track that will take you almost straight to the stables—unless you decide on another gallop.’
He unhitched Dolly and led her over.
‘But don’t hope for too much,’ he went on as Alanna mounted and settled herself in the saddle, trying not to wince. ‘Whether you’re damaged goods or pure as the driven snow, it makes no difference. He’s still not for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll decide that for myself.’
‘Which,’ he said softly, ‘could be another terrible mistake. You seem prone to them.’
He untied his own horse and swung himself lithely into the saddle.
She said sharply, ‘I can find my own way. You don’t need to accompany me.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he returned. ‘I’m merely going to retrieve the expensive hat you abandoned earlier.’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, you want to give my grandmother additional ammunition.’
He gave her a mocking salute and rode off.
She watched him go, then slowly turned Dolly for home, grateful that the mare seemed happy to resume her usual staid pace.
But even more thankful, she thought, that Zandor would never know the truth.
And felt the tears she dared not shed burn like acid in her throat.
THE RETURN TO the abbey was more of an amble than a ride. Dolly clearly would have known the way blindfold and Alanna, struggling to subdue her inner turmoil, was content, even grateful, to let the mare take charge, and allow her to think.
The important—the only—thing was, had Zandor believed her? Had their previous encounter now been dealt with and laid to rest?
And as she reviewed endlessly everything that had been said, she could start to believe that it had. That it was finally finished. And for that she had to be thankful.
She was recalled to the present by Dolly’s soft whicker as the roofs of the stables came into view, reminding her that she had other problems to attend to.
It seemed her resolve to proceed with caution in her relationship with Gerard had been the right one. Certainly if she’d been allowing herself to fall in love with him, she’d now be devastated.
Not, she reminded herself hastily, that Zandor’s warnings were necessarily valid. The strange dynamics of the Harrington clan alone might well have caused him to adopt his own agenda.
On the other hand, she could see that the abbey clearly needed an injection of seriously hard cash, which she, the daughter of a country solicitor, would never be able to provide, even if she’d felt so inclined.
Because the abbey, she suspected, could well be a bottomless pit.
She was also realising that she’d probably totally misinterpreted Joanne’s comments about potential clashes over money during the weekend. Because the family history she’d subsequently heard indicated that it would not be Zandor—the gipsy, the outsider—asking his grandmother for financial help, as she’d assumed, but quite the other way round.
Not, she thought, a happy state of affairs.
However, from a purely selfish point of view, no business of hers. And something else she could soon put behind her altogether.
But at least this interlude with Gerard had been enjoyable enough to bring her permanently out of her self-imposed seclusion. In future, she’d be as much of a social animal as even Susie could wish.
And one day she might find herself involved in a real relationship. Something to hope for, anyway, she thought, sternly stifling the odd pang twisting inside her.
* * *
She was in Dolly’s stall, removing her saddle, when Jacko appeared.
‘You’d best leave that to me, and get yourself up to the house,’ he said gruffly. ‘The Missus is asking for you.’
Well, the Missus could wait, Alanna decided, relinquishing Dolly reluctantly, at least until she’d soothed in a hot bath the last of the aches and pains from being summarily dumped on the common, and put on some clothes free of mud and grass stains.
She let herself into the house by the side entrance and was just crossing the hall to the stairs when she was intercepted by the housekeeper, Mrs Jackson.
‘Oh, you’re back, Miss Beckett. That’s good. Mrs Harrington has been waiting for you to join her for coffee in the library.’
A note in her voice told Alanna unequivocally that this was not a suggestion but a command that she would do well to obey.
Reluctantly, she followed Mrs Jackson to the unexpected and unwanted rendezvous.
It wasn’t a large room, and the oak shelving that covered three of its walls from floor to ceiling, filled with leather bound tomes that Alanna could bet were never opened from one year to the next, made it seem smaller and darker, making her glad she wasn’t claustrophobic.
The fourth wall was occupied by an ornate fireplace, its grate, at this time of year, filled with an attractive arrangement of dried flowers.
Two high-backed leather armchairs, a coffee table between them, confronted each other on either side of the hearth, and Niamh Harrington, predictably, Alanna thought sourly, was seated in the one facing the door.
Since breakfast, she’d changed into a silk caftan in sapphire blue, embroidered with butterflies.
‘So here you are at last!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was becoming anxious, dear girl, when I found Jacko had come back without you. The common can be treacherous in parts,’ she added, shaking her head gravely.
Treacherous, plus bloody dangerous and unexpectedly disturbing, Alanna supplied silently as she sat down, still with a certain care.
‘So, how did you like Dolly?’ Mrs Harrington went on. ‘A bit quiet now, I dare say, bless her. But come out with me tomorrow, and I’ll put you on Caradoc.
‘My brother-in-law in Ireland bought him as a stallion, but he nearly wrecked the horse box, kicked out his stall and attacked his girl groom, as well as fighting with the other horses, so Patrick had him gelded and offered him to me as a point to pointer for Gerard.
‘But he was still a wild one, and I’d just decided to sell him on when Gerard’s cousin took a fancy to him. Came down here at weekends to work with him until Caradoc would come when he whistled.
‘Turned him into a lovely smooth ride with the manners of a saint, would you believe? But then,’ she added, shrugging, ‘gypsies always seem to have a way with horses. It’s in their genes, I dare say.’
It was the overt contempt in her voice that told Alanna that it was Zandor’s own grandmother who would never intend ‘gypsy’ to be a compliment—or even a joke. And how vile was that?
Mrs
