The Maid's Daughter. Janice Maynard

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      “Sure,” he said curtly. “That was it.”

      “You’re lying.”

      He jerked around so quickly that he knocked over one of the andirons. Replacing it clumsily, he sat down hard in his chair, staring at her with bemused eyes. “I don’t know what to make of you, Gillian Carlyle. So let’s go back to my first question. What do you do for a living?”

      “I’m a teacher. Third grade.” Pride glowed on her face and in her voice until something stole it away, some weary acceptance of an unpalatable truth. “Or I was,” she said, her tone subdued. “The county I worked for outside of Charlottesville cut forty positions last week. I was four years into a five-year tenure track.”

      “That sucks.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      Their eyes met, and they both burst into laughter. Devlyn realized in that instant that he had been wrong earlier. Gillian Carlyle wasn’t plain. She was a beauty. But it was the hidden loveliness of the sea on a cloudy, windswept day. Only when the sun came out were the emeralds and sapphires and aquamarines revealed.

      His brain whirred with sudden possibilities. “Is that why you’re back home in Burton?”

      “Partially. I begged my mother to move to Charlottesville with me when I got the job, but she never would. She loves the house where I grew up, and oddly enough, she loves Wolff Castle. She’s very proud to be part of the staff here, and she doesn’t want to leave.”

      “So why did you try to persuade her?”

      “My dad was a carpenter. He died a few years ago when scaffolding at a worksite collapsed. Mama was distraught, and I wanted her where I could keep an eye on her. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are no teaching jobs around here. Not many jobs of any kind for someone with my training.”

      “But she wouldn’t move.”

      “No. And now she’s glad she didn’t. But that still leaves me in a tough spot, because I want to look after her, but I can’t even take care of myself at the moment.”

      “Something will come up.” He had an idea or two, but now was not the time. “Would you like another cookie?”

      Her lips quirked. “I’m not stupid, Devlyn. I answered your questions. Don’t you owe me the same courtesy?”

      That amazing, adorably boyish smile flashed briefly. “I’m a stubborn SOB. Don’t try to analyze me. What you see is what you get.”

      Her eyes widened as she caught the deliberately flirtatious innuendo. As he watched, her cheeks turned pink. And about the same time, a little frown line appeared between her brows. “I don’t think you’re a very nice man,” she said slowly.

      “Nice guys finish last. Don’t you know?” He stood and messed with the fire again, irritated as hell that she put him on edge. She was a nobody. An unemployed elementary schoolteacher. A starchy, prissy, sexually repressed female.

      Perhaps if he told himself often enough, he would believe it.

      Gillian yawned suddenly, and he felt a lick of remorse. She’d been through a hell of a lot. It was long past time for her to be in bed. But not in his.

      He stood up and held out his hand. “C’mon, little lady. You’re drooping.”

      She stood and began stacking their dirty dishes.

      “Leave them,” he said, a hand on her arm. “The staff will get it in the morning.”

      Gillian froze, and immediately, he heard how his words must have sounded to her. Heat stained his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “That was insensitive.”

      Gillian shrugged, causing the fabric of her top to mold to her bare, small, perfect breasts. He swallowed hard, caught unawares by a sudden driving urge to unbutton that top and look his fill.

      She smiled wryly. “Don’t be stupid. Your family provides a lot of great jobs for working-class people. That’s not a bad thing.”

      But she didn’t say it was good, either. He sensed her ambivalence and her fatigue. “Go to bed, Gillian. You’re beat. We can talk in the morning, but if you need me during the night, don’t play the martyr. I’m right next door.”

      Gillian tossed and turned for an hour, unable to sleep in a strange house. The medicine had taken the edge off her various pains, but her body still ached. At last, she climbed out of bed and went to the French doors, drawing the thick draperies aside and peering out into the dark.

      A tiny crescent moon cast a dim light that filtered down like fairy dust among the trees that surrounded the house. When Wolff Castle was built, Devlyn’s father and his uncle had been insistent that as little of the woods as possible be cut down. Consequently, the forest cloaked the enormous house like a security blanket, maintaining the privacy for which the Wolffs were famed.

      The late-night scene was serene. Gillian’s emotions were anything but. She felt trapped, claustrophobic. Even if she had the energy and the will to do so, she couldn’t leave. Her car was crumpled at the bottom of the mountain.

      Her mother’s voice had been hard to read when Gillian called her to explain what had happened. Doreen Carlyle was well acquainted with all the members of the Wolff family, including Devlyn. And Devlyn’s reputation with the opposite sex was no secret.

      Women loved him. And he loved women. But never for more than a season, at best. Though he seemed like an open book, dark currents ran beneath his easy charm and his outrageous sex appeal.

      Gillian curled her fist in a fold of cloth and shivered as her bare toes chilled on the flagstones that edged the doorway. Dare she go outside? Would anyone know?

      Without another thought, she pulled her thick sweater over the fancy pajamas and shoved her feet into her boots. Even without a mirror, she knew she looked ludicrous. But she had to escape, had to prove to herself that she wasn’t a prisoner. A small, spiral, wrought-iron staircase at the end of her balcony offered easy access to the level below.

      The air was colder than she had anticipated. Rain had finally moved on, and indigo skies overhead were clear, allowing the temperature to plummet. Fall would soon give way to winter, especially at this elevation. She followed a pathway at random, not at all worried about being alone in the dark.

      She was a country girl, born and raised in these mountains. Travelers came from across the globe to see the mystical and beautiful Blue Ridge, but for Gillian they were more like an old, comfortable friend.

      As she meandered, she thought about the last time she had visited Wolff Mountain. She’d been a sophomore in high school, and in her economics class, they’d been doing projects about starting a business. Doreen Carlyle had asked Victor Wolff, Devlyn’s uncle, if her daughter could interview him.

      Gillian remembered how nervous she had been that day, but Victor Wolff, despite his gruff demeanor, had put her at ease. By the end of the conversation, they had been old buddies. He had a keen intellect and a knack for making money.

      As she was leaving the house, preparing to negotiate the long, winding driveway in her fifteen-year-old Volkswagen СКАЧАТЬ