Vengeful Bride

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d6008d86-f436-53b6-9367-559811c0ddcd)

EMMA swung her reading glasses off and laid them carefully on the desk, beside the faded parchment. She rubbed a grubby hand shakily over her face. She was tired, hungry, stiff with sitting for so long. The attic room was cold. It felt like the cold of centuries of unheated stone, and the small Calor-gas fire flickering beside her hadn’t a hope of dispelling it. And yet inside her excitement warmed her, burned like a secret flame…She felt a consuming urgency to continue working. End of daylight spelled end of work, and she was so engrossed she didn’t want to finish yet…

She caught her breath sharply, struck by the complexity of her present situation. Here she was, poring over ancient papers in the dusty, ghost-filled attics of Fleetwood Manor, deciphering letters to Sir George Fleetwood, written over four hundred years ago, back in the sixteenth century. The old iron casks and wooden boxes overflowed with a treasure-trove of historical detail…

And judging from the faded ink and parchment, Sir George’s character bore lamentable similarities to his more recent descendants. Sir Robert, Dominick’s father, could have been an uncanny reincarnation of his reprehensible ancestors. And Dominick…? She shivered a little. Remembering the lazy, speculative gleam in his eyes at their last encounter gave her the distinct impression that family traits lived on in the present generation…

A footstep at the door made her swivel round quickly. She’d expected to see Jamie, Mrs Shields’ grandson. But Dominick Fleetwood stood there. Her stomach lurched alarmingly.

‘Still at it?’ He checked a slim gold watch on his wrist, and tilted a wry smile at her. ‘Isn’t this beyond the call of duty?’

She stood up slowly. She suddenly felt conscious of her appearance. She hadn’t seen Dominick for the entire fortnight she’d been here. He hadn’t come down from London last weekend. Deeply involved in her work, she’d almost forgotten that it was Friday night again, and that there was a possibility he might arrive. Now here he was, darkly devastating in dove-grey suit and charcoal silk tie, radiating aristocratic elegance, and making her feel like an unkempt maid-servant…

‘It’s riveting stuff,’ she confessed, with a short laugh. ‘I just can’t stay away from it!’

‘Letters and bills and inventories and rent arrears, spanning the last five and a half centuries?’ he mocked softly. ‘Worth starving and freezing to death over?’

Emma reached a hand up to smooth her hair. It was caught up in a thick ponytail, with strands escaping around her face, and she knew it must look a mess. Just as she must look a mess. She had pins and needles in her right foot from hooking it around the rungs of the chair for hours on end. She shook it, and stamped on it surreptitiously.

‘I might be in danger of freezing, but certainly not of starving,’ she retorted lightly. ‘Mrs Shields and Jamie keep me supplied with a regular flow of home-made flapjacks and mugs of tea!’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She felt the cool gaze slide consideringly over her. She stiffened, her embarrassment deepening. In old jeans, a thick, baggy black polo-neck, a strawberry-pink checked shirt worn open as a jacket and clumpy Doc Marten boots she was hardly femme fatale material. But did she want to be? a small voice cautioned. This job, in spite of her muddled bitterness about the Fleetwood family, had proved irresistible.

It was a gem of a job. The kind every historian must surely dream about. Not just for the unique archives, but for the magnificent working environment. She’d felt deeply privileged, having the freedom to explore the old manor, admire the ancient beauty of the place. There was even a fifteenth-century Great Hall, complete with minstrels’ gallery. But the idea of finding Dominick Fleetwood dangerously attractive hadn’t occurred to her. It was a complication she simply hadn’t considered…A sick feeling of panic crept into her stomach.

‘What’s wrong with your foot?’

‘It’s gone to sleep!’ she confessed, with a grimace. ‘I have this habit of twisting it round the chair when I’m sitting for a long time…’

‘I told you I didn’t want a Cinderella, slaving away night and day,’ he rebuked softly. ‘You look as if you haven’t slept since you started two weeks ago!’

‘Thanks a lot!’ Her cheeks felt hot. How dared he make personal remarks about her appearance?

‘You need some exercise,’ he judged coolly. ‘How do you normally keep fit?’

‘I…I swim,’ she heard herself saying vaguely, too taken aback by his abrupt interrogation to protest, ‘and sometimes I play tennis. Or jog. But I really don’t…’

‘Have you got a swimming costume with you?’

‘Well, yes, but I really…’

‘Tennis racket?’

‘No! And honestly, I…’ She was reeling under his patronising directness.

‘There’s a place I use when I’m down in this part of the world. I was planning to spend the evening there anyway.’ He shot her a sudden grin which seemed to stop her heartbeat for a few seconds. ‘Stress mounts up in my business. I tend to need a lot of unwinding. Come with me. It’ll do you good.’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly…’

‘I’m not asking you, Miss Stuart,’ he cut in calmly, ‘I’m telling you. Rules of the job. A fit body produces an alert brain.’

‘Of all the pompous…’ She bit her lip on the outburst, but not before she’d seen the steely flash of amusement in his eyes.

‘Careful, Miss Stuart. What happened to humility?’ The narrowed gaze raked her mercilessly. She began to tingle, from her neck to her knees, where his eyes slid over her.

‘Sorry, sir, she fenced, with mock-deference. Sketching a rough curtsy, she added with overdone meekness, ‘I’ll go and get ready right away! What would you recommend I wear?’

‘Something suitable for dinner.’ He nodded with bleak amusement. ‘We might as well have a meal there later. I’ll see you in my study in half an hour.’

This sounded horribly ominous. But she seemed to have little option. There was a warning note in the cool drawl which brought the colour surging into her face.

‘All right.’ She spoke through clenched teeth, but she wished her heart would stop its dull thudding against her breastbone.

Seething with resentment, she retreated to her bedroom to get ready. In her head she called him every name she could think of, to vent her feelings. Of all the autocratic, arrogant, self-opinionated, overbearing, cranky fitness freaks, he took the honours…Who did he think he was? Being temporary lord of the manor was one thing. Treating her like a half-witted child was quite another…

But the really infuriating thing, she acknowledged truthfully, was that the thought of swimming or playing tennis with Dominick Fleetwood, and then having dinner with him, secretly filled her with such conflicting feelings of dread and excitement that she trembled at the prospect of her own weakness…

Her feelings of hostility were her only protection. It was a good thing she disliked him so intensely. Because in every other respect her relationship with her employer, she reflected impatiently, seemed to be veering hopelessly off course…

The place Dominick frequented when he came down to Fleetwood Manor turned out to be an extremely exclusive country club. Immaculately landscaped grounds spread out, thickly wooded, revealing an outdoor swimming-pool, still under its winter wraps, as well as a big, covered indoor pool, and all-weather tennis courts with brand-new surfaces gleaming emerald beneath efficient floodlighting. She glanced at him apprehensively, as he drove between ranks of Rolls and Bentleys and Mercedes, and swung his forest-green Porsche into a parking place near the entrance.

‘You could have warned me it was like this,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’m hardly in this sort of league…!’

He turned a gaze of genuine surprise on her.

‘This sort of league?’ he echoed calmly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You must know what I mean!’ She glanced down at the simple, ethnic-style full skirt she wore over a long-sleeved white body. ‘Are we supposed to be having dinner here?’

‘If you’re worried about the way you look,’ he said after a few moments’ cool consideration, ‘there’s no need.’ The smoky blue gaze assessed her clear, make-up-free skin, shiny chestnut hair and the soft curves of her figure beneath the clinging white top as he spoke. His eyes lingered fleetingly on her full breasts, nipples suddenly hard as cherry stones under his gaze. Emma felt her insides fold up in an alarming fashion, almost squeezing the breath from her lungs. Her thighs felt boneless.

‘You look fine.’ The verdict was succinct. He got out, retrieved their sports bags from the boot, and sent her a smile which flipped her heart over as he gestured towards the canopied entrance. In dark blue silk shirt and designer-cut charcoal trousers, he looked lean, broad-shouldered, and overwhelmingly gorgeous. The tug of attraction was so fierce, she found herself gritting her teeth…

It was surprisingly enjoyable, playing tennis on the floodlit outside courts. And somehow, faced with the challenge of holding her own against a player not only vastly more experienced but vastly stronger, she managed to acquit herself quite well. Dominick won, but she actually took a couple of games off him. The tingle of pleasure made her glow all over.

But one set was definitely enough. Her green tracksuit, the only suitable clothing she’d unearthed for the event, felt too warm. She wished she’d brought white skirt and T-shirt. Dominick had started in a black tracksuit, but discarded the trousers after the first couple of games, revealing white shorts and long, healthily tanned legs, coarsely haired and with impressively honed muscles.

‘You play quite well,’ he complimented her. He met her at the net and wryly observed her pink cheeks and air of triumphant enjoyment. ‘Do you want to play the best of three?’

She shook her head. ‘Are you trying to kill me off? I got to a reasonable standard when I was at school, but I’m so out of practice I’m amazed I managed to win any games at all!’

‘You won them fairly,’ he assured her. ‘All I held back on was my serve.’

‘Just as well!’ The power of Dominick’s returns had been sufficient evidence of the potential velocity of his normal service. She blew upwards to lift the damp strands of her hair from her forehead, and shot him a tentative smile. ‘I’m roasting in this tracksuit. Can we have a swim now?’

‘Indeed we can, Miss Stuart.’ The gleam in the blue eyes was difficult to gauge. But the heat from playing tennis seemed to intensify into another kind of heat as she felt his eyes rake assessingly over her figure beneath the green jersey of the tracksuit.

It took only minutes to swap tracksuit for swimsuit, and the water felt deliciously refreshing as she slid in. She glanced warily round for Dominick. He’d appeared at the deep end, dark and intensely masculine in brief navy swimming trunks. She watched, transfixed, as he paused, then dived cleanly in with an impressive ripple of muscle. Her steady breaststroke seemed rather feeble compared with his several lengths of masterly front crawl. He finally surfaced a few feet in front of her, laughing.