This month, Ashley finds that secrets and desire are a potent combination:

All she could see was the sudden flintiness of his eyes—and the cold glint of pain at their depths. And she thought to her herself, Surely a man shouldn’t look like this just before he kisses you?

‘Jack, we mustn’t,’ she whispered.

‘Oh, but we must,’ he negated harshly, compelled by something far stronger than reason or the sudden frantic clamour of his conscience. ‘Because I think I’m going to go crazy unless we do.’

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Author Note

I came to Jane Eyre late. Unlike most people, I’d never read the book at school, where my tastes ran more to Orwell, Huxley and Shakespeare.

Novels become classics for a reason—but your age at the time of reading them will inevitably alter their impact. An impressionable young girl visiting a famous love-story for the first time is bound to view the book differently from a mature woman who has experienced love herself.

Yet such is the power of Brontë’s story that I was as swept away by it as any sixteen year old and, like Jane—I fell in love with Edward Rochester—the man with the brilliant black eyes and brooding presence.

Translating the story to the present day posed problems. It had to reflect the times while retaining it’s particular theme of forbidden love. A modern Jane would (I think) sleep with Edward. And a modern Edward would be unlikely to keep his wife imprisoned in an upstairs room!

But the essential elements remain: for me, their story was as much about a meeting of minds as a powerful passion which could not be denied. And all about the redemptive power of love, it’s ability to adapt—and to heal.

I hope you enjoy THE FORBIDDEN INNOCENT—and I’d love to hear your views on the story.

www.sharonkendrick.com

The Forbidden Innocent

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Anna Wilson—

a brilliant wife, mother, daughter, doctor and friend.

Love lives on.

Contents

Cover

Extract

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE last thing she wanted was a walk. The air was raw and the grey skies heavy but Ashley was jittery. Her morning had been spent on a stuffy train, watching the bleak and unfamiliar landscape whizzing by while she psyched herself up to meet her new boss. Telling herself that there was no need to be jittery and that he couldn’t possibly be as intimidating as the woman at the employment agency had implied.

Unfortunately, her arrival at his imposing manor house had done little to reassure her—because the powerful and wealthy Jack Marchant wasn’t there. And when she’d asked Christine—his part-time housekeeper—when he was expected, the middle-aged woman had raised her eyes to heaven in that you-tell-me kind of way.

‘Oh, you never can tell with Mr Marchant,’ she’d pronounced airily. ‘That man is a law unto himself.’

Now, as Ashley made her way along the frozen lane, flexing her fingers inside her woollen gloves to try to keep them warm, she realised that Jack Marchant seemed to have a daunting effect on women of a certain age. The woman at the employment agency had already described him as ‘formidable’—a word which covered a multitude of sins, in Ashley’s experience. Did that mean he was bad-tempered and bossy—or just rude enough not to bother turning up to meet his new secretary?

Not that it mattered what he was like—his personality was irrelevant. Ashley needed this job and she needed the money. Badly. It was a lucrative short-term contract and she could put up with pretty much anything—even this brooding northern landscape where the air seemed so cold and so biting.

She still wasn’t good at change—even with all the practice she’d had growing up in the care system, and then being passed from one foster family to another. She still got that claustrophobic feeling of dread whenever she had to meet new people and ease herself into a different situation. Learning what people liked—and, more importantly, what they didn’t like. Listening out for what they said—but looking in their eyes to see what they really meant.

Because almost from the cradle, she had learnt to read between the lines. To differentiate between words and intent. To trace the truth behind a smile. She had learned her lessons well. It had been a survival technique at which she had grown to excel and one she still instinctively practised all the time.

Her fingers fractionally warmer now, she stood still for a moment as she looked around her. Leafless trees stood sentry over the bare branches of the high hedgerows and over to the left lay the wild expanse of the moors. It was a lonely place, she thought—with a stark and austere air to it. But as she walked further up the incline of the lane towards the brow of a hill she could see the distant spire of a church and the jumble of rooftops. So at least there was a village—with people and shops and who knew what else?

And if she turned to look the other way, she could see Blackwood Manor spread out below her. From this distance, it looked even more imposing than when she’d been inside—its elegant grey form straddling the land and making her realise just how large the house was. From here she could see its dark woods and the scattering of outbuildings—as well as the distant glitter of a lake.

She looked down at the estate and tried to imagine what it must be like to own that much land. Was that what made Jack Marchant so ‘formidable’? Did having buckets of money corrupt you, as people often said it did? She was so lost in this particular daydream that at first she barely registered an unexpected sound until it grew louder, and closer. An unfamiliar noise was reverberating through the air and it took a few seconds for Ashley to realise that a horse was approaching.

Taken off guard, she felt disorientated—a feeling which only increased when she saw a colossal black shape thundering down the lane towards her. It was a huge beast of a thing, which looked as if it had sprung straight from some childhood nightmare—its powerful limbs rippling beneath the dark silk of its glossy coat. On its back was a man who, stupidly, wasn’t wearing a protective helmet, so that the wind streamed through his raven hair. Ashley blinked.

She became aware of faded blue jeans, a powerful body—and a face which was hard and forbidding. And she found herself staring into a pair of steely eyes—eyes as black and fathomless as a starless night.

Standing transfixed in the middle of the lane, she was stilled as much by the expression on the man’s face as the sensation of seeing such an enormous animal at such close quarters. But suddenly the horse seemed almost on top of her and she jumped out of the way with a little yelp. Instantly, the horse reared up in alarm—just as a large black and white dog rushed out from one of the hedgerows and began to chase after it.

Suddenly, everything became a blur and she heard a succession of noises. Another whinnying sound. A muffled but furious curse—followed by a sickening thud—before the horse crumpled to the ground, swiftly followed by the man riding it.

The dog was barking dementedly. It came running up to her—as if demanding that she help—and Ashley rushed forward, scared at what she might find. The horse struggled to its feet, but the prone shape of the rider was terrifyingly still. Fear clutched at her throat as she crouched down beside him and bent over him. Was he… was he… dead? Her heart raced as she touched his shoulder with shaking fingers. ‘Hello? Hello? Are you okay?’

The man moaned and Ashley winced. ‘Can you hear me?’ she questioned urgently—because hadn’t she read somewhere that you were supposed to keep injured people from drifting into unconsciousness? ‘I said—can you hear me?’

‘Of course I can hear you—when you’re inches away from my ear and bellowing into it! ‘

His voice was deep and surprisingly strong—and more than a little irritated. Thick lashes parted by a fraction to reveal a gleam of the steely eyes she’d seen just before he’d fallen and Ashley felt a huge rush of relief flood over her. He was alive!

‘Are you hurt?’ she questioned.

He grimaced as he stared up into a wide pair of anxious eyes and trembling lips and his own mouth hardened. What a stupid question! Why act concerned when it was her own stupid behaviour which had caused the fall in the first place? ‘What do you think?’ he questioned sardonically as, gingerly, he moved his leg.

For a moment Ashley was distracted by the movement and even more by the muscular thigh which was covered in faded denim. She swallowed. ‘Can I… can I do anything?’

‘Well, you could start by giving me some space,’ he growled. ‘Stand back, woman—and let me breathe.’

His voice was so authoritative that Ashley found herself obeying him, watching as he tried to stand up—but he didn’t make it any further than kneeling. At this, the dog went completely crazy—barking and leaping at the man until he silenced it with a terse command.

‘Quiet, Casey!’

He seemed to slump—before sitting back down heavily in the lane and, instinctively, Ashley moved closer. ‘Look, you really shouldn’t move.’

‘How do you know what I should do?’

‘I read it in a first-aid book. And if you’re hurt—which clearly you are—then I could go and get help. I think you should stay put. I’ve got my mobile, I can ring for an ambulance. You might have broken something.’

Impatiently, he shook his dark head. ‘I haven’t broken anything. It’s probably just a strain—and certainly nothing to fuss about. Wait a minute.’ At this, he tried standing again, and then groaned.

Ashley didn’t move as he gathered his breath, taking the opportunity to have a closer look at him. Because he was the kind of man who made you want to keep on looking.

Even his current crumpled stance couldn’t hide his impressive height, the broad sweep of his shoulders or the powerful, denim-clad legs. His windswept hair was raven-black and his eyes looked blacker still. At some time he might have been in a fight—or perhaps an accident—for there was a tiny scar by the side of his lips. Sensual lips, Ashley found herself thinking—though their cushioned curves were outlined by a hardness which seemed to have been stamped on them indelibly. Perhaps because they were twisted in pain from his fall.

His features were too rugged to be described as conventionally handsome—but something about his presence made him seem compelling. He exuded a rampant masculinity which should have unnerved her—but oddly enough, did not. Because in that moment—wasn’t he injured, and therefore a little vulnerable?

‘I can’t possibly think of leaving you—not like this,’ she said stubbornly.

He shook his head. ‘Of course you can! It’s getting late and these lanes aren’t good to walk on in the dark. Especially when the cars come speeding along.’ Granite-hard eyes bored into her curiously. ‘Or maybe you know the area well?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not at all well.’

‘No, I guess if you did you’d have realised you shouldn’t stand motionless in a blind spot in the path of a galloping horse,’ he said drily, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he flicked her another look. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Actually, I’ve just moved to the area today.’

‘Oh?’

It seemed foolish in the light of his accident and the fact that she was crouching rather uncomfortably in a damp lane to be discussing what she was doing there. But there was something so insistent about the way he was looking at her—those hard black eyes firing out a question—which made it impossible for her not to answer. And impossible for her not to feel a little dizzy. as if he were sucking all the strength from her with that strange, searing gaze of his. ‘To Blackwood Manor,’ she said.

Black brows arrowed together and his lips quirked into an odd kind of smile. ‘Ah. So you live there, do you—the grey house which overlooks the moorland?’

Ashley nodded. Strange to think that the imposing manor was now her home. ‘Yes.’ She gave a little wriggle of her shoulders. ‘It’s not mine, of course. The house belongs to my new boss.’

‘Really?’ he mused, his black eyes flicking over her. ‘And what’s he like, this new boss of yours?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet—he was out when I arrived. I’m his new PA—well, I’m more of a secretary really. He’s.’ She was about to start telling him that she’d been employed to type his novel for him but suddenly Ashley halted, feeling a fool—and wondering why on earth she was telling this complete stranger her business. Was it something to do with that intense way he had of looking at her? Or the fact that it seemed easier to talk than to focus on the odd prickling of her senses, which seemed to stem from his rather daunting proximity.

She began to scramble to her feet to put some distance between them. Discretion was a necessary part of being someone’s personal assistant—and what if Mr Marchant got wind of the fact that she’d been blabbing indiscriminately to someone she’d just met? ‘Actually, I’d better get going, if you’re absolutely sure there’s nothing I can do,’ she said hurriedly. ‘He might be back by now and I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.’

‘Hold on a moment,’ he said suddenly as he prepared to stand up. ‘You can help me if you want. Just catch hold of my horse, will you? ‘

It was the first time that Ashley had even considered the riderless horse and now she glanced over at it. A great big powerhouse of a beast—it was even more intimidating than its rider. Standing a little way down the lane, it was stamping its hooves in turn and snorting great clouds of smoky breath into the chilly atmosphere.

‘Or are you afraid?’ he questioned silkily, his gaze running over her face and lingering there.

She felt more fearful of that brilliant black gaze than of anything the horse could throw at her—but Ashley knew enough about self-preservation to realise when it was necessary to admit ignorance.

‘I don’t really know anything about horses,’ she confessed.

He nodded. ‘Then don’t go near him. I’ll manage,’ he said. ‘Hold still.’

Placing his hand on Ashley’s shoulder, he rose slowly to his feet and she experienced the weirdest sensation as his fingers pressed into her flesh. Was it because she had so rarely been touched by a man that it felt suddenly intimate? As if that brief touch had scorched through her clothes to the chilled body beneath—setting her skin on fire. Little flames of something unfamiliar licked at the pit of her stomach and she swallowed as he steadied himself.

In the cool of the darkening afternoon, their eyes met and Ashley felt as if she were melting beneath the scorching impact of his gaze. Was it her imagination or did his mouth tighten and a little nerve begin to flicker at his temple? Was she alone in the bizarre thought that somehow it felt as if the most natural thing in the world was for him to take her in his arms? And to then crush her against that hard, powerful body of his. She felt her mouth dry and then, abruptly, he pulled away and began to walk slowly towards his horse, making small crooning noises beneath his breath as he approached it.

Mesmerised, Ashley watched him as he sprang onto his horse—the way she’d seen it done countless times on TV. And it was as if his fall and the fact that he’d been temporarily winded had been nothing but a figment of her imagination—for he made the movement look completely effortless. It was poetry in motion, she thought as he leaned over and patted the animal’s flank and then glanced up to find her eyes still fixed on him.

For one insane moment she wanted to beg him not to go—to stay and make her feel properly alive again—so that she could experience that strange and disconcerting clamour of her senses once more. But the insanity passed as she looked up at him.

‘Thanks for your help,’ he said abruptly. ‘Now go. Quickly. Before it gets dark and you startle some other hapless person with those big, wide eyes of yours. Casey! Here, boy!’ The dog came running up and the man tightened his knees around the horse’s sides—sending Ashley one final mocking look before he began to canter off down the lane.

For a moment, Ashley didn’t move—she just stood watching as they faded into the distance, the lengthening shadows of the lane gradually swallowing them up as the clopping sound of hooves died away. Her fingers moved to her face to rest beneath her eyes. Nobody had ever told her they were big and wide before—and certainly not anybody who looked like that. Just who was the rugged stranger with the powerful body and the brooding expression? she wondered.

Her walk now abandoned, she made her way back towards Blackwood Manor—and when a tight-lipped Christine opened the door, a large black and white dog shot forward and began jumping up.

‘Casey!’ said Ashley without thinking as the animal instantly began licking at her hand. But Christine seemed too preoccupied to notice that she knew the dog’s name—and Ashley’s thoughts buzzed in confusion as she wondered what it was doing here. Swallowing down a mixture of panic and excitement, she turned to the housekeeper. ‘Whose dog is that?’

‘It belongs to Mr Marchant.’

‘Is he… is he back then?’

Christine nodded. ‘Oh, he came back all right, but not for long.’ Her face was grim. ‘Actually, he’s had an accident.’

‘An accident?’ said Ashley as the knot in the pit of her stomach began to tighten.

‘Yes, tumbled off his horse just down the lane from here. He’s driven himself off to the hospital for an X-ray.’

The dog. An accident. The sudden recognition of what the word ‘formidable’ really meant. Little pieces of reality began to lock together to form a bigger picture which suddenly became crystal-clear.

And Ashley’s heart began to pound as she realised just who the man on the horse had been. Her brand-new boss—Jack Marchant.

CHAPTER TWO

THE bare branches of the tree rattled wildly against Ashley’s window but she barely heard them as she stared out into the garden. All she could think about was the man with the hard black eyes who had fallen from his horse—and how she had unwittingly tumbled across her new boss in the most bizarre of circumstances.

Her new boss.

She swallowed down her panic. Was he hurt? Badly hurt? Lying even now in some sterile cubicle at the local accident and emergency department—with some slow haemorrhage seeping all the lifeblood out of him? So that maybe she would never get the chance to see him or speak to him again.

She wondered what the X-ray would show—because she knew how life could change in a heartbeat. One moment, you could be out galloping and enjoying life and the next. She swallowed. What if he had been badly injured—and if that were the case, then hadn’t she been a fool for letting him ride off alone like that?

But Christine had said there was no news—and nothing for her to do until Mr Marchant returned—and so Ashley had gone to her own room, to quieten her thudding heart and try to calm herself. And once she had washed her hands and brushed her hair she looked around at the subdued comfort of her brand-new room to try to calm her ruffled nerves.

She was more used to accommodation the size of a shoe-box but this one was huge. There was a queen-sized bed covered with a cashmere throw—as well as extra blankets in the cupboard, since Christine had warned her that these northern temperatures could plummet. A sofa heaped with cushions overlooked the gardens and there was a small television set perched on top of a beautiful chest of drawers.

‘Mr Marchant doesn’t really watch a lot of television and we don’t have it on much downstairs,’ Christine had confided. ‘But I told him that you can’t bring people out into the middle of nowhere without giving them anything to entertain themselves of an evening!’

Ashley had smiled. No, she couldn’t really imagine the brooding Jack Marchant huddled over a soap opera or some kind of reality game show.

Actually, she wasn’t a great fan of TV herself and, pulling a paperback from the small pile of books she’d brought with her, she sat down and began to read as she waited for news from the hospital. But for once the words failed to conjure up the power to take her into the imaginary world she preferred to the real-life version. Instead, she kept seeing images of that powerful body lying crumpled and temporarily winded.

So that had been Jack Marchant. She had been expecting someone older—and more remote. Some bespectacled and crusty academic, perhaps—as befitted the author of several well-received military biographies who was branching out into novel-writing. But he had been the very opposite of that. Different, in fact, from anyone she’d ever met.

Her book forgotten, she hugged her arms around her chest. Ashley had mixed with plenty of boys when she’d been growing up, but they had been just that—boys—with all their swagger and bravado. Whereas the man who had leaned on her today had exuded a commanding masculinity she’d never experienced before. And she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to deal with someone like that on a day-to-day basis.

But you don’t have to deal with anything other than the work he gives you to do, taunted a small voice inside her head. He’s your boss, remember? You type his work for him, you live quietly in his house—and at the end of every month you collect the generous salary he’s providing. That’s the reason you’re here, after all.

Her thoughts were broken by a sudden tap on her bedroom door—and she opened it to find Christine standing there, with her coat on and a battered shopping bag looped over her arm.

‘I’m just off home now,’ she said. ‘And Mr Marchant’s back from the hospital. He’s downstairs in the library and said he’d like to meet you.’

‘Is he okay?’ Ashley asked quickly.

‘Oh, he’s fine. It’d take a lot more than a tumble from his horse to damage someone like him.’

But Ashley felt a fluttery kind of nervousness at the thought of seeing him again and, self-consciously, her hands skimmed down over her sweater and alighted on the waistband of her jeans.

‘Maybe I’d better change,’ she said doubtfully.

‘Maybe you had,’ said Christine. ‘But better not keep him waiting too long—he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I’ll see you in a couple of days. Have fun.’

Fun? Now why did Ashley get the distinct feeling that there wasn’t going to be much fun involved in this new position?

After Christine had gone, she put on a plain skirt and a neat blouse, brushed and twisted her long hair into a French plait and then went downstairs to the library. The door was closed and the deeply growled and peremptory command of ‘Come!’ in response to her hesitant tapping almost made her lose her nerve and turn away.

Pushing open the heavy door, she saw a dark figure standing by the fire with his back to her—a figure she recognised instantly and yet one that seemed even more intimidating than it had done earlier. Was that because the red flames threw his tall figure into a stark silhouette which seemed to dominate the room? Or because his physique was, quite simply, breathtaking?

Suddenly, she felt insubstantial in the presence of such a remarkable package of masculinity. As if he could dominate her as he dominated the room. It was another unwanted moment of awareness and Ashley found herself struggling to make his name pass her dry lips.

‘Mr… Marchant?’

He turned then and the flames illuminated his face—sending shifting shadows across features which were so still that they might have been fashioned from dark marble. He seemed to have a sense of total isolation about him—as if he had cut himself off from the rest of the world—and as Ashley stared at him she saw the brief flicker of something bleak in his eyes. Something like pain. And something like anger. And then it was gone. Instead, his look became coolly assessing as his gaze swept over her, though it was a moment before he spoke.

‘So, we meet again.’

‘Yes.’

That same odd smile she’d seen earlier once again curved his sensual lips. ‘My lady rescuer.’

Ashley shrugged her shoulders awkwardly. ‘I didn’t really do very much to rescue you.’

‘No. I suppose you didn’t.’ Jack studied her, remembering her wide eyes and trembling lips. The softness of her touch as she had shaken him. How potent gentleness could be, he thought suddenly. And how long since he had felt its subtle seduction? He flicked the thought away—even though his attention was momentarily distracted by the faint swell of her breasts beneath her sweater. ‘And no doubt you were too stricken by guilt to be of much use in any case,’ he challenged huskily.

‘Guilt?’ she echoed defensively, as unwittingly he touched a raw nerve. Because hadn’t her life been blighted by false accusations made by those on whom she depended? The foster mothers. The matrons in the care homes. Time after time she had discovered that the disadvantaged were an easy target. And now, as she looked into his hard black eyes, she wondered if here was someone else who would concoct crimes she was supposed to have committed. ‘I wasn’t aware that I’d done something wrong.’

‘Don’t you know that it’s inadvisable to startle horses? That they’re as temperamental as women?’ he said. ‘But don’t stand over there by the door looking so nervous. You’d better come in and sit down—I won’t bite! And if we’re to spend the next few months incarcerated together, then I’d better know something about you—don’t you think? Sit down—no, not there. Sit over here by the lamp, where I can see you properly.’

She was acutely aware of his piercing gaze and authoritative manner, and Ashley’s legs felt curiously jellylike as she walked to the spot he’d indicated. Perching herself on the edge of the chair, she watched as he lowered himself into a similar one on the opposite side of the fireplace—though his own seat was more shadowed, she realised. Which meant that she couldn’t see him so well as he had insisted on seeing her.

He had changed from the faded jeans into dark trousers and an expensive-looking shirt of silk, which hinted at the hard body beneath. With the more formal clothes, he now looked every inch the modern-day aristocrat— his long legs stretched out in front of him as he surveyed her from between narrowed and watchful eyes.

‘You’re much younger than I thought,’ he observed, his eyes drifting over the smooth surface of her skin, and he felt a flicker of irritation. Why the hell had the agency sent him someone like this—someone with that tight bloom of youth on her skin, which women spent the rest of their lives hopelessly trying to recapture?

Ashley gave a little shrug. ‘The agency didn’t specify an age, Mr Marchant.’

‘No, please don’t call me that.’ He shook his head and gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. ‘I don’t like any kind of formality. Not now that I’ve left the army. You’d better call me Jack.’

Jack. It suited him. A strong and powerful name. The name of a man who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. Jack. She tried it again silently in her head until his deep voice broke into her reverie.

‘And you’re Ashley?’ he questioned impatiently, wondering if she was going to adopt that dreamy expression every time he spoke to her.

‘That’s right. Ashley Jones.’

‘And how old are you, Ashley Jones?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Eighteen?’ He made a small sound of annoyance underneath his breath. She was even younger than he’d thought. He studied her, acknowledging once again that there was something distracting about dewy-eyed youth—something which drifted temptation in front of a man, even if he had no intention of being tempted.

It made him think about sex—about soft limbs and trembling flesh. Even if that was the last thing in the world he wanted, or needed. He felt his body tense in unwilling reaction to his vaguely erotic thoughts. ‘I was hoping for someone a little more experienced,’ he said harshly.

She heard the sudden censure in his voice and all Ashley’s survival instincts came to the fore as she imagined being sacked from her job before she’d even started. She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I have plenty of experience for the kind of work you require, Mr Marchant.’ ‘

Jack.’

‘Jack,’ she corrected.

‘Someone more middle-aged, then,’ he amended. ‘Who won’t mind locking herself away in this dark corner of the country.’ He frowned. Had she idealised the job and the life she was going to find here? ‘There aren’t any nightclubs around here, you know. It’s pretty quiet—more than quiet, in fact. No bright lights or big pubs crowded with young men.’

‘I’m not really into nightclubs and bright lights.’

There was a pause as Jack’s eyes narrowed. No. With that sensible hairstyle and that rather sensible sweater and skirt, he couldn’t really imagine her gyrating in some sparkly little number on an overcrowded dance-floor. ‘Well, I hope you aren’t going to be bored.’

She shook her head, wondering if she had imagined some kind of dark warning in his voice. ‘I doubt it. And eighteen isn’t so young—not really.’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, believe me, it is,’ he contradicted shortly, wondering if his own face ever looked as fresh as hers. Had his eyes ever been so clear and bright—so perfect and unlined? A long time ago, maybe. Before the army. Before. His mouth tightened. Before the random lottery of life had given him a oneway ticket to hell. He bent down to throw another log on the fire and it spurted into orange life. ‘Once you’ve passed thirty-five—then someone of your age is pretty much in cradle-country.’

How old was he? Ashley mused in response. Thirty-five? Forty? His face wasn’t particularly lined, but it had the shadows and furrows of experience etched deep into it. It suddenly occurred to her that if Jack Marchant decided that she wasn’t what he wanted, then that would be that. There would be no job—and no roof over her head, either. And she needed the money—more than she’d ever needed money in her life. For him, her employment probably meant nothing, but for her it meant everything. Desperation made her argue her case—though some instinct told her not to show it.

‘It’s not as if there’s something weird about working at this age,’ she defended quietly. ‘Though these days everybody seems to think there is. If you’re old enough to vote, then surely you’re old enough to go out to work.’

Unexpectedly, he found himself thinking how her face was completely transformed by her smile—and got the feeling she didn’t do it very often. ‘And you’ve worked since when?’

‘Since I was sixteen.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Secretarial work, mainly—although I like to think I’m flexible enough to turn my hand to pretty much most things. My last job was in a boarding school. Before that I was in a hotel.’

‘But always live-in jobs?’

‘That’s right. I’m hoping to save up for a deposit on my own place one day.’ When she’d cleared the massive debt which hung like a heavy weight dangled over her head.

‘And you had no desire to go to university?’

Ashley sighed, wondering why people always leapt to such predictable conclusions. Of course she’d wanted to go to university—but desire and feasibility were two entirely different things. Moving innumerable times in your formative years and attending some of the worst schools in the country did not tend to provide you with the kind of academic qualifications you needed to go to college.

‘It just didn’t work out that way,’ she said quietly.

He heard the quiet defensiveness in her voice and something made him want to pursue it. ‘No pushy parents?’

She swallowed. ‘I have no parents.’

‘No, I thought not,’ he said softly.

Ashley stared at him. Was he some sort of mind-reader—or did she just carry an invisible aura about her which proclaimed ‘orphan’? Her lips trembled. ‘H-how?’

‘Because there is something oddly self-contained about you,’ he answered cryptically, thinking how innocent she looked when her lips shivered like that. ‘Something which tells me you have been looking after yourself for a long time.’

‘You are very perceptive,’ she said slowly, almost to herself, and she saw his eyes narrow.

‘I’m a writer,’ he said mockingly. ‘It goes with the territory. We may not be the best people at engaging in social niceties—but our observational skills are highly honed. Which is why I’d also hazard that you’re a city girl?’

‘Because I walk in lanes and scare the horses?’

‘There’s that of course. And by your pale face, which looks as if it has never seen sunshine,’ he observed, finding his gaze drawn once more to her features. She was no beauty, that was for sure—and yet she had something which set her apart. Was it her eyes, which looked like a paintbox swirl of different greens? Or something about her quietness and watchful air? You didn’t meet very many women with that rare air of containment, not these days. ‘Very pale,’ he finished slowly as an odd kind of lump rose in his throat.

And once again, Ashley felt a sudden sense of awareness begin to sizzle at her skin as his black eyes captured her in their gaze. The intimate flicker of the firelight seemed to have marooned them in their own private world where none of the usual rules seemed to apply. One where her new boss could study her as if she were beneath a microscope—and she would accept it as perfectly normal. She cleared her throat as she scrabbled round for something to break this oddly hypnotic and mesmerising mood.

‘Did…’ she hesitated ‘… did the hospital give you the all-clear?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Why, do you think I have taken leave of my senses? That I’m speaking in a deranged way?’

‘Since this is only the second time I’ve met you, it’s far too early for me to make a judgement like that.’

At this Jack gave a low laugh and leaned further back into the cushions of the chair. So behind that demure, pale face she was capable of sarcasm, was she? Just as it seemed she was capable of answering his questions with an honesty which was as rare as it was disarming. Which would suggest she wasn’t quite as mouselike as her appearance suggested. ‘You’ll have to let me know when you come to a verdict about my sanity,’ he mocked softly.

Ashley bit back a smile. ‘I don’t actually think that’s in my job specification.’

‘Perhaps not.’ He bent to toss another log into the smouldering fire. ‘So what did the agency tell you about the job?’

He rested his hands against his chest as he waited for her answer—his fingers steepled together against the dark shadow of his jaw. The pose was faintly brooding—so that for a moment Ashley thought it looked as if he were holding an imaginary gun and the stark and unexpected metaphor unsettled her. She guessed that with his army experience, he was no stranger to guns and violence.

But more than anything, in that moment, Jack Marchant looked all dark and rampant sexuality. Like every woman’s fantasy come to life. Suddenly, she understood why middle-aged Julia at the agency had become hot and flustered when she’d described Jack Marchant as ‘formidable’. And maybe his effect on women didn’t have an age barrier—because suddenly she was feeling a little hot and flustered herself.

‘I… they said you’d written several biographies of great men. Mainly military men.’

‘How very dry that sounds.’

‘And that I would be typing up your latest manuscript—’

‘From longhand? I hope they specified that? I’ve tried typing it myself but tapping out on a keyboard distracts my thoughts. I prefer to write it out—and I don’t think I’m alone in that.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Many authors still do, I believe?’

Ashley nodded. She found herself wondering what his handwriting was like. As torturous and as twisted as the thought processes which seemed to be firing up behind those ebony eyes? ‘So I believe.’

‘And they told you it’s a novel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever typed a novel before?’

She nodded. ‘I did one by Hannah Minnock early last year—she was a teacher at the school where I was working and it was her first book, called Ringing TheChanges. It was a chick-lit book.’ His face remained blank. ‘You know—funny, frothy stuff aimed at professional women. About divorce.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘And that’s considered funny, is it?’

‘I just type the story,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t sit there in judgement of it.’

‘Well, you’ll find that my novel is as far removed from your frothy, fluffy “chick-lit” book as it is possible to be.’

‘I rather thought it might be,’ she answered quietly. ‘What exactly is it about?’

There was a pause and, briefly, she saw his knuckles tightening and the flicker of the flames casting bloodlike shadows over them. ‘My time in the army.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Really?’ He raised his dark brows in mocking question. ‘And what exactly do you know about army life?’

‘Well, only what I’ve seen on the news and read in the papers.’

‘And are you easily shocked? Are you queasy about blood and gore?’ Black eyes blazed at her and sent out an unmistakable challenge. ‘Do you scare easily, Ashley?’

She felt the sudden race of her heart in response to his question. Once, she would have blurted out that yes, she had known fear—real fear. The cruel personality of one of her foster mothers had seen to that. Sadistic Mrs Fraser who had locked her in the cupboard under the stairs all evening after accusing her of a crime of which the ten-year-old Ashley had been innocent.

She would never forget the experience—not as long as she lived. It had left a hideous mark on her memory which could never be erased. The dust and the cobwebs which had tickled her cheeks had been bad enough—taunting her with the knowledge that large, wriggly spiders were probably just waiting to drop down onto her head. But it had been the darkness which had terrified her more than anything. The claustrophobic darkness which had provided an ideal breeding ground for her fevered imagination. Ghosts and ghouls had come to haunt her that night and visions of lonely graveyards had filled her with an unspeakable kind of dread.

When eventually the door had been opened and light had flooded in Ashley had been beyond comprehension—or past caring. Her lips had been bleeding from where she had clamped her teeth into them and her clothes had been damp with sweat. The doctor told her afterwards that she must have had some kind of fit—but she would never forget the look of horror on his face, which he hadn’t quite managed to hide. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—as if such things shouldn’t be happening in this modern day and age. But they did happen. Ashley had never been under any illusion about that. Times changed but human nature didn’t.

The council had found another placement for her almost immediately—although Mrs Fraser had used her clever and manipulative tongue to convince her next set of foster parents that she was nothing but trouble. A liar and a cheat, she’d said. Ashley’s reputation had preceded her. She had quickly learned that if someone had a fixed idea that you were a bad person, then they would be on the lookout for signs to prove just that.

As a result, she had learned to subdue her hot temper and quick tongue. She had buried her more excitable character traits along with the squalid memory of that day. She had become quiet and calm Ashley, who would not rise to provocation or threat. And if Jack Marchant wanted to know the precise details of when and why she had been scared—then he would wait in vain for an answer from her. Because some secrets were best forgotten.

‘No, I don’t scare easily,’ she said.

‘Don’t you? And yet just now I saw something darken your eyes,’ he observed softly. ‘Something which looked exactly like fear.’

He was, she realised, an exceedingly perceptive man. And surely too intelligent to accept a smooth evasion? But he was her employer, nothing else. He had rights, yes—but only those which affected her work. He did not have the right to probe into her past and to prise out the horrors which she had buried so deep. She lifted her chin to meet the question in his eyes. ‘Everyone has dark corners in their memories—things they’d rather just forget,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t they?’

Her words produced a change in him. Ashley saw the flicker of a pulse at his temple and a fleeting expression of anguish which briefly darkened his craggy face. It was strange seeing so powerful a man look almost. almost despairing, but the look was gone so quickly that she wondered if she might have imagined it.

Instead, he gave that odd smile which curved the edges of his hard lips and didn’t really seem to have any humour in it. ‘Let’s leave my memories out of it, shall we?’ he said, his dismissive tone indicating that the conversation was at an end—and then he rose to his feet as if to reinforce it. ‘Come on, let’s go and eat supper.’

He looked down into her upturned face, towering over her and somehow making her feel very small and fragile. Ashley felt the surface of her skin icing, her skin turning to goose-bumps as his tall body bathed her in its dark shadow.

Because never had a man’s harsh and enigmatic expression made her feel quite so unsettled.

CHAPTER THREE

ASHELY had a restless first night at Blackwood. The branches battering at the windows kept sleep at bay and so did the images which burned into her memory every time she shut her eyes. Images of raven hair, burnished by firelight. Of a towering physique and a powerful body. And more than anything—of a cold and intelligent gaze which seemed to slice right through her like an icy blast of winter wind.

She and Jack Marchant had eaten supper together, but as soon as the meal was finished he had excused himself and disappeared into his study to work, closing the door behind him. Leaving Ashley feeling alone and out of place in the vast downstairs of the house. She’d escaped to her own room, where she took a bath and washed her hair—before lying awake and restless in bed and wondering if she was going to be happy here. And the worst thing of all was that she couldn’t seem to shake the image of Jack from her mind.

Jack in denim, having fallen from his horse—his face twisted in pain and his raven hair all windswept.

Jack in a silk shirt and tapered trousers—so imposing and aristocratic as he sat beside the fire, with the flames dancing shadows all over his rugged features.

And just one floor beneath her Jack was in bed. Was he naked beneath linen sheets as fine as the ones in which she herself lay? Did that powerful body toss and turn as hers did? Her cheeks burning as she acknowledged her uncharacteristically erotic thoughts, Ashley buried her face in the welcome cool of the pillow.

Eventually, she drifted off to sleep—only to be woken with a start by the distant sound of a door slamming and then the beginning of a rhythm which confused her at first but was unmistakable once she’d worked out what it was. In the darkness, Ashley frowned.

It was the sound of somebody pacing the floor.

Quickly, she sat up in bed, her eyes growing accustomed to the faint light in the room. Surely Jack Marchant was not an insomniac? And yet who else could it be making those agitated footsteps—when the two of them were alone in the house?

Listening to the sound of heavy pacing, she found herself wondering what thoughts were going through his head—and what could possibly keep a man like that awake at night.

After that, sleep became impossible and she gave up trying to chase it, and she lay there until some ancient central-heating system began to crank into life and herald the start of another day. Eventually she saw the first pale rays of light as they crept through a sliver of space between the curtains.

The room was chilly and swiftly she jumped out of bed and dressed in jeans and layers of warm clothing, before slipping down the sweeping staircase, listening out for signs that Jack might be awake and ready to start work. But the house was in complete silence and, after putting on her sturdy shoes, she let herself out of the kitchen door and went outside, where a fairy-tale landscape awaited her.

During the night a heavy frost had fallen—transforming the bleak, grey landscape of yesterday into one brushed by pure white. The garden looked like an old black and white photo with each blade of grass and every branch painted in monochrome.

For a moment she just stood there, revelling in the unfamiliar country scene and thinking that it looked like the picture on the front of a Christmas card. There was always something so pure about the frost—it was as white as snow and yet somehow more stark and understated. Less showy. Lifting her hand, she ran a questing finger along a branch and felt it shower down over her head—like fine snowflakes. A sudden sense of exhilaration filled her as she began to walk along the frozen path, enjoying the fresh air and space of the countryside and thinking how quiet it was when compared to the city.

And then something intruded into her consciousness—some slight movement which must have registered at the corner of her eye. Looking up towards the manor house, she felt her heart skip a beat because there—framed by a curved gothic window and silhouetted like some towering statue—stood the dark and brooding figure of Jack Marchant. He was completely still, as motionless as if he were part of the house itself and yet, even from this distance, Ashley could feel the icy burn of his eyes as he watched her.

She felt her heart miss a beat. Had he gone looking for her—eager to start work—only to find her strolling around the grounds, running her fingertips over frost-glazed branches like a simple fool?

She hurried back towards the house, hoping to be able to tidy herself and be installed ready to start work before he came downstairs. But she hoped in vain, for she opened the kitchen door to the gentle hiss of a coffee machine and the comforting smell of toast.

Jack was standing there, his strong hands cupped around a steaming mug as he stared out of the window over the kitchen garden. For a moment, she stood and drank in the view, taken aback by the domesticity of the scene—and by the infinitely more disturbing image of his hard, high buttocks encased in faded denim. His bare feet gripped the cool grey flagstones and his dark hair curled over the edge of his collar.

She had never seen a man in such an intimate setting before and it made her feel acutely self-conscious. Ashley swallowed, trying to clamp down her rising excitement and the sudden frisson which skittered over her skin. There seemed something almost indecent about the sight of his toes and the unexpected glimpse of bare flesh. The warmth of the kitchen was seductive—but not nearly as seductive as the hard gleam from his eyes as he turned to look at her. Did he notice the sudden tremble of her mouth, and wonder what on earth had caused it?

‘Good morning,’ she said, a touch breathlessly.

‘Ashley.’ He said her name softly as he saw the high rise of colour to her cheeks and the way her hair spilled down over her shoulders this morning. Her lips gleamed where she must have licked them and he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss them, even as he acknowledged how impossibly young she looked. ‘Are you always up so early, taking walks?’

Still feeling a little light-headed, she shook her head. ‘Not really. The last place I was living in wasn’t really the kind of place you’d go out walking—not at any time of the day. But as I was awake.’ She peeled off her frosty coat and thought how tired he looked. His features were strained with fatigue and his black eyes were shadowed by blue smudges beneath.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ Something about the way he was looking at her was making her feel ridiculously weak and she was grateful to be able to slide into one of the chairs which surrounded the scrubbed oak table.

‘Did you sleep well?’ he questioned suddenly.

She hesitated. She supposed she could lie and tell the polite fib. But what would be the point? Surely he must have realised that she’d heard him as he had paced the corridors? ‘Not terribly well, no.’

‘Oh? Did something keep you awake?’

His voice was studiedly casual but she felt torn as she met the question in his eyes. If she lied, simply to gloss over things—mightn’t that enrage him and make him think that he couldn’t trust her to tell the truth? And wasn’t honesty important to her—more important to her than pretty much anything else? ‘Actually, I heard footsteps. Pacing the corridor.’

For a split second his face darkened and Ashley felt a moment of disquiet as she looked at him. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned it after all. But just as quickly the look had gone and was replaced by one of curiosity.

‘So were you afraid that the house was haunted?’ he questioned silkily. ‘The tormented spirit of one of my ancestors, perhaps.’ He poured coffee into a mug and pushed it across the table towards her. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Ashley?’

She shook her head. She thought he was trying to change the subject and she wondered why. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

Like a croupier, he directed the sugar bowl in her direction, bringing it to a halt when she shook her head. ‘Or did you think it was me?’

‘I knew it was you.’ Her heart missed a beat as she met the question in his narrowed eyes. ‘How… I mean, how could it not be you—when we’re the only two people in the house?’

Jack’s mouth hardened. He wondered what she had done when she’d heard him. Had she lain there and wondered whether he might sleepwalk his way into her room by mistake?

With a sudden and inexplicable clarity, he almost wished he had—as he pictured her slender frame beneath the outline of a thin sheet. He could imagine pulling the sheet aside to see a slender, coltish body—her curving breasts topped with rosy nipples. Could imagine those unpainted lips of hers framing themselves into a silent question as he sought the comfort and warmth of her fragile body. He swallowed as he imagined sliding his hand between soft thighs and gently parting them. Was he going out of his mind? Abruptly, he sat down at the table, glad to be able to conceal his aching groin. He drank some too-hot coffee and winced, glad for its scalding distraction. ‘And were you frightened?’

She picked up her mug and shrugged. ‘I try not to do fear.’

Something about her quiet response impressed him. He watched her as she sat there in his kitchen, hair still damp from the frost that had fallen on her head, and he found himself thinking how difficult it must be for her to be catapulted into his life. To just turn up at a place like this, not knowing what, or who, she would find. To have to blend in and mould herself to what was expected of her. ‘What makes someone like you take on this sort of job?’ he questioned suddenly.

His question was so unexpected that Ashley didn’t have one of her stock answers ready—about liking variety in her work and wanting to get as many different kinds of work experience as possible. Because if the truth were known she wouldn’t really have opted for a post which took her away from all her friends, to a deserted part of a bleak, northern moorland in the middle of January.

‘I need the money,’ she said starkly.

He raised his eyebrows by a fraction—because most people hid this kind of truth behind a casual lie or exaggeration. ‘Why?’

Ashley shrugged, wondering whether it was the directness of his question or that searching onyx stare which made her want to tell him. Or was it simply the realisation that here was not a man who could be fobbed off with flimsy excuses? Would he be shocked by the truth? ‘I’m in debt.’

‘Oh, dear.’ There was a pause. ‘By much?’

She supposed it wouldn’t be much to him. ‘Enough.’

‘I see.’ Thoughtfully, he sipped at his coffee. ‘So what caused it—was it extravagance, or necessity?’

This time, Ashley chose her words carefully—because what would someone like Jack Marchant know about the realities of her life and trying to manage a budget when money was tight? When an unexpected bill could send your bank balance plummeting and then other expenses showered in on top to add to the mounting pressure. That was the trouble with debt—somehow you never quite caught up with yourself. It happened to other people her age but most of them had parents they could turn to if they were desperate. Someone who might be able to help them out with a short-term loan. But she’d never had anybody to run to.

‘Necessity,’ she said. ‘Too many bills arrived all at the same time—and then a couple of unexpected ones only added to the burden.’

‘I see,’ said Jack.

‘I mean, it wasn’t shoes or a designer coat,’ she added quickly. ‘I didn’t have an urge to go off on an exotic foreign holiday, or anything like that.’

‘No. I can’t imagine that it was,’ he concurred, because somehow he couldn’t imagine her having expensive tastes or lusting after fine clothes. Not judging by what she wore—rather plain and ordinary clothes, which nonetheless did little to hide the fact that there was a very nubile body beneath them. He wondered what it must be like to have to count and account for every penny as he acknowledged how difficult it must be for someone like Ashley Jones to survive. And unexpectedly, he felt a sudden pang of compassion. ‘Well, you should be able to save most of your salary here,’ he said gruffly. ‘Since there’s not really a lot to spend it on in the middle of the moors.’

‘No, I guess there isn’t,’ she said quietly, his attitude surprising her—making her think that perhaps he wasn’t all he seemed. He might be a powerful and wealthy landowner who’d never had to worry about bills, but he wasn’t being judgemental about her situation. In fact, he had sounded really quite kind, she realised, with a small glow of pleasure.

‘Anyway,’ he said hastily as he became aware that he’d made her blush and that her cheeks were flaring rose-pink. It was a long time since he had made a woman blush and the last time it had happened had been in very different circumstances. Feeling another unwanted jerk of desire, he felt a stab of irritation. What he did not need was for her to start coming over all girly. For her face to start colouring every time he spoke to her, drawing attention to the fact that she was young and firm and that, despite the relative plainness of her face, he had seen her lips tremble. And didn’t nature make young women’s lips tremble to make you wonder what it must be like to kiss them? ‘Help yourself to breakfast,’ he said hurriedly. ‘And by the time you’ve eaten, we’ll be ready to start work. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she agreed, her eyes following him as he walked out of the kitchen.

She nibbled at some toast and marmalade and when she’d finished she stacked the dishwasher and stopped to freshen up on her way to Jack’s office. Usually, Ashley didn’t have a trace of vanity in her nature, but this morning something made her linger for a moment by the mirror in the cloakroom. As if she wanted to see herself as he had seen her—but not wanting to wonder why.

The unremarkable oval of her face was reflected back at her as she pushed her hair back behind her ears. It was easy to be critical of her looks—as so many people had been over the years—and the foster mothers who had been looking for a doll-like accessory had been the worst. Little girls were supposed to be cute and pretty, but Ashley had never been that. Her skin was too pale and her mouth much too wide for her face. Yes, she’d been blessed with thick hair, but she realised that the neat, restrained style she wore for work gave her a rather stern

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