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

CHAPTER THREE

STEPPING AWAY FROM the window, Rachel drew in a long breath and let it out from pursed lips. Why couldn’t Kinzi and Bryn conduct their necking in the privacy of the trees? Or in the little summerhouse…? She unclenched hands she hadn’t realised had curled into themselves.

The kiss might be a continuation of other intimacies they’d already shared, she realised bleakly. Even more passionate ones.

Don’t think about it.

But she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help wondering if Bryn had asked Kinzi to marry him, if that kiss had been the seal on her agreement. She tried to tell herself that if so she would be happy for him—for them both. But all she felt was a leaden foreboding.

Shortly she again heard voices from the terrace. Then silence. They’d moved inside. If they were breaking the news to his mother, she should stay away. It was a family affair.

Later she heard more talk floating up from the entryway, then the sound of the heavy front door echoing as it closed.

She waited twenty minutes before descending the stairs to find Pearl sitting alone on the terrace, and pretended surprise that the other two had left.

“Some time ago,” Pearl said tranquilly. “They told me to say goodbye to you.”

No hint of anything unusual having happened or an announcement made. Rachel swallowed hard and offered to clear the table.

Rachel spent the following weekend with her parents, a family celebration for her father’s birthday. Driving south in the compact but solid car, she wondered what had happened to the dashing red model Bryn’s mother used to have.

It was ten days before she saw Bryn again.

Overnight the weather had turned grey and windy with spiteful, spitting showers, and Rachel had foregone the morning jog she’d taken up.

By noon thunder was rumbling intermittently, and the showers had become a heavy, persistent downpour. The lawns about the house were puddled and roof gutters overflowed. The garden looked sodden and woeful, some plants crushed under the force of the wind and rain. Inside, the rooms were gloomy and Rachel had to switch on the lights to read. Pearl’s housekeeper phoned to say she wouldn’t come in today; there was a severe storm warning on the radio. “They say there might be flooding on the road.”

Bryn arrived just before dinner, his hair and his business suit soaked despite the crushed yellow slicker he wore. His hair was flattened, rain droplets streaming from it down his face, and his skin looked taut and cold.

“I went to the village before coming here,” he said. “They’re bringing in sandbags in case the river overflows.”

Rachel said, “Could it breach the stopbanks?” She was sure they were higher and more solid now than before.

“This promises to be what they call a hundred-year storm,” he told her. “No one knows what could happen. I’m staying here tonight. Someone will phone if the town is threatened and I’m needed to help.”

Pearl, who had grown more and more nervous and unhappy throughout the day, looked relieved and said in that case she just had time to make his favourite pudding.

When he’d gone upstairs to change, Rachel set an extra place at the kitchen table where she and his mother usually ate, while Pearl put the kettle on to boil and began delving into cupboards.

Rachel was placing salt and pepper on the table when Pearl turned to her with a steaming pottery mug and said, “Would you take this up to Bryn, please, while I get on with dinner? He needs something hot right now.”

Given no choice, Rachel took the cup she was handed, which smelled of lemon and the sprinkling of nutmeg on the surface of the drink. Pearl said, “Lemon juice, honey and rum. It’ll do him good.” And she turned away again to the counter.

After carrying the cup carefully up the stairs, Rachel tapped on the door of Bryn’s room, but there was no reply. He must be still in the shower. Not wanting to encounter him emerging from the bathroom, she waited for a short while, and on hearing movement, tapped again.

“Just a moment,” his deep voice called, then seconds later he added, “Okay.”

She opened the door, stepped into the room and saw he was barefoot and had pulled on a pair of trousers, but the top fastening and belt hung undone, while a dry shirt lay on the navy-blue woven cotton covering the big bed beside him. His torso was bare and he was rubbing a towel over his hair.

Rachel stopped dead, struck anew by the male vitality that emanated from him. Bryn in a suit or a T-shirt and jeans was stunning. Bryn only half-dressed was positively swoon-worthy.

The towel in his hand stilled; in fact his whole body froze for a millisecond, as if he were posing for a Greek statue—he certainly had the physique for it.

“Rachel!” he said, his voice low and vibrant. He hadn’t turned on the light but a flicker of lightning whitened the window and briefly illuminated his face, his eyes reflecting silvery fire. The thunder that followed was a menacing rumble, still far away.

One final swipe at his hair left it standing in spikes, and he dropped the towel about his shoulders and roughly combed his fingers through the damp strands.

“Your mother asked me to bring this,” Rachel said, determined to act as if the sight of him hadn’t sent a bolt of invisible electricity right through her body. “Where do you want me to put it?”

“On the—” His head jerked towards the bedside table, but as she moved forward he scowled, put out a hand and said, “Give it to me. She had no right to do that. You’re not a damned servant.”

“I don’t mind,” she said as he turned to put the mug down himself. Knowing how Pearl treasured the furniture, she asked, “Shouldn’t you put something under it?”

He sent her a glance, still frowning, and opened a drawer and removed a folded handkerchief to slide under the mug. “Thanks, but I’ll have a word with her—”

“No,” Rachel said. “Don’t. Pearl asked a favour as a friend and I was happy to oblige. Leave it alone.”

His mouth went tight for a moment before he relaxed, but his eyes still probed. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely sure. I’m quite capable of sticking up for my rights if I need to.”

He laughed then, and pulled the towel from his shoulders to toss it on the bed. “You always were.”

Automatically her eyes had followed the passage of the towel before returning to Bryn. He was still watching her, and although the window remained unlit she thought she saw something flame again in the depths of his eyes before he picked up the shirt and started shrugging into it.

Rachel realised she was staring, pleasantly mesmerised.

As she stepped back, about to leave, another flicker of lightning briefly entered the room and a louder clap of thunder made her flinch.

“Are you afraid of storms?” Bryn asked.

“No. Your mother seems nervous. Is that why you came?”

“And because there’s a chance of flooding.” His fingers were rapidly buttoning the shirt.

As he tucked it into his trousers she said, “I don’t remember floods ever coming this far.” Once the river had risen and inundated the village on its banks, but the big house hadn’t been threatened.

He opened the door of a huge carved wardrobe and pulled on leather moccasin-style boat shoes. “In the nineteen-fifties the house was surrounded by water that came within inches of the front door, according to my father.”

“Really? I’ll probably come across some reference to it, I suppose.”

Bryn picked up a comb, swiped it through his hair and dropped it back on the dressing table. He seemed ready to leave when Rachel reminded him, “Your drink?”

He picked up the mug, sipped from it, then emptied the contents and said, “Right, let’s go down.”

* * *

Although Bryn expressed appreciation of the chocolate sponge pudding, he seemed rather preoccupied. As the lightning became more frequent and the thunder louder, Pearl shuddered and paled with each rumble, and when they’d finished eating said she was going to bed.

Bryn offered to take her upstairs but she laughed him off. “I don’t need my hand held. I’ll just hide under the blankets until it’s all over.”

Rain still pounded on the roof and gurgled along the guttering, and after the dishes were dealt with Bryn said, “Join me for a nightcap, Rachel?”

They went into the sitting room, where Rachel drew the heavy curtains against the rain streaming down the windows, and Bryn poured her a glass of Irish cream, brandy for himself. Although the house had been fitted with central heating Bryn moved the fire screen aside, exposing paper and kindling laid and ready to be lit.

He took a box of matches and touched one to the paper, waited for the kindling to take hold and added some pieces of manuka from a large brass wood-box beside the hearth.

He had just settled back into his chair when the lights abruptly died.

Startled, Rachel said, “Oh!”

“Does it bother you?” The firelight flickered on Bryn’s face. “I can get some candles if you like.”

“No, it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll just check the phone, though the fire brigade chief has my cell number.”

He left the room and came back, reporting the telephone was working, then sat down again.

There was an odd intimacy in sitting here in the raggedly shifting pool of firelight with the rest of the room in darkness. Afterwards Rachel couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, only that they sat there for a long time, that Bryn refilled her glass more than once, and that his rather brooding mood gradually mellowed. While they chatted in a desultory fashion he leaned back in the big chair, his long legs stretched out and ankles crossed, hands cradling a brandy balloon, and his eyes half-closed.

The fire had burned to embers and the French clock on the mantel was showing past midnight when Rachel stifled a yawn and said reluctantly, “I’d better go to bed before I fall asleep right here.”

Bryn gave her a lazy smile, stirred from his comfortable position and, with a long-empty glass still in his hand, stood up and took hers. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll bring some light.” The thunder had died and the rain eased a little, but the lights were still off.