it was they had been talking about.
'Mr Harland returned my hairband. He found it,' Marion began. She looked straight at Reeve then, and her eyes begged him not to say where he found it, or how it came to be in his possession. There was no earthly reason why Mrs Pugh should not know, except that inexplicably Marion did not want to talk about it to anyone.
'That was nice,' the housekeeper raised the laden tray. 'I hope you've thanked him properly.' She never quite grasped the fact that Marion was no longer a leggy schoolgirl needing guidance.
'Thank you.' She faced Reeve as the door closed behind the older woman, and her stiffly formal tone expressed little gratitude. A strange light lit the grey eyes looking down at her.
'She didn't say just to thank me,' he reminded Marion softly, 'she said to thank me properly,' he emphasised.
Before she had time to realise what he was going to do he reached out and grasped her by the shoulders and turned her towards him. She raised her face in quick protest at his touch, and instantly his lips descended on hers, claiming, without asking, the extra thanks that he thought were his due.
CHAPTER THREE
Surprise held her rigid for a second or two. Seconds in which a treacherous sweetness stole through her veins, electrifying her lips, and the touch of his hands on her shoulders. As if in a dream she felt herself respond, the rigidity leave her.
'No!' She wrenched herself free, felt the rosebud in his lapel brush her cheek as she twisted frantically free from his grasp, and gathering up the tablecloth in a crumpled heap in her arms, she whirled away from him and ran from the room. Willy appeared at the drawing room door as she rounded the corner of the passage.
'I wanted Reeve,' he began.
'You can have him!' choked Marion, and fled on until the kitchen door closed behind her, and she leaned against it gratefully, shaking in every limb, with the tablecloth still clutched to her as if to ward off she did not know what.
'Dearie me, that cloth'll be all crumples if you hold it like that.' Mrs Pugh came in and clicked her tongue disapprovingly.
'I was just going outside to shake it.' Marion grasped at the first excuse to enter her head.
'What for?' the housekeeper asked. 'There weren't any crumbs. They didn't eat their bread rolls.'
'I didn't notice—it won't matter then—I'll fold it.' Marion felt herself becoming incoherent, and she held the cloth high , stroking it back to smooth folds, and using it as a shield to hide her burning face. Fortunately the cloth was a large one, and her action did not look strange, as the length of it was as much as her arms could manage at one stretch. Reeve had been more than her arms could manage. His mocking laugh echoed in her head, taunting her. Why had she responded to his kiss like that? Her cheeks flamed at the memory. Anyone would think he was the first man who had kissed her. She had met many men in her travels, more than one had wanted to marry her, but with an instinctive caution Marion managed to remain unattached and curiously heartwhole for her twenty-five years. Applying the same philosophy which she used with Ben Wade, she preferred to remain aloof, contenting herself with the fulfilment her work offered until she should find the greater fulfilment which she knew life with the right man could hold for her. And Reeve Harland was definitely not the right man.
His stolen kiss amounted to an insult. Even the act of retrieving her drawing and her hair ribbon from the fell-side in such an unorthodox manner did not give him the right to presume so far. The thought gave her pause. In her desperate haste to get away from Reeve, she had left both the drawing and the hair ribbon behind her in the dining room. And if she went back to get them, she might encounter Reeve again.
'I'll get them in the morning.' She did not realise she had spoken out loud until Mrs Pugh answered her.
'Get what in the morning? There's nothing else for you to do
'Mr Harland returned my hairband. He found it,' Marion began. She looked straight at Reeve then, and her eyes begged him not to say where he found it, or how it came to be in his possession. There was no earthly reason why Mrs Pugh should not know, except that inexplicably Marion did not want to talk about it to anyone.
'That was nice,' the housekeeper raised the laden tray. 'I hope you've thanked him properly.' She never quite grasped the fact that Marion was no longer a leggy schoolgirl needing guidance.
'Thank you.' She faced Reeve as the door closed behind the older woman, and her stiffly formal tone expressed little gratitude. A strange light lit the grey eyes looking down at her.
'She didn't say just to thank me,' he reminded Marion softly, 'she said to thank me properly,' he emphasised.
Before she had time to realise what he was going to do he reached out and grasped her by the shoulders and turned her towards him. She raised her face in quick protest at his touch, and instantly his lips descended on hers, claiming, without asking, the extra thanks that he thought were his due.
CHAPTER THREE
Surprise held her rigid for a second or two. Seconds in which a treacherous sweetness stole through her veins, electrifying her lips, and the touch of his hands on her shoulders. As if in a dream she felt herself respond, the rigidity leave her.
'No!' She wrenched herself free, felt the rosebud in his lapel brush her cheek as she twisted frantically free from his grasp, and gathering up the tablecloth in a crumpled heap in her arms, she whirled away from him and ran from the room. Willy appeared at the drawing room door as she rounded the corner of the passage.
'I wanted Reeve,' he began.
'You can have him!' choked Marion, and fled on until the kitchen door closed behind her, and she leaned against it gratefully, shaking in every limb, with the tablecloth still clutched to her as if to ward off she did not know what.
'Dearie me, that cloth'll be all crumples if you hold it like that.' Mrs Pugh came in and clicked her tongue disapprovingly.
'I was just going outside to shake it.' Marion grasped at the first excuse to enter her head.
'What for?' the housekeeper asked. 'There weren't any crumbs. They didn't eat their bread rolls.'
'I didn't notice—it won't matter then—I'll fold it.' Marion felt herself becoming incoherent, and she held the cloth high , stroking it back to smooth folds, and using it as a shield to hide her burning face. Fortunately the cloth was a large one, and her action did not look strange, as the length of it was as much as her arms could manage at one stretch. Reeve had been more than her arms could manage. His mocking laugh echoed in her head, taunting her. Why had she responded to his kiss like that? Her cheeks flamed at the memory. Anyone would think he was the first man who had kissed her. She had met many men in her travels, more than one had wanted to marry her, but with an instinctive caution Marion managed to remain unattached and curiously heartwhole for her twenty-five years. Applying the same philosophy which she used with Ben Wade, she preferred to remain aloof, contenting herself with the fulfilment her work offered until she should find the greater fulfilment which she knew life with the right man could hold for her. And Reeve Harland was definitely not the right man.
His stolen kiss amounted to an insult. Even the act of retrieving her drawing and her hair ribbon from the fell-side in such an unorthodox manner did not give him the right to presume so far. The thought gave her pause. In her desperate haste to get away from Reeve, she had left both the drawing and the hair ribbon behind her in the dining room. And if she went back to get them, she might encounter Reeve again.
'I'll get them in the morning.' She did not realise she had spoken out loud until Mrs Pugh answered her.
'Get what in the morning? There's nothing else for you to do
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