The Forbidden Innocent

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.’

She was acutely aware of his piercing gaze and authoritative manner, and Ashley’s legs felt curiously jellylike as she walked to the spot he’d indicated. Perching herself on the edge of the chair, she watched as he lowered himself into a similar one on the opposite side of the fireplace—though his own seat was more shadowed, she realised. Which meant that she couldn’t see him so well as he had insisted on seeing her.

He had changed from the faded jeans into dark trousers and an expensive-looking shirt of silk, which hinted at the hard body beneath. With the more formal clothes, he now looked every inch the modern-day aristocrat— his long legs stretched out in front of him as he surveyed her from between narrowed and watchful eyes.

‘You’re much younger than I thought,’ he observed, his eyes drifting over the smooth surface of her skin, and he felt a flicker of irritation. Why the hell had the agency sent him someone like this—someone with that tight bloom of youth on her skin, which women spent the rest of their lives hopelessly trying to recapture?

Ashley gave a little shrug. ‘The agency didn’t specify an age, Mr Marchant.’

‘No, please don’t call me that.’ He shook his head and gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. ‘I don’t like any kind of formality. Not now that I’ve left the army. You’d better call me Jack.’

Jack. It suited him. A strong and powerful name. The name of a man who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. Jack. She tried it again silently in her head until his deep voice broke into her reverie.

‘And you’re Ashley?’ he questioned impatiently, wondering if she was going to adopt that dreamy expression every time he spoke to her.

‘That’s right. Ashley Jones.’

‘And how old are you, Ashley Jones?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Eighteen?’ He made a small sound of annoyance underneath his breath. She was even younger than he’d thought. He studied her, acknowledging once again that there was something distracting about dewy-eyed youth—something which drifted temptation in front of a man, even if he had no intention of being tempted.

It made him think about sex—about soft limbs and trembling flesh. Even if that was the last thing in the world he wanted, or needed. He felt his body tense in unwilling reaction to his vaguely erotic thoughts. ‘I was hoping for someone a little more experienced,’ he said harshly.

She heard the sudden censure in his voice and all Ashley’s survival instincts came to the fore as she imagined being sacked from her job before she’d even started. She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I have plenty of experience for the kind of work you require, Mr Marchant.’ ‘

Jack.’

‘Jack,’ she corrected.

‘Someone more middle-aged, then,’ he amended. ‘Who won’t mind locking herself away in this dark corner of the country.’ He frowned. Had she idealised the job and the life she was going to find here? ‘There aren’t any nightclubs around here, you know. It’s pretty quiet—more than quiet, in fact. No bright lights or big pubs crowded with young men.’

‘I’m not really into nightclubs and bright lights.’

There was a pause as Jack’s eyes narrowed. No. With that sensible hairstyle and that rather sensible sweater and skirt, he couldn’t really imagine her gyrating in some sparkly little number on an overcrowded dance-floor. ‘Well, I hope you aren’t going to be bored.’

She shook her head, wondering if she had imagined some kind of dark warning in his voice. ‘I doubt it. And eighteen isn’t so young—not really.’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, believe me, it is,’ he contradicted shortly, wondering if his own face ever looked as fresh as hers. Had his eyes ever been so clear and bright—so perfect and unlined? A long time ago, maybe. Before the army. Before. His mouth tightened. Before the random lottery of life had given him a oneway ticket to hell. He bent down to throw another log on the fire and it spurted into orange life. ‘Once you’ve passed thirty-five—then someone of your age is pretty much in cradle-country.’

How old was he? Ashley mused in response. Thirty-five? Forty? His face wasn’t particularly lined, but it had the shadows and furrows of experience etched deep into it. It suddenly occurred to her that if Jack Marchant decided that she wasn’t what he wanted, then that would be that. There would be no job—and no roof over her head, either. And she needed the money—more than she’d ever needed money in her life. For him, her employment probably meant nothing, but for her it meant everything. Desperation made her argue her case—though some instinct told her not to show it.

‘It’s not as if there’s something weird about working at this age,’ she defended quietly. ‘Though these days everybody seems to think there is. If you’re old enough to vote, then surely you’re old enough to go out to work.’

Unexpectedly, he found himself thinking how her face was completely transformed by her smile—and got the feeling she didn’t do it very often. ‘And you’ve worked since when?’

‘Since I was sixteen.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Secretarial work, mainly—although I like to think I’m flexible enough to turn my hand to pretty much most things. My last job was in a boarding school. Before that I was in a hotel.’

‘But always live-in jobs?’

‘That’s right. I’m hoping to save up for a deposit on my own place one day.’ When she’d cleared the massive debt which hung like a heavy weight dangled over her head.

‘And you had no desire to go to university?’

Ashley sighed, wondering why people always leapt to such predictable conclusions. Of course she’d wanted to go to university—but desire and feasibility were two entirely different things. Moving innumerable times in your formative years and attending some of the worst schools in the country did not tend to provide you with the kind of academic qualifications you needed to go to college.

‘It just didn’t work out that way,’ she said quietly.

He heard the quiet defensiveness in her voice and something made him want to pursue it. ‘No pushy parents?’

She swallowed. ‘I have no parents.’

‘No, I thought not,’ he said softly.

Ashley stared at him. Was he some sort of mind-reader—or did she just carry an invisible aura about her which proclaimed ‘orphan’? Her lips trembled. ‘H-how?’

‘Because there is something oddly self-contained about you,’ he answered cryptically, thinking how innocent she looked when her lips shivered like that. ‘Something which tells me you have been looking after yourself for a long time.’

‘You are very perceptive,’ she said slowly, almost to herself, and she saw his eyes narrow.

‘I’m a writer,’ he said mockingly. ‘It goes with the territory. We may not be the best people at engaging in social niceties—but our observational skills are highly honed. Which is why I’d also hazard that you’re a city girl?’

‘Because I walk in lanes and scare the horses?’

‘There’s that of course. And by your pale face, which looks as if it has never seen sunshine,’ he observed, finding his gaze drawn once more to her features. She was no beauty, that was for sure—and yet she had something which set her apart. Was it her eyes, which looked like a paintbox swirl of different greens? Or something about her quietness and watchful air? You didn’t meet very many women with that rare air of containment, not these days. ‘Very pale,’ he finished slowly as an odd kind of lump rose in his throat.

And once again, Ashley felt a sudden sense of awareness begin to sizzle at her skin as his black eyes captured her in their gaze. The intimate flicker of the firelight seemed to have marooned them in their own private world where none of the usual rules seemed to apply. One where her new boss could study her as if she were beneath a microscope—and she would accept it as perfectly normal. She cleared her throat as she scrabbled round for something to break this oddly hypnotic and mesmerising mood.

‘Did…’ she hesitated ‘… did the hospital give you the all-clear?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Why, do you think I have taken leave of my senses? That I’m speaking in a deranged way?’

‘Since this is only the second time I’ve met you, it’s far too early for me to make a judgement like that.’

At this Jack gave a low laugh and leaned further back into the cushions of the chair. So behind that demure, pale face she was capable of sarcasm, was she? Just as it seemed she was capable of answering his questions with an honesty which was as rare as it was disarming. Which would suggest she wasn’t quite as mouselike as her appearance suggested. ‘You’ll have to let me know when you come to a verdict about my sanity,’ he mocked softly.

Ashley bit back a smile. ‘I don’t actually think that’s in my job specification.’

‘Perhaps not.’ He bent to toss another log into the smouldering fire. ‘So what did the agency tell you about the job?’

He rested his hands against his chest as he waited for her answer—his fingers steepled together against the dark shadow of his jaw. The pose was faintly brooding—so that for a moment Ashley thought it looked as if he were holding an imaginary gun and the stark and unexpected metaphor unsettled her. She guessed that with his army experience, he was no stranger to guns and violence.

But more than anything, in that moment, Jack Marchant looked all dark and rampant sexuality. Like every woman’s fantasy come to life. Suddenly, she understood why middle-aged Julia at the agency had become hot and flustered when she’d described Jack Marchant as ‘formidable’. And maybe his effect on women didn’t have an age barrier—because suddenly she was feeling a little hot and flustered herself.

‘I… they said you’d written several biographies of great men. Mainly military men.’

‘How very dry that sounds.’

‘And that I would be typing up your latest manuscript—’

‘From longhand? I hope they specified that? I’ve tried typing it myself but tapping out on a keyboard distracts my thoughts. I prefer to write it out—and I don’t think I’m alone in that.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Many authors still do, I believe?’

Ashley nodded. She found herself wondering what his handwriting was like. As torturous and as twisted as the thought processes which seemed to be firing up behind those ebony eyes? ‘So I believe.’

‘And they told you it’s a novel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever typed a novel before?’

She nodded. ‘I did one by Hannah Minnock early last year—she was a teacher at the school where I was working and it was her first book, called Ringing TheChanges. It was a chick-lit book.’ His face remained blank. ‘You know—funny, frothy stuff aimed at professional women. About divorce.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘And that’s considered funny, is it?’

‘I just type the story,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t sit there in judgement of it.’

‘Well, you’ll find that my novel is as far removed from your frothy, fluffy “chick-lit” book as it is possible to be.’

‘I rather thought it might be,’ she answered quietly. ‘What exactly is it about?’

There was a pause and, briefly, she saw his knuckles tightening and the flicker of the flames casting bloodlike shadows over them. ‘My time in the army.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Really?’ He raised his dark brows in mocking question. ‘And what exactly do you know about army life?’

‘Well, only what I’ve seen on the news and read in the papers.’

‘And are you easily shocked? Are you queasy about blood and gore?’ Black eyes blazed at her and sent out an unmistakable challenge. ‘Do you scare easily, Ashley?’

She felt the sudden race of her heart in response to his question. Once, she would have blurted out that yes, she had known fear—real fear. The cruel personality of one of her foster mothers had seen to that. Sadistic Mrs Fraser who had locked her in the cupboard under the stairs all evening after accusing her of a crime of which the ten-year-old Ashley had been innocent.

She would never forget the experience—not as long as she lived. It had left a hideous mark on her memory which could never be erased. The dust and the cobwebs which had tickled her cheeks had been bad enough—taunting her with the knowledge that large, wriggly spiders were probably just waiting to drop down onto her head. But it had been the darkness which had terrified her more than anything. The claustrophobic darkness which had provided an ideal breeding ground for her fevered imagination. Ghosts and ghouls had come to haunt her that night and visions of lonely graveyards had filled her with an unspeakable kind of dread.

When eventually the door had been opened and light had flooded in Ashley had been beyond comprehension—or past caring. Her lips had been bleeding from where she had clamped her teeth into them and her clothes had been damp with sweat. The doctor told her afterwards that she must have had some kind of fit—but she would never forget the look of horror on his face, which he hadn’t quite managed to hide. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—as if such things shouldn’t be happening in this modern day and age. But they did happen. Ashley had never been under any illusion about that. Times changed but human nature didn’t.

The council had found another placement for her almost immediately—although Mrs Fraser had used her clever and manipulative tongue to convince her next set of foster parents that she was nothing but trouble. A liar and a cheat, she’d said. Ashley’s reputation had preceded her. She had quickly learned that if someone had a fixed idea that you were a bad person, then they would be on the lookout for signs to prove just that.

As a result, she had learned to subdue her hot temper and quick tongue. She had buried her more excitable character traits along with the squalid memory of that day. She had become quiet and calm Ashley, who would not rise to provocation or threat. And if Jack Marchant wanted to know the precise details of when and why she had been scared—then he would wait in vain for an answer from her. Because some secrets were best forgotten.

‘No, I don’t scare easily,’ she said.

‘Don’t you? And yet just now I saw something darken your eyes,’ he observed softly. ‘Something which looked exactly like fear.’

He was, she realised, an exceedingly perceptive man. And surely too intelligent to accept a smooth evasion? But he was her employer, nothing else. He had rights, yes—but only those which affected her work. He did not have the right to probe into her past and to prise out the horrors which she had buried so deep. She lifted her chin to meet the question in his eyes. ‘Everyone has dark corners in their memories—things they’d rather just forget,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t they?’

Her words produced a change in him. Ashley saw the flicker of a pulse at his temple and a fleeting expression of anguish which briefly darkened his craggy face. It was strange seeing so powerful a man look almost. almost despairing, but the look was gone so quickly that she wondered if she might have imagined it.

Instead, he gave that odd smile which curved the edges of his hard lips and didn’t really seem to have any humour in it. ‘Let’s leave my memories out of it, shall we?’ he said, his dismissive tone indicating that the conversation was at an end—and then he rose to his feet as if to reinforce it. ‘Come on, let’s go and eat supper.’

He looked down into her upturned face, towering over her and somehow making her feel very small and fragile. Ashley felt the surface of her skin icing, her skin turning to goose-bumps as his tall body bathed her in its dark shadow.

Because never had a man’s harsh and enigmatic expression made her feel quite so unsettled.

CHAPTER THREE

ASHELY had a restless first night at Blackwood. The branches battering at the windows kept sleep at bay and so did the images which burned into her memory every time she shut her eyes. Images of raven hair, burnished by firelight. Of a towering physique and a powerful body. And more than anything—of a cold and intelligent gaze which seemed to slice right through her like an icy blast of winter wind.

She and Jack Marchant had eaten supper together, but as soon as the meal was finished he had excused himself and disappeared into his study to work, closing the door behind him. Leaving Ashley feeling alone and out of place in the vast downstairs of the house. She’d escaped to her own room, where she took a bath and washed her hair—before lying awake and restless in bed and wondering if she was going to be happy here. And the worst thing of all was that she couldn’t seem to shake the image of Jack from her mind.

Jack in denim, having fallen from his horse—his face twisted in pain and his raven hair all windswept.

Jack in a silk shirt and tapered trousers—so imposing and aristocratic as he sat beside the fire, with the flames dancing shadows all over his rugged features.

And just one floor beneath her Jack was in bed. Was he naked beneath linen sheets as fine as the ones in which she herself lay? Did that powerful body toss and turn as hers did? Her cheeks burning as she acknowledged her uncharacteristically erotic thoughts, Ashley buried her face in the welcome cool of the pillow.

Eventually, she drifted off to sleep—only to be woken with a start by the distant sound of a door slamming and then the beginning of a rhythm which confused her at first but was unmistakable once she’d worked out what it was. In the darkness, Ashley frowned.

It was the sound of somebody pacing the floor.

Quickly, she sat up in bed, her eyes growing accustomed to the faint light in the room. Surely Jack Marchant was not an insomniac? And yet who else could it be making those agitated footsteps—when the two of them were alone in the house?

Listening to the sound of heavy pacing, she found herself wondering what thoughts were going through his head—and what could possibly keep a man like that awake at night.

After that, sleep became impossible and she gave up trying to chase it, and she lay there until some ancient central-heating system began to crank into life and herald the start of another day. Eventually she saw the first pale rays of light as they crept through a sliver of space between the curtains.

The room was chilly and swiftly she jumped out of bed and dressed in jeans and layers of warm clothing, before slipping down the sweeping staircase, listening out for signs that Jack might be awake and ready to start work. But the house was in complete silence and, after putting on her sturdy shoes, she let herself out of the kitchen door and went outside, where a fairy-tale landscape awaited her.

During the night a heavy frost had fallen—transforming the bleak, grey landscape of yesterday into one brushed by pure white. The garden looked like an old black and white photo with each blade of grass and every branch painted in monochrome.

For a moment she just stood there, revelling in the unfamiliar country scene and thinking that it looked like the picture on the front of a Christmas card. There was always something so pure about the frost—it was as white as snow and yet somehow more stark and understated. Less showy. Lifting her hand, she ran a questing finger along a branch and felt it shower down over her head—like fine snowflakes. A sudden sense of exhilaration filled her as she began to walk along the frozen path, enjoying the fresh air and space of the countryside and thinking how quiet it was when compared to the city.