Seduced by the Rebel

‘Am I?’

He didn’t move so she tried a firmer approach. ‘If you want feeding you’d better get out of my way now.’

‘I love it when you talk tough.’

She drew in a great, shuddering gust of relief when Heath finally straightened up and moved away. Fantasies were safe, warm things, but the reality of Heath’s hard, virile body so close to hers was something else again. He hadn’t even touched her yet and every part of her was glowing with lust—and she couldn’t blame the Aga for that.

‘Don’t burn my supper,’ Heath warned. ‘If you do I shall have to punish you.’

Bronte drew in a sharp, shocked breath. The images that conjured up didn’t even bear thinking about. Rallying, she turned to face Heath with her chin tilted at a combative angle, only to find a slow-burning smile playing around his lips. He was enjoying this. Heath was the master of verbal seduction and she was his willing partner in crime. Lucky for her, the girls chose that moment to return from the herb garden—if she counted luck in heated aches and screaming frustration, that was, Bronte mused, adopting an innocent expression by the cooker.

‘Thyme?’ Colleen held out a thick bunch of fragrant herbs.

‘Bad time,’ Heath commented dryly. Then pointing a finger at Bronte as if to say they had unfinished business, he left the kitchen to call the men.

She couldn’t think of anything else all through supper. What had Heath meant by that pointing finger? If Heath meant what she thought he meant her fantasies were out of a job. Heath gave nothing away during the meal—he barely looked at her. She had cooked her heart out, silently thanking her mother for all those hours they’d spent together preparing food. She had everything she needed in the restored garden—and more eggs than she knew what to do with, thanks to the chickens being of too little value for Uncle Harry’s executors to chase them down. Tonight’s menu included minestrone soup, and a huge Spanish omelette, full of finely chopped seasonal vegetables and crispy potatoes, which she had browned beneath the grill until the cheese on top was crunchy. To complement this there was a bowl of crispy salad, along with some freshly baked bread and newly churned butter from a nearby farm. Then there was beer, wine and soft drinks from the local shop to satisfy twelve hungry mouths around the supper table. She loved doing this, Bronte reflected with her chin on the heel of her hand as the chatter continued abated—especially feeding Heath, who seemed to relish every mouthful.

‘The country’s not so bad, is it, Heath?’ She couldn’t resist saying when he dived in for second helpings.

‘I’ll freely admit it gives me a healthy appetite.’

And how was she supposed to take that? She drew a deep, steadying breath, but the tension between them remained electric. It was the same between Heath’s men and Bronte’s friends, she noticed. The village was severely depleted when it came to good-looking guys, as most had gone to work in the city, so this was an interesting occasion for everyone, to say the least.

‘This is a real feast,’ Colleen observed, passing the bread round.

Indeed it was, Bronte thought, glancing at Heath.

‘Here’s that cheese we bought to go with the bread,’ he said, passing the cheese board round to an appreciative roar.

Bronte’s glance yo-yoed between Colleen and Heath. They had walked to the farm together, which meant they must have talked. And Colleen was hardly noted for holding back. She must have said something about Bronte’s feelings for Heath.

Well, it was too late to do anything about that now, Bronte thought, putting an Eton mess on the table for pudding—easy. fresh whipped and sweetened cream, thick Greek yoghurt, strawberries, raspberries, and crumbled chunks of home-made meringue. ‘Please, tuck in,’ she announced brightly, swallowing back her embarrassment at the thought that her feelings for Heath must have been aired extensively at some point today.

‘This pudding is delicious,’ Heath said, looking up.

His eyes held all sorts of thoughts that went beyond pudding—none of which Bronte trusted herself to examine too closely. How would Heath’s energy translate if they were left alone together for any length of time? Perhaps he had better install a sprinkler system along with all his other DIY improvements.

‘We’re going to be here for the best part of six months according to the boss,’ one of the men said, directing this comment at Bronte. ‘I hope you’ll be staying on?’

‘She’ll be here,’ Heath confirmed.

‘Oh, will I?’ Bronte challenged.

‘Where else would you go?’ Heath demanded.

Everyone went silent and turned to look at them.

‘We definitely can’t let a cook as good as you go,’ the first man said politely to break the standoff.

‘We won’t let her go,’ Heath assured him while Bronte frowned. It wasn’t just that she didn’t like to be told what she was going to do—she was beginning to wonder if she had blown the bigger job. Not that she didn’t enjoy cooking, but her mother was the one trained in household management, while Bronte’s training had been geared towards managing the estate.

Don’t make a fuss, her inner voice warned … softly, softly catchee monkey.

‘I’ve really enjoyed cooking for you all,’ she said honestly, thinking it best to leave it there.

‘If you do stay on and work here,’ Colleen piped up, ‘I’m sure Heath will pay excellent wages.’

‘We definitely need to talk terms,’ Heath agreed above the laughter.

Great wages and impossible terms? Bronte smiled and kept on smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But when everyone started getting up from the table and she noticed Heath was looking at her, her senses sharpened. After what Heath had described as her less than promising start, she hoped she had gone some way to making amends tonight. But she still needed clarification about a formal interview—that was if Heath’s offer still stood.

Her first thought was, what would the position be?

Missionary? Or up against a wall—Stop! Stop!

Estate manager, or housekeeper, Bronte told herself firmly, wiping her overheated forehead on the back of her hand. She’d settle for either—though of course she would hand over the housekeeper’s position to her mother, with Heath’s agreement, the moment her parents returned from their trip.

She was so busy clearing the table and trying to see into the future that she managed to crash into Heath. ‘Well?’ he demanded, steadying her, his firm hands so warm and strong on her arms. ‘I’m still waiting for your answer, Bronte.’

‘Wages?’

‘Terms,’ he murmured.

‘And is that look supposed to encourage me to accept?’ His gaze was currently focused on her lips.

‘I haven’t offered you anything yet,’ he pointed out. ‘Is this a better look?’

His face was so close she could see the flecks of amber in his eyes. ‘Barely,’ she said.

Her body disagreed. Her body liked Heath’s brooding look very much indeed. ‘You can let me go now,’ she said, staring pointedly at his hand on her arm.

Heath hummed as he lifted it away, leaving behind him an imprint of sensation that it would take more than a shower to wash off.

This was everything she’d ever dreamed of, Bronte reflected as she cleared the table—Heath back at Hebers Ghyll, picking up almost, but not quite, where they’d left off, flirting with him.

Flirting with Heath was a very bad idea indeed. It put her heart at risk, while his was in no danger at all. And she didn’t kid herself where this was heading, if she let it. Heath had a healthy appetite, and it was up to her to decide yes or no and then take the consequences for her decision whatever it might be.

Everyone else had left the kitchen to return to work. No one stopped until a job was done now, Bronte had noticed, even thought it was quite late. Heath’s influence, she supposed. He never seemed to tire. She had asked him to mend a fuse for her before he went back to join the others. ‘Seems I can’t get rid of you now,’ she teased him as he straightened up.

‘Isn’t that what you want?’ he said.

She was staring at his lips again, Bronte realised, shifting her gaze to Heath’s work-stained top. ‘Do you really think I find the scent of spark plugs and engine oil irresistible?’

‘I think you love a bit of rough.’

‘I—’

Before she had chance to deny it, Heath had dragged her into his arms.

‘It might have escaped your notice,’ she told him, coolly, ‘but I’m in no danger of falling over at the moment.’

‘You’re right,’ Heath agreed, lips pressing down. ‘You’re in no danger at all.’ He lifted his hands away.

The master tactician was at it again, Bronte suspected, feeling the loss of him before Heath had even left the room. There was more to foreplay than she had ever realised. Turned out Heath was master of that too. Still, he’d gone now, which would give her chance to cool down. She’d clear up the kitchen—and then, as she’d announced over supper, she would paint the wall Heath had plastered. The plaster had dried out now, and she didn’t feel like going down to the pub. Sometimes she liked to be alone with her thoughts—though where that would get her tonight was anyone’s guess.

CHAPTER SEVEN

EVERYONE was going down to the pub in the village after work. Heath wasn’t and neither was Bronte. She was still fixing up the kitchen. Having cooked and cleaned and cleared, she had declared her intention to paint the wall. He could hardly leave her to it.

Stubborn as ever, he thought, catching sight of her through the kitchen window. It looked cosy and welcoming inside with the lights casting a warm glow, and something Bronte had prepared for tomorrow bubbling away quietly on the Aga. She was up a ladder with her hair tied back beneath a bright emerald-green scarf—and she was wielding a roller—

God help them all. Cream paint extended down to her elbow, and there was a smudge of it on her nose. He’d better get in there before she painted herself to the wall.

‘Knock it off now, Bronte,’ he said as he walked into the room. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock.’

‘Past your bedtime?’ she teased him.

He wasn’t even remotely tired.

Turning, she planted her hands on her hips, daubing her jeans with another generous lashing of paint.

‘I hope that paint washes off.’

‘You know something, Heath,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You said I’d made a bad start. Well, now I’m wondering if I want a job here at all. The thought of you bossing me around all day and all night—’

‘Is irresistible,’ he said, easing onto one hip to stare up at her. ‘You know you’d love it. Just think—you’d be able to argue with me nonstop.’

She sighed. ‘Sadly, I don’t have your stamina.’

Something he’d like to put to the test. But shouldn’t. Mustn’t. ‘Now I know you’re joking. I’ve seen that tongue of yours do the marathon. And, didn’t I just tell you to stop?’

Her jaw dropped in mock shock. ‘I obey you now?’

‘Didn’t I tell you that’s part of the job description?’ Cupping his chin, he pretended to think about it—and cursed himself for forgetting to shave. Barbarian? She was right.

She hummed. ‘We may have a serious problem, in that case. Unless…’

‘Unless?’ he prompted.

‘Unless you’re offering to make me a drink?’ she said perkily.

‘Gin and tonic?’

‘Coffee,’ she said in a reproving tone.

Coffee won. Climbing down the ladder, she tried to muscle him out of the way when he took over the cooker. No contest. He was skipper of the Aga tonight. ‘You can’t stand the fact that I’m in charge,’ he said as she bumped against him one last time and finally gave up. ‘You’ve grown wild on your travels—uncontrollable—you’ve got no discipline—you’re answerable to no one—’

‘But you love me,’ she said, adding quickly in her sensible voice to cover for her gaffe. ‘I’m answerable to myself, Heath. And I learned a lot while I was away.’

He didn’t doubt it, and while she took the pan off the cooker and washed out the paintbrushes he encouraged her to tell him something about her extended trip. So much of it turned out to be relevant to the job of estate manager at Hebers Ghyll, he couldn’t help but put his baser instincts on the back burner as he listened. It was fascinating to hear how she’d gone from naïve, untried miss, to Capability Bronte, building fences, birthing animals, and helping to construct artesian wells along the way. He revised his opinion of her upwards another good few notches when she told him, ‘Life’s easy when there’s no responsibility attached. I needed to get out there, Heath. I had to get away from this small village—not just to find out what I was missing, but to test myself and find out what I’m made of.’

‘Sugar and spice and all things nice?’

‘Now, you know that’s not true,’ she told him, smiling.

‘So did you find the missing link?’

She thought about it for a moment. ‘I discovered how much I love it here,’ she said, biting the full swell of her bottom lip, as if lust for travel and the love of home were warring inside her.

‘You love a lot,’ he observed.

‘How do you work that out?’

‘You talk about love all the time, but love isn’t a cure-all, Bronte.’

‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but nothing much would get done without it.’

He held up his hands to that. ‘Did you love teaching me to read?’

She held his gaze for a moment in silence as if she knew that everything that mattered to him would be contained in her answer. ‘I loved being with you,’ she said steadily. ‘And you were a good student,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘And now?’

‘I don’t think I could teach you anything,’ she said honestly.

‘Well, thank you, ma’am.’ He curved a grin. ‘I can’t believe you said that—’

‘I can’t believe it, either,’ she agreed, and then they both laughed. And moved one step closer.

‘I haven’t had your education,’ he admitted as she started clearing up.

‘You’ve had plenty at the school of life,’ she observed. And when she turned to him her face was serious. ‘You had more schooling in that university than most people could deal with, Heath.’

They said nothing for a moment and then he curved a grin and let it go.

‘This paint is supposed to wash off easily,’ she grumbled from the sink, up to her elbows in soapy water.

‘Am I allowed to smile?’ he said.

‘You do what you want from what I’ve seen.’

She turned back to vigorously washing her hands again, but not before he’d seen the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘Towel?’ he suggested.

‘Please.’

He made coffee and passed her a mug. She hummed appreciatively and started sipping. ‘Good?’

Emerald eyes found him over the rim of the mug. ‘Very good—you’re a man of many talents, Heath.’

‘I’m a businessman. I do what I have to—as efficiently as I can.’

‘But you are growing to love it here, aren’t you?’ she asked him, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice. ‘Just a little bit, anyway?’

‘Nothing would entice me to subscribe to your woolly view that love changes everything, Bronte. Do you seriously think love would be enough here?’

‘Obviously, Hebers Ghyll needs a little more help than loving thoughts,’ she conceded.

‘Help from a jaded city type like me, possibly?’

‘A man with enough money to make things happen? Yes, that should do it,’ she agreed, brazen as you like.

A long-time fan of Bronte’s directness, he wasn’t fazed, and went in with a challenge of his own. ‘And the sparring between us? Could we work round that?’

‘I’d find a way to deal with it,’ she said, frowning.

Was she thinking about the fun they could have making up?

‘The only reason I’m here,’ she assured him seriously, ‘is to make sure you don’t knock the place down when no one’s looking.’

‘And build a shopping centre?’ He laughed. ‘And, of course, that’s the only reason you’re here?’

‘There’s no other reason I can think of.’

Opening the fridge, he took out a beer, knocked the top off the bottle on the edge of the kitchen table, and chugged it down. ‘I’m not a man who destroys things, Bronte—when will you get that through your head? I’m a builder by nature, and a games designer by trade. I see no conflict there. I create things. Cyber worlds, brick walls—they’re all the same to me; it’s what I do.’

‘But your life is in the city, Heath. So you wouldn’t stay here year round—and whoever makes a success of Hebers Ghyll would have to love it enough to live here.’

‘Every second of every day?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. That’s what a good estate manager’s for.’

Bronte fell silent as this sank in. Even if she won the job there would be no Heath.

‘You can’t run a place like Hebers Ghyll on good intentions, Bronte. Look at Uncle Harry—’

‘Yes. Look at him,’ she said fiercely.

And now they were both quiet.

She was moving their mugs to the sink one minute—the next she had grabbed the paintbrush, jabbed it in the paint-tray and come looking for him.

‘You want a fight, do you?’ he challenged, dodging out of her way.

So much, Bronte thought.

‘You deserved that,’ she told him, backing off having given Heath a stripe of paint across his arm.

‘Did I?’ He circled round her. ‘The countryside is just a lot of empty space to me,’ he taunted. ‘Just think of all those potential building plots—’

‘Stop it,’ she warned him, making another lunge, which he just managed to evade.

‘The noise and the rush of the city?’ He backed her slowly towards the wall as he pretended to think about it. ‘Or the silence and emptiness of the countryside? Hmm. Let me think.’

‘Empty?’ she exclaimed, making a double stab at him before slipping away under his arm. ‘The countryside empty? You should open your eyes and look around, Heath.’

He wiped the paint off his cheek. ‘My eyes are wide open, believe me,’ he assured her, moving in for the kill.

‘I don’t know why you even came here,’ she said as he held her firmly with the brush dangling a tempting inch or two from her face.

‘Profit, wasn’t it?’ he growled, easing her wrist so the brush laid a dainty paint trail across her cheek.

‘Why, you—’

‘Barbarian?’ he suggested, directing the brush across her nose.

‘I’ll never forgive you for this.’

He wasn’t concerned. Bronte’s eyes told him something very different—and so did the swell of her mouth. He wouldn’t leave a paint trail there, he decided, removing the paintbrush from her hand and putting it in the sink. That would definitely be against his best interests. ‘I’m confiscating this,’ he said, running water over the brush. Next, he dampened a cloth. ‘And now I’m going to clean you up.’ He raised a challenging brow when she threatened to resist him.

‘I should go,’ she said breathlessly, one step ahead of him as she stared at the door.

‘No,’ he argued softly, ‘you should come.’

She drew in a sharp breath as she turned to look at him. ‘Is everything a joke to you, Heath?’

‘Is this a joke?’ Wielding the warm, moist cloth with the utmost care, he swung an arm around her shoulder to draw her close and wiped the paint smears off her face. ‘I’ve made a decision,’ he murmured, noting the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breathing speeded up.

‘Have you?’ There was only the smallest ring of vivid green around her pupils as she stared at him. ‘This will all be worth it if I have persuaded you to keep Hebers Ghyll, Heath.’

He smiled into her eyes. ‘Sorry to disappoint. The most I’m prepared to commit to at this moment in time is that I will keep the place alive and continue with the renovations. Don’t look so surprised,’ he teased. ‘A demolition site is worth far less to me than a stately home.’

‘I’ll get the paint again,’ she threatened him.

‘Then I’d just have to wash you all over again.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘What do I have to do to stop you?’

He didn’t miss the note of pent-up excitement in her voice.

‘Everything I tell you,’ he murmured. ‘What’s the catch?’ she said suspiciously. ‘There is no catch.’

‘Then tell me what I have to do—’ She followed his gaze to the door. ‘Heath, we can’t—’

‘Why not?’ Angling his chin, he stared down at her.

‘Because it’s outrageous,’ she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement.

‘You don’t do outrageous?’ Dipping his head, he kissed her neck.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HEATH’S hand cupped Bronte’s chin. He made her look at him. She could see in his gaze what came next and how incredible it was going to be. His hand felt warm and gentle on her face. For such a big man, Heath could be incredibly sensitive—and intuitive. It was this mix of soothing balm and fiery passion she craved now. She was hungry for tenderness. Only-child syndrome, maybe, Bronte thought. With both her parents working there hadn’t been much time to spare for cuddling. And though there had been other children visiting Hebers Ghyll she’d always felt on the outside looking in—except with Heath. They had both been different, she supposed—the dreamer and the wild boy from the city.

‘Hey, come back to me,’ Heath insisted.

She looked at him. They could both have used a hug back then. She had always been hungry for Heath. He had lit a fire no amount of common sense could hope to put out, and that fire had been smouldering for thirteen years. Could anything stand in its way now?

‘This isn’t so outrageous, is it?’ Heath demanded, tightening his grip on her when she exhaled shakily.

‘You’re a very bad man indeed.’

Heath smiled, and then his lips brushed her cheek. He was making her tremble. He was making the ache inside her turn into a primitive hunger that lacked every vestige of romance.

And then he brought her in front of him and Heath’s steady gaze didn’t leave her eyes as his hands moved slowly down her arms. He could read every thought and she felt violently exposed, yet glad that Heath could see her hunger for him. She exclaimed softly when his thumb pad caught the tip of her nipple—but it moved on. This was all intended. Heath had caught her in his erotic net. And she wasn’t interested in escaping. She was only interested in what came next.

Heath’s hand was moving lightly down her spine towards her buttocks. Her breathing sounded ragged as that experienced hand continued on, and when it reached the hollow in the small of her back it fitted so neatly, she relaxed, but when he moved on to map the swell of her bottom that was too much. With a shaking cry, she arched her back, offering herself for pleasure. Heath’s hands maintained a detailed exploration—sensitively seeking, and yet never quite giving her the contact she craved. ‘Oh, please—’ She was shivering with anticipation, shameless in her need. ‘Please don’t tease me like this, Heath.’

Heath said nothing as he continued to stroke and prepare. Her breathing sounded noisy in the silence, and she knew he must feel her heat through the flimsy protection of her clothes. She was moist and swollen—ready for him, and the only thought in her head was, Don’t stop.

‘And if I stop now?’ Heath said, pausing.

‘Have you read my mind?’ She heard the smile in his voice, and could picture the curve of Heath’s lips, even with her face buried in the soft wool of his sweater. ‘You can’t stop now,’ she said, gazing up at him, ‘Because I can’t stop now.’

‘So, what’s the answer?’ he said, frowning.

‘You have to kiss me.’

‘Is that a command?’ Heath’s lips curved with amusement.

‘Yes, please,’ she said.

Maybe her memory of all those years back was faulty. Maybe one kiss would be the answer to resisting Heath—to resisting what her body begged her to do.

His mouth was so close her lips tingled. She sighed, climbing to the next level of arousal as Heath brushed his lips against hers. Reaching up, she laced her fingers through his hair, opening her body to a man more than capable of taking advantage of her. Her legs were trembling against his. She’d waited so long. Heath didn’t disappoint. His kiss was firm and sure, and the touch of his hands on her body was indescribable. Heat ran through her like a torrent of molten lava, and when he teased her lips apart with his tongue she was glad of his arms supporting her. Hunger ruled her. She was captive to feelings so strong it was impossible to keep them in check. Breath shot from her lungs as Heath’s grip tightened. She wanted him. She wanted to share his warmth and confidence. She wanted his body. She wanted Heath to take hold of her and position her as he pleasured her, and for him to go on pleasuring her until the world and all its uncertainties faded away.