Rogue's Revenge (4 page)

Blisters. Blisters so big I have blisters on them.

The room had remained furnished with a long, antique mahogany dining table, matching chairs, and a beautiful handcarved sideboard that served as a buffet table. A series of gleaming hot trays, now cold and empty, graced its top. China cabinets along the back wall stood filled with dishes adorned with wildlife motifs Jack and Maud had had especially made for the Lodge. Several garden doors forming most of the front wall offered an unobstructed view of the river. Everything reflected the same measure of care as the kitchen.

Heath led her down the familiar corridor at the back of the dining room. Six guest rooms with full baths opened from each side. At the end, behind a closed door, was her grandparents’ private suite.

Allison paused and stared at it until she realized Heath had opened the door of the first guest room and was waiting for her to precede him inside.

“I was thinking…”

“About Jack,” he said, putting her suitcase down at the foot of the bed.

“And Gram,” she replied gazing around the room. Little had changed. Like all the guest rooms she remembered, it exuded warmth and cozy comfort. The old-fashioned bedroom suite, with its wide dresser and mirror, quilt-covered sleigh bed, and maple rocking chair, made it homey and welcoming. She ran her hand over the rolled wood of the bed’s footboard, a faint smile on her lips. “Gram loved this house, every inch of it.”

“What about you?” Heath watched her from the doorway.

“I never stayed long enough to form an attachment.” She snapped back the lie. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get out of these wet clothes.”

“You’ll find a guest robe in the bath, miss.” He swept her a mocking bow and backed out, closing the door with catlike quiet behind him.

Damn him. Trying to make me uncomfortable.
Allison strode into the bathroom, unbuttoning her suit jacket with a violence that all but ripped the hand-covered buttons from its front.
Sarcastic bastard! That truce is straining at the bit already
.

Fifteen minutes later, she padded barefoot into the bedroom. Swathed in one of the Lodge’s white terry robes, her freshly shampooed hair blown dry, she felt much better, much more ready to cope with the barbarian whom her grandfather had made his foreman.

“Slippers, I need slippers.” She rummaged though the suitcase he’d thrown onto the bed. Only when she’d found a pair and was bending to put them on did she notice that the black suit she’d worn earlier, that she’d left draped over a chair, was gone.

Mrs. Oakes. That’s it. She came into my room and took my suit out to dry
.
I hope she’s not a meddler who sticks her nose into my business. I don’t need that kind of nuisance. Her son is bad enough. Wonder where she was when we arrived, why she didn’t come out to meet us? And why wasn’t she at the funeral? After all Gramps did for her and her despicable child, it was the least she could have done.
Until that moment she’d been too involved with other thoughts to wonder about the housekeeper.

As she passed through the dining room and glanced outside toward the river, she noticed fog still lay wrapped over the landscape. Although the Lodge was warm and she could hear the crackle of a wood fire from the living room hearth, she shivered. Thank goodness Mrs. Oakes was on the premises. Being alone under such eerie conditions with the last man to see her grandfather alive would not be a heartening prospect. She pushed her way through the swinging door into the kitchen. Heath stood at the stove. He was stirring the contents of a pot.

“Where’s your mother?”

“Took you long enough to ask.” He kept his attention on his task.

“It’s been an unusual day. I had other things on my mind. I assumed she was here at the Lodge taking care of things while you helped bury Gramps. So where is she?”

“England.” Concentrating on what he was cooking, he didn’t turn to face her.

“England! Good lord, what is she doing in England?”
Drop a bombshell or what!

“My grandmother was a war bride. My mother always wanted to trace her roots over there. The trip was a gift from Jack…just before he died.”

“You mean we’re alone here? No guests, no housekeeper?”
Can this day get any more insane?

“That’s right.” He lifted a steaming spoonful from the pot and held it up to cool.

“This is incredible.” Allison threw up her arms dismay. “My mother will be furious when she finds out.”

“She knows.” He tasted from the spoon, dropped it into the sink, and faced her.

“What? No way! Why would she allow me to come here, knowing…?”

“I think she considers us both mature, responsible adults.” He shrugged and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms on his chest. “And you do have that self-defense course.”

“Don’t tempt me.” She clutched the shawl collar of her robe to her throat. “I’m going to call her right now and let her know the situation, because I think you’re lying.”

“You’ll have to go to town to do that.” His lips quirked. “We didn’t have a telephone when you were here years ago, and we still don’t. Jack always figured having one would only be an unnecessary intrusion. And cells don’t work up here because of our location between the mountains.”

“You mean the only way to contact civilization is still that old CB he kept…keeps…in his office?”

“Once in a while, when it decides to work. By the way, you don’t have to clutch that robe. I’m not about to ravish you. At least not until I’ve had my supper.”

“Ohhh!” She dropped her hand to her side to glare at him. “Very funny.”

“Your knuckles were turning white. Couldn’t have been very comfortable.”

He turned back to his cooking.

Don’t let him get to you. Don’t!

She cocked her head to one side. “Is that a dryer I hear? You’re doing laundry?”

“Not mine,” he replied, bending to check something that was wafting a mouth-watering fragrance from the oven. “I threw your suit in to dry.”

“No!” Allison bolted past him and into the laundry room. Yanking open the dryer door, she stared in horror at the tangled black ball. She pulled it out and strode into the kitchen.

“Look, just look!” She shoved it in front of him. “This suit was especially designed and tailored for me. Now, not even a midget could get it on.”

“Not something you’d wear around here anyhow.” He shrugged and returned his attention to the stove. “So no big loss.”

“Ahhhhh!” Allison bundled the shrunken suit under her arm and headed back to her bedroom.
Barbarian, barbarian, barbarian.

****

“Dinner.” He stood in the open doorway of her bedroom, a large slotted spoon in one hand, an oven mitt on the other.

Wonder what he’d look like in an apron? Only an apron. Damn! Where did that come from? Focus, Allison. Focus on the royal pain he really is.

“I need to find something to wear.” In an effort to change her thought pattern, she began to dig in the suitcase on her bed.

“Don’t take too long.” He turned back toward the kitchen.

By the time she entered the dining room, wearing designer jeans and a green silk shirt, he’d placed two steaming plates on the table. Candles in its center cast bewitching shadows in the gathering gloom of the foggy spring twilight.

Is he trying to romance me? Well, good luck with that. He may be the best-looking wild-woods type I’ve ever seen, but I know what’s behind the fancy cover. Heath Oakes is one book I don’t want as bedtime reading.

“Smells like you may be able to cook.” She drew a deep inhale.

“You be the judge.” He took a decanter from the sideboard and poured white wine into each of their long-stemmed glasses. “The asparagus and rice are my doing. The Chicken Kiev is from the freezer. Before my mother left, she prepared it along with some other dishes to keep me from starvation.”

They ate in silence. Allison was content with the situation. Words between them had a way of degenerating into nasty remarks and personal insults.

****

“That was excellent.” Allison finished the meal and touched the napkin to her lips.

“Glad you enjoyed it.” He stood and gathered the plates and utensils. “Coffee in the living room. I’ve got a fire going in there.”

Touching remembered furniture and pictures along the way, Allison wandered to the adjoining room. At the archway that separated dining and living areas, she slid open the bifold doors that divided the two. And caught her breath.

The big room lined with varnished pine and floored with gleaming birch glowed golden in the soft light of the flames dancing in the wide fieldstone hearth that dominated the room. A long, chocolate-colored couch and an oak coffee table filled the area in front of the fireplace. On the opposite wall, a well-filled bookcase stretched from floor to ceiling. To its left, a closed door led to what Allison remembered was her grandfather’s office. Scattered around the spacious room in friendly conversational groupings were matching easy chairs, each with an end table holding its own oil lamp as the center piece. A pair of hurricane lamps decorated the mantel.

Allison remembered her grandfather had not permitted the installation of electric lights in this room. He’d wanted his guests to experience the romance of a pioneer ambience in a homely atmosphere.

Homely. Like home. The thought rose up to describe her overall impression. But that was ridiculous. Home for Allison Armstrong was an ultramodern glass-and-chrome condo situated on the seventeenth floor of a security building in the heart of Toronto. Home was an hour’s drive from her parents’ spacious multilevel in the suburbs and another half hour’s drive from the stable where she boarded her horse. Allison’s Pride was an elegant Kentucky-bred chestnut hunter with a family tree that would impress the most discriminating of equine enthusiasts.

It wasn’t this log hostelry in the backwoods.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she crossed the room and curled up on the couch to stare into the flames crackling on the hearth.

“Coffee.” Heath walked into the room with a wooden tray holding a pot and mugs with pheasant motifs. He placed it on the table in front of the fire and poured dark, steaming liquid into the cups.

“Cream, sugar?”

“Black.”

“I should have guessed.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” She tried to remain cool as she lifted her cup from the tray.

“Everything with you has to be black and white. Good or bad. Worthwhile or garbage. No gray areas for Ms. Armstrong, CFO.”

It’s on. Oh, it’s definitely on, Mister He-Man Woodsman.

“You think you know me so well, don’t you.” She plunked her cup down onto the coffee table and jumped to her feet. “You have no idea who I am, who I’ve become. But as soon as Gramps’ will is read, you’ll learn a whole lot more.”

“Good. I like a surprise.”

“When is the will to be read?” She swallowed her reflexive response and managed a semblance of civility. “Super soon, I hope.”

“Tomorrow around noon.” He sat down in front of the fire, weathered fingers clasping his cup. “You’ll be able to catch the four o’clock flight.”

“Good. Great, in fact. As soon as I get back to T-O I’ll contact National Realty and set up the sale of this place. You’d better start packing. I’ll want you out asap.”

She turned to sweep out of the room, remembered her coffee, and hesitated. It was good, one of the best brews she’d ever tasted. And she hadn’t had a cup since breakfast. She swung back, scooped up the mug, then made a second attempt at a haughty exit.

“Don’t let thoughts of what Jack might have left to me disturb your sleep. The only thing he promised me was his favorite old salmon rod.” His words, tinged with sarcastic humor followed her.

Chapter Three

“Gramps left you a fishing rod?”

“Yes.” He freshened his coffee. “Years ago, when I caught my first salmon on that rod and Jack showed me the right way to release it back into the river, he said he’d leave it to me in his will. He always kept his promises.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t.” He shrugged. “And neither do I…until tomorrow.”

Keep your cool. In less than twenty-four hours, you’ll be rid of him forever.

In an effort to take her own advice, Allison ambled over to the bookcase and began to peruse the contents.

“
The Lost Will
.” She pulled a volume from the shelves and waved it in his direction. “As I recall, a man is murdered by a prospective heir. Think I’ll climb into bed and refresh my memory.”

As she sauntered out of the living room, thumbing through its pages in pretense of a casual confidence she was far from feeling, he called after her, “That’s a Christie, isn’t it? See if it mentions anything about a twenty-year-old salmon rod as a motive. Dame Agatha generally used bigger gains as motives, as
I
recall.”

Allison’s lips tightened as she crossed the darkened dining room. Her fingers gripped the novel with a vengeance.

I wish you were a hero-woodsman type swinging through the woods. I’d be first in line to trip you up.

Inside her warm room, she snapped on the light. Heath must have activated the electric heat. Even though it was the first of May, a damp, foggy night in this area could be chilly, even frosty.

She pulled a skimpy silk nightgown from her suitcase. Not exactly appropriate to the setting. A wicked desire to see the expression on her companion’s face if she paraded out into the living room wearing it slipped across her mind.

Not tonight, but maybe just before I kick him off my property.
She laid it aside.

Another bit of pink, this time in a floral pattern, caught her eye. Rose-patterned flannel pajamas.

When Myra had suggested warm sleepwear might come in handy on their trip to New Brunswick, Allison had laughed. They’d be staying at a motel in town for two nights, for heaven’s sake. She, Allison Armstrong, was accustomed to the sensation of silk against her skin in bed. But she hadn’t been expecting to be left in the backwoods with a barbarian named Heath Oakes.