Vengeful Bride

She blinked. Astonished, she heard herself saying weakly, ‘No, well…would I be living in?’

‘Naturally. One thing Fleetwood Manor isn’t short of is accommodation. Unfortunately, most of it is uninhabitable. I’ll show you where you’ll be working and sleeping.’

He stood up, and strode decisively to the door. Emma followed. Panic returned. Should she be plunging into this? Should she be indulging her burning curiosity about her family’s chequered past like this? Even if her father’s story, the sad tale he’d related to her before he died, proved to be true, would she achieve anything with some vague notion of justice or revenge…?

She followed the tall, athletic figure out of the study and into the picture-lined splendour of the manor’s galleried hall. Up the sweeping blue-carpeted staircase, along a broad, creaking landing where the polished oak floorboards looked to be as old as the house, and past rows of cynical-looking Fleetwood males, each more swarthy and dangerous than the last, they finally made it to a smaller, more humble back stairway, and were up in the attics.

The view from up here was stunning, Emma registered bleakly, peering through dusty windows and noting sunlit acres of rolling Warwickshire countryside, just beginning to burgeon into the pale magnificence of spring.

Spring was a time for new beginnings, she told herself uneasily. Not a time for raking up the ashes of the past, torturing herself with a sentimental journey back to the start of her parents’ tragic disintegration…

‘A lot of the old family papers are up here,’ Dominick was saying, pushing open a door to reveal a large room lined with shelves. There were some dusty old document cases, a big metal chest, an assortment of wooden storage boxes, some of them looking excitingly ancient. In spite of everything, Emma felt a frisson of anticipation at the historical riches yet to be uncovered. The manor had been in the Fleetwood family since the fifteenth century. She knew that from her father’s stories. Who knew what fascinating information she might unearth…?

‘You look like a cat surveying a dish of cream,’ Dominick commented drily. ‘You really like your chosen career, don’t you?’

‘I’ve always wanted to have the chance to do something like this,’ she admitted, unable to hide her glow of enthusiasm.

‘So this is your lucky year, Miss Stuart.’ He led the way out of the attic room again, and they retraced their steps back down to the main landing. ‘There’s masses more in outhouses, and the old butler’s pantry—it could take quite a while just getting it all together before you can sift through it.’

‘Quite likely.’

‘My housekeeper, Mrs Shields, has a strapping young grandson who can help to carry stuff around,’ he added conversationally as he flung open a bedroom door and waved her inside.

‘Thank you.’ She found herself in a big square high-ceilinged bedroom, overlooking the front of the house. Large sash windows were draped in rich but faded gold velvet. A very high-looking four-poster bed with gold and cream covers occupied centre-stage. A door beyond stood open, with the end of an old-fashioned white claw-foot bath visible.

‘Is this where I’ll be sleeping?’ It had such an air of grandeur, despite the threadbare carpet and worn-looking fabrics, she could hardly believe it. Swinging round, she found Dominick Fleetwood’s gaze gleaming with suppressed amusement.

‘This, believe it or not, is the only usable guestroom at present. The rest have been sadly neglected. And there is one drawback,’ he admitted calmly, leading the way to the bathroom. ‘You share this bathroom with me.’

He flicked his hand idly towards another door, which presumably led into his bedroom beyond. Emma felt her stomach hollow with a combination of nerves, anger, and something else she couldn’t identify…

‘I’ll be away most of the time. At my chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. I may return some weekends. Will that cause any problems?’ he persisted lazily. The blue gaze was unrelentingly amused.

‘Not unless you expect me to scrub your back?’ she quipped, on a dry laugh.

‘Not part of the deal,’ he agreed, with a grin, ‘although I confess it’s not an unattractive proposition.’ He let his eyes slide deliberately down over her, lingering on her slender throat, the fullness of her breasts beneath the suit jacket.

‘Speak for yourself,’ she muttered, feeling a wave of heat creeping under her skin at his cool arrogance. He was standing about a foot away, but in the intimate confines of the bathroom he was suddenly much too close for her peace of mind. At well over six feet, he towered darkly over her own quite respectable height of five feet eight. With his hands pushed casually into his jacket pockets, his eyes calmly appraising her shaky composure, she was suddenly warmly aware of his masculinity. It conveyed itself so strongly, it seemed to hit her with the force of a tidal wave, a tidal wave of sensuality.

He was a brilliant ‘jury’ lawyer, people said. With her throat drying, she began to see how easily he could project the kind of powerful charisma needed to sway twelve jurors to vote for his client. Dominick was a daunting adversary. Maybe the missing Richard was the weaker of the two sons? Maybe, if the melodramatic notion of avenging her mother’s honour and gaining her share of her inheritance had ever fleetingly occurred to her, her chance of extracting some sort of eye for an eye might have been more successfully directed at Richard, in any case?

‘Are you all right, Miss Stuart?’ He spoke softly, with just the merest hint of humour. She was ensnared in that narrowed blue gaze, and it was all she could do to catch her breath.

‘Yes, I’m fine…’

‘You look hot. Maybe you need some fresh air?’

‘Yes. Maybe I do.’ The look she gave him was politely veiled, but she had the sensation that he’d picked up on her vibrations of bitterness and resentment.

‘Shall we go downstairs again?’

Stiffly, tense with nerves, she passed him as he held open the door, and almost held her breath as her shoulder brushed his chest.

Back down in the hall, Dominick leaned on the edge of the huge square oak table, lovingly polished over the centuries, and regarded her with detached speculation.

‘Subject to your references confirming you’re not a potential burglar or cunning art thief, when did you say you could start, Miss Stuart?’

She thought rapidly. She’d been doing temporary work as a clerical assistant in a county archives office while she waited for an opportunity to make proper use of her post-graduate diploma. She’d have to pay a month’s rent on her bedsit, but at the salary being offered here that wouldn’t present a problem.

‘I…I could probably start a week on Monday.’

He looked unimpressed.

‘Is that the earliest?’

‘What did you expect? That I’d be able to start tomorrow?’ she retorted, with some spirit.

He considered her with a smoulder of amusement.

‘Are you always this…abrasive, Miss Emma Stuart?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to sound…rude.’

‘That’s better. I like my employees humble, Miss Stuart. Remember that.’

It was difficult to tell if this was his quirky sense of humour talking, or if he actually meant it. Her smile was saccharine-sweet.

‘Oh, I will, Mr Fleetwood.’

‘Then a week on Monday it is,’ he agreed, with an air of finality. He glanced at a slim Rolex on his dusky wrist, and Emma felt dismissed. ‘Mrs Shields will be here to let you in, if I’m tied up in court. Make yourself at home.’

He held out his hand, and she put her own into it with a ridiculous tremor of apprehension.

‘But don’t use up all the hot water on a Friday night,’ he added, with a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘See you, Miss Stuart…’

Emma escaped into the crunchy gravel sweep of the drive, and dived into her red Renault 5. His hand had seemed to burn her. She was trembling all over. A strong sense of panic was invading every inch of her body.

It wasn’t too late, she told herself desperately as she pressed her foot on the accelerator and left the manor behind. She could still ring and say she didn’t want the job. She could still get herself out of this, before she was in too deep to think straight…

But she did want the job, she realised in dismay. She wanted the job more than she’d ever wanted anything.

When she’d heard that Fleetwood Manor needed an archivist, her first reaction had been one of bitter curiosity, an urgent need to go and see for herself where Sir Robert Fleetwood had wrecked her parents’ lives…

Now all she seemed to be able to think of was the thrill of those ancient documents awaiting discovery in the Fleetwood attics. And Dominick Fleetwood’s mesmerising blue gaze.

She felt angry with herself, and frightened and bewildered by her reaction to the man she’d just met.

And she felt more alone, and more confused than ever…because how, in the name of God, could she feel such a frisson of awareness, such an unmistakable shiver of desire, towards a man who could well be her half-brother…?