The Forbidden Innocent. Sharon Kendrick

The pose was faintly brooding—so that for a moment Ashley thought it looked as if he were holding an imaginary gun and the stark and unexpected metaphor unsettled her. She guessed that with his army experience, he was no stranger to guns and violence.

      But more than anything, in that moment, Jack Marchant looked all dark and rampant sexuality. Like every woman’s fantasy come to life. Suddenly, she understood why middle-aged Julia at the agency had become hot and flustered when she’d described Jack Marchant as ‘formidable’. And maybe his effect on women didn’t have an age barrier—because suddenly she was feeling a little hot and flustered herself.

      ‘I… they said you’d written several biographies of great men. Mainly military men.’

      ‘How very dry that sounds.’

      ‘And that I would be typing up your latest manuscript—’

      ‘From longhand? I hope they specified that? I’ve tried typing it myself but tapping out on a keyboard distracts my thoughts. I prefer to write it out—and I don’t think I’m alone in that.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Many authors still do, I believe?’

      Ashley nodded. She found herself wondering what his handwriting was like. As torturous and as twisted as the thought processes which seemed to be firing up behind those ebony eyes? ‘So I believe.’

      ‘And they told you it’s a novel?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Have you ever typed a novel before?’

      She nodded. ‘I did one by Hannah Minnock early last year—she was a teacher at the school where I was working and it was her first book, called Ringing TheChanges. It was a chick-lit book.’ His face remained blank. ‘You know—funny, frothy stuff aimed at professional women. About divorce.’

      His eyes narrowed. ‘And that’s considered funny, is it?’

      ‘I just type the story,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t sit there in judgement of it.’

      ‘Well, you’ll find that my novel is as far removed from your frothy, fluffy “chick-lit” book as it is possible to be.’

      ‘I rather thought it might be,’ she answered quietly. ‘What exactly is it about?’

      There was a pause and, briefly, she saw his knuckles tightening and the flicker of the flames casting bloodlike shadows over them. ‘My time in the army.’

      ‘Oh, I see.’

      ‘Really?’ He raised his dark brows in mocking question. ‘And what exactly do you know about army life?’

      ‘Well, only what I’ve seen on the news and read in the papers.’

      ‘And are you easily shocked? Are you queasy about blood and gore?’ Black eyes blazed at her and sent out an unmistakable challenge. ‘Do you scare easily, Ashley?’

      She felt the sudden race of her heart in response to his question. Once, she would have blurted out that yes, she had known fear—real fear. The cruel personality of one of her foster mothers had seen to that. Sadistic Mrs Fraser who had locked her in the cupboard under the stairs all evening after accusing her of a crime of which the ten-year-old Ashley had been innocent.

      She would never forget the experience—not as long as she lived. It had left a hideous mark on her memory which could never be erased. The dust and the cobwebs which had tickled her cheeks had been bad enough—taunting her with the knowledge that large, wriggly spiders were probably just waiting to drop down onto her head. But it had been the darkness which had terrified her more than anything. The claustrophobic darkness which had provided an ideal breeding ground for her fevered imagination. Ghosts and ghouls had come to haunt her that night and visions of lonely graveyards had filled her with an unspeakable kind of dread.

      When eventually the door had been opened and light had flooded in Ashley had been beyond comprehension—or past caring. Her lips had been bleeding from where she had clamped her teeth into them and her clothes had been damp with sweat. The doctor told her afterwards that she must have had some kind of fit—but she would never forget the look of horror on his face, which he hadn’t quite managed to hide. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—as if such things shouldn’t be happening in this modern day and age. But they did happen. Ashley had never been under any illusion about that. Times changed but human nature didn’t.

      The council had found another placement for her almost immediately—although Mrs Fraser had used her clever and manipulative tongue to convince her next set of foster parents that she was nothing but trouble. A liar and a cheat, she’d said. Ashley’s reputation had preceded her. She had quickly learned that if someone had a fixed idea that you were a bad person, then they would be on the lookout for signs to prove just that.

      As a result, she had learned to subdue her hot temper and quick tongue. She had buried her more excitable character traits along with the squalid memory of that day. She had become quiet and calm Ashley, who would not rise to provocation or threat. And if Jack Marchant wanted to know the precise details of when and why she had been scared—then he would wait in vain for an answer from her. Because some secrets were best forgotten.

      ‘No, I don’t scare easily,’ she said.

      ‘Don’t you? And yet just now I saw something darken your eyes,’ he observed softly. ‘Something which looked exactly like fear.’

      He was, she realised, an exceedingly perceptive man. And surely too intelligent to accept a smooth evasion? But he was her employer, nothing else. He had rights, yes—but only those which affected her work. He did not have the right to probe into her past and to prise out the horrors which she had buried so deep. She lifted her chin to meet the question in his eyes. ‘Everyone has dark corners in their memories—things they’d rather just forget,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t they?’

      Her words produced a change in him. Ashley saw the flicker of a pulse at his temple and a fleeting expression of anguish which briefly darkened his craggy face. It was strange seeing so powerful a man look almost. almost despairing, but the look was gone so quickly that she wondered if she might have imagined it.

      Instead, he gave that odd smile which curved the edges of his hard lips and didn’t really seem to have any humour in it. ‘Let’s leave my memories out of it, shall we?’ he said, his dismissive tone indicating that the conversation was at an end—and then he rose to his feet as if to reinforce it. ‘Come on, let’s go and eat supper.’

      He looked down into her upturned face, towering over her and somehow making her feel very small and fragile. Ashley felt the surface of her skin icing, her skin turning to goose-bumps as his tall body bathed her in its dark shadow.

      Because never had a man’s harsh and enigmatic expression made her feel quite so unsettled.

CHAPTER THREE

      ASHELY had a restless first night at Blackwood. The branches battering at the windows kept sleep at bay and so did the images which burned into her memory every time she shut her eyes. Images of raven hair, burnished by firelight. Of a towering physique and a powerful body. And more than anything—of a cold and intelligent gaze which seemed to slice right through her like an icy blast of winter wind.

      She and Jack Marchant had eaten supper together, but as soon as the meal was finished he had excused himself and disappeared into his study to work, closing the door behind him. Leaving Ashley feeling alone and out of place in the vast downstairs of the house. She’d escaped to her own room, where she took a bath and washed her hair—before lying awake and restless in bed and wondering if she was going to be happy here. And the worst thing of all was that she couldn’t seem to shake the image of Jack from her mind.

      Jack in denim, having fallen from his horse—his face twisted in pain and his raven hair all windswept.

      Jack in a silk shirt