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Marianne eyed it in consideration. She’d love to have a peek inside the tree house. But the clouds were scudding across the sky and the first few drops of rain fell.
She hesitated, undecided. I really ought to get in the car and go back to Barton Park. But the temptation to see the tree house’s interior won out over her hesitation, and she decided to climb up and have a look.
Marianne gripped the rope in both hands and thrust her foot on the lowest rung, testing it to see if it would hold her weight. It did. Encouraged, she continued to climb.
She was nearly at the top when one of the ropes groaned, creaked, and gave way with a snap. Marianne let out a gasp and clutched at the remaining rope, hanging on as tightly as possible even though her palms began to burn and her heart pounded so fast she feared it might burst. The ground was now an alarming distance below her dangling feet.
Stay calm, she told herself, and forced down panic. You’re nearly to the top. Just pull yourself up the rest of the way, it’s not that far, climb inside the tree house, and wait out the storm in there.
She’d almost reached the deck when it began to rain in earnest – no spring shower, this, but a driving, cold, relentless rain that left her drenched in seconds. Her hand slipped on the rope, slick now with damp, and as she did her best to hang on, she wondered how much longer before she lost her grip and fell. Her throat constricted.
This storm – or whatever it was – had literally come up out of nowhere. If I can just focus on holding on, she thought, and not panic, I’ll be inside the tree house in no time –
Just then, lightning struck a tree a few yards away with a terrifying, ear-deafening crack. Marianne screamed, and her grip slackened and she fell, hurtling downwards and landing on her back. The fall knocked the breath from her.
For what was probably a few seconds but seemed much longer, she lay stunned, as thoughts whirled like a flock of panicked birds in her head.
Mrs Fenwick thinks I’ve gone shopping after my visit to the house. She won’t worry or wonder where I am until the sun goes down.
I could lie here for hours – days! –before anyone finds me.
There are creatures in those woods and fields. Crows…and deer ticks…and adders.
She knew this, because Elinor had read up on Northumberland wildlife once they learned they’d be staying at Barton Park.
Marianne let out a piercing scream as another bolt of lightning seared the sky. She had to get up off of the ground and out of here – she had to.
Over the sound of the wind and the growling of thunder, she felt the ground beneath her begin to vibrate, and fresh fear gripped her.
Oh, arsing hell, she thought wildly, what is it now, a bloody earthquake?
But she soon realised that the steady, rhythmic sound she heard drawing ever closer was a horse’s hooves.
Marianne lifted her head just in time to see a horse and rider silhouetted against the sky, and relief swept through her. A man sat astride the horse.
He saw her then, and cried out hoarsely, “Are you all right? What’s happened?”
Without expecting or waiting for an answer, he leapt down from the saddle and ran towards her. Dark hair was plastered to his head and rain dampened the hard line of his jaw. His riding boots were soon muddied as he pelted across the field and knelt on one knee beside her.
“Are you hurt? Can you move?”
She nodded slowly. “I – I think so. I couldn’t for a moment.”
“You’ve had the wind knocked out of you.” He glanced up at the frayed rope ladder and turned back to her in disbelief. “Good God – you didn’t try and climb that old rope, did you? It’s hung from that tree above twenty years.”
“I confess I did. It was stupid of me.”
“Never mind that. Good thing you landed in the grass.” He reached out, and gently touched her leg, her ankle. “Can you feel that?”
“Y-yes.”
“What about your foot? Can you move it?”
Again she nodded, and – feeling a bit silly – complied.
“Good.” He eased off her shoe and took her foot in his hand, rotating it gently. “Any pain?”
She winced. “It hurts a bit, but it’s probably just a sprain.”
“I’m no doctor, but I’d say you’re right. Nothing seems to be broken. Here, let me help you sit up. Slowly, now.”
Gently, with the utmost care and concern, he slipped his arm round her shoulders and helped her to sit up.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, and shivered as the rain chilled her skin. “I-I think I’m all right.”
“I’m taking no chances,” he said, his words decided. He eyed his horse. “There’s a stable nearby; I need to secure Jasper. Will you be all right here until I return? I shouldn’t be gone above a few minutes.”
She stared at him, oblivious of the rain running down her face. He was quite the most handsome man she’d ever had the good fortune to meet, with a sweep of thick dark hair and firm, kissable lips –
“Miss –?”
Marianne blinked. “Holland. Marianne Holland,” she said, embarrassed. “Sorry, I don’t seem to be myself at the moment. And yes, to answer your question, I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t move,” he instructed. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
She nodded and watched as he rose and ran back up the hill to the horse and swung himself up. With an urgent command, her rescuer dug in his heels and pulled at the reins, and the horse galloped off into the rainy darkness.
Marianne shivered and wrapped her arms around herself and tried not to panic. What if he didn’t come back? she wondered. What if he changed his mind? What if she had a concussion and was having one of those hallucinations? It didn’t bear thinking about.
But she’d barely processed the thought when, true to his word, he returned barely five minutes later, breathless and soaked through.
“Now, let’s get you home,” he said, and glanced behind them. “Is that your car over there?”
She nodded. “It’s Lady Violet’s. She’s let me use it while I’m visiting.”
“Oh – you’re staying at Barton Park?” The news pleased him. “Then we’re practically neighbours.” He held out his hand. “Kit Willoughby. My aunt lives at Allenham Court.”
Marianne’s hand was eclipsed in his larger, warmer one. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Willoughby.”
“I’m glad I happened along when I did.” He frowned. “Do you object if I carry you to your car? I don’t think you’ll make it, otherwise. The ground’s a bog at the moment.”
She blushed and shook her head. “Not at all. I don’t think I can stand up without someone to lean on. To tell the truth, I feel a bit…muddled,” she confessed.
“I’m not surprised. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I’m happy to take you home.”
So saying, Mr Willoughby scooped her gently into his arms and swung her up without effort. Rain dripped from the end of his nose and ran down his jaw, but as he carried her down the slope and across the muddied field to her car, Marianne thought that she’d never known a more handsome or gallant man in all of her life.
Chapter 5
Mrs Fenwick opened the door to let them in a few minutes later. With a great deal of fussing and tutting she led Mr Willoughby into the drawing room, and hovered nearby as he lowered Marianne to the sofa.
“Are you sure you’re all right, miss?” the housekeeper inquired anxiously. “No broken bones? Should I call the doctor, or Lady Violet, perhaps –?”
“No need,” Willoughby assured her. “Miss Holland’s had a fall, and she’s a bit dazed, but otherwise seems fine. At least,” he added, “so far as broken bones are concerned.”
He smiled down at Marianne, and she caught her breath as his blue eyes crinkled attractively.
“Thank you, Mr Willoughby,” she said, and smiled back. “You’ve been really kind.”
“Kit, please. It was my pleasure, I assure you.” He turned to Mrs Fenwick. “Since Lady Valentine isn’t at home, would it be all right if I visit Miss Holland again tomorrow and see how she’s getting on, do you think?”
The housekeeper nodded, charmed. “I see no harm in’t. We’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr Willoughby.”
“But how will you get back to Allenham, and Jasper?” Marianne asked.
“I’ll walk,” he replied easily. “The stables aren’t above a mile or two from here.”
“You can’t possibly walk all that way in this storm.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Please, Mrs Fenwick,” Marianne implored, “can’t someone drive Mr Willoughby back to the cottage?
“That’s not necessary,” he assured her.
“It most certainly is,” the housekeeper said firmly. “I’ll have my stepson Jack take you back. It’s the least we can do after you brought Miss Holland safely home.” She led the way to the front door. “This way, if you please, sir.”
Mr Willoughby took up Marianne’s hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes, so darkly blue and intense, met hers. “Goodbye, Miss Holland. Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” she whispered, enthralled.
***
The next afternoon, as promised, Kit Willoughby returned to Barton Park with a lavish bouquet of wildflowers in hand.
He followed the housekeeper into the drawing room, where Marianne was ensconced on the sofa with her foot resting on a cushion.
“I’ll have you know I spent all morning picking only the best examples of local flora for your bouquet,” he told Marianne as he gave her the flowers.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, and breathed in their scent. “I love wildflowers.”
“And…” he withdrew a slender white box tied with red ribbon from behind his back. “Chocolates, handmade and liberally sprinkled with Malden sea salt.” He smiled and laid the box on a nearby table. “I have it on good authority – my aunt’s – that they’re the best chocolates Carywick has to offer.”
“I’m sure they are.” A smile dimpled her cheeks. “You’re too kind. Thank you so much.” She indicated the chair opposite her and handed the flowers to Mrs Fenwick, who bustled off to put them in water. “Please, sit down.”
He dragged the chair closer and sat. “And how’s my patient this afternoon? Is your foot on the mend?”
“It is. I must’ve twisted it when I fell. It still hurts a bit, but not nearly so much as it did yesterday.” She eyed him. “What about you? Did you get Jasper back to Allenham in that awful storm? Is he all right?”
“Fit as a fiddle. He got extra oats and three carrots when we got back, so he did pretty well, all in all.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And I’m very glad you happened to find me, Mr Willoughby.”
“Not half as glad as me. And please,” he added, his blue eyes meeting hers, “call me Kit.”
“Kit,” she murmured, and blushed. “But you have to call me Marianne.” She paused. “Is Kit your real name, or a nickname?”
“Nickname. I was christened Christopher but almost no one calls me that. I doubt I’d answer if anyone did, I’m so unused to it.”
A smile dimpled Marianne’s cheeks. “You don’t look like a Christopher; Kit definitely suits you better.” She hesitated. “Thank you again, so much. If you hadn’t come along when you did…” her voice trailed away. “It was really stupid of me to try and climb up that old rope.”
“I often ride along the border of the two estates. I was on my way back to Allenham when I heard you scream.” He leaned forward and took up her hand, all traces of prior amusement gone. “I’m glad I found you as well, Miss Holland. Very glad.”
His eyes met hers, and he brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it so tenderly that Marianne found herself blushing more deeply, both charmed and captivated by her gallant rescuer. Was there ever a more handsome or solicitous man in all of Hadleighshire?
No, she decided as he entertained her with amusing anecdotes and jokes and Hadleighshire gossip for the better part of the afternoon, there most certainly was not.
Perhaps, she thought as she smiled over at him, Northumberland wouldn’t prove to be nearly so bad as she’d feared, after all.
Chapter 6
On Tuesday morning, Marianne had a cup of coffee and a few bites of toast before heading upstairs to get ready for her interview at the veterinary clinic.
She stood before the cheval mirror in her bedroom and studied her reflection with a critical eye. She smoothed her hands nervously over her skirt. It was a bit prim for her tastes – she felt unlike herself in the pencil skirt and blouse and low heels – but it was the only suitable outfit she’d found in the village clothing store.
And at least she looked professional.
Even better, Marianne reminded herself as she grabbed up her handbag, Kit Willoughby had asked to see her again at the weekend. The thought of it put a spring in her step as she hurried down the stairs to the front door.
“Off for your interview, miss?” the housekeeper asked as she pushed through the baize door that led to the kitchen. She held a tray of tarnished silver in her hands.
Marianne nodded. “I’m taking the estate car. I’ll be back this afternoon. I’ll probably stop and have lunch in Endwhistle.”
“Your mum and sister will be here tomorrow,” Mrs Fenwick reminded her. “At least then you’ll have a bit of company.”
“I know, and I can’t wait. I miss them both so much.”
“Well, I’m sure they miss you just the same. But at least,” she added with a gleam in her eye, “you’ve had your share of excitement, not to mention meeting that handsome Mr Willoughby, since you got here.”
Marianne blushed. “Bye, Mrs Fenwick.”
“Goodbye, lass. And good luck to you.”
***
The veterinary clinic was located two miles outside of Endwhistle. She found it without too much difficulty. A two-storey stone farmhouse, modest but well cared for, stood on the left of the treed property and a smaller, low stone building occupied the right.
“’Endwhistle Small Animal Veterinary Clinic,’” Marianne said out loud as she parked the estate car in the gravel car park and got out. The words were etched in gold script across a wide bay window. A riot of purple-and-white-striped flowers decorated the window boxes.
Her gaze swept from the bright green door to the nearby pet runs and a fenced exercise enclosure, and a flutter of nervousness ran through her. She liked this place already. She wanted – badly – to work here.
Of course, Marianne reminded herself as she approached the door, she didn’t have much experience.
Who am I kidding? she thought. I have none. But how hard could it be to schedule appointments and bandage up a few injured dogs and cats?
Feeling somewhat reassured, she took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.
A tiled floor and the faint scent of disinfectant greeted her as she entered the waiting room. Plastic chairs lined the walls; most were occupied with anxious pet owners and their ailing animals.
Marianne had a quick glance around as she made her way to the reception desk. Despite the bare floor and the institutional green of the walls, the room had a cheery, welcoming feel thanks to the paintings on the walls and bright touches like a vase of roses on the counter and a basket heaped with pet toys in one corner.
“Hello, miss,” a smiling young woman behind the counter said. “May I help you?”
“Yes. I wondered if I might speak to Dr Brandon? My name is Marianne Holland and I’m here to interview for a job at the clinic,” she added.
“Oh. Well, I’m that sorry, but he’s gone out on an emergency call. One of the farmers’ dogs ingested something, and he’s afraid it might be rat poison.”
“Oh, no,” Marianne exclaimed. “How horrible. I do hope the poor dog will be all right.”
“Well, if anyone can help Maddie, Dr Brandon can.” She smiled. “I’ll let him know you stopped by. I can reschedule you for tomorrow morning, if you like?”
“Yes. That’d be perfect. Thank you.”
Marianne waited as the receptionist wrote out an appointment card. A cocker spaniel, a cockatiel, and a crated Siamese cat sat beside their owners, all of them subdued as they waited to be seen.
“Here you are.” The girl – Lynn, according to her nametag – handed her a card with tomorrow’s date and her appointment time written down. “Same time, nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be here,” Marianne promised, and turned to go.
“Good. Oh, and Miss Holland?”
She stopped halfway across the floor and turned back. “Yes?”
“Don’t you worry about Maddie,” she assured Marianne. “Dr Brandon’s the best there is. She’ll be fine.”
***
Just a few kilometres outside of Endwhistle, with a cough and a shudder and a cloud of steam, the check engine light came on and the estate car coughed and sputtered to a stop.
Marianne turned the key in the ignition; she checked the gas gauge (nearly full); she got out and lifted the bonnet to allow the billow of steam to escape; then she peered down at the engine in hopes that looking at it would help her figure out what was wrong.
It didn’t. The car was officially and irrevocably dead.
What to do now?
“I’ll call someone to come and get me, of course,” she said out loud. Surely one of the local petrol stations would have a mechanic and a towing truck on hand.
Marianne reached in her pocket for her mobile. And although she called every petrol station in the area – all two of them – no one answered.
“Right, I’ll call Mrs Fenwick,” she decided, and tried to tamp down her panic. “She can send Bertie or Jack to fetch me.” She took her phone out and stared at it, her fingers poised over the screen.
Marianne groaned. She didn’t know the bloody number. She’d never bothered to programme it into her phone.
“Oh, that’s just great, that is.” She slumped against the side of the car. “I don’t know a soul, the petrol stations won’t answer, there’s another arsing storm on the way –” she glared up at the lowering skies “and I haven’t even got an AA card.”
Just then, over the distant rumble of thunder, she heard the sound – the wonderful, welcome sound – of a car approaching. Marianne whirled around to see a yellow Hyundai Accent motoring towards her.
Immediately she ran into the road and began to jump and wave her arms back and forth like a demented boy-band fan.
As the car got closer it slowed and stopped, and two men got out. “What seems to be the trouble, miss?” the driver, a youngish bloke in jeans and trainers asked.
“Do you know anything about cars?” Marianne asked hopefully. “Mine’s just died.”
“A bit,” he said, and frowned. “Is the engine petrol or diesel?”
“Erm…petrol.”
“Right. I’m Brian,” he said by way of introduction, and smiled. “I tinker a bit with cars. Let’s have a look at the dashboard works.” He slid in behind the wheel and turned the key until the gauges and dashboard info came to life. “Ah, there’s your problem. The temperature gauge is pegged high.”
“That’s not good, is it?” Marianne ventured.
He didn’t answer, but called out to the other man in the Hyundai. “Danny, fetch me that water jug from the boot.”
“Aye.”
Brian walked around to the engine and peered under the bonnet. “Just as I thought, your coolant’s low. You’ve probably got a crack in the water pump. I can fill it with water, and it should get you wherever you’re going, but you’ll need a new pump soon as you can manage it.” He took the jug from Danny and poured water into the coolant tank.
“A new water pump,” she echoed. “Right.”
He lowered the bonnet. “Now let’s see if she’ll start back up. If she does, you can be on your way.”
“Thank you,” Marianne breathed, “thank you so much. I’ve an interview in Endwhistle tomorrow – in fact, I just came from there – and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back home.”
Danny, she noticed, had returned to the Accent, opened the driver’s side door, and got in behind the wheel. She frowned. Strange. Hadn’t Brian been the one driving?
“Let’s start ‘’er up,” Brian said. “I’ll just have a look at your temperature gauge and make sure the engine’s cooled properly afore you take off again.”
“That’s so kind,” Marianne exclaimed. “Thanks.”
With a nod, he slid once again behind the wheel as she stood on the side of the road and waited.
As Brian reached down to start the engine, Danny did the same, loudly revving the Accent’s engine; then he shifted into gear, peeled away from the layby, and sped off with a spray of gravel.
Marianne stared after him. She scarcely had time to wonder where he was off to in such a hurry when Brian turned the estate car’s ignition and started the engine.
“It’s started,” she called out, excited. “Thank you!”
But her joy was short-lived.
Without warning, the driver’s door slammed, nearly catching the hem of her skirt as it shut; and the car lurched forward with a spray of gravel and a squeal of tyres. Marianne, her mouth rounded in shock, stood at the edge of the road and gawped stupidly at the estate car’s rapidly retreating rear end.
She let out a shriek of delayed outrage and ran forward, shouting, “Wait – come back here! That’s my car, you sneaky bastard!”
Although she gave chase, it was no use. The lumbering old estate car picked up speed, and with a cheery wave of his arm out of the window, Brian floored it, and he and Lady Violet’s car were soon lost to view.
Chapter 7
Marianne couldn’t believe it. She simply couldn’t believe it. Brian and Danny had stolen Lady Violet’s bloody car right out from under her.
The cheeky bastards!
“Have to…to call…the police,” she huffed, winded after running down the road in fruitless pursuit.
She grabbed her mobile and notified the local police, who took down the information and said they’d file a report straight away.
“Can you send a car to pick me up?” she asked.
“It’ll be a while, miss. The only squad car’s gone off to Carywick to check on a reported robbery.”
“It’s probably mine,” Marianne snapped, and rang off. “Idiots.”
Another growl of thunder rumbled overhead.
She’d barely finished the call when rain began to fall, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Within seconds – déjà vu all over again – she was wet through and shivering, her hair plastered to her head.
At least the slime-sucking, lying bastards who’d stolen Lady Violet’s car hadn’t got her handbag…or her mobile.
But how, she thought with a sinking feeling, was she to get back to Barton Park now?
Marianne was about to turn around – to do what, exactly, she had no idea – when a pickup truck, battered and faded, approached and slowed down. Three dogs – border collies, one black, one reddish-brown, and one white and tan – occupied the truck’s bed.
She froze and eyed the vehicle warily as the driver let his window down. He had rumpled brown hair and wore a quizzical expression on his face.
“Having a bad day, are you?” he inquired in a broad Northumberland accent.
“I’ve had better,” Marianne retorted, and kept walking.
The truck kept pace and drew alongside her once again. “It’s not the right sort of weather for a walk today.”
“Do tell,” Marianne snapped.
“What’s happened? Did your car break down? And if it did,” he added, frowning as he surveyed the road behind and ahead of him, “where is it?”
“Yes, my car broke down. A lovely man named Brian stopped to fix it,” she informed him grimly, still walking, “and after he started it up, he stole it right out from under me.”
“Did he, now?” His eyebrows shot skyward. “So did you call the police?”
“I did,” she said. “But there’s nothing they can do, apparently, aside from filling out forms and making excuses, and they told me their only squad car’s out on a robbery call.”
“Aye,” he nodded, “that’ll be the hardware store in Carywick, I reckon. Someone threw a wrench through the front window this morning and broke in.”