The Forbidden Innocent

‘I don’t really know anything about horses,’ she confessed.

He nodded. ‘Then don’t go near him. I’ll manage,’ he said. ‘Hold still.’

Placing his hand on Ashley’s shoulder, he rose slowly to his feet and she experienced the weirdest sensation as his fingers pressed into her flesh. Was it because she had so rarely been touched by a man that it felt suddenly intimate? As if that brief touch had scorched through her clothes to the chilled body beneath—setting her skin on fire. Little flames of something unfamiliar licked at the pit of her stomach and she swallowed as he steadied himself.

In the cool of the darkening afternoon, their eyes met and Ashley felt as if she were melting beneath the scorching impact of his gaze. Was it her imagination or did his mouth tighten and a little nerve begin to flicker at his temple? Was she alone in the bizarre thought that somehow it felt as if the most natural thing in the world was for him to take her in his arms? And to then crush her against that hard, powerful body of his. She felt her mouth dry and then, abruptly, he pulled away and began to walk slowly towards his horse, making small crooning noises beneath his breath as he approached it.

Mesmerised, Ashley watched him as he sprang onto his horse—the way she’d seen it done countless times on TV. And it was as if his fall and the fact that he’d been temporarily winded had been nothing but a figment of her imagination—for he made the movement look completely effortless. It was poetry in motion, she thought as he leaned over and patted the animal’s flank and then glanced up to find her eyes still fixed on him.

For one insane moment she wanted to beg him not to go—to stay and make her feel properly alive again—so that she could experience that strange and disconcerting clamour of her senses once more. But the insanity passed as she looked up at him.

‘Thanks for your help,’ he said abruptly. ‘Now go. Quickly. Before it gets dark and you startle some other hapless person with those big, wide eyes of yours. Casey! Here, boy!’ The dog came running up and the man tightened his knees around the horse’s sides—sending Ashley one final mocking look before he began to canter off down the lane.

For a moment, Ashley didn’t move—she just stood watching as they faded into the distance, the lengthening shadows of the lane gradually swallowing them up as the clopping sound of hooves died away. Her fingers moved to her face to rest beneath her eyes. Nobody had ever told her they were big and wide before—and certainly not anybody who looked like that. Just who was the rugged stranger with the powerful body and the brooding expression? she wondered.

Her walk now abandoned, she made her way back towards Blackwood Manor—and when a tight-lipped Christine opened the door, a large black and white dog shot forward and began jumping up.

‘Casey!’ said Ashley without thinking as the animal instantly began licking at her hand. But Christine seemed too preoccupied to notice that she knew the dog’s name—and Ashley’s thoughts buzzed in confusion as she wondered what it was doing here. Swallowing down a mixture of panic and excitement, she turned to the housekeeper. ‘Whose dog is that?’

‘It belongs to Mr Marchant.’

‘Is he… is he back then?’

Christine nodded. ‘Oh, he came back all right, but not for long.’ Her face was grim. ‘Actually, he’s had an accident.’

‘An accident?’ said Ashley as the knot in the pit of her stomach began to tighten.

‘Yes, tumbled off his horse just down the lane from here. He’s driven himself off to the hospital for an X-ray.’

The dog. An accident. The sudden recognition of what the word ‘formidable’ really meant. Little pieces of reality began to lock together to form a bigger picture which suddenly became crystal-clear.

And Ashley’s heart began to pound as she realised just who the man on the horse had been. Her brand-new boss—Jack Marchant.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_fe77b245-3364-5522-a004-420b97553b2c)

THE bare branches of the tree rattled wildly against Ashley’s window but she barely heard them as she stared out into the garden. All she could think about was the man with the hard black eyes who had fallen from his horse—and how she had unwittingly tumbled across her new boss in the most bizarre of circumstances.

Her new boss.

She swallowed down her panic. Was he hurt? Badly hurt? Lying even now in some sterile cubicle at the local accident and emergency department—with some slow haemorrhage seeping all the lifeblood out of him? So that maybe she would never get the chance to see him or speak to him again.

She wondered what the X-ray would show—because she knew how life could change in a heartbeat. One moment, you could be out galloping and enjoying life and the next. She swallowed. What if he had been badly injured—and if that were the case, then hadn’t she been a fool for letting him ride off alone like that?

But Christine had said there was no news—and nothing for her to do until Mr Marchant returned—and so Ashley had gone to her own room, to quieten her thudding heart and try to calm herself. And once she had washed her hands and brushed her hair she looked around at the subdued comfort of her brand-new room to try to calm her ruffled nerves.

She was more used to accommodation the size of a shoe-box but this one was huge. There was a queen-sized bed covered with a cashmere throw—as well as extra blankets in the cupboard, since Christine had warned her that these northern temperatures could plummet. A sofa heaped with cushions overlooked the gardens and there was a small television set perched on top of a beautiful chest of drawers.

‘Mr Marchant doesn’t really watch a lot of television and we don’t have it on much downstairs,’ Christine had confided. ‘But I told him that you can’t bring people out into the middle of nowhere without giving them anything to entertain themselves of an evening!’

Ashley had smiled. No, she couldn’t really imagine the brooding Jack Marchant huddled over a soap opera or some kind of reality game show.

Actually, she wasn’t a great fan of TV herself and, pulling a paperback from the small pile of books she’d brought with her, she sat down and began to read as she waited for news from the hospital. But for once the words failed to conjure up the power to take her into the imaginary world she preferred to the real-life version. Instead, she kept seeing images of that powerful body lying crumpled and temporarily winded.

So that had been Jack Marchant. She had been expecting someone older—and more remote. Some bespectacled and crusty academic, perhaps—as befitted the author of several well-received military biographies who was branching out into novel-writing. But he had been the very opposite of that. Different, in fact, from anyone she’d ever met.

Her book forgotten, she hugged her arms around her chest. Ashley had mixed with plenty of boys when she’d been growing up, but they had been just that—boys—with all their swagger and bravado. Whereas the man who had leaned on her today had exuded a commanding masculinity she’d never experienced before. And she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to deal with someone like that on a day-to-day basis.

But you don’t have to deal with anything other than the work he gives you to do, taunted a small voice inside her head. He’s your boss, remember? You type his work for him, you live quietly in his house—and at the end of every month you collect the generous salary he’s providing. That’s the reason you’re here, after all.

Her thoughts were broken by a sudden tap on her bedroom door—and she opened it to find Christine standing there, with her coat on and a battered shopping bag looped over her arm.

‘I’m just off home now,’ she said. ‘And Mr Marchant’s back from the hospital. He’s downstairs in the library and said he’d like to meet you.’

‘Is he okay?’ Ashley asked quickly.

‘Oh, he’s fine. It’d take a lot more than a tumble from his horse to damage someone like him.’

But Ashley felt a fluttery kind of nervousness at the thought of seeing him again and, self-consciously, her hands skimmed down over her sweater and alighted on the waistband of her jeans.

‘Maybe I’d better change,’ she said doubtfully.

‘Maybe you had,’ said Christine. ‘But better not keep him waiting too long—he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I’ll see you in a couple of days. Have fun.’

Fun? Now why did Ashley get the distinct feeling that there wasn’t going to be much fun involved in this new position?

After Christine had gone, she put on a plain skirt and a neat blouse, brushed and twisted her long hair into a French plait and then went downstairs to the library. The door was closed and the deeply growled and peremptory command of ‘Come!’ in response to her hesitant tapping almost made her lose her nerve and turn away.

Pushing open the heavy door, she saw a dark figure standing by the fire with his back to her—a figure she recognised instantly and yet one that seemed even more intimidating than it had done earlier. Was that because the red flames threw his tall figure into a stark silhouette which seemed to dominate the room? Or because his physique was, quite simply, breathtaking?

Suddenly, she felt insubstantial in the presence of such a remarkable package of masculinity. As if he could dominate her as he dominated the room. It was another unwanted moment of awareness and Ashley found herself struggling to make his name pass her dry lips.

‘Mr… Marchant?’

He turned then and the flames illuminated his face—sending shifting shadows across features which were so still that they might have been fashioned from dark marble. He seemed to have a sense of total isolation about him—as if he had cut himself off from the rest of the world—and as Ashley stared at him she saw the brief flicker of something bleak in his eyes. Something like pain. And something like anger. And then it was gone. Instead, his look became coolly assessing as his gaze swept over her, though it was a moment before he spoke.

‘So, we meet again.’

‘Yes.’

That same odd smile she’d seen earlier once again curved his sensual lips. ‘My lady rescuer.’

Ashley shrugged her shoulders awkwardly. ‘I didn’t really do very much to rescue you.’

‘No. I suppose you didn’t.’ Jack studied her, remembering her wide eyes and trembling lips. The softness of her touch as she had shaken him. How potent gentleness could be, he thought suddenly. And how long since he had felt its subtle seduction? He flicked the thought away—even though his attention was momentarily distracted by the faint swell of her breasts beneath her sweater. ‘And no doubt you were too stricken by guilt to be of much use in any case,’ he challenged huskily.

‘Guilt?’ she echoed defensively, as unwittingly he touched a raw nerve. Because hadn’t her life been blighted by false accusations made by those on whom she depended? The foster mothers. The matrons in the care homes. Time after time she had discovered that the disadvantaged were an easy target. And now, as she looked into his hard black eyes, she wondered if here was someone else who would concoct crimes she was supposed to have committed. ‘I wasn’t aware that I’d done something wrong.’

‘Don’t you know that it’s inadvisable to startle horses? That they’re as temperamental as women?’ he said. ‘But don’t stand over there by the door looking so nervous. You’d better come in and sit down—I won’t bite! And if we’re to spend the next few months incarcerated together, then I’d better know something about you—don’t you think? Sit down—no, not there. Sit over here by the lamp, where I can see you properly.’