Shelly pressed her lips together. ‘I only meant—it smells,’ she said shortly, and he inclined his head.
‘Not what you’re used to, I’m sure,’ he commented lazily, and sensitive to any scepticism, Shelley’s patience snapped.
‘No, it’s not,’ she retorted sharply. ‘I’m from London, actually. I’m a television producer.’ She waited for him to absorb this, and then continued less aggressively: ‘So you see, riding around in muck-laden farm vehicles is hardly an everyday occurrence for me.’
‘I’m sure it’s not.’ His response was as deferential as she could have wished, yet she still had the uneasy suspicion he was only humouring her. Did he believe her? Or did he think she was only making it up to impress him? It was infuriating to realise that she cared what he thought.
‘I’m going to stay with Miss Manning at Craygill,’ she appended, refusing to admit she was trying to verify her statement. ‘Marsha Manning, that is. You may have heard of her. She’s a paint——’
‘I’ve heard of her,’ he interrupted carelessly, cutting off her explanation. ‘This is Low Burton, just ahead, by the way. Jack Smedley’s place is just off the square.’
He slowed to take a particularly sharp bend and when the road straightened out again, Shelley saw the dry stone wall of a churchyard on her left. The road ran between the wall of the church and the wall of the rectory opposite, before cottages appeared on either side, their gardens bright with blossom. Shelley identified lobelia and aubretia, and showers of snow-on-the-mountain, before the cottages too gave way to narrow town houses, with leaded window panes and polished letter-boxes.
Her attention to her surroundings precluded any further conversation, and she was relieved. She was not usually so touchy about her job, and she seldom, if ever, felt the need to brag about her importance. But this man—whoever he was—had the ability to tear away the façade she had erected around herself during the past ten years, and reduce her to the state of defending her position.
A few yards further on they entered the small market square, with a clock-tower chiming the hour, and a handful of cars parked near a group of municipal buildings. There were shops, and a small supermarket, and a collection of public houses and, just around the corner, the blue-and-white sign indicating Smedley’s Garage.
‘Would you like me to find out if he has what you want?’ her companion asked, bringing the Land-Rover to a halt by the petrol pumps.
Shelley hesitated only a moment, and then shook her head. ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I can manage,’ even though she was tempted to take advantage of his offer. It would be easier for him to approach the garage owner, who he obviously knew, and explain what was required, but Shelley felt the need to demonstrate her independence. She had no intention of providing him with any more amusement. She had already proved herself to be both vain and shrewish, and no doubt his friends would enjoy his story of a helpless older woman, bowled over by his charm. Men always liked to exaggerate, and her behaviour would hardly invite his discretion.
Now, opening her bag, she searched for her wallet. ‘Will you let me buy you a drink, Mr Seton,’ she began, determined to restore the relationship to its proper footing, but once again he prevented her.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, a faint edge to his voice now, as he flicked the flap of her bag back into place. Closing his fingers over the soft leather, he successfully trapped her hand inside, and his eyes were steel-hard as they met her frustrated gaze. ‘Never let it be said that a dalesman couldn’t offer a lady assistance, without requiring some payment for it.’ Her hand struggled to be free, and he let go of the bag again. ‘Enjoy your holiday,’ he added, as she thrust open her door. ‘Who knows—we may see one another again!’
‘I should think that will be highly unlikely!’ Shelley muttered under her breath, as she climbed out of the Land-Rover. And, although she didn’t look back as she strode confidently into the garage, she was conscious of his eyes upon her, until she was out of sight.
IT was six o’clock by the time Shelley reached Craygill, and she unutterably relieved when, on the outskirts of the tiny hamlet, she found the house she was looking for. Marsha had said to look out for two stone gateposts, because the sign indicating the house was worn and scarcely readable from the driving seat of a car. But Shelley saw the crumbling notice for Askrigg House as she turned between the stone sentinels, and she accelerated up the gravelled drive, to the detriment of the car’s paintwork.
Marsha appeared at the door of the rambling old building as Shelley reached the circular forecourt before the house. Dressed in paint-smeared slacks and an equally disreputable smock, she looked so endearingly familiar that Shelley could hardly wait to get out of the car to embrace her.
‘Where have you been?’ Marsha exclaimed fiercely, after they had exchanged their initial greetings. ‘My dear, I’ve been practically frantic! Your daily woman said you left London at eleven o’clock this morning. I’ve been expecting you since four, and anticipating the worst since half-past-five!’
‘Oh, love, I’m sorry!’ Leaving her suitcases at Marsha’s suggestion, Shelley ran a weary hand over the untidy coil of her hair as she accompanied her friend into the house. There was ivy on the walls, and honeysuckle growing over the door, but she scarcely registered her surroundings. ‘It was further than I thought, and I was feeling so tired, I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Then, about a dozen miles back, the fanbelt broke, and I had to—to get a lift into Low Burton, to find a garage that could fix it.’
‘Smedley’s, no doubt,’ remarked Marsha, nodding as she led the way through a darkly panelled hall into a pleasant, airy, living room. ‘Oh—Sarah!’ This as a plum-cheeked girl straightened from setting a tray of tea on the low table in front of the fireplace. ‘Will you collect Miss Hoyt’s luggage from her car, and put it up in her room? And tell Mrs Carr we’ll probably want dinner a little later than usual. Say—about eight o’clock.’
‘Yes, Miss Manning.’
The girl gave Shelley a swift assessing look as she left the room. She was evidently curious about her employer’s new house guest, and Marsha pulled a rueful face when Shelley arched her brows enquiringly.
‘Don’t mind Sarah,’ she said, as soon as the door had closed behind her. She helped Shelley off with her thigh-length jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. ‘If you intend to dress as a fashion model here, you’ll have to get used to people staring.’ She smiled to allay Shelley’s protests. ‘Oh, darling, it’s so good to see you. Even if it could have been in happier circumstances!’
‘I’m fine—really,’ said Shelley, sinking down gratefully into the soft cushions of a chintz-covered armchair. ‘Mmm, you’ve no idea how good it is to relax at last! I seem to have been travelling for days!’
‘It must have been infuriating, losing the fanbelt so close to your destination,’ agreed Marsha, sympathising. ‘Who gave you a lift?’
‘Oh—just a man,’ said Shelley dismissively, annoyed with herself for re-opening the topic. For some ridiculous reason, she was loath to discuss that particular episode at the moment, probably because Ben Seton had already occupied far too much of her time. ‘What a comfortable room this is, Marsha,’ she added, changing the subject. ‘And what a clever idea—filling the fireplace with flowers!’
Marsha was diverted, and seating herself opposite, beside the tea tray, she became absorbed with the cups. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked. ‘Or would you prefer something stronger?’
‘If I have something stronger, I’ll probably fall asleep,’ confessed Shelley lightly. ‘Honestly,