Once Upon a Pillow

by Christina Dodd

For over a year, Laurel had lived at Masterson Manor, cataloguing the contents, discovering the most marvelous diaries from years past, and visiting the archeological sites on the estate. Once a day, she led a tour group along the corridors, guiding them through the rooms and trying, so hard, to give them an appreciation of the history in this little corner of England between Cornwall and Devon.

  Now it was all over. Mr. and Mrs. Barry had sold Masterson Manor, and the new owner not only wanted to live here, but to discontinue the tours.

  When Laurel had asked if she would be allowed to carry on her research, Mrs. Barry had shaken her head. The new owner had been most insistent that he would use Masterson Manor as his country home.

  It wasn’t easy to support such an old house, with its need for constant repairs and improvements. Laurel didn’t know how anyone could do it without the extra income from the tours. But it sounded as if the new owner was wealthy. Very, very wealthy.

  So she had to face the facts. Her job was almost over. She had no choice but to secure another position close to a viable research site.

  “Is this a replica of the Masterson estate?” Miss Ferguson peered through the glass at the three-dimensional scale model.

  “It is.” Laurel hurried to her side to point out the sights. “There’s the manor. We’re standing inside right here.” She indicated the northeastern corner.

  “Any ghosts in the manor?”

  Smiling at Mrs. Stradling’s enthusiasm, Laurel said, “None, I’m afraid. The inhabitants, at least all the ones I’ve researched, lived happy and healthy lives.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Stradling drooped with disappointment.

  “There’s the Masterson castle built on the cliff overlooking the ocean. Cromwell’s men used cannonballs to knock the walls down, and the Cornish elements have done the rest.” Before Miss Ferguson could speak, Laurel added, “The lorry will take you by there on your way out.”

  “I would hope so,” Miss Ferguson said crisply. “I like castles.”

  “There’s really not much to see.” A recalcitrant wisp of dark hair fell out of the clip that held the slippery mass atop Laurel’s head. She tucked it back in. Indicating the cluster of houses close to the manor, she said, “There’s the village of Trecombe.”

  Mrs. Stradling peered at crooked streets. “Very picturesque.”

  Brian, deprived of his chance to create murder and mayhem with his own broadsword, pressed his finger on the glass over the square mound not far from the manor. “What’s this?”

  “It’s the site of the medieval abbey. It was razed by Henry VIII and the monks scattered. The chapel became Anglican, of course, and it still stands as a fine example of Gothic construction.”

  “Is it still in use?”

  “Absolutely. Father Ellis performs services there every Sunday. The Mastersons saved some of the church art from Henry’s deprecations and pieces now decorate the manor.”

  “Why didn’t they return them to the church?” Miss Ferguson asked.

  “Because the Mastersons were all scoundrels and thieves,” Max said.

  Laurel cleared her throat. “Actually, as I have demonstrated in my tales of the noble Masterson legacy, that is not true. As with all families, there were some less than illustrious souls, but the majority were upright citizens. Perhaps”—she glared with righteous American indignation at the British handyman—”their continued possession of church property could be attributed to the English propensity to assume that antiquities which are not nailed down are theirs to acquire if they wish.”

  The tourists said, “Ooo,” and “Ahh,” as if they’d just viewed an excellent fireworks show.

  Max said nothing. He didn’t look insulted. He looked like a man who loved to see her cheeks turn pink with anger and her eyes grow hot with indignation. He looked as warm and handsome and tough as he did in her dreams…and in her memories.

  She was already emotional with the loss of her job and the end of the tours. She did not need Max Ashton to provoke her.

  Hastily she said, “Not that all English people behaved in such shameful ways, of course. I didn’t mean to imply that. But the church is unsecured, so valuables can’t be kept there. Masterson Manor is the most safe and likely spot to keep the church art.”

  “What religious pieces did we see?” Mrs. Stradling glanced back toward the door that led to the master’s bedroom.

  “St. Albion’s cross was on the chest close to the Masterson bed, the reliquary in the great hall and the alabaster vases in the library.” Laurel frowned. She couldn’t remember seeing the alabaster vases when they’d passed through the library.

  Oh, no. Not again.

  John wrapped his arm around Megan’s neck and kissed her forehead for no apparent reason other than he could.

  Megan closed her eyes and offered her mouth.

  Laurel wanted them to stop. Not because she envied them. Not at all. Because such behavior was inappropriate in…in a souvenir shop.

  As if answering her appeal, they wandered outside.

  Laurel sagged with relief.

  “The reliquary is remarkable,” Miss Ferguson said. “But I wonder who had the nerve to steal the jewels off the lid.”

  In his most ironic voice, Max said, “Sold off to support the Masterson family in its dissipations, I’m sure.”

  “The Mastersons were a noble and honorable family,” Laurel retorted.

  “All of them?” His eyes gleamed.

  The hair on the back of Laurel’s neck rose.

  Abruptly, she was sick of putting up with him. His big feet, clomping around on the wooden floors. His big hands, deftly using hand tools to fix the plumbing and run cable and any of a hundred more jobs around the manor. His broad shoulders, precisely the right height for a woman her size to rest her cheek on. His tight ass, the kind that gave blue jeans a good name. His tawny mane of hair, his crooked blade of a nose, his lips, too grim for a genuine smile. His green eyes, the kind that young women fell in love with.

  It wasn’t bad luck that had brought Max to Masterson Manor. Oh, no. Max had told her he made his own luck.

  Well, so did she, and she didn’t have to put up with this rat and his provocative remarks.

  She smiled at the tourists in apparent benevolence, then turned to Max and in the tone of a lady of the manor dismissing a serf, she said, “I don’t require your help. You can go back to your odd jobs now.”

  Which should have put him very firmly in his place.

  But Max looked at her, and some element in his slight smile made her retreat.

  He followed, draped his arm across her shoulders, and in a voice loud enough to stop every conversation, said, “But, darling, it’s the last tour. We can tell them the truth.” He looked over his head at the avid group. “Laurel and I are engaged to be married.”

  Chapter Two

  Furious, Laurel swiveled to face Max…

  Max, whose moss-green eyes were watchful and wary.

  “We are not engaged.” She enunciated clearly, in case someone in the fascinated tour group was hard of hearing. Or in case Max was, which he must be, because she’d been saying this for two weeks.

  He, too, used a crisp enunciation, and Englishmen always won that game. “We should be.”

  The tourists gasped in surprise and titillation.

  “Mom, does he mean they —” Brian pointed from one to the other.

  “Yes, dear, I believe he does,” Mrs. Plante answered.

  Miss Ferguson whipped out her notebook and started scribbling, taking occasional breaks to peer at Laurel and Max as if they were bugs under a microscope.

  Laurel did not want to be the inspiration for a romance novel, almost more than she wanted to kill Max for making such a scene. “We’re not engaged, and I can’t imagine two people with less in common.”

  “We’ve got one very important thing in common,” Max said.

  Laurel narrowed her eyes as she glared.

  Everyone leaned closer.

  He g
estured behind him. “This house.”

  The tourists exhaled in disgust.

  “Not for long,” Laurel snapped.

  The outside door slammed as John and Megan stepped back into the souvenir shop. Seeing the tense little group, Megan stopped short. John bumped into her.

  Everyone turned to look at them.

  John’s hair was mussed. Megan’s lips had that swollen, well-kissed appearance. Color climbed in both their faces, and they couldn’t have looked more guilty.

  They’d been outside kissing. They were always kissing, and smiling at each other, and holding hands. They were newly married, and they were in love.

  And what did Laurel have? A duty-bound handyman chasing her around making deceptive claims on her ring finger.

  “What’s going on?” Megan asked.

  “Nothing’s going on.” Taking a long breath, Laurel turned to the fascinated tourists, and in her commanding, guidebook voice, said, “That completes your tour. Your bus is waiting.” Striding briskly to the door, she opened it and relied on her standard, end-of-tour chatter. “It’s a beautiful summer evening. I hope you enjoy your dinner, whatever it might be, and that the rest of your trip in England is delightful.” As she talked, she walked toward the bus and they trailed after her, too polite to ask further questions—but their eyes gleamed with curiosity.

  Curiosity destined to go unsatisfied. Max, smart man, had stayed inside, and Laurel alone waved the bus off.

  Turning toward the house, she stared up at its tall, white exterior. Masterson Manor was beautiful, a place where she could happily spend the rest of her life. But since that wasn’t possible, she wished she could spend these last weeks in quiet communion with the house and its history.

  But quiet communion was out of the question, and all because of that damned handyman. Max Ashton was a menace to her peace of mind. And, she reminded herself, it was all her fault.

  That didn’t make her any less grouchy.

  Stalking into the souvenir shop, she slammed the door behind her. Unfortunately, Max missed her grand gesture.

  He’d slipped away to avoid her wrath.

  That was just like him. Stir her up, then leave her to stew. Well, he wasn’t getting away with it this time. They were going to have this out.

  She locked the door, turned out the lights and headed to the place where she knew she would find Max: in the Mastersons’ Medieval bedroom, working with his beloved tools.

  But he wasn’t working. He was stretched out full length on the velvet counterpane, his arms tucked behind his head, his eyes closed, a big, dark, muscular, hairy pain in the rear who remained at Masterson Manor despite her repeated invitations to remove himself from the premises.

  She ought to be feeling nostalgic and very much aware that this was the end of an era. Instead she could scarcely speak for outrage. “Get your boots off that comforter.”

  Without opening his eyes, he smiled, an amused curve of his plush lips. “You sound like my mother.”

  “In fact, get off the bed.”

  His long lashes fluttered open, and he stared at her with that sexy, warm, bedroom look that reminded her, only too explicitly, of a moment when he’d stared like that and she’d gone into his arms. Like a lemming, she told herself, marching toward a cliff.

  But sarcasm was no proof against the warmth that flooded her, bringing a flush to her cheeks, making her breasts ache with fullness, and down deep within her, that ache grew sharper. That ache never quite went away, no matter how much she ignored it.

  Her body wanted him.

  But she was more than a body. She had quite a fine mind, and that mind was certainly smart enough to recognize trouble stretched out, unmoving, before her. “Get off the bed. That is the Masterson bed. It is constructed of walnut. The massive headboard and tall bedposts were carved by medieval craftsmen. The canopy is the prime example of woodwork crowning the master’s sleeping area. Because the Masterson bed weighs so much and is impossible to move, it has existed in this very spot for a thousand years.”

  “Now you sound like a tour guide.”

  Her voice got louder. “The Masterson bed is a bed weighed down with history. The Masterson bed has survived wars, fires, and the loss of its family. The Masterson bed is an antique worthy of being treated with respect. Get off the bed.”

  “Why does the Masterson Bed”—he mimicked her vehemence—”matter so much to you?”

  She didn’t even know why the bed and his place on it mattered so much. Perhaps it was because he looked so comfortable there, so at home, like some medieval knight weary from long days in the saddle.

  She had to stop romanticizing this man. She had to concentrate on her grievances. “Never mind that. How dare you say that to the tourists?”

  “You mean, tell them the truth?” He raised up on his elbows.

  “We are not engaged. It is not the truth, and I don’t even know why you want it to be. I can’t think of one reason why you’d want to marry me.”

  He looked at her, just looked at her, long enough to make her nervous. “Not even one?” he asked softly.

  Her stomach twisted in combination of lust and…well, just lust. He’d always had that effect on her. And she…she knew better than to stand so close to him. He never hesitated to use the advantage size and strength gave him. “Why did you get yourself hired on here?”

  “The Barrys advertised for a handyman.” He shrugged smoothly. “I’m the best.”

  How could he lie like this? Right to her face? “You came here to be a handyman? To a wretched old house that ought to be bulldozed?”

  He glanced around. “I’m fixing it up.”

  Laurel almost shrieked in frustration. “I was being sarcastic. Masterson Manor is in beautiful shape.”

  “The plumbing is turn of the century, and I don’t mean the twenty-first century.”

  Her hair fell around her face in wisps, and she blew at the one that draped itself over her eye. “There is more to life than plumbing.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if the loo didn’t work.” In the blink of an eye, he went from strictly practical back to their relationship. “I came to Cornwall because you were here.”

  Chapter Three

  “How romantic.” Going to the window, Laurel crossed her arms and stared out at the castle. “When I have a moment, I’ll be impressed.”

  Max’s low, deep, oh-so-English voice coaxed, “Why won’t you give me a second chance?”

  She whirled to face him. “For one thing—you’re not a handyman.”

  “How can you say that?” He waved a hand at the box of tools on the floor. “Do you have complaints about my work?”

  “Handymen do not buy antiques.” And they’d met buying antiques. She’d been in Kent, chasing down a Victorian dressing table reputed to be originally from Masterson Manor, and he’d been seeking anything…well, just anything. He’d been abysmally ignorant of how to bid at an antique auction, and drove the prices up out of sight until she couldn’t stand it anymore and offered to help him. She’d been doing a kindness—which went to prove that no good deed goes unpunished.

  “You’re a snob,” he observed.

  “If you were a handyman, you could buy antiques—but not for the prices you were paying.” Where had his money come from? Why had he come here, now? She couldn’t remain still. Not with these suspicions tormenting her. She paced back to the bed and stared down at him.

  He stretched back out again, six foot two inches of confidence, strength, and proportioned muscles laid out for her inspection. “Fixing things pays very well.”

  “You’re lying to me.” She wanted to gesture widely, but she would have hit him with her hand. Which seemed like a good idea in theory, but in the two weeks he’d been here, she had been very, very careful not to touch him in any way.

  He had not been so scrupulous. He had taken her arm to help her stand, helped her clip her hair up. Little touches, nothing she could complain about, but irritating—and startling�
��to a woman who had been alone for too long.

  “All right, I’ll tell you the truth.” He blinked at her with sleepy charm. “I’m a millionaire banker.”

  She wanted to grind her teeth. “Could you pick some middle ground?”

  He ignored her derision and observed her, weighed her reactions, made her self-conscious about every blink, every grimace. “Is it so impossible that I’m a millionaire banker?”

  “Yes. Millionaire bankers are smooth, suave, polite.”

  “I’m not polite?”

  “Your manners are impeccable, as you very well know.”

  “Smooth? Suave?”

  He was those things, too, but he had a rough edge to him, as if life hadn’t always been easy. He was alert. He was wary. He seemed more like a predator than a banker or a handyman—and that frightened her. Carefully she chose her words. “I think if you were a millionaire banker, you would frighten your competitors to death.”

  He smiled, a slow, warm, approving smile that both warmed and alarmed her. “You’re very acute. You’re also tense. Why don’t you rest on the bed with me?” Reaching over his head, he took the headboard in his hands. “I promise not to touch you.”

  Lying like this, he looked taller, broader, more tempting. His big-boned wrists were too large for her to encircle with her fingers. She knew, because on that night she’d tried. She’d tried to touch him everywhere, drunk on the pleasure of throwing caution to the wind, to having a man beneath her to caress and explore.

  Her explicit memories brought color to her face, not just a smooth blush, but that prickly, uncomfortable kind of color that she knew turned her skin red and blotchy. Returning to the point she tried to make time and time again, she said, “We do not have a relationship.”

  “We slept together.”

  “Only once!”

  “Actually…”

  “Only one night.” She gripped the bedpost and shook it. The sturdy old bed did not even shiver. “A one night stand does not a relationship make.”

  She saw his muscles bunch, realized her peril, but too late. Seizing her by the waist, he picked her up as if she were a petite thing, which she most certainly was not, and rolled her over the top of him and flat on her back in the middle of the bed. He lifted himself over her, the dominant male asserting himself over his woman.