by Lucy Gillen
"Did you?" He held her a moment longer, a dark, unfathomable look in his eyes as he looked down at her, then slid his hand from her face in a slow stroking movement, standing quiet before he looked at his watch again. "You'd better go and tidy up for dinner," he told her quietly, and Isa nodded.
"I'll go and help Lady Carmichael first," she said, and looked up swiftly when he laughed.
"Lady Carmichael is helping herself," he informed her. "She told me she was quite capable of doing so and frankly I believe her—but you could just put your head round her door and see if she's managing as well as she thinks she can."
"Oh yes, of course!" She started upstairs, but got no further than the half way mark when he called out to her again and she turned, looking down at him curiously as he stood in the hall.
"Just out of curiosity," he said, his eyes challenging her, "what have you been doing?"
Isa hesitated, remembering Chris Burrows' admitted dislike of their mutual employer and wondering if she ought to mention their meeting. She did not know enough yet to even guess if he would object to her talking to his outdoor staff while they were supposed to be working.
"As I told you, Mr. Carmichael," she said, "I've been down by the river."
One brow flicked swiftly upwards and a hint of a
smile just touched his mouth, as if he suspected she was keeping something from him. "All alone?" he asked softly, and Isa flushed, ready to deny him the right to question her movements.
"Mr. Carmichael," she began, "I don't—"
"I know, I know, it's none of my business," he said, swiftly forestalling her protest. "You don't like being questioned about what you do, do you, Isabella?"
It was the first time he had used her christian name, although Lady Carmichael had done so from the beginning, and the familiarity of it gave her a curious feeling of intimacy. "It isn't that," she denied, though so uncertainly that he was unlikely to believe her. "I just—I mean I haven't been doing anything I'm ashamed of, and it was my free time. I don't see why—"
"All right!" He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I've got the message!"
He was laughing at her, that was plain, and Isa would have given much to object more forcefully to his interfering with her free time activities, but as yet she was not sure enough of his reaction to chance it. Instead she stayed for a moment, looking down at him as he stood in the big hall and pondering on the complications that Toby Carmichael could cause.
He was an attractive man, more than ordinarily attractive, and Isa had no doubt that he was fully aware of his attractions, but her own aim must be to remain untouched by what she guessed was a very virile and practised charmer. Toby Carmichael
was not the kind of man who would seriously look upon his grandmother's companion as a likely conquest, but the danger would lie in her own susceptibility.
She brought herself hastily back to reality when she realised that he was watching her from the hall, his blue eyes bright and quizzical. "May I go now, Mr. Carmichael?" she asked, and he raised a brow as he glanced at his wristwatch.
"You'd better," he told her, "it's almost dinner time and I hate being kept waiting for my meals!"
"I'm sorry!" She turned and ran on up the stairs, but once again got no more than part way before she was halted.
"Isabella!" She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. "You needn't run," he told her with a laugh. "I shan't sack you if you take time to wash and change!"
Isa would have denied that any such thought was in her head, but instead she merely smiled a little half-heartedly and walked on up the rest of the way, herback held stiff and straight because she knew he was watching her.
CHAPTER THREE
IT was such a novelty for Isa to have free time that actually left her free to do as she liked. that even after nearly four weeks at Trent House she could still savour the idea of being able to go out and not have a barrage of questions to face on her return. She had so far had no inclination to go into town, but spent most of her off-duty time either walking or sitting by the river with a book.
Since their first meeting she had seen quite a bit of Chris Burrows too, mostly when she was walking through the trees beside the river, although they had never so far made it a specific rendezvous. She found him good company and liked him more each time she saw him, for, apart from his violent dislike of Toby Carmichael, he was a pleasant, if somewhat earnest young man, and showed an ever-increasing liking for her company.
On Saturday afternoons Lady Carmichael answered her personal correspondence. Her eyesight was failing and arthritis made writing increasingly difficult, but she refused to have anyone else write her personal letters for her, so she shut herself away in her own little sitting-room upstairs and gave Isa the afternoon off.
Before getting ready to go out Isa put her head round the sitting-room door as she always did, to
check that she was not wanted, and the old lady looked up from her letter-writing, peering over the tops of her spectacles. "Ah, Isabella," she said, "are you going for a walk?" Lady Carmichael always called her by her full name, something that Aunt Carrie had never done because, she said, it was much too grand a name.
Isa smiled. "Unless you need me, Lady Carmichael," she told her, and the old lady frowned and shook her head.
"Your free time is your own, girl," she reminded her shortly. "You have been told so many times!"
It was true, Isa reflected, she had been told often both by Lady Carmichael and her grandson, and she nodded, indicating the sunlight that poured in through the open window of the little room. "It's such a lovely day," she said, "I thought I'd make the most of it and go for a long walk—I'll be back in time for dinner, my lady."
"Yes, yes, yes!" An impatient hand dismissed her promise as unimportant. "Go along and let me write my letters, Isabella. Go along, child!" Isa turned to go, but as she did so she caught the old lady peering at her again' over her spectacles, a dark, shrewd look in her eyes. "Toby is out riding somewhere," she informed her. "You might bump into him."
"I might, of course—goodbye, Lady Carmichael !"
Isa sincerely hoped she would not bump into Toby, but she knew that the watching eyes, no matter how short sighted, would have detected the faint flush in her cheeks, and she bobbed her head
hastily in farewell and withdrew. As far as possible she avoided too frequent contact with her employer, for she found his casually amused attitude towards her not only annoying, but oddly disturbing too. Chris Burrows' more direct manner was much easier to cope with.
After four weeks at Trent House Lady Carmichael's remarks about her being as pale as cream were no longer true. Frequent walks and sessions in the sunshine and fresh air had given her a light golden tan that complemented her violet eyes and dark hair, and her cheeks had a soft pink colour they had never had before.
She put on a blue linen dress and white sandals and tied back her long hair with a scarf, then took a long look at herself in the mirror before she went out. Aunt Carrie would not have recognised the girl who looked back at her, and she smiled as she turned away—Aunt Carrie would probably not have approved of her either.
It was warmer than she had anticipated when she got outside, and the cool of the river bank seemed an even more inviting prospect. The turf was cool and springy under her sandalled feet as she walked down the hill to the river, a light wind stirring the hair on her neck, while in the near distance the leafy Surrey countryside sprawled hazily in the summer sun. It was an idyll that Isa had only dreamed about when she lived in town, and she knew she would never tire of such surroundings, even in the bleak days of winter.
The trees, as she walked among them, turned off
the sun's heat suddenly and made the air almost chillingly cool so that she shivered for a moment until her body adjusted to the change in temperature. She had not come out with the specific idea of meeting Chris Burrows, any more than she ever did, but the possibility was always there at the back of her mind when she c
ame down here.
When she had gone some distance and still not seen him she began to realise that he had probably been given some work to do elsewhere on the estate, and she was surprised to discover how disappointed she felt. She had come further today than she ever had before, but there was still no sign of him and she resigned herself to a solitary walk.
Almost the entire perimeter of the estate was bordered by trees. One sida was a particularly dense-looking wood which she had so far avoided because she did not like the look of it. The other boundary was more inviting, along past Chris Burrows' cottage and along the southern. side of the grounds, and she stayed, as she always did, within sound of the water, because in some strange way it made her feel less lost among the trees if the river was audible.
The sun filtered through the branches overhead and sprayed shifting gold patterns on the ground at her feet. It was soft walking, where the fallen leaves of heaven knew how many years formed layers of rich loam and smelled like nothing she had ever smelt before, giving slightly each time she trod on it and making little crackling sounds where twigs and small branches lay under the leaf mould.
Across her path suddenly was a stile. A rickety,
ramshackle erection, it was true, but nevertheless a real old-fashioned stile, and Isa was intrigued. Having virtually spent all her life in town she had never seen a country stile before and she hesitated only briefly before trying it out.
It creaked when she put her foot on it and again when she stepped over on to the far side, but it withstood her weight and she smiled as she brushed down her dress, smeared with stain from the mouldering wood. A fence alongside was in an even worse state of repair, for it had at one time apparently been constructed of chestnut staves which were now little more than a straggle of rotting sticks and certainly did no service at all as a fence. Isa did not stop to wonder why it was there but walked on a few yards further into the wood, enjoying the peace and cool of it and the soft sound of the nearby river.
It was the crunching noise of trampled bracken and sticks that heralded the approach of someone else, and the occasional soft, snorting breath of an animal gave her a pretty good idea who the newcomer was. As far as she knew Chris Burrows did not ride a horse and certainly Lady Carmichael didn't, so it could only be one person, and her guess was confirmed only seconds later when Toby Carmichael's voice called to her from the other side of the stile.
"Isabella! What the devil are you doing over there?"
The question struck her as odd since she had done no more than leave one part of the wood for
another, and she disliked the way he questioned her too. She turned in time to see him dismounting, swinging himself down from the saddle with such consummate ease that she could not help but admire his style. The brown mare he rode snorted softly again when he pulled the reins over her head and stood with his hands on his hips, looking across at Isa.
He always looked more rangily lean somehow in riding clothes but just as attractive, and yet again she was forced to recognise that special aura about him that she could never quite define. Instead of the more conventional breeches and long boots, he wore close-fitting fawn trousers and short boots, with a blue shirt that was open at the neck, short-sleeved and revealing strong brown arms that were something of surprise in one of his calling. His dark hair was slightly rumpled, probably from catching on low overhanging branches and, inevitably, he looked faintly amused at finding her there.
Isa looked around her, suspecting at last that she had been wrong to climb over that stile. Then she looked at Toby and found herself reluctant to admit to him that she had not even thought about the stile as a boundary until now. "I just climbed the stile," she told him "Does it matter?"
Briefly he raised his eyes to heaven in appeal. "Does it matter?" he echoed. "Do you want to involve me in a civil war, child? Old Hetherton-Gale will declare a state of emergency if he finds you wandering about on his property! He dislikes trespassers of any sort; and the fact that you're a
female one would be adding insult to injury—he hates women!"
"Oh!" Isa looked round hastily, then caught the glimpse of laughter that lurked in his eyes and frowned again suspiciously. "I don't believe you," she told him, only half convinced of her own argument. "You're just trying to frighten me—I'm sure nobody will mind if I just walk in here!"
"Well, I mind !" Toby retorted swiftly. "I had enough trouble with old Hetherton-Gale in the days of my misspent youth. All has been peace and quiet for the last twenty years, I don't want hostilities breaking out again because of you. You come back on your own side, pronto!"
Isa hesitated, reluctant to abandon her walk if it was for no other reason than some long-forgotten trouble with a neighbour. If the man was so keen to exclude everyone from his property, surely he would keep the fence in good repair and make sure they couldn't get in. "I don't see that old Mr.— Whateverhisnameis bothers much about trespassers if he lets the boundary fence get into such a state." she pointed out. "If he—"
"If you don't come back this side, and soon," Toby threatened quietly, "I shall come and forcibly remove you, which will not suit you at all, if I know you!"
"Which you don't!" Isa retorted, but nevertheless walked slowly back towards the stile. She stepped over the top bar, taking her time with the express purpose of letting him know that her decision, to come back had nothing to do with his insistence.
He had released the mare's reins and stood just the other side, one hand extended to help her down, an offer she pointedly ignored. She swung her left leg up and over and it should have cleared the top bar easily, but a snag in the rotting wood caught the hem of her dress and pulled it tight against her leg as she tried to lower it again, throwing her off balance.
With a loud cry of surprise she sprawled inelegantly across the top bar of the stile, her dress firmly caught until the material gave with an ominous rending sound and let her fall. She expected a hard and painful landing across the rough wooden contraption, but at the moment she fell and let out a cry as she fell, strong arms deftly broke her fall, lifting her and pulling her free all in one smooth movement.
It all happened so quickly that Isa had no time to help herself, and she was swept, as if by some irresistible force, against him and held there firmly. Her first instinct was to cling to him and her hands clutched anxiously at his shirt while her face lay against the broadness of his chest, close to where his heart beat strongly and steadily in contrast to her own erratic pulses.
Enveloped in the tangy, male warmth of his body, she clung there for several seconds before a sudden surge of inexplicable panic made her lift her head and push against him, and slowly and reluctantly he eased his hold on her.
"I hate to say it," he told her quietly, "but you wouldn't let me give you a hand, would you?"
Isa shook her head, standing for a moment with his long hands spanning her slim waist while she recovered her breath sufficiently to gasp a whispered 'thank you'. It was incredibly difficult to meet that steady gaze and it did disturbing things to her self-control, despite her determined efforts to do something about it as she fought once again with a rising sense of panic. Putting her own hands on top of his, she flinched briefly from the hard warmth of them and tried to prise his fingers loose.
"I'm grateful to you for helping me, Mr. Carmichael," she said in a breathlessly small voice, "but I'm perfectly all right now, thank you."
"Are you?" The spanning hands resisted her efforts to remove them, and there were lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. "You almost came a nasty cropper just now by refusing to let me touch you, you'd better be sure this time that you're safe before you dispense with my services."
"I'm perfectly all right !" Isa insisted, and again he smiled.
",,If you say so !" He held her for a few seconds longer, then slid his hands slowly from her waist while he watched her with that steady and disturbing gaze fixed on her mouth. "Maybe you'd better go home before you get into any more mischief," h
e suggested softly, and Isa's head came up defensively, her eyes resentful.
"Don't speak to me as if I was a naughty child, Mr. Carmichael," she said in a voice that was far from as steady as she hoped. "I'm getting a little tired of it!"
She realised as she said it that the criticism was not only tactless but would probably be resented too, and he looked at her in silence for a moment. "Oh, you are?" he said at last. There was a glitter in his eyes that could as easily have been laughter or anger, she was uncertain which at the moment. "I'm sorry if you consider you've been ill used."
Isa bit her lip and looked at him briefly through her lashes. "I don't consider I'm ill used, Mr. Carmichael," she denied. "But I—I think I have the right to be treated as an adult."
"And I don't?" Toby asked, and Isa nodded. "Sometimes you don't."
"And you resent it?" She nodded without speaking and he looked at her for a moment in silence. "But not enough to make you give me notice, though?" he suggested, and Isa stared at him, her eyes wide and startled at a new turn of events. Nothing had been further from her mind than leaving Trent House and she faced the possibility of having been too rash in her criticism and spoiling, everything.
"Oh no, of course not," she said. "I don't know—"
"I thought perhaps in view of the insult to your dignity you were considering leaving," he said before she could finish her sentence, and lsa looked at him warily, trying to guess just how serious he was.
"I—I hadn't thought of leaving," she told him, "but if you—"
"I don't count," he said, and there was definitely laughter in his eyes as he cocked a brow at her,
"but Grandmama would miss you now. I'll bet Chris Burrows would too," he added quietly, and Isa flushed.
"I suppose Lady Carmichael's told you about my knowing Mr. Burrows," she said, dismayed to hear how much on the defensive she sounded. "But I only see him in my free time and she doesn't mind. I know he's Lady Carmichael's—your gamekeeper, but—"