stranger swore; considering the circumstances, Darcy thought he was quite restrained. She had no inkling that he was restraining himself in deference to the presence of an impressionable youth.
‘You must have fallen on it,’ she said sympathetically.
He turned his head stiffly, his green eyes gazing directly down into her face. ‘Brilliant deduction,’ he observed nastily.
Darcy coloured angrily; so what if it hadn’t been the most intelligent thing in the world to say? She wasn’t the one who’d been stupid enough to climb up a rotten tree. Which reminded her. Why had he been climbing a tree…? His clothes, which she had noticed straight off were extremely expensive-looking, were not what she’d call accepted tree-climbing gear.
Some people never lost touch with the inner child, but somehow she didn’t think this man was one of them—in fact, it was hard to imagine that he’d ever been a child. He gave the impression of having emerged into this world complete with cynicism and raw sex appeal.
Reece bit back the blighting retort that hovered on the tip of his tongue and forced himself to smile placatingly at the boy.
‘Are there any grown-ups around, lad…? Your parents…?’
Lad! Darcy blinked incredulously. ‘What did you…?’
She’d be the first to admit that she was no raving beauty, but although she’d never brought traffic to a halt, or reduced a crowded room to awed appreciative silence like Clare, she had turned a head or two in her time. Lad…! Nobody had ever implied she was butch before!
True, she hadn’t put on any make-up this morning, and add to that the fact the yellow cagoule she wore was a cast-off from one of the twins and was thickly padded enough to disguise her unchildlike curves completely, then just maybe his mistake was understandable; especially if he’d fallen on his head.
Her lips pursed; for a moment she couldn’t actually decide whether or not she was insulted, then her ready sense of humour came to her rescue.
I’ve always said I don’t want concessions made for my sex, that I don’t want to be treated as a sex object—well, now’s my chance!
Having three brothers, she’d learnt at an early age it was better to laugh at herself before they had the chance.
‘My dad’s at home.’ She couldn’t resist the naughty impulse to raise her normal husky tone to her approximation of a reedy boyish treble.
She gestured towards the path half-hidden by a massive holly bush smothered with red berries. ‘It’s not far; can you manage?’ she wondered, her eyes travelling with an increasingly doubtful frown up and down his tall frame; underneath that naturally olive skin-tone he didn’t look a good colour.
‘You’ll be the first to know if I can’t,’ came the dry response.
‘But your head’s bleeding.’
‘It’s nothing.’
Darcy shrugged; if he wanted to play the macho hard man it was nothing to her.
‘Be careful of the…’ Darcy waited like a worried little mother hen as her unlikely charge avoided the motley collection of dirty boots, Wellingtons and trainers which always seemed to breed in the back porch. ‘Dad!’ she yelled lustily, preceding him into the rustic surroundings of the kitchen.
If he hadn’t been clutching his arm Reece would have clutched his head—the kid’s piercing tone had increased the throb in his head to the point where he found it difficult to focus.
Her three brothers were already in the kitchen, and her yell brought Jack in matter of seconds.
‘Good God, what’s happened…?’ her stepfather gasped, staring in horror at the blood smeared all over her jacket.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not mine,’ Darcy assured him.
The stranger swayed gently; it was a development that alarmed Darcy. ‘It’s his,’ she explained, placing a supportive hand beneath the tall man’s elbow. ‘Part of that oak tree next door fell through the roof of the summer-house.’ She gently led her white-faced charge properly inside.
Reece bided his time, waiting for the tidal waves of nausea to pass.
‘I’ve been telling the new owner’s agent since the summer that thing was dangerous!’ Jack exclaimed. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Darcy?’ He scrutinised her healthy-looking, pink-cheeked face worriedly. ‘Hurt anywhere?’
‘I’m fine.’ Darcy unwrapped the looped scarf from around her throat.
‘And you, Mr…?’
The dazed-looking stranger with blood running down the side of his face closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall. An anxious Jack looked to Darcy to supply the information.
Her shoulders lifted. ‘Don’t ask me—I’ve no idea who he is.’
‘How come you were in the summer-house with a guy and you don’t know his name?’ Nick wondered, regarding the stranger with a suspicious light in his hostile blue eyes.
‘I wasn’t in the summer-house; I was outside.’ Darcy kept her impatience in check—Nick always chose all the wrong moments to play the protective big brother; he was the most infuriatingly inconsistent person she knew.
‘Doing what?’ Nick persisted doggedly.
Darcy rolled her eyes in exasperation before returning her attention to the man beside her. ‘You should sit down,’ she said in soft aside to the object of her brother’s suspicions.
‘Give me a minute,’ the stranger responded tersely, resisting her efforts to point him in the right direction. Darcy was a strong girl but she knew right away that moving this man against his will was beyond her capabilities.
‘Harry, Charlie, could you give me a hand?’ she called to her younger brothers.
The twins shook their identical heads in unison.
‘We’d like to, but…’ Harry began.
‘There’s blood…’ Charlie completed with a shudder of disgust.
Darcy, in no mood on this occasion to see the amusing side of a pair of strapping, beefy specimens who came over ‘funny’ at the sight of blood, gave a snort of exasperation. ‘You’re hopeless, the pair of you!’
‘Wimps,’ Charlie agreed cheerfully.
Harry nodded his agreement. ‘Maybe he’s one of those contractors working on the Hall.’
‘Nah! They’ve all gone home for the holiday,’ his identical twin pointed out. ‘Besides, does he look like a builder to you…? He’s obviously loaded.’
Darcy was inclined to agree with Charlie, but she couldn’t help but reflect that the injured stranger looked more than physically capable of the odd bit of manual labour. Her mind drifted back to the way the hard, muscular contours of his lean torso and broad chest had felt—
