Phoenix Langrish Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT Copyright

Phoenix Langrish

A woman who made the world stand still.

At eighteen she had been beautiful. At twenty-eight she was stunning. And she did something to Nash Vallender’s heart that no other woman had ever been capable of.

Unaware of being watched, she closed the car door, and dropped the notebook she was carrying. Bending to pick it up, she dropped her bag, and as she straightened, the small camera she was carrying around her neck caught on the door handle. Still clumsy. Still so very lovable.

She gave a husky little laugh, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, untangled the camera and turned.

Never had a smile been wiped away so quickly, he thought as she glared at him in shock.

“Hello, Phoenix.” He greeted her quietly, and his voice was husky, as husky as it had been all those years before.

One Bride Required!
Emma Richmond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

NASH VALLENDER hadn’t known he was a hero, or not until quite recently, that was. Not, in fact, until he’d taken leave of his senses. Leaning on the sagging gate, his dark hair ruffled by the May breeze, grey eyes rueful, he stared at the derelict ruin in front of him.

Oddly Manor. Oddly named, oddly listing to one side, and, even more oddly, his. A distant aunt, one he barely remembered, had left it to him. Because he was brave. He hadn’t understood what the executor of her will had meant at the time. He did now. Not the bravery of fighting dragons, but of withstanding bombardment and sabotage. He’d been blitzed with letters and visits from the villagers begging him to keep and restore it. Driven nearly insane with the unwanted persistence of the developers to encourage him to offload it onto them as though he should be grateful for such generosity. The executors had made veiled references to the untold pressure put on his aunt to sell. In fact everyone, except the villagers, was of the same opinion. Get rid of it. Which he should have done.

He wasn’t philanthropic, he wasn’t a romantic, and he had certainly never overly concerned himself about the fate of the English countryside, but he did have a strong aversion to being pressurised. Which was why, having thwarted the developers’ dream of turning the land into an estate of mock Tudor homes, thus becoming a knight in shining armour to the villagers of Mincott Oddly, where his bequest stood, he was now standing in the May sunshine viewing his very own ruin and wondering what on earth he was going to do with it.

But if someone considered you brave, he thought with a small self-mocking smile, even if it was only a distant, barely remembered, now dead relative, there was somehow a compulsion not to prove them wrong. A compulsion that was going to prove very costly. Not only the renovation, but trying to find out who was so busily trying to destroy the house. Because someone was.

Windows were broken; slates fell from the roof with alarming regularity; small fires broke out due to defective wiring—or so he had been told. A coping stone had narrowly missed injuring one of the villagers who was keeping an eye on the place. The obvious contenders for the sabotage were, of course, the developers. But he had no proof. Which was why he had rung a private detective he’d used before and left a message on his answering machine. Hopefully he would get back to him some time soon.

He glanced sadly at the ivy that was slowly strangling the stonework, and the definitely sagging roof of the east wing. Although why it was called the east wing he had no idea. The whole house faced east. But that was what the executors had called it, and no doubt that was what it would remain. He really should have sold. Building land was at a premium again. He could have asked, and probably got, over two hundred thousand for it. He was one of the most respected businessmen in London, and he was behaving like a fool. Never in a million years would he have thought he’d want to hold onto a mouldering pile that was only good for knocking down. But it had ten acres. So did Nettlesham Swamp, he told himself with a grin, but that didn’t mean anyone in their right mind would want to keep it! And for a man who had taken on multinational corporations and won, taken on white-water rapids on nothing more substantial than a boat resembling a banana leaf, trying to persuade himself to look on it as a challenge, and not the white elephant it undoubtedly was, was even more foolish.

His friends thought him mad, including Mike, his architect, who was supposed to be looking over the property and who seemed to have disappeared. His enemies thought him a fool, but he didn’t explain and he didn’t try to justify himself—a policy that had stood him in good stead in the past. Whether it would stand him in good stead now, he didn’t know; he only knew that few people would ever understand why he had behaved as he had. But then, people very rarely understood him. Never understood the risks he took in business or in his leisure. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood them either. Just the way he was made, he supposed. And opposition always made him stubborn. In business that was sometimes a good thing, because his stubbornness was usually based on knowledge, insight, but in this instance his stubbornness was based on—what? A whim? No, because if the developers hadn’t come, hadn’t tried to pressurise him, he would probably have sold. And he would then never have had the perfect opportunity to meet someone he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Glancing at his watch, he gave a rueful smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had waited for someone with such expectation. How much had she changed? he wondered. How much had he changed?

Hearing a car, he stilled. Listening intently, he plotted the car’s movements by sound alone. He couldn’t see it, any more than the driver could see him, because of the high, untrimmed hedges, but if she parked where she’d been instructed to park... For a man of such courage, he mocked himself, he was feeling an odd reluctance to actually face her. Not that any of his thoughts showed on his face. They never did.

Lifting the gate in order to open it, he walked round the side of the house to stare at the small blue car that had just parked.

Ten years ago he and the woman inside that car had almost had an affair, but she’d been due to go up to university and he’d had the chance to go to the States, something he’d very much wanted to do. ‘Wrong time, wrong place,’ he’d told her gently. ‘Go and carve out your career.’ She hadn’t begged, pleaded, had just looked at him, then walked away. It hadn’t been easy to let her go, and a large part of him had always regretted it, and so, when the opportunity had come to see her again...

Fate? he wondered. Preordained? He had no idea, but just before he had learned of his bequest he’d seen an article about her, about house-detecting. About how she tried to discover the origins of old houses. When the Manor had come into his hands it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to write and ask her to come and see him.

Except she didn’t know it was to be him. He’d asked the executor of his aunt’s will to write to her, to make the arrangements without mentioning his name. And he shouldn’t have done that. But if she’d known who she was really coming to see she wouldn’t have come—might not have come. And perhaps that would have been best. You couldn’t go back, re-create the past, no matter how much you might want to. Too late now.

The car door finally opened, and a woman slowly emerged.

Phoenix Langrish.

A woman who made the world stand still.

At eighteen, she had been beautiful. At twenty-eight she was stunning. And she did something to his heart that no other woman had ever been capable of. Not because she was beautiful, because beauty only temporarily stirred the senses. This was something more.

Delicate and feminine, with long dark hair held back in a clip that was inadequate to the task, wide brown eyes and a mouth that was made to smile.

Unaware of being watched, she closed the car door and dropped the notebook she was carrying. Bending to pick it up, she dropped her bag, and as she straightened the small camera she was carrying around her neck caught on the door handle. Still clumsy. Still so very lovable.

She gave a husky little laugh, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, untangled the camera, and turned.

Never had a smile been wiped away so quickly, he thought, as she glared at him in shock. She was rooted to the spot, and her eyes widened until they could widen no more. She didn’t speak, just stood there, looking at him.

‘Hello, Phoenix,’ he greeted her quietly, and his voice was husky. As husky as it had been all those years before.

‘No,’ she whispered. Turning abruptly away, she trod in a rut, staggered, and caught the wing mirror for support. It came off in her hand.

She stared at it, just stared, as though she didn’t know what it was, and then she shuddered, tried to pull herself together. She reached for the car door; he reached it first.

‘Don’t leave.’

Her breathing unnatural, she looked at him. ‘You...I...’

‘Yes. I didn’t tell you it would be me meeting you because I didn’t think you would come. And I wanted you to.’

She didn’t answer. Perhaps she couldn’t. Just continued to stare at him.

As he stared at her. As he had all those years before in a crowded hotel foyer. Ten years had changed nothing. Even in an ill-fitting suit that looked as though it might have belonged to someone with a larger build she set his senses on fire. She’d had a wild freedom then, an exuberance for life. Awkward, enthusiastic, and totally without guile. Now she looked frightened, caged.

‘I find I don’t know what to say to you,’ he said quietly.

‘Goodbye?’ she proffered huskily.

‘No,’ he denied gently. ‘Come and see the house.’

Taking her silence for an affirmative, which he knew it wasn’t, he removed the wing mirror from her hand, opened the car door and tossed it inside.

‘No,’ she argued hoarsely. ‘I...’

‘Please?’ Holding her arm, feeling the shivers that ran through her, the electric tension that he controlled rather better than she did, he led her round to the front of the house. Aware of every little breath she took, every little move she made, he asked, ‘What do you think of it?’

She didn’t answer, merely stared unseeingly at the house in front of them.

Turning his head, he slowly examined her exquisite profile, and, resisting the almost overwhelming impulse to touch that thick dark hair, he murmured, ‘Is it worth restoring, do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

Unable to take his eyes off her, he put one hand over hers, and she jumped nervously. ‘I am sorry, Phoenix.’

Finally turning her head, she looked at him, and it was as if a shutter came down over her eyes, hiding her thoughts, her feelings from him. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘For what?’

‘The deception.’

She nodded, made an obvious effort to pull herself together, and returned her attention to the house.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘I don’t know. You’d need a structural engineer to tell you that. All I can tell you is what things are.’

‘Then tell me what they are.’

‘Why?’ she demanded raggedly. ‘Why now?’

‘Because I saw an article about you, and I suddenly found that I wanted to see you again.’

She gave a bitter smile. ‘And never mind that I might not have wanted to be seen?’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly.

‘It would be a lucrative commission...’

‘That isn’t why you invited me.’

‘No, I was curious. Didn’t you know that curiosity was my besetting sin? And you’re even more beautiful now than you were then.’

‘Thank you,’ she said without inflexion. With an abrupt movement away from him, she announced baldly, ‘I’m going home.’

Halting her, he asked, ‘Not even a little bit curious to see what’s inside? The article said it was your passion...’

‘So were you,’ she retorted without thinking, ‘and look what that got me.’

‘A degree,’ he answered. ‘A life. It wouldn’t have worked, Phoenix. Not then.’

‘No,’ she agreed.

‘And I never meant to hurt you.’

‘I know you didn’t.’

They both stared at the house in silence.

‘The article said you were making quite a name for yourself,’ he finally murmured. ‘I’m glad.’

‘Thank you.’

Such a flat little voice, devoid of meaning, but he could feel the tension in her. Feel it in himself.

‘Shall we go in?’ Leading the way up the weed-choked path, hoping she would follow, he pushed open the heavy front door. ‘Will you at least look round? Give me your honest opinion?’

She looked suddenly helpless and distracted. ‘Don’t come with me.’

‘All right. Don’t go in the bedrooms in the east wing,’ he cautioned. ‘One of the ceilings is down and the roof is unsafe.’

Without answering, she walked quickly away to the left of the grand staircase. He wanted to follow, unobserved, wanted to see what she was doing, how she was behaving now that he was no longer beside her.

Long after she was out of sight, with only the sound of her high heels tapping on the bare boards, he remained where he was, his feelings ambivalent. He hadn’t been quite prepared for the sensations he’d experienced when she’d stepped from the car. Wasn’t entirely prepared for them now. An overwhelming feeling of belonging. But what was she like now? After her initial shock, she had given nothing away of her personality. At eighteen she had been vivacious, laughing, loving. What was she now? Never one to rush his fences, even if his feelings were urging action, he would allow her time and space to make up her own mind. If he could.

In the meantime, he thought with a rather twisted smile, he would make his own tour, maybe go and look at his very own entablature. Not that he was entirely sure what it was, only that the executor had assured him that he had one. He’d looked it up, but being told that it was the top part of an architectural order, which consisted of horizontal mouldings, hadn’t been very enlightening.

But his mind was on Phoenix as he slowly climbed the grand staircase. Remembering not to grasp the handrail, which had a tendency to wobble alarmingly, he turned left at the small landing where the staircase divided, climbed the further five steps that led to the landing proper, and which ran on either side to the front of the house, and ambled aimlessly through the warren of bedrooms and one antiquated bathroom. He took a brief look into the east wing to make sure no further damage had occurred, then found the small back staircase that went down to the rabbit warren of rooms that had once presumably housed the scullery, dairy and kitchen, and which would definitely need major remodification.

Returning to the top of the staircase, he headed in the opposite direction, into rooms that interconnected. Perhaps they’d once been the nursery. One room for Nanny, one for the child and one for playing in, or taking tea in front of a roaring fire. No sign of it now, of course—even the fire surround had been removed. By whom? he wondered. But it was only an absent thought because his mind was still on Phoenix.

As he walked into the room at the front, a small smile tugged at his mouth as he stared up at the ornate cornice. ‘Behold,’ he murmured softly, ‘one entablature. I probably have several others, of course... And talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. Or is it the second?’ But then, he was mad, wasn’t he? To take on this monstrosity. Some of the rooms were damp. Most were inhabitable... He should have sold. It was going to cost an absolute fortune to restore. But the view had to be almost worth it, he decided as he stared from the window. Open fields, hedgerows, coppices, and, in the foreground, the quaint and rather delightful village of Mincott Oddly. Crooked cottages around an ancient green.

What was she doing now? He could hear no sounds from the rest of the house. Was she thinking about him? A small conceit, he thought wryly; she might not be thinking about him at all. But he wanted her to be. Wanted her to feel as he was feeling. An ache in the loins, a heady feeling of adventure.

Fool, he scolded himself. But wasn’t it allowed to be a fool just once in your life? Twice, he mentally corrected. He’d been a fool ten years ago.

Shaking off his introspection, because thinking about it did him absolutely no good at all, and intending to go and look for Mike, he was momentarily distracted by the sight of a small door on his right. He’d always assumed it was a cupboard, but, opening it, he found a short flight of stairs, which of course had to be investigated. Climbing carefully, on treads that felt decidedly rickety beneath his weight, he opened the door at the top and peered into the cavernous space beneath the roof. Too dark to see anything clearly, and probably infested by spiders. He carefully retreated and made his way back to the landing.

Hearing minuscule scratching sounds, he looked over the banister and saw Phoenix, delicately picking plaster from his walls. For a long, long moment he watched her, unobserved. Her face was intent, but rather sad, he thought.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked softly.

Startled, she looked up guiltily, and, cursing himself for a fool, knowing what was about to happen, he swung himself over the railing, dropped lightly down to the half-landing, and was just in time to prevent her stumbling backwards down the staircase.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised, his breathing barely altered. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘No. I mean, it’s all right. No damage done.’

‘Except to the plaster,’ he said drily. ‘I thought the whole idea was to put plaster on the walls, not take it off.’

‘Yes. It was already cracked,’ she excused hastily. ‘I mean, I didn’t... You could have broken your neck jumping like that.’

‘Nonsense, I’m incredibly fit,’ he boasted mockingly. ‘So, what were you doing?’

With a sigh that sounded despairing, she murmured, ‘I just wanted to see what was underneath.’

Eyes gentle, he asked, ‘And what is?’

‘I don’t know, but...’

‘Then look.’ Inserting his fingernail beneath a flake of plaster, he pulled it free. ‘Looks like an old window.’

When she didn’t immediately answer, he turned to look at her, and was astonished to see shock, almost awed bewilderment on her lovely face as she stared at what he had exposed.

‘Oh, my,’ she whispered reverently as she reached out to pull off another, larger piece of plaster. ‘It can’t be.’

Amused, he asked, ‘What can’t?’

‘Bar tracery.’

‘Why can’t it?’ he asked, with absolutely no idea what bar tracery was.

‘Because it can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Sorry?’

Lips twitching, he queried, ‘What is bar tracery?’

‘This. I need to look outside.’ With an abrupt movement that took him by surprise, she began haring down the stairs, and nearly mowed down a tall, thin gentleman, who was just crossing the hall at the bottom.

‘Whoa,’ he laughed.

‘Sorry,’ she apologised hastily. With a fleeting smile, she continued out through the front door.

‘Who was that?’ Mike exclaimed in astonished appreciation.

Face bland, Nash murmured, ‘My house detective. I have bar tracery.’ With a muffled laugh, and not waiting for any further comment, he continued after Phoenix, but, if he didn’t miss his guess, his architect would be following close behind.

‘Don’t you want to know who that was?’ he teased gently as he caught her up.

She halted so suddenly that he nearly knocked her over. ‘What?’ she asked blankly.

‘The man in the hall.’

‘Oh. Who was it?’ she asked obediently.

‘My architect.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t let him make recommendations until the house has been investigated properly.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘He’s just looking.’

She nodded, halted at the back of the house, and looked up.

Following her gaze, not at all sure what he was supposed to be looking at, he finally proffered, ‘A bricked-up window?’

‘Yes.’

‘And is that good?’ he asked as he turned to smile at the architect, who had followed them.

A reciprocal smile on his thin, humorous face, Mike also glanced upwards.

‘Good?’ she queried. ‘Good? It’s Decorated Gothic!’

‘Ah.’

‘It’s the most... I can’t believe it. Oh, I can’t believe it,’ she whispered, her eyes still fixed on the window.

‘Does that mean you’ll stay?’

But she wasn’t listening. ‘Hardly any of them have survived,’ she breathed. ‘Or only in cathedrals. Lincoln and Carlisle, Melrose Abbey, York Minster. You’ll need to hack the interior plaster off very, very carefully, of course, but you can see from here that the stonework is much narrower, and in “bars”. See how the window area is much larger and wider, and encompassed by an equilateral arch?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, his eyes on her beautiful profile.

‘Divided vertically by stone mullions, it gives five, seven or even nine lights. Mid-fourteenth century.’ Turning, only to find him staring at her instead of the window, she looked hastily away. ‘You haven’t instructed any builders...?’

‘No,’ he denied. ‘I don’t, as yet, have any builders.’

‘Good. Only it’s very important...’

‘Not to disturb anything?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ Looking anywhere but at him, she murmured, ‘Perhaps you ought to think about getting the Manor listed.’

‘No,’ he said, because he knew very well that if it was listed nothing would be allowed to be done.

‘But Inigo Jones might—’

‘No,’ he interrupted softly.

‘You don’t know who he is,’ she accused.

‘Was.’

Mike laughed. ‘Give in,’ he urged his friend. ‘You appear to have met your match, and I have to go. Nice to have met you, Miss...?’

‘Langrish,’ Nash supplied helpfully as he steered Mike back towards the path, without allowing him to say anything further.

‘Talk about “speed the parting guest”,’ he complained humorously. ‘Not that I blame you; she’s stunning!’

‘Yes, she is. A phoenix who falls into the ashes rather than rises from them. That’s her name,’ he explained at Mike’s frown.

‘Oh.’

‘She was born in a fire—well, not precisely, but there was a fire in the next-door apartment whilst her mother was in labour. She arrived just as the firemen were carrying out the stretcher.’ And he wanted her with a fierce desire that was almost frightening. ‘How knowledgeable is she?’

Halting again, Mike gave his friend a silent scrutiny before asking, ‘Not sure about her?’

‘I’m not sure about anybody. You have heard of bar tracery?’ he queried lightly.

‘Er...’

Nash laughed. ‘Inigo Jones?’

‘Now, that I can tell you. He was one of England’s first great architects.’

‘Professor Morton? She apparently trained under him.’

‘Yes, and certainly he’s reputable.’

‘Good.’

‘As if you didn’t know.’ Mike grinned. ‘Knowing you as well as I do—or as well as anyone is ever likely to—I imagine you’ve checked her out down to what colour nail varnish she uses.’

‘Was she wearing nail varnish?’ Nash queried innocently. ‘I didn’t notice.’

‘Liar.’

Reaching the gate, they both turned to stare at the Manor. ‘Had the surveyor’s report in yet?’ asked Mike.

Nash shook his head.

‘And will you live here when it’s restored—if it’s ever restored?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Heard from Chrissie?’ he asked casually.

‘No.’

‘Mind my own business?’

‘Mmm.’

With a faint smile, he strolled towards his car. ‘Perhaps someone ought to tell her she has fierce competition,’ he added slyly. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll get some ideas down on paper and let you have them in a few days. Let me know if you need a demolition expert,’ he called back. ‘Or a chaperon.’

As the car drove away, and with nothing of his thoughts showing on his face, Nash turned to see Phoenix picking her way back along the rutted path.

Reaching the front door, he was just in time to catch her as she tripped over the step. And he wanted to kiss her.

She moved hastily away from his supporting arm, avoided all eye contact.

‘Still falling over, I see,’ he murmured softly.

‘Yes.’ She didn’t look awkward, or embarrassed about it, just accepting. Because she was so used to falling over things that it no longer held any importance? A fact of life, he wondered, like being left-handed?

‘You should have worn flat shoes,’ he reproved mildly.

‘I know,’ she agreed, her gaze fixed on the top of the staircase. ‘I was interviewing the Mayoress and there wasn’t time to change. I wonder why they covered it up?’

Momentarily off balance, he glanced at the wall at the top of the staircase and back to Phoenix. ‘The window?’

‘Yes.’

‘Window tax?’ he offered, not very knowledgeably.

She shook her head. Opening her notebook, fumbling for her glasses, which were hanging on a cord round her neck, she began to write. ‘I won’t touch anything else...’

‘Won’t you?’ he asked softly. ‘Pity.’

‘Don’t,’ she said, her voice agitated. ‘You’ll need to reveal the window.’

‘You reveal it.’

‘No, I...’

‘You know you yearn to. Pretend I’m a stranger. Pretend this is the first time we’ve met. I wish it was,’ he added.

‘Don’t,’ she pleaded again.

Turning, she tried to brush past him. He easily caught her, held her before him. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered softly.

‘No.’ Struggling free, she took two steps back, eyes still lowered.

‘Why?’

‘Because you aren’t what you seem, Nash. You never were.’

No, he wasn’t what he seemed.

‘You’re ruthless and single-minded and you wear the face of a fool.’

‘A fool?’ he queried softly.

‘All right, a face of calmness and curiosity and gentleness,’ she substituted, almost crossly. ‘And it’s a lie. It was always a lie.’

‘And that bothers you?’

‘No,’ she denied, obviously untruthfully.

‘Good, but I really do need someone to tell me what I’m doing. Professor Morton will be cross if you don’t,’ he persuaded humorously when she didn’t answer. ‘And you won’t have to see much of me.’

‘I don’t want to see anything of you.’

He gave a small smile for her petulance. ‘You’re a big girl now, Phoenix, surely capable of dealing with an old reprobate like me.’

Finally looking up, she asked quietly, ‘Are you an old reprobate?’

‘No,’ he said. And every time he moved nearer she moved away. Eyes always averted. ‘It would enhance your reputation,’ he encouraged. ‘And I don’t imagine you find bar tracery every day of the week.’

‘No.’

‘Then why not take a stab at it? If you’d had anything else on you wouldn’t have come here, would you? And jobs like this aren’t exactly run-of-the-mill, are they?’

‘No.’

Watching her for a moment, the way her hair fell over one shoulder, the soft curve of her mouth, he finally asked, ‘Can we really not meet as friends? We’re different people now. And no less aware of each other than we were ten years ago,’ he added softly.

‘Stop it,’ she reproved, her face agitated. ‘And if you expect to pick up where you left off...’

‘I don’t.’ Would like to, he thought, and wasn’t even surprised at how much he meant it. ‘I’ll pay you the going rate. I really do need your professional opinion on how to restore it.’

Conflicting emotions showing clearly on her face, professional interest against personal feelings, she glanced almost wistfully towards the hidden landing window.

‘Think of the bar tracery,’ he persuaded softly. ‘Think of my entablatures.’

She gave a faint smile, and he felt unbelievably tender. And relieved. Never in his life to date had he ever had to persuade a woman to trust him. Neither had he wanted to. Until now.

‘But do, please, try to remember,’ he added, with a smile in his rather nice grey eyes, ‘that I do need plaster on my walls. That I do need bedrooms, and bathrooms, and that historical artefacts must come second to needs. And do, for goodness’ sake, take that camera from around your neck before you strangle yourself.’

Face still unsure, she unhooked the camera and put it into his waiting hand.

‘Tell me why you were interviewing the Mayoress,’ he invited. ‘She has an old house that needs investigating?’

She shook her head. ‘She was opening the children’s ward at the hospital.’

Confused, amused, and really rather enjoying himself, he persisted, ‘Then why were you interviewing her?’

‘Because that’s my other hat.’

‘Your other hat?’ he echoed.

‘Yes.’

‘What other hat?’

‘Reporting. I don’t earn very much as a house historian,’ she murmured as she began to rub her hand over the old wood of the banister. ‘Not very many people want to pay to be told they have Jacobean beams, or something. There aren’t very many nobles inheriting castles without a documented history, and so I supplement my income by working for the local paper. Are you going to have the lawns relaid?’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ he reproved. ‘But, yes, I shall probably get them relaid.’ Turning to glance briefly through the open front door at the scrubby grass that by no stretch of the imagination could be called lawn, he gave a rueful smile before turning back to Phoenix—who was halfway up the staircase.

A clear warning not to ask her personal questions? She was as nervous as a cat. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked as he followed her.

‘Just checking something.’ Taking the right fork, she halted on the top landing and stared first one way, then the other. ‘It’s an anomaly, isn’t it? And I would guess, on the evidence so far found...’

‘Evidence?’ he asked drily.

‘Clues, then. Do you know anything about its history?’

He shook his head.

She looked thoughtful. ‘It has a whole mishmash of styles, doesn’t it?’

‘Does it?’ he asked ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Have you done much reporting?’

‘No, just some pieces about the countryside,’ she said absently. ‘Did you notice how the landing’s been divided?’

‘Divided?’

‘Yes. Look at the coving. It stops.’ Walking across to the end wall, she rapped her knuckles on it. ‘I wonder if there’s panelling underneath?’

‘No,’ he denied firmly. There was going to be enough disruption in the house without Phoenix Langrish ripping down walls to look for panelling.

‘The landing would originally have run along to the end wall, as it does in the other direction.’ As though eager to be away from him, as though on no account must she stand still, she opened a bedroom door and walked inside to stare up at the coving on that side. ‘See how it starts again? You could put this bedroom wall back where it was originally, get the coving restored.’

‘The bedroom would be smaller.’

‘Yes, but worth it, I would have thou—’ Breaking off, she suddenly strode across to the far wall and ripped a piece of loose paper free.

‘Phoenix!’ he exclaimed in mild exasperation.

Turning to look at him she said urgently, ‘I need to look in the loft space.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think the house was built round an older structure.’

‘Older?’ A small frown in his eyes, he asked, ‘How old?’

‘Medieval.’

‘Medieval? Are you sure?’

‘Not a hundred per cent, but look...’

Joining her, he stared at the small piece of wood that just showed through where she’d torn the paper. ‘It’s only an old beam,’ he murmured as she began picking away paper and plaster to reveal more of the wood.

‘Yes, old,’ she emphasised. ‘And the majority of medieval houses were built of wood. Most have perished, of course. We can have the wood dated, but I’m confident that we’ll find further evidence of it being medieval. Maybe an original Manor house,’ she added excitedly. ‘Probably fortified...’

‘Whoa,’ he cautioned. ‘Let’s not get carried away here...’

‘But it is! I’m sure it is! Later occupants have built round it, and over the years it’s been reinvented, if you like. Built on, added to—no wonder you didn’t want to sell it.’

Yes, no wonder, he thought bemusedly.

‘The loft?’ she prompted.

‘I don’t know if it’s safe...’

‘But we have to look! You must want to know!’

Enthused by her urgency, he finally nodded. ‘But just a look,’ he cautioned. ‘The entrance is through there. I’ll go and get a torch. And don’t go up without me!’

Walking out quickly, he ran lightly down the stairs, his mind buzzing with Phoenix’s enthusiasm. Medieval? Did she really know what she was talking about? Or was enthusiasm and hope carrying her away?

Finding the torch in the kitchen, he’d turned to go back upstairs when there was an almighty crash followed by a yell of alarm.

CHAPTER TWO

‘PHOENIX?’ he called urgently. Racing up the stairs, he hurried into the first room, and stared in astonishment at the shattered window, the shards that lay on the bare boards, and at Phoenix, who was carefully removing pieces of glass from her jacket.

She gave him a small, rather shaken smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. It rather took me by surprise.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed inadequately. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, yes, not cut or anything—just gave me a fright.’

Still shocked, he glanced quickly through the broken pane, then carefully began edging the pieces of glass to one side with his foot. There was nothing to indicate what might have broken the window, and no one to be seen outside.

‘Perhaps it was a bird,’ she murmured. ‘Crashed into the window and...’

‘Yes,’ he agreed thoughtfully. ‘Or children. It’s half-term, I believe, and an apparently empty house...’ Remembering his own schooldays, and the mischief he and his friends had got up to, it seemed a logical explanation, but he’d seen no children outside. ‘I’ll go and look.’ He turned away, and she called him back.

‘Torch?’

‘What? Oh.’ Handing it over, he ordered absently, ‘Don’t go up there without me.’

Returning down the rear staircase, he opened the back door and looked out. Nothing. No sign of anyone. Walking round to stand beneath the shattered window, he found no sign of a stunned bird, no sign of anything. He could hear the rooks in the trees at the far end of the field, a tractor somewhere, but nothing else. And if children had been throwing stones there would have been evidence of it on the landing.

Standing over at the old barn, where he’d parked his car, he walked slowly across to peer inside. Nothing.

Puzzled, eyes on the distant copse, he returned to the house. It might have been a bird—and then again it might not. But, whatever the cause, he would need to get a glazier out.

Grey eyes thoughtful, he walked back upstairs—and couldn’t find Phoenix. Certainly she wasn’t where he’d left her, although it didn’t take a genius to figure out where she’d gone. Walking through to the front bedroom, he saw that the door that led to the loft was standing open. A pair of high-heeled shoes lay abandoned halfway up the narrow staircase.

Exasperated, he climbed up to find her balancing on a beam and staring up into the rafters.

‘I told you to wait for me,’ he stated mildly.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured absently as she continued to play the torch over the old beams above her.

‘Find anything?’

‘Yes. My God, Nash, they’re nearly all intact!’

‘The beams?’

‘Yes. See how it’s gabled at each end, with a fairly steep pitch? How the ridge purlin...’

‘Pardon?’

‘Oh, sorry, the long beam—see how it extends horizontally along the ridge from one end to the other?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed cautiously.

Turning, she smiled at him. ‘It’s one of the earliest and most simple designs. A tie beam roof, definitely medieval. It’s beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘And so unexpected. To actually have survived... You could open up the landing ceiling...’

‘No, no, no,’ he reproved.

‘But Nash! Think how it would look!’

‘I am thinking. Of the mess, the draughts...’

‘You have no soul.’

‘I have a practical soul,’ he argued. ‘Do you need to take photographs?’ Negotiating the beam behind her, he handed over the camera. ‘Careful!’ he warned urgently as she stepped back. ‘You’ll go through the ceiling!’ Taking her notebook and the torch, so that she could have her hands free, he waited whilst she took several flash photographs of the roof.

‘Come on, this floor doesn’t look any too safe to me. We can argue about it when we’re out of here.’ Carefully backing up, steadying her as she did the same, he turned her in the doorway, and stilled. Forced close together in the narrow space, camera, notebook and torch between them, he stared down into her wide eyes.

‘A moment waiting to happen,’ he murmured, his voice soft, husky.

‘No,’ she whispered. She made a jerky movement, as though to flee, and he quickly prevented her.

‘Yes.’ Bending his head, he found her mouth with his, felt the tremor that ran through her. The tremor that ran through himself.

And he didn’t want to stop.

He kissed her urgently, thoroughly, felt the same pleasure and pain he had felt ten years previously. A compulsion, a need, and as she shuddered, tried to push him away, he lost his balance.

Grabbing the doorframe to steady himself, he was thrown further off balance when she ducked under his arm and ran down the narrow stairway. Tripping on her abandoned shoes, she was forced to jump the last few steps.

By the time he joined her she was standing at the window, both arms hugged round her middle.

Quietly watching her, he knew that if he said the wrong thing now he would lose her.

Walking across, he put the torch and notebook down on the window seat. Standing behind her, he put gentle hands on her shoulders, and she flinched.

‘Don’t do this to me,’ she begged.

‘You can’t ignore it.’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘But why?’

‘Because it isn’t what I want,’ she insisted, sounding incredibly strained. ‘And you can’t expect me to...’

‘I don’t. I don’t,’ he repeated. ‘It took me by surprise too, the feelings.’

‘But it’s absurd! It’s been ten years, Nash!’

‘I know.’

Slowly turning her, he stared down into her beautiful anguished face. ‘The moment you stepped from the car I knew. And so did you.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. Lie to me if you must, but don’t lie to yourself,’ he reproved gently.

‘But I don’t know you! I don’t know that I ever did.’

‘Then we’ll take time to get to know each other.’ Summoning every ounce of self-control, he encouraged, ‘Tell me about the roof. Is it really medieval?’

‘Yes, it...’ Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped away from him. ‘I’ve never seen one in such good condition. You must get those slates replaced. If we have any rain...’

‘Yes.’ Watching her, almost aching at her predicament, which surprised him, he added gently, ‘Sit down and tell me what I have. Come on. You’re the expert.’

She didn’t move for a while, just continued to look troubled, and then she sat down and picked up her notebook. Opening it to a fresh page, she put on her glasses.

‘And make it simple,’ he ordered as he perched beside her.

She stiffened slightly, but when he made no move to touch her she allowed her shoulders to relax fractionally. Speaking quietly, she began to sketch, her movements jerky at first, but gradually smoothing out.

A wisp of hair was lying across her cheek, and he wanted to move it, tuck it behind her ear. A perfect ear, one he had once touched with his tongue. Maturity had firmed her features—maturity and knowledge. At eighteen her thoughts, opinions had been formed by others; now she had her own clever mind to formulate new ideas, to direct her life with intelligence and confidence, and he was finding it hard to come to terms with this ten-year jump. Then she had bombarded him with questions—How do you do this? How that? What’s this for? That? Now she probably didn’t need to. She had always been bright. Now she was brighter. He knew she’d got a first at Oxford, because he’d checked.

‘And, of course, assuming it was once a Hall, a massive beam would have been thrown across the roof space, from wall plate to wall plate, to counteract the outward thrust on the walls.’ Unaware of his inattention, pencil flying, she continued tensely, ‘A central king post—or two queen posts, as you seem to have—and side struts were often supported on the tie beam to strengthen the structure. Further purlins—beams,’ she hastily corrected, ‘were set at intervals down the pitch like so, from apex to wall.’

Quickly adding more detail, her strokes sure and deft, to show him how it would have looked atop a medieval Hall, she continued, ‘Rafters were inserted across at right angles, supported on the wall plate—the horizontal beam at wall level—at the bottom, and attached to the ridge purlin at the top. The wall plate itself was secured by stone corbels.

‘Of course, by the fifteenth century there was less need for fortification and the structure would have been altered. Bedrooms and reception rooms would have been put in, the central hearth would probably have given way to wall fireplaces with roof chimneys, and, if the family was wealthy, stone would have been used round the outer walls. We might even find re-used medieval masonry. There would have been a huge courtyard—have you found any evidence of a courtyard?’ she broke off to ask. Without looking at him.

Wrenching his attention back, he shook his head. ‘But then, I haven’t investigated that much.’

‘Well, there would have been outbuildings, roof lines at various levels broken by tall chimney stacks...’

‘Of which I still seem to have some.’

‘Yes, so what we need to do now is check the archives, census returns, ordnance survey maps, find out who owned it, who altered it—because by the seventeenth century it would have changed out of all recognition.’

‘But it doesn’t look seventeenth-century now. My aunt’s solicitor described it as late eighteenth-century.’

‘Yes, Georgian, because of course it changed again. The façade is definitely Georgian. So is the east wing.’ Still busily sketching, she filled in the courtyard, added a few geese, and presented it to him. ‘That’s how it would have looked, I would guess, when it was first built. A fortified manor house with moat.’ Jumping to her feet, she moved to stand a few paces away.

As though he hadn’t noticed, he continued to stare at her sketch, then slowly smiled. ‘I’ve seen one like that in, oh, I don’t know—Herefordshire, I think.’

‘Mmm, the Manor House at Lower Brockhampton, I expect.’

‘And so it would be an awful pity to pull it down, wouldn’t it?’ he asked softly.

‘Oh, yes, you mustn’t do that.’

He looked up, and she looked hastily away. Removing her glasses, she began to chew on one of the stems.

‘How long have you needed them?’

She gave an odd little jerk. ‘What?’

‘Your glasses. How long have you needed them?’

‘Oh, not long. I only use them for close work. I’ll go and do some research, I think, and then—’

‘Really not interested?’ he interrupted softly.

‘Sorry?’ she queried nervously.

‘Already spoken for?’

She swallowed. ‘Don’t.’

‘What are you so frightened of, Phoenix?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly.

Leaning back, the sketchbook on his knee, he asked quietly, ‘How much did I hurt you?’

‘Unfair question,’ she murmured evasively.

‘Why?’

‘Because...oh...’ She sighed. ‘Because I was eighteen, and at eighteen everything hurts.’

‘I was trying not to hurt you,’ he explained as he continued to watch her. ‘I almost contacted you several times.’

‘But common sense prevailed?’ she asked, in a bitter little tone that puzzled him.

‘Yes. I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. And it would have been serious, wouldn’t it?’

‘Would it? I really can’t remember,’ she retorted evasively as she went to collect her shoes.

She was lying. She hadn’t forgotten it any more than he had. ‘Then tell me how I go about restoring the Manor. It can’t go back to what it was, can it?’

Pushing her feet into the high heels, she shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. You could open it up to how it looked before the Regency period, or before the Victorians had a go at it. Restore some of those lovely cornices, expose some beams—but, no, you won’t be able to get it back to how it was.’

‘Pity.’

‘Yes. And I’m not sure about the rules and regulations for altering a structure. You’d need a structural engineer—experts, anyway.’

‘Stop babbling. I wonder what happened to the moat?’

‘Filled in years ago, I expect.’ Warily approaching him, she gathered up her bits and pieces and stepped back. ‘There isn’t much more I can do today, so I’ll go and see what documentary evidence I can find.’

Getting to his feet, he stared at her for some moments in silence, and then he asked gently, ‘Going to run for ever?’

She didn’t answer, just turned and walked out.

Escorting her to her car, he fitted her wing mirror back on for her. ‘It’s only a temporary repair,’ he warned.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll call in to the garage.’

‘And you’ll come back tomorrow?’

Breathing shallow, tension in every line of her, she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know,’ she emphasised agitatedly. ‘Don’t push me. Please don’t do that.’

‘All right.’

She gave a perfunctory smile that seemed aimed at the hedge, and climbed into her car.

Quietly closing the car door, he watched her reverse erratically out into the lane and drive away.

A cold shower? he wondered in grim amusement. Except he didn’t have a shower. There was running water in the antiquated bathroom, but the bath looked as though it had been used for dipping sheep. And he wanted her. Couldn’t believe how much he wanted her. Better start practising self-restraint; my friend.

Face showing nothing of his feelings, he returned inside. And if she didn’t come back tomorrow he would go and find her.

He could understand her wariness—but her fear? What was it about him that frightened her so? A new experience for him, he thought wryly, to be unsure of something. Extremely patient when he needed to be, with women he had never needed to be. And that spoiled it. He didn’t really know why women found him so attractive, unless it was his money, he thought cynically. Chrissie had said it was his watchful silences that females found intriguing. But then, Chrissie had said a lot of things.

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