A Time To Dream. PENNY JORDANЧитать онлайн книгу.
inside. He was right about one thing. She must get that lock seen to.
Although she went back upstairs, somehow wallpapering had lost its appeal and she discovered that she was wandering restlessly from room to room of her new domain, her thoughts not on the house and all that she had planned to do to it, but on the man who had just left.
She raised her hand to her lips, touching them questingly as though in search of the physical imprint of his. Even without closing her eyes she could recall every detail of those moments in his arms, every nuance of the sensuality of his unexpected kiss.
Stop it, she told herself shakily. Stop it at once. You know how stupid it is to daydream. It’s time you grew up…faced reality…accepted life for what it really is.
CHAPTER TWO
EASY enough to say, but far, far harder to do, as Melanie discovered that evening as she tried to concentrate on the gardening books she had borrowed from the local library with the praiseworthy intention of doing what she could to restore order to the wilderness that lay beyond the house.
As she closed her book she was aware of a deep, welling sense of pity and sadness for the man who had willed her this house. How lonely he must have been, and how alone. The house and its environs bore testimony to that solitude; and although it had been a chosen solitude it had not been a happy solitude, she was sure of that. A happy hermit would never have allowed the garden to become so overgrown, or uncared for; a happy hermit would never have turned his back on the comforts his modest wealth could have afforded him to live virtually in the kitchen and his bedroom, as the village gossip had informed her her benefactor had. No; these were the habits of a man whose aloneness, while chosen, was a burden to him, a burden chosen out of bitterness perhaps, out of misery and pain. And yet, why? Why choose to live in the way that he had? Why turn his back on humanity? Why leave his estate to her, a stranger? How had he chosen her—from a list of names which closed eyes and a pin? she wondered unhappily. She had no way of knowing. The solicitors denied any knowledge of how or why he had made his choice, informing her only that it was perfectly legal and his will completely unbreakable.
But what about John Burrows’s cousin? she had asked uncertainly. Surely he must have expected to inherit the estate?
Not necessarily, the solicitor had assured her, adding that the two men had quarrelled some years before, and that, besides, the cousin—or, more properly, second cousin—was wealthy enough in his own right not to need to concern himself with his relative’s small estate.
Even so, Melanie had not been able to shake off the feeling that somehow a mistake had been made; that she was going to wake up one morning to discover that there had been a mistake; that it was another Melanie Foden to whom John Burrows had intended to leave her inheritance.
Although as yet she had not told anyone so, not even Louise, she had decided that at the end of the summer when the cottage was put up for sale whatever monies it brought in she would donate to charity, along with her benefactor’s contribution to her substantial bank balance.
The reason why she had not mentioned this plan either to Louise or to the solicitors was that she suspected that they would try to persuade her out of such a decision, but her mind was made up.
Much as she was enjoying her occupation of the cottage, she intended to treat these next few months as a complete break from reality, a voyage of discovery and exploration; a time of healing and rejuvenation, but something apart from her real life to which she fully intended to return once autumn came.
Right now, though, autumn was a long time away and she had a good deal of work to do. Work that involved a careful study of the books piled at her feet and not daydreaming about Luke Chalmers.
Face it, she warned herself as her thoughts traitorously refused to respond to her exhortations. He probably treats every woman the way he did you. It meant nothing…nothing at all. By rights she ought to have stopped him the moment she’d realised he intended to kiss her, instead of standing there like a fool, practically inviting his embrace. And not just inviting it, but enjoying it as well, she acknowledged guiltily as her thoughts and her memories reactivated that wanton throbbing deep within her body which had shocked her so much when she’d been in his arms.
Such feelings were completely unfamiliar to her. Her upbringing in the children’s home had never allowed her to give full rein to her burgeoning sexuality, and oddly, although Paul had touched her emotions, kindling the same yearning need for commitment and sharing, for someone with whom she could share her love, which she had experienced so much during her growing years, he had never aroused within her the sensations she had experienced in Luke Chalmers’s arms.
Disturbed by the train of her own thoughts, she got up, pacing the sitting-room restlessly.
The cottage was old, its walls irregular and bumpy, its ceilings low and darkened by the heavy beams which supported it.
Like Melanie, it was desperately crying out for love and tenderness, she acknowledged, shivering a little. It worried her constantly, this need she sensed within herself, because she knew how vulnerable it made her, how much in danger she was of mistaking the reactions and responses of others.
Look how she had deceived herself into believing that Paul genuinely cared about her! No wonder that hand in hand with her need had always gone caution and wariness, her mind’s defences against the vulnerability of her heart.
She gave another, deeper shiver, wrapping her arms around her slim body as though trying to ward off the danger her mind warned her was waiting for her.
This was ridiculous, she told herself irritably. So Luke Chalmers had kissed her. So what?
So what? She knew quite well what, her mind jeered, while her heart trembled and her body was flooded with the echoes of the sensations he had made her feel.
It was almost as though, like the heroine of a fairytale, she was the victim of a powerful spell.
Nonsense, her brain denied acidly. Just because she had reacted sexually to the man, that was no reason to go investing him with magical powers.
Sex. A sad smile curled her mouth. Paul had accused her of being almost completely lacking in sexuality. She was cold and frigid, he had complained when she had refused to go away with him. Didn’t she realise how much he wanted her? Well, now she knew the true depth of that wanting, and it had been a very shallow need indeed. A need which, she suspected, would have been quickly quenched if she had given way to him.
Hopefully her response to Luke Chalmers was the same; something which would quickly fade if she ignored it and refused to give in to its insidious demand. A fire which would die down as quickly as it had arisen if she smothered it with common sense and hard reality.
And if she didn’t? She stood still, gazing blindly towards the empty fireplace, her heart thudding erratically, her whole body suddenly bathed in a fierce heat.
This was all nonsense, she told herself firmly. She would probably not even see the man again.
When he only lived less than half a mile away at the end of the lane?
He was here to work…just as she was herself. There was no real need for their paths to cross again, and, after all, wouldn’t it be better if they did not? The last thing she needed right now was the kind of highly charged sexual affair she was pretty sure was all he had to offer her.
The most sensible thing she could do was to forget she had ever met him and concentrate on all the work that lay in front of her, beginning right now by returning to those gardening books.
Louise had expressed doubt when Melanie had told her that she intended to tackle the wilderness that was the garden by herself, demurring that she felt that Melanie ought to ask around to see if there wasn’t someone in the village who could give her some help
‘The lawn will have to be scythed,’ she had warned Melanie, ‘and that’s no job for an amateur. And if you do intend to try and grow some salad stuff and soft fruits you’ll need someone to dig over the vegetable beds for you.’