out, she went to make it.
Own fault, Abby. Yes. But then, he wasn’t a man to make things easy, was he? If she had been a sweet, simple soul, he would probably still have mocked, and that simple soul would have been embarrassed.
Scowling, she made his coffee and took it through.
Half the books were out of the bookcase and piled haphazardly on the desk. Hands braced, he was staring at a map that was spread out on top of them. ‘I hope you’re intending to put them back,’ she reproved as she found a place for his coffee.
He didn’t bother to answer, for which she could hardly blame him, but for some reason needing to goad, because he was at her father’s desk, because he was an intruder—because he had blue eyes, for all she knew—she extended an elegant finger and rested it on the map. ‘Sevastopol. The site of the siege.’
He looked up—and the most alarming thread of tension leapt between them.
Startled, she looked quickly back at the map. ‘I always think it such a shame,’ she said quickly, ‘that everyone focuses on the Charge of the Light Brigade and not on the reasons behind it all. On the pretext of a quarrel between Russia and France over guardianship of the Holy Places in Palestine, a war was started.
‘And the fact,’ he stated softly, ‘that Turkey invaded Moldavia.’
‘Yes.’ She needed to get out of here.
‘You’re being unusually forthcoming,’ he continued, in the same mesmerisingly soft voice.
‘Oh, I’m always forthcoming,’ she heard herself say, ‘Just not usually in the direction people expect. Enjoy your coffee.’
Without waiting for a reply, she walked out. He followed.
Heart hammering against ribs that suddenly felt too fragile to enclose it, shoulders tense, she quickened her pace.
‘Do you have a lover?’
Shocked, she halted, took a deep breath, and walked on. ‘No,’ she managed. ‘Do you?’
‘No. You forgot the biscuits.’
She halted again. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Biscuits,’ he repeated. ‘Your mother always gave me biscuits.’
‘Did she?’ she asked stupidly. Feeling the heat of him at her back, she hastily moved on and pushed into the kitchen. ‘How very kind of her.’
‘Mmm.’
Turning, she warily watched him open the cupboard and remove a packet of chocolate chip cookies. He opened the packet and held it towards her.
She shook her head.
Eyes on hers, he took out a biscuit and began to slowly eat it. She couldn’t for the life of her take her eyes away from his mouth. A small crumb clung to his lower lip and she shuddered, turned quickly away.
‘It can be arranged,’ he said softly.
Heart thumping, a shiver of awareness tingling her nerves, and not even pretending to misunderstand, she shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Why? You’re attracted.’
‘You’re an attractive man,’ she agreed, and couldn’t believe that her voice didn’t even quiver. No man had ever spoken to her like this. Men had always given her a wide, wary berth. Except for Peter, who was very much like her. Did he wear a mask? she suddenly wondered.
Taking a deep breath, she turned—and found him gone. Nerves unstrung, she let all her breath out on a sigh. It could be arranged, could it? Arranged for him to kiss her...? No. Shutting off a thought that thoroughly unnerved her, she walked out to see if the post had arrived. But for the rest of that day she was troubled by uncertainty, feelings of—longing.
The next day was worse. For her, anyway. Probably because she’d spent half the night thinking about him, she thought disgustedly. And why on earth did it feel as though it was taking enormous courage just to take his coffee and biscuits in? She could almost taste the tension in herself.
Shoving open the study door, she found him standing at the bookcase, idly running his finger down some of the titles.
She gave a quick glance at his broad back, and turned to leave.
‘I imagine he travelled a lot, he said casually without turning.
‘My father? I don’t know about a lot,’ she denied. ‘Certainly he went to Russia.’
‘Perhaps before you were even born.’
With no idea where this was leading, she shrugged. ‘Maybe. I know very little about his early life.’
He still didn’t turn, merely continued his idle perusal of the bookcase. ‘He was a solicitor, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Who’d foolishly speculated on the stock exchange, and then taken out a massive loan to cover his debts.
‘How old was he when he died?’
‘Sixty-two. Helps with your research, does it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘To know his background?’
‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘And biscuits,’ she added as she walked out. ‘Don’t forget the biscuits.’
What had all that been about? Feeling unsettled, she returned to the kitchen. There had been far too many men of late arriving at the house asking questions about her father. She didn’t need Sam Turner joining the list. How could such a kind, caring, efficient man as her father have left things in such a muddle? Admittedly he presumably hadn’t known he was going to have a heart attack, but even so she would never have said he was a fool. Then there was the letter he’d left instructions for her to deliver. To Gibraltar, of all places. She hoped that wasn’t another debt, but she suspected it was, which was why she’d been putting off delivering it. She would wait until the house was sold, then she would go to Gibraltar.
Sick to death of thoughts and worries that wouldn’t leave her alone, and needing something to do, she walked into the village to get something for her dinner.
She didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon, and he left without telling her. Perhaps he was avoiding her. Certainly it would be best to avoid him. It didn’t stop her from thinking about him though. And wondering.
The next morning when she let him in, he was terse. No familiar mockery in his blue eyes, just a nod of greeting and straight into the study. Tension drifted in his wake.
Pulling a face, she went to make the coffee, and then left it on the desk without comment
He was filling up her mind to the exclusion of everything else, she thought distractedly. And for why? He was derisive, mocking, not at all the sort of man she liked or felt comfortable with. So why couldn’t she get on with anything? She’d been going to clear out the kitchen cupboards, clear out her bedroom, throw away all the years of accumulated rubbish. No, not rubbish; she’d cleared that out fourteen years ago. But there were still clothes
