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‘Oh… Do people still live there?’
‘Yes. Though the castle itself is no longer inhabited, the estate still needs its workers, most of whom have lived on the island for generations.
‘Though, of necessity, the young, unmarried ones leave to look for partners, there’s something about Mirren that seems to draw them back, and keeps the cycle going.’
He relapsed into silence, leaving her to mull over what she had learnt, which was both thrilling and a little disturbing.
Thrilling because she would be living on her dream island and working for a famous author. Disturbing because—though Michael Denver had told her from the beginning that he liked to work in ‘comparative isolation’—she was just starting to appreciate exactly how isolated they would be, and to wonder, with the faintest stirring of unease, if she had been wise to come.
Slinterwood, it appeared, was on the opposite side of the island to the causeway, which meant that once she was there it was a long way back.
Added to that, the causeway itself, which for part of the time would be under water, was well over a mile long and only safe to cross at low tide and in good weather conditions. So with no transport of her own, she would be a virtual prisoner.
Oh, don’t be so melodramatic! she scolded herself. All it amounted to was that she and Michael Denver were bound to be thrown together a good deal in relative isolation.
But so what? A man of his standing was hardly likely to turn into a Jekyll and Hyde, or prove a threat in any way. And though the house was isolated, there must be a housekeeper or a manservant, someone to take care of the place and look after Michael while he was there.
But would he expect her to provide some companionship for the odd times he wasn’t working?
It was a bit of a daunting prospect.
Though with his reputed aversion to women, he would hopefully prefer to spend his leisure time alone.
If by any chance he didn’t… Well, she had taken on the job, and if providing some companionship while he was at Slinterwood proved to be a part of it she would just have to cope.
After all, she was getting very well paid. And if, at the end of a month, she wasn’t happy with her duties, she could always say so and let someone else have the post.
Her thoughts busy, for the past few miles Jenny had been staring blindly into space, but now, her immediate concerns shelved, she was able to give her attention to the scenery.
They were travelling through pleasant rolling countryside where, in the shade, the grass was still stiff and white with frost, and the skeletal trees stood out black and stark against the pale blue of the sky.
Topping a rise, they ran into a small sunlit village with old mellow-stone cottages fronting a village green.
Standing opposite a duckpond, where a gaggle of white geese floated serenely, was a black and white half-timbered inn called the Grouse and Claret.
‘I thought we’d stop here for lunch,’ Michael said. ‘If you’re ready to eat, that is?’
‘Quite ready. I didn’t have any breakfast.’
‘Why not? Pushed for time?’
She shook her head. ‘To tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous.’
He found himself wondering about that rather naive statement. Had it been made for effect? To encourage him to think she was sweet and innocent?
When, his face cool and slightly aloof, he made no comment, she regretted her impulsive admission and wished she had simply said that she was hungry.
He drove through a stone archway into the cobbled yard of the inn, and, stopping by a stack of old oak beer barrels, came round to open her door.
Well, whatever faults he might prove to have, she thought as she climbed out, his manners, though quiet and unobtrusive, were flawless.
With the kind of surety that made her guess he had stopped here before, he escorted her through the oak door at the rear, and into a black-beamed bar where a log fire blazed and crackled cheerfully.
The bar, its low, latticed windows tending to keep out the sunshine, would have been gloomy if it hadn’t been for the leaping flames. It was empty apart from a broad-faced, thick-necked, cheerful-looking man behind the bar, and two old cronies in the far corner who appeared to be regulars.
The landlord’s hearty greeting proved Jenny’s supposition to be correct.
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Denver.’
‘Nice to see you, Amos.’
‘Me and the wife have been wondering if, the next time you came, Mrs Denver might be with you?’
Jenny saw Michael’s jaw tighten, but his voice was still pleasant and level as he asked, ‘And what made you wonder that?’
‘Why, the newspaper stories that you and ’er were getting together again. You must have seen them.’
‘I never look at the papers,’ Michael told him. ‘Half the stuff they print is suspect, to say the least. It pays not to believe a word.’
Amos grunted his agreement. ‘We might not have done, but it sounded as though it was Mrs Denver herself who had told the reporters.’
‘Well, whoever told them, there’s not a word of truth in it,’ Michael said shortly.
With an unexpected show of tact, Amos changed the subject to ask, ‘So what’s it to be? Your usual?’
At Michael’s nod he enquired, ‘And what about the young lady?’
‘Miss Mansell is my new PA,’ Michael answered the man’s unspoken curiosity.
Then giving Jenny a questioning glance, he asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’
As she hesitated, wondering what he would consider suitable, he suggested, ‘A glass of wine? Or would you prefer a soft drink?’
Fancying neither, and having noticed a sign over the bar that announced, ‘We Brew Our Own Ale’, she abandoned the idea of ‘suitable’ and said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d like half a pint of the home-brewed ale.’
‘An excellent choice,’ Amos said heartily. Then to Michael, who had managed to hide his surprise, ‘No doubt you’ve been singing its praises.’
‘I don’t need to,’ Michael answered gravely. ‘I’m convinced that Miss Mansell can read my mind.’
‘Dangerous thing, that,’ the landlord remarked with a grin as he drew two half pints of ale. ‘I’m only pleased my wife can’t read mine. Though, mind you, she makes up for it by reading my letters and going through my pockets…
‘Now then, you’ll be wanting a good hot meal?’
‘If that’s possible?’
‘It certainly is. My Sarah has her faults, but she’s an excellent cook. I can recommend the rabbit casserole and the apple pie. If the young lady wants something lighter, we can always run to a salad.’
Used to Claire, who had needed to rigorously watch her diet, Michael turned to Jenny and lifted a dark, enquiring brow.
‘The casserole and the pie sound great,’ she said, surprising him yet again.
‘Then make that two, please, Amos.’
Nodding his approval, Amos disappeared in the direction of the kitchen while, frowning a little, Jenny found herself having second thoughts.
Her new boss had obviously been a little startled by her robust choices, and she wondered if, in order to create a good impression, she should have gone for a more ladylike salad and a soft drink.
Oh, well, it was too late now to worry about it.
He carried both their glasses over to a table by the fire, and was about to settle Jenny in one of the comfortable, cushioned chairs when, seeing the firelight flicker on her face, he made to move it back. ‘That might be too close for you…’
‘No… No, it’s fine.’
Hearing the hint of surprise in her voice, he explained, ‘I suppose I got used to my ex-wife. She never liked to sit close in case the heat ruined her skin.’
When he said nothing further, deciding he was disinclined for conversation, Jenny turned her head and watched the leaping flames while she slowly sipped her drink.
Lifting his own glass to his lips, Michael found himself wondering why on earth he was talking about Claire, when for months he had done his best to avoid mentioning her name or even thinking about her.
Perhaps it was Amos’s revelations that had brought his ex to the forefront of his mind.
He had little doubt that Claire’s talk with the reporters had been deliberately staged. Though he was sure she no longer loved him, and probably never had, he knew that she couldn’t bear to let go any man that she had once considered hers.
But she was wasting her time. He hadn’t the slightest intention of taking her back. In the short time they had been married she had cuckolded him and almost succeeded in emasculating him.
Anything he had once felt for her had long since died, and when the divorce had been finalized, mingled with the pain and bitter disillusionment had been relief.
Unconsciously, he sighed, and with a determined effort he brought his mind back to the present.
His companion was sitting quietly staring into the fire. Watching the pure line of her profile, he noted that though she appeared to be at ease, she wasn’t nearly as composed as she looked.
He was still studying her surreptitiously when their food arrived, and he suggested, ‘Tuck in.’
It looked and smelled so appetizing that, in spite of her previous misgivings, when a generous plateful was put in front of her Jenny obeyed.
It was every bit as good as the landlord had boasted, the tender meat served with small, fluffy dumplings, a selection of root vegetables, and rich, tasty gravy.
Michael noted that she ate neatly and daintily, but with a healthy appetite. After getting used to seeing Claire toy with a salad and then leave half of it, he found it a pleasure to lunch with a woman who obviously enjoyed her food.
The pie that followed was just as good, with light, crisp pastry, tangy apples cooked to perfection, and lashings of thick country cream.
When Jenny had finished the last spoonful, she sat back with a satisfied, ‘Mmmm…’
Watching her use the tip of a pink tongue to catch an errant speck of cream, he felt a sudden fierce kick of desire low down in his belly, and was forced to glance hastily away.
Since his divorce he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman, and that sudden, unbidden reaction threw him off balance.
Seeing she was looking at him, and hoping his tension didn’t show, he asked unnecessarily, ‘I take it you enjoyed the meal?’
‘It was absolutely delicious. I can quite see why you like to stop here—’
All at once she broke off, flustered, wondering if he’d thought her greedy.
She was trying to find some way to change what had become an uncomfortable subject when the landlord appeared to clear away the dishes and bring the coffee, sparing her the need.
‘A grand meal, Amos,’ Michael said heartily.
He sounded sincere, and, realizing that he too had enjoyed it, Jenny relaxed. Perhaps, because of what she saw as the newness and possible fragility of the relationship, she was simply being over-sensitive.
‘I haven’t tasted anything as good as that since I was here last.’
‘I’ll tell Sarah,’ the landlord promised. ‘She’ll be pleased.’
For a little while they sipped their coffee without speaking, and, a quick glance at her silent companion confirming that he was once again in a brown study, she seized the opportunity to watch him.
His dark hair was thick and glossy, still trying to curl a little in spite of its short cut, and, though he lacked either charm or charisma, his face was interesting, lean and strong-boned, with a straight nose and a cleft chin.
It was the kind of face that wouldn’t change or grow soft and flabby with age. At sixty or seventy he would look pretty much as he looked now.
His eyes were handsome, she conceded, long and heavy-lidded, tilted up a little at the outer edge, with thick curly lashes. His teeth too were excellent, gleaming white and healthy, while his mouth had a masculine beauty that made her feel strange inside.
Dragging her gaze away with something of an effort, she studied his ears, which were smallish and set neatly against his well-shaped head. A far cry from the large, sticky-out ears Laura had predicted.
Jenny was smiling at the remembered picture when he glanced up unexpectedly.
As he watched the hot colour rise in her cheeks, pointing to her guilt, she saw his eyes narrow.
He obviously thought she had been laughing at him, and, knowing how fragile a man’s ego could be, she braced herself for an angry outburst.
But, his face showing only mild interest, he suggested blandly, ‘Perhaps you’d allow me to share the joke?’
Seeing nothing else for it, she drew a deep breath and admitted, ‘I was smiling at the mental picture my flatmate had painted of what you, as a successful author, ought to look like.’
‘Oh? So what should a successful author look like?’
She repeated as near as she could remember word for word what had been said that morning.
His face straight, but his green eyes alight with amusement, he said quizzically, ‘Hmm… Large, pointed, sticky-out ears… So how do I compare? Favourably, I hope?’
She smiled, and, relieved that he’d taken it so well, dared to joke. ‘Not altogether. After seeing some old reruns of Star Trek, I’ve developed a passion for Mr Spock.’
Her lovely, luminous smile, the hint of mischief, beguiling and fascinating, hit him right over the heart, and for a moment that vital organ seemed to miss a beat.
Striving to hide the effect her teasing had had on him, he pulled himself together, and complained, ‘Being compared to Mr Spock and found wanting could seriously damage my ego.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, with mock contrition. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that.’
‘So you weren’t suggesting that my ears aren’t as exciting as a Vulcan’s?’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘I should hope not.’
His sudden white smile took her breath away and totally overturned her earlier assessment that he lacked either charm or charisma. Obviously he had lashings of both, hidden beneath that cool veneer.
All at once, for no reason at all, her heart lifted, and she found herself looking forward to the days and weeks ahead.
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