To say that Lucy spent a restless night was an understatement. Any thaw she had begun to feel towards Jonas Woodbridge froze up .again at his parting shot, and she undressed in a temper which put paid to immediate thoughts of sleep. Besides, the room was too warm, there were too many clothes on the bed and Lucy, used to the more bracing temperatures of Holly Lodge, lay awake for a long time, fuming at first over Joss, then gradually calming down, her thoughts turning to Simon, and her father, and, inevitably, to Tom.
Her ten-year-old son was a normal, untidy boy with his father's eyes, his
mother's dark, curly hair, and a passion for computers and cricket at the school his war-hero grandfather had once enlivened with his presence. And now Lucy and Tom were really on their own at last, since Thomas 'Bulldog' Drummond's sudden death shortly after Christmas. But it was only now, she thought despairingly, that she was really beginning to learn the meaning of life as a single parent.
Until recently, she had always had her father behind her. Supportive but bracing, he had never allowed her to feel sorry for herself. It was left to the population of Abbotsbridge to feel sorry for Lucy Drummond, not just because she was pregnant at the tender age of seventeen, but because Simon Woodbridge, the only boyfriend Lucy had ever had, died before he could marry her.
There had been one bright spot in the whole tragic business. From the time she was fourteen years old Lucy had worked at weekends for Miss Cassandra Page at Abbotsbridge's one antiques shop, and it was to the eccentric, ageing woman that motherless Lucy first confided her secret. Imperturbable and reassuring, Cassie promptly offered a full-time job at the shop, baby in tow as well, when it arrived, and. even volunteered to break the news to 'Bull' Drummond. But that gentleman hadn't been a war hero for nothing. After flying Lancaster bombers in countless sorties over Berlin, it never occurred to him to do other than comfort his distraught child and face the world with the news at once.
The one notable exception to the general sympathy and support was Jonas Woodbridge. Wild with grief over Simon and unaccountably furious with Lucy, he had let her know in no uncertain terms that she had no claim on him through Simon. There was no proof of paternity, he said with cruelty, lashing out in a way that utterly shattered the teenage Lucy. It made no difference to her that Jonas Woodbridge regained his sanity within hours. The damage, as far as Lucy was concerned, was well and truly done.
Time after time Joss went to Holly Lodge to try to make amends, but Lucy was immovable. She would have none of him, and stonily told her father to send him away. Joss, she considered, was more fortunate than herself in several ways. Since he was a trained anthropologist, as well as heir to a considerable estate, he had the means to assuage his grief in his work, and could travel as far from Abbotsbridge as he liked. Lucy, perforce, had to stay put and play the hand life had dealt her.
Lying wakeful and restless in the guest-room at Abbot's Wood, Lucy scowled blackly, resentful that nature had been so generous to Jonas Woodbridge, endowing him with a natural talent for writing, in addition to a spectacular body and handsome face. And as if that weren't enough, now it seemed Joss wanted Tom as well.
How much would Tom miss having a man around that he could turn to? Thank God he had his school for male companionship most of the time. And at least she had no worry about school fees. Her father had made provision for them until Tom was eighteen. By that time, perhaps, she would have discovered a forgotten Turner landscape in someone's attic and made a fortune. She would certainly have to find some means of putting Tom through college. Only the stock at the antiques shop was hers.
She merely rented the actual premises, and the rent was the next bill looming large on the horizon. A good thing Joss had no idea how bad things really were, nor how dull and exemplary a life she led. Lucy sighed glumly. Here she was, twenty-eight years old, and, except for Tom, hardly ever having anything to do with any man at all now her father was dead. Which, no doubt, explained why sitting cosily by the fire this evening with Joss Woodbridge had been so surprisingly pleasant, in spite of the past. A pity he'd had to spoil it all with his goodnight kiss.
The kiss itself, she conceded, had not been objectionable. It was the motive behind it that got her on the raw. Lucy flung over on her back and stared at the ceiling. If she were honest, the touch of Joss's mouth on hers had shaken her badly. What a fool she was! After years of believing herself utterly immune to Joss Woodbridge's fabled charisma, the unacceptable truth was quite different. Seventeen-year-old Lucy had worshipped the very ground Joss trod.
The merest touch of his hand had been enough to turn her bones to jelly. She was appalled to find it still did. No matter how much her brain repudiated Joss Woodbridge, her traitorous body responded to him shamelessly. Hormones, thought Lucy repressively; common-or-garden hormones, nothing more.
There were dark marks under Lucy's eyes next morning, but she left her face bare of make-up and tied her hair back with a black ribbon after she'd dressed in the black ski-pants and heavy fisherman's jersey brought with her to wear at the shop. Joss, she decided, must take her as she was. He was reading the paper at the breakfast table when she joined him. He was a bit dark under the eyes too, she noted, but on Joss's face it looked irritatingly good. In fact, he looked too attractive for words in a heavy white sweater and old denims.
'Good morning, Lucy.' He held out a chair for her, scrutinising her face closely as she sat down. 'You look tired. Wasn't the bed comfortable?'
'Too comfortable. I'm used to more Spartan conditions.' She smiled at him politely, but refused the platter of bacon and eggs he offered. 'No thanks, just toast.'
'You should make a habit of starting the day with a good breakfast, Lucy,' he said. 'You work hard, so how can you expect your body to function without fuel?'
'I eat well enough.' She poured coffee for them both. Tom likes a cooked breakfast, but I can never face much at this hour.'
'What time do you open the shop?'
'I'm on my own on Mondays. It's a quiet day usually, so I unlock at about nine-thirty. There are very few tourists at this time of the year—not many customers at all, really, so I make use of Monday to dust and clean all the stock. I'm a bit low at the moment, so it's not as much of a chore as it can be.' Lucy halted as she saw Joss studying her face intently.
'You look terrible,' he said bluntly. 'Didn't you sleep at all?'
'Not much.'
'Are you worried about the lodge?'
Lucy nodded bleakly. 'I'm not having much luck with the sale. Not many people want a draughty Victorian house with no central heating —or if they do, they expect to get it for peanuts. And now, with all the mess from the bursts, it's worse than hopeless.'
Joss buttered some toast, frowning. 'Where do you intend to live when you do sell it?'
'Over the shop. It just isn't practical not to. It's included in my rent, anyway, and at the moment I just use the space for storage.' Lucy refused to meet his eyes.
'And Tom? What does he think about it?'
'Not much. But I've explained the situation and he realises we don't have any alternative.' Lucy smiled brightly. 'At least I'll be able to keep track of him during the school holidays.
'Cooped up in a couple of rooms over a shop! Not much fun for a lad of that age.'
It was not an over-enticing prospect for the lad's mother, either, but Lucy refrained from saying so. None of it was any of Joss Woodbridge's business, even if he had taken it on himself to give her a bed for the night.
'You think I'm interfering,' observed Joss.
Lucy's face shuttered. 'Since you mention it, yes. I do.'
'Surely I have some right to show interest in your problems, Lucy?' His eyes locked with hers in a way which left her in no doubt as to his meaning, and she stared back frostily.
'I don't agree.' Lucy poured herself more coffee to give herself occupation, pleased to find her hand steady as she lifted the heavy silver pot.
'You felt differently once, Lucy,' said Joss quietly.
'I was very young. And very silly. I'm a lot older now, and hopefully a little bit wiser than—than I was when . . .' She trailed into silence, transfixed by the searching blue gaze trained on her.
'When we succumbed to a very violent mutual attraction despite that extreme youth of yours, Lucy?' His voice deepened and roughened, and Lucy tensed, her heart beating faster.
'This is no conversation for breakfast time,' she said curtly, wrenching her eyes from his with an effort. 'And if you had any shred of decency you'd leave that particular episode in the past where it belongs.'
From beneath lowered lids Lucy saw Joss lean back in his chair, apparently perfectly relaxed.
'Which particular episode?' he asked tauntingly. 'Do you mean all those times when I couldn't resist putting an arm around you, or pulling you on my knee just so I could hold you? Or do you mean the day when we were finally engulfed in a mutual flood of infatuation—and ultimate guilt? Because we were guilty, were we not, of various forms of infidelity between us? You were Simon's property, I was engaged to Caroline. And even if I hadn't been, it really wasn't cricket to steal my brother's sweetheart, was it?'
'You didn't steal me '