onto him.
Barmy old lady?
He knew that in England barmy meant a bit mad.
But was she really mad, and this her way of repelling intruders?
Perhaps not as good as the boiling oil of olden days, but still reasonably effective as it had sent him tripping backwards into a large puddle at the bottom of the steps.
He struggled to his feet, still clutching his bag, and faced his opponent.
But the thrower wasn’t an old lady. She was a heavily pregnant woman, surely close to giving birth, who was turning away from him, shouting up the stairs to some unseen inhabitant.
‘Of course you knew the roof was leaking, Dottie. Why else would you own twelve buckets?’
She was swinging the door shut when she must have caught a glimpse of him, hesitantly approaching the bottom step, drenched in spite of the umbrella he still held with difficulty above his head.
‘Who are you? Where did you come from? What are you doing here?’ A slight pause in the questions, then, ‘You’re wet!’
He watched realisation dawn on her face and saw her try to hide a smile as she said, ‘Oh, no, did I throw the water over you? You’d better come in.’
‘What is it? Who’s there?’
The querulous questions came from above—nothing wrong with the barmy old lady’s hearing apparently.
‘It’s just some fellow I threw water at,’ the woman yelled back, not bothering to hide her smile now.
She was gorgeous, Charles realised. Tall, statuesque, carrying her pregnancy with pride. And the condition suited her, for her auburn hair shone and her skin was a clear, creamy white tinged with the slightest pink of embarrassment across high cheekbones.
‘Don’t let him in,’ came the instruction from on high, but it was too late. He was already standing, dripping, in the black and white tiled entry, watching the woman disappear into the darkness beyond.
She returned with a large towel, but as she handed it to him she laughed and shook her head.
‘That won’t do, will it? You’re drenched. Come through, there’s a bathroom off the kitchen—a little apartment from the days when the house had servants. Mind the bucket! Have you dry clothes in your bag or shall I find something for you?’
* * *
Of course he’d have dry clothes in his bag, Jo thought, but she was in such a muddle she barely knew what she was saying. It was shock, that was what it was! Opening the door to find a man standing there—a man at whom she’d just hurled a bucket of water. A man so stunningly attractive even her very pregnant body felt the heat of attraction.
And Dottie was probably right, she shouldn’t have let him in. But he’d been drenched, and he didn’t look like an axe murderer.
In fact, even wet, he was the visual representation of tall, dark and handsome.
Was she out of her mind?
Tall, dark and handsome indeed.
All this was flashing through her head as she led him through the kitchen to the minuscule bathroom beyond.
‘Servants obviously didn’t get many luxuries,’ she said as she waved him through the door and watched him duck his head to get in.
Which was when she recovered enough common sense to realise she had no idea who the man was!
Or why he was here!
Well, she could hardly ask now, as he’d shut the door between them, and she was not going to open it when he was doubtless undressing.
Or think about him undressing...
She didn’t do men—not any more, not seriously...
She shook away painful memories of that long-ago time when a man had betrayed her in the worst possible way.
Had being pregnant brought those memories back more often?
Think of this man. The stranger. The here and now.
She’d ask his name later.
The growling noise of the stair lift descending told her Dottie had tired of waiting for an answer and was coming to see what was going on for herself.
Jo hurried back through the kitchen, meeting Dottie in the hall.
‘Who is it? What’s going on?’ the old lady demanded.
‘It’s a man,’ Jo explained. ‘He was on the doorstep and I didn’t see him as I emptied the bucket. He was soaking wet so I’ve put him in the downstairs bathroom to dry off.’
‘You invited him in?’
Incredulous didn’t cut it. The words indicated total disbelief.
‘Dottie, he was wet. I’d thrown a bucket of water over him, on top of whatever rain he’d caught getting to the house.’
‘He had an umbrella!’ Dottie retorted, pointing to where the large black umbrella stood in a pool of water in a corner of the hall.
Jo took a very deep breath and changed the subject.
‘I need to check the buckets upstairs,’ she said. ‘According to the radio reports, the weather is going to get worse.’
Better not to mention that the road to the village was likely to be cut, and the man, whoever he was, might have to stay the night.
Would have to stay the night most probably!
‘You can’t leave me down here with your stranger,’ Dottie told her.
He’s hardly my stranger, Jo thought, but said, ‘Well, come back upstairs with me. I’ve just emptied the one down here.’
She waved her hand towards the bucket responsible for all the trouble.
Dottie glared at her for a moment, five feet one of determined old lady, then gave a huff and stalked into the living room, which was bucket-free as there were bedrooms or bathrooms above most of the downstairs rooms.
‘I won’t be long,’ Jo promised, taking the stairs two at a time, glad she’d continued her long walks up and down the hills around the village right through the pregnancy.
There were six buckets upstairs and she emptied them all into the bath before replacing them under the leaks. How Dottie slept through the constant drip, drip, drip she didn’t know. For herself, too uncomfortable to sleep much anyway, the noise was an almost welcome distraction through the long nights.
She was back downstairs when their visitor returned to the hall.
‘I left my wet clothes over the shower, if that’s all right,’ he said, his beautiful, well-bred, English
