the stile, dragging on the warm air and staring over the golden carpet of cut wheat. Heath wasn’t here to do it, so she would do something special. They might have missed the Christmas party, but there was no reason why they couldn’t have a party now. Why not have that Harvest Home she had teased Quentin about—invite everyone from the village? Invite Quentin—
And Heath?
And Heath.
She told her inner voice to be quiet now. That was quite enough nonsense for one day and there was some important planning to be done.
Heath couldn’t come. Why wasn’t she surprised? But he’d send a representative, he promised Bronte during their regular Friday hook-up.
‘Hi, doll—’ Quentin appeared briefly at Heath’s shoulder before hurrying away. ‘Hi, Quentin.’
‘Make it a good party,’ Heath insisted, ‘and don’t forget to send me the bills.’
‘I wi—’ Was as far as she got before Heath cut the connection. ‘And I’ll be sure to attach some photographs to my next mail so you can see how much fun we had without you,’ she assured the blank screen with a lump like a brick in her throat.
It was the perfect day for the perfect event. The sun had beaten down all week and the castle, with its newly renovated staterooms, would be open to the public for the first time. They had just managed to get the last bales of hay into the barn before everyone had to dash back home to get ready for the party. As well as dancing and a feast provided by Bronte, there was going to be a cake stall on the lawn leading down to the lake, as well as hoopla, a bran tub, and a bric-a-brac table. Colleen had gone the whole nine yards, dressing up as a fortune teller, complete with huge gold earrings and a headscarf, which she’d plucked from her normal accessory box, she told Bronte. And Bronte, feeling sick of the sight of the cakes she had been baking nonstop, had put herself in charge of the water-bomb stocks where the local head teacher had gamely offered to be pelted to raise money for charity. The bunting was flying, the band was tuning up, and the first of the guests were due to arrive within the hour. Bronte did her final check, wondering if she dared relax. Surely, nothing could go wrong now. Everything was ready for the party of the year, so now all she had to do was change her clothes.
He saw the red glow in the sky when they were still miles away.
‘What’s that?’ Quentin said, peering out of the window. ‘I thought you didn’t get light pollution in the country?’
‘You don’t,’ Heath said, stamping down on the gas.
The party was cancelled. Of course it was cancelled. Bronte was too busy forming everyone up in a line so they could pass buckets of water from the lake to the source of the fire to even remember she had once planned a party. If she’d had time to think about it she would have said she was numb, but right now she was all logic and fierce determination to save what she could.
The line of people stretched from the lake to the barn. She’d made the call to the local fire department and, with a heavy heart, to the police, and now all she could do was tag onto the line and help to pass the buckets until the fire service arrived.
The Lamborghini skidded to a halt. Throwing the door open, he ran. Wherever Bronte was, he was sure she’d be in the thick of it. Why the hell had he stayed away so long?
Because he never took holidays—because everything took time to arrange—
To hell with that—he should have been here sooner.
The smoke choked him as he grew closer to the fire. His eyes stung, and fear clung to him with the same tenacity as the claggy filth of oily soot. He only realised now how fierce the fire was, and what a hold it had taken on the barn. Nothing could be saved, though a squadron of firefighters had high-powered hoses trained on it. He could feel Bronte’s despair above the heat of burning hay and stink of choking smoke. He blamed himself for not following his instincts. Life, business, money, success, what did any of it mean without Bronte? The instant he’d been told what she’d done—starting slowly with some of the local, out-of-work youths, and then growing in confidence, until she was persuaded by the local authority to take on boys like him—boys like he’d been. If anyone knew what a mistake that was for a girl on her own, he did. The moment he’d heard where this new intake was coming from he’d dropped everything—but not soon enough. He knew what they were capable of, but Bronte steadfastly refused to see the harm in anyone. Glass half full, that was Bronte. But optimism and determination couldn’t save her from this. He’d thought that by making a clean break it would give her space to fly, but she wouldn’t fly far with her wings burned off.
He shielded his face against the heat. An officer told him to move back. He explained he was the owner of the estate and asked if anyone knew where his estate manager was. Bronte had called them, he was told, but no one had seen her since.
His darting gaze swept the crowd. Where was she? Then Colleen found him and told him about Bronte arranging the line of buckets while they waited for the engines to arrive. ‘Have you seen her?’ he demanded.
Colleen shook her head. ‘Not since then.’
Colleen looked defeated. ‘Go back to the kitchen,’ he ordered. ‘Make tea—lots of it—strong and sweet. Everyone will need some.’
‘I’ll do that,’ she said, looking grateful that he’d found her a task.
Bronte would get her water for the buckets from the lake, he reasoned, and the lake was at the back of the barn.
‘You can’t go there,’ someone shouted at him.
He was conveniently deaf.
The best he expected to find was Bronte broken and sobbing on the ground. The worst he refused to think about.
As ever, she surprised him. He found her in the stable yard with her back braced against a stable door while the occupants she’d trapped inside were trying their best to kick it down. His relief at finding her unharmed was indescribable. His feelings at seeing her again were off the scale. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Lifting her out of the way, he took her place. At the sound of his raised voice the kicking stopped abruptly.
‘I saw them set fire to the barn,’ she said, wiping a smoke-begrimed hand across her face. ‘If I moved from here I thought there was a chance they could get out and get away—’
‘They?’
‘Two of them,’ she explained.
‘You imprisoned two grown men?’ he exclaimed.
‘They’re just boys,’ she said, flashing him a glance.
He swore viciously. ‘This is my fault—I put this idea in your head. You should have waited for me to initiate a scheme like this.’
‘What?’ she fired back. ‘Like wait for ever?’
He slammed his head back against the door in frustration. The sound echoed in the courtyard above the shouted instructions of the firefighters and the police. She was right. He should have been here sooner. This was his responsibility, not Bronte’s. ‘I’ll call the police,’ he said, bringing out his phone.
‘Everything happened faster than the boys expected,’ Bronte explained as he cut the line. ‘The barn went
