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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 s
ound 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.
