Ruthless in All Page 8

  Tiring of bed, fully refreshed from her sleep, she unpacked the case she had been too weary to more than extract a nightdress from six hours earlier. Then, armed with jeans and a sweater, she went along the landing to wash and dress, hoping that the sounds of the plumbing might stir Blane Hunter into putting the kettle on. She could murder a cup of coffee—the thought made her smile.

  Though there was not a smile about her when on going downstairs and into the kitchen, she saw that it was as immaculate as it had been the night before. Which meant, she thought, that the man she was stuck with for the next month not only couldn't be bothered to put the kettle on for her, he couldn't even be bothered to cook himself a piece of toast!

  Putting a bright face on it, she set the kettle to boil and went to poke her head round the sitting room door. It was there that she found Blane Hunter, sitting in the same chair he had chosen last night, a book she guessed he had selected from one of the many on the shelves to the left of the fireplace open before him.

  'Good morning,' she said lightly, cheered by the sight of a log fire blazing in the hearth. Not expecting any answer from the dour trousers and cashmere sweater-clad man, she saw him manage to raise a cold unwelcoming glance at her.

  'Good afternoon,' he replied without looking at his watch, and returned to the book she was sure he wasn't reading.

  Just because he couldn't sleep, it didn't mean that everyone else shouldn't, she thought crossly as she returned to the kitchen. Automatically she took down two beakers, and had spooned instant coffee into both of them before she thought sourly—why the hell should she make him coffee when he wouldn't thank her for it?

  She cancelled that thought. Just because he wasn't exactly the life and the soul of the party, there was no need for her to follow suit.

  'Coffee,' she said, determined to be cheerful as, carrying a tray, she joined him in the sitting room.

  More sour thoughts intruded when he made no attempt' to shift himself, but sat while she put down the tray, moved a small table nearer to him, and had to pick up the tray again.

  'Sugar?' she asked sweetly, determined to make him speak.

  He did not speak, but favoured her with a long-suffering stare. Oh glory, Arden thought, are we in for a hysterical time! She found then that she had too much spirit to be put down by any of his glowering looks, and impudence she could do nothing about insisted on spurting to the surface.

  'Mind—it's hot,' she said, pushing a mugful of unsugared coffee at him. 'Though I could blow on it for you if you like?'

  For a brief moment, a minuscule movement at the corner of his mouth had her thinking that her sauce had amused him. But, idiot, she was thinking a second later, he hasn't got a laugh in him.

  Proof of that was very soon heard, for when Blane Hunter did deign to speak, it was to demand nastily, 'Can't you take yourself and your useless prattle off somewhere else?'

  Stung, though too proud to show it, Arden opened her mouth ready to retort sharply that right now Chalmers Hollow had great appeal. She bit down the snappy comment. If he didn't want her company or her 'useless prattle', so be it.

  'Be miserable on your own,' she said airily. And with a fine show of disdain, she picked up her coffee and took it back with her to the kitchen.

  It was there that for all of ten minutes she railed against Blane Hunter, who couldn't, in her opinion, have been a very pleasant character before the accident. But, after those ten minutes, her anger with him done away with, she thought she had better do something about getting a meal. Having missed breakfast, she was starving.

  Why she should be bothering her head about what she should cook to tempt his appetite, she didn't know. Though it could have had something to do with the thought that, if she'd had a shock such as he had experienced, she too would be off her food. So bother her head she did. In her opinion, it was time now for him to start feeding the inner man. And having reached that conclusion, Arden made herself the solemn promise that if after all her efforts he rejected what she served him with an uncompromising 'I don't want it', then she would not lose her temper and upend the meal all over his head.

  'Would you say,' she asked on going into the sitting room three quarters of an hour later, 'that I've done you something of a favour by coming here with you?'

  Irritated, he glanced up from his book. 'No,' he answered succinctly.

  Silently damning him, Arden kept her smile in place. Without a doubt he was thinking that she should be paying him a thousand to put up with her.

  'Are you then, Mr Hunter,' she went her voice like honey, 'going to carry on like a sulky schoolboy for the rest of our stay here?'

  Surprise lit his eyes, she was sure of it, that she should suggest his surly behaviour stemmed from nothing more than a prolonged childish tantrum. Well, he hadn't wanted her sympathy, had he? she thought, digging her heels in against feeling sorry for him again, against feeling sorry for the state of shock he must still be in.

  'It's cold in the dining room, I've laid lunch in the kitchen,' she persisted when, apart from that glimmer of surprise, she had received no other reaction. Making her voice tart, she pressed on, 'You're not really reading that book.' She stayed to say, not heeding the warning narrowing of his eyes, 'So stop acting like a spoiled child, and come to the table.'

  His rage was immediate, so that she thought the heavy tome in his hands was going to come hurtling across the room at her. Rapidly then she retreated to the kitchen—God, was he furious with her!

  Shaken, her nerves jangling from the violent look of him that had her expecting to have him follow her and try to throttle her at any second, Arden took her bowl of soup to the kitchen table and made herself sit down.

  Five minutes later, listening for every sound, only a few spoonsful of soup finding their way to her insides, she heard the sound she had been listening for. Blane Hunter had left the sitting room!

  With trepidation in her heart, she heard his footsteps coming nearer. And even if it was daylight, her heart began to pound that if his rage had not cooled, soon she could be fighting for her life.

  When the kitchen door opened, and then closed, desperately trying to look cool and calm, she broke off a piece of bread from her side plate. Tension took a grip of her when for ageless moments Blane Hunter stood near to the table, and she made herself reach for the salt pot to sprinkle more salt into her soup. She was hardly breathing, for all she tried to make her actions seem everyday.

  Then suddenly she was awash with relief. Because without speaking a word, Blane Hunter had hooked out the chair by his place setting, and was sitting down opposite her.

  Knowing if he was looking at her—and she wasn't checking to find out—that if she tried another casual act and spooned soup to her mouth he would see she was trembling, Arden left her chair and went over to the stove. With her back to him she had several seconds in which to regain her composure as she took a soup dish from the warming rack and poured the rest of the contents of the soup saucepan into it.

  This achieved, though she was not sure her voice would not come out high-pitched if she dared to speak, without a word she took the soup over to the table and placed it in front of him.

  She began to feel much better when, careful not to let him see that she was observing how much he ate, she saw that instead of consuming only a little of the soup, whether he wanted it or not, he was going doggedly on until he had finished all of it.

  It was the most silent meal Arden had ever had. Meals with friends, with her aunt, were always filled with chat of some sort. But feeling her vocal chords had now returned to normal, as Blane Hunter ploughed his way through the chicken and mushroom pie she had heated, a couple of potatoes and some sweetcorn, she was then too wary to say anything. For it seemed, from what she could remember, that whenever she opened her mouth to say anything to him, all she ever succeeded in doing was to upset him. Though as space appeared on his plate, she had to own up to a feeling of delight that he had got so much down him.

  Whe
n every scrap had been eaten and from lowered eyes she saw the neat way his knife and fork were laid side by side, a smile started inside her. It was then that she raised her eyes to see that he was looking full at her. Then that silence in the kitchen was broken, as with a sardonic look in those dark eyes that were fixed on her, he leaned back in his chair.

  'Satisfied?' he enquired, his face as ever unsmiling.

  'It's a shame to waste good food,' said Arden carefully. And, watching every word since it seemed she had the unwanted power to so easily set his aggression off, 'There's cheesecake to follow if…'

  'Will it keep?' The mocking note there in his voice told her not only that he did not want any cheesecake, but also that he was deriding her comment about it being a shame to waste good food.

  'We can have some of it for dinner,' she murmured, spurred by an imp of mischief that just had to let him know that having got him at last on the eating trail she had no intention of letting up.

  'Oh God!' he groaned, thinking, she didn't doubt, much the same as she had, that he was stuck with her for a month. Without another word he went back to the sitting room.

  That he hadn't offered to give a hand with the washing up was the smallest of her worries as she stood at the kitchen sink. For, once more alone and not having to watch every word, Arden was going some way down the path of self-analysis—and not being too sure about the answers she was getting back.

  It all began with that definite feeling of delight she had experienced to see him eating the meal she prepared. Only last night, she recalled without effort, she had hated Blane Hunter. And a few short hours ago she would have said she felt the same. So why, when she would be more than pleased if he took himself off, had she been so inordinately pleased to see him busy at work with a knife and fork?

  A natural human feeling? she was set to ponder. It was a fact that he still did not look well, yet why should it bother her whether he ate or starved? From the way he had been with her, he didn't warrant that she should waste one minute of her time in worrying over him.

  I'm getting as soft as my lovely aunt, Arden finally concluded, and made herself a promise to watch it in future. It was a harsh world outside, and if Louise was to be protected, one of them had to be tough if they were not to be taken for countless rides.

  But, promise or no promise, as the afternoon wore on, having tidied up everywhere she could think of, though leaving the sitting room well alone, it came to her that it would do Blane Hunter far more good to be out in the fresh air than sitting with a book he wasn't reading, as his mind dwelt on dark thoughts.

  Though how was she to attempt to prise him out of that chair without getting her head bitten off? After several minutes of searching though, Arden thought she had the answer. Blane Hunter had only decided she must come away with him because he didn't want her blabbing to the press where he was. He wouldn't want her going anywhere alone, would he? Not even in this remote spot!

  Without more ado, she went upstairs and donned her thick Harris tweed jacket, but downstairs again, outside the sitting room, she hesitated. She was quite looking forward to a walk, she realised, but did she want him for company?

  It was when she reminded herself that her good deed for the day was to try and get some healthy colour into Blane Hunter's face that she rejected all thought of trying to escape from either the front or back door without him being aware of it. Stifling a sigh, she turned the handle of the sitting room door. Blane Hunter did not look up as she went in, but sat staring into the fire, his expression as morose as she had anticipated it would be.

  Thinking that if there was any room in his thoughts for her, then he was most likely regretting, and hating her like poison, that she had got him to the table with her unfair comment that he was acting like a spoiled child, Arden approached his chair.

  The movement of her pulling on her gloves had him sending an irritated look in her direction. He was not, she saw, looking at all pleased to observe that she was dressed for outdoors.

  'And where in sweet hell do you think you're going?' he grated charmingly.

  'For a walk.' Arden told him mildly—adding quickly When she saw his aggression was about to break, 'It's a lovely day out, and such a shame to be indoors when I haven't so much as taken a look outside in daylight.'

  'Stop prattling,' she was ordered shortly. 'Wait while I get a coat.' And showing he had seen straight through her, wiping from her mouth the smile she wasn't quick enough to hide the fact that her ruse had worked, he snarled toughly, 'I've told you once already not to play nursemaid.'

  No need to hide her smile since she had not fooled him for an instant, Arden felt strangely exultant to have got her way. Which was most odd, she mused, for not a minute ago she'd had thoughts of how much better she would enjoy a walk on her own. But the spirit in her would not stay down, even if she did earn herself a glowering look for her impudence.

  'Stick with me pal,' she heard herself say cockily, guessing the hours of sound sleep she had had must be responsible for the way she was feeling. 'Who knows, I might even have you somewhere near to becoming like a human being by the time my month of penal servitude is up!'

  'I wouldn't bank on it,' Blane Hunter told her darkly.

  Brynmoel was situated in a beautiful spot. Mountains loomed all around them as they trudged along the rutted track the old Morris Traveller had rattled over. There were twists and bends in the path they took. A stream in the distance with a wooded valley beyond surprised Arden as they turned round another bend.

  She would have liked to have stood and breathed in deeply of the pure mountain air. But her companion, taking no enjoyment from their walk, was stepping it out as though the sooner to get it over with when he could get back to the cosy fire she had dragged him away from.

  He half turned once to check if she was still with him, chancing to see at that moment the hint of a smile that crossed her features as a touch of whimsy took her.

  'What's so damned funny?' he asked in that disgruntled way that was all part and parcel of the man she knew.

  Laughter started to gurgle up to the surface of Arden, and then just had to have its way. Her laughter in the silent mountains and valleys caused him to stand unmoving, to eye her with a severe look. And, her face alive with merriment, she was having to do her best to control herself, as she excused in the face of his black look.

  'I'm sorry,' looking nowhere near sorry, 'it must be my weak brain. I've been trotting along beside you now on this Welsh hillside for the last half hour. It just occurred to me to wonder if you'd soon start calling me "Shep"!'

  Amused he wasn't. He saw nothing funny at all in the picture she drew of herself being like a sheepdog at the heels of her flock.

  'There's nothing weak about your brain,' he gritted tightly. And if she had any thoughts that he might be complimenting her on her intelligence, then Arden knew she could forget it, for with the icy comment, 'You're just as scheming as all the rest,' he walked on.

  Laughter left her; his remark had been deserved, she guessed. Though she would not have put the way she had got him to eat, and out for a walk, as strong as scheming.

  'I'm fed up with you!' she yelled at his back six yards up in front of her, seeing no reason why he should corner the market when it came to bluntness. 'I'm going back!'

  'Thank God for that,' he said rudely. He had joined her before she had gone very far.

  Not that she thanked him for shortening' his stride to hers. She had finished trotting to keep up with him. As far as she was concerned she would have preferred it had he gone striding ahead and out of her sight, and much preferred it if he had kept on walking. Any pleasure she had experienced from their isolated surroundings, for not so much as a glimpse of another soul had they seen, had gone.

  Deciding not to take her jacket up to her room, but to leave it on a peg in the hall, Arden shrugged it off, to see that her bad-tempered fellow walker had the identical idea.

  That they both went for the same peg at the same tim
e, flicking a glance at each other before he turned to hook his jacket on another peg, gave her the chance to see that the walk had, but definitely, done him some good.

  Not that it made any sense to her that the mutiny in her soul should be killed stone dead to have observed that his look of tiredness had gone, or that he looked to be stimulated from stepping it out along that rugged track and breathing in that same pure air that she had.

  But if his expression had not lightened, then her dampened spirits were on the upturn again. And she was quite able to ignore his suspicious stare that she wasn't a girl who went in for prolonged sulking, when cheerfully she said:

  'If you'd like to go into the sitting room, I'll bring you in a cup of tea.'

  Nor did she let it get her down when his suspicious look was replaced by a disgruntled one that said he objected to being treated like some convalescent. Arden was uncaring what expression he wore. She had the evidence of her own eyes that his walk had done him some good, and she wasn't waiting for his sour comments, but was adding blithely:

  'No need to get into a muck sweat. I shan't be joining you to disturb you with my prattle, I'll drink mine in the kitchen.'

  Lingering only to hang up her jacket before she went kitchenwards, she hoped the look she gave him conveyed what it was meant to convey—that she found her own company far more congenial than she found his.

  That not a word passed between them when she took him the promised cup of tea did not bother her. Never unhappy with just her own company, Arden drank her tea in the kitchen, her spirits in no way defeated.

  Dinner was as silent as lunch had been. But that Blane Hunter came to the table without too much delay when she called him, and that he again ate all that she put before him, gave her a good feeling inside.

  The walk she had more or less forced on him must have helped with his appetite, she found herself thinking when, Blane again not offering a hand with the washing up, she had the kitchen once more to herself.

  Busy with her chores at the kitchen sink, Arden was to catch herself up short to realise that, having been made to spend with him what, after all, should have been her holiday, she was giving Blane Hunter far too much consideration.