Daphne Clair - The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride

Quickly she said, “I’ve grown out of that. I’d like a gin and bitters if you have it, thanks.”

Without further comment, he crossed to the old kauri cabinet that served as a drinks cupboard and disguised a small refrigerator. After making the drink he dropped a half slice of lemon into the glass before presenting it to her.

Pearl asked what Rachel thought of the garden, and when complimented said, “A local man comes once a week to keep it tidy and I potter about with the flowers. We’ve leased out the farm, so there’s only the grounds around the house to look after. Bryn suggested selling the place—” she cast him scandalized glance that he received imperturbably “—but I hope to have grandchildren some day, and keep the place in the family. After all, Donovans have lived here since it was built. And owned the land even before that.”

“It’s a wonderful place for children.” Rachel didn’t look at Bryn. His older sister had moved to England, was living with another woman and, according to Rachel’s mother, had declared she never intended to have children. Obviously Bryn was in no hurry to carry on the family name. At thirty-four, he still had time and with his looks and his money, probably plenty of choice.

The thought gave her a foolish pang. She wondered if he had a girlfriend, and shook her head impatiently to dislodge the thought.

Bryn said, “Something wrong, Rachel?”

“No. I thought—a moth or something…”

“Maybe some insect you picked up from the garden.”

He got up and came near, looking down at her hair. Pearl finished her drink and rose from her chair. “I’ll go and check on our dinner.”

“Can I help?” Rachel asked. But Bryn was blocking her way.

“No, no!” Pearl said. “You stay here. I have everything under control.”

Rachel felt Bryn’s touch on her hair. “Can’t see any creepy-crawlies,” he assured her. “When did you grow your hair long?”

“Ages ago,” she told him. “While I was at university.” It was easier than trying to find someone who could make something remotely sophisticated of her unruly curls.

Instead of returning to his chair, he sank down on the sofa, resting his arm on the back of it as he half turned to Rachel. “How is the toe?”

“Fine. I told you, it’s nothing.”

“You always were a tough little thing.” His mouth curved. “It’s hard to believe you’re the same scrawny kid with the mop of hair who used to run about the place in bare feet, half the time with skinned knees or elbows.”

“Children grow up.”

“Yes. I had noticed before you—” He stopped abruptly, staring moodily at the screened fireplace. His voice altered when he spoke again, sounding a little strained. “What happened, before your family left—I’m sorry if I hurt you, scared you, Rachel. I was…” He raked a hand through his hair and turned to look steadily at her. “I wasn’t myself. And that’s no excuse. But I do apologise.”

Rachel bowed her head. “Not necessary. It wasn’t just you.”

“You were barely out of high school. I should have—I did know better.”

“Well,” she said, lifting her head and making her voice light and uncaring, “that was a long time ago. I’m sure we’d both forgotten all about it until today.” Her gaze skittered away from him as she uttered the words.

One lean finger under her chin brought her to face him again. “Had you? Forgotten?”

In ten years Rachel had acquired some poise. Her smile conveyed both surprise and a hint of amused condescension. “Men so like to think they’re unforgettable,” she said kindly, taking his hand from her chin and laying it on his knee. “Of course it all came back to me when I saw you.” She patted his hand before withdrawing hers. “Just as if I were seventeen again, with a schoolgirl crush on an older man.” Ignoring the twitch of his brows at that, she shook her head, laughing lightly. “Such a cliché, it’s embarrassing.”

His jaw tightened. A glint appeared in his eyes as he looked at her searchingly, and for a moment she held her breath, before he gave a short laugh of his own. “All right,” he said. “I guess I’ve got off lightly, at that.”

Rachel rather thought she had, too.

At dinner Bryn asked Rachel about her work in America and her research and writing experience.

She realised she was being grilled about her qualifications when he said, “This is a bit different, isn’t it? How long do you think you’ll need to complete it?”

“I hope to produce a first draft in three or four months,” she said. “You have so much raw material, it gives me a head start. I won’t have to begin by hunting for all the sources I need.”

Bryn looked at Pearl. “Do you know exactly what’s there?”

Pearl shook her head. “Supposing we found some old family scandal! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“You may not find it fun if you do,” Bryn warned.

His mother looked only slightly quashed. “Oh, don’t be stuffy, darling! We don’t want some dull list of births, deaths and marriages and profit-and-loss accounts.”

Rachel said, “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of interesting events to colour the bare facts. By the way, do you have a scanner and printer, or is there someplace I can access one? I don’t want to handle old documents more than necessary.”

Bryn said, “When do you need it?”

“At a guess, in a few days, when I’ve had time to see what’s here.”

“I’ll see to it. If you need Internet access, I’ve set it up in the smoking room because I use it when I’m here.”

Bryn left shortly after dinner. He kissed his mother goodbye and said, “Rachel…a word?”

She followed him along the wide, dim passageway to the front door, where he stopped and looked down at her without immediately speaking.

Rachel said, “You needn’t worry about the book, really. You—or your mother—are paying for it, and have total control over what goes in, or doesn’t.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m sure we can trust your discretion, Rachel. It’s my mother I’m concerned about. She’s always been inclined to go overboard on any new enthusiasm. If she looks like tiring herself out I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know, quietly.”

Years ago she’d have blindly agreed to anything Bryn asked of her. But she didn’t fancy going behind Pearl’s back. “If I see anything to be worried about,” she said carefully, “of course I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

He didn’t miss the evasion. “She’s not as strong as she likes to pretend.”

“If you think she needs a nursemaid—”

Bryn gave a crack of laughter. “She’d skin me alive if I suggested it.”

“Hardly.” Her tone dry, she let her gaze roam over his tall, strong body before returning to his face.

He watched her, his mouth lifting at one corner, a faint glow in his eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting you add nursemaid to your duties. It’s good she has someone in the house anyway.” He paused. “This scanner-printer. Any particular specifications?”

“A good OCR programme. It needs to read documents.” She told him the make and model of her computer. He opened the door, hesitated, then leaned towards her and touched his lips briefly to her cheek. “Good night, Rachel.”

After closing the door behind him she stood for a moment, the warmth of his lips fading from her skin, then mentally she shook herself and turned to see Pearl come out of the kitchen at the end of the passageway.

“What did Bryn want?” the older woman asked.

“Oh, it was about the scanner,” Rachel said. Then she added, “And he said he’s glad you have someone in the house.”

“He worries too much. I love this place, and I intend to stay until they carry me out in a box. Or until Bryn has a family and moves in—should they want to.”