She dropped the tapestry and spun round, feeling at a disadvantage in her kneeling position, as her eyes slid upwards over long, lean legs encased in jeans.
‘Coming to check up on me?’ she asked sweetly.
‘Your employer and I obviously see you in differing lights,’ Slade told her. ‘The letter passed on to me from the National Trust described you in the most glowing terms, otherwise you would not be staying in my home…’
‘Your home?’ Chelsea raised her eyebrows. ‘According to Mrs Rudge until you inherited you barely visited the place.’
He shrugged, patently unconcerned by the housekeeper’s criticism. ‘She doesn’t approve of me, or rather the fact that my father came from the south, but in point of fact she’s quite wrong. I used to spend a fortnight with my uncle every year while she was away. Perhaps my northern blood is stronger than the southern, I don’t know, but certainly I feel more at home up here… more in tune with my surroundings.’
‘I’ll bet,’ Chelsea muttered under her breath. ‘Rape and pillage would be just your style!’
‘We considered it taking back what was rightfully ours and righting old wrongs,’ he countered smoothly, making alarm tingle over her skin as she remembered his claim that she still owed him an outstanding debt.
His abrupt, ‘Have you finished here for today? Mrs Rudge tells me that you normally get back about five,’ caught her off guard.
‘I can’t work once the daylight fades,’ Chelsea defended herself, thinking he was making a crack at lack of application to her job. ‘And I don’t take a lunch hour.’
‘Neither, it seems, do you possess a powerful torch,’ he frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be walking out there alone.’
‘Who’s going to hurt me?’ Chelsea scoffed. ‘A stray sheep—or perhaps you’re thinking of the ghosts of your rebellious ancestors?’
‘What I’m thinking of are the dangers of all too alive poachers and vagrants. We’ve already had problems once during the summer with a bunch of skinheads and their girl-friends who wanted to take up residence at Darkwater.’ He saw her shiver and smiled grimly. ‘Quite… From now on I’ll arrange for you to have transport. There’s a car in the garage that used to belong to my uncle, while you’re up here you’ll use it. Understood?’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Very probably,’ came the dry response, ‘but rape and violence aren’t made more palatable simply because the victim is a sexual tease. Tonight I’ll walk back to the house with you myself.’
The temperature had dropped several degrees while Chelsea had been working and she was glad of her thick hooded jacket when they stepped out into the darkness of the lane. A cold east wind seemed to cut right through her, and she stifled a small start of surprise when she suddenly found Slade Ashford standing between her and the icy blast which had set her shivering. As they walked down the lane he made no move to guide or touch her, which for some obscure reason increased her tension. He was only a man, she reminded herself; no different from any of the others she had known. And yet he was different. For one thing, he was the only man who had ever penetrated the barriers she had erected around herself after Darren. She shuddered suddenly; not because of the wind, but because of the memories suddenly evoked; the response of her own body to those lean knowing hands.
‘Cold? We’ll soon be there. They’re forecasting snow in the wake of this cold spell.’
As they walked he talked about the area and his family’s connection with it, which might have disarmed someone else, but to Chelsea his very urbanity only served to deepen her distrust of him. She didn’t deceive herself that this was anything other than a brief armed truce between battles. When she had walked out on him she had hurt his pride, and he was a man who, she sensed instinctively, would go to tremendous lengths to assuage such a hurt.
The moment they entered the house Mrs Rudge pounced on Slade, relaying a string of messages, giving Chelsea a chance to escape to her own room, where she stayed until Mrs Rudge came up with a tray of tea and an envelope addressed in Ann’s sloping handwriting.
Chelsea read it quickly. Kirsty, it seemed, had fully recovered from her infatuation for Slade, although Ann said that she had deliberately not talked to her about it. She was still as keen as ever to go to drama school, but was now also showing signs of willingness to do a secretarial course—a result of her growing friendship with Lance James, Ann wrote.
In her last paragraph Ann’s handwriting suddenly tensed a little as she wrote that Ralph had just told her that Slade was leaving Melchester to return to his home in the Borders. ‘I shall keep my fingers crossed that you don’t run into him,’ she had written, ‘although Ralph says I’m being over-pessimistic in fearing you might. We don’t know his home address, but Ralph tells me he’s only spending a few days there before flying out to New York to spend Christmas with friends.’
When she finally put the letter aside Chelsea’s tea had grown cold, and her lips formed a rather wry smile. Ann would have kittens if she wrote back and told her the truth! But at least the letter had contained some good news. She now knew that Slade wouldn’t be staying at Darkwater for very long.
All she had to do was to keep out of his way during his brief stay in the Borders. For all his threats she didn’t believe he was the type of man who would physically force himself upon a woman who didn’t want him. She grimaced slightly, admitting that he was the sort of man women ran to, not from; she wasn’t going to make the mistake of underestimating him. He would use subtle weapons in the war he had declared between them. She had a brief but illuminating memory of how her body had betrayed her in his arms, and suspected that he remembered it too, and intended to use it against her. But he wouldn’t get the chance. What had happened that night had been the result of many differing factors, and he would not find her so off guard again.
As she dressed for her date with Tom, Chelsea banished Slade Ashford firmly from her thoughts.
A dinner party, Tom had said, and she glanced thoughtfully through the small wardrobe she had brought with her, working clothes in the main—jeans, jumpers, shirts, and an almost severely cut plain black dress in fine wool crepe with a high, boat-shaped neckline and a straight skirt embellished with a fan of pleats at the front. It was nothing like the dress she had worn for her sister’s party, and far more in accord with her own tastes.
She applied her make-up with care and subtlety, standing back after she had darkened her eyelashes with mascara to study the finished effect. Skilfully shadowed dark blue eyes stared half mysteriously back at her, blusher emphasising the shape of her face. Against the matt blackness of her dress her skin glowed like porcelain. A gold belt cinched round the slenderness of her waist added a party touch, as did the gold orchid earrings which had been a Christmas present from Ralph and Ann the previous year; her hair was a dark red waterfall of silk that rippled as she moved.
Tom as usual was prompt. Chelsea was just descending the stairs when she heard him drive up. When he rang the bell there was no sign of Slade, much to Chelsea’s relief. Mrs Rudge let Tom in, and a broad grin creased his face as he stared up to where she had halted on the stairs. The only coat she had with her was the cream wool hooded jacket she had worn earlier in the day, but she was glad of it when she stepped outside. If anything it had grown colder. The older and more experienced farm workers were forecasting a hard winter, Tom told her as he settled her comfortably and opened his own door. The hedges were already stripped of berries, always a warning sign, and they might even have snow for Christmas.
Would she be going home? he asked as they drove down to the main road.
Chelsea shook her head. In view of the events of Ann’s anniversary party she had decided against spending Christmas with her sister and her family this year, as she normally did. It might be the last that Kirsty would spend at home, and she didn’t want to spoil it for them by reminding her niece of Slade’s perfidy. Did he ever spare a thought for her niece, Chelsea wondered, or was she just
a briefly entertaining interlude now forgotten?
Then you must come to us for Christmas Day,’ Tom told her. ‘Mrs Rudge normally goes to Jedburgh to spend Christmas with her sister, and I can’t think of anything worse than spending Christmas Day alone.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ Chelsea thanked him, ‘but I’m sure your parents won’t want a stranger in their midst.’
Tom grinned. ‘You don’t know northerners! They might seem dour and reserved, but inwardly… You’ll have to be prepared for a grilling, though. Ma normally invites the whole clan round and they’ll all be wanting to get a good look at this southern lass who’s been going out with “our Tom"!’
Sharing his laughter, Chelsea reflected again how much she liked Tom. And yet despite his flippancy she sensed that underneath, despite having travelled widely, at heart he was as conservative as his parents and would make much the same sort of husband and father as his father and grandfather had done before him; steady, reliable, hard-working, allowing his emotions to show only rarely and then in private. To his wife he would give his love and loyalty and in response would expect the same from her—a tempting prospect.
She was unaware that she had sighed until Tom’s hand left the wheel to touch her arm lightly.
‘You don’t have to come, you know. I just thought…’
Her thoughts had travelled so far from Tom’s invitation for Christmas that it was several seconds before she realised what he meant.