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BOOK 4
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Being Yours BOOK 4
'Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.' Tim bowed his fair head over his scrawled page in good-natured resignation. He had the highest total of wasted lesson time in the class. That still left him well short of the thirty minutes which would earn him a lunch-time detention, but the threat kept him working. The rest of the class, having briefly enjoyed his defeat, settled back to their find-the-noun exercises.'How d'you spell "saddle", Miss?' asked serious Jenny.That meant she had finished her exercises and started her story. Amy sighed at the thought of having to read yet another piece about a horse, wrote the word on the blackboard, and turned to survey the rows of virtuously bowed heads. Now that she had them writing she mustn't hover and distract them. On the other hand they might need her help any time, so she couldn't begin any work of her own.Half past three, she noted, and stifled a yawn. This was another thing that didn't happen in drama lessons, these spells when you couldn't do anythin
Being Yours BOOK 4
'Are you all right?' The man had followed her through the open gate.Amy tried to scramble to her feet. 'I'm fine.'But she wasn't. A sharper pain stabbed one knee as she unfolded it, and she hadn't put any weight on it yet. She gasped, dropped back to half-sitting, and tried to calm herself with a long, ragged breath.'Let's see if I can help you stand.' He bent to her with hands outstretched.'I'll manage.' She levered herself up with a huge effort. The chill concrete pressed her bruised hands and a fiery line of pain shot through her knee as, with the iron gate post cold beneath her clutching fingers, she stood lopsidedly upright. Casting round forsupport she found herself steadied by a leather-clad arm which had somehow got itself round her, its hand supporting her elbow.Have you got your keys?''Of course I've . . .''Right, then let's get you indoors.'As she hobbled through the darkness, his arm at her back urging her forward, she wondered how on earth she had got into this.
Being Yours BOOK 4
Perhaps she should have asked him to take the conker as well, and the stocking, and the drawing of an eye. Oh, how she longed to be done with them and forget them. But no, the Clarks said she must keep them; that though they weren't in themselves criminal evidence, they might help later, if other, worse things should happen.Amy shivered and felt queasy at the thought. Paul had wanted to take out Dave's chicken bones as well, but she had said no, some dog might eat them and hurt itself, or else the seagulls would throw them messily about. She wished now that she had let them go anyway; she could smell their greasiness from here.Ah, that was better. Harold had poured delicious-smelling coffee from his thermos.'I could have made you some fresh,' Amy felt bound to protest.'This is as good as fresh.' Harold bent to his bag again, and came up with a tiny bottle half-full of milk. 'My mum buys it special. Besides,' he added, uncapping the little milk bottle and adding its contents to his
Being Yours BOOK 4
'There.' He was back in the doorway, waving what she presumed was her own heavy black torch. 'I took this from the kitchen window sill. D'you want me to put it back there?'Amy nodded. 'I . . . I keep it there . . .' Oh dear, if only her voice would settle down and sound normal '. . . for emergencies.''How sensible . . .''Don't condescend to me!'There, that was more like it; she had managed to speak with real fire at last. And she had impressed him, she could tell by the way he blinked. For a second he stared at her, his placid brows drawn together in a small frown. Then he spoke, softer than ever.'I wasn't condescending, honest. Only admiring your common sense. Now,' he went on before she could answer, 'do you trust me enough to sit yourself down and give that knee a chance?'Amy stayed on her feet, holding on to her new hardness. 'Why did the lights go out?'He shrugged. 'It happened when I plugged in the kettle.''But Dave checked that. . . Oh.' Almost she wanted to laugh, mayb
Being Yours BOOK 4
'You see.' In the howl-filled dimness outside the front door, Paul had to shout close to Amy's ear. 'It's only a dog.''Are you sure?' She peered down the garden, making what she could of the shadow by the gate. 'It looks more like a wolf.'The creature had quieted, she supposed at the sound of their voices. Its blackness merged with the rustling, twig-fretted dark so that she could see little of its size or shape, but the odd glimmer here and there showed it sitting on its haunches, its great wolf-head silhouetted against the pallor of the inn car park and weirdly framed by the wrought-iron patterns of the gate. It must know they were there; it seemed to be turning towards them.'I suppose,' Amy observed from her knowledge of the Moor Fell dogs, 'it sees in the dark far better than we do.''I should think so.' Paul didn't sound at all disturbed at the idea.'So it can see us better than we can see it.''Smell us, too, of course, given what a keen sense of smell dogs . . .''I know ab
Being Yours BOOK 4
'All in good time.' He took up the plastic bowl from the hearth. 'Before I do anything else, I'm going to fetch some clean water, and wash that paw.''But you'll get chilled . . .'No use, he had already disappeared to the kitchen. Amy lifted her foot to rest on the cushioned raffia stool, sighed, and closed her eyes. When she opened them she found Jim standing before her, his round brown eyes gazing expectantly up into hers.What a huge, strongly-built creature he was, to be sure. Her little room had shrunk about him; he stood almost as high as her dining table and made it seem spindly in comparison. Now that she could see him in the light, she realized that she had been deceived by that first sight of his silhouetted head with the stand-ing-up, pointed ears; in truth he hardly looked alsatian at all. For one thing his head was too broad and rounded between the ears; for another his hair was far too long and too fine. It was beautiful, that hair, hanging like dark-gold silk from his
Being Yours BOOK 4
Trust him? Amy glanced up at him with sudden suspicion. Was he after all just like the others, a man on the make? On top of her other worries she found herself struggling with the disappointment of it.He read her uneasy thoughts. 'That's why I said if you'll trust me,' he went on. 'If you will, and if you'll put up with me, you'd feel happier having someone here with you.''But didn't you say,' she began slowly, 'that I was to stop letting . . .' she hesitated, still reluctant to name Robert '. . . letting all this bother me?'He nodded. 'If you have company you'll find that easier. And I expect the shop'U be all right for one night . . .''The shop? Oh yes, of course, you're Paul Clark Antiques.' She sniffed at the ghosts of linseed oil which still floated about that damp pullover, reminded how little she knew of this man ... 'So you have a shop?''Isn't that the normal way of selling things?'Amy stared at him, stung by his abrupt, ironic comment. 'You might have been an auctioneer
Being Yours BOOK 4
'Thanks, but I prefer toast and marmalade. Or just bread,' Paul added, 'if toast is any trouble.''It's what I always have,' she said, and departed to fetch it.The kitchen felt cold after the heated living room. So much the better; it always woke her up coming in here in the morning. In the neon-lit brightness she took the favourite leaf-patterned tray Gareth had given her last Christmas and set about loading it. Two knives, two teaspoons, two green Denby plates; she ticked them off in her mind as she put them on the tray, then turned to the row of mugs which hung under the wall-cupboard.I'll have the Japanese flowerbell this morning, she decided, enjoying the choice, and he can have - he can have this one. She unhooked her favourite, eggshell-fine mug with the bands of mauve, dove-grey and mandarin-orange. She liked it so much she hardly dared use it, but today was special.Idiot, she said to herself as she lowered the mug gently to the tray, what on earth's got into you? He's anot
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