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‘I don’t want to see anything of you.’
He gave a small smile for her petulance. ‘You’re a big girl now, Phoenix, surely capable of dealing with an old reprobate like me.’
Finally looking up, she asked quietly, ‘Are you an old reprobate?’
‘No,’ he said. And every time he moved nearer she moved away. Eyes always averted. ‘It would enhance your reputation,’ he encouraged. ‘And I don’t imagine you find bar tracery every day of the week.’
‘No.’
‘Then why not take a stab at it? If you’d had anything else on you wouldn’t have come here, would you? And jobs like this aren’t exactly run-of-the-mill, are they?’
‘No.’
Watching her for a moment, the way her hair fell over one shoulder, the soft curve of her mouth, he finally asked, ‘Can we really not meet as friends? We’re different people now. And no less aware of each other than we were ten years ago,’ he added softly.
‘Stop it,’ she reproved, her face agitated. ‘And if you expect to pick up where you left off...’
‘I don’t.’ Would like to, he thought, and wasn’t even surprised at how much he meant it. ‘I’ll pay you the going rate. I really do need your professional opinion on how to restore it.’
Conflicting emotions showing clearly on her face, professional interest against personal feelings, she glanced almost wistfully towards the hidden landing window.
‘Think of the bar tracery,’ he persuaded softly. ‘Think of my entablatures.’
She gave a faint smile, and he felt unbelievably tender. And relieved. Never in his life to date had he ever had to persuade a woman to trust him. Neither had he wanted to. Until now.
‘But do, please, try to remember,’ he added, with a smile in his rather nice grey eyes, ‘that I do need plaster on my walls. That I do need bedrooms, and bathrooms, and that historical artefacts must come second to needs. And do, for goodness’ sake, take that camera from around your neck before you strangle yourself.’
Face still unsure, she unhooked the camera and put it into his waiting hand.
‘Tell me why you were interviewing the Mayoress,’ he invited. ‘She has an old house that needs investigating?’
She shook her head. ‘She was opening the children’s ward at the hospital.’
Confused, amused, and really rather enjoying himself, he persisted, ‘Then why were you interviewing her?’
‘Because that’s my other hat.’
‘Your other hat?’ he echoed.
‘Yes.’
‘What other hat?’
‘Reporting. I don’t earn very much as a house historian,’ she murmured as she began to rub her hand over the old wood of the banister. ‘Not very many people want to pay to be told they have Jacobean beams, or something. There aren’t very many nobles inheriting castles without a documented history, and so I supplement my income by working for the local paper. Are you going to have the lawns relaid?’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ he reproved. ‘But, yes, I shall probably get them relaid.’ Turning to glance briefly through the open front door at the scrubby grass that by no stretch of the imagination could be called lawn, he gave a rueful smile before turning back to Phoenix—who was halfway up the staircase.
A clear warning not to ask her personal questions? She was as nervous as a cat. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked as he followed her.
‘Just checking something.’ Taking the right fork, she halted on the top landing and stared first one way, then the other. ‘It’s an anomaly, isn’t it? And I would guess, on the evidence so far found...’
‘Evidence?’ he asked drily.
‘Clues, then. Do you know anything about its history?’
He shook his head.
She looked thoughtful. ‘It has a whole mishmash of styles, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’ he asked ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Have you done much reporting?’
‘No, just some pieces about the countryside,’ she said absently. ‘Did you notice how the landing’s been divided?’
‘Divided?’
‘Yes. Look at the coving. It stops.’ Walking across to the end wall, she rapped her knuckles on it. ‘I wonder if there’s panelling underneath?’
‘No,’ he denied firmly. There was going to be enough disruption in the house without Phoenix Langrish ripping down walls to look for panelling.
‘The landing would originally have run along to the end wall, as it does in the other direction.’ As though eager to be away from him, as though on no account must she stand still, she opened a bedroom door and walked inside to stare up at the coving on that side. ‘See how it starts again? You could put this bedroom wall back where it was originally, get the coving restored.’
‘The bedroom would be smaller.’
‘Yes, but worth it, I would have thou—’ Breaking off, she suddenly strode across to the far wall and ripped a piece of loose paper free.
‘Phoenix!’ he exclaimed in mild exasperation.
Turning to look at him she said urgently, ‘I need to look in the loft space.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think the house was built round an older structure.’
‘Older?’ A small frown in his eyes, he asked, ‘How old?’
‘Medieval.’
‘Medieval? Are you sure?’
‘Not a hundred per cent, but look...’
Joining her, he stared at the small piece of wood that just showed through where she’d torn the paper. ‘It’s only an old beam,’ he murmured as she began picking away paper and plaster to reveal more of the wood.
‘Yes, old,’ she emphasised. ‘And the majority of medieval houses were built of wood. Most have perished, of course. We can have the wood dated, but I’m confident that we’ll find further evidence of it being medieval. Maybe an original Manor house,’ she added excitedly. ‘Probably fortified...’
‘Whoa,’ he cautioned. ‘Let’s not get carried away here...’
‘But it is! I’m sure it is! Later occupants have built round it, and over the years it’s been reinvented, if you like. Built on, added to—no wonder you didn’t want to sell it.’
Yes, no wonder, he thought bemusedly.
‘The loft?’ she prompted.
‘I don’t know if it’s safe...’
‘But we have to look! You must want to know!’
Enthused by her urgency, he finally nodded. ‘But just a look,’ he cautioned. ‘The entrance is through there. I’ll go and get a torch. And don’t go up without me!’
Walking out quickly, he ran lightly down the stairs, his mind buzzing with Phoenix’s enthusiasm. Medieval? Did she really know what she was talking about? Or was enthusiasm and hope carrying her away?
Finding the torch in the kitchen, he’d turned to go back upstairs when there was an almighty crash followed by a yell of alarm.
CHAPTER TWO
‘PHOENIX?’ he called urgently. Racing up the stairs, he hurried into the first room, and stared in astonishment at the shattered window, the shards that lay on the bare boards, and at Phoenix, who was carefully removing pieces of glass from her jacket.
She gave him a small, rather shaken smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. It rather took me by surprise.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed inadequately. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh, yes, not cut or anything—just gave me a fright.’
Still shocked, he glanced quickly through the broken pane, then carefully began edging the pieces of glass to one side with his foot. There was nothing to indicate what might have broken the window, and no one to be seen outside.
‘Perhaps it was a bird,’ she murmured. ‘Crashed into the window and...’
‘Yes,’ he agreed thoughtfully. ‘Or children. It’s half-term, I believe, and an apparently empty house...’ Remembering his own schooldays, and the mischief he and his friends had got up to, it seemed a logical explanation, but he’d seen no children outside. ‘I’ll go and look.’ He turned away, and she called him back.
‘Torch?’
‘What? Oh.’ Handing it over, he ordered absently, ‘Don’t go up there without me.’
Returning down the rear staircase, he opened the back door and looked out. Nothing. No sign of anyone. Walking round to stand beneath the shattered window, he found no sign of a stunned bird, no sign of anything. He could hear the rooks in the trees at the far end of the field, a tractor somewhere, but nothing else. And if children had been throwing stones there would have been evidence of it on the landing.
Standing over at the old barn, where he’d parked his car, he walked slowly across to peer inside. Nothing.
Puzzled, eyes on the distant copse, he returned to the house. It might have been a bird—and then again it might not. But, whatever the cause, he would need to get a glazier out.
Grey eyes thoughtful, he walked back upstairs—and couldn’t find Phoenix. Certainly she wasn’t where he’d left her, although it didn’t take a genius to figure out where she’d gone. Walking through to the front bedroom, he saw that the door that led to the loft was standing open. A pair of high-heeled shoes lay abandoned halfway up the narrow staircase.
Exasperated, he climbed up to find her balancing on a beam and staring up into the rafters.
‘I told you to wait for me,’ he stated mildly.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured absently as she continued to play the torch over the old beams above her.
‘Find anything?’
‘Yes. My God, Nash, they’re nearly all intact!’
‘The beams?’
‘Yes. See how it’s gabled at each end, with a fairly steep pitch? How the ridge purlin...’
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, sorry, the long beam—see how it extends horizontally along the ridge from one end to the other?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed cautiously.
Turning, she smiled at him. ‘It’s one of the earliest and most simple designs. A tie beam roof, definitely medieval. It’s beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘And so unexpected. To actually have survived... You could open up the landing ceiling...’
‘No, no, no,’ he reproved.
‘But Nash! Think how it would look!’
‘I am thinking. Of the mess, the draughts...’
‘You have no soul.’
‘I have a practical soul,’ he argued. ‘Do you need to take photographs?’ Negotiating the beam behind her, he handed over the camera. ‘Careful!’ he warned urgently as she stepped back. ‘You’ll go through the ceiling!’ Taking her notebook and the torch, so that she could have her hands free, he waited whilst she took several flash photographs of the roof.
‘Come on, this floor doesn’t look any too safe to me. We can argue about it when we’re out of here.’ Carefully backing up, steadying her as she did the same, he turned her in the doorway, and stilled. Forced close together in the narrow space, camera, notebook and torch between them, he stared down into her wide eyes.
‘A moment waiting to happen,’ he murmured, his voice soft, husky.
‘No,’ she whispered. She made a jerky movement, as though to flee, and he quickly prevented her.
‘Yes.’ Bending his head, he found her mouth with his, felt the tremor that ran through her. The tremor that ran through himself.
And he didn’t want to stop.
He kissed her urgently, thoroughly, felt the same pleasure and pain he had felt ten years previously. A compulsion, a need, and as she shuddered, tried to push him away, he lost his balance.
Grabbing the doorframe to steady himself, he was thrown further off balance when she ducked under his arm and ran down the narrow stairway. Tripping on her abandoned shoes, she was forced to jump the last few steps.
By the time he joined her she was standing at the window, both arms hugged round her middle.
Quietly watching her, he knew that if he said the wrong thing now he would lose her.
Walking across, he put the torch and notebook down on the window seat. Standing behind her, he put gentle hands on her shoulders, and she flinched.
‘Don’t do this to me,’ she begged.
‘You can’t ignore it.’
‘Yes, I can.’
