thing she had expected and it wasn’t what she wanted at all. ‘No, thank you.’ Lord knew what his motive was, but it didn’t appeal to her one little bit.
‘I wasn’t talking about Frenton Hall,’ he answered impatiently. ‘I was referring to the cottage.’
Saira frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense. You’re claiming it belongs to you, and yet you’re prepared to let me use it. Why?’
‘Just until the legalities are sorted out.’ The wolfish smile on his face suggested that he knew what the outcome would be.
And although half of Saira’s mind screamed that it was wrong, the other hot-headed half agreed. It was her right, after all. This thing had to be sorted out, and being here on the spot was the best way to do it. ‘I guess your conscience is bothering you?’
‘I was merely thinking of you,’ he announced carelessly. ‘It seems a bit pointless going into Thirsk when the cottage is sitting empty.’ He took a key off the keyring in his pocket and handed it to her.
So the man had a heart, of sorts! Saira eyed him with no real pleasure. ‘I’d like to say it’s very kind of you but I don’t think kindness plays a part in it. I shall be back, of course, with the necessary proof, and then you’ll see for yourself that Honeysuckle Cottage is most definitely mine.’
Head high, Saira marched out into the hall and across the polished wooden floor to the door. Mrs Gibbs was nowhere in sight and when the door would not open it galled Saira to have to stand back and let the obnoxious Jarrett Brent do it for her.
‘Goodbye, Miss Carlton.’ The aggravating smile was on his lips. ‘I shall look forward to your next visit.’
His nearness was a very real threat. Saira felt her heart beat unusually fast and was intensely aware of his raw masculinity and the danger he posed. This was no ordinary man. He appeared laid-back and friendly but beneath the surface he was as hard as steel. OK, he had offered to let her use the cottage, but she was damn sure it wasn’t a simple, generous gesture. There had to be some motive.
She walked stiff-backed all the way up the long drive, wondering whether she was being watched or whether he had closed the door and immediately forgotten all about her. Meeting a man like Jarrett Brent was certainly something she had never expected when inheriting her aunt’s cottage. She couldn’t accept that he was a friend of Lizzie’s. No friend would take your home from you. He had to be lying, and she was determined to find out the truth.
SAIRA felt oddly uncomfortable letting herself into Honeysuckle Cottage, and she blamed Jarrett Brent for it. He was trying it on, she felt sure, making out he had bought the cottage when really he hadn’t, but he was so convincing that there had to be some thread of truth in his story. Maybe he had been friends with her aunt; maybe he had once mentioned buying her property— but Lizzie’s will was surely proof enough that nothing had ever been done about it?
The front door led straight into the sitting-room and she dumped her bag and looked around, smiling sadly to herself. It was just as she remembered: a little dusty, but otherwise looking as if all her aunt had done was step out for a while.
It was a comfy, cosy room, the traditional chintz very much in evidence, lots of brass—which needed cleaning—lots of pictures and ornaments and lace mats, the usual bric-a-brac old ladies would collect over the years—and, most poignant of all, her aunt’s rocking chair.
Saira felt tears spring to her eyes and her mouth twisted ruefully as memories flooded back. She had spent so many happy hours here; her aunt had read to her, played with her, loved her, kissed her better when she fell down, bathed her, fed her, brushed her hair; and as she grew older listened to her teenage problems, dispensed advice, never lectured, always understood.
Saira’s own mother had always been very strict and consequently Saira had never been able to talk to her, always turning to Aunt Lizzie. She truly missed her.
But it was no good standing here crying, she must ring her mother, she must sort Jarrett Brent out. Mentally she straightened her back. To her horror the telephone line was dead, and when she tried the light switch there was no electricity either. Not altogether surprising, since the cottage had lain empty for a couple of months, but she began to wonder whether Jarrett Brent hadn’t deliberately suggested she stay here knowing there were no conveniences. From what little she had seen of him so far it seemed the sort of despicable thing he would do.
Her first thought was to march back up to the Hall and confront him with it, but that was probably what he expected; he probably even hoped she would turn around and go home! It had been his cruel way of getting rid of her.
Saira’s chin came up with characteristic stubbornness. She could manage for a day or two; she would light a fire to heat water, even cook that way if necessary. He would soon find she wasn’t so easily put off.
Saira used the phone box at the end of the village and Margaret Carlton was equally horrified by the claims this man was making. ‘Of course I’ll send you the letter, but why don’t you go and see Mr Kirby? Goodness, Saira, do you want me to come and sort this man out?’
Saira laughed, though there was not much mirth in her voice. ‘Really, Mother, I can look after myself. I just need proof that I’m Elizabeth Harwood’s niece and that I’ve inherited the cottage.’
Perhaps her mother was right, though, and she ought to see Mr Kirby, thought Saira as she made her way back. She glanced at her watch; almost four on a Friday afternoon—far too late. But on Monday, if nothing had been sorted out, if Jarrett Brent hadn’t done the decent thing and admitted that the cottage belonged to her, she would go to see him.
She found firelighters and matches and coal and soon had flames leaping up the chimney. But her sense of achievement was short-lived when foul-smelling smoke bellowed back into the room, making her cough and choke and run to open doors and windows.
Having only ever known central heating, Saira wasn’t familiar with open fires and it took her a second or two to realise that the chimney must be blocked—probably by a bird’s nest.
The acrid smoke belched out ever more thickly and, not knowing what else to do Saira filled a jug with water and flung it over the coals. The joys of country living, she thought despondently. Oh, well, a sandwich and a glass of milk would have to do for her supper—if the village shop was open! Otherwise it would be another visit to the Challoner’s Arms.
Fortunately the shop had not closed and Saira stocked up with a few provisions, and found out that Mrs Edistone had already spread the news that Saira Carlton was claiming Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘I wish you luck,’ said Mary, the elderly shopkeeper; ‘the squire’s not an easy man to tangle with.’
Saira spent the next hour cleaning and polishing. Little smuts of soot had settled everywhere and the smell was acrid. Aunt Lizzie had kept the place spotless and Saira wanted everything to be the same; she wanted nothing changed.
She slept that night in her aunt’s spare bedroom, the one she had always used as a child, the one with rosesprigged wallpaper and old walnut furniture, and although she was desperately tired thoughts of the obnoxious Jarrett Brent kept her restless.
The day’s totally unexpected events churned round and round in her mind—and she still had a fight in front
