Читать книгу: «One Bride Required!»

CHAPTER ONE

NASH VALLENDER hadn’t known he was a hero, or not until quite recently, that was. Not, in fact, until he’d taken leave of his senses. Leaning on the sagging gate, his dark hair ruffled by the May breeze, grey eyes rueful, he stared at the derelict ruin in front of him.

Oddly Manor. Oddly named, oddly listing to one side, and, even more oddly, his. A distant aunt, one he barely remembered, had left it to him. Because he was brave. He hadn’t understood what the executor of her will had meant at the time. He did now. Not the bravery of fighting dragons, but of withstanding bombardment and sabotage. He’d been blitzed with letters and visits from the villagers begging him to keep and restore it. Driven nearly insane with the unwanted persistence of the developers to encourage him to offload it onto them as though he should be grateful for such generosity. The executors had made veiled references to the untold pressure put on his aunt to sell. In fact everyone, except the villagers, was of the same opinion. Get rid of it. Which he should have done.

He wasn’t philanthropic, he wasn’t a romantic, and he had certainly never overly concerned himself about the fate of the English countryside, but he did have a strong aversion to being pressurised. Which was why, having thwarted the developers’ dream of turning the land into an estate of mock Tudor homes, thus becoming a knight in shining armour to the villagers of Mincott Oddly, where his bequest stood, he was now standing in the May sunshine viewing his very own ruin and wondering what on earth he was going to do with it.

But if someone considered you brave, he thought with a small self-mocking smile, even if it was only a distant, barely remembered, now dead relative, there was somehow a compulsion not to prove them wrong. A compulsion that was going to prove very costly. Not only the renovation, but trying to find out who was so busily trying to destroy the house. Because someone was.

Windows were broken; slates fell from the roof with alarming regularity; small fires broke out due to defective wiring—or so he had been told. A coping stone had narrowly missed injuring one of the villagers who was keeping an eye on the place. The obvious contenders for the sabotage were, of course, the developers. But he had no proof. Which was why he had rung a private detective he’d used before and left a message on his answering machine. Hopefully he would get back to him some time soon.

He glanced sadly at the ivy that was slowly strangling the stonework, and the definitely sagging roof of the east wing. Although why it was called the east wing he had no idea. The whole house faced east. But that was what the executors had called it, and no doubt that was what it would remain. He really should have sold. Building land was at a premium again. He could have asked, and probably got, over two hundred thousand for it. He was one of the most respected businessmen in London, and he was behaving like a fool. Never in a million years would he have thought he’d want to hold onto a mouldering pile that was only good for knocking down. But it had ten acres. So did Nettlesham Swamp, he told himself with a grin, but that didn’t mean anyone in their right mind would want to keep it! And for a man who had taken on multinational corporations and won, taken on white-water rapids on nothing more substantial than a boat resembling a banana leaf, trying to persuade himself to look on it as a challenge, and not the white elephant it undoubtedly was, was even more foolish.

His friends thought him mad, including Mike, his architect, who was supposed to be looking over the property and who seemed to have disappeared. His enemies thought him a fool, but he didn’t explain and he didn’t try to justify himself—a policy that had stood him in good stead in the past. Whether it would stand him in good stead now, he didn’t know; he only knew that few people would ever understand why he had behaved as he had. But then, people very rarely understood him. Never understood the risks he took in business or in his leisure. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood them either. Just the way he was made, he supposed. And opposition always made him stubborn. In business that was sometimes a good thing, because his stubbornness was usually based on knowledge, insight, but in this instance his stubbornness was based on—what? A whim? No, because if the developers hadn’t come, hadn’t tried to pressurise him, he would probably have sold. And he would then never have had the perfect opportunity to meet someone he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Glancing at his watch, he gave a rueful smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had waited for someone with such expectation. How much had she changed? he wondered. How much had he changed?

Hearing a car, he stilled. Listening intently, he plotted the car’s movements by sound alone. He couldn’t see it, any more than the driver could see him, because of the high, untrimmed hedges, but if she parked where she’d been instructed to park... For a man of such courage, he mocked himself, he was feeling an odd reluctance to actually face her. Not that any of his thoughts showed on his face. They never did.

Lifting the gate in order to open it, he walked round the side of the house to stare at the small blue car that had just parked.

Ten years ago he and the woman inside that car had almost had an affair, but she’d been due to go up to university and he’d had the chance to go to the States, something he’d very much wanted to do. ‘Wrong time, wrong place,’ he’d told her gently. ‘Go and carve out your career.’ She hadn’t begged, pleaded, had just looked at him, then walked away. It hadn’t been easy to let her go, and a large part of him had always regretted it, and so, when the opportunity had come to see her again...

Fate? he wondered. Preordained? He had no idea, but just before he had learned of his bequest he’d seen an article about her, about house-detecting. About how she tried to discover the origins of old houses. When the Manor had come into his hands it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to write and ask her to come and see him.

Except she didn’t know it was to be him. He’d asked the executor of his aunt’s will to write to her, to make the arrangements without mentioning his name. And he shouldn’t have done that. But if she’d known who she was really coming to see she wouldn’t have come—might not have come. And perhaps that would have been best. You couldn’t go back, re-create the past, no matter how much you might want to. Too late now.

The car door finally opened, and a woman slowly emerged.

Phoenix Langrish.

A woman who made the world stand still.

At eighteen, she had been beautiful. At twenty-eight she was stunning. And she did something to his heart that no other woman had ever been capable of. Not because she was beautiful, because beauty only temporarily stirred the senses. This was something more.

Delicate and feminine, with long dark hair held back in a clip that was inadequate to the task, wide brown eyes and a mouth that was made to smile.

Unaware of being watched, she closed the car door and dropped the notebook she was carrying. Bending to pick it up, she dropped her bag, and as she straightened the small camera she was carrying around her neck caught on the door handle. Still clumsy. Still so very lovable.

She gave a husky little laugh, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, untangled the camera, and turned.

Never had a smile been wiped away so quickly, he thought, as she glared at him in shock. She was rooted to the spot, and her eyes widened until they could widen no more. She didn’t speak, just stood there, looking at him.

‘Hello, Phoenix,’ he greeted her quietly, and his voice was husky. As husky as it had been all those years before.

‘No,’ she whispered. Turning abruptly away, she trod in a rut, staggered, and caught the wing mirror for support. It came off in her hand.

She stared at it, just stared, as though she didn’t know what it was, and then she shuddered, tried to pull herself together. She reached for the car door; he reached it first.

‘Don’t leave.’

Her breathing unnatural, she looked at him. ‘You...I...’

‘Yes. I didn’t tell you it would be me meeting you because I didn’t think you would come. And I wanted you to.’

She didn’t answer. Perhaps she couldn’t. Just continued to stare at him.

As he stared at her. As he had all those years before in a crowded hotel foyer. Ten years had changed nothing. Even in an ill-fitting suit that looked as though it might have belonged to someone with a larger build she set his senses on fire. She’d had a wild freedom then, an exuberance for life. Awkward, enthusiastic, and totally without guile. Now she looked frightened, caged.

‘I find I don’t know what to say to you,’ he said quietly.

‘Goodbye?’ she proffered huskily.

‘No,’ he denied gently. ‘Come and see the house.’

Taking her silence for an affirmative, which he knew it wasn’t, he removed the wing mirror from her hand, opened the car door and tossed it inside.

‘No,’ she argued hoarsely. ‘I...’

‘Please?’ Holding her arm, feeling the shivers that ran through her, the electric tension that he controlled rather better than she did, he led her round to the front of the house. Aware of every little breath she took, every little move she made, he asked, ‘What do you think of it?’

She didn’t answer, merely stared unseeingly at the house in front of them.

Turning his head, he slowly examined her exquisite profile, and, resisting the almost overwhelming impulse to touch that thick dark hair, he murmured, ‘Is it worth restoring, do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

Unable to take his eyes off her, he put one hand over hers, and she jumped nervously. ‘I am sorry, Phoenix.’

Finally turning her head, she looked at him, and it was as if a shutter came down over her eyes, hiding her thoughts, her feelings from him. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘For what?’

‘The deception.’

She nodded, made an obvious effort to pull herself together, and returned her attention to the house.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘I don’t know. You’d need a structural engineer to tell you that. All I can tell you is what things are.’

‘Then tell me what they are.’

‘Why?’ she demanded raggedly. ‘Why now?’

‘Because I saw an article about you, and I suddenly found that I wanted to see you again.’

She gave a bitter smile. ‘And never mind that I might not have wanted to be seen?’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly.

‘It would be a lucrative commission...’

‘That isn’t why you invited me.’

‘No, I was curious. Didn’t you know that curiosity was my besetting sin? And you’re even more beautiful now than you were then.’

‘Thank you,’ she said without inflexion. With an abrupt movement away from him, she announced baldly, ‘I’m going home.’

Halting her, he asked, ‘Not even a little bit curious to see what’s inside? The article said it was your passion...’

‘So were you,’ she retorted without thinking, ‘and look what that got me.’

‘A degree,’ he answered. ‘A life. It wouldn’t have worked, Phoenix. Not then.’

‘No,’ she agreed.

‘And I never meant to hurt you.’

‘I know you didn’t.’

They both stared at the house in silence.

‘The article said you were making quite a name for yourself,’ he finally murmured. ‘I’m glad.’

‘Thank you.’

Such a flat little voice, devoid of meaning, but he could feel the tension in her. Feel it in himself.

‘Shall we go in?’ Leading the way up the weed-choked path, hoping she would follow, he pushed open the heavy front door. ‘Will you at least look round? Give me your honest opinion?’

She looked suddenly helpless and distracted. ‘Don’t come with me.’

‘All right. Don’t go in the bedrooms in the east wing,’ he cautioned. ‘One of the ceilings is down and the roof is unsafe.’

Without answering, she walked quickly away to the left of the grand staircase. He wanted to follow, unobserved, wanted to see what she was doing, how she was behaving now that he was no longer beside her.

Long after she was out of sight, with only the sound of her high heels tapping on the bare boards, he remained where he was, his feelings ambivalent. He hadn’t been quite prepared for the sensations he’d experienced when she’d stepped from the car. Wasn’t entirely prepared for them now. An overwhelming feeling of belonging. But what was she like now? After her initial shock, she had given nothing away of her personality. At eighteen she had been vivacious, laughing, loving. What was she now? Never one to rush his fences, even if his feelings were urging action, he would allow her time and space to make up her own mind. If he could.

In the meantime, he thought with a rather twisted smile, he would make his own tour, maybe go and look at his very own entablature. Not that he was entirely sure what it was, only that the executor had assured him that he had one. He’d looked it up, but being told that it was the top part of an architectural order, which consisted of horizontal mouldings, hadn’t been very enlightening.

But his mind was on Phoenix as he slowly climbed the grand staircase. Remembering not to grasp the handrail, which had a tendency to wobble alarmingly, he turned left at the small landing where the staircase divided, climbed the further five steps that led to the landing proper, and which ran on either side to the front of the house, and ambled aimlessly through the warren of bedrooms and one antiquated bathroom. He took a brief look into the east wing to make sure no further damage had occurred, then found the small back staircase that went down to the rabbit warren of rooms that had once presumably housed the scullery, dairy and kitchen, and which would definitely need major remodification.

Returning to the top of the staircase, he headed in the opposite direction, into rooms that interconnected. Perhaps they’d once been the nursery. One room for Nanny, one for the child and one for playing in, or taking tea in front of a roaring fire. No sign of it now, of course—even the fire surround had been removed. By whom? he wondered. But it was only an absent thought because his mind was still on Phoenix.

As he walked into the room at the front, a small smile tugged at his mouth as he stared up at the ornate cornice. ‘Behold,’ he murmured softly, ‘one entablature. I probably have several others, of course... And talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. Or is it the second?’ But then, he was mad, wasn’t he? To take on this monstrosity. Some of the rooms were damp. Most were inhabitable... He should have sold. It was going to cost an absolute fortune to restore. But the view had to be almost worth it, he decided as he stared from the window. Open fields, hedgerows, coppices, and, in the foreground, the quaint and rather delightful village of Mincott Oddly. Crooked cottages around an ancient green.

What was she doing now? He could hear no sounds from the rest of the house. Was she thinking about him? A small conceit, he thought wryly; she might not be thinking about him at all. But he wanted her to be. Wanted her to feel as he was feeling. An ache in the loins, a heady feeling of adventure.

Fool, he scolded himself. But wasn’t it allowed to be a fool just once in your life? Twice, he mentally corrected. He’d been a fool ten years ago.

Shaking off his introspection, because thinking about it did him absolutely no good at all, and intending to go and look for Mike, he was momentarily distracted by the sight of a small door on his right. He’d always assumed it was a cupboard, but, opening it, he found a short flight of stairs, which of course had to be investigated. Climbing carefully, on treads that felt decidedly rickety beneath his weight, he opened the door at the top and peered into the cavernous space beneath the roof. Too dark to see anything clearly, and probably infested by spiders. He carefully retreated and made his way back to the landing.

Hearing minuscule scratching sounds, he looked over the banister and saw Phoenix, delicately picking plaster from his walls. For a long, long moment he watched her, unobserved. Her face was intent, but rather sad, he thought.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked softly.

Startled, she looked up guiltily, and, cursing himself for a fool, knowing what was about to happen, he swung himself over the railing, dropped lightly down to the half-landing, and was just in time to prevent her stumbling backwards down the staircase.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised, his breathing barely altered. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘No. I mean, it’s all right. No damage done.’

‘Except to the plaster,’ he said drily. ‘I thought the whole idea was to put plaster on the walls, not take it off.’

‘Yes. It was already cracked,’ she excused hastily. ‘I mean, I didn’t... You could have broken your neck jumping like that.’

‘Nonsense, I’m incredibly fit,’ he boasted mockingly. ‘So, what were you doing?’

With a sigh that sounded despairing, she murmured, ‘I just wanted to see what was underneath.’

Eyes gentle, he asked, ‘And what is?’

‘I don’t know, but...’

‘Then look.’ Inserting his fingernail beneath a flake of plaster, he pulled it free. ‘Looks like an old window.’

When she didn’t immediately answer, he turned to look at her, and was astonished to see shock, almost awed bewilderment on her lovely face as she stared at what he had exposed.

‘Oh, my,’ she whispered reverently as she reached out to pull off another, larger piece of plaster. ‘It can’t be.’

Amused, he asked, ‘What can’t?’

‘Bar tracery.’

‘Why can’t it?’ he asked, with absolutely no idea what bar tracery was.

‘Because it can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Sorry?’

Lips twitching, he queried, ‘What is bar tracery?’

‘This. I need to look outside.’ With an abrupt movement that took him by surprise, she began haring down the stairs, and nearly mowed down a tall, thin gentleman, who was just crossing the hall at the bottom.

‘Whoa,’ he laughed.

‘Sorry,’ she apologised hastily. With a fleeting smile, she continued out through the front door.

‘Who was that?’ Mike exclaimed in astonished appreciation.

Face bland, Nash murmured, ‘My house detective. I have bar tracery.’ With a muffled laugh, and not waiting for any further comment, he continued after Phoenix, but, if he didn’t miss his guess, his architect would be following close behind.

‘Don’t you want to know who that was?’ he teased gently as he caught her up.

She halted so suddenly that he nearly knocked her over. ‘What?’ she asked blankly.

‘The man in the hall.’

‘Oh. Who was it?’ she asked obediently.

‘My architect.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t let him make recommendations until the house has been investigated properly.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘He’s just looking.’

She nodded, halted at the back of the house, and looked up.

Following her gaze, not at all sure what he was supposed to be looking at, he finally proffered, ‘A bricked-up window?’

‘Yes.’

‘And is that good?’ he asked as he turned to smile at the architect, who had followed them.

A reciprocal smile on his thin, humorous face, Mike also glanced upwards.

‘Good?’ she queried. ‘Good? It’s Decorated Gothic!’

‘Ah.’

‘It’s the most... I can’t believe it. Oh, I can’t believe it,’ she whispered, her eyes still fixed on the window.

‘Does that mean you’ll stay?’

But she wasn’t listening. ‘Hardly any of them have survived,’ she breathed. ‘Or only in cathedrals. Lincoln and Carlisle, Melrose Abbey, York Minster. You’ll need to hack the interior plaster off very, very carefully, of course, but you can see from here that the stonework is much narrower, and in “bars”. See how the window area is much larger and wider, and encompassed by an equilateral arch?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, his eyes on her beautiful profile.

‘Divided vertically by stone mullions, it gives five, seven or even nine lights. Mid-fourteenth century.’ Turning, only to find him staring at her instead of the window, she looked hastily away. ‘You haven’t instructed any builders...?’

‘No,’ he denied. ‘I don’t, as yet, have any builders.’

‘Good. Only it’s very important...’

‘Not to disturb anything?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ Looking anywhere but at him, she murmured, ‘Perhaps you ought to think about getting the Manor listed.’

‘No,’ he said, because he knew very well that if it was listed nothing would be allowed to be done.

‘But Inigo Jones might—’

‘No,’ he interrupted softly.

‘You don’t know who he is,’ she accused.

‘Was.’

Mike laughed. ‘Give in,’ he urged his friend. ‘You appear to have met your match, and I have to go. Nice to have met you, Miss...?’

‘Langrish,’ Nash supplied helpfully as he steered Mike back towards the path, without allowing him to say anything further.

‘Talk about “speed the parting guest”,’ he complained humorously. ‘Not that I blame you; she’s stunning!’

‘Yes, she is. A phoenix who falls into the ashes rather than rises from them. That’s her name,’ he explained at Mike’s frown.

‘Oh.’

‘She was born in a fire—well, not precisely, but there was a fire in the next-door apartment whilst her mother was in labour. She arrived just as the firemen were carrying out the stretcher.’ And he wanted her with a fierce desire that was almost frightening. ‘How knowledgeable is she?’

Halting again, Mike gave his friend a silent scrutiny before asking, ‘Not sure about her?’

‘I’m not sure about anybody. You have heard of bar tracery?’ he queried lightly.

‘Er...’

Nash laughed. ‘Inigo Jones?’

‘Now, that I can tell you. He was one of England’s first great architects.’

‘Professor Morton? She apparently trained under him.’

‘Yes, and certainly he’s reputable.’

‘Good.’

‘As if you didn’t know.’ Mike grinned. ‘Knowing you as well as I do—or as well as anyone is ever likely to—I imagine you’ve checked her out down to what colour nail varnish she uses.’

‘Was she wearing nail varnish?’ Nash queried innocently. ‘I didn’t notice.’

‘Liar.’

Reaching the gate, they both turned to stare at the Manor. ‘Had the surveyor’s report in yet?’ asked Mike.

Nash shook his head.

‘And will you live here when it’s restored—if it’s ever restored?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Heard from Chrissie?’ he asked casually.

‘No.’

‘Mind my own business?’

‘Mmm.’

With a faint smile, he strolled towards his car. ‘Perhaps someone ought to tell her she has fierce competition,’ he added slyly. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll get some ideas down on paper and let you have them in a few days. Let me know if you need a demolition expert,’ he called back. ‘Or a chaperon.’

As the car drove away, and with nothing of his thoughts showing on his face, Nash turned to see Phoenix picking her way back along the rutted path.

Reaching the front door, he was just in time to catch her as she tripped over the step. And he wanted to kiss her.

She moved hastily away from his supporting arm, avoided all eye contact.

‘Still falling over, I see,’ he murmured softly.

‘Yes.’ She didn’t look awkward, or embarrassed about it, just accepting. Because she was so used to falling over things that it no longer held any importance? A fact of life, he wondered, like being left-handed?

‘You should have worn flat shoes,’ he reproved mildly.

‘I know,’ she agreed, her gaze fixed on the top of the staircase. ‘I was interviewing the Mayoress and there wasn’t time to change. I wonder why they covered it up?’

Momentarily off balance, he glanced at the wall at the top of the staircase and back to Phoenix. ‘The window?’

‘Yes.’

‘Window tax?’ he offered, not very knowledgeably.

She shook her head. Opening her notebook, fumbling for her glasses, which were hanging on a cord round her neck, she began to write. ‘I won’t touch anything else...’

‘Won’t you?’ he asked softly. ‘Pity.’

‘Don’t,’ she said, her voice agitated. ‘You’ll need to reveal the window.’

‘You reveal it.’

‘No, I...’

‘You know you yearn to. Pretend I’m a stranger. Pretend this is the first time we’ve met. I wish it was,’ he added.

‘Don’t,’ she pleaded again.

Turning, she tried to brush past him. He easily caught her, held her before him. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered softly.

‘No.’ Struggling free, she took two steps back, eyes still lowered.

‘Why?’

‘Because you aren’t what you seem, Nash. You never were.’

No, he wasn’t what he seemed.

‘You’re ruthless and single-minded and you wear the face of a fool.’

‘A fool?’ he queried softly.

‘All right, a face of calmness and curiosity and gentleness,’ she substituted, almost crossly. ‘And it’s a lie. It was always a lie.’

‘And that bothers you?’

‘No,’ she denied, obviously untruthfully.

‘Good, but I really do need someone to tell me what I’m doing. Professor Morton will be cross if you don’t,’ he persuaded humorously when she didn’t answer. ‘And you won’t have to see much of me.’

‘I don’t want to see anything of you.’

He gave a small smile for her petulance. ‘You’re a big girl now, Phoenix, surely capable of dealing with an old reprobate like me.’

Finally looking up, she asked quietly, ‘Are you an old reprobate?’

‘No,’ he said. And every time he moved nearer she moved away. Eyes always averted. ‘It would enhance your reputation,’ he encouraged. ‘And I don’t imagine you find bar tracery every day of the week.’

‘No.’

‘Then why not take a stab at it? If you’d had anything else on you wouldn’t have come here, would you? And jobs like this aren’t exactly run-of-the-mill, are they?’

‘No.’

Watching her for a moment, the way her hair fell over one shoulder, the soft curve of her mouth, he finally asked, ‘Can we really not meet as friends? We’re different people now. And no less aware of each other than we were ten years ago,’ he added softly.

‘Stop it,’ she reproved, her face agitated. ‘And if you expect to pick up where you left off...’

‘I don’t.’ Would like to, he thought, and wasn’t even surprised at how much he meant it. ‘I’ll pay you the going rate. I really do need your professional opinion on how to restore it.’

Conflicting emotions showing clearly on her face, professional interest against personal feelings, she glanced almost wistfully towards the hidden landing window.

‘Think of the bar tracery,’ he persuaded softly. ‘Think of my entablatures.’

She gave a faint smile, and he felt unbelievably tender. And relieved. Never in his life to date had he ever had to persuade a woman to trust him. Neither had he wanted to. Until now.

‘But do, please, try to remember,’ he added, with a smile in his rather nice grey eyes, ‘that I do need plaster on my walls. That I do need bedrooms, and bathrooms, and that historical artefacts must come second to needs. And do, for goodness’ sake, take that camera from around your neck before you strangle yourself.’

Face still unsure, she unhooked the camera and put it into his waiting hand.

‘Tell me why you were interviewing the Mayoress,’ he invited. ‘She has an old house that needs investigating?’

She shook her head. ‘She was opening the children’s ward at the hospital.’

Confused, amused, and really rather enjoying himself, he persisted, ‘Then why were you interviewing her?’

‘Because that’s my other hat.’

‘Your other hat?’ he echoed.

‘Yes.’

‘What other hat?’

‘Reporting. I don’t earn very much as a house historian,’ she murmured as she began to rub her hand over the old wood of the banister. ‘Not very many people want to pay to be told they have Jacobean beams, or something. There aren’t very many nobles inheriting castles without a documented history, and so I supplement my income by working for the local paper. Are you going to have the lawns relaid?’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ he reproved. ‘But, yes, I shall probably get them relaid.’ Turning to glance briefly through the open front door at the scrubby grass that by no stretch of the imagination could be called lawn, he gave a rueful smile before turning back to Phoenix—who was halfway up the staircase.

A clear warning not to ask her personal questions? She was as nervous as a cat. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked as he followed her.

‘Just checking something.’ Taking the right fork, she halted on the top landing and stared first one way, then the other. ‘It’s an anomaly, isn’t it? And I would guess, on the evidence so far found...’

‘Evidence?’ he asked drily.