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.’
‘But why?’
‘Because it isn’t what I want,’ she insisted, sounding incredibly strained. ‘And you can’t expect me to...’
‘I don’t. I don’t,’ he repeated. ‘It took me by surprise too, the feelings.’
‘But it’s absurd! It’s been ten years, Nash!’
‘I know.’
Slowly turning her, he stared down into her beautiful anguished face. ‘The moment you stepped from the car I knew. And so did you.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Lie to me if you must, but don’t lie to yourself,’ he reproved gently.
‘But I don’t know you! I don’t know that I ever did.’
‘Then we’ll take time to get to know each other.’ Summoning every ounce of self-control, he encouraged, ‘Tell me about the roof. Is it really medieval?’
‘Yes, it...’ Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped away from him. ‘I’ve never seen one in such good condition. You must get those slates replaced. If we have any rain...’
‘Yes.’ Watching her, almost aching at her predicament, which surprised him, he added gently, ‘Sit down and tell me what I have. Come on. You’re the expert.’
She didn’t move for a while, just continued to look troubled, and then she sat down and picked up her notebook. Opening it to a fresh page, she put on her glasses.
‘And make it simple,’ he ordered as he perched beside her.
She stiffened slightly, but when he made no move to touch her she allowed her shoulders to relax fractionally. Speaking quietly, she began to sketch, her movements jerky at first, but gradually smoothing out.
A wisp of hair was lying across her cheek, and he wanted to move it, tuck it behind her ear. A perfect ear, one he had once touched with his tongue. Maturity had firmed her features—maturity and knowledge. At eighteen her thoughts, opinions had been formed by others; now she had her own clever mind to formulate new ideas, to direct her life with intelligence and confidence, and he was finding it hard to come to terms with this ten-year jump. Then she had bombarded him with questions—How do you do this? How that? What’s this for? That? Now she probably didn’t need to. She had always been bright. Now she was brighter. He knew she’d got a first at Oxford, because he’d checked.
‘And, of course, assuming it was once a Hall, a massive beam would have been thrown across the roof space, from wall plate to wall plate, to counteract the outward thrust on the walls.’ Unaware of his inattention, pencil flying, she continued tensely, ‘A central king post—or two queen posts, as you seem to have—and side struts were often supported on the tie beam to strengthen the structure. Further purlins—beams,’ she hastily corrected, ‘were set at intervals down the pitch like so, from apex to wall.’
Quickly adding more detail, her strokes sure and deft, to show him how it would have looked atop a medieval Hall, she continued, ‘Rafters were inserted across at right angles, supported on the wall plate—the horizontal beam at wall level—at the bottom, and attached to the ridge purlin at the top. The wall plate itself was secured by stone corbels.
‘Of course, by the fifteenth century there was less need for fortification and the structure would have been altered. Bedrooms and reception rooms would have been put in, the central hearth would probably have given way to wall fireplaces with roof chimneys, and, if the family was wealthy, stone would have been used round the outer walls. We might even find re-used medieval masonry. There would have been a huge courtyard—have you found any evidence of a courtyard?’ she broke off to ask. Without looking at him.
Wrenching his attention back, he shook his head. ‘But then, I haven’t investigated that much.’
‘Well, there would have been outbuildings, roof lines at various levels broken by tall chimney stacks...’
‘Of which I still seem to have some.’
‘Yes, so what we need to do now is check the archives, census returns, ordnance survey maps, find out who owned it, who altered it—because by the seventeenth century it would have changed out of all recognition.’
‘But it doesn’t look seventeenth-century now. My aunt’s solicitor described it as late eighteenth-century.’
‘Yes, Georgian, because of course it changed again. The façade is definitely Georgian. So is the east wing.’ Still busily sketching, she filled in the courtyard, added a few geese, and presented it to him. ‘That’s how it would have looked, I would guess, when it was first built. A fortified manor house with moat.’ Jumping to her feet, she moved to stand a few paces away.
As though he hadn’t noticed, he continued to stare at her sketch, then slowly smiled. ‘I’ve seen one like that in, oh, I don’t know—Herefordshire, I think.’
‘Mmm, the Manor House at Lower Brockhampton, I expect.’
‘And so it would be an awful pity to pull it down, wouldn’t it?’ he asked softly.
‘Oh, yes, you mustn’t do that.’
He looked up, and she looked hastily away. Removing her glasses, she began to chew on one of the stems.
‘How long have you needed them?’
She gave an odd little jerk. ‘What?’
‘Your glasses. How long have you needed them?’
‘Oh, not long. I only use them for close work. I’ll go and do some research, I think, and then—’
‘Really not interested?’ he interrupted softly.
‘Sorry?’ she queried nervously.
‘Already spoken for?’
She swallowed. ‘Don’t.’
‘What are you so frightened of, Phoenix?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly.
Leaning back, the sketchbook on his knee, he asked quietly, ‘How much did I hurt you?’
‘Unfair
