Читать книгу Determined Lady - Маргарет Майо - Страница 7

SAIRA felt oddly uncomfortable letting herself into Honeysuckle Cottage, and she blamed Jarrett Brent for it. He was trying it on, she felt sure, making out he had bought the cottage when really he hadn’t, but he was so convincing that there had to be some thread of truth in his story. Maybe he had been friends with her aunt; maybe he had once mentioned buying her property— but Lizzie’s will was surely proof enough that nothing had ever been done about it?

The front door led straight into the sitting-room and she dumped her bag and looked around, smiling sadly to herself. It was just as she remembered: a little dusty, but otherwise looking as if all her aunt had done was step out for a while.

It was a comfy, cosy room, the traditional chintz very much in evidence, lots of brass—which needed cleaning—lots of pictures and ornaments and lace mats, the usual bric-a-brac old ladies would collect over the years—and, most poignant of all, her aunt’s rocking chair.

Saira felt tears spring to her eyes and her mouth twisted ruefully as memories flooded back. She had spent so many happy hours here; her aunt had read to her, played with her, loved her, kissed her better when she fell down, bathed her, fed her, brushed her hair; and as she grew older listened to her teenage problems, dispensed advice, never lectured, always understood.

Saira’s own mother had always been very strict and consequently Saira had never been able to talk to her, always turning to Aunt Lizzie. She truly missed her.

But it was no good standing here crying, she must ring her mother, she must sort Jarrett Brent out. Mentally she straightened her back. To her horror the telephone line was dead, and when she tried the light switch there was no electricity either. Not altogether surprising, since the cottage had lain empty for a couple of months, but she began to wonder whether Jarrett Brent hadn’t deliberately suggested she stay here knowing there were no conveniences. From what little she had seen of him so far it seemed the sort of despicable thing he would do.

Her first thought was to march back up to the Hall and confront him with it, but that was probably what he expected; he probably even hoped she would turn around and go home! It had been his cruel way of getting rid of her.

Saira’s chin came up with characteristic stubbornness. She could manage for a day or two; she would light a fire to heat water, even cook that way if necessary. He would soon find she wasn’t so easily put off.

Saira used the phone box at the end of the village and Margaret Carlton was equally horrified by the claims this man was making. ‘Of course I’ll send you the letter, but why don’t you go and see Mr Kirby? Goodness, Saira, do you want me to come and sort this man out?’

Saira laughed, though there was not much mirth in her voice. ‘Really, Mother, I can look after myself. I just need proof that I’m Elizabeth Harwood’s niece and that I’ve inherited the cottage.’

Perhaps her mother was right, though, and she ought to see Mr Kirby, thought Saira as she made her way back. She glanced at her watch; almost four on a Friday afternoon—far too late. But on Monday, if nothing had been sorted out, if Jarrett Brent hadn’t done the decent thing and admitted that the cottage belonged to her, she would go to see him.

She found firelighters and matches and coal and soon had flames leaping up the chimney. But her sense of achievement was short-lived when foul-smelling smoke bellowed back into the room, making her cough and choke and run to open doors and windows.

Having only ever known central heating, Saira wasn’t familiar with open fires and it took her a second or two to realise that the chimney must be blocked—probably by a bird’s nest.

The acrid smoke belched out ever more thickly and, not knowing what else to do Saira filled a jug with water and flung it over the coals. The joys of country living, she thought despondently. Oh, well, a sandwich and a glass of milk would have to do for her supper—if the village shop was open! Otherwise it would be another visit to the Challoner’s Arms.

Fortunately the shop had not closed and Saira stocked up with a few provisions, and found out that Mrs Edistone had already spread the news that Saira Carlton was claiming Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘I wish you luck,’ said Mary, the elderly shopkeeper; ‘the squire’s not an easy man to tangle with.’

Saira spent the next hour cleaning and polishing. Little smuts of soot had settled everywhere and the smell was acrid. Aunt Lizzie had kept the place spotless and Saira wanted everything to be the same; she wanted nothing changed.

She slept that night in her aunt’s spare bedroom, the one she had always used as a child, the one with rosesprigged wallpaper and old walnut furniture, and although she was desperately tired thoughts of the obnoxious Jarrett Brent kept her restless.

The day’s totally unexpected events churned round and round in her mind—and she still had a fight in front of her! Something else puzzled her, too. There was something about this big man that nagged in the back of her mind. She felt sure she had seen him some place before but could not work out where. She tossed and turned and thought and pondered, but no answer came.

She was up at dawn and thought longingly of a cup of strong, hot tea, and to take her mind off it she went for a walk. She watched the sun paint the sky with touches of red and gold, she walked through the lanes, she looked at Frenton Hall and called Jarrett Brent all the names she could of, and then went back to the cottage and ate cornflakes with cold milk.

What time did the postman come? she wondered, sitting in her aunt’s rocking chair, positioned where she could see out of the window. Aunt Lizzie had spent hours here watching the world go by and now Saira did the same, rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, her thoughts seesawing in just the same manner, from Jarrett to her aunt, from her aunt back to Jarrett. Could she believe that he’d had some sort of friendship with her?

It was almost nine before she saw the familiar red post van making its way slowly down the street and she was outside on the doorstep when he neared Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘Saira Carlton?’ he asked, and when she nodded, ‘I didn’t know anyone was living here. I heard the old lady had died. A shame, I liked her.’

‘That was my aunt,’ said Saira, and hoped he was not going to stay and talk too long. She was anxious now that she had Mr Kirby’s letter to go up to the Hall and confront Jarret! Brent. He would not expect her to get irrefutable proof quite so quickly.

To her relief the postman bade her good-day and continued on his rounds and Saira, after checking to make sure it was Mr Kirby’s letter, pulled on her jacket and set off for the Hall. She kept her finger on the bellpush for several seconds and when Mrs Gibbs opened the door Saira smiled wickedly. ‘I’d like to see Mr Brent, please.’

‘Is he expecting you?’ The same dour expression was on his housekeeper’s face.

Here we go again, she thought, and tilting her chin she looked the woman in the eye. ‘Oh, yes, he’s expecting me all right.’

‘I have not been told.’

‘Nevertheless he is expecting me,’ Saira insisted. Did this woman have orders or something to let no one through? ‘Is he in?’

‘Well, yes, but——‘

‘Then kindly tell him I am here.’ Saira impressed even herself with her manner. It was actually quite alien for her to behave like this, but this man really rubbed her up the wrong way. She would get nowhere if she kowtowed; she had to be strong.

He was here now, walking towards the door, wearing a navy suit with a white silk shirt and a maroon spotted tie. ‘What are you doing here this early?’ His eyes were cool and hard and Saira resented the two steps up into the house which gave him an even bigger advantage.

She stretched herself up to her full height. ‘I told you I would be back.’

‘But not this soon; I wasn’t expecting you today.’ A frown of annoyance creased his brow.

‘Well, I’m here, and I have my proof,’ she told him haughtily. ‘May I come in?’

‘I was actually on my way out,’ he announced, a touch of arrogance in his tone now. He was clearly not used to having his plans thrown into disarray—or was it hotheaded women on his doorstep who annoyed him?

‘It won’t take long,’ said Saira, and ascended the steps before he could say another word, standing as close to him as she dared, silently demanding that he let her in, feeling the pungent smell of his aftershave assail her nostrils.

Very reluctantly he stood back for her to enter. ‘I hope not.’ There was extreme irritation in his voice.

‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ she replied, smiling boldly.

It was not to the library he led her this morning, but a sunny breakfast room at the back of the house, the remains of his meal still sitting on the table. He saw Saira cast an inquisitive eye over it. ‘Is this more to your liking? Is this lived in enough for you?’ he asked sardonically.

Saira nodded. ‘It’s better. I take it you’re not married, Mr Brent?’ The question popped out without any warning and she would have liked to retract it but it was too late. In any case she wanted to know. She was curious about this man who was claiming her property.

‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he answered, looking surprised by her sudden question.

‘And you live in this huge house by yourself?’

‘For the moment, yes, but why the questions?’ he asked with a frown. ‘I thought you were here to discuss Honeysuckle Cottage.’

‘Yes, I am,’ she returned sharply, annoyed by her own digression. His marital status was of no importance whatsoever. She delved into her bag. ‘I have here the letter from Mr Kirby, my aunt’s solicitor. Please read it.’

His fingers brushed hers as he took the single sheet of paper and Saira jerked away, unable to make up her mind whether his touch was deliberate or accidental. Whatever, it had a profound effect on her, almost as though she had been burnt. It was an astonishing feeling.

And if the touch had been deliberate, what did it mean? Had he realised that he was up against a tough woman, someone who would not easily relinquish her hold on the cottage, and thought he would appeal to the feminine side of her? Or was she letting her imagination run riot?

Saira squashed the traitorous thoughts immediately, watching Jarrett Brent as he read Mr Kirby’s letter, shocked beyond belief when he thrust it dismissively back into her hand.

‘This doesn’t mean a thing,’ he said harshly.

‘What do you mean, it doesn’t mean a thing?’ cried Saira, unable to accept that he was dismissing it out of hand. ‘Of course it means something; it means the cottage is mine!’ She was really uptight now; she had been so sure that this was indisputable proof.

‘And how can that be when I say I own it?’ Profound blue eyes held her trapped like a deer in a car’s headlights.

‘Prove it,’ she said furiously.

There was a sudden gleam in his eyes and his lips curved into their usual contemptuous smile.

Saira fumed. He was so damn sure of himself. Could he possibly be right? Maybe she ought to have spoken to Mr Kirby first, brought him with her perhaps? She was too impetuous for her own good. She had the feeling that she was getting deeper and deeper into this thing instead of being somewhere near solving it.

‘I can’t at this moment, I’m afraid.’ His eyes pierced hers with an intensity that was intended to put her down, his tone in no way apologetic.

‘I bet you can’t,’ she snapped, prepared to wager her last penny that he just didn’t want to admit that he was in the wrong. Either that or he was playing some game with her, though for the life of her she could not think why.

‘But I’ve no doubt I’ll come across the relevant documents,’ he added.

‘I’m sure you will—when it suits you.’ Saira’s tone dripped sarcasm. ‘And meantime I’m left in a state of limbo. That is not satisfactory, Mr Brent.’

His lips quirked, as though he was enjoying her high dudgeon. ‘It is the best I can offer.’

‘And how long do you intend to keep me waiting?’ Saira felt an electric tension crackling between them. Lord, she hated this man; was there ever anyone more disagreeable? Why was he acting like this? What was he hoping to gain?

‘Is there any rush, Miss Carlton?’ Cool eyes never wavered; they pierced her with an intentness that was extremely disconcerting. She had never felt more at a disadvantage.

But her chin was high as she answered. ‘As far as I’m concerned, there is. I’d like to settle this matter as soon as possible. I don’t like being kept dangling like a fish on a hook.’ He was probably expecting her to complain about the lack of amenities in the cottage, but she was damned if she would. There was no way she was going to let this man get the better of her.

He smiled suddenly, surprisingly, a wide smile that softened the harsh lines on his face. ‘A very beautiful fish.’ But his narrowed eyes were unreadable. ‘I’ll do my best, that’s all I can say.’

Saira dismissed his flattery out of hand. ‘This doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it?’ she flared. ‘You don’t understand or care that to me it is very important. A cottage is a cottage as far as you’re concerned, bricks and mortar with no sentimental value. You’ll do whatever you want without a thought that it was my aunt’s home for most of her life, tended lovingly, and then left to me so that I could give it the same thoughtful care.’

‘As I said before, your aunt never mentioned you,’ he reminded her.

Saira lifted her shoulders. ‘That doesn’t mean a thing. There was no reason for her to. And it’s my aunt’s property we’re discussing, not my aunt or my relationship with her.

‘My property,’ he amended, and the smile was gone as swiftly as it had appeared.

‘If you bought it, then you some way swindled her out of it,’ she cried recklessly. ‘I shall get to the bottom of this, Mr Brent, you can be sure. I shall expect proof from you tomorrow; I want you to bring the deeds to me and show me that the cottage is really yours, and if I don’t get proof then I shall go and see Mr Kirby.’

‘You’re a hell of a fiery lady, Miss Carlton.’ There was once more grudging admiration in his voice.

‘I guess I have to be with someone like you,’ she riposted. There was no way she could meekly accept his word. She was fighting as much for Aunt Lizzie’s sake as her own.

‘Someone like me?’ he pondered, an eyebrow quirking. ‘I’d be interested to hear exactly what you do think of me.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you would,’ retorted Saira with a half-laugh. ‘It wouldn’t be fit language for a lady.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘That bad,’ she agreed. ‘You’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.’

‘And all because your aunt sold me the cottage?’ Brows rose, blue eyes challenged and Saira felt a strong, deliberate, sexual challenge as well. It was nothing she could put her finger on, it was just there, hanging in the air between them.

Nor could she deny it. Her heart hammered and she licked suddenly dry lips; her heart went boom and her skin grew warm. ‘All because you say Aunt Lizzie sold it,’ she retorted. ‘Personally, I do not believe you, and the fact that you haven’t produced any proof is surely evidence enough? What reason would you have for holding back on it?’

‘I never do anything without a reason, Miss Carlton.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘But you’re not going to tell me what it is? You’re playing some sort of game that only you understand?’

‘You could be right,’ he answered easily.

‘Of course I’m damn well right,’ she snapped. ‘Lord, you take some understanding. It’s no wonder you’ve never married; no woman would ever put up with you.’

His smile faded. ‘My bachelor state is of my own choice,’ he told her coldly. ‘How about you, Miss Carlton? No ring on your finger either, I see. Am I right in suspecting that it’s your prickly nature that puts men off?’

Saira drew in a deeply aggrieved breath. ‘For your information, Mr Brent, I’m not usually so abrasive.’

‘So it’s me who rubs you up the wrong way?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It need not be,’ he told her calmly. ‘If you’d only accept that your aunt——‘

‘Never!’ cut in Saira fiercely. ‘A legal document is surely more binding than your word?’

He laughed. ‘But you’re forgetting, I haven’t seen a legal document, just some letter, not your aunt’s will. Anyone could have written that. You could have done it yourself for all I know.’

‘Then I suggest you ring Mr Kirby and verify it,’ she blazed.

‘Maybe I will on Monday,’ he agreed, much to her surprise. ‘Meantime, enjoy your stay in the cottage.’

‘Meantime, I want your proof tomorrow,’ she slammed back, and then turned and marched out of the house.

As she walked back down the drive she felt as limp and washed out as if she had been put through an old-fashioned mangle. It was difficult to believe how arguing with this man could drain her so much. God, he was detestable. He was virtually laughing in her face and she was expected to sit back and take it. Not on her life. This would probably be the strongest battle she would ever fight—but she was determined to win.

The day dragged interminably slowly. There was not much she could do without a car. Trust her old Fiesta to break down at a time like this—not that she would have trusted it to make the journey here. She really ought to invest in a new car. And if she had still been going out with Tony he would have brought her. Everything, but everything, was conspiring against her.

Tony had been her boyfriend for two years and she really had thought they would get married as soon as he’d finished law school and found himself a job. Originally he had trained in the police force but had then decided it was not for him, so even though he was twentyseven he was a student and not earning any money.

When he had declared only two weeks ago that he thought their relationship was getting nowhere and they ought to part, she hadn’t been able to believe it. She had never minded that they couldn’t very often afford to go out. It wasn’t until one of her friends told her that she had seen him with another girl that it all became clear. The break-up had left her very bitter. If he’d had the guts to tell her that there was someone else she would have thought more of him.

He wasn’t the only man to two-time his girlfriend, either. She’d had friends who’d been let down in a similar manner and it left her with a very bad taste in her mouth as far as the whole male race was concerned.

She ate again at the Challoner’s Arms, took a stroll through the lanes, and went to bed early. How long Jarrett Brent was going to keep her waiting, she didn’t know. Would he come tomorrow with proof or would it be up to her to go and see Mr Kirby?

On Sunday morning the church bells were ringing and Saira decided to go to morning service. She had always attended with her aunt and it felt only right that she should do so now.

The small church, its pews each with their own individual doors, was almost full, and many eyes turned in her direction. Some people smiled, some were openly curious, and Saira had no doubt that they all knew who she was.

The young vicar’s sermon was amusing yet moral and Saira began to feel uplifted, until she turned to leave and saw Jarrett Brent a few rows behind her. Their eyes met, he smiled, briefly, perfunctorily, and then turned his attention to the girl at his side.

She was small, dark and fragile-looking, with a classic bone-structure—and she was wearing a hat! The only young woman to do so. It suited her without a doubt, she looked stylish and elegant, and Saira felt immature and gauche in her cotton dress and jacket, her hair in its usual plait.

So Jarrett did have a girlfriend after all! Was it serious? He had said he lived on his own for the moment. Perhaps they were planning to get married? The girl was gazing adoringly at him, it was obvious they had a very deep relationship.

Deliberately she hung back until he had gone. She wouldn’t have said that this girl was his type, she looked very fragile and meek, not as though she could stand up to a man like Jarrett Brent. Or was that the type he preferred? Did he like to boss his women around? And why was she wondering about it? What did it matter to her?

Mrs Edistone appeared at her side while she was still deep in thought. ‘Good morning, Saira. I see you got in, then?’

Saira nodded and smiled. She had seen the woman’s curtains twitch several times and knew that her comings and goings had been carefully monitored.

‘The squire gave you a key?’ asked the old lady, leaning on her stick, looking as though she was prepared to talk for a long time.

‘Yes,’ answered Saira.

‘I suppose he’s not a bad man,’ Mrs Edistone reflected thoughtfully, ‘always very pleasant if you meet him in the street, very pleasant indeed, very pleasant. How did he seem to you?’

‘Very pleasant,’ repeated Saira seriously, while inside she was dying to laugh. ‘Very pleasant’ were the last words she would use to describe Jarrett Brent. Very disagreeable, very uncooperative, very everything else, but ‘very pleasant’? Not on your life.

Saira had a ham sandwich and salad for her lunch and when two o’clock came and went and he had still not brought her the requested proof she decided to go up to the house again. She refused to sit around all day waiting.

As she walked up the long drive Saira wondered whether the pretty girl would be there? Or indeed whether her antagonist would be in? It was feasible that he had taken his girl out to lunch and they might not be back yet, perhaps this was why he had not come. But she had no doubt that Mrs Dour, as she had nicknamed his housekeeper, would put her in the picture; she would probably take great pleasure in turning her away.

To Saira’s amazement she felt her heart beating much faster than normal, and she took a few deep breaths to calm herself as she pushed the bell and waited. It was a long time before anyone came, she had rung again and was on the verge of leaving when the heavy oak door swung inwards and Jarrett Brent himself appeared. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ was his greeting, and he looked irritated at being disturbed.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ confirmed Saira loudly and aggressively. ‘I’ve been waiting for those papers. Have you found them yet?’

‘Actually, no.’ The annoying sardonic smile was in place, his true feelings well hidden.

Her eyes flashed. ‘I bet you haven’t even looked.’

‘I have been rather busy,’ he admitted.

And Saira knew who he was busy with right now. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair tousled; he looked as though he had dressed in a hurry.

‘Let’s get one thing quite clear,’ she said fiercely, ‘I’m not moving off this doorstep until I get what I came for.’ She planted her feet firmly on the ground, stood tall, and looked him full in the eyes.

His lips quirked. ‘That could prove extremely uncomfortable, because I’ve just remembered that the papers in question might be in my office safe and not here. I’m afraid I can do nothing about it until tomorrow.’

‘Might be in your office safe?’ she questioned in disbelief, her voice rising as her temper increased. ‘You mean you’re not sure?’ It was unbelievable.

‘I’m as sure as I can reasonably be.’

‘I think you’re lying,’ she spat. In fact she was absolutely sure he was lying. ‘I think that for reasons known only to yourself you’re keeping me waiting. I think you’re devious and conniving and I cannot think what my aunt saw in you.’

He lifted his shoulders, still with that infuriating smile on his face, not at all perturbed by her outburst. ‘You’re at liberty to think what you like.’

Saira stamped her foot. ‘Lord, you’re impossible. This is a most intolerable situation.’

‘Actually I’m rather enjoying it.’ The smile turned to a grin.

‘You would,’ she returned sharply, hating the way he was so in control of himself while she was in danger of losing her composure altogether. ‘I’m the one who’s being messed around. If the papers are in your office safe, and I don’t believe for one second that they are, why couldn’t you have told me that in the beginning?’

‘Because it wouldn’t have been half so much fun,’ he admitted. ‘Are you always this fierce and fiery, this impatient?’

Saira could see nothing funny at all in the situation and she glared, her green eyes flashing like jewels. ‘Impatient? I’m not impatient, I’m just anxious to set the matter straight. You’re procrastinating deliberately and I demand that you go and find your deeds right now this very minute. Either that or tell me the truth—that you don’t own Honeysuckle Cottage.’

‘Why don’t you believe me, Saira?’ His own patience suddenly snapped, his mouth tightening, his eyes growing hard; but his voice was soft, and all the more menacing because of it. Saira felt the unspoken threat.

‘Give me a good reason why I should.’ She glared belligerently and drew herself up to her full height, which was still nowhere near tall enough to meet his eyes on the same level, especially with two steps between them. Saira fumed. She felt so impotent; he was playing with her like a cat with a mouse and she was unable to do anything about it.

‘My word is not usually doubted.’ He spoke the words easily but his arrogance showed through, incensing Saira even further.

‘I’m doubting it now,’ she flung savagely. ‘You’ve fobbed me off for long enough. I refuse to move until you go and find those deeds.’

‘Darling, who is it?’ A gentle voice came from behind Jarrett and as he turned Saira saw his female friend. The girl looked calm and self-assured and there was no sign that she and Jarrett had been making love a few minutes earlier. But Saira was not fooled; she had had plenty of time to tidy and compose herself.

‘Joy, come along and meet Miss Carlton.’ He brought the other girl forward into the doorway, and when he took her hand Saira felt a stab of impatience. Here he was, playing around with this girl when there were far more important matters at issue.

The dark-haired girl, who looked impossibly delicate, smiled and eyed Saira curiously.

‘Joy, this is Saira Carlton, Lizzie’s great-niece; you remember Lizzie, don’t you? And Saira, I’d like you to meet Joy Woodstock.’

The two girls shook hands and Saira noticed that he hadn’t actually said who Joy was. A deliberate omission, she felt sure. He wanted to keep her guessing; it was all part of the game he was playing. Despite having met him two or three times now, she still knew nothing at all about him—nothing except that he was claiming her inheritance!

‘Why don’t you ask Saira in, darling, instead of keeping her standing here on the doorstep?’ The fact that the girl showed no curiosity proved to Saira that he had already discussed her, that she probably knew every detail, knew he was playing some dishonourable game with her where Honeysuckle Cottage was concerned.

‘Would you like to come in?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness and a twinkle in his eye, because he knew perfectly well that she would refuse.

‘Would it be worth my while?’ she asked, chin high, eyes challenging.

‘If you’re asking whether I will produce the evidence you require, then the answer is no; but if you’d like to join Joy and me for a cup of tea, then you’re welcome.’ His eyes dared her to accept and Saira almost agreed— except that she would be hurting no one but herself. Did she really want to sit and see these two making eyes at each other? The answer had to be no.

This man sickened her—although she could not deny his overt sexuality. Her awareness of it increased each time they met—and it was a source of great annoyance. She was not interested in this side of him, not one little bit; Joy was welcome to his body and his bed.

‘Thank you for your offer, but no,’ she said with careful politeness. ‘I came here for one thing only and as it’s not forthcoming I will return to my aunt’s cottage. But, Mr Brent, my patience is not without its limits. Please make sure that you have the necessary papers available for me tomorrow.’

It was an unnecessary speech, but she felt better for it, and without even waiting for his answer, catching only a glimpse of Joy’s surprise, she spun on her heel and headed swiftly back towards the cottage.

I seem to be spending all of my time walking up and down this drive, she thought humourlessly. There was no end to her torment. This man really was taking a great deal of pleasure out of her helplessness. And most definitely she would get in touch with Mr Kirby in the morning, whether Jarrett Brent came up with proof or not. It would still only be his word. She had to make very sure of her legal position before giving anything up to him.