‘Go on.’
‘I really liked living at the seaside, and I loved Gran dearly. Possibly because I was named after her, we seemed to share a special bond.
‘But when I was seven, my mother remarried, and took me to live in the Channel Islands. I was very sad to have to leave Gran. I missed her a lot. We stayed in Jersey for nine years, then my parents decided to move to France.
‘I’d never got on particularly well with my stepfather, so I chose to go back to Kelsay and live with Gran. By this time she was very old and frail and had recently suffered a stroke. So for the next two years, while I finished my schooling, I helped to look after her…’
Though she had talked, obediently following his lead, right from the start part of her mind had been taken up by her companion.
Or rather by her awareness of him.
Though she avoided looking at him, she was conscious of every single thing: his light breathing, the slight rise and fall of his chest, the movement of his hands, the flick of his dark lashes when he blinked, and the faint, masculine scent of his aftershave. She was even convinced she could hear the beat of his heart.
‘You mentioned that the ring you’re wearing had belonged to your great-grandmother?’
‘Yes.’
Reaching across the table he took her hand, and twisting the ring between his finger and thumb, remarked, ‘A beautiful old signet ring like this is bound to have a fascinating history. What exactly do you know about it?’
Her heart lurching drunkenly at his touch, she half shook her head. ‘Well, nothing, really…’
Sounding a little breathless, she added, ‘I know Gran always wore it. I recall seeing it on her finger when I was quite small.’
Making a determined effort, she withdrew her hand, and went on, ‘When I went back to nurse her, she was still wearing it. I would have liked to have asked her where it came from, but the stroke, as well as leaving her partially paralyzed, had made her practically unintelligible, and trying to talk upset her.’
‘So after her death you inherited the ring?’
‘Not exactly. The night she died I was sitting with her. In the early hours of the morning, she awakened from a doze. Seeing I was there, she pulled the ring off her finger, and pressed it into my hand.
‘She tried very hard to tell me something, but the words were garbled. To save her any further distress, I pretended to understand. I put the ring on my own finger, and promised to always wear it. Then I laid her hand on top of it, sandwiched between my own two hands…’
Michael got a vivid mental picture of a very old wrinkled hand, held lovingly between two young, strong hands, and felt a lump in his throat.
‘She gave a little, contented sigh, and a short time later slipped peacefully away. I wish she had been able to tell me what she so obviously wanted to tell me. If there really is a story attached to the ring, I would have liked to have heard it.’
‘Presumably you know what the engraving is?’
‘Oh, yes, it’s a phoenix. I noticed several as we walked round the castle, and there’s a similar one carved on the mantel in the library at Slinterwood. I believe in the past mythical birds and beasts were often used for ornamentation.’
‘You’re quite right. And of course they were frequently used in heraldry, and sometimes to illuminate manuscripts and old family trees.’
‘Such as yours, presumably?’
‘Yes.’ Casually, he added, ‘One day I’ll show you.’
But she wouldn’t be here ‘one day’. The thought was like a physical pain.
Watching her face, noting the spasm that crossed it, and guessing the cause, he decided the time had come to dig a little deeper.
‘How much do you know about your ancestry?’ he asked evenly.
‘Not a great deal. I really can’t go very far back at all.’
‘Then start with your great-grandmother. Where was she born and bred?’
‘To the best of my knowledge Gran was born in Kelsay and lived there all her life.’
‘Tell me about her.’
Knowing it was safer to keep talking, she went on, ‘Gran was a lovely person, warm-hearted and generous, with a sense of humour and a belief in the goodness of life that somehow managed to survive losing the one man she really loved…’
His interest quickening, Michael asked, ‘How did that happen?’
‘When she was only eighteen she fell deeply in love and got engaged to be married. But, tragically, her fiancé died.’
‘Do you know his name, or where he came from?’
‘I’m afraid not. The only thing I recall my mother telling me was that he was a widower with a young son, and about ten years older than Gran. But apparently they had adored each other and she mourned him for years…’
With an effort, Michael bit back his excitement. What Jenny had just told him had made a nebulous idea that had been forming at the back of his mind crystallize into something like a certainty.
All he needed now was proof. And he thought he knew exactly where to find it, but that would have to wait until the next day.
Bringing his mind back to the present, he said, ‘But presumably she married sooner or later?’
‘Oh, yes… Eventually she met and married a man named Charles Peacock, and Margaret, my grandmother, was born three years later.’
‘Go on.’
‘Margaret married George Rider, and had my mother, whose name is Louise. When my mother was twenty-two she married my father, Jonathan Mansell, and I was born a couple of years later.
‘I’d never really thought about it before,’ she added, ‘but it seems strange that for the past three generations only single girls have been born.
‘I know my mother would have liked another child, but my stepfather, who had two children by a previous marriage, didn’t want any more.’
‘What about you?’ Michael asked. ‘Do you intend to have children?’
The question took her by the throat. Swallowing hard, she answered jerkily, ‘I’d always hoped to…’
She stopped speaking as, outside in the darkness, a fierce squall of wind and rain battered against the windowpanes.
‘It still sounds rough out there,’ Michael remarked. Adding, after a moment, ‘The coastal road can be tricky in the dark and in this kind of weather, so I think it might make a lot of sense to stay here for the night.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘STAY here?’ Jenny’s voice sounded high and panicky.
‘Why not? After all, there’s nothing really to go back for. Though there’s no fresh food, there’s plenty to eat in the store cupboard, so we won’t starve by any means.’
‘I’m sure food’s not a problem, but…’
Her apprehension was palpable, and hovered between them like a chaperon.
Michael glanced at her from beneath long, thick lashes. ‘You’re worried about the sleeping arrangements?’
‘You said there was one bed kept aired.’
‘Which of course you can have, if you prefer. But I was going to suggest that you might like to sleep in front of the fire?
‘You see, the couch you’re on is a bed-settee. To the best of my knowledge it’s nice and comfortable, and should be a great deal cosier than the bedroom.’
Jenny thought quickly. Because of her damaged ankle, staying here might prove to be the lesser of two evils.
If they went back to Slinterwood, apart from getting to and from the car there would be stairs to climb, and Michael might insist on carrying her.
Just the idea of being carried up to bed in his arms sent a quiver through her.
‘So what do you think?’
She swallowed, then said, ‘I’m quite happy to stay here tonight, so long as tomorrow morning I can be back at Slinterwood in good time to pack.’
He sighed. So she was still bent on leaving.
‘Well, if that’s what you really want,’ he agreed evenly. ‘But I was rather hoping you might have changed your mind.’
/> Trying to sound cool and decided, she said, ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind.’
In spite of all her efforts, Michael heard the quiver in her voice, and, knowing she was nowhere near as unmoved as she was endeavouring to make out, smiled to himself.
‘Well, in that case,’ he said smoothly, ‘I think, as we only had a light brunch, it might be a good idea to eat before too long, then we can get an early night. Don’t you agree?’
She had been prepared for him to argue, and, both surprised and relieved that he had put up no further opposition, she nodded.
‘Let me know when you’re starting to feel hungry.’
Eager to get the evening over, she told him, ‘I’m ready to eat whenever you are.’
‘Then I’ll go and see what I can rustle up.’
‘Do you need any help?’
He shook his head. ‘We have the remains of a hamper from Fortnum and Mason, so I should be able to manage a meal of some kind.
‘There’s a dining-room next door,’ he added, ‘but in the circumstances it might be better to eat on our knees in front of the fire.’
‘That suits me fine,’ she agreed.
Rising leisurely to his feet, he tossed some more logs onto the fire, sending a shower of bright sparks crackling up the chimney, and, having collected the coffee mugs, went through to the kitchen.
While he was sorting through the cupboard and assembling a meal of sorts, his thoughts were even busier than his hands.
Though with so many unanswered questions, so much at stake, he had absolutely no intention of letting Jenny leave at this stage in the game, he knew it would pay to tread carefully.
To start with, he warned himself, he must hide his desire for her. He had seen how very uncomfortable any sign of its existence made her.
He was practically sure of three things, however.
Firstly, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. All her actions seemed to prove it.
Secondly, that her discomfort was almost certainly due to the fact that it went against both her nature and her convictions to indulge in what she regarded as casual sex.
And thirdly, that even though she felt it was completely wrong to sleep with her boss, she couldn’t trust herself to hold out against him.
The latter conclusion caused a storm of feeling and a surge of sexual excitement that he had to struggle hard to stifle.
At first, his distrust of the female sex had made him try to ignore an attraction he had told himself was purely physical.
But he no longer believed that that was all it was. What he felt for Jenny, while he hesitated to put a name to it, went a great deal deeper. Somehow it had quietly taken over and become a force to be reckoned with, a fever in his blood.
His thoughts turning to the coming night, and recalling her warmth, her sweetness, her innocent passion, he felt a strong urge to throw caution to the winds and make her his once more.
But was that passion as innocent as it seemed? Suddenly recalling what Paul had told him, he found himself wondering if perhaps there might be some truth in the rumours.
No, he couldn’t believe it.
Or was it simply that he didn’t want to believe it?
Though not much time had passed, knowing Paul never let the grass grow under his feet, and in need of some kind of reassurance, he took his phone out of his coat pocket and rang Paul’s mobile.
When there was no answer, he left a cautious message asking if there were any results yet from ‘the enquiry’.
He was just about to drop the phone into his trouser pocket when it buzzed.
‘That was quick,’ he said. ‘So where were you?’
‘I don’t know who you were expecting to call,’ Claire’s clear, light voice said, ‘but I don’t suppose it was me.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ he told her flatly.
‘You don’t sound very pleased to hear from me,’ she said plaintively.
Ignoring that, he asked, ‘Why are you calling?’
‘I wanted to talk to you.’
‘We’ve nothing left to talk about.’
‘But of course we have. The press seem to believe that we’re getting back together.’
‘Could that be because you told them we were?’
‘Darling, don’t sound so cross. I only mentioned it as a possibility. I still love you, and I miss you so. I didn’t realize just how much I loved you until it was too late.
‘Look, suppose I came to see you? We could discuss things, sort out exactly where we stand—’
‘My dear Claire, I already know exactly where I stand. As far as I’m concerned our marriage is over. Finished. Nothing you can say or do will alter that—’ But Michael was talking to himself.
Slipping the phone into his trouser pocket, he grimaced. He didn’t believe for one instant that Claire still loved him; in fact he’d come to the conclusion that she never had.
A career as a photographic model was a notoriously precarious one, and at twenty-six she might soon be replaced by a fresh and dewy seventeen-year-old.
Added to that, her former lover had proved to be fickle and moved on, so no doubt she was regretting even more the ending of her marriage and the loss of a lifestyle that had been very much to her taste…
In the other room, sitting gazing into the flames, her thoughts on the coming night, Jenny tried to tell herself that there was no need to be worried.
She had little doubt that, as far as it went, Michael would keep his mocking promise not to do anything she didn’t want him to do.
But that left her wide open.
And suppose he decided to test her? Suppose he kissed her goodnight?
She could tell him to stop, of course, but he was a sophisticated man, skilful and experienced, a man who might choose to ignore what she said and judge solely by her reactions.
If he did, she would be lost, and she knew it.
It was her inability to trust herself to say no, and mean it, that had renewed her determination to leave in the morning.
But first she had to get through tonight…
The door opened and Michael came in wheeling a trolley loaded with food and a bottle of white wine.
Her pulse began to race just at the sight of him.
The sleeves of his black polo-necked sweater were pushed up to his elbows exposing muscular forearms, a chef’s apron was tied around his lean waist, and there was a dark smudge on his cheek.
It made his hard face look oddly boyish, and her heart melted like candlewax in a flame.
At that instant, as though becoming aware of it, he raised a hand and rubbed the mark off, before saying, ‘I’m afraid it’s not exactly what you’d call a usual meal, so a nice bottle of Chablis might help it down.’
He put the trolley near to the settee, drew his own chair closer, and reached to open and pour the wine.
She watched his hands, strong, well-shaped hands, with long fingers, and neatly trimmed nails, and a teasingly light touch.
How gently they had stroked and caressed her, how tenderly they had cupped the weight of her breasts and teased the nipples into life, how delicately they had traced the skin of her inner thighs, before going on to explore the slick warmth that awaited…
All at once Michael glanced up, and, feeling the hot blood pour into her face, she stared into the flames.
Looking at her half-averted face he saw that she was as scarlet as a Judas flower and the tip of one small ear glowed red.
When, a moment or two later, she sneaked a glance at him, hoping he would put her high colour down to the heat of the fire, she saw he was smiling a little, as if he knew quite well what erotic thoughts had caused that burning blush. But to her great relief he made no comment.
When he handed her a glass, she took a sip of the cool, smooth wine while he spread a napkin on her knee and helped her to a plateful of food.
The meal, which proved to be surprisingly tasty, was comprised of spicy chicken breasts, tinned asparagus, and artichoke hear
ts. It was followed by bottled apricots in a creamy brandy sauce.
Apart from the odd remark they ate in a silence that, in spite of both their efforts to lighten the atmosphere, was weighted with sexual tension.
When they had finished eating, Michael stacked their dirty dishes on the trolley and took them through to the kitchen.
He returned quite quickly with a tray of coffee and Benedictine, and thin, gold-wrapped mints.
Her mind had been on other things, and as he unloaded the contents of the tray onto the table Jenny said a somewhat belated, ‘Thank you very much for the meal.’
Imagining Claire’s reaction had she been presented with what, in effect, was a scratch meal out of tins, Michael said ruefully, ‘I won’t ask if you enjoyed it, but at least it should keep the pangs of hunger away until the morning.’
‘As a matter of fact I thoroughly enjoyed it.’
She sounded as if she meant it, and, marvelling at her good temper and adaptability, he smiled at her.
Riveted by the warmth of that smile, she sat quite still gazing at him.
Her eyes were soft and luminous, and held a mixture of emotions that he didn’t dare try to decipher, but that drew him like a magnet.
As though under a spell of enchantment, he rose to his feet, knowing he simply had to kiss her.
He had taken just one step when the spell was broken by the buzz of his mobile phone.
Wishing he’d switched if off, he turned away with a murmured, ‘Excuse me.’
Shaken by how near she had come to disaster—if he’d touched her it wouldn’t have stopped at kissing, she knew—and still quaking inside, Jenny turned away to stare into the fire once more.
Flicking open the phone, Michael said a curt, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi.’ It was Paul’s voice. ‘Sorry I missed your call earlier, but I was on my way to Bayswater. As it was a delicate matter, I decided it would be better to handle things myself.
‘I began by phoning Miss Mansell’s flat and talking to her flatmate, whose name is Laura Fleming. When I told Miss Fleming who I was and mentioned that there were some rather unpleasant rumours being circulated about Miss Mansell, she asked me to go over.
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