was so grey—grey and extremely wet! It was baffling when you considered how many people waxed lyrical about the area.
The periphery of his vision picked on something that broke the dismal grey monotony. Something suspiciously like a human voice raised in song drifted across from the general direction of that fleeting glimpse of scarlet. Reece immediately felt indignant. Greg had sworn on his very alive grandmother’s grave that Reece wouldn’t see another human being unless he wanted to—and even then it wouldn’t be easy!
Reece had come away with the distinct and very welcome impression that the natives were hostile to strangers.
Eager to defend his solitude against intruders, Reece followed the melody to its source, wrecking his shiny new boots in the process. He discovered the clear, pure sounds actually came from just beyond the boundary of the sprawling grounds. He could no longer eject the songbird, but his curiosity was piqued.
His days as a choirboy enabled him to correctly identify the number as The Coventry Carol. How very seasonal; how very corny, he thought, his lip curling.
Acting on impulse—which wasn’t something he made a habit of—Reece swung himself up onto the lower bare branch of a convenient oak tree. The identity of the owner of the bell-like tones was going to bug him unless he satisfied his curiosity. Besides, if he was going to be carolled on a regular basis it was as well to be forewarned.
From his lofty vantage point he could now see into what must be the garden of the sprawling stone-grey house that sat at the bottom of the lane that led up to Greg’s investment.
In the summer the green-painted summer-house was a magical place, where wisteria tumbled with vigorous old-fashioned roses up the clapboarded walls and over the roof. In Darcy’s childhood it had been the place her knight in shining armour was going to propose. However, the romance was purely a seasonal thing; in the winter it became a cold, unfriendly place her childish imagination had peopled with ghouls and similar nasties—it was still private, though, hence the bit of impromptu choir practice.
Her voice, never in her view solo material at the best of times, was every bit as rusty as she’d expected.
‘I can’t do it!’ she groaned.
That new vicar, she decided darkly, was a dangerous man, who had shamelessly used his spaniel eyes and a judicious amount of moral blackmail until she had almost been falling over herself to volunteer to stand in for her musical mother and perform the solo in the Christmas carol concert.
It wasn’t until she’d been halfway down the lane from the church that the full horror of what she’d done had hit Darcy. She’d suffered from terminal stage fright since that awful occasion in infants’ school when, after she’d been given the linchpin role of the donkey in the nativity play, the strain had proved too much! She’d frozen and had held up proceedings until she had been carried bodily off the makeshift stage.
What’s the worst that could happen…? What’s a bit of public humiliation between friends…?
A loud noise like a pistol shot interrupted her gloomy contemplation of her future as a figure of fun. If she hadn’t automatically taken a startled step backwards the large individual who along with a piece of rotten branch had fallen at her feet would have landed directly on top of her.
As it was, the summer-house didn’t escape so lightly—the jagged end of the branch penetrated the roof, ripping off several tiles, and travelled downwards, gouging a nasty big hole in the side of the structure. But at that moment Darcy’s concerns were reserved for the man lying in a crumpled heap at her feet.
She dropped down on her knees beside him; phrases like ‘recovery position’ and ‘clear airway’ were running through her head. Despite the first aid course she’d completed early that year, she felt completely unprepared to cope with an actual emergency now that one had fallen at her feet.
‘Please, please, don’t be dead,’ she whispered, pressing her fingers to the pulse spot on his neck. To her immense relief, she immediately felt a steady, reassuringly strong beat.
Grunting with effort, Reece rolled onto his back. For only the third time in his life he was literally seeing stars. He ruthlessly gathered his drifting senses, the halo vanished and he realised he wasn’t seeing an angel but a golden-headed schoolboy. Given the clear soprano of his singing voice, the lad had a surprisingly low, pleasing speaking voice.
‘I’ll do my level best,’ the leather-clad figure promised, much to Darcy’s relief.
‘I live just over there.’ The scarf she wore wrapped twice around her neck prevented her turning her head to indicate the overgrown path behind them. ‘I’ll go and get help.’
Darcy froze with shock when a large hand curled firmly around her forearm.
‘No, don’t do that.’ He hadn’t figured out the extent of his injuries yet, and if the boy disappeared who knew if he’d ever come back or get help? The kid looked scared half to death.
‘Give me a hand to get up.’
He seemed determined to get up with or without her help, so Darcy shrugged philosophically and helpfully slid her arm under the shoulders of the tall, dark-headed figure.
It wasn’t as easy as she’d expected; he might be lean, but her unexpected visitor was endowed with a generous share of muscle and there wasn’t a single useful roll of excess flesh or fat to grab onto.
‘Ahh…!’
The involuntary grunt of pain that escaped his firmly clamped lips made Darcy jerk back with a squeamish squeak.
‘Did I hurt you…? I…I’m so sorry.’
If all he’d done was bust his shoulder he’d got off pretty lightly. Reece supported his injured arm with his healthy arm and hauled himself upright, ignoring the sharp, burning pain in his shoulder as best he could. Nostrils flared, he spared the hovering boy a brief glance. The kid had a soft round face, snub nose and big blue eyes, and he looked as if he was going to throw up—which made two of them.
‘Not your fault,’ he gritted. The knowledge that he couldn’t blame anyone but himself for his present situation wasn’t doing anything to improve Reece’s frayed temper.
‘Should you be doing that?’ Darcy wondered fretfully, watching the tall figure get slowly to his feet.
The stranger ignored her query. ‘Listen, I think I might have hurt my shoulder.’
From where Darcy was standing there didn’t seem much ‘might’ about it. It was obvious he was in pain; it was also obvious he was more good-looking than any man had a right to be.
Her slightly awed gaze was tinged with vague resentment as she took in the impressive overall effect of the combination of square jaw, sharp high cheekbones, wide, firm mouth and straight, strong, patrician nose. Even if you took that rich, thick dark hair complete with auburn highlights and those stunning, thickly lashed green eyes out of the equation, he was knockout material; with them he became almost too handsome.
Those spectacular eyes were at that moment slightly dazed as he looked around, obviously trying to get his bearings.
‘I’ve got a phone in my pocket.’ Lifting his arm gingerly from his chest, Reece nodded towards the breast pocket of his leather jacket. ‘Could
