The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride. Daphne Clair

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      Instead of handing it to her he tucked the stalk into the knot of hair on top of her head, gave her an enigmatic little closed-mouth smile, then ushered her out with a light touch at her waist.

      Pearl came out from the kitchen, saying, “Are you staying, Bryn? I’ve got a nice bit of pork in the oven.”

      He checked his watch. “For dinner, thanks. But I’ll be off after that.”

      Noticing the sandal in Rachel’s hand, and the dressing on her toe, Pearl said, “Oh! Are you hurt?”

      “Just a stubbed toe,” Rachel said, and after assuring his mother she was fine, left Bryn to explain while she went upstairs to unpack.

      When she came down again he and Pearl were in what the family called the “little sitting room”, as opposed to the much larger front room suited to formal entertaining.

      Bryn held a glass of something with ice, and Pearl was sipping sherry. Bryn rose and offered Rachel his wing-backed chair, but she shook her head and sat on the small, ornate sofa that with the chairs completed a U shape in front of the brass-screened grate.

      “A drink?” Bryn said, still on his feet. “I guess you’re old enough now.”

      “Of course she is,” Pearl said. To Rachel, she confided, “He still thinks of you as a little girl.”

      “Not so, Mother,” he told her, but his eyes, with a disconcerting gleam in their depths, were surveying Rachel. “Although,” he drawled, dropping his gaze to her feet, “the plaster does seem like old times.” Transferring his attention back to her face, he teased, “You had a hair-raising sense of adventure as a kid.”

      Quickly she said, “I’ve grown out of that. I’d like a gin and bitters if you have it, thanks.”

      Without further comment, he crossed to the old kauri cabinet that served as a drinks cupboard and disguised a small refrigerator. After making the drink he dropped a half slice of lemon into the glass before presenting it to her.

      Pearl asked what Rachel thought of the garden, and when complimented said, “A local man comes once a week to keep it tidy and I potter about with the flowers. We’ve leased out the farm, so there’s only the grounds around the house to look after. Bryn suggested selling the place—” she cast him scandalized glance that he received imperturbably “—but I hope to have grandchildren some day, and keep the place in the family. After all, Donovans have lived here since it was built. And owned the land even before that.”

      “It’s a wonderful place for children.” Rachel didn’t look at Bryn. His older sister had moved to England, was living with another woman and, according to Rachel’s mother, had declared she never intended to have children. Obviously Bryn was in no hurry to carry on the family name. At thirty-four, he still had time and with his looks and his money, probably plenty of choice.

      The thought gave her a foolish pang. She wondered if he had a girlfriend, and shook her head impatiently to dislodge the thought.

      Bryn said, “Something wrong, Rachel?”

      “No. I thought—a moth or something…”

      “Maybe some insect you picked up from the garden.”

      He got up and came near, looking down at her hair. Pearl finished her drink and rose from her chair. “I’ll go and check on our dinner.”

      “Can I help?” Rachel asked. But Bryn was blocking her way.

      “No, no!” Pearl said. “You stay here. I have everything under control.”

      Rachel felt Bryn’s touch on her hair. “Can’t see any creepy-crawlies,” he assured her. “When did you grow your hair long?”

      “Ages ago,” she told him. “While I was at university.” It was easier than trying to find someone who could make something remotely sophisticated of her unruly curls.

      Instead of returning to his chair, he sank down on the sofa, resting his arm on the back of it as he half turned to Rachel. “How is the toe?”

      “Fine. I told you, it’s nothing.”

      “You always were a tough little thing.” His mouth curved. “It’s hard to believe you’re the same scrawny kid with the mop of hair who used to run about the place in bare feet, half the time with skinned knees or elbows.”

      “Children grow up.”

      “Yes. I had noticed before you—” He stopped abruptly, staring moodily at the screened fireplace. His voice altered when he spoke again, sounding a little strained. “What happened, before your family left—I’m sorry if I hurt you, scared you, Rachel. I was…” He raked a hand through his hair and turned to look steadily at her. “I wasn’t myself. And that’s no excuse. But I do apologise.”

      Rachel bowed her head. “Not necessary. It wasn’t just you.”

      “You were barely out of high school. I should have—I did know better.”

      “Well,” she said, lifting her head and making her voice light and uncaring, “that was a long time ago. I’m sure we’d both forgotten all about it until today.” Her gaze skittered away from him as she uttered the words.

      One lean finger under her chin brought her to face him again. “Had you? Forgotten?”

      In ten years Rachel had acquired some poise. Her smile conveyed both surprise and a hint of amused condescension. “Men so like to think they’re unforgettable,” she said kindly, taking his hand from her chin and laying it on his knee. “Of course it all came back to me when I saw you.” She patted his hand before withdrawing hers. “Just as if I were seventeen again, with a schoolgirl crush on an older man.” Ignoring the twitch of his brows at that, she shook her head, laughing lightly. “Such a cliché, it’s embarrassing.”

      His jaw tightened. A glint appeared in his eyes as he looked at her searchingly, and for a moment she held her breath, before he gave a short laugh of his own. “All right,” he said. “I guess I’ve got off lightly, at that.”

      Rachel rather thought she had, too.

      At dinner Bryn asked Rachel about her work in America and her research and writing experience.

      She realised she was being grilled about her qualifications when he said, “This is a bit different, isn’t it? How long do you think you’ll need to complete it?”

      “I hope to produce a first draft in three or four months,” she said. “You have so much raw material, it gives me a head start. I won’t have to begin by hunting for all the sources I need.”

      Bryn looked at Pearl. “Do you know exactly what’s there?”

      Pearl shook her head. “Supposing we found some old family scandal! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

      “You may not find it fun if you do,” Bryn warned.

      His mother looked only slightly quashed. “Oh, don’t be stuffy, darling! We don’t want some dull list of births, deaths and marriages and profit-and-loss accounts.”

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