can dry out on the way.”
“And tell me – why should I go so far out of my way for you?”
She glared at him. “Because you’re obviously such a kind, considerate person.”
“If – and that’s a very big ‘if’ – I decide to take you there,” he said after a moment, “I’ll have to charge you.”
Marianne’s eyes widened in outrage. “Charge me? Are you serious? Well, so much for north country hospitality.”
“Twenty-five pounds. Take it or leave it.”
She gasped. “Twenty-five pounds to drive me sixteen kilometres? That’s outrageous!” Furious, she reached for the door handle and flung the door open. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
She slammed the door; she was certain he’d apologise, and tell her to get back in the truck.
“Suit yourself.”
And with a shifting of gears, he gave a shrug, and drove off.
Walking downhill on gravel in a pair of kitten heels was not, Marianne soon found, an easy thing to do.
Nevertheless, her fury at farmer what’s-his-name propelled her onward. What an arsehole. What a rude, money-grubbing, inconsiderate arsehole.
“‘Better to face reality than believe in fairy tales, I always say,’” she mimicked him under her breath. “Well, you’ve certainly helped me to face reality, you – you sheep-loving jackass!”
She was nearly at the bottom of the hill when she heard it – the rumble of an approaching vehicle.
Marianne walked faster. She hoped it was him. She hoped it wasn’t him. She never wanted to see that smirky, jaded face of his, ever again –
The truck drew alongside of her. “Get in,” he said gruffly.
She kept walking. “I won’t, thank you all the same. I can’t afford it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk all the way to Hadleighshire in those – those faffy little Audrey Hepburn shoes.”
“They’re not ‘faffy little shoes’. They’re brand new; I just bought them. And I’m surprised you even know who Audrey Hepburn is,” she retorted, and kept walking.
“Who doesn’t? I’d have to live under a rock not to know who she is.”
“I thought you did live under a rock, actually,” she shot back. “With all the rest of the gremlins and trolls.”
“Trolls live under bridges.”
“Whatever. Just go away.”
“Fine,” he said grimly. “If that’s what you want, we’ll do this the hard way.”
So saying, he cut the wheel sharply to the right, and she jumped back as the truck’s cab blocked her way. He reached out to fling the door open.
“Now, stop acting like a dafty wench and get in,” he ordered.
Marianne stared daggers at him. But her feet really, really hurt. And her brand new shoes were covered in mud. And she felt perilously close to tears.
“Fine.” She spared him one more glare, then climbed back into the cab of the truck next to Emily and slammed the door. “Let’s go.”
“Mind, it’ll still cost you twenty-five pounds,” he said as he shifted into gear and turned back onto the road. “It’s a fair price, the cost of petrol bein’ what it is.”
She didn’t have the energy left to argue. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll pay you when we get there. I don’t have that much money on me.”
“Suits me. But I’ll come in to make sure you keep your word, if you don’t mind. No running into the house and slamming the door in my face.”
“I do mind. And it’s all you deserve.”
He didn’t favour her with a reply, only scowled and shifted gears once again, and headed south, towards Hadleighshire.
***
The truck slowed to a stop in front of Lady Violet’s country estate forty minutes later.
“Holy shit,” the driver muttered as he took in the impressive stone face of Barton Park. “Should’ve asked you for a hundred pounds, at least.”
“You’ll get twenty-five, as agreed,” Marianne snapped, “and not a penny more.”
She slammed out of the truck and marched up the front steps to the door and rang the bell.
“Can’t let yourself in?” he asked as he unfolded his long legs and got out to follow her up the steps. “Did you forget your key?”
“I don’t live here, I’m only staying for a bit.”
“Oh, aye,” he said, and nodded sagely. “Summering in the country at your best mate’s stately pile, are you? Must be exhausting being rich, I reckon, what with all of that travelling and jet-setting and whatnot. Wears a girl out.”
Marianne didn’t bother to correct him. Let him think what he wanted, she thought grimly as the door swung open and Mrs Fenwick regarded them both in surprise.
“Miss Holland, there you are. I was that worried after your last mishap, I was ready to call her ladyship and tell her you’d not come home yet, so I was.” She peered around Marianne at the truck. “Who’s this? And where’s the car?”
“The car…broke down.” Marianne regarded the farmer with a flinty look and dared him to say a word to the housekeeper about the car’s theft. “Watch my friend here while I go upstairs and fetch him the outrageous sum of twenty-five pounds for bringing me home.”
If she thought he’d be shamed into telling her to forget about the money, she was disabused of the notion when he gave her a cheeky smile and touched a finger to his forehead. “Much obliged.”
She pressed her lips together and stalked upstairs to her room.
Five minutes later, it was done. Marianne handed over the money and showed him to the door.
“Thank you for the ride,” she said, stiffly.
“It was my very great pleasure.” He folded the notes and tucked them into his jeans pocket.
Marianne turned to their guest. “Well, it’s been most interesting, Mr –?” She stopped as she realised she didn’t know his name.
“Just call me Farmer Brown,” he said, and cocked his brow. “Now if you ladies will excuse me, I’ve dogs and sheep to feed and a lamb to see to. A good day to you both.”
With
