Lee Wilkinson - Captive In The Millionaire's Castle

No doubt she could broach the subject again, when they had got to know each other better.

Her restraint was rewarded when he went on, ‘You said, “For one thing”… So what was the other?’

‘I hadn’t realized there were any buildings on the island, apart from the castle.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘So where is Slinterwood, exactly?’

‘It stands overlooking the sea, about a mile south of the castle.’

‘How strange I never saw it.’

‘Not really. I’m half convinced that, like Brigadoon, it’s enchanted, and only appears from time to time…’

He sounded perfectly serious. But when she glanced sideways at him she saw the corner of his long, mobile mouth twitch.

‘Apart from that, until you actually reach it, it’s hidden by a curving bluff and a stand of trees.’

‘Is it the only house on the island?’

‘No. There’s a couple of farms, and about half a mile down the coast from Slinterwood there’s a small hamlet that was built in the eighteen hundreds to house the estate workers.’

Seeing her puzzled frown, he went on, ‘You wouldn’t have noticed it—because of the lie of the land it’s only visible from the seaward side.’

‘Oh… Do people still live there?’

‘Yes. Though the castle itself is no longer inhabited, the estate still needs its workers, most of whom have lived on the island for generations.

‘Though, of necessity, the young, unmarried ones leave to look for partners, there’s something about Mirren that seems to draw them back, and keeps the cycle going.’

He relapsed into silence, leaving her to mull over what she had learnt, which was both thrilling and a little disturbing.

Thrilling because she would be living on her dream island and working for a famous author. Disturbing because—though Michael Denver had told her from the beginning that he liked to work in ‘comparative isolation’—she was just starting to appreciate exactly how isolated they would be, and to wonder, with the faintest stirring of unease, if she had been wise to come.

Slinterwood, it appeared, was on the opposite side of the island to the causeway, which meant that once she was there it was a long way back.

Added to that, the causeway itself, which for part of the time would be under water, was well over a mile long and only safe to cross at low tide and in good weather conditions. So with no transport of her own, she would be a virtual prisoner.

Oh, don’t be so melodramatic! she scolded herself. All it amounted to was that she and Michael Denver were bound to be thrown together a good deal in relative isolation.

But so what? A man of his standing was hardly likely to turn into a Jekyll and Hyde, or prove a threat in any way. And though the house was isolated, there must be a housekeeper or a manservant, someone to take care of the place and look after Michael while he was there.

But would he expect her to provide some companionship for the odd times he wasn’t working?

It was a bit of a daunting prospect.

Though with his reputed aversion to women, he would hopefully prefer to spend his leisure time alone.

If by any chance he didn’t… Well, she had taken on the job, and if providing some companionship while he was at Slinterwood proved to be a part of it she would just have to cope.

After all, she was getting very well paid. And if, at the end of a month, she wasn’t happy with her duties, she could always say so and let someone else have the post.

Her thoughts busy, for the past few miles Jenny had been staring blindly into space, but now, her immediate concerns shelved, she was able to give her attention to the scenery.

They were travelling through pleasant rolling countryside where, in the shade, the grass was still stiff and white with frost, and the skeletal trees stood out black and stark against the pale blue of the sky.

Topping a rise, they ran into a small sunlit village with old mellow-stone cottages fronting a village green.

Standing opposite a duckpond, where a gaggle of white geese floated serenely, was a black and white half-timbered inn called the Grouse and Claret.

‘I thought we’d stop here for lunch,’ Michael said. ‘If you’re ready to eat, that is?’

‘Quite ready. I didn’t have any breakfast.’

‘Why not? Pushed for time?’

She shook her head. ‘To tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous.’

He found himself wondering about that rather naive statement. Had it been made for effect? To encourage him to think she was sweet and innocent?

When, his face cool and slightly aloof, he made no comment, she regretted her impulsive admission and wished she had simply said that she was hungry.

He drove through a stone archway into the cobbled yard of the inn, and, stopping by a stack of old oak beer barrels, came round to open her door.

Well, whatever faults he might prove to have, she thought as she climbed out, his manners, though quiet and unobtrusive, were flawless.

With the kind of surety that made her guess he had stopped here before, he escorted her through the oak door at the rear, and into a black-beamed bar where a log fire blazed and crackled cheerfully.

The bar, its low, latticed windows tending to keep out the sunshine, would have been gloomy if it hadn’t been for the leaping flames. It was empty apart from a broad-faced, thick-necked, cheerful-looking man behind the bar, and two old cronies in the far corner who appeared to be regulars.

The landlord’s hearty greeting proved Jenny’s supposition to be correct.

‘Nice to see you again, Mr Denver.’

‘Nice to see you, Amos.’

‘Me and the wife have been wondering if, the next time you came, Mrs Denver might be with you?’

Jenny saw Michael’s jaw tighten, but his voice was still pleasant and level as he asked, ‘And what made you wonder that?’

‘Why, the newspaper stories that you and ’er were getting together again. You must have seen them.’

‘I never look at the papers,’ Michael told him. ‘Half the stuff they print is suspect, to say the least. It pays not to believe a word.’

Amos grunted his agreement. ‘We might not have done, but it sounded as though it was Mrs Denver herself who had told the reporters.’

‘Well, whoever told them, there’s not a word of truth in it,’ Michael said shortly.

With an unexpected show of tact, Amos changed the subject to ask, ‘So what’s it to be? Your usual?’

At Michael’s nod he enquired, ‘And what about the young lady?’

‘Miss Mansell is my new PA,’ Michael answered the man’s unspoken curiosity.

Then giving Jenny a questioning glance, he asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’

As she hesitated, wondering what he would consider suitable, he suggested, ‘A glass of wine? Or would you prefer a soft drink?’

Fancying neither, and having noticed a sign over the bar that announced, ‘We Brew Our Own Ale’, she abandoned the idea of ‘suitable’ and said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d like half a pint of the home-brewed ale.’

‘An excellent choice,’ Amos said heartily. Then to Michael, who had managed to hide his surprise, ‘No doubt you’ve been singing its praises.’

‘I don’t need to,’ Michael answered gravely. ‘I’m convinced that Miss Mansell can read my mind.’

‘Dangerous thing, that,’ the landlord remarked with a grin as he drew two half pints of ale. ‘I’m only pleased my wife can’t read mine. Though, mind you, she makes up for it by reading my letters and going through my pockets…

‘Now then, you’ll be wanting a good hot meal?’

‘If that’s possible?’

‘It certainly is. My Sarah has her faults, but she’s an excellent cook. I can recommend the rabbit casserole and the apple pie. If the young lady wants something lighter, we can always run to a salad.’