‘I… they said you’d written several biographies of great men. Mainly military men.’
‘How very dry that sounds.’
‘And that I would be typing up your latest manuscript—’
‘From longhand? I hope they specified that? I’ve tried typing it myself but tapping out on a keyboard distracts my thoughts. I prefer to write it out—and I don’t think I’m alone in that.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Many authors still do, I believe?’
Ashley nodded. She found herself wondering what his handwriting was like. As torturous and as twisted as the thought processes which seemed to be firing up behind those ebony eyes? ‘So I believe.’
‘And they told you it’s a novel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever typed a novel before?’
She nodded. ‘I did one by Hannah Minnock early last year—she was a teacher at the school where I was working and it was her first book, called Ringing TheChanges. It was a chick-lit book.’ His face remained blank. ‘You know—funny, frothy stuff aimed at professional women. About divorce.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And that’s considered funny, is it?’
‘I just type the story,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t sit there in judgement of it.’
‘Well, you’ll find that my novel is as far removed from your frothy, fluffy “chick-lit” book as it is possible to be.’
‘I rather thought it might be,’ she answered quietly. ‘What exactly is it about?’
There was a pause and, briefly, she saw his knuckles tightening and the flicker of the flames casting bloodlike shadows over them. ‘My time in the army.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Really?’ He raised his dark brows in mocking question. ‘And what exactly do you know about army life?’
‘Well, only what I’ve seen on the news and read in the papers.’
‘And are you easily shocked? Are you queasy about blood and gore?’ Black eyes blazed at her and sent out an unmistakable challenge. ‘Do you scare easily, Ashley?’
She felt the sudden race of her heart in response to his question. Once, she would have blurted out that yes, she had known fear—real fear. The cruel personality of one of her foster mothers had seen to that. Sadistic Mrs Fraser who had locked her in the cupboard under the stairs all evening after accusing her of a crime of which the ten-year-old Ashley had been innocent.
She would never forget the experience—not as long as she lived. It had left a hideous mark on her memory which could never be erased. The dust and the cobwebs which had tickled her cheeks had been bad enough—taunting her with the knowledge that large, wriggly spiders were probably just waiting to drop down onto her head. But it had been the darkness which had terrified her more than anything. The claustrophobic darkness which had provided an ideal breeding ground for her fevered imagination. Ghosts and ghouls had come to haunt her that night and visions of lonely graveyards had filled her with an unspeakable kind of dread.
When eventually the door had been opened and light had flooded in Ashley had been beyond comprehension—or past caring. Her lips had been bleeding from where she had clamped her teeth into them and her clothes had been damp with sweat. The doctor told her afterwards that she must have had some kind of fit—but she would never forget the look of horror on his face, which he hadn’t quite managed to hide. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—as if such things shouldn’t be happening in this modern day and age. But they did happen. Ashley had never been under any illusion about that. Times changed but human nature didn’t.
The council had found another placement for her almost immediately—although Mrs Fraser had used her clever and manipulative tongue to convince her next set of foster parents that she was nothing but trouble. A liar and a cheat, she’d said. Ashley’s reputation had preceded her. She had quickly learned that if someone had a fixed idea that you were a bad person, then they would be on the lookout for signs to prove just that.
As a result, she had learned to subdue her hot temper and quick tongue. She had buried her more excitable character traits along with the squalid memory of that day. She had become quiet and calm Ashley, who would not rise to provocation or threat. And if Jack Marchant wanted to know the precise details of when and why she had been scared—then he would wait in vain for an answer from her. Because some secrets were best forgotten.
‘No, I don’t scare easily,’ she said.
‘Don’t you? And yet just now I saw something darken your eyes,’ he observed softly. ‘Something which looked exactly like fear.’
He was, she realised, an exceedingly perceptive man. And surely too intelligent to accept a smooth evasion? But he was her employer, nothing else. He had rights, yes—but only those which affected her work. He did not have the right to probe into her past and to prise out the horrors which she had buried so deep. She lifted her chin to meet the question in his eyes. ‘Everyone has dark corners in their memories—things they’d rather just forget,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t they?’
Her words produced a change in him. Ashley saw the flicker of a pulse at his temple and a fleeting expression of anguish which briefly darkened his craggy face. It was strange seeing so powerful a man look almost. almost despairing, but the look was gone so quickly that she wondered if she might have imagined it.
Instead, he gave that odd smile which curved the edges of his hard lips and didn’t really seem to have any humour in it. ‘Let’s leave my memories out of it, shall we?’ he said, his dismissive tone indicating that the conversation was at an end—and then he rose to his feet as if to reinforce it. ‘Come on, let’s go and eat supper.’
He looked down into her upturned face, towering over her and somehow making her feel very small and fragile. Ashley felt the surface of her skin icing, her skin turning to goose-bumps as his tall body bathed her in its dark shadow.
Because never had a man’s harsh and enigmatic expression made her feel quite so unsettled.
CHAPTER THREE
ASHELY had a restless first night at Blackwood. The branches battering at the windows kept sleep at bay and so did the images which burned into her memory every time she shut her eyes. Images of raven hair, burnished by firelight. Of a towering physique and a powerful body. And more than anything—of a cold and intelligent gaze which seemed to slice right through her like an icy blast of winter wind.
She and Jack Marchant had eaten supper together, but as soon as the meal was finished he had excused himself and disappeared into his study to work, closing the door behind him. Leaving Ashley feeling alone and out of place in the vast downstairs of the house. She’d escaped to her own room, where she took a bath and washed her hair—before lying awake and restless in bed and wondering if she was going to be happy here. And the worst thing of all was that she couldn’t seem to shake the image of Jack from her mind.
Jack in denim, having fallen from his horse—his face twisted in pain and his raven hair all windswept.
Jack in a silk shirt and tapered trousers—so imposing and aristocratic as he sat beside the fire, with the flames dancing shadows all over his rugged features.
And just one floor beneath her Jack was in bed. Was he naked beneath linen sheets as fine as the ones in which she herself lay? Did that powerful body toss and turn as hers did? Her cheeks burning as she acknowledged her uncharacteristically erotic thoughts, Ashley buried her face in the welcome cool of the pillow.
Eventually, she drifted off to sleep—only to be woken with a start by the distant sound of a door slamming and then the beginning of a rhythm which confused her at first but was unmistakable once she’d worked out what it was. In the darkness, Ashley frowned.
It was the sound of somebody pacing the floor.
Quickly, she sat up in bed, her eyes growing accustomed to the faint light in the room. Surely Jack Marchant was not an insomniac? And yet who else could it be making those agitated footsteps—when the two of them were alone in the house?
Listening to the s
ound of heavy pacing, she found herself wondering what thoughts were going through his head—and what could possibly keep a man like that awake at night.
After that, sleep became impossible and she gave up trying to chase it, and she lay there until some ancient central-heating system began to crank into life and herald the start of another day. Eventually she saw the first pale rays of light as they crept through a sliver of space between the curtains.
The room was chilly and swiftly she jumped out of bed and dressed in jeans and layers of warm clothing, before slipping down the sweeping staircase, listening out for signs that Jack might be awake and ready to start work. But the house was in complete silence and, after putting on her sturdy shoes, she let herself out of the kitchen door and went outside, where a fairy-tale landscape awaited her.
During the night a heavy frost had fallen—transforming the bleak, grey landscape of yesterday into one brushed by pure white. The garden looked like an old black and white photo with each blade of grass and every branch painted in monochrome.
For a moment she just stood there, revelling in the unfamiliar country scene and thinking that it looked like the picture on the front of a Christmas card. There was always something so pure about the frost—it was as white as snow and yet somehow more stark and understated. Less showy. Lifting her hand, she ran a questing finger along a branch and felt it shower down over her head—like fine snowflakes. A sudden sense of exhilaration filled her as she began to walk along the frozen path, enjoying the fresh air and space of the countryside and thinking how quiet it was when compared to the city.
And then something intruded into her consciousness—some slight movement which must have registered at the corner of her eye. Looking up towards the manor house, she felt her heart skip a beat because there—framed by a curved gothic window and silhouetted like some towering statue—stood the dark and brooding figure of Jack Marchant. He was completely still, as motionless as if he were part of the house itself and yet, even from this distance, Ashley could feel the icy burn of his eyes as he watched her.
She felt her heart miss a beat. Had he gone looking for her—eager to start work—only to find her strolling around the grounds, running her fingertips over frost-glazed branches like a simple fool?
She hurried back towards the house, hoping to be able to tidy herself and be installed ready to start work before he came downstairs. But she hoped in vain, for she opened the kitchen door to the gentle hiss of a coffee machine and the comforting smell of toast.
Jack was standing there, his strong hands cupped around a steaming mug as he stared out of the window over the kitchen garden. For a moment, she stood and drank in the view, taken aback by the domesticity of the scene—and by the infinitely more disturbing image of his hard, high buttocks encased in faded denim. His bare feet gripped the cool grey flagstones and his dark hair curled over the edge of his collar.
She had never seen a man in such an intimate setting before and it made her feel acutely self-conscious. Ashley swallowed, trying to clamp down her rising excitement and the sudden frisson which skittered over her skin. There seemed something almost indecent about the sight of his toes and the unexpected glimpse of bare flesh. The warmth of the kitchen was seductive—but not nearly as seductive as the hard gleam from his eyes as he turned to look at her. Did he notice the sudden tremble of her mouth, and wonder what on earth had caused it?
‘Good morning,’ she said, a touch breathlessly.
‘Ashley.’ He said her name softly as he saw the high rise of colour to her cheeks and the way her hair spilled down over her shoulders this morning. Her lips gleamed where she must have licked them and he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss them, even as he acknowledged how impossibly young she looked. ‘Are you always up so early, taking walks?’
Still feeling a little light-headed, she shook her head. ‘Not really. The last place I was living in wasn’t really the kind of place you’d go out walking—not at any time of the day. But as I was awake.’ She peeled off her frosty coat and thought how tired he looked. His features were strained with fatigue and his black eyes were shadowed by blue smudges beneath.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ Something about the way he was looking at her was making her feel ridiculously weak and she was grateful to be able to slide into one of the chairs which surrounded the scrubbed oak table.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he questioned suddenly.
She hesitated. She supposed she could lie and tell the polite fib. But what would be the point? Surely he must have realised that she’d heard him as he had paced the corridors? ‘Not terribly well, no.’
‘Oh? Did something keep you awake?’
His voice was studiedly casual but she felt torn as she met the question in his eyes. If she lied, simply to gloss over things—mightn’t that enrage him and make him think that he couldn’t trust her to tell the truth? And wasn’t honesty important to her—more important to her than pretty much anything else? ‘Actually, I heard footsteps. Pacing the corridor.’
For a split second his face darkened and Ashley felt a moment of disquiet as she looked at him. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned it after all. But just as quickly the look had gone and was replaced by one of curiosity.
‘So were you afraid that the house was haunted?’ he questioned silkily. ‘The tormented spirit of one of my ancestors, perhaps.’ He poured coffee into a mug and pushed it across the table towards her. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Ashley?’
She shook her head. She thought he was trying to change the subject and she wondered why. ‘No. No, I don’t.’
Like a croupier, he directed the sugar bowl in her direction, bringing it to a halt when she shook her head. ‘Or did you think it was me?’
‘I knew it was you.’ Her heart missed a beat as she met the question in his narrowed eyes. ‘How… I mean, how could it not be you—when we’re the only two people in the house?’
Jack’s mouth hardened. He wondered what she had done when she’d heard him. Had she lain there and wondered whether he might sleepwalk his way into her room by mistake?
With a sudden and inexplicable clarity, he almost wished he had—as he pictured her slender frame beneath the outline of a thin sheet. He could imagine pulling the sheet aside to see a slender, coltish body—her curving breasts topped with rosy nipples. Could imagine those unpainted lips of hers framing themselves into a silent question as he sought the comfort and warmth of her fragile body. He swallowed as he imagined sliding his hand between soft thighs and gently parting them. Was he going out of his mind? Abruptly, he sat down at the table, glad to be able to conceal his aching groin. He drank some too-hot coffee and winced, glad for its scalding distraction. ‘And were you frightened?’
She picked up her mug and shrugged. ‘I try not to do fear.’
Something about her quiet response impressed him. He watched her as she sat there in his kitchen, hair still damp from the frost that had fallen on her head, and he found himself thinking how difficult it must be for her to be catapulted into his life. To just turn up at a place like this, not knowing what, or who, she would find. To have to blend in and mould herself to what was expected of her. ‘What makes someone like you take on this sort of job?’ he questioned suddenly.
His question was so unexpected that Ashley didn’t have one of her stock answers ready—about liking variety in her work and wanting to get as many different kinds of work experience as possible. Because if the truth were known she wouldn’t really have opted for a post which took her away from all her friends, to a deserted part of a bleak, northern moorland in the middle of January.
‘I need the money,’ she said starkly.
He raised his eyebrows by a fraction—because most people hid this kind of truth behind a casual lie or exaggeration. ‘Why?’
Ashley shrugged, wondering whether it was the directness of his question or that searching onyx stare which made her want to tell him. Or was it simply t
he realisation that here was not a man who could be fobbed off with flimsy excuses? Would he be shocked by the truth? ‘I’m in debt.’
‘Oh, dear.’ There was a pause. ‘By much?’
She supposed it wouldn’t be much to him. ‘Enough.’
‘I see.’ Thoughtfully, he sipped at his coffee. ‘So what caused it—was it extravagance, or necessity?’
This time, Ashley chose her words carefully—because what would someone like Jack Marchant know about the realities of her life and trying to manage a budget when money was tight? When an unexpected bill could send your bank balance plummeting and then other expenses showered in on top to add to the mounting pressure. That was the trouble with debt—somehow you never quite caught up with yourself. It happened to other people her age but most of them had parents they could turn to if they were desperate. Someone who might be able to help them out with a short-term loan. But she’d never had anybody to run to.
‘Necessity,’ she said. ‘Too many bills arrived all at the same time—and then a couple of unexpected ones only added to the burden.’
‘I see,’ said Jack.
‘I mean, it wasn’t shoes or a designer coat,’ she added quickly. ‘I didn’t have an urge to go off on an exotic foreign holiday, or anything like that.’
‘No. I can’t imagine that it was,’ he concurred, because somehow he couldn’t imagine her having expensive tastes or lusting after fine clothes. Not judging by what she wore—rather plain and ordinary clothes, which nonetheless did little to hide the fact that there was a very nubile body beneath them. He wondered what it must be like to have to count and account for every penny as he acknowledged how difficult it must be for someone like Ashley Jones to survive. And unexpectedly, he felt a sudden pang of compassion. ‘Well, you should be able to save most of your salary here,’ he said gruffly. ‘Since there’s not really a lot to spend it on in the middle of the moors.’
The Forbidden Innocent Page 3