The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride. Daphne ClairЧитать онлайн книгу.
as she moved forward he scowled, put out a hand and said, “Give it to me. She had no right to do that. You’re not a damned servant.”
“I don’t mind,” she said as he turned to put the mug down himself. Knowing how Pearl treasured the furniture, she asked, “Shouldn’t you put something under it?”
He sent her a glance, still frowning, and opened a drawer and removed a folded handkerchief to slide under the mug. “Thanks, but I’ll have a word with her—”
“No,” Rachel said. “Don’t. Pearl asked a favour as a friend and I was happy to oblige. Leave it alone.”
His mouth went tight for a moment before he relaxed, but his eyes still probed. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure. I’m quite capable of sticking up for my rights if I need to.”
He laughed then, and pulled the towel from his shoulders to toss it on the bed. “You always were.”
Automatically her eyes had followed the passage of the towel before returning to Bryn. He was still watching her, and although the window remained unlit she thought she saw something flame again in the depths of his eyes before he picked up the shirt and started shrugging into it.
Rachel realised she was staring, pleasantly mesmerised.
As she stepped back, about to leave, another flicker of lightning briefly entered the room and a louder clap of thunder made her flinch.
“Are you afraid of storms?” Bryn asked.
“No. Your mother seems nervous. Is that why you came?”
“And because there’s a chance of flooding.” His fingers were rapidly buttoning the shirt.
As he tucked it into his trousers she said, “I don’t remember floods ever coming this far.” Once the river had risen and inundated the village on its banks, but the big house hadn’t been threatened.
He opened the door of a huge carved wardrobe and pulled on leather moccasin-style boat shoes. “In the nineteen-fifties the house was surrounded by water that came within inches of the front door, according to my father.”
“Really? I’ll probably come across some reference to it, I suppose.”
Bryn picked up a comb, swiped it through his hair and dropped it back on the dressing table. He seemed ready to leave when Rachel reminded him, “Your drink?”
He picked up the mug, sipped from it, then emptied the contents and said, “Right, let’s go down.”
* * *
Although Bryn expressed appreciation of the chocolate sponge pudding, he seemed rather preoccupied. As the lightning became more frequent and the thunder louder, Pearl shuddered and paled with each rumble, and when they’d finished eating said she was going to bed.
Bryn offered to take her upstairs but she laughed him off. “I don’t need my hand held. I’ll just hide under the blankets until it’s all over.”
Rain still pounded on the roof and gurgled along the guttering, and after the dishes were dealt with Bryn said, “Join me for a nightcap, Rachel?”
They went into the sitting room, where Rachel drew the heavy curtains against the rain streaming down the windows, and Bryn poured her a glass of Irish cream, brandy for himself. Although the house had been fitted with central heating Bryn moved the fire screen aside, exposing paper and kindling laid and ready to be lit.
He took a box of matches and touched one to the paper, waited for the kindling to take hold and added some pieces of manuka from a large brass wood-box beside the hearth.
He had just settled back into his chair when the lights abruptly died.
Startled, Rachel said, “Oh!”
“Does it bother you?” The firelight flickered on Bryn’s face. “I can get some candles if you like.”
“No, it doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll just check the phone, though the fire brigade chief has my cell number.”
He left the room and came back, reporting the telephone was working, then sat down again.
There was an odd intimacy in sitting here in the raggedly shifting pool of firelight with the rest of the room in darkness. Afterwards Rachel couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, only that they sat there for a long time, that Bryn refilled her glass more than once, and that his rather brooding mood gradually mellowed. While they chatted in a desultory fashion he leaned back in the big chair, his long legs stretched out and ankles crossed, hands cradling a brandy balloon, and his eyes half-closed.
The fire had burned to embers and the French clock on the mantel was showing past midnight when Rachel stifled a yawn and said reluctantly, “I’d better go to bed before I fall asleep right here.”
Bryn gave her a lazy smile, stirred from his comfortable position and, with a long-empty glass still in his hand, stood up and took hers. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll bring some light.” The thunder had died and the rain eased a little, but the lights were still off.
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