Julie sank back on her pillows looking pale and drawn, and Ruth let herself quietly out of the door.
As she descended the stairs again she saw Patrick Hardy standing in the hall. Slowing her step, she half wished she could have turned and gone back up again without him seeing her, but he had heard her. He came to the foot of the stairs and resting one hand on the banister, said: “How is Julie?”
Ruth halted two steps above him. “She has a migraine.”
“So she won't be going riding?”
“No.”
“Will you?”
“On my own? No, thanks.” Ruth was abrupt.
Patrick regarded her mutinous face tolerantly for a minute, and then he said quietly, but distinctly: “I didn't mean you to go alone. I'll come with you – if you still want me to.”
Ruth stared at him with the warm colour rising in her cheeks. “You don't have to do that.”
“I know I don't have to. Do you want to go, or don't you?”
Ruth took a deep breath. “I'd love to,” she answered simply.
“Good.” He moved away from the stairs. “Then I suggest you go and put on some more clothes. I'll wait for you in the lounge.”
“All right.”
Ruth nodded, and turning sped back up the stairs. The blood was pounding through her veins, and she was filled with a sense of expectancy out of all proportion to the occasion. It was the very last thing she had expected, but there had been no thought of refusal.
Zipping herself into a warm navy blue parka, she tried to school herself to calmness. What was she about to do, after all, but go riding with a cousin of Julie's father? That should be nothing to get so excited about, and she was courting trouble if she thought it was. It was simply that Patrick Hardy was a kind and polite man, taking pity on her because her friend wasn't well. He didn't really want to take her riding. The situation had practically been forced upon him.
Downstairs, she entered the lounge with a faint sense of trepidation to find Patrick standing by the windows, a warm sheepskin coat accentuating his dark masculinity. He turned at her entrance and said: “I've told Cook where we're going. Apparently no one else is up yet.”
Ruth made a gesture of acquiescence and then they both moved out into the hall. He had apparently informed the groom, too, that they intended going riding, because as they descended the steps at the front of the house, a stable boy appeared leading their two mounts.
It was exhilarating to have the wind tugging her hair, tangling it into wild disorder, as they went down the drive and across the road and into the meadow. A rime frost had cast a film of white over the grasses and they crunched with a curiously satisfying sound under the horses’ feet.
They didn't speak much to begin with. Patrick was obviously in no hurry, allowing his mount to pick its way as he took an encompassing look at the countryside. Ruth, on the other hand, was accustomed to these surroundings, and she gave the mare its head, galloping on with careless grace.
Eventually he caught up with her and their pace slowed to negotiate a belt of trees, coming out on to a grassy hillside overlooking a village in a valley, the sound of church bells ringing in the clear air.
“There's nowhere in the world where the sound of church bells on a Sunday morning sounds quite so charming,” remarked Patrick, reining in beside her, and taking out his case of cheroots. Cradling the lighter against the wind, he lit one of the narrow cigars and exhaled blue smoke with enjoyment. “We have churches in Puerto Roca, but their bells never sound like this.”
“Puerto Roca?” Ruth frowned. “That's where you live?”
Patrick nodded. “That's right.” He dismounted. “Shall we walk?”
They walked in companionable silence for a while, leading the horses, until Ruth said: “How long do you expect to stay in England, Mr. Hardy?”
Patrick shrugged. “Six or seven weeks. I'm not sure. Why?”
He was very direct and Ruth flushed. “I was interested, that's all. Perhaps you'd like to come and have dinner with my father and myself one evening when you're in London.”
“That's very kind of you.”
He was polite, but non-committal, and Ruth glanced at him a little impatiently. She could read nothing in his expression, however; he was an enigma, and that knowledge did not please her.
They were passing through some trees when Ruth tripped over a root, and in trying to save herself caught her hair on the bare, twig-like branches protruding from a thorn bush. She cried out in agony as her scalp was almost wrenched from her head, and with watering eyes endeavoured to free herself. But it was useless; her tangled hair clung to the bark, and it hurt more than ever when she tried to extricate it.
But she scarcely had time to make more than a cursory examination before Patrick was bending down beside her, taking off his gloves, and disentangling the silken strands with gentle fingers. He was very close to her suddenly, his breath mingling with hers, and when his fingers brushed her cheek tingling impulses of awareness ran down into her neck. Then she was free and he helped her to her feet. She brushed herself down with a careless hand and made a helpless gesture.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling warmly. “I don't know how I should have managed without you.”
“Don't you?” His tone was ironic, and he appeared to be watching her rather intently.
“No.” Ruth combed her fingers through her hair in an effort to create some order.
“Oh, I'm pretty sure someone would have happened along at just the right moment to play knight errant to a lady in distress!”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged again, turning away to gather up the horses’ reins. “Just that you're the type of young woman who usually manages to get into difficulties at the most convenient times.”
Ruth didn't quite know how to take this. He had spoken in his usual polite way, and yet she sensed a note of reproof. Why?
Walking round him, she said: “Do you mind explaining that remark?”
“Surely it's obvious.”
“I'm afraid not. Not to me, at least.” Ruth felt a vague uneasiness invading her stomach.
“All right, Miss Farrell.” He held her gaze deliberately. “What do you want of me?”
Ruth was taken aback. “I don't know what you mean.”
“I think you do. But I'll explain anyway.” He took his gloves out of his pocket and began to put them on. “For some reason best known to yourself, you want me to pay attention to you – to be interested in you!”
“How – how dare you?” she gasped, but he went on as though she had not spoken.
“You
