The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride. Daphne ClairЧитать онлайн книгу.
until they reached the yards and buildings where they’d started out.
Back at Rivermeadows, they found Pearl had prepared a cold lunch and set a table on the terrace.
Bryn said he’d like a short swim first, and although Rachel declined, Kinzi changed into a tiny bikini that showed off her perfect body. Helping Pearl place meats and salads on the table, Rachel could hear the other young woman’s giggles and little squeals, and Bryn’s laughing voice.
Over lunch Kinzi sparkled, complimenting her hostess on the salad and cold meat loaf, quizzing Rachel on whether she’d enjoyed riding again, and teasing Bryn about his affection for his horse, calling him “my cowboy”, which set Rachel’s teeth on edge but brought a half grin to Bryn’s mouth, that inexplicably made her mad again.
It was a leisurely meal and when the others repaired to the little sitting room Rachel excused herself, went to her room to get a book and then slipped downstairs again and into the garden. There she found a secluded spot under a weeping rimu that brushed the ground, and settled down to read.
She’d been there for some time when low voices, male and female, alerted her that Bryn and Kinzi were strolling nearby. Not wanting to eavesdrop, she scrambled up, closing the book, and got her hair tangled in the sweeping branches of the tree before she escaped its clutching fingers. She was picking narrow leaves and bits of bark out of her hair when the other two appeared round a bend in the path and stopped before her.
Kinzi giggled, then covered her mouth and said, “Sorry, Rachel. What have you been up to?” She stepped forward and plucked a small bunch of lichen and a twig from Rachel’s head. “There,” she said, dropping them on the ground.
“Thanks,” Rachel muttered. She must look a mess.
Bryn was regarding her with a faint smile, the skin about his eyes crinkling as though he too was trying not to laugh.
“I was reading,” Rachel said, “but it’s getting cool.”
Determinedly she stepped forward, and Bryn moved aside. She didn’t look back to see them walk on.
Upstairs, she brushed her hair and, leaving it loose, lay on her bed and tried to continue reading, but after a while got up and went to the window that overlooked the back garden, staring at nothing.
After a while she saw Bryn emerge from the trees with Kinzi clinging to his arm.
They stopped under the pergola, Kinzi’s face turned up to his as she said something that looked like an urgent plea. Then she slid her arms about his neck and kissed him.
Rachel watched Bryn’s hands go to the woman’s waist, and Kinzi pressed against him on tiptoe, his dark head bent to hers and their mouths clinging together.
CHAPTER THREE
STEPPING AWAY FROM the window, Rachel drew in a long breath and let it out from pursed lips. Why couldn’t Kinzi and Bryn conduct their necking in the privacy of the trees? Or in the little summerhouse…? She unclenched hands she hadn’t realised had curled into themselves.
The kiss might be a continuation of other intimacies they’d already shared, she realised bleakly. Even more passionate ones.
Don’t think about it.
But she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help wondering if Bryn had asked Kinzi to marry him, if that kiss had been the seal on her agreement. She tried to tell herself that if so she would be happy for him—for them both. But all she felt was a leaden foreboding.
Shortly she again heard voices from the terrace. Then silence. They’d moved inside. If they were breaking the news to his mother, she should stay away. It was a family affair.
Later she heard more talk floating up from the entryway, then the sound of the heavy front door echoing as it closed.
She waited twenty minutes before descending the stairs to find Pearl sitting alone on the terrace, and pretended surprise that the other two had left.
“Some time ago,” Pearl said tranquilly. “They told me to say goodbye to you.”
No hint of anything unusual having happened or an announcement made. Rachel swallowed hard and offered to clear the table.
Rachel spent the following weekend with her parents, a family celebration for her father’s birthday. Driving south in the compact but solid car, she wondered what had happened to the dashing red model Bryn’s mother used to have.
It was ten days before she saw Bryn again.
Overnight the weather had turned grey and windy with spiteful, spitting showers, and Rachel had foregone the morning jog she’d taken up.
By noon thunder was rumbling intermittently, and the showers had become a heavy, persistent downpour. The lawns about the house were puddled and roof gutters overflowed. The garden looked sodden and woeful, some plants crushed under the force of the wind and rain. Inside, the rooms were gloomy and Rachel had to switch on the lights to read. Pearl’s housekeeper phoned to say she wouldn’t come in today; there was a severe storm warning on the radio. “They say there might be flooding on the road.”
Bryn arrived just before dinner, his hair and his business suit soaked despite the crushed yellow slicker he wore. His hair was flattened, rain droplets streaming from it down his face, and his skin looked taut and cold.
“I went to the village before coming here,” he said. “They’re bringing in sandbags in case the river overflows.”
Rachel said, “Could it breach the stopbanks?” She was sure they were higher and more solid now than before.
“This promises to be what they call a hundred-year storm,” he told her. “No one knows what could happen. I’m staying here tonight. Someone will phone if the town is threatened and I’m needed to help.”
Pearl, who had grown more and more nervous and unhappy throughout the day, looked relieved and said in that case she just had time to make his favourite pudding.
When he’d gone upstairs to change, Rachel set an extra place at the kitchen table where she and his mother usually ate, while Pearl put the kettle on to boil and began delving into cupboards.
Rachel was placing salt and pepper on the table when Pearl turned to her with a steaming pottery mug and said, “Would you take this up to Bryn, please, while I get on with dinner? He needs something hot right now.”
Given no choice, Rachel took the cup she was handed, which smelled of lemon and the sprinkling of nutmeg on the surface of the drink. Pearl said, “Lemon juice, honey and rum. It’ll do him good.” And she turned away again to the counter.
After carrying the cup carefully up the stairs, Rachel tapped on the door of Bryn’s room, but there was no reply. He must be still in the shower. Not wanting to encounter him emerging from the bathroom, she waited for a short while, and on hearing movement, tapped again.
“Just a moment,” his deep voice called, then seconds later he added, “Okay.”
She opened the door, stepped into the room and saw he was barefoot and had pulled on a pair of trousers, but the top fastening and belt hung undone, while a dry shirt lay on the navy-blue woven cotton covering the big bed beside him. His torso was bare and he was rubbing a towel over his hair.
Rachel stopped dead, struck anew by the male vitality that emanated from him. Bryn in a suit or a T-shirt and jeans was stunning. Bryn only half-dressed was positively swoon-worthy.
The towel in his hand stilled; in fact his whole body froze for a millisecond, as if he were posing for a Greek statue—he certainly had the physique for it.
“Rachel!” he said, his voice low and vibrant. He hadn’t turned on the light but a flicker of lightning whitened the window and briefly illuminated his face, his eyes reflecting silvery fire. The thunder that followed was a menacing rumble, still far away.
One final swipe at his hair left it standing in spikes,