predictable. But he was ready for her. Straightening up, he reached for a towel and patted his temporarily smooth cheeks. His thick hair refused to dry however much he towelled it. He slicked it back roughly with his hands. Time was a-wasting. He fastened his shirt as he headed downstairs, though, unusually, he paused to take a deep breath outside the kitchen door.
Blind to anything else in the room he only saw Bronte standing in front of the Aga. Apron tied round her waist and knotted in front, she was dressed in purple leggings and a flimsy top. The flip-flops and toe rings had been reinstated and her hair was hanging in crazy tangles to her waist. She had never looked lovelier—though that might have had something to do with the huge tray of delicious-looking food she was holding in hands—tiny hands—currently concealed beneath huge black oven mitts.
‘I love you,’ he announced, walking straight up to her.
Taking the gloves and the tray in one slick move, he put them aside. And then, because he was so tall and she was so tiny, he knelt at her feet holding both her tiny hands in his. ‘I love you more than anything in the world.’
He only realised when he heard the raucous applause that they weren’t alone, but nothing was going to distract him from his purpose. He waited for the noise to die down, and then he asked her clearly and steadily, ‘Will you marry me, Bronte?’ She hadn’t said a word up to now, and he was in no way confident of the outcome.
Then she knelt too. Or maybe her legs gave way with shock.
‘That wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he said, looking down. ‘I’m supposed to be the supplicant here.’
‘Better we face each other for this,’ she said. ‘I love you too,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve always loved you, Heath, and I always will.’
‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ he pointed out.
‘Patience,’ she told him. ‘I’m just getting to that.’ Breathless silence surrounded them, which was released in a shiver of sighs when she added, ‘Heath, that was the most romantic proposal any girl could receive.’
‘And?’ he demanded impatiently.
‘Of course I’ll marry you,’ Bronte whispered as the kitchen exploded in a frenzy of cheers.
He wanted to give Bronte something very special to show how much he loved her—but what to give the girl who had everything? Bronte had nothing in a material sense, but she didn’t want anything. Nothing he could buy her with money would mean a thing—she’d rather have a good load of quality manure to spread on her precious vegetable garden. He’d had to think laterally and go that extra mile …
And so he did. Swinging out of the Jeep just before Christmas, he dragged Bronte into his arms. They were getting married at the end of the week, so his timing had never been more important.
‘Okay, Mr Mysterious,’ she said, trying to peer inside the cab. ‘What are you hiding in there?’
‘Not what. Who …’
There was a pause, and then she said, ‘Mum? Dad?’
He left them to it. He had been introduced to emotions, but they still weren’t his best friend.
Bronte had her own way of thanking him. He was okay with that. Sunshine was streaming through the curtains by the time they could talk coherently. ‘You’re an excellent student,’ he murmured as she dozed in his arms, ‘if a little hasty sometimes.’
‘Practice makes perfect—and seeing as I’ve got a lot more practice ahead of me…’
‘Presents first,’ he said, reminding her of their arrangement. ‘You said you have something for me—and I’ve certainly got something for you.’
‘You certainly have,’ she said, punching him playfully.
She thought back to the youth Heath had been and the man he had become, and just hoped she’d got it right. ‘I hope you like it,’ she said.
‘I’m sure I will. Whatever you’ve chosen will be perfect—it had better be,’ he teased her as she leaned out of bed to retrieve the tiny package she’d hidden away from him. ‘Did you use a whole roll of sticky tape on this?’ he said as he picked it open.
Freed from its wrappings, the small wooden chess piece lay in his palm. He stared at it for a long time.
‘I do have the rest of them,’ Bronte reassured him, ‘and I found the board in the attic, as well as the table you used to play chess on with Uncle Harry. I had them renovated—they’re downstairs. I would have given them to you—’
Heath stopped her with a kiss, and from his expression when he pulled away Bronte knew she’d got it very right indeed.
‘That’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me,’ he admitted. ‘And now I’ve got something for you.’
‘What’s this?’ Bronte said, frowning when Heath handed over a large manila envelope. ‘Is it another contract? A permanent one?’
‘Why don’t you open it and find out?’ Heath suggested.
Tearing the envelope open, she started to read, and as she did her expression was slowly changing from interest into shock. ‘Heath, you can’t do this.’
‘Why can’t I?’ Heath said. ‘Hebers Ghyll is mine to do with as I like—so why can’t I give half to you?’
‘Be serious, Heath,’ Bronte exclaimed, laughing as she shook her head, ‘You can’t just hand over half of an estate like Hebers Ghyll.’
‘I expect you to take half the responsibility for it.’
‘Of course, and I’d love to do that, but—’
‘No buts,’ he said. ‘It’s done.’
‘Are you sure?’ Bronte murmured, still not able to believe what Heath was giving her.
‘Never more so,’ he assured her. ‘Oh—and there’s something else. I’ve been carrying this around all evening.’
What a great sight, Bronte thought as Heath leaned out of bed to rumble in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Just stay there,’ she said. ‘That’s a good enough gift for me right there.’
‘What?’ Heath said as he swung back to join her. Narrowing his eyes, he gave Bronte a stern look. ‘Were you staring at my butt?’
‘As if I would.’
‘I might have to punish you,’ he warned.
‘Please.’
‘Okay, your punishment is to wear this on every occasion—even in the stables when you’re mucking out.’
‘What is it?’
‘Guess,’ Heath said dryly, handing over the small red velvet box.
It was one of those ‘don’t dare to hope moments', but she did dare. She had always dared, or she wouldn’t be here, Bronte
