Brad for comfort. In looks the two men were opposite, Brad as dark as Sinclair Thornton was blond, Brad's eyes a cold calculating grey whereas the other man's were a bright twinkling blue. But Sinclair Thornton had once been a reporter, as Brad still was, and although the other man appeared to have had the sense to get out while he was still in one piece, both emotionally and physically, Brad still went to all the trouble spots of the world, throwing himself into the task with a relish that sickened her. Although she and her ex-husband had been divorced for almost two years he still popped up from time to time, showered gifts on Kim and Andy when they would much rather have had more of his time and love, before disappearing off to God knows where again.
It had been the constant uncertainty as to Brad's welfare, the days, weeks sometimes, of waiting to see if he would get out of his latest assignment alive, that had completed the erosion of their marriage. And she knew, as did most other people, that the bestselling books that Sinclair Thornton specialised in were for the main part based on his own experiences during his time as a reporter, that ‘only the names and places had been changed to protect the innocent'! And from the reviews she had read of those books there didn't appear to be many of the latter between the covers!
When the Colonel had told her of the author's proposed visit here she had been less than enthusiastic, despised the glorifying of war when it was the innocent who suffered. And as Sinclair Thornton had made it known that he intended basing his next book, in part, on the Colonel's war-time experiences she couldn't say she had relished the thought of meeting him.
But he had turned out to be slightly different from what she had imagined, although she didn't doubt that the same hardness that had ruled all Brad's decisions in life lurked somewhere beneath the easygoing charm of the other man; no man could see and experience some of the things those two had without becoming hardened to the softer things in life such as love and children.
But this thinking of Sinclair Thornton wouldn't do, she had to be up at the Hall for nine-fifteen, and she still had a few things to do before then. ‘We'll see you at six, then, Mr Thornton,’ she told him dismissively.
‘Yes,’ but he made no effort to move. ‘Er—Do you think I might borrow a cup of milk? I only arrived an hour ago and I'm afraid milk isn't something I thought to buy.’
She almost laughed out loud at the little-boy-lost-look he had suddenly affected. ‘So much for wanting to introduce yourself,’ she mocked as she turned to go into her own little cottage.
‘But I did,’ Sinclair Thornton had moved with lightning speed through the gate that connected the two gardens and was now walking at her side with long, easy strides, his denims old and faded as they rested low down on his hips, his black shirt fitted over his wide shoulders and tapered waist.
She looked up at him with mocking eyes, barely reaching his shoulder, made to feel like the little girl he had first presumed her to be. ‘You just thought that as I was here …’ she drawled teasingly.
‘Exactly,’ he grinned, his eyes crinkling as laughter lines fanned out from the corners, a dimple appearing in one of his lean cheeks. ‘See, I didn't even bring a cup with me,’ he held up his empty hands.
They were nice hands, strong and capable looking, the fingers long and fleshless, in fact the whole of his body didn't possess an ounce of superfluous weight. He certainly hadn't let his fame and fortune soften him! It was another reminder for her—if she needed one!—that his charm and easygoing manner were only skin-deep too.
'I'm sure I can manage to let you keep the cup until this evening,’ her voice had hardened.
‘I promise I'll bring it back,’ he nodded, looking about the kitchen appreciatively, obviously liking the yellow and white decor in the tiny room, his gaze coming to rest on the obviously childish paintings she had pinned to the walls. ‘Your brother or sister must be a lot younger than you?’ he raised blond brows questioningly.
‘Andy is only five,’ she acknowledged noncommittally, handing him the cup of milk, her expectant stare clearly saying she wanted him to leave now.
‘I'm looking forward to a home-cooked meal,’ he told her by way of parting.
‘Don't look forward to it too much,’ Robyn warned with a grin. ‘I—My mother isn't the best cook in the world.’
‘After some of my own efforts in that direction anything will taste good,’ he assured her, not seeming to have noticed her slip.
He had disappeared into the adjoining cottage by the time she returned to the garden to finish hanging out the washing. Which was perhaps as well, because she had got to the twins clothes now, the numerous trousers, T-shirts and skirts obviously for more than one child. Sinclair Thornton would only have to glance over this way once some time during the day and he would realise the mistake he had made. Would he be amused or annoyed that she hadn't corrected him?
Oh well, it had only been a harmless joke. And if he was going to be their neighbour for the next few months he would have to learn to cope with that sort of thing, both Kim and Andy having inherited their mother's sense of fun.
Now that the early morning rush was over, the twins washed and dressed, their breakfasts cooked and eaten, and the two of them safely on board the bus that would take them to the school three miles away, she had time to get herself ready for work.
The denims and T-shirt were the first to go, replaced with one of the tailored skirts and a tan blouse she had bought herself for work. Then came her make-up, the shadings subdued, her lipgloss a deep plum colour, her cheeks lightly highlighted with blusher. And lastly came her hair. Released from the ribbon at her nape it flowed in a glorious red cascade down her back. But she didn't leave it in that style, knew that the loose coil on top of her head added to her maturity if it didn't help her look her twenty-four years.
Twenty-four, was that really all she was? Sometimes she felt twice that age, and at other times she wondered where all the years had gone to, the time seeming to have flown by since the twins were born. Married at eighteen, a mother—and more or less a grass-widow—at nineteen, divorced at only twenty-two, a lot had happened to her in the last six years. If she hadn't had the twins she didn't know how she would have coped with half of it. It was ironic, in the circumstances, that the two babies she loved more than anything else in the world had also been partly responsible, innocently, for most of what had happened after they were born. Although perhaps that wasn't quite true, it had been Brad's reaction to them that had been the cause of that.
She walked the mile and a half up to Bromptwood Hall, leaving her little car and the petrol she guarded so frugally, in the garage next to the cottage. She enjoyed the walk anyway, and she preferred to use what petrol she could afford to buy to take Kim and Andy out at the weekends. All three of them looked forward to and enjoyed these trips, and on warm days like this one her walk to work became a pleasure. She would think about the cold days when they arrived!
The office she occupied during the morning was next to the Colonel's study, the post already on her desk to be sorted and dealt with before lunch. In the afternoon she would become one of the guides for the tours around the historic house and gardens, enjoying that part of her work most of all, liking to talk to the people who visited, finding pleasure in showing them the grand old house.
Colonel Masters had married the daughter of the house, an only child, twenty-five years ago, and when his wife died eight years ago and the estate became expensive to run he had decided to open his doors to the public during the summer months, as a lot of other stately homes had been pressured into doing in recent years. It certainly didn't make him a fortune, but it kept him and his daughter Caroline in relative comfort, had also helped to send the latter to the exclusive
