by Rosalie Ash
'Come on, I'll help you to the bathroom,' he said flatly, taking such instant charge she hardly had time to wallow in acute embarrassment. Within five seconds, she was gasping miserably over the basin in the downstairs cloakroom, supported by the hardness of Matt's arm round her shoulders, his fingers holding her head.
She retched until she feared the lining of her stomach would come away, then collapsed weakly against the basin while he ran the tap and rinsed her face efficiently with cold water.
'Oh, God! I'm so sorry' she moaned, her face suddenly muffled against his chest as he swung her up into his arms and carried her towards the stairs. In spite of her fragile state, her senses were still powerfully aware of him as he held her close to his body. Shutting her eyes tightly to blot out his visual image didn't help at all, because she could feel shivers of sensation on the back of her thighs where his arm encircled her legs, the roughness of his chest hair against her cheek, almost unbearably intimate in the circumstances.
She found herself marvelling in the warmth of his skin. Somehow she had imagined him cold, like his personality, but he wasn't, he was warm and smelled faintly of lemon, a clean, fresh, masculine aroma which soothed her and excited her at the same time.
Fingers of greyish light were stealing along the landing as they reached her room, and she was dimly aware that the birds were beginning their early morning chorus. Faint bumping, cooing and rattling sounds from William's room indicated that he was already wide awake and playing with the activity centre strapped to his cot.
'Oh, no, that's all I need. Jessica will be up making wholemeal pancakes or something in an hour or so!' she groaned. Matt said nothing as he bent to deposit her on the bed. No doubt he had no words to express his feelings of contempt and disgust, she thought despairingly. If it wasn't so tragic, the situation might be funny. How not to impress the man you most wanted to impress!
Her nightshirt rode disastrously high on her thighs as he pulled the duvet out to cover her, and she was relieved when privacy was restored by the warmth of the quilt. She gazed up at his dark shape, his expression unfathomable in the shadowy dawn light, and sleepy gratitude cheered her a little. He might despise her, but at least he had helped.
'Thank you,' she murmured indistinctly, finding even more difficulty getting her tongue round her words. 'That really was very chivalrous of you!'
'Go to sleep, Victoria,' he said quietly, tonelessly, as if speaking to a tiresome child, then just before turning away he reached down and felt her forehead, with a cool, impersonal touch, as if he was checking for a fever.
When he had gone, she closed her eyes, and examined the physical and mental imprint of his fingers on her skin, and a delicious warmth began to lap over her, lulling her into the deepest sleep she had ever had.
Chapter Four
Jessica's voice woke her; she stirred and yawned in her warm nest of bedclothes and opened her eyes to see her sister perched on the end of her bed, with a steaming mug of coffee.
'Come on, drink this. You'll feel better. I wouldn't have woken you, only I've got to pop William round to Dr Clements. He's got gunge coming out of that ear he had the antibiotics for, so I think it's infected again.'
'Oh, the poor little thing.' Victoria pulled herself cautiously up against the pillows and shielded her eyes from the brilliant sunlight as the curtains were whisked open.
'Another gorgeous September day,' Jessica commented, her expression only marginally sympathetic as Victoria blinked dazedly. 'Dad can get on and finish harvesting, and I've told him you and Matt will go over this morning and finish looking round.'
'Me? Why me?' she asked with a stab of panic. 'Why can't Andrew go with him?'
She sipped her coffee absently and grimaced. It tasted peculiar, bitter and nauseating, and she put it on the bedside table. Her taste buds felt decimated.
'Why not you? You know all the ins and outs and hidey-holes of the farm better than anyone, and Andy's had to go into the office. Even though it's his weekend off. Apparently half the staff have gone down with the flu,' Jessica said, sounding less than pleased. It was a bone of contention with Jessica that Andrew's firm of estate agents now opened all weekend, and occasionally disrupted her precious family weekends because of it. 'So, it's all up to you,' Jessica said briskly, laughing at Victoria's pale countenance.
'All right, only I had this awful dream. I dreamt I was violently ill in the night and Matt Larson witnessed the whole thing!' she confided, with a sheepish grin.
'You were. He did.'
'What? Oh, no! So I was! So he did! Oh, and he told you?' she howled on a rising note of despair. 'I suppose he told you both over breakfast. What a good joke!'
She could just imagine the sadistic amusement he must have derived from the incident, she reflected bitterly.
'No, he just told me. He said you'd been unwell in the night and might appreciate a long lie-in,' Jessica told her, thoughtfully. 'You did rather overdo the wine last night. What came over you?'
'I don't know! I'm not sure,' she said ruefully, avoiding Jessica's eyes. 'Was I really dreadful?'
Jessica laughed. 'Of course you weren't. You were incredibly funny. Especially when you wafted us all off to Options, and went into that aerobic routine on the dance floor!'
Victoria groaned, and turned her head into the pillow. 'And that friend of yours, Sebastian. He seems nice. He rang this morning, offering you a lift back to Exeter next term.'
Victoria didn't comment, and Jessica persisted.
'Only it's not Sebastian who matters, is it? It's Matt. Am I right? It's none of my business, I know. You're old enough to know what you want.'
Jessica sounded cool, pensive, as if she were holding back her own approval or disapproval.
Victoria sat up straight, her face bleak.
'It makes no difference. After what happened last night, Matt Larson isn't ever going to want to come within ten yards of me again. I doubt if it's the peak of romantic fantasies, watching someone vomit into a washbasin.'
Her sister stared at her forlorn face, and burst out laughing.
'Oh, Vic! You're so funny when you're looking penitent!'
Victoria chewed her lip, then felt a giggle well up uncontrollably. They clutched each other weakly, and the more she laughed the funnier everything seemed until the laughter tipped over the brink into sobs of frustration, and Jessica gently extricated herself. She fetched a box of tissues from the dressing-table.
'Come on. Cheer up. Get up and have a lovely hot bath. You'll feel much better. And I've got to go, I'm due at the surgery in fifteen minutes. See you later.'
Jessica was right, Victoria decided, drying herself vigorously, and smoothing scented body lotion everywhere. She pulled on jeans and a pale grey wide-necked T-shirt. She had washed her hair, towelled it well, and decided to let it dry naturally, and went downstairs in search of breakfast.
Matt was in the kitchen, talking on his mobile and reading the morning papers at the same time, a pair of steel-framed reading-glasses on his nose. He looked cool and relaxed in the same worn Levis, and a black cotton shirt, the top buttons open to show a hint of the blond hair on his chest. Looking at it reminded her so forcibly of last night's fiasco that she almost groaned out loud.
Matt ended his conversation, which had been business based as far as she could tell, and checked his watch, his expression unreadable, before he said, 'Good morning, Victoria. I hope you slept well eventually.'
Eyeing the clock on the wall over the Aga, she caught the irony in his 'Good morning'. It was two minutes to twelve.
The coffee-pot felt cold, and she went to re-boil the kettle and fill the toaster, not quite sure what to say.
'About last night,' she began, awkwardly.
'Forget it,' said Matt abruptly.
'Believe me, I'd love to!' she said shakily, laughing. 'In fact, I even woke up this morning convincing myself it was all a nasty dream! But it's not the sort of incident that fades from the mind all that quickly!'
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br /> 'I said forget it. It was nothing,' he repeated flatly, removing the reading-glasses and slipping them into a black case.
'Well, I feel so incredibly embarrassed about it.'
'There's no need.'
The kettle was boiling and switched itself off in the silence, and then her attention was dragged from his level gaze by two pieces of very black toast leaping from the toaster, one of them ending up on the floor.
'Oh, sod it!' she exploded, flinging the offending offerings into the bin, then meeting Matt's eyes with an involuntary laugh.
'Come and sit down. I'll make you some breakfast.' He folded the paper, and pulled out his chair for her. She came slowly across the kitchen towards him and sat down carefully in the chair. It was still warm from his body. She leaned her elbows on the table, and cupped her chin in her hands, watching thoughtfully as he moved around the room with a spare, curiously economic use of energy. She was reminded of the cat-like lope she had watched on their way back from the copse yesterday. He was good to watch. Everything about him, his actions, his mannerisms, gave her pleasure. Except for his detached, steel-grey eyes, reflecting only chilling lack of interest.
'Jessica said you'd like to go back over to the farm this morning,' she said at last, trying to make her voice sound cool and impersonal, to match his eyes. 'I hope you're not going to try to talk Dad into selling you all the family heirlooms.'
Matt placed coffee, and toast in the pine rack, in front of her, and dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
'I've no plans to talk your father into anything. I'm hardly down here touting for business. I'm doing Andrew a favour. And passing up a lot of lucrative deals elsewhere in the process.'
'Oh, I'm sorry!' Victoria paused in buttering her toast thickly, and ran weary fingers through the damp curls on her forehead. ‘This business of selling some of Mum's things. I realise Dad needs the cash. He, well, he's not quite so careful with the accounts as Mum used to be. He reckons no self-respecting farmer ever keeps accounts!' She hesitated, anxious to be loyal to her father. 'But I just don't like the thought of selling any of Mum's things. I know it's silly. But the farm and its contents have been in our family for generations. The place is full of history, full of precious personal bits of history. Oh, God, never mind, I'm wittering on again!'
'No, you're right to feel sad about things changing. But which is more important, the farm itself continuing as a viable concern, or the ornaments and furniture inside it? I gather from Andrew the situation could be that serious.'
'You're right, of course. I know you are.'
'But family heirlooms must be very emotive things,' Matt said in a strangely hard voice. She glanced at him, and saw that his eyes too looked shuttered and hard. Families didn't seem to be a favourite subject of his, she decided thoughtfully.
'Well, just as long as Dad doesn't get a succession of spivvy door-to-door dealers pestering him when you've gone, offering tempting prices for half the contents of the house!' she said.
Matt's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't rise to the bait, and she only recognised belatedly that it had been bait. For some reason this morning she felt the need to goad some personal reaction from him, needle him into a show of real feeling. What was the matter with her? Even if he was being his familiar aloof and remote self, he was being pleasant. He had waved away last night's sorry episode, and he had got her breakfast ready for her. Why was she feeling driven to behave so badly?
She spread a generous helping of honey on her toast, then pulled the newspaper nearer and scanned the headlines while she ate. Matt left the room, and she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She found the print was dancing in front of her eyes, and she gave up trying to concentrate.
'Shall we walk over to the farm?' she said, when he joined her in the kitchen a short time later.
'If you'd like to.'
'I think the fresh air will do me good,' she admitted with a grin.
Chapter Five
Strolling through the fields at Matt's side, Victoria couldn't help a ridiculous impression of 'rightness', walking next to him. He was tall, over six feet, but her slender five foot eight measured well against him. Her absurd spurt of elation was so strong she had to restrain herself sharply from linking her arm through his, or slipping her fingers into the lean brown hand so close to her own. This urge to hold, touch, get closer, confused and frightened her, but at the same time she felt gloriously lucky just to be in his company.
She wasn't making any sense this morning, even to herself. Maybe it was the effects of last night, she told herself prosaically. Hangovers were supposed to deprive people of rational thought, weren't they? How could she possibly feel this powerful surge of pleasure in the company of a man who so obviously found her tedious and unattractive?
She kept her gaze deliberately fixed on the misty September sunshine on the lush farmland stretching ahead. She had never really thought of herself as a tactile person before, but this compulsion to touch Matt was beginning to worry her.
They walked past the church and the graveyard, with its uneven headstones leaning drunkenly at all angles in the lumpy grass. There were several generations of Urquharts buried there. Including her mother. She’d gone there last week, when she first came home from her summer travels, with a bunch of her mother’s favourite white freesias, and seen gratefully that someone, more likely to be Jessica than her father, had already put a fresh bunch on the grave.
The silence was shattered by a coarse, croaking bird-call from some trees on their left. Matt involuntarily put out his hand, catching her arm. In some surprise she stopped, as he had done. There was the stark, brilliant plumage of a magpie flashing black, white and deep blue through the leaves, and such a flurry of wings and commotion she thought at first the magpie must be attacking a smaller bird. Then she realised the bird under constant harassment from the foolhardy magpie was none other than a huge, majestic sparrow hawk. The magpie seemed intent on driving it from its chosen perch.
'That magpie's crazy,' Matt murmured, in amused fascination. 'The sparrow hawk could eat it for breakfast if it wanted to.'
The larger, brown-winged bird seemed to be treating the magpie's frenzied attempts to dislodge it with surprising tolerance, flapping languidly away, but always returning to the same branch.
'She knows her natural superiority,' Matt said, 'This must be her territory. If she holds her own she knows the magpie will eventually give up.’
Victoria glanced at Matt curiously. 'Well, you're quite right, this is her territory. There was a whole family of them last year. We hope they'll nest again near by. Oh, if you'd seen the chicks—and have you ever seen them swoop on their prey? They're amazing to watch.”
She tailed off as the magpie suddenly took flight with a frustrated cackle, and flashed off into the topmost branches of another tree, and Matt seemed to become aware of his hand gripping her arm, and dropped his hold abruptly.
'So you're a naturalist as well as an antiques expert,' she said, as they began walking again. 'Funny, I'd have thought you were a city dweller, and wouldn't know a sparrow hawk from a sparrow!'
'Do you always jump to conclusions about people you hardly know?' enquired Matt, his tone evasive.
Victoria pushed her hand through her rapidly drying hair and shot him a look of frustration.
'Well, some people aren't very easy to get to know,' she pointed out fairly. 'So tell me all about yourself. Did you grow up in the country? Or in a town?'
'I grew up in cities. Several of them. My environment was concrete and steel,' he told her, mockingly.
'Oh. And did you have brothers and sisters?'
'No. Not in the sense you mean.'
There was growing coldness in his voice, and she knew he disliked the questioning, but she decided to be deliberately thick-skinned.
'So you're a city dweller, an only child, of some sort or other. How do you explain your impressive knowledge of sparrow hawks? Or is your past some dark, holy secret never
to be divulged?' She had suddenly remembered Jessica's lack of information about Matt's family.
'I doubt if you'd find our backgrounds worth comparing,' he said coolly, the silver eyes flicking over her with such cutting indifference she flinched. 'You have roots, and close links with past generations of your family.'
'But you must have family, surely.'
Matt stopped walking, turning to fix her with a chilling, intense stare which made her shrink inside.
'My background can't possibly be of any interest to you,' he told her bluntly, 'And frankly, I don't consider it necessary to dish out a full account of it to every customer I do business with.'
Victoria tried not to show how much he had hurt her, aware that for some reason known only to himself Matt was deliberately trying to smash any fragile beginnings of rapport between them. The pettiness of his attitude infuriated her suddenly.