He had the audacity to sound bemused.

  ‘Of course now.’ The words were practically a shout and they reverberated through the vehicle with such intensity it shocked her.

  There was a moment of silence while both of them seemed to take stock. But Charlie wasn’t taking stock. She was concentrating on breathing.

  Paper bags were good for panic attacks, she thought. Where was a paper bag when she needed one?

  ‘I think,’ Bryn said at last into the silence, ‘that maybe you’re overreacting.’

  Overreacting? She looked again at the opulence of the place in front of her and thought underreacting was a better description. ‘This place was used to con Grandma out of her life savings,’ she muttered. ‘And me. Can you blame me for not wanting anything to do with it?’

  ‘Yes, this place was used,’ he agreed. ‘As my grandfather’s title was used.’ For the first time she heard a trace of uncertainty in his voice. ‘Charlie, if I’d told you we were coming here, would you have come?’

  And there was only one answer to that. ‘No.’

  ‘And that’s partly why I couldn’t tell you,’ he said softly. ‘Because it seemed desperately important that you come.’

  He reached for her hand but she pulled away, as if the touch might burn.

  For weeks now, ever since she’d learned the true extent of Grandma’s tragedy, she’d felt trapped. The sensation now was more of the same. A lot more.