The Forbidden Innocent. Sharon Kendrick
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