changes, does it, Bronte?’
‘Some things do,’ she said. Let him know how she felt. ‘With the future of the village at stake I had no alternative, Heath. No one sleeps on the ground out of choice.’
She could have bitten off her tongue. Heath’s success had been forged out of a combustible mix of fiery determination and uncompromising poverty. He knew very well what it was like to sleep on the ground. Uncle Harry had told her once his parents used to lock him out when he was a child while they went to the pub, and if they were home late or not at all Heath had to do the best he could to find shelter. ‘Heath, I’m sorry—’
With a shake of his head he closed the subject.
Sleeping on park benches to escape the violence at home had done nothing to soften him, Bronte reflected, returning to her packing. And that stint in jail must have knocked all human feeling out of him. Yes, and what would a man like that know or care about the countryside—or the legacy he had inherited? ‘Heath,’ she pleaded softly, sitting back on her haunches. ‘You will give this place a chance, won’t you?’
He surveyed her steadily through steel-grey eyes. ‘I’m here to see what can be done, Bronte. And if I want to do it.’
‘That’s not enough.’
Heath huffed. ‘It’s all you’re getting.’
‘If you even think of turning your back on Hebers Ghyll I’ll fight you every inch of the way.’
‘Bare knuckle or Queensberry Rules?’
She stared at him intently for a moment. She hardly dared to hope that was a flicker of the old humour, but in the unlikely event that it was she wasn’t going to cause a storm and blow it out.
‘What about those cooking pots, Bronte?’ Heath demanded. ‘Am I supposed to clear them up? If you don’t get a move on I’ll fetch the tractor and shift them myself.’
‘The tractor?’ she repeated witheringly. ‘Here is a man,’ she informed the trees, ‘whose knowledge of the countryside would fit comfortably on the head of a pin with room for angels to dance in a ring. Heath Stamp—’ she introduced him with a theatrical gesture ‘—creator of imaginary worlds contained in neat square boxes—computers that can be conveniently switched off, and don’t have to be milked twice a day.’ She turned to Heath. ‘What would you know about driving a tractor?’
‘More than you know.’
‘It would have to be more than I know—’ But now Heath’s hand was in the small of her back and everything dissolved in a flood of sensation. Jerking away, she bent down to pick up the overloaded pack.
‘Let me help you—’
‘Go away.’
‘Bronte—’
Heath waited a moment and then he strode off.
She turned to watch him go, still heated and furious—desperate for him to go, and longing for him to stay. She couldn’t believe how badly this much-longed-for reunion had gone. Heath, and that firm mouth—how she hated it. She hated the confident swagger of his walk, and those taut, powerful hips. She hated his manner, which was both cool and hot, and infinitely disturbing, as well as blatantly unavailable—at least, to her. Heath might have his own brand of rugged charm, but according to the press he attracted glamorous, elegant women—women who decorated Heath’s life without ever becoming part of it—
She nearly jumped out of her skin when he reappeared through the trees.
‘Okay,’ he said curtly, ‘I can’t abandon you here. Give me that pack.’
Heath didn’t wait for her reply. Wrestling the pack from her shoulders, he stalked off with it, leaving her stunned by the brief and definitely unintentional brushing of their bodies. ‘Hey—come back here,’ she yelled, coming to as Heath and her backpack disappeared through the trees.
She might as well have been talking to herself. Grinding her jaw, she started after him. Heath had never been a man to mess about with, but she wasn’t a girl to back down. Mud sucked at her trainers as she started to run. Wet leaves slapped at her face. Who could keep up with Heath? Bronte reasoned when she was forced to stop and catch her breath. Heath had always been a one-man powerhouse since the day he sewed the seeds of his empire on a computer he’d hidden in his bedroom, where damp dappled the walls and the only green Heath ever saw was the mould that flourished there. Bad start in life, maybe, but this city boy was fit—fitter than she was. Catching sight of Heath through the trees, she found a fresh burst of energy. He had always moved fast. The first time Heath had hit the headlines was because of the speed with which he had turned his old family home into an Internet café for the whole neighbourhood to use. The reporters had latched onto the fact that, far from turning his back on his miserable start in life, when Heath made money he celebrated his background, using his story to inspire others to follow his example and make the best of what they had. Leaning one hand against a tree trunk, she took another breather. So Heath Stamp was a saint, but right now that didn’t make her like him any better.
But if he could be persuaded to do the same for Hebers Ghyll the estate might stand a chance …
With this thought propelling her forward she got a rush of energy—right up to the moment when Heath yelled, ‘I’m dumping this pack on the road, Bronte. After that, you’re on your own.’
So much charm in one man. Blowing out an angry breath, she wiped the mud off her face with the back of her hand and pushed on. When she finally caught up to him Heath was the epitome of cool. He hadn’t even broken sweat.
‘I’d give you a lift …’ His sardonic gaze ran over her mud-blackened clothes.
‘Save it, Heath. You wouldn’t want to dirty your car.’
Heath threw her one of his looks. ‘Your rucksack wouldn’t fit in the boot.’
‘Lucky you.’ Heath’s sexy mouth was mocking her. His eyes were too. Hefting the pack up, she turned her back on him and marched away.
HE COULDN’T believe how screwed up inside Bronte made him feel. And this didn’t help. Heath was staring at the old hall, seeing it for the first time through adult eyes. He had thought he knew it well, and that he remembered every detail. But he hadn’t bargained for the memories flooding in.
Thankfully, he was alone. There had been a moment just then when, despite priding himself on his fitness. It had felt as if his chest were in a vice. He could hear police sirens in his head. He could hear his mother screaming at his father not to hit her. He could see a small boy locked out of the house until his parents got home late at night, relieving himself against the back wall, the neighbours shouting at him. And he could feel the difference here at Hebers Ghyll all over again: the stability; the kindness shown to him; the patience that people had given a boy who believed he deserved none, the care he had so badly needed. He felt that same hunger again—not just the hunger for food, but the hunger for something different. He hadn’t even known what was driving him back then. But he did know that here at Hebers Ghyll was where anger had started to grow like a weed twining round him as he turned from bewildered child into disaffected
