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'Not at all!' Mrs Killane said eagerly. 'I'm just the same, if I see books in someone's house I can't help taking a peek. It's as good as a character reference, isn't it? You know so much about someone from what they read.' She poured the tea and Prue sat down again, accepting a cup of tea and one of the tiny, wafer-thin sandwiches filled with a crisp medley of salad chopped up very small.
'Did you make these?' she asked, taking a homemade scone next and refusing any of the thick, whipped cream, although she took home-made strawberry jam..
'Made from our own strawberries,' Mrs Killane told her, and said,
'Yes, I love to cook.'
'I saw you had quite a few cookery books.' Prue smiled. 'And that you like romantic novels?'
Do you?'
'Love them!' Prue said. 'Which do you prefer— Jane Eyre or
Wuthering Heights?'
'Oh, heavens! What a question,' Mrs Killane said, leaning back to think it over. 'Well . . .' she began, while Prue took a bite of the slice of chocolate swiss roll that had just been placed on her plate.
They talked quite freely after that; keeping on neutral subjects which offered no danger zones. Books were the easiest—they were each happiest talking about their favourites, and it excluded all mention of either, James Allardyce or Josh.
He walked into the room an hour later, and they both turned laughing countenances towards him. Prue stopped laughing when she saw Josh, but his mother beamed.
'You're back, then! Did you get the tools you wanted?'
'Some of them,' he said, his dark eyes glinting on Prue's cooling expression.
Prue hated the smooth voice, the edge of derision it carried. She looked at her watch and got up hurriedly.
'I must be going. Thank you for tea, Mrs Killane...'
'Call me Lucy, Prue, and thank you for making my afternoon so pleasant. We must talk about our favourite authors again soon.'
'I'll run you back,' Josh said in the hall, but Prue shook her head firmly.
'I'd rather walk, thanks. I need the exercise. See you again, Mrs . . .
Lucy!'
Mrs Killane looked anxiously at the sky. 'It's almost dark, and it looks like rain.'
'I'll drive her,' Josh said, but Prue began to walk off down the drive, bristling at the way he talked about her as if she was a child or a half-wit. But then, that was how he saw women—half-witted children who needed his feudal mix of bullying and protection. She had seen the way he ordered his sister around, and he had tried the same approach with her any number of times now. Prue wasn't having it.
'Oh, suit yourself!' he snapped, his engine roaring as he shot past. She watched his tail-lights disappear in the gloom and felt stupid. It was a long walk back to the farm, and it might have been more sensible to accept a lift, but she just couldn't face the prospect of being alone with him again. Last time, she had promised herself it would never happen again; she was avoiding him in future. She was going to keep that promise.
Thank God she and David would soon be on their way. She would miss her father badly, she loved the farm and the valley and the stark, breathtaking landscape she saw each morning from her bedroom window. But she had to get away from Josh Killane.
She had been walking for ten minutes when the rain started; little drops at first, then a torrential downpour which rapidly reduced her to a sodden rag—her red hair darkened, flattened against her skin like a skull cap, her clothes soon saturated and her shoes began to let water in at every seam.
There was nowhere to take shelter; she had to trudge on, her head down into the wind and rain, praying now that Josh would turn round and come back for her. He must know that she was almost drowning, fighting with a wind blowing right into her face and trying to blow her back to Killane House—surely he would come to her rescue?
She grimaced, staring into the rain-slashed night- Why should he?
She had refused a lift offhandedly, said she wanted to walk—why should he come back for her?
When the headlights cut through the darkness, she gave a sigh of relief and slowed, looking into the car.
It wasn't Josh; it was someone else, a stranger, thickset and slightly balding. 'Bad night to be out walking,' he said in a strong Yorkshire accent. 'Want a lift?'
Prue hesitated, trying to sum him up from his face. 'Thank you,' she said uncertainly. He looked OK, and anyway she was wet and exhausted after the battle with the weather.
