criticism to make. All too often lads are allowed to shift as best they can while the horses get the five-star treatment.’
‘You don’t approve of that either?’ she demanded tartly.
‘I think there’s reason in all things,’ he returned.
She glanced at her watch. ‘Perhaps we should move on. The lads usually go down to the snooker club in the village this afternoon, and they’ll be back shortly. With your passion for privacy, you’ll understand they may not care to find us snooping round their sleeping quarters.’
His mouth twisted slightly. ‘Then let’s go on with the tour.’
‘You mean you’re actually going to let me tell you about the horses?’ she marvelled. ‘I’m honoured!’ She paused, a small frown puckering her brow. ‘But I don’t usually go into the yard empty-handed.’
‘We won’t today,’ he said. ‘I begged some carrots from your stepmother. I left them in the tack room.’
As they walked back under the arch, Natalie was bitterly conscious of Eliot’s presence beside her, looming over her, a shadow in her personal sun. He must have gone very hungry a lot of the time to keep his weight to a reasonable level for his height, she thought vindictively.
She hated the way he looked around him as they walked along. It was—proprietorial, as if he’d already taken charge.
Well, he could be in for a shock. He was only the junior partner, and he would find, unless she missed her guess, that Grantham had every intention of remaining firmly in the saddle.
Eliot said, as if he’d broken in somehow on her thoughts, ‘Your father has made quite a name for himself in schooling difficult horses.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘He’s fantastic with them.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ he said. ‘What a pity one can’t apply the same techniques to difficult women.’
He opened the tack room door and motioned her ahead of him with a faintly mocking gesture. He was smiling.
But not for long, she thought.
‘Tell me, Mr Lang,’ she said, poisonously sweet, ‘are those teeth your own?’
‘Indeed they are, Mrs Drummond,’ he said gravely. ‘Would you like me to prove it by biting you?’
She saw the bag of carrots on a shelf, and was glad of an excuse to move away from him. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘Because it’s time someone made a mark on you, sweetheart.’ He’d followed her, and as she reached for the carrots, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, picking up her slim, ring-less left hand and studying it, brows raised. ‘Because the unfortunate Tony doesn’t seem to have left much of an impression, in any way.’
Outraged, Natalie tried to pull away from his grasp. ‘Let go of me!’
‘Why?’ he jeered. ‘Because you’ll die if I touch you?’ He mimicked a falsetto, and smiled cynically as her lips parted in a soundless gasp. ‘Well, let’s risk it and see.’
She tried to say ‘No’, but her protest was stifled as his mouth descended on hers. He was thorough, and not particularly gentle. All the antagonism between them was there in the kiss, but charged, explosive with some other element she could neither recognise nor analyse.
When at last Eliot released her, flushed and breathless, she took a step backwards, leaning against a cupboard, aware that her legs were trembling so much she was in real danger of collapsing on the floor.
Eliot’s hand reached out, half cupping her breast, his fingers seeking the place where her heart hammered unevenly against her ribs.
‘You see?’ he said drily. ‘You survived, after all.’
Was this survival, Natalie thought dazedly, this crippling confusion of mind and body? This strange quivering ache deep inside that she had never known before? And all this for a kiss that hadn’t been a kiss at all, but some kind of punishment.
Mutely she stared up at him, seeing the mockery fade suddenly from the hazel eyes, watching them grow curiously intent as his hand moved with new purpose on the swell of her breast, his fingers seeking the tumescent nipple through the thin dark blue cotton of her dress.
And was as suddenly removed. He said, ‘I think we have company.’
In a disconnected part of her mind, Natalie heard the sound of voices, the crunch of boots on gravel. Wes, she thought, and the others coming back for evening stables.
Eliot reached past her and retrieved the bag of carrots. His arm brushed against her, and her body went rigid. He was aware of the reaction, and smiled sardonically down into her white face.
‘A piece of advice, Mrs Drummond,’ he said lightly. ‘In future when you want to slag me off, keep your voice down—unless you want to suffer the consequences.’
He walked away, leaving her still leaning against the cupboard as if she had neither the strength nor the will to move.
AS SOON AS she had pulled herself together, Natalie went up to the house and straight to her room, bypassing Beattie who could be heard humming happily to herself in the kitchen.
And in her room she stayed, until a couple of hours later Andrew’s Jaguar pulled away, with his passenger safely on board.
When she ventured downstairs, Beattie was alone in the drawing-room, sipping a sherry, and putting a few stitches in a piece of embroidery with an air of satisfaction that was almost tangible.
‘I’ve persuaded your father to have a rest before dinner,’ she told Natalie happily. ‘I asked Andrew and Eliot to stay, but they had to get back.’ Her eyes twinkled, and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Andrew told me that Eliot didn’t travel up here alone. Apparently he has a lady companion, booked into the International Hotel.’ She pursed her lips with mock primness. ‘Blonde hair, apparently, and a figure like a Page Three girl. I think Andrew was quite envious, poor old thing!’
Natalie forced a smile, as she poured herself a drink. ‘I suppose voluptuous blondes are going to become part of the scenery from now on.’ She tried to speak lightly, but the words sounded stilted, but fortunately Beattie seemed unaware.
‘One thing’s certain,’ she said. ‘Nothing will ever be the same round here.’
To Natalie, the words sounded like a prophecy of doom.
That night, as she was brushing her hair, she found she was studying herself in the mirror, almost clinically. Her face, naturally pale under the cloud of copper hair, was like a small cat’s with its green eyes and high cheekbones. Not the face of a woman at peace with herself, but there was little wonder about that. For the rest of her—medium height with a figure on the thin side of slender.
About as far removed from a Page Three girl as it was possible to get, she told herself in
