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‘That will save us money,’ she had agreed, and had been teased for her Yorkshire sense of thrift. ‘Well,’ she had defiantly retorted, ‘that’s how I was brought up! To count the pennies. You wouldn’t want a wife who chucks money around, would you?’
‘Certainly wouldn’t,’ he had grinned, then said, ‘Oh, it will be fun, Laura! During the week, in between doing my work, I’ll have lots to do around the house and garden, so I won’t be lonely, or miss you too much, and then at weekends we can make love and talk by the fire or in the garden! We’re going to have a wonderful life.’
Whenever Laura met old girlfriends she was usually appalled by the men they had picked. Most of them had husbands who, however attractive or pleasant they might seem, were stuck in the conventional male path—spoilt, thoughtless, domineering, expecting to be waited on hand and foot, to have a well-cooked meal on the table when they came home from work, their perfectly laundered shirts hanging in the wardrobe ready for them to put on each morning.
Her friends were always complaining about them. Yet they stayed with them, almost seemed proud of their behaviour. Laura found it baffling. Thank heavens Patrick wasn’t like that. He was a partner, not a master: good-looking, charming, but kind-hearted and easygoing too. He had a delightful personality and Laura had never met anyone, male or female, who didn’t like him, but he was also intensely practical and hard-working. He could cook better than she could, he loved to see his home looking spotless and spent hours every week doing housework, doing his own washing, ironing, even sewing on buttons if he lost one from a shirt.
She suddenly caught sight of a clock on a table; good heavens, was that the time? She ought to be on her way; traffic coming into York would be quite heavy soon.
She paused at the front door to check her reflection in the mirror hanging there. Her blonde hair was a tossing cloud of curls, her skin was smooth and dewy, her full mouth softly pink—but it was on her slanting green eyes that her stare stayed. Why was there that look in them? She couldn’t even define it, but she didn’t look like a rapturously happy woman, and she ought to! Life was showering her with everything she had ever wanted, so why did she feel so restless?
But she knew why! Patrick was everything she wanted a man to be, and yet...and yet she had never once felt the sort of overwhelming desire for him that she knew he felt for her.
Well, so what? she defiantly told her reflection. Did you have to feel like that to be in love? That might be one aspect of love, but it wasn’t everything. But her green eyes silently held the answer: isn’t it? Why did she feel this restless, unsatisfied need if it wasn’t important?
Is there something wrong with me? Why don’t I want Patrick the way he wants me? When he made love to her she always felt a sensual enjoyment, pleasure in the stroking hands and warm mouth, the gentle physical contact, but she had never once gone crazy, lost her head, ached for him, and it disturbed her. She knew it disturbed Patrick, too; and it hurt her to know she was hurting him, because she loved him. But was loving him enough?
If only she dared talk to her sister, or had a friend she trusted enough to ask, Am I just cold by nature? I’m not frigid, am I? What is the matter with me?
But maybe she had let herself get wound up over nothing; maybe she would change after she and Patrick were married, when they were alone all weekend in their cottage and the tensions of their engagement were over?
The telephone rang; she ran to pick it up. ‘Hello? Laura Grainger speaking.’
‘Laura, we’ve got a crisis!’ It was Barry Courtley’s voice, sounding agitated.
‘What now?’ she demanded, instantly alert. Why did she go on working with his model agency? He seemed to rush from one crisis to another; he was the most disorganised man! He could definitely learn a thing or two from Patrick!
‘The shoot at Castle Howard!’ panted Barry.
‘What about it?’
‘The girls will finish there at eleven-thirty and have to be back in York by twelve-thirty to start shooting in the Shambles by one, but their driver has broken down on the road and I can’t get another taxi out there in time. Saturday is always a busy day for them.’
‘Haven’t any of the girls got a car, for heaven’s sake? Why did you have to lay on a taxi?’
‘It’s safer,’ mumbled Barry. ‘Then they can’t plead they got stuck in traffic or their car wouldn’t start. The taxi goes round and picks them all up, drops them at wherever they’re shooting, then goes back for them...only this time the taxi broke down en route and there isn’t another free for ages.’
‘What about the photographer?’
‘He only has a small two-seater van; his equipment takes up most of the space in the back, and he has that hulking great assistant in the front with him. I’d go myself, but I’m due at my sister’s wedding in Durham at three; I’ve got to leave right away, then I thought of you...’
‘Oh, did you?’ she retorted. ‘I’m busy too, Barry! I’ve got better things to do with my time than play chauffeur to your girls!’
‘But you did say you were going that way this morning and might look in on the Castle Howard shoot!’ he protested, wounded innocence in his tones.
Laura had to admit that. Still frowning, she did some quick calculations. ‘Yes, OK, I’ll pick them up. How many girls was it? Four? Yes, I can just about squeeze them into my Mini. I have to be at Malton by eleven, and should be at Castle Howard at around eleven-thirty. The timing will be tight—I have to see a cottage—but supposing that we leave there at twelve...yes, I can do it. Will you be able to talk to the girls first?’
‘Yes, they’re going to ring me back.’
‘Well, tell them to meet me at the main gate, at eleven-thirty. Will they have much stuff with them?’
‘Clothes, make-up, shoes, the usual stuff. They might be able to stow some of that in the photographer’s van, if it helps.’
‘Well, I should have room in my car. Now, I’d better go or I’ll be late too.’
The drive to Malton was quite a rapid run, in spite of the traffic going from and coming to York, and she reached the estate agent’s office exactly on time. As she pulled up outside, the estate agent emerged, smiling.
Mr Dale was a broad, short Yorkshire man with a face like a well-weathered prune. He shook hands with a firm grip, giving her the grimace which passed for a smile with him.
‘Well, I think we’ve finally come up with exactly what you’ve been wanting, Miss Grainger. Nice little property, needs the odd job done to it, mind—lick of paint, some work on the roof—but it could be made very comfortable without costing an arm and a leg. It’s not an easy trip from here; do you want to come with me, or will you take your own car?’
‘I’ll take my own car, then I can drive straight back to York,’ she decided, and he nodded.
‘Follow me close, then, Miss Grainger; don’t get yourself lost. Remember, we’re turning off at the Castle Howard road.’
He was about to climb into his car, but she stopped him. ‘Mr Dale, I have to pick some girls up from Castle Howard on our way. It won’t take a minute; they should be waiting for us at the main gates.’
‘Work there, do they?’ he asked, looking interested.
‘No, they’re models; they’ve been working in the grounds, with a photographer.’
The drive back towards York was easier because the roads were not quite so crowded now. The road which led to Castle Howard had once been the private road of the family who owned the castle; they had built it in the days long before cars. About seven miles long, it ran across country, between green fields, and wasn’t busy, so they were able to drive fast. It was just after half-past eleven when they arrived at Castle Howard’s main gate, and to Laura’s relief the girls were waiting as arranged.
‘This is ace of you, Laura,’ a skinny black-haired girl said, clambering in beside her, folding her long, long legs somehow into the limited space available. The other girls climbed into the back and settled themselves, pushing and giggling.
Mr Dale had drawn up in front of Laura’s car and was waiting, watching in his driving mirror as the models one by one vanished into the little Mini. Laura could see his bemused expression in his mirror.
‘Thought we were going to have to walk!’ one of the girls in the back said. ‘Thanks, Laura.’
‘That’s OK, I was passing the gates anyway. All in? Then off we go.’ Laura waved to Mr Dale, who started his engine again and moved away with her car following him.
‘Barry’s such a skinflint,’ the black-haired girl said crossly. ‘He always books the cheapest transport—he gets block bookings for half the price and they send their oldest car or coach, and it’s always breaking down. I’m fed up with him—I’m moving to another agency down south as soon as I can get placed.’
The girls in the back made mocking noises. One of them drawled, ‘That’ll be the day! You’ve been saying that for as long as I can remember, Suzy.’
‘I mean it this time!’
‘Sure you do!’ the other girls drawled, and her friends in the back seat giggled.
‘It’s like driving around with a lot of kids; stop squabbling,’ Laura said, then ruefully realised that kids were what most of them were. Suzy was twenty-one now, Yasmin nineteen, but the others were mostly sixteen or seventeen.
Mr Dale had turned off the road now on to a rough, bumpy track between wire fences which clearly led eventually to a farm. Laura followed him; the car bumped and grated over ruts in the track. Laura hated to think what this was doing to her tyres. Surely this wasn’t the only road to this cottage?
Then she saw it and her green eyes widened, glowing. In one glance she saw that it was the sort of place she had always dreamt of living in. An old flint and stone-built cottage with a slate roof, set in a walled garden with an apple tree leaning over the gate, it stood alone with fields all round it, and Laura loved it at sight.
She pulled up behind Mr Dale’s car and got out, slamming her door. The models fell out, chattering excitedly.
‘Oh, isn’t it sweet? You going to buy it, Laura?’ Yasmin asked, walking with difficulty on the rough surface of the track in her stilt-like heels.
‘Is this where you and Patrick are going to live when you’re married?’ asked Suzy.
‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ cooed Yasmin. ‘You are lucky, Laura. Mind if we gatecrash the church? I’d love to see you getting married.’
‘I’ll send you an invitation,’ promised Laura, and the other girls excitedly chattered to her.
‘For all of us? Can we all come to the wedding? Oh, great, thanks, Laura.’
‘Want a bridesmaid?’ Yasmin asked wistfully. ‘I’ve never been a real bridesmaid. I dressed up as one, once, for that bridal shop advert—ever so pretty the dress was, sort of peach satin, lots of lace, too, and I carried a little round bouquet of creamy rosebuds with a silver foil backing. I kept it afterwards, got it hanging on my dressing-table; it dried lovely, the roses still smell nice. But I’ve never been a real bridesmaid.’
Two girls were tottering along the track, giggling. ‘Ooh, look, there’s cows in this field...black and white ones! Moo, moo, come here, moos! Look at them staring; what a hoot... I’ve never seen one this close, have you, Yaz? Come and look! Haven’t they got big heads...oh, look at that one’s tongue—all rough, like sandpaper...Hello, moos...’
Mr Dale watched them with a mixture of disbelief and indulgence. ‘No brains at all, have they?’ he murmured to Laura, who smiled and shrugged.
‘They’re nice girls, though, when you get to know them.’
At that instant a tractor turned out of one of the fields and chugged noisily towards them only to stop dead, the engine throbbing, while the driver stared at them with a dark scowl on his face.
He shouted something Laura couldn’t hear above the noise of his tractor, and waved his arms at them.
Mr Dale groaned.
‘What did he say?’ asked Laura, but before the estate agent could answer the tractor driver switched off his engine and shouted again, and this time they all heard what he said.
‘How many times do I have to tell you? Get off my land or I’ll set my dogs on you!’
The models shrieked and ran back towards the car.
‘His land?’ Laura asked Mr Dale. ‘I don’t understand; is this his cottage?’
‘No, no, it belongs to a lady who’s lived here for years.’
‘Then what does he mean, his land?’
Mr Dale didn’t answer. He was looking nervous. The tractor driver had jumped down, was striding towards them, long, muscled legs rapidly covering the ground. Laura tensed with an instant hostility. He was everything she disliked in a man. Tall, broad, with thick, windswept black hair, he certainly couldn’t be accused of charm or good looks. His face rugged, powerful, he had a jaw she recognised as belligerent, even at a distance, and piercing grey eyes glittering with rage.
‘Ooh...’ giggled the models, clustering behind Laura, as if for protection. ‘He looks real mad, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.’
‘Don’t know about that! Wouldn’t mind at all, actually!’ Yasmin whispered and set them all shrieking with laughter, which didn’t soften the lines of the man’s angry face.
‘Who is he?’ Laura hurriedly asked Mr Dale, who crossly muttered back,
‘Josh Kern. He owns the farm, all this land...’ His voice broke off as the dark man reached them and stopped, his legs apart in a threatening stance.
Mr Dale was not the nervous type, but Laura saw his throat move convulsively as he swallowed.
‘For the last time, will you get off my land?’ snarled Josh Kern.
Mr Dale stood his ground, facing up to him. ‘Mr Kern, you don’t own this cottage, and the owner has been using this right of way for many years, as you know perfectly well.’
‘There’s no right of way; this is a private road, and I’m taking legal steps to establish that fact!’ Josh Kern snarled. ‘Now, get these women out of here, and don’t come back!’
Laura bristled. ‘I came here to see this cottage, Mr Kern, and as you don’t own it you can’t stop me!’
He slowly swung his head in her direction, his grey eyes full of menace.
‘Don’t be so sure about that, whoever you are.’
‘She’s Laura Grainger,’ Yasmin told him, her face flushed with the excitement of the conflict, and determined to get his attention. She wasn’t frightened. In fact, this was her idea of fun, watching an angry man bellowing at someone, especially a man this sexy. It beat hanging around waiting to be photographed any day!
She was disappointed, however. Josh Kern ignored her. He went on staring narrowly at Laura, from her clouds of blonde curls and full pink mouth to her long, slender legs and tiny feet, his cold eyes contemptuous.
‘Who are all these people, Dale? Actresses?’ he bit out, flicking a glance over the other girls with the same distaste.
‘Models,’ Mr Dale growled.
Josh Kern’s mouth tightened. ‘Models!’
The girls posed for him, smiles inviting.
His face tightened. ‘My God! Are they all planning to move in here? Not if I can stop it. Listen to me, Miss...whatever your name is...if you’re the one who might buy this place... Did Mr Dale explain that this cottage really belongs to my farm? That it was given to someone, not sold, and that I want it back? I hoped to get it back legally, because there was no legal conveyance, just a scribbled paper saying the cottage was a gift, but the court upheld it. Then I tried to buy it back, but my offer was refused although it was far more than the cottage is worth on the open market. The present owner insists she’ll only sell to someone else. Anyone else, so long as it isn’t me, apparently!’ His eyes flashed. ‘Apparently, I can’t force her to sell it back to me...’
Clearly, thought Laura, he wished he could!
He went on fiercely, ‘But I can refuse to let anyone who buys the place use my land as an access road, so be warned! If you do buy Fern Cottage you’ll be buying yourself a lot of trouble.’
‘Don’t you threaten me!’ Laura bit back at him, her head up and her green eyes very angry.
‘I’m not threatening, I’m warning,’ Josh Kern said very softly, and something in that dark face made her skin turn cold.
The other girls gazed, transfixed, their eyes wide and incredulous.
Laura knew how they felt; this man was not someone you could ignore or forget. He had such penetrating eyes; in his rage they turned silvery, as though white-hot.
Mr Dale cleared his throat and nervously suggested, ‘Shall we go and look round the cottage now, Miss Grainger?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, her eyes still held by Josh Kern’s menacing stare.
‘I meant every word,’ he said in that soft, dangerous voice, and she believed him. He had the look of a man who always meant what he said.
Maybe she should forget any idea of buying Fern Cottage?
CHAPTER TWO
‘HE CAN’T do anything to stop us using his road! If someone lived in that cottage for years and used his road all that time then that makes it a legal right of way,’ Patrick said on the phone later that day when Laura rang him to report on the cottage.
‘That’s what Mr Dale said. He told me to ignore the threats; there was no way we could be denied access if we bought the cottage.’
‘Mind you,’ Patrick said thoughtfully, ‘this farmer chap...what did you say his name was?’
