“Puerto Roca?” Ruth frowned. “That's where you live?”
Patrick nodded. “That's right.” He dismounted. “Shall we walk?”
They walked in companionable silence for a while, leading the horses, until Ruth said: “How long do you expect to stay in England, Mr. Hardy?”
Patrick shrugged. “Six or seven weeks. I'm not sure. Why?”
He was very direct and Ruth flushed. “I was interested, that's all. Perhaps you'd like to come and have dinner with my father and myself one evening when you're in London.”
“That's very kind of you.”
He was polite, but non-committal, and Ruth glanced at him a little impatiently. She could read nothing in his expression, however; he was an enigma, and that knowledge did not please her.
They were passing through some trees when Ruth tripped over a root, and in trying to save herself caught her hair on the bare, twig-like branches protruding from a thorn bush. She cried out in agony as her scalp was almost wrenched from her head, and with watering eyes endeavoured to free herself. But it was useless; her tangled hair clung to the bark, and it hurt more than ever when she tried to extricate it.
But she scarcely had time to make more than a cursory examination before Patrick was bending down beside her, taking off his gloves, and disentangling the silken strands with gentle fingers. He was very close to her suddenly, his breath mingling with hers, and when his fingers brushed her cheek tingling impulses of awareness ran down into her neck. Then she was free and he helped her to her feet. She brushed herself down with a careless hand and made a helpless gesture.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling warmly. “I don't know how I should have managed without you.”
“Don't you?” His tone was ironic, and he appeared to be watching her rather intently.
“No.” Ruth combed her fingers through her hair in an effort to create some order.
“Oh, I'm pretty sure someone would have happened along at just the right moment to play knight errant to a lady in distress!”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged again, turning away to gather up the horses’ reins. “Just that you're the type of young woman who usually manages to get into difficulties at the most convenient times.”
Ruth didn't quite know how to take this. He had spoken in his usual polite way, and yet she sensed a note of reproof. Why?
Walking round him, she said: “Do you mind explaining that remark?”
“Surely it's obvious.”
“I'm afraid not. Not to me, at least.” Ruth felt a vague uneasiness invading her stomach.
“All right, Miss Farrell.” He held her gaze deliberately. “What do you want of me?”
Ruth was taken aback. “I don't know what you mean.”
“I think you do. But I'll explain anyway.” He took his gloves out of his pocket and began to put them on. “For some reason best known to yourself, you want me to pay attention to you – to be interested in you!”
“How – how dare you?” she gasped, but he went on as though she had not spoken.
“You invite me to ride with you – you even invite me to your parents’ home for dinner – and on the acquaintance of a couple of hours. Finally, when no apparent success is being achieved, you use the oldest trick in the book – that of feminine weakness in adversity!”
“That's not true.” Ruth was indignant. “You're not honestly meaning to tell me that you think I tripped over that root deliberately? That I tangled my hair in that bush just so you could rescue me?”
He made a dismissing movement of his shoulders. “And you didn't?”
“Of course I didn't.”
Ruth stared at him angrily, grasping her horse's reins with clenched fists. Her immediate impulse was to get on the mare's back and ride back to the house as quickly as she could. Once there, she could collect her belongings and leave without meeting this objectionable male ever again.
But such behaviour would only strengthen his belief in her childishness, and that she could not allow. Summoning all her coolness and composure, she said icily: “At least my conceit could never measure up to your own, Mr. Hardy!”
She thought he might be angry then. She thought he might make some retaliatory remark which would enable her to vent her own pent-up anger on him. But she was wrong. He burst out laughing.
Tears stung her eyes. No one had ever laughed at her before and it was a humiliating experience. Grasping the pommel, she climbed abruptly into the saddle, and digging in her heels urged the mare forward out of the copse of trees. She didn't care which direction it was taking her. She just wanted to put as much distance between herself and Patrick Hardy as she possibly could.
WHEN she finally returned to the house it was long past lunchtime, and Julie met her in the hall looking most concerned.
“Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? We were getting quite worried about you.”
“I'm sorry.” Ruth managed a smile. “I'm afraid I went further than I intended.”
“You shouldn't go so far alone,” reproved Julie, shaking her head. “I didn't think you'd go riding at all when I couldn't go with you.”
Ruth hesitated. “No – well, it filled the morning in.”
“Yes,” Julie nodded, and Ruth guessed she knew nothing about Patrick Hardy's involvement. “Well, the meal will be cold now. Shall I ask Cook to make you an omelette or something?”
“Heavens, no!” Ruth took off her parka and slung it over the banister ready to take upstairs. “A sandwich in the kitchen would be fine.” She glanced round. “Er – where is everyone?”
“Mummy and Daddy and Patrick are in the library having coffee. I was watching for you. Patrick said if you weren't back in fifteen minutes he would go and look for you.”
“That was kind of him.” Ruth's tone was dry, but Julie didn't notice it.
“Yes. Well, come along into the kitchen. We can talk there. Mike came up this morning before leaving for London. I think he expected to see you, but he said he couldn't hang about because he has to be back in College tonight, or something.”
“Yes, that's right. He does.” Ruth nodded, accompanying her friend into the warm, delightfully odorous atmosphere of the kitchen. “I'm glad he's gone, though. Sometimes he can be rather intense.”
Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook, soon provided Ruth with a plate of home-cured ham and salad, and a jug of steaming coffee which the two girls shared. Seated at the table talking, Mrs. Morris dozing over her knitting at the fire, created a feeling of warmth and security, and Ruth felt some of the chill which had entered her stomach that morning leaving her. Not that she mentioned such things to Julie. Her brief association with Patrick Hardy would not bear examination, not yet.
“You are staying until tomorrow, aren't you?” Julie asked now. “It's almost three o'clock. It will be dark in an hour.”
Ruth hesitated. She didn't want to stay, but having committed herself to the extent of leaving it too late in the day to drive back in daylight,