‘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
