by Anne Mather
Heath regarded her through narrowed lids. In a dark green corded jerkin and matching corded pants, he looked unconscionably attractive, and a curious pain stirred in the pit of her stomach as she met his concentrated gaze.
'Now, that's a pity,' he remarked. 'Because I was going to invite you to go riding. But naturally, if you don't feel like it …'
Helen's lips compressed indignantly. 'I don't believe you.'
'It's what you said, not me.'
'No, you know what I mean.' She moved her head to avoid Niko's affectionate nuzzling. 'I don't believe you intended to take me riding. You're not even dressed for it.'
Heath shrugged. 'I can ride in these clothes as well as any others.' His mouth curved. 'Do I take it you would like to go riding after all?'
She shrugged, looking down at the legs of her cotton dungarees. 'Is Miss Patterson invited?'
'No.'
'No?' She looked up.
'No,' he agreed, glancing behind him into the yard. 'Now, do you want to go or don't you? I don't have that much time.'
Helen withdrew her arms from their defiant stance and sniffed. 'I suppose so.'
'Okay.' Heath stepped to one side. 'You'll find McLintock's already saddled Marnie. You go and find him while I attend to Niko.'
She stopped beside him indignantly. 'You were so sure I'd come, weren't you?'
Heath stepped past her. 'Stop wasting time,' he advised shortly. 'I've got to be in Bradford by ten o'clock.'
Helen wanted to refuse. She wanted to tell him to go ride himself, but she didn't. It was an opportunity of being alone with him she couldn't bear to miss, and she was waiting on Marnie's back when he led the black hunter out of its stall.
A gate beyond the stable yard gave access to the fields and parkland surrounding Matlock Edge. Helen had known Heath take that gate in full stride, but this morning he leant down to open it, allowing both horses through before re-securing the catch.
It was a glorious morning, the sun already giving some hint of the warmth of the day to come. Helen thought there was nowhere like England on an early summer morning, and although Heath had taken her to France and Italy, she still preferred the English countryside to those hotter foreign beaches.
Giving Marnie his head, she allowed the animal to take her at a gallop across the sloping meadow, hearing the low thunder of Niko's hooves behind her. For the moment, at least, Heath was prepared to give himself up to the enjoyment of the ride, and contentment spread, like wildfire, throughout her whole body. But eventually he caught up with her, exhibiting with ease the hunter's superior strength, and leaning across, reined Marnie in beside him.
'Right,' he said, 'let's talk, shall we? Pleasant as this is, I do have work to do.'
Helen hesitated a moment and then pointed to the thin ribbon of water flowing over rocks some few yards ahead of them. 'Let's dismount and sit by the stream,' she suggested, already digging her heels into Marnie's sides to urge him forward, and after a brief pause Heath followed her.
'All right,' he said, 'if this suits you. Personally, I'd prefer to stay in the saddle. The grass is wet.'
'It's only dew,' exclaimed Helen, sliding down from Marnie's back. 'Hmm, it smells delicious. Don't you think so?'
Heath shrugged, swinging his leg across the pommel and jumping down beside her. 'I can think of sweeter things,' he remarked drily, avoiding some wild creature's droppings, and walking to the edge of the water. 'You know I used to fish here, when I was little. I never could understand why I never caught anything.'
'Perhaps you used the wrong bait,' said Helen, coming to stand beside him. 'I used to paddle here, when Mrs Gittens would let me.' She grinned up at him. 'She was once livid because I stripped all my clothes off.'
Heath looked down at her drily. 'You have a habit of doing that, don't you?' he observed, and her cheeks turned pink. 'It's one of the things I'm hoping Angela will cure you of. That, and a few other practices we won't go into now.'
Helen pursed her lips. 'Is that why you brought me here? To talk about Angela Patterson?'
'Among other things,' he conceded, ignoring her sudden tension. 'You must have guessed that was what I wanted. I think you need to understand the situation.'
'Oh, I understand the situation all right,' muttered Helen tautly. 'You made it perfectly clear last night. I'm to learn to do as I'm told and keep my mouth shut. Isn't that a fair description of the situation?'
'No, it's not.' Heath spoke with some heat. 'Helen, you're not trying to be reasonable. I invited Angela Patterson to Matlock Edge to teach you the things a mother might have taught you—to help you to dress, how to act in company, how to behave like the lady I thought I'd brought you up to be. It wasn't intended to deteriorate into a slanging competition. I'd hoped you might like one another. And I still have hopes of that, even though you tried last night to make Angela look stupid!'
'I didn't have to try very hard, did I?' demanded Helen tensely, aware that the tears she had shed yesterday had by no means drained the reservoir. 'You can't believe all that stuff she told you about jobs and everything! I don't believe she's even looked for one. She was just waiting for someone like you.'
'It really doesn't matter whether I believe it or not,' said Heath surprisingly, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants.
'What do you mean?'
'Angela Patterson's history is of no particular interest to me.'
Helen frowned. 'But if she was lying—'
'Helen!' He turned to her then, shaking his head half impatiently when he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. 'I know all about Angela. You don't imagine I'd let a stranger come to live in my house without checking her out first?'
'You mean—'
'I mean I want you to listen to her. I want you to learn from her. And the first thing I want you to do is go with her to Manchester and let her choose you some new clothes. Feminine clothes,' he added, surveying the dungarees with evident distaste. 'I've neglected my duties too long. I should never have let you persuade me to let you leave school.'
Helen felt a glimmer of hope. 'You mean you're going to spend more time with me?' she asked, allowing her slim fingers to curve impulsively about his sleeve. 'Oh, Heath I'm sorry if I've made a fool of myself. I didn't realise what you were doing.' And then, before he could draw his hands out of his pockets to prevent her, or step back out of reach, she stretched up on her toes and kissed him, her eager lips seeking and finding his startled mouth.
Because he had been about to speak, his lips were parted, and she had to part her lips, too, to accommodate them. It was intended to be a kiss of gratitude, no more, a simple pressure to show him she intended to turn over a new leaf and behave as he wanted, but it didn't turn out that way. His lips were so firm and dry, utterly unlike Miles Ormerod's wet mouth, and the impulsive salutation was more pleasing than she had imagined. Instinctively, her own lips moved and deepened under his.
She heard Heath groan deep in his throat, and she thought for a moment he was in pain. But the sudden pressure that met her tentative caress seemed to negate such a suspicion, and the hands torn from his pockets reached for her, not to push her away.
Her head swam beneath that expert response. His mouth was hard now, and intimate, his hand at her nape holding her there, bruising the sensitive skin. It was not like the times Miles had kissed her, not like the way Heath had kissed her in the past. But she didn't want him to stop. She wanted him to go on and on, and her hands clung desperately to the lapels of his jerkin.
'Heath!'
She didn't know how long it was before Heath thrust her away from him. It had seemed like minutes, but she suspected it was only seconds. From the expression on his face, she doubted he could have prolonged the incident, and for the first time in her life she was too embarrassed to look at him.
'Who taught you to do that?' he asked her harshly, after a few moments, grasping her roughly by the chin and forcing her to look up at him. 'Ormerod, I suppose. Good heavens, and I thought
you were only a child!'
Helen quivered. 'Miles didn't teach me,' she mumbled indignantly, but Heath was unconvinced.
'Who, then?' he demanded. 'Have there been other young men I don't know about? For Pete's sake, Helen, tell me, before I break your bloody neck!'
'Jealous?'
Helen spoke recklessly, hating him when he treated her like this, and Heath's expression darkened angrily. 'No,' he said grimly. 'No, I'm not jealous. How could I be jealous of a provocative teenager? But the next time you try something like that, I really will put you over my knee!'
Helen pulled her chin out of his grasp. 'I don't know what you're making all the fuss about,' she exclaimed chokingly. 'No harm's done.'
'Isn't there?' Heath grasped Niko's reins and swung himself up into the saddle. 'You're already making me regret my decision to bring Miss Patterson to Matlock Edge. I should have sent you to Switzerland as my mother suggested. At least there, you wouldn't have been my responsibility!'
Helen sniffed. 'I thought you liked it,' she muttered almost under her breath, but he heard her.
'I won't answer that,' he grated, turning his mount around. 'Come on, let's get back to the house. Perhaps Angela Patterson will succeed where I've failed.'
In the past, Helen had only ever visited Manchester on those rare occasions when Heath had taken her to visit his mother. It did not, therefore, have good associations for her, and going there in the company of Angela Patterson was no better. They had accomplished the journey in the bronze Mercedes, with Miles Ormerod at the wheel, and Helen was already chafing at the restrictions Heath had put upon her before they even parked the car. Since the affair by the stream that morning, she had seen nothing more of her uncle, but his warning about the school in Switzerland had not gone unheeded, and she was doing her utmost to behave as he would wish.
As soon as he had showered and changed, Heath had taken himself off to his business meeting in Bradford, without even so much as a cup of coffee, according to Mrs Gittens. 'Just got in his car and drove away,' she told Helen severely, as she served her her breakfast in the morning room. 'His face was black as thunder—what had you been saying to him? I'd stake my life it was something to do with you and that little outing you took earlier on.'
'I really don't know,' Helen had affirmed determinedly, her fingers crossed below the level of the tablecloth. This was something she could not discuss even with Mrs Gittens, who had taken care of her since she was a toddler. No matter how mad Heath made her, she would never confide her feelings about him to anyone.
Angela Patterson appeared during the meal, slim and delectable in a sleeveless shirtwaister and cream strappy sandals. 'I only ever drink coffee in the mornings,' she had assured Mrs Gittens, after surveying Helen's plate of scrambled eggs with a faintly horrified eye. 'Some of us need to count the calories,' she had added, for the younger girl's benefit, and Helen, whose appetite had suffered by the morning's upheaval, abruptly lost all interest in the food.
It had been awful having to remain at the table while Angela drank her way through three cups of black coffee and asked various questions about the routine at Matlock Edge. Bearing Heath's warning in mind, Helen had been politely civil, and Angela had responded by giving a smug little smile now and then, as if she knew perfectly well why Helen was on her best behaviour.
When she had finally had enough, Mrs Gittens suggested that Helen should show Miss Patterson around the house, to acquaint her with the whereabouts of the living rooms and so on. But Angela had soon grown bored with looking into the library and the music room, and the blue and gold elegance of the drawing room, and had suggested a tour of the gardens might give her a better understanding of the layout of the house.
Shrugging, Helen had dutifully led her outside, showing her the tennis and croquet lawns, allowing her to admire the delicate tracery of the sunhouse, which Heath's grandfather had had erected for his wife when she fell ill in 1924.
Evidently the kidney-shaped swimming pool met most with Angela's approval, and at her suggestion, the two girls changed into swimsuits and spent some time playing in the water.
'That hair will really have to be cut,' Angela declared, when they climbed out to sun themselves on the cushioned loungers set on the mosaic tiling of the patio. Watching Helen squeezing the water out of the silken rope, she shook her head disapprovingly. 'Long hair's out of fashion now, anyway,' she added. 'I think we'll have it cut, something like mine.'
Helen didn't make any response, although the idea of having all her hair cut off was not appealing. She had always had long hair. She liked long hair. But if that was what Heath wanted, what could she do about it?
Angela's appraisal of her body was disturbing, too. It made Helen uncomfortably aware that last year's bikini no longer provided an adequate covering, and the burgeoning fullness of her breasts had begun to overspill the skimpy bra. But last year she had not had this problem, and as soon as she could, she made herself scarce and went to change.
At lunch, Angela concentrated on finding out more about Heath's lifestyle. With the excuse of needing the information to equip Helen for the future, she successfully discovered that her uncle was a member of the board of several different companies, and that as well as Matlock Edge and the apartment in London, he also owned a villa in the South of France and a palazzo in Venice.
'How delightful,' she remarked, her tongue circling her lips as if in anticipation. 'You were a lucky girl to be adopted by him. Not all uncles are so generous.'
'Heath didn't adopt me,' exclaimed Helen shortly, stung by the unknowing reminder of their relationship. 'My name is Mortimer—I told you. Heath's sister married my father.'
'Does it matter?' Angela was not particularly interested in their relationship. 'I doubt if your father could have given you the life your uncle has. It's not going to be easy to find you a husband to match up.'
'I don't want a husband!' Helen was indignant, but Angela wasn't listening to her.
'How far is it to Manchester?' she asked, getting up from her chair. 'I think we'll begin this afternoon. I'm sure we can do better than what you're wearing.'
And so here they were in Manchester, thought Helen wearily, dreading the afternoon ahead. Clothes had never interested her, beyond a natural desire to wear something in which she felt comfortable. Jeans had always provided that comfort, and the prospect of buying more feminine attire had no appeal whatsoever.
Miles dropped them in Piccadilly, with the arrangement that he should pick them up again in three hours. The young man looked sympathetically at Helen as Angela shepherded her out of the vehicle, and Helen reflected that she would rather spend the afternoon fighting off Miles' advances than trail around fashion shops with Angela.
One of the larger department stores had a teenage department, and Angela made straight for this, cringing rather affectedly at the raucous sound of music that emanated from that section. She turned her nose up, too, at the collection of gaudy garments hung out for display, and although Helen liked one or two of the drop-waisted dresses, she didn't offer any objections when Angela turned them down.
'You don't want to look like a tart, do you?' she demanded, marching out of the store, and Helen shrugged her shoulders, not really caring, one way or the other.
By the end of two hours Helen had various items of apparel to her credit. To give Angela her due, she did have good taste when it came to clothes, and the couple of dresses, the brown suede skirt suit, and the simple caftan for evening wear did bear the mark of style and expert tailoring. She found fault with anything Helen chose, even if it was something simple like a shirt or a sweater. She insisted that the girl left everything to her, and although her head was spinning after trying on so many discarded items, Helen was satisfied that Heath would approve of Angela's choice.
It was while they were enjoying a cup of tea in a café in the shopping precinct that Angela saw the hair salon. 'The final touch,' she declared, shunning Helen's suggestion that her hair should wait
for another day. 'You want your uncle to be proud of you, don't you? Come along, then. We don't have that much time.'
The stylist who attended to them was a man, or at least he looked more like a man than a woman. Nevertheless, he did have hennaed hair and he wore make-up, and his voice, when he addressed them, was not so much lower than Helen's own.
'You want the hair cutting, you say,' he declared, tipping Helen's face from side to side and chewing on tinted lips. Helen had worn it loose to come to town, and she had to admit after trying on so many garments it did look more tumbled than usual. If only it was straight, she thought, like Angela's, then perhaps it would not look so bad. But it was wild and curly, and crinkly from the braid, and she reflected that to someone like this, it probably looked neglected.
'Well, I'll see what can be done,' he said at last, and Angela nodded.
'Good. I'll come back in about an hour. Don't worry about the payment. Just send the bill to Heathcliffe, Matlock Edge.'
'Matlock Edge,' repeated the man frowning. 'Ah, yes, I have heard of Mr Heathcliffe. Very well, madam, leave it to me. You can rely on Ricardo to do a good job.'
'Are you sure—' Helen began, half ready to suggest that perhaps they ought to consult Heath before embarking on something as momentous as cutting her hair, but Angela had gone. Content that she had done all that was required of her for the present, she was weaving her way down the precinct, too far away already to offer assistance.
'If you'll follow me …'
The man indicated that Helen should follow him into the larger salon at the back of the shop, and with a feeling of desperation, Helen obeyed. Could she ring Heath even now? Could she beg him to allow her to keep her hair the way she had always had it? But no, she didn't know where to contact him. And besides, he had already given his orders.
The sight of several other girls being attended to by other stylists was reassuring, but Helen couldn't forget that they were here by choice. She wasn't. She was being coerced by blackmail, and her chin jutted resentfully as she put all the blame on to Heath.