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‘But—’
‘You and I both know what he is,’ the man cut in impatiently. ‘Merlin is the one who has doubts, and I think it better if we humour him—don’t you?’
Crys glanced down at the slavering animal. ‘Exactly what sort of…what breed is he?’ she amended, opting on the side of caution. After all, Merlin had only just stopped growling again.
‘Irish Wolfhound,’ the man supplied. ‘Now, I’m sure it’s been very pleasant passing the time of day with you—’ his tone implied otherwise ‘—but, as you can no doubt see, I have a grave to finish digging. So if you wouldn’t mind—’
‘It really is a grave?’ she gasped, her grey gaze once again wide with apprehension. The damp of the fog seemed to have seeped into her very bones and she gave a slight shiver.
Good heavens, perhaps she really had stumbled on Dracula’s castle, after all? Although she’d thought vampires only came out at night. Well, the heaviness of the damp fog hardly made it daylight, did it? She had been driving with her headlights on for the last two hours!
‘Who—er, I mean, what—?’ Crys began to take small steps backwards even as she formulated the question, positive that if she attempted to run the dog would have her down on the ground in seconds. The hound was obviously completely obedient to his master. A master who seemed more menacing by the second…
Not that he had looked particularly inviting in the first place. How to make a dignified exit? That was the problem.
Forget dignified—she just wanted out of here!
‘You’re right, Mr—er—I have taken up enough of your time.’ She tried to smile as she spoke, but her cheeks refused to comply with the instruction, her lips twisting into a grimace rather than a smile. ‘I’ll just be on my way—’
‘Where?’
She blinked at the abruptness of his question. ‘I’m sorry…?’
The man scowled darkly. ‘Not too many people come down this lane, let alone down the driveway; I asked where you were going,’ he snapped.
Were going…!
This was obviously the cue for Crys to ask for directions to Sam Barton’s house and be on her way. But now that it had come to the crunch she found she didn’t want to tell this man exactly where she was going. Or why. But she had to say something!
She shrugged, shivering again as the damp fog penetrated her woollen jacket. ‘I’m on my way to stay with friends.’
That was it; make sure that he knew she was expected somewhere, that someone would notice and call the police when she didn’t arrive at her destination. Not that she was altogether sure Molly would go to that extreme; her friend would probably just assume Crys had changed her mind about coming to Yorkshire, after all. But this man didn’t have to know that!
‘I must have just taken a wrong turning in the fog,’ she tried to dismiss lightly. ‘I won’t trouble you any further—’
‘As I’ve already pointed out, Merlin is more troubled by your presence than I am,’ the man drawled.
‘He seems—calm enough now,’ Crys attempted pleasantly. She remembered reading somewhere—she had no idea where!—that it was harder for someone to harm you if you established some sort of rapport with them, that an attacker was caught off-guard if the victim—
She was not a victim, damn it! She was merely a lost traveller who had stumbled upon—well, she wasn’t sure what she had stumbled upon. But it was unnerving enough for her to know she wanted to leave. Now.
‘Looks can be deceptive,’ the man told her. ‘Irish Wolfhounds, as a breed, are born hunters,’ he continued almost conversationally. ‘Instinctively trained to—’
‘Are you deliberately trying to frighten me?’ From somewhere—probably that same article that had advised building up a rapport!—she recalled that it was always better to attack rather than let oneself be attacked.
The man’s mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. ‘Do I need to try?’ he taunted.
Her cheeks coloured fiery-red at his obvious mockery. ‘I’m not scared of you—’
‘Aren’t you?’ He grimaced. ‘Then you’re giving a very good imitation of it!’
She gasped at the deliberate cruelty of his jibe. ‘I am not—’
‘There’s a vein pulsing erratically at your left temple,’ he cut in. ‘Your pupils are dilated, the muscles in your face refuse to obey your commands, your body is tensed to rigidity, your hands are clenched so tightly into fists that you’ve probably made puncture marks in your palms with those nicely painted nails—’ his gaze returned to her face ‘—and, unless I’m mistaken, despite the fact that you’re obviously shivering with the cold, there’s a very unbecoming bead of perspiration on your top lip.’
Everything he had said was true, Crys knew. But the fact that he was so aware of them too only served to make her angry at his unnecessary taunting.
‘Women don’t perspire—they glow!’ she bit back, two bright wings of colour in her cheeks now, annoyed that, despite all her efforts, he seemed to have so easily gauged her emotions. ‘This place is like something out of a Gothic horror story, guarded by the Hound of the Baskervilles. You step out of a grave to greet me, looking every inch as wild and savage as your—your hound—’ she amended her words in an effort to stop the dog from growling once again ‘—and you expect me to look calm and collected!’ She was breathing hard in her agitation, her fists clenched in frustrated anger now.
The man shrugged, apparently completely unperturbed by her outburst. ‘I don’t expect you to be anything,’ he replied scathingly. ‘I didn’t invite you here. I have no idea who you are. Nor do I have any interest in knowing,’ he finished insultingly.
‘And you have a grave to finish digging!’ Crys inserted disgustedly.
‘For a relation of Merlin’s,’ he explained. ‘An Alsatian. We found him in the woods this morning.’ He nodded tersely in the direction of a tarpaulin that lay on the ground several feet away, unnoticed by Crys until that moment.
A tarpaulin that obviously covered the body of a dead dog…
She swallowed hard. ‘Doesn’t he, or she, have an owner? Someone who—who needs to know about—? They might want to bury their pet themselves.’ She couldn’t take her gaze off the tarpaulin, her knees shaking in reaction, that shaking moving up the whole of her body as she spoke, even her voice beginning to quiver over the last few words.
‘It probably did have an owner at one stage, but to my knowledge it’s been living wild in the woods the last few months. The local farmers have been trying to capture it for weeks, because its been bothering sheep that are in lamb.’ His mouth thinned. ‘I guess one of them must have caught up with it.’
Crys’s startled eyes searched the hardness of that partly obscured face. ‘You mean—is that legal?’ she choked as the full realisation of the dog’s death began to hit her.
‘Probably not. But proving it would be a problem,’ he replied grimly.
Crys knew she had gone very pale—could feel the blood draining from her cheeks even as her fascinated gaze returned to the tarpaulin. ‘I—do you think it was—quick?’
The man frowned his irritation. ‘How should I know? Although, I doubt it. Poison is usually slow and insidious.’
‘Poison?’ Crys echoed faintly, eyes now huge in the paleness of her face, the band of freckles across the bridge of her nose standing out in stark relief.
He nodded abruptly. ‘There are no wounds, no sign of any injury, in fact; poison is as good a guess as any for the cause of death.’
Death, death, and more death. Everywhere she looked—everywhere she went!—there was death!
It was Crys’s last agonising thought before blackness engulfed her and she crumpled down onto the damp earth…
CHAPTER TWO
CRYS came back to consciousness feeling something rough against the side of her face and a rocking sensation which, since her head was already light and disorientated, threatened to bring on a bout of motion sickness.
She opened her eyes to find herself elevated off the ground, obviously being carried, her gaze widening with horror as she found herself looking up into the fiercely grim face of the man she now remembered owned an equally savage-looking dog. A dog that padded along at its master’s side.
Crys opened her mouth—
‘Don’t you dare scream!’ the man muttered between clenched teeth.
Crys closed her mouth as abruptly as she had opened it, totally startled by the fact that, even though he wasn’t looking at her but grimly ahead, the man had realised she was once again fully conscious.
‘If you scream I’m simply going to drop you where I stand,’ the man added almost pleasantly.
As long as he—and his dog!—kept on walking, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing! It might at least give Crys a chance to run back to her car and get away from here.
‘I’ve had one hell of a day already,’ the man continued harshly. ‘Finding that dog this morning was far from a pleasant way to start the day—quiet, Merlin!’ he bit out sharply as the dog began to growl at the unacceptable term. Merlin was instantly silenced.
Which only confirmed for Crys that of the two, and despite the animal’s obvious size—and fierceness!—the man was the one to fear the most.
‘I found the dead—canine this morning,’ the man corrected, in deference to Merlin’s sensitive feelings. ‘I was trying to at least give it a decent burial by digging a grave in ground that hasn’t thawed since November.’ He flexed tired shoulder muscles. ‘And then, finally to make my day, my privacy is invaded by a female with an overactive imagination who seems to consider that my only companion resembles a hound from hell—and that I’m right down there with him!’ He viciously kicked a door open before striding forcefully into the house and into its kitchen. ‘With hindsight, I should have just left you where you fell!’ He dumped Crys down unceremoniously onto a chair before straightening and striding impatiently from the room.
Thankfully, the dog followed him!
Crys blinked dazedly, glad of the respite—no matter how brief!—from the man’s overbearing personality. And his dog.
As her head finally began to clear it took her all of two seconds to realise that here was her chance to escape. Perhaps her only chance. She doubted—
She couldn’t believe this kitchen!
The man had dumped her so ungraciously in a kitchen Crys could never have imagined in her wildest dreams. Never have imagined in this outwardly derelict castle, that was…
It was a beautiful room, with gorgeous mellow oak cupboards and a dark green Aga throwing out the heat that made the room deliciously warm after the cold January weather outside. A large oak work-table stood in the middle of the kitchen, and every implement a cook might need to work with hung from a rack overhead, with saucepans that gleamed with copper brightness. There was a stone-flagged floor beneath Crys’s feet, in warm browns and creams, and the chair she sat on was one of the kitchen dining set of mellow oak.
After the lack of care and the decay on the outside, this kitchen was—incredible.
‘Not what you were expecting, is it?’
Because of her utter surprise at these unexpected surroundings she had just lost her opportunity for escape, Crys realised.
She turned frowningly to look at her reluctant host. He stood silhouetted in the doorway, watching her from beneath hooded lids.
She took in his changed appearance—the overlong dark hair brushed into some semblance of order, the heavy black sweater removed in favour of a jumper of soft dark green cashmere. If the interior of the house was a surprise, then this man’s changed appearance was equally so. But, to Crys’s eyes, that didn’t make him any more approachable.
Her expression showed her puzzlement. ‘Why do you deliberately give the impression on the outside that the house is unlived-in?’ She was pretty sure it was deliberate…
He raised dark brows, moving forward to place a copper kettle on top of the Aga before turning back to face her. ‘Why do you think?’ he drawled scathingly.
He looked younger now he wasn’t looming out of the fog, and, without the bulky jumper, taller and leaner too. The face beneath the growth of beard appeared unlined. Crys put his age somewhere in his thirties. In fact, now that she could see him more clearly, there was something vaguely familiar about him…
Although no amount of feelings of familiarity could dispel the hard mockery in that dark green gaze!
Crys grimaced. ‘To keep at bay females with overactive imaginations…?’
Very white teeth showed briefly in the semblance of a grin. ‘In one,’ he confirmed with satisfaction, turning to remove the boiling kettle from the Aga. ‘Tea or coffee?’
After her terrifying thoughts of a few minutes ago—evoked by such an overactive imagination?—this man’s polite offer of a hot drink seemed slightly ludicrous. Or maybe she was the one who was ludicrous…?
‘Coffee. Thanks,’ she accepted distractedly as he took a tin and cups out of one of the cupboards, his back towards her. She reached up to remove her hat and unwind the scarf at her throat, now she was warmed by the heat of the room. ‘Er—where’s Merlin?’ she added somewhat nervously; the hound hadn’t returned with his master.
‘Off chasing rabbits, I expect,’ his owner dismissed unconcernedly. ‘I let him out of the front door a few minutes—’ he broke off abruptly.
Crys was so distracted by the comfort of her surroundings, the welcome warmth after hours of driving through cold damp fog, that for a few seconds she didn’t even realise he had stopped talking. She sat back in her chair, her eyes closed, as she began to thaw out. But she slowly became aware of a charged silence, the very air about her seeming to crackle with electricity.
She turned back to her host, colour warming her cheeks as she saw the way he stared gloweringly across the room at her. She knew what he would see, of course; long silver-blonde hair cascading silkily down her back, its colour even more startling against the black of her coat, eyes of clear grey, a light dusting of freckles over the bridge of her uptilted nose, her mouth wide and pouting, even if unsmiling at the moment.
Perhaps she had been a little precipitate in relaxing her guard enough to remove her scarf and hat…
She waited for his startled expression to change to one of recognition, steeling herself for what he would say next, her tension rising as he said nothing.
She swallowed hard, pointed chin raised challengingly. ‘Not what you were expecting either?’ She deliberately put a taunting lilt in her voice. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised her after all…?
Green eyes narrowed icily. ‘I wasn’t expecting you at all!’ he responded.
He really hadn’t recognised her!
But even if he wasn’t expecting her, someone else was, and the sooner she made her excuses and went on her way the better she would like it.
She stood up. ‘Perhaps I won’t bother with the coffee, after all—’
‘It’s made now.’ He put the mug of coffee down heavily on the table in front of her, consequently standing much closer to her than was comfortable. ‘You look cold. Drink it,’ he urged as she would have protested.
Crys wasn’t at all happy with his dictatorial tone. But in the circumstances, still uncertain of the man—and his mood!—she was hardly in a position to object.
He sat down opposite her at the table, looking at her expectantly as he cradled his own mug of warming coffee in large, well-kept hands.
Crys slowly sat down again, the smell of the rich coffee tantalising to her senses, she had to inwardly admit. It had been some time since her last rest stop; the coffee at the service station had been tepid and weak to say the least. Perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm to drink this mug of coffee before going on her way.
Besides, the unfriendly Merlin was outside somewhere, making it impossible for her to leave without this man’s protection. She frowned as another thought occurred to her. Perhaps that was the reason this man had put Merlin back outside…
‘An overactive imagination and a suspicious mind,’ the man pronounced, without even glancing across at her. ‘What a combination!’ He gave a disgusted shake of his head before sipping his black unsweetened coffee. ‘What comes next, I wonder…?’ he mused, glancing over at her, one dark brow raised sceptically. ‘Drugs in your drink? So that you don’t put up a fight when I carry you upstairs with the intention of having my wicked way with you?’
Crys’s cheeks coloured fiery-red at the laughter that could clearly be heard in his voice, but at the same time she glanced worriedly at the mug in front of her.
‘Tell me,’ the man continued in that deceptively pleasant voice, ‘do you watch a lot of television?’
His implication was more than obvious! But, as she had already pointed out to him, the last half an hour or so had been far from pleasant for her, either. She was the one who had found herself face to face with that growling monster of a dog and had then been confronted by a wild-looking man digging a grave—who had given every appearance of being more fierce than his dog.
Overactive imagination, indeed!
She gave him a humourless smile. ‘As it happens, I don’t even own a television!’
He grimaced. ‘Then perhaps you should.’
She didn’t seem able to win where this man was concerned! ‘I read a lot. Agatha Christie, mostly.’ She answered the question defensively before he could even ask it.
He relaxed back in his chair, watching her with dark, unfathomable eyes. ‘Then this must seem like the perfect setting for a murder to you,’ he accepted. ‘A derelict, apparently empty castle. Guarded by a fierce hound. Inhabited by a darkly unwelcoming man.’
On the surface, all of that was true, and it was what she had initially thought. But in this warmly comfortable setting, with a steaming mug of coffee in front of her, this man no longer seemed quite so formidable. She’d already deduced by his voice that he was a well-educated man, and the removal of that bulky black jumper had revealed that he wore clothes Crys was pretty sure carried exclusive labels.
As for the dog… Well, for the moment he was safely outside.
