Pool of Dreaming

by Dana James

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Kersty loves running her graphic design firm in Cornwall - except for the financial pressure of clients not paying their bills. Salvation arrives in the form of Viscount Haldane who hires her to publicise Ravenswood House as a luxury hotel. But Kersty knew the viscount as Neil Drummond and discovering the truth changes everything. He asks her to trust him. But can she?

Release date: July 18, 2013

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 159

Sample

Chapter One

‘Damn!’ Kersty muttered, hollowing her back to ease free of the barbed wire. It had pierced her sweater and shirt. She could feel the rusty metal point digging into the skin below her shoulder blade. She twisted and squirmed, but the barb only gouged deeper into her flesh. And it hurt.

Flicking her long hair back in an attempt to see which way the barbs were pointing, she winced as a wind-blown curl caught on the wire and was held fast.

This was too stupid. She had got through the first fence on the edge of the wood easily enough despite the strong new posts and shiny wire with vicious, claw-like hooks.

She had been just as careful here where the wood met rolling parkland dotted with magnificent copper beeches and huge oaks. So how on earth had she managed to get caught up on these older, looser strands?

Bent forward from the waist, her blue-jeaned legs astride the lower twist of wire and both hands occupied in trying to keep the wires apart, she was well and truly impaled.

The rustle of approaching footsteps brought Kersty’s head up with a jerk. She gasped in pain. She’d forgotten her hair was caught and her reflexive movement had forced the barb deeper into her flesh.

The leisurely stride came nearer and her heartbeat quickened. Should she call for help? Or keep quiet and hope that he, for she sensed it was a man, would pass by without seeing her?

She was screened by thick bushes from both the woods and the overgrown path bordering the park.

But if she didn’t ask for help how was she going to get free? The more she struggled the deeper the barb would work its way in.

She looked down at the wire between her knees. As well as flaking rust, it was adorned with mouldy leaves, fluff – perhaps from a rabbit – and birdlime. A dose of blood poisoning on top of everything else really would be the last straw.

Kersty swallowed hard. What if he was a poacher? It was May, she reminded herself quickly. There was nothing to poach other than rabbits or pigeons, and they were considered vermin. Even so, he might not be pleased at someone seeing him where he had no business to be. But she had no right to be here either, so that made them equal.

‘I say,’ she shouted. The footsteps stopped. ‘Can you help me, please? I’m caught on the wire.’

There was a moment’s silence. Kersty wondered if she should shout again. Then a twig snapped and the footsteps drew nearer. To the right of Kersty’s head, the bushes rustled and parted.

The man who stood there was at least six feet tall, and from her angle seemed twice that. Faded blue jeans hugging muscular thighs were tucked into mud-spattered green Hunter boots. The rolled-up sleeves and open neck of a pale blue denim shirt revealed bronzed skin. Broad shoulders and a strong neck supported a hard-planed face shadowed by faint beard stubble. Narrowed eyes observed her from beneath straight brows, and sun-streaked hair, tousled by the breeze, fell across his forehead.

He took another step forward and Kersty saw, balanced on his shoulder, his finger hooked round the trigger guard, a double-barrelled shotgun.

‘Look, I promise I won’t tell anyone,’ she blurted, her mouth drying. ‘If you’ll just unhook me no one need know either of us was here.’

As puzzlement crossed the man’s face Kersty’s heart sank. ‘You’re not a poacher.’

His wide mouth tightened in a fleeting expression that could have been anger or amusement. He shook his head slowly.

Kersty sighed. ‘I suppose you work on the estate.’ She was so concerned with the implications of being caught in such damning circumstances she did not notice the momentary hesitation before he nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said briefly. ‘Are you local?’ His voice was deep and made Kersty think of molasses: dark, smooth, and slightly bitter.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the fanciful thought. She looked at the ground, glad her hair hid her face. ‘I live in the village, yes.’

‘May I ask what brings you to Ravenswood?’ His courtesy only emphasised the undertone of wry amusement.

‘Do you think you might unhook me first?’ Kersty demanded with acid sweetness. ‘Polite conversation isn’t easy when you’re strung up on barbed wire.’

‘Really?’ the stranger mused. ‘I’d have thought it quite … persuasive.’ He remained exactly where he was, weight on his left foot, left hand in the front pocket of his jeans, the shotgun resting casually on his right shoulder.

Panic fluttered in Kersty. ‘I’ll explain, I promise,’ she said quickly. ‘Only please help me get free. One of the barbs is sticking in my back and –’

In one swift movement, he had set the gun down and come to her side. Sunlight glinted on the barrel, and Kersty was startled to see the name James Purdey engraved in flowing script on the metal. She had designed a catalogue for an antique dealer about a year ago, and he had been offering a pair of Purdeys for sale. She could not remember the exact valuation but it had been several thousand pounds. Why would an estate worker be carrying such a valuable firearm?

Kersty’s brief curiosity dissolved as her gaze shifted and she caught sight of the two cartridges in the breech. An icy shiver rippled down her spine. Don’t be stupid, she told herself. People don’t get shot for trespassing. Not in this country. Yes, they did. She had seen it on the news.

He freed her hair first, and she groaned with relief, dropping her head forward and turning it from side to side to ease the stiffness in her neck and shoulders. His booted foot on the lower wire enabled her to release her grip and she flexed her fingers.

‘Stand quite still,’ he commanded softly. Kersty’s indrawn breath hissed as he carefully removed the barb. From the sting and sudden warmth, she knew the wound was more than a mere graze.

Grabbing his hand so she wouldn’t overbalance, she stepped through the parted wires towards him.

Finally free, she began to straighten up. But before she could utter a word, he spun her round so her back was towards him, and placed her palms against the nearest tree. Then, pushing up her sweater, he pulled her shirt free from the waistband of her jeans.

Leaping like a scalded cat, Kersty whirled round. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she blazed, backing away from him.

Irony twitched the corners of his mouth. ‘Trying to minimise the risk of infection,’ he said calmly. ‘What on earth did you imagine? If the wound is bleeding freely, it will take only a few seconds. When did you have your last tetanus shot?’

Before she realised what was happening, he had firmly replaced her hands against the tree trunk. She recalled her earlier fears of blood poisoning. It wasn’t only the sudden awareness of the cool air against her bare back that made her shiver. ‘I – I’m not sure. Last year, I think.

‘Wait,’ she cried desperately, craning her head over her shoulder, ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘I doubt that will affect the treatment,’ he said drily. ‘But it’s Neil, Neil Drummond. Now turn your head around and try to keep still.’

Kersty did as she was told. Her eyes widened with shock and every muscle tensed as Neil Drummond’s mouth fastened over the wound. He sucked hard for several seconds then, lifting his head, turned away and spat. After repeating the process twice more, he straightened up.

‘Your shirt’s a mess, but nothing cold water and salt won’t cure,’ he observed.

Kersty felt no pain, just throbbing warmth.

‘I don’t suppose you carry sticking plaster or antiseptic cream?’ It was a rhetorical question and he answered it himself. ‘I thought not. Don’t move,’ he ordered as she started to straighten up. He raked in his own pockets and produced a white handkerchief, still neatly folded. Shaking it out, he folded it into four on her lower back.

‘People who risk injury trespassing on property that’s fenced off for their own safety –’ He broke off. Laying the improvised pad over the wound, he lifted the shoulder strap of her bra over to hold it in place then tucked the lower edge beneath the fastening band. His fingers were warm but impersonal. He did not linger nor did he touch her more than was strictly necessary as he lifted her shirt down carefully over the dressing. ‘Such people ought at least to come prepared for accidents.’ He stood back. ‘You can manage the rest.’

Kersty shot upright, her face on fire, her skin tingling from the memory of his touch. Her hands shook as she stuffed her shirt back into the waistband of her jeans. ‘I’ve lived in the village all my life,’ she retorted. ‘And I’ve never heard of anyone coming to harm on the estate. The Carvossas didn’t mind people walking through the woods. The new owner must be paranoid.’ Kersty didn’t hide her disgust. ‘This place is almost as well protected as Fort Knox.’

‘It is private property.’ He did not raise his voice but a new element had crept in, a steeliness that raised goosepimples on her heated skin. ‘We’re clearing areas of the wood using chainsaws, JCBs, and heavy lorries so it’s not safe to have people wandering around. But in any case, there are no public rights of way on the deeds. If local people were allowed access in the past, it was due solely to the goodwill of the owner. It was never a legal right.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she observed, stung by the rebuke yet forced by her innate honesty to admit it was deserved.

He smiled down at her and it was as if a newer, brighter sun had appeared in the sky. The smile lit his face, making him look suddenly years younger and somehow much more approachable. His eyes, a deep cornflower blue, gleamed with amusement. Yet there was something in their depths that, while not making her uneasy, confused Kersty.

He shrugged lightly. ‘All part of the job. Would you like some tea?’

The unexpected offer took her by surprise. ‘Oh, I – I don’t think –’

He cut in smoothly. ‘You promised if I freed you to tell me why you were sneaking about in here.’ He leant over and scooped up the gun, balancing it on his shoulder once more. There was nothing overtly threatening about the movement, and yet …

‘I was not sneaking,’ Kersty protested. ‘I was walking perfectly normally.’

‘Not when you called for help,’ he reminded her, then arched one dark brow. ‘Shall we go?’ Parting the bushes with one hand, he stood back to let her pass. For no apparent reason she found herself reliving the sensation of his mouth on her skin, the slight roughness of his chin, and the firm warmth of his hands. With a strange quivering beneath her ribs, Kersty lowered her head, letting her hair swing forward as she passed him. ‘Th-thank you.’

‘It was my pleasure.’ The undertone of amusement in his voice made her blush. No way could he have guessed what she was thinking.

Last year’s leaves rustled beneath their feet as they reached a fork in the deeply rutted path and headed in the general direction of the lake.

‘I used to know these woods like the back of my hand,’ Kersty said to break a silence that had grown unbearable. ‘I’d no idea the estate had become so badly run down.’

He glanced at her. ‘You haven’t been in here for a while then?’

She caught his eye, but detected no sarcasm or hidden meaning in the question. Shaking her head, she answered, ‘Not for years. But when I was a child, it was a magical place. Trees blown down by winter gales often blocked the paths. Sometimes they were sawn up and cleared away. But more often they were just left to rot.’ She glanced up at him from beneath long eyelashes. ‘It might have been poor estate management, but for us kids it was terrific fun. We climbed on them and hid behind them. They were horses to ride, ships at sea, and islands in crocodile-infested swamps.

‘In spring we would go to the lake to collect frogspawn and pick bluebells. On hot summer days, we’d bring a picnic and sit in the grass where the park meets the woods. The only thing we could hear was the birds. We’d see how many different butterflies we could count and watch the squirrels. Then in autumn there were blackberries to pick, and conkers.’ She darted another look at him, and grinned guiltily. ‘If we were feeling very brave we’d scrump apples from the orchard. When winter came we’d put on scarves, wellies, and thick gloves to collect chestnuts.’ Kersty smiled at the memory.

‘It was like discovering treasure to split open the prickly cases and see the nuts, all fat and glossy, packed tight inside.’ She gazed about her at the deeply rutted earth, scarred by the passage of heavy vehicles, the piles of sawdust, the pyramids of stacked logs with numbers painted on their freshly sawn trunks. ‘It all looks so different now.’

‘You are no longer a child,’ Neil pointed out.

‘No,’ she agreed softly. Hopelessness welled up inside her. There was no escape from the present and all its pressures, problems, and decisions. Kersty shivered, suddenly cold.

‘I don’t think I caught your name,’ Neil said.

Kersty dragged her attention back. ‘I didn’t give it,’ she replied shortly. She was behaving badly. The knowledge made her angry but the anger was directed at herself. It wasn’t his fault. She had no right to be rude. If he hadn’t come along, she would still be impaled on the barbed wire.

‘But you’re going to.’ Neil smiled pleasantly. Behind this calm statement of fact, Kersty glimpsed determination bordering on ruthlessness. But the impression was only momentary and his next words drove it from her mind. ‘We can hardly chat like old friends over a cup of tea if I don’t even know your name.’

Kersty wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be friends with Neil Drummond. There was no denying his good looks, and he possessed a quiet charm that made Roger’s silver-tongued eloquence seem cloying and studied. But something about him seemed at odds with his position as woodsman or estate manager. It wasn’t that he was loud-mouthed or over-familiar. In fact, his quiet courtesy had surprised her. Maybe that was what she found unusual: that and his piercingly direct gaze. He seemed to be trying to see into her thoughts. And that really was unsettling.

‘Your name?’ he prompted.

‘Kersty.’ She spelled it for him. ‘Kersty Hurrell.’

‘So, Kersty.’ His voice was soft, its very mildness a warning even as she ridiculed herself for being so fanciful. ‘What could be worrying you so much that you try to find escape and comfort in a childhood playground?’

Her head flew up. Before she could stop herself she blurted, ‘How did you know?’

He shrugged. A grin played at the corners of his mouth. ‘I suppose it has to be a man.’

For a moment, Kersty didn’t know what to say. Nothing about this afternoon had turned out as she’d imagined. She had come to Ravenswood to recapture the carefree happiness and security of her childhood. And to find the strength to face decisions she knew had to be made.

The situation could not be allowed to drift any longer. She had spent too long hoping, praying, that somehow something would turn up.

She pushed a hand through her hair in a gesture betraying her despair. ‘You’re right,’ she admitted. ‘Well, partly. But it’s not a man in the sense you mean.’

He raised one eyebrow in silent query.

The path joined a wide, cobbled drive. A few yards further on, a metal fence bisected by a large white-painted gate divided the woods from more parkland that rose gently towards massed ranks of tall rhododendron bushes, ablaze with pink, white and purple flowers, bordering the formal gardens that surrounded the house. But, though the blossom-laden bushes were a magnificent sight, it was the sea of bluebel. . .