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Determined Lady
Margaret Mayo
Saira was convinced that Great-Aunt Lizzie would never willingly have sold her beloved Honeysuckle Cottage.And in her will Lizzie had bequeathed the cottage to Saira. So how dared Jarrett Brent claim ownership? He must be bluffing. Or, worse, he'd bullied Lizzie into selling before she died.Either way, Saira wasn't going to stand for it. For once in her life, the great Jarrett Brent was going to be challenged by one very determined lady… .Look out for Margaret Mayo's next book, Bitter Memories , to be published in July.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u57e9bca1-a8aa-57c8-ba22-77e5cad026da)
Excerpt (#u080d1518-2ec7-52f5-ac32-fe999be64bdf)
About the Author (#u1d995153-f466-5801-ae9d-deacba84939f)
Title Page (#ub02c2157-2afa-55c3-9a0f-fed23ad76a22)
Chapter One (#u24070edc-4646-54f8-988f-e3474759c96f)
Chapter Two (#u36baf2b9-a5c1-5737-94f8-49eb5bc21835)
Chapter Three (#u8fba1837-822f-5296-9b49-367c80531b85)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Goodbye, Miss Carlton.”
The aggravating smile was on Jarrett’s lips. “I shall look forward to your next visit.”
His nearness was a very real threat. Saira felt her heart beat unusually fast and was intensely aware of his raw masculinity and the danger he posed. This was no ordinary man. He appeared laid-back and friendly, but beneath the surface he was as hard as steel.
Born in the industrial heart of England, MARGARET MAYO now lives with her husband in a pretty Staffordshire canal-side village. Once a secretary, she turned her hand to writing her books both at home and in exotic locations, combining her hobby of photography with her research.
Determined Lady
Margaret Mayo
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5f939d0e-4009-5ff5-97be-2add50e66b33)
SAIRA looked forward with eager anticipation to seeing her great-aunt’s cottage again—no, not Aunt Lizzie’s, her own. It was hers now, she must not forget that; she was a property owner! The thought brought a smile to her face, yet it was tinged with sadness. It was going to be difficult walking into the cottage without her aunt there. Honeysuckle Cottage was Aunt Lizzie. The two had always been inseparable in her memory.
She could visualise the grey-stone building standing on its own at the end of the village street with its little crooked chimney and the honeysuckle after which it was named twisting and climbing all around the doorway and windows. She could almost smell the heady scent it gave off on summer evenings, and she silently urged the taxi driver to put his foot down on the accelerator.
She had happy memories of the cottage, of being spoilt and pampered and given all sorts of treats. She had been Elizabeth’s favourite great-niece and had spent every summer holiday there, and many weekends in between.
Of course, when she started college she had moved in a new circle of friends and they had holidayed together, and when she qualified and got a job and her holidays were much shorter she had not visited quite so frequently. But she had always kept in touch and had worried a great deal as her aunt’s bronchitis had worsened over the years.
When Lizzie had announced that she was going to spend the winter in Florida with friends, Saira had thought that, health-wise, it was the best thing she could do, and had actively encouraged her. She had never dreamt that anything would happen, had not known that her aunt had heart problems as well—she had kept that well hidden—and had been shocked to hear that she’d had a heart attack while out there and had been in Intensive Care. She had come home eventually, and everyone had thought she was adequately recovered, then she died without warning a few weeks later.
The news of Elizabeth Harwood’s death had come as a considerable shock to all the family. Lizzie had been an institution, a wise old figurehead always ready to dole out advice. She had been brought home to Darlington for the funeral, buried next to her husband and other members of their family, including Saira’s father.
A close solicitor friend of Elizabeth’s was executor of the will and it was from him that Saira learned she was to inherit the cottage, her mother and sisters sharing whatever money there was.
As this hadn’t turned out to be very much, it had seemed an unfair sort of arrangement to Saira, and she had offered to sell the cottage and share the proceeds equally. But the family knew how much Lizzie had doted on her, and vice versa, and insisted she keep her inheritance.
Both of Saira’s sisters were married with homes of their own, but even at twenty-six-Saira still lived with her mother. Maybe if her father hadn’t died she would have moved out and perhaps bought or rented a placebut she hadn’t, and now it felt good that she owned property as well—even if she only used it for holidays. It was really too far away from her job for her to live there permanently.
The driver turned off the main road and negotiated the lanes to Amplethwaite in North Yorkshire—and to Honeysuckle Cottage. The tiny square-paned windows would probably need cleaning, Saira thought, the paintwork would be dirty, the garden might be overgrown, but it would not matter; she would soon have everything neat and tidy exactly as Lizzie had kept it.
As they reached the village Saira asked the driver to slow down, looking with new eyes at the rows of sleepy cottages, the shop, the pub, the church. It all felt different now she was no longer a visitor—it felt different too because Aunt Lizzie would no longer be there to welcome her. She would be going into an empty house, there would be no smell of freshly baked bread, no bowls of roses on the table, no cheerful greeting. A lump welled in her throat.
Saira, green-eyed and fair-skinned, had thick, dark blonde hair which she almost always wore brushed straight back off her face, plaited to one side and brought forward over her shoulder. She played with it now, as she always did in times of stress, running her fingers across the end which was like a round, fat paintbrush.
When the taxi finally pulled up she sat still for a moment surveying the silent cottage, tears in her eyes, and even after she had paid the driver and he had disappeared out of sight she still stood looking at it, and her feet were slow on the flagged path when she finally forced herself to move.
Her hesitancy turned to puzzlement and then dismay when she discovered that the key Mr Kirby had given her would not fit the lock. There had to be some mistake. Had he sent her the right one? Or——
‘Excuse me, can I help?’
Saira turned at the sound of the female voice. A tiny, bent woman leaning on a walking stick, with a wrinkled face and faded blue eyes gazed enquiringly at her. ‘Are you looking for someone? I’m afraid Mrs Harwood——’
‘I’m Mrs Harwood’s great-niece,’ cut in Saira.
‘You’re Saira?’ The old lady peered more closely and recognition dawned. ‘Goodness, so you are.’
And Saira remembered Mrs Edistone too, though she hadn’t seen her very often on her visits to Yorkshire. The woman had a reputation for knowing more about other people’s business than they did themselves, Aunt Lizzie had used to say laughingly.
‘It was sad Lizzie dying,’ said the woman, her pale eyes watering.
Saira nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. ‘Indeed it was, a very great shock.’
‘We all miss her. She was so well-loved in the village. What are you doing here? Have you come to sort out her things?’
‘Not exactly,’ admitted Saira, smiling inwardly. If Mrs Edistone wanted to know something she never hesitated to ask. ‘I’m your new neighbour. Aunt Lizzie left the cottage to me.’
The older woman frowned, her pale eyes puzzled. ‘But that can’t be; Lizzie sold it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Saira looked at her in astonishment, a frown drawing her brows together, a faint sense of unease creeping over her.
‘Lizzie sold the cottage,’ the woman repeated, tapping her stick on the floor as if to emphasise her words.
Saira shook her head. ‘You must be mistaken, Mrs Edistone,’ she said gently. ‘My aunt definitely left it to me in her will.’ The woman was old; perhaps she was confusing it with some other cottage in the village.
‘I’m never wrong,’ returned the older lady. ‘The squire bought it off her.’
‘Did Aunt Lizzie tell you that herself?’ asked Saira, still convinced there had to be some confusion.
‘Not exactly,’ she admitted, ‘but I heard it from a reliable source.’
Saira had heard about Mrs Edistone’s reliable sources. Her aunt used to think that the voices were inside the woman’s head, that she made most of her stories up. ‘Who is this squire?’ she asked. ‘I’ll go and have a word with him.’
‘Jarrett Brent,’ answered her neighbour at once. ‘He owns Frenton Hall. We call him the squire because he’s bought up most of the property around here. Everything that goes up for sale he buys—and some that don’t,’ she added darkly. ‘I don’t know what he’s trying to dobuild up the estate again, I think. But those days are long since gone. I remember when——‘
Saira was forced to listen to a long story about life as it used to be and it was another quarter of an hour before she could get away.
‘Maybe I’ll see you again?’ the woman suggested pleasantly. ‘You’re welcome to pop in for a cup of tea any time.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Saira. At the moment all she wanted to do was find this man and sort the matter out without delay. Mrs Edistone was wrong, Honeysuckle Cottage did not belong to Jarrett Brent— whoever he was—it was hers, and if he dared to say differently she would fight him every inch of the way. She left her suitcase out of sight on the back doorstep and marched around the corner to Frenton Hall.
She remembered it clearly, having peered through the railings often as a child, wondering what sort of a family lived in such an enormous place; she had never seen any children and had made up stories about them being kept imprisoned by a wicked stepmother.
The Hall did not seem so intimidating as it had in years gone by; although it was indeed a huge house built of stone with long narrow windows on all sides.
In its own parkland, it was set well back from the main road, and black and gold wrought-iron gates prevented any intruders from accidentally wandering into the grounds. Saira unlatched the gates and stormed along the well maintained driveway. She was angry, very angry, more angry than she had ever been in her life. She did not take kindly to being cheated out of her inheritance by some stranger.
She stopped at the immense solid oak door and rang the bell. This man was probably taking advantage of her aunt’s death. He probably assumed she had no relatives and spread the word that he had bought it. But Aunt Lizzie’s will was legal and binding and if he dared to refute it she would take him to court. Already in her mind she was rehearsing what she was going to say.
The door opened and the woman who stood there looked at her questioningly, the expression on her face suggesting that she should not be there. She was tall and unhealthily thin, her grey hair fastened back in a bun. ‘Yes?’ The word was snapped out, making it very clear that she did not welcome uninvited callers.
‘I’d like to speak to Mr Jarrett Brent,’ said Saira firmly. At five feet nine and in her heels, with her head high and her eyes blazing she looked formidable, but even so she found this woman extremely intimidating. She was determined, however, to stand her ground.
‘I’m afraid Mr Brent is not at home,’ the woman answered haughtily, not in the least daunted by Saira’s attitude. ‘May I tell him who called?’
Saira groaned inwardly; she had not contemplated the possibility that he might not be in. ‘When will he be back?’ she asked. ‘It’s very important that I see him.’
‘I do not know.’ The woman looked at her coldly and began to shut the door.
Saira panicked and put out her hand to stop her. ‘Please, I must see him today. Surely you must have some idea?’
‘I expect he will be in for his lunch,’ she admitted grudgingly, ‘but Mr Brent never sees anyone without an appointment.’
‘Then I’ll make one now,’ said Saira firmly. ‘I’ll be back at two o’clock; please make sure he knows. My name is Saira Carlton.’ She turned swiftly on her heel before the woman could put her off again.
Lord, she hated the man even before she had met him. ‘Mr Brent is not at home.’ ‘Mr Brent never sees anyone without an appointment.’ The words echoed mockingly in her head. Hell, who did he think he was? He was obviously a man of some means, and he was trying to add Honeysuckle Cottage to his list of properties, but it would be over her dead body. Her aunt had wanted her to have it and no way was she going to let him trick her out of it. There was justice at stake here.
With over an hour to wait, Saira decided to have lunch in the Challoner’s Arms, Amplethwaite’s only pub. It was virtually empty when she first entered but the oak-beamed room was brimming with people before she had finished her plaice and chips.
She did not recognise any of them from her past visits to Amplethwaite and guessed they were all holiday-makers. She even asked the barman about Jarrett Brent, but he did not live in the village and knew very little about him. ‘He never comes here. I’ve never seen him,’ was all the answer she got.
At five minutes to two she left and at two o’clock exactly she stood on the doorstep of Frenton Hall and pressed the bell, her heart for some reason hammering uneasily. This time the door was opened straight away, the same dour woman appearing on the threshold, her face still fierce and unwelcoming. ‘Mr Brent will see you,’ she said, standing back for her to enter.
Saira hid her tiny smile of satisfaction. It felt like a major achievement getting past this woman. They passed through a small entrance hall into a much larger gracious hall and she looked about her with curious eyes. It was colossal, with great white columns and a three-tiered staircase and doors leading in every direction, but rather than admire it she resented the fact that this man had all this wealth while he was apparently trying to do her out of one tiny cottage.
‘Through here,’ muttered the woman, pushing open one of the doors.
The library was of the same immense proportions, each wall filled with books sitting in orderly fashion on glassfronted shelves; deep, oak-framed armchairs flanked the stone fireplace, and in the hearth an arrangement of fresh roses spilled out their heady perfume. Privately she thought it a bit pretentious, all show and no warmth.
‘You don’t like it?’
The unexpected voice, deep-timbred and faintly condescending, made her spin on her heel and she found herself gazing into a pair of cold, intensely blue eyes. They were wide-spaced and long-lashed; in fact the man’s whole face was open, as though he had a frank, honest nature, though she knew that this could not be the case.
He had a wide, generous mouth which curled upwards at the corners as if he were smiling all the time, which again was definitely wrong; it wasn’t a pleasant smile, it was a mocking one. In fact his whole face was a contradiction. His eyes, though beautiful—far too beautiful for a man—were distant and assessing, his attitude faintly hostile as though he knew her reason for being here was not a friendly one.
‘What makes you think that?’ Saira locked her sloeshaped green eyes into his. He was extremely tall, with a muscle-packed body and wide, broad shoulders. Normally she was as tall as most men, but not in this case, and it annoyed her that she had to look up to him.
‘The way you were looking at it.’ His tone was crisp and faintly defensive.
‘As a matter of fact I was thinking that it didn’t look lived in,’ she announced coolly, then wondered at her temerity. It was wrong to rub this man up the wrong way when there was such a delicate issue at stake.
‘Maybe I don’t live in this particular room?’ His blue eyes were watchful on hers, cool and curious, his whole stance relaxed, though Saira guessed this could be a deliberate pose, designed to put her off guard.
‘But it is used?’ she queried.
‘Occasionally.’
‘Then it would look better if a book were left out on the table, a cushion askew.’ She was out of order, she knew, and it was most unlike her, but she already found this man a great source of irritation.
‘Blame my housekeeper, Mrs Gibbs,’ he said, his mouth curling up at the corners into a very definite smile this time, although it failed to reach his eyes; it was entirely without humour. ‘She runs around after me with a dustpan and brush. One speck of dust dare not land. She’s a zealot with a vacuum cleaner.’
Saira did not smile in return. Somehow she had imagined Jarrett Brent to be elderly, white-whiskered with a paunch, certainly not a devilishly handsome man in an expensive grey suit who had not yet reached his fortieth year. In fact he was probably nearer thirty than forty, possibly only a few years older than herself. The thought was disturbing. How could a man of his age have all this wealth?
‘I’m not here to discuss the whims of your housekeeper,’ she said shortly, wondering whether he had a wife and perhaps children, and, if so, where they were. Why this severe woman seemed to rule the roost.
‘Naturally not,’ he answered. ‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves? I’m——‘
‘Jarrett Brent,’ she cut in sharply, ‘yes, I know. And I’m Saira Carlton.’
He duly shook her hand and Saira was conscious of a warm, firm grip that lasted slightly longer than she liked. But if he thought he could mollify her by pretending to be friendly he was mistaken.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he said, gesturing towards one of the armchairs.
Saira shook her head. ‘No, thanks, I prefer to stand.’
Dark brows rose. ‘It’s your prerogative,’ and there was a distinct hardening to his tone. He clearly did not take kindly to her less than friendly attitude. ‘Is there something I can do for you, Miss Carlton? Gibbs said you had an important matter to discuss.’
