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Seb took another step back, his mouth set firm, his eyes hard. ‘I won’t do this, Daisy. Not here, not now, not ever. I told you, this is not how I will live. If you want to fight, go pick a quarrel with your mother but don’t try and pick one with me.’
Daisy trembled, the effort of holding the words in almost too much. But through the tumult and silent rage another emotion churned. Shame. Because Seb was right. She was trying to pick a quarrel, trying to see if she could get him to react.
And he was right about something else. She was fastening her own insecurities on him. He was very upfront about her job; he mocked it, laughed at it but he had supported her when she’d needed it. And he might think weddings frivolous but he had commented on some of her photos, praised the composition.
‘I was being unfair.’ The words were so soft she wasn’t sure if she had actually said them aloud. ‘I don’t know if it’s the stress of the wedding or pregnancy hormones or lack of sleep. But I’m sorry. For trying to provoke you.’
He froze, a wary look on his face. ‘You are?’
Her mouth curved into a half smile. ‘I grew up with two sisters, you know. This is how we operated—attack first.’
‘Sounds deadly.’ But the hard look in his eyes had softened. ‘Are you ready to walk back? If you’re very lucky I’ll show you where I used to build my den.’
Daisy recognised the conciliatory note for what it was and accepted the tacit peace offering. ‘That sounds cool. We had treehouses but they were constructed for us, no makeshift dens for us.’
‘I can imagine.’ His tone was dry. Whatever he was imagining probably wouldn’t be too far from the truth. They had each had their own, ornate balconied structures constructed around some of the grand old oaks in Huntingdon Hall’s parkland.
They strode along, Seb pointing out objects of interest as Daisy zoomed in on some of the early signs of spring budding through the waking woodland. The conversation was calm, non-consequential, neither of them alluding to the brief altercation.
And yet, Daisy couldn’t help thinking, he had been the first to react. Immediate and unmistakeable anger. In his eyes, in his voice, in the grip on her shoulders, in his words. She had got to him whether he admitted it or not. Was that a good thing? A breakthrough?
She had no idea. But it was proof that he felt something. What that actually was remained to be seen but right now she would take whatever she could get.
Because it meant hope.
* * *
‘These are really good, Daisy.’
‘Mmm.’ But she sounded critical as she continued to swipe through the files. Seb had no idea why. Whether the pictures were colour or black and white she had completely captured the otters’ essence. Watching the photos in their natural order was like being told a story.
She obviously felt about her photos the way he felt about his words—no matter how you tinkered and played and edited they could always be better.
Daisy pulled a face and deleted a close-up that looked perfect to him. ‘What I need down there is a proper hide. Preferably one with cushions and a loo.’
It would be the perfect spot. ‘I did consider putting in a nature trail, but it means more people coming onto the land.’
‘And that’s a problem, why?’ She looked up from the laptop, her gaze questioning.
He bit back the surge of irritation, trying to keep his voice even. ‘This is my home, Daisy. How would you like people traipsing all over Huntingdon Hall at all times of the day?’
She leant back, the blue eyes still fixed on him. ‘We often open up the hall. Mum and Dad host charity galas and traditionally the hall is the venue for the village fete plus whatever else the village wants to celebrate—and there’s always something. Besides, yes, they do own some parkland and the gardens are huge by nearly anyone else’s standards but it doesn’t even begin to compare to Hawksley. Don’t you think you’re a bit selfish keeping it locked up?’
Selfish? Words were Seb’s trade—and right now he had lost his tools. All he could do was stare at her, utterly nonplussed. ‘I let people look around the castle.’
She wrinkled her nose and quoted: ‘“Restricted areas of the house are available to members of the public from eleven a.m. until three p.m., weekends only between Whitsun and September the first.”’
Okay, the hours were a little restrictive. ‘I hire out the Great Hall.’
‘Saturdays only. And you don’t allow anyone else onto the estate apart from the villagers and your tenants.’
His defensive hackles rose as she continued. It was as if she had looked into all his worries and was gradually exhuming each one. ‘That’s how we’ve always done things.’ An inadequate response, he knew, but until he made some difficult decisions it was all he had.
