Return to Deepwater

by Lucy Gillen

  ‘Yes.’ She was more than ready to be left on her own, even if it was simply to get her breath back and get her bearings.

  He still stood beside her, looking down, a small frown on his brows. ‘You’re sure you’ve got the idea?’ he asked. ‘Say so if you haven’t, don’t just go blithely on and leave me in a state of chaos!’

  Tarin flushed, her eyes sparkling again with anger at the suggestion that she was less than capable of coping with a few bits of filing. ‘I’m a trained secretary, Mr. Bruce,’ she told him in a cool voice, her chin angled as she looked at him down the length of her small nose. ‘I’m quite capable of doing a simple job like filing letters!’

  It was bound to amuse him, of course, her indignation, and she knew he was laughing to himself even though it showed only in the bright glint of his eyes. His face was set soberly as he nodded his head. ‘Then I’ll leave you to get on with it,’ he told her. ‘If you need anything during the next half hour or so, just hang on until I get back—nothing will collapse in that time!’

  She nodded without saying anything and he walked across to the door, turning to look at her for a second before he went out. He looked serious and quite stern for a moment when she glanced at him, but then one eyelid lowered briefly and expressively in a broad wink, and she caught a glimpse of white teeth in the tanned ruggedness of his face before he turned and left the room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tarin thought her first day at Deepwater had gone rather well considering all things, and she hoped it would prove to be an omen for the rest of her time there. As it turned out she had seen very little of Darrel Bruce for the rest of the day, and she was uncertain whether or not she was pleased or sorry about it.

  The half hour or so that he had predicted he would be gone with Gloria Stein had in fact stretched on until nearly lunch time and Tarin had taken advantage of his absence to do some tidying up—something her predecessor had either omitted to do, or had no time to do before she left.

  There was, she soon discovered, more than one firm of accountants with whom he corresponded at some length, and she had carefully separated their letters and statements from the less confidential mail. There was even one firm who wrote from America, and it surprised her to learn that his interests were so widely scattered.

  His private desk she left strictly alone, as she had been instructed to do, and she did no more than add to the pile of letters already there and awaiting his attention. She had no difficulty finding enough to keep her busy, for the filing basket had been piled high with an accumulation of correspondence. With plenty of time on her hands she had had the opportunity to clear it all long before he returned and also to do some general tidying up.

  With the sun shining in through her bedroom window the following morning, she faced her second day at Deepwater with much more confidence, although it also brought to mind the question of how she would get to work when it was pouring with rain, as it was prone to do in this part of the world, even in summer.

  The walk through the village and along that lovely tree-lined carriageway was delightful when the weather was fine and bright, as it was now, but it would be a lot less attractive a prospect during bad weather, and that was something she would have to consider.

  She had never driven a car in her life, but perhaps now was a good time to learn, for she could scarcely expect her uncle to turn chauffeur on her behalf every time the weather changed. It was something she must consider quite seriously. With the generous salary that Darrel Bruce would be paying her she would soon be able to afford a small car and the problem would be solved.

  She was still mulling over the question of learning to drive as she made her way down the carriageway, some time later, and she brought herself swiftly back to earth when she heard a vaguely familiar sound on the gravel behind her. It took her a moment or two, but she eventually recognised it as the sound of galloping hooves and, remembering how Darrel Bruce had almost run her down the day before, she moved hastily to one side out of danger.

  Expecting him to appear at any moment round the bend in the carriageway, as he had yesterday, she was dismayed to find that the pulse at her temple was suddenly much more rapid, and she put up a hand instinctively as she turned, a greeting ready on her lips. It was something of a surprise when she failed to recognise the rider and she stared at him for a moment in wide-eyed astonishment.

  It was not Darrel Bruce but a thinner and more boyish-looking man, who eyed her with some interest as he came nearer and smiled broadly at her expression. He reined in his mount when he drew level with her and she thought there was something elusively familiar about his features, but as yet she could not place them.

  She responded willingly enough to the smile because he so obviously meant to be friendly. ‘Hello there, did I scare you, coming up behind you like that?’

  The accent was unmistakably American, and she immediately put him down as one of the visitors to the hotel. She smiled and shook her head, standing well back from the horse that was not quite as big as Darrel Brace’s massive stallion, but equally as restless.

  ‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I was—I was just expecting someone else, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, I get it—you were surprised, not scared.’ She nodded and he swung himself down from the saddle, falling into step beside her as she walked on. She was not unwilling to be friendly, but she hesitated about being too responsive because as yet she had no idea what her new employer’s feelings were about his staff mixing with the guests, and this man was presumably a guest.

  He was quite attractive too, in a fresh-faced, boyish way. Medium tall and wirily thin, he was well tanned, as if he spent a good deal of time in the open air, with thick, short-cropped brown hair that grew back from a broad forehead, and grey eyes that beamed at her appreciatively above a wide white smile.

  ‘I haven’t seen you around before, have I?’ he asked, and Tarin shook her head.

  ‘I only started here yesterday,’ she told him. ‘I work for Mr. Bruce—I’m his secretary.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ His mouth pursed in a silent whistle. ‘Say, Barrel sure has some luck, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Does he?’ She smiled her appreciation of the compliment, and he nodded earnestly.

  ‘Sure he does if he has you for a secretary!’ He rolled his eyes heavenwards, smiled again, then proffered a hand. ‘I’m Con Stein—Conrad Stein third to be formal, but I hope we won’t be formal. I’m Con to my friends!’

  Tarin’s hand was gripped in a clasp that was unexpectedly firm and strong and she found herself smiling in response to the almost boisterous friendliness of him. It occurred to her as well that the vague familiarity of his face was explained by his name. He must be related in some way to Gloria Stein—probably he was her brother.

  ‘I’m Tarin McCourt,’ she said.

  ‘Tarin?’ He repeated her unusual Christian name as people often did on first acquaintance, then nodded approval. ‘Say, I like it, it’s pretty!’

  ‘I was introduced to a Miss Stein yesterday morning,’ she said. ‘Would that have been your sister perhaps, Mr. Stein?’

  ‘You met Gloria?’ He looked vaguely surprised for a moment, then smiled knowingly and nodded his head as he pulled a wry face. ‘Yes, if you were with Barrel, I guess you would see Gloria around,’ he added.

  He was almost embarrassingly frank, and perhaps not quite as naive as he appeared, but Tarin liked him instinctively. There was something refreshingly open about him that appealed to her, unlike his more sophisticated sister whose manner had been anything but friendly.

  ‘I was with Mr. Bruce,’ she agreed. ‘I was being shown what to do—being my first day.’

  Her companion raised a surprised brow. ‘And Gloria chipped in?’

  ‘Not really,’ Tarin said hastily. ‘Miss Stein came to see if Mr. Bruce was ready to go riding with her.’ He nodded, that same knowing look in his eyes. ‘She would!’ he said, and pulled another wry face. A m
oment later he looked at her and laughed engagingly. ‘I guess you think I’m pretty much of a heel, talking like that about my sister, huh?’ he guessed. ‘But—well, Gloria’s just Gloria, I guess, and I know her pretty well. She isn’t so bad really, and maybe I shouldn’t malign her the way I do!’

  ‘It’s a brother’s privilege, isn’t it?’ Tarin smiled. ‘I guess it is at that!’

  He seemed quite uninhibited and not at all reticent about talking to a complete stranger about his sister’s shortcomings, but Tarin wondered what Gloria Stein would have said if she had been a witness to it. ‘Are you on holiday here, Mr. Stein?’ she asked, seeking a more safe subject than the possessive blonde who had seemed to look upon Darrel Bruce as her own personal property.

  Tarin barely noticed the brief hesitation before he answered, and there was nothing suggestive of reticence in the broad smile he turned on her. ‘I guess you could say we are,’ he told her. ‘We spend quite a bit of time here one way and another.’ ‘I could be quite wrong,’ Tarin ventured after a moment or two, ‘but I seem to remember a Miss Stein staying at Deepwater when I was here last— about ten years ago.’

  ‘Could be,’ Conrad Stein said. ‘We’ve been coming here since the year dot, our families have always been friends.’ The look in the friendly grey eyes was frankly appraising and he smiled. ‘The way things are going,’ he added with a grin, ‘I think I’ll come even more often. The scenery’s certainly improved a lot!’

  ‘It’s a beautiful old place,’ Tarin said, deliberately misunderstanding, although she was not at all averse to the flattery.

  ‘Great!’ he agreed with a grin. ‘And it’s got a terrific history, you know.’

  Tarin smiled wryly. ‘Yes, I know!’

  For a moment he walked beside her in silence, as if he was suddenly preoccupied, then he looked down at her, frowning curiously. ‘Your name kind of rings a bell,’ he told her, ‘though I can’t for the life of me think why. I’ve never met you before, I’m sure of that, or I wouldn’t have forgotten you!’ He shrugged. ‘Oh well, I guess it doesn’t matter, I’ve met you now. How come you’re back here now, after ten years. Miss McCourt?’

  Tarin shook her head, not prepared to give her true reasons and hesitant about giving others. ‘It just seemed like too good an opportunity to miss,’ she told him with a smile. ‘I’ve always loved it here, when I used to stay with my uncle and aunt, and the chance to work here was too much.’

  ‘You don’t live round here?’ he asked, and she shook her head.

  ‘I suppose you could say I do now,’ she said. ‘My father comes from here, but we’ve lived in Surrey all my life.’

  His frown was plainly curious. ‘And you came back here just to take a job with Darrel?’ He shook his head, as if her reasons were beyond his understanding. ‘Well, I guess you know what you’re doing, and you look sane enough not to be dazzled by those caveman tactics!’ He caught her puzzled look and laughed. ‘I’m just kidding, Miss McCourt,’ he said. ‘Darrel’s O.K.!’

  They had walked almost as far as the house and were just turning the last corner in the curved carriageway, the trees shushing softly overhead in the morning breeze. The gravel surface crunched flintily under the horse’s hooves and made the loudest noise to be heard in the still of the morning as he plodded patiently beside his erstwhile rider, and there was a stillness and tranquillity about the whole place that gave Tarin a sudden sense of well-being. It was just like coming home, she reflected, and started visibly when Conrad Stein suddenly snapped his long, bony fingers together sharply.

  ‘Now I know where I’ve heard your name before,’ he said. ‘The legend—the story of the feud between the Bruces and their near neighbours, I remember now. Her name—the one who was carried off by one of the Bruces, was Jeanie McCourt, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Tarin found herself unwilling to discuss the matter of the feud, and the act that had started it, with a stranger. Perhaps because she had, in her own mind, compared the current master of Deepwater with his disreputable ancestor, and found it too discomfiting to wonder how much further the comparison would go.

  ‘A taboo subject?’ he guessed, one brow elevated curiously. ‘Sorry, Miss McCourt, I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter in the least,’ Tarin assured him hastily, not wanting to make a mystery out of it as well as a legend. ‘After all,’ she added with a laugh, ‘it was more than two hundred years ago!’

  ‘All those old legends fascinate me,’ Conrad Stein confessed. ‘And especially when they concern people I know, or at least their ancestors. In this case I now know both sides of the battle!’

  ‘It’s ancient history,’ Tarin reminded him. ‘Best forgotten except as what it is—an old story, probably well trimmed in the process of being handed on!’

  As they approached the old house it looked so bland and mellow in the morning sun that Tarin found it hard to believe it had housed such a fierce and reprehensible family as the Bruces of Deepwater once were. They came to a halt at the foot of the worn stone steps that led to those massive doors and once again Conrad Stein proffered his hand.

  ‘I guess I have to hand you over to Darrel now,’ he said with obvious reluctance. ‘I sure hope I see you again, Miss McCourt.’

  ‘I hope so, Mr. Stein.’ She took the proffered hand and made no objection when the long, thin fingers held hers for longer than was strictly necessary. ‘Thank you for walking up with me.’

  He laughed as he swung himself back into the saddle, ready to ride round to the stables at the back of the house. ‘Oh, Darrel doesn’t have the monopoly on chasing beautiful women,’ he informed her, and urged his mount forward, waving one hand as he went. ‘So long, Miss McCourt, I’ll be seeing you!’

  Tarin pondered as she went up the steps to the house just what her new acquaintance had implied by his last remark. Twice during their conversation he had made allusion to Barrel Bruce’s prowess with women, and her uncle too had implied that he had a taste for pretty girls. He had even said as much himself.

  At first glance he gave the impression of being much too stern and uncompromising to be a ladies’ man, but even a few moments with him gave the lie to the idea. He was a very attractive man in a ruthless kind of way, as her own response to him proved. It was after all a very long time since her last sight of him, but she had no hesitation in admitting that her schoolgirl crush was far from being banished altogether.

  When she opened the door of the office they shared she found Barrel Bruce already there, and she glanced at her wristwatch as she turned to close the door behind her. She was not late, but nicely in time, which was how she liked to be, but seeing him there made her wonder if he was one of those men who liked their staff to arrive early.

  He seemed to look even taller this morning, she thought, and dismayingly stern and discouraging. Fawn slacks and a shirt of the same colour fitted snugly to his long, sinewy body and gave him an earthy, sensual look that she found alarmingly disturbing, despite his apparent aloofness.

  His thick hair, so nearly red like his rampaging forebears, still looked wind-tossed, as if he had come there straight from his morning ride, and there was a hint of frown between his dark brows. He stood behind his desk and glanced up when she came in, nodding his head but showing no sign of a smile on those strong, craggy features.

  ‘Good morning!’

  The greeting was brusque and barely polite, but she attempted a smile when she replied, then, discouraged from verbal pleasantries, walked across to her desk and took the cover off her typewriter, ready for work. If he preferred to be silent first thing in the morning it was all right with her. In fact in the circumstances she preferred it too, for she found his presence there so soon rather disconcerting.

  It gave her no time to settle in, even to check and see if she needed any minor repairs to her hair and make-up. Instead she was faced with the need to cope with a quite alarming disturbance in her pulse rate,
caused by seeing him there. Somehow, and soon, she must stifle that schoolgirl idiocy once and for all.

  ‘Did you notice a letter from a New York firm when you were filing yesterday?’

  The question was so sudden and unexpected that for a moment Tarin looked at him rather vaguely, then she shook her head. ‘I don’t remember one,’ she said, and walked over to the filing cabinets lining one wall, confident of her filing system. ‘If you tell me the name of the firm I can find it for you.’

  ‘It shouldn’t have been in your hands,’ he said shortly. ‘But try under Lucas while you’re there, I can’t find it under Fennelly.’

  ‘Fennelly and Lucas,’ she said instantly, and smiled. ‘You’ll find it under the papers on your desk, Mr. Bruce.’

  ‘Oh?’ His brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘How do you know that?’

  Surprised by his tone, she blinked for a moment.

  ‘Why, I put it there,’ she said, and he frowned.

  ‘I thought I made it clear,’ he said coldly, ‘that my desk was out of bounds—now you tell me you’ve been going through the papers on it.’

  ‘I did no such thing!’ Tarin denied indignantly, stung to anger by the accusation.

  ‘No?’ One dark brow lifted as far as the thick hair over his forehead. ‘Then how else do you know where that letter is?’

  Tarin took a deep breath, trying hard to control a temper that was rapidly getting out of hand, but determined to show nothing but contempt for his behaviour. ‘I found the letter lying on the floor,’ she said quietly. ‘It was obvious it had blown down from your desk and, being flimsy paper, it was quite likely to blow down again if I simply put it back on top. So I raised the pile and slid it underneath!’