Читать книгу The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride - Daphne Clair - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

BRYN DROVE OFF feeling oddly dissatisfied with himself. At least they’d brought that old business into the open, and that should have cleared the air between him and Rachel, as well as easing his conscience. He’d sensed a constraint in her from the moment their eyes met at the bus terminal, and he didn’t believe her claim that she’d not given any subsequent thought to their last meeting. A soft, rueful laugh escaped him, remembering the deliberate put-down with which she’d denied it. “Rather overdoing it there, honey,” he murmured aloud.

She certainly was different from the rather gauche innocent who sometimes reappeared in his dreams. If she’d never had a similar nocturnal problem he ought to be relieved, but at first he’d felt nothing but chagrin, and had to quell an impulse to exact a sweet revenge on her lovely mouth even as it mocked him.

Instead he’d swallowed the unaccustomed medicine like a man, because she was entitled.

There was an intriguing dislocation between the Rachel Moore he remembered and the Rachel he’d met today. Now and then a glimpse of the ardent, uncomplicated girl peeked through the cool reserve of the woman, arousing in him a capricious desire to probe deeper and find out just how much she had really changed.

A glance at the clock on the dashboard reminded him his departure was later than he’d intended. He’d been seeing a lot of Kinzi Broadbent lately, and he’d half promised to drop in after delivering the historian his mother had hired to Rivermeadows. But he hadn’t even thought to call Kinzi.

Already on the motorway, he didn’t want to use his mobile phone. For some reason he didn’t feel like seeing Kinzi now. Instead he drove home and phoned her from there, saying he’d stayed for dinner with his mother, was tired and wanted an early night. Although she accepted the excuse, her voice was a little clipped as she wished him a good sleep. He’d have to make it up to her.

Three days later Rachel was in the smoking room, sorting through boxes of old letters, diaries and papers and spreading the contents over the big table—made of a single slab of thousand-year-old kauri—that dominated the space.

The door opened and Bryn strode in carrying a large cardboard box. Absorbed in her task, she hadn’t heard the car.

“Your scanner,” he said. “Where do you want it?”

“On the desk?” She stripped off the gloves she was wearing to handle the fragile old documents and hurried to clear a couple of boxes from the heavy oak desk in a corner of the room where she’d placed her computer. “I didn’t expect you to deliver it yourself.”

“I wanted to check on my mother.”

“She seems fine. Did you see her on your way in?”

He’d taken a paper knife from a drawer and began slitting the tape on the carton. “Yes, busy watering potted plants on the terrace. She’s excited about this,” he said, nodding towards the documents on the table. “How’s it coming along?”

“Deciding what to leave out may be a problem. There’s such a wealth of material.”

They connected the machine to her laptop and she sat down to test it while Bryn stood leaning against the desk.

A sheet of paper eased out of the printer and they both reached for it, their fingers momentarily tangling. Rachel quickly withdrew her hand and Bryn shot her a quizzical look before picking up the test page and scrutinising it. “Looks good,” he said, passing it to her.

“Yes.” Rachel kept her eyes on the paper. “Thank you. It’ll be a big help.”

“Glad to oblige,” he answered on a rather dry note.

Looking up, she found him regarding her with what seemed part curiosity and part…vexation? Then he swung away from the desk and strolled to the table, idly studying the papers laid out there, some in plastic sleeves. Carefully turning one to a readable angle, he said, “What’s this?”

She went over to stand beside him. “A list of supplies for the old sawmill, with notes. Probably written by your great-great-grandfather.” Samuel Donovan had built his first mill on the banks of the nearby falls, using a water-wheel to power it. “You haven’t seen it before?”

Bryn shook his head. “I know who’s in the old photographs my father got framed and hung in the hallway, they have brass plaques, but I had no idea we’d have original documents in old Sam’s handwriting. It’s an odd feeling.” He studied the bold writing in faded ink. “Intimations of mortality.”

“There are letters, too.” Rachel pointed out a plastic envelope holding a paper browning at the edges and along deep, disintegrating creases where it had been folded. “This one is to his wife, before they were married.”

“‘Dearest one,’” Bryn read aloud, then looked up, slanting a grin at her. “A love letter?”

“It’s mostly about his plans to build her a house before their wedding. But he obviously loved her.”

His eyes skimmed the page, then he read aloud the last paragraph. “‘I am impatient for the day we settle in our own dear home. I hope it will meet with your sweet approval, my dearest. Most sincerely yours, with all my heart, Samuel.’”

Lifting his head, Bryn said, “Quite the sentimentalist, wasn’t he? You’d never have thought it from that rather dour portrait we have.”

“That was painted when he was middle-aged and successful and a pillar of the community.” The man in the portrait had curling mutton-chop whiskers and a forbidding expression. “When this was written—” she touched a finger to the letter “—he was a young man in love, looking forward to bringing home his bride.”

“Looks like he’s won your heart, too.” Bryn was amused.

“I think it’s rather touching,” Rachel admitted. Bryn would never write something like that, even if he were headlong in love. “There’s some wonderful stuff here for a historian. I can’t wait to read it all.”

He was studying her face, and said, “I remember you had much the same light in your eyes after your dad bought you a pony and you’d had your first-ever ride. You came bursting in at breakfast to tell us all about it.”

“And got told off for that,” she recalled. Her father had hauled her out of the big house with profuse apologies to his employers. It was then she became conscious of the social gap between the Donovans and her own family, although the Donovans had never emphasised it.

“Do you still ride?” Bryn asked.

“Not for years.”

“There’s a place not far from here where I keep a hack that I ride when I can. I’m sure they’d find a mount for you if you’re interested.”

“I’ll think about it. But I have a lot to do here.”

“Hey,” he said, raising a hand and brushing the back of it across her cheek, “you can’t work all the time. We hired a historian, not a slave.”

She tri ed not to show her reaction to his casual touch, the absurd little skip of her heart. Her smile was restrained. “I’m certainly not on slave wages. The pay is very generous.”

“My mother’s convinced you’re worth it.”

“I am,” she said calmly, lifting her chin. She would show him she was worth every cent before she finished this job.

His eyes laughed at her. “You haven’t lost your spark. I don’t doubt that, Rachel. I trust my mother’s judgement.”

“I had a feeling that you have definite reservations.”

“Nothing to do with your ability.”

“Then what…” she began, but was interrupted by his mother coming into the room, offering afternoon tea on the terrace.

“Or actually coffee. Unless you prefer tea, Rachel?”

Rachel said coffee was fine.

A few minutes later over their cups she said, “You really should have the records properly archived and safely stored, in acid-proof envelopes and containers. If you had those I could start doing that as I work.”

“Buy whatever you need,” Bryn said.

“You won’t find anything like that in the village,” Pearl warned. “You’d have to go into the city. I told you, didn’t I, there’s a car you can use?”

“Yes.” It had been one more incentive for Rachel to take this job, not needing to think yet about investing in a car.

Bryn asked her, “You do have a licence?”

“Yes. I need to get used to driving on the left again.”

“You’d better go with her,” Bryn told his mother, and shortly afterwards said he had to leave. The house seemed colder and emptier when his vital presence was gone.

When Pearl hadn’t broached the subject by the end of the week, on Friday Rachel asked if it would be convenient to drive into the city.

“I suppose you don’t want to go alone?” Pearl asked.

About to say she’d be quite okay, Rachel recalled Bryn’s concern about his mother’s reluctance to leave Rivermeadows.

Misconstruing her hesitation, Pearl said in a breathless little rush, “But if you’re nervous, of course I’ll come.”

The garage held a station wagon as well, but the red car that Pearl used to drive had gone, its place taken by a compact sedan.

In the city Pearl directed Rachel to a car park belonging to the Donovan office building, and used a pass card for Rachel to drive the sedan into one of the parking bays.

As they shopped for the things on their list, the older woman seemed ill at ease, sticking close by Rachel’s side. After they’d made their major purchases and Rachel suggested they have a coffee and a snack in one of the cafés, Pearl barely paused before agreeing. Waiting for their order to be brought, she looked about with an air of bemusement, as if unused to seeing so many people in one place.

Coffee and the cake seemed to make her a little less tense. Later, as they stowed their purchases in the car, she paused and looked up at the looming Donovan’s Timber building. “Why don’t we call in on Bryn while we’re here?”

“Won’t he be busy?” Rachel wasn’t sure how Bryn would feel about being interrupted in business hours.

“We needn’t stay long,” Pearl said. “Just to say hello.”

“I’ll wait for you here.”

“No!” Pearl insisted. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.” Less sure, and wondering if Pearl didn’t want to enter the big building alone, Rachel followed her into the marble-floored, wood-panelled lobby.

A silent elevator delivered them to the top floor, where Bryn’s secretary, a comfortably rounded middle-aged woman wearing huge, equally round glasses, greeted Pearl with surprised pleasure and ushered them both into his office. Rachel was warmed by the approving glance he sent her after greeting them both and suggesting they sit down in two deep chairs before his rather palatial desk.

“Just for a minute,” Pearl said, and proceeded with some animation to tell him about their shopping expedition while Rachel admired their surroundings.

Like the lobby, Bryn’s office was wood-panelled, the carpet thick and the furnishings solid and practical but obviously made and finished with expensive care.

The whole building spoke discreetly of prosperity and excellent workmanship—not new but magnificently modernised and maintained without spoiling its original character. While building their little empire from one country sawmill to a huge timber enterprise, and diversifying into paper production and even newspapers, the Donovans hadn’t lost sight of their history.

It was fifteen minutes before Pearl declared they mustn’t take any more of Bryn’s time. He got up to see them out, Rachel standing back to let Pearl go first. As she made to follow, Bryn closed a hand lightly about her arm, murmuring, “Thank you.”

Rachel shook her head to indicate she hadn’t done anything, but when he smiled at her she felt a momentary warm fizz of pleasure before they followed his mother through the outer office and he pressed the button for the elevator.

Pearl asked him, “Will we see you this weekend?”

“Not this time, I’ve made other plans.”

“Oh—with Kinzi?” She gave him an arch glance of inquiry.

“Yes, actually.”

Rachel, her gaze fixed on the rapidly changing numbers signalling the elevator’s rise from the ground floor, was relieved when a “ding” sounded and the doors whispered open.

Rachel worked most of Saturday, but Pearl insisted she take Sunday off, adding, “You’re welcome to use the car.”

“I’ll just go for a nice long walk, see what’s changed. I need the exercise.” Accustomed to working out at a gym, she had neglected her physical fitness since coming here.

Much of the farmland she remembered had been cut into smaller blocks occupied by city workers who hankered after a country lifestyle or whose daughters fancied a pony. The village of Donovan Falls, once a huddle of rough huts about Donovans’long-vanished sawmill, and later a sleepy enclave of old houses with one general store, had grown and merged into the surrounding suburb.

The little pioneer church the Donovans and the Moores had attended sparkled under a fresh coat of paint. And the falls named for Samuel Donovan, who had used the power of the river for his mill, were still there, the focus of several hectares of grass and trees donated to the community by Bryn’s father, a memorial plaque commemorating the fact. People picnicked under the trees, and children splashed in the pool below the waterfall.

Watching the mesmerising flow make the ferns at its edges tremble as the sun caught tiny droplets on the leaves, Rachel wondered what Bryn was doing.

Whatever it was, he was doing it with a woman called Kinzi. At first she’d thought—not admitting to hoped—that “Kinsey” might be male, but Pearl’s knowing, interested expression had dispelled any chance of that.

On the journey home from their trip into the city Rachel had suppressed a persistent curiosity while Pearl hummed a little tune to herself in brief snatches and engaged in only small bites of conversation. Rachel had an irrational idea that she was mentally counting potential grandchildren.

And there was no reason to feel ever so slightly irritated about that.

In the afternoon she caught up with her family and friends by e-mail, and on Monday was glad to get back to sorting through the Donovan records.

Pearl helped where she could, explaining family connections or identifying people in photographs. But she was outside dead-heading plants when the phone rang. Rachel picked up the extension in the smoking room and answered.

“Rachel?” Bryn’s deep voice said.

“Yes, your mother’s in the garden. I’ll call her.”

“No, I’ll catch up with her later. Everything all right?”

“She’s fine and the work is going well.”

“Did you have a good weekend?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

There was a short, somehow expectant silence. Was he waiting for her to reciprocate and ask how his weekend was? The thought hollowed her stomach.

Then he asked, “What did you do?”

Briefly she told him, not supposing he was really interested.

He said, “Next weekend I’ll take you riding. Unless you’ve made other plans.”

“I haven’t thought about it yet—”

“Good. Sunday, around ten. See you then.”

He’d put down the phone before she could refuse. And she didn’t really want to.

He must have mentioned the plan to his mother, because after talking to him that night, Pearl told her, “Bryn said you’re riding together on Sunday. It’ll be nice for him to have a companion. I don’t think Kinzi rides at all.”

“His girlfriend?” Rachel’s voice was suitably casual.

Pearl sighed. “Maybe something will come of it this time. They’ve been seeing each other for quite a long time.”

On Sunday Bryn turned up with a long-legged, green-eyed redhead. Her hair was cut in a short, straight, jagged style that would have cost a modest fortune. A primrose cashmere sweater and skinny jeans hugged a figure that most women would give a whole mouthful of teeth for, and high-heeled ankle-boots brought her near to Bryn’s height. A short denim jacket finished the deceptively casual outfit.

Kinzi gave Rachel a dazzling smile on being introduced and announced she was here to keep Pearl company while Bryn and “Rachel, isn’t it?” went off to “do your horsy thing”. On a rueful note she added, “The only time I got on a horse the brute threw me.” She laughed, a surprisingly hearty sound. “I know about getting back on and all that, but I thought, why should I? You don’t ride, do you, Lady Donovan?”

Pearl shook her head. “It’s kind of you to sit with an old lady, my dear. But not at all necessary. And please, let’s dispense with the title.”

Rachel had to choke back laughter at the uncharacteristic, almost querulous tone of Pearl’s little speech. Meeting Bryn’s slightly pained expression, belied by the amused appreciation in his eyes, she knew he hadn’t missed it, but Kinzi didn’t seem to notice.

Whether his bringing Kinzi along had been her own idea or Bryn’s, Rachel was very sure Pearl Donovan didn’t, and probably never would, think of herself as an old lady.

Perhaps it was the look she turned on her son that made him say, “Ready, Rachel? We’ll get going then.”

She had put on jeans and sneakers with a sweatshirt and was relieved to see that he, too, was casually dressed, although he wore riding boots.

In the car she told him, “Did your mother mention she had some visitors this week?”

“She asked them to come?”

“I don’t think so. They were passing through, I gather.” Pearl had invited Rachel to join them for afternoon tea, but she’d declined, not wanting to intrude. Afterwards Pearl had seemed quite animated, describing the middle-aged couple as old friends and saying what a nice chat they’d had.

They were the first visitors Rachel had seen apart from Kinzi. Pearl certainly wasn’t doing as much entertaining as she used to. “I think their name was McGill,” she told Bryn.

He nodded. “They used to live in Auckland until they retired to a beach community up north. I don’t think she’s seen them since the funeral. In fact after the first couple of months hardly anyone visited. She hasn’t shown any interest in resuming a social life without Dad.”

“Give her time,” Rachel murmured.

Bryn didn’t look convinced. He wasn’t used to standing by and letting things happen at their own pace.

The place he drove to offered trail rides and treks, as well as plenty of rolling, open countryside and stands of dark, mossy native bush.

Bryn’s big bay gelding seemed pleased to see him, and the owner supplied a pretty, soft-mouthed little mare for Rachel.

They started out at a sedate walk along a broad trail that wound through thick bush, but later when Rachel had got the feel of her mount, enjoyed a glorious gallop across green paddocks under a cloud-dusted sky, ending on a high knoll that overlooked rolling hills and a distant view of the Pacific.

There they rested the horses and dismounted, removing their helmets to admire sheep-dotted paddocks, blue-green stands of old bush in the folds of the hills, and the deep azure line of the horizon.

A few grey rocks seemed to grow out of the ground before them, and they sat side by side on one with a flat, slightly sloping top. Rachel rested her elbows on her thighs, her chin in her hands. At their feet grasses with plumed seed-heads bent before a sudden breeze that stirred her hair, loosening a few tendrils from their confining knot.

For long minutes neither she nor Bryn spoke. Then Rachel said almost to herself, “I never realised how much I missed New Zealand until I came home.”

Bryn leaned forward and broke off one of the grass stalks, smoothing the fluffy seed-head in his fingers. “You don’t miss the States?”

“Some things, of course. But my heart is here.”

“You’ll miss your American friends?”

“Yes.”

“A man?”

She knew he’d turned to look at her, but kept her gaze on the view. “No one special. If there had been, I suppose it would have been harder.”

Abruptly he said, “Kinzi’s been offered a promotion— a job in Australia.”

She had to look at him then, but couldn’t gauge his thoughts. He was staring at the stalk of grass, twirling it backwards and forwards.

“Is she going to take it?” Rachel supposed some response was expected. “What sort of job? I don’t know what she does.”

“She hasn’t decided.” He tossed the grass onto the ground. “She edits a fashion and beauty magazine, and the Australian owners want her to take charge of several of their publications over there. It’s a big opportunity for her. I don’t want to hold her back.”

“Would she let you?”

“Maybe,” he said, and stood up, looking towards the blue-hazed horizon, his back to her. “If I asked her to marry me.”

With a soundless thud something inside Rachel fell from her chest to her stomach. What was he telling her, and why?

Enough of this conversation. Rachel picked up her helmet from the ground beside her and began walking back to where the horses were cropping the grass. “If that’s what you want,” she said, “you’d better ask her.”

She strapped on the helmet, jerking it tight under her chin, and grabbed the mare’s reins. The horse turned its head and whinnied as she put her foot into the stirrup and swung her leg over the saddle, then it danced backwards before she’d found the other stirrup.

Bryn caught at the reins and steadied the mare while Rachel took a firmer hold. “That’s your advice?”

She looked down at him, exasperated and oddly angry. “I’m not your auntie,” she snapped. “It’s up to you. Of course if you want to be noble, you could love and let go.” Something stuck in her throat, and she jerked the reins from his hands.

He stepped back, black brows raised, his mouth laughing. Then he strode towards his own horse, vaulting into the saddle.

By the time he set the gelding on the downhill path Rachel’s mare was well ahead, but he soon drew level.

When she broke into a gallop, the big gelding easily kept pace, but they slowed to a side-by-side walk on the wide track through the bush.

“I don’t make a habit of discussing my…affairs of the heart,” Bryn said, a sardonic inflection on the final phrase. “Did I offend you?”

“I’m not offended.”

“Could have fooled me,” he murmured. And then on a note of curiosity added, “Is it a case of female solidarity? Does that weigh more heavily than an old friendship?”

“You and I were never really friends,” she argued. “There was such a difference in our ages.”

“Our families were close.”

“My family were your family’s employees.”

He frowned. “Surely you’re not a snob, Rachel?”

“I’m just stating a fact.”

“Why are you angry with me?” He reached out and brought both horses to a halt, their riders knee-to-knee.

“I’m not angry.” A half truth. She was annoyed with herself for caring about Bryn’s love-life. Some sort of delayed hangover from a silly teenage infatuation. “Only I can’t help you.”

“I didn’t expect it, just thinking aloud, really.”

As if she hadn’t even been there. Or was a mere sounding board.

Once she would have been delighted at his confiding in her.

The mare gave a snort and shook her mane. Rachel felt like doing the same. Instead she let the horse break into a canter until they reached the yards and buildings where they’d started out.

Back at Rivermeadows, they found Pearl had prepared a cold lunch and set a table on the terrace.

Bryn said he’d like a short swim first, and although Rachel declined, Kinzi changed into a tiny bikini that showed off her perfect body. Helping Pearl place meats and salads on the table, Rachel could hear the other young woman’s giggles and little squeals, and Bryn’s laughing voice.

Over lunch Kinzi sparkled, complimenting her hostess on the salad and cold meat loaf, quizzing Rachel on whether she’d enjoyed riding again, and teasing Bryn about his affection for his horse, calling him “my cowboy”, which set Rachel’s teeth on edge but brought a half grin to Bryn’s mouth, that inexplicably made her mad again.

It was a leisurely meal and when the others repaired to the little sitting room Rachel excused herself, went to her room to get a book and then slipped downstairs again and into the garden. There she found a secluded spot under a weeping rimu that brushed the ground, and settled down to read.

She’d been there for some time when low voices, male and female, alerted her that Bryn and Kinzi were strolling nearby. Not wanting to eavesdrop, she scrambled up, closing the book, and got her hair tangled in the sweeping branches of the tree before she escaped its clutching fingers. She was picking narrow leaves and bits of bark out of her hair when the other two appeared round a bend in the path and stopped before her.

Kinzi giggled, then covered her mouth and said, “Sorry, Rachel. What have you been up to?” She stepped forward and plucked a small bunch of lichen and a twig from Rachel’s head. “There,” she said, dropping them on the ground.

“Thanks,” Rachel muttered. She must look a mess.

Bryn was regarding her with a faint smile, the skin about his eyes crinkling as though he too was trying not to laugh.

“I was reading,” Rachel said, “but it’s getting cool.”

Determinedly she stepped forward, and Bryn moved aside. She didn’t look back to see them walk on.

Upstairs, she brushed her hair and, leaving it loose, lay on her bed and tried to continue reading, but after a while got up and went to the window that overlooked the back garden, staring at nothing.

After a while she saw Bryn emerge from the trees with Kinzi clinging to his arm.

They stopped under the pergola, Kinzi’s face turned up to his as she said something that looked like an urgent plea. Then she slid her arms about his neck and kissed him.

Rachel watched Bryn’s hands go to the woman’s waist, and Kinzi pressed against him on tiptoe, his dark head bent to hers and their mouths clinging together.