Storm Damage Read online

  As the power lines come down, the night heats up.

  So the Devereau lawyers expect Poppy Winters to quietly vacate the beloved Dorset cottage in which she was born? Not bloody likely. Poppy’s family tree is as firmly planted in Cranford Hall soil as any blue-blooded Devereau, and she will not be moved.

  The injured man who crashes into her living room, accompanied by a howling winter storm, shakes her composure to the core. Especially when a power outage forces them to keep each other warm till morning.

  But with the dawn comes a shocking realization: he has no memory of the previous night, but he remembers his name. Guy Devereau, the new owner of Cranford Hall. And he’s got a woman—Nerissa—claiming to be his fiancée.

  Yet as winter’s chill settles in, Guy slowly and not-so-subtly disturbs her life in every wicked way—her knitwear business, her body, her soul…and her heart.

  This Retro Romance reprint was originally published in 1993 by Robert Hale, Ltd.

  Storm Damage

  Lorna McKenzie

  Chapter One

  It was a wild night—and a cold one.

  Poppy Winters pulled on a stylish cream sweater, patterned with coppery autumn leaves. It was one of her own designs, and exactly right with her cream shirt and cords. It was also, though she didn’t realize it, a perfect foil for her wavy chestnut hair and pale camellia-like skin. She glanced in the wardrobe mirror, and wide green eyes, usually sparkling with joie de vivre glared back, dark with fury.

  Who did they think they were, these London solicitors, agents for the Devereau estate? What if the Devereau family could trace its ancestry back to the Norman conquest! She, Poppy Winters, had been born in this Dorset cottage. Her father, like his father and grandfather before him, had lived and worked as a head gardener on the Devereau estate all his life. Whereas the present owner of Cranford Hall had first seen the light of day in far-flung Australia, and there he would have remained but for his distant cousin, the recently deceased Percy Hugh Devereau, having the ill grace to die without a son and heir.

  Now, apparently, he—the Australian beneficiary—was coming to claim his inheritance and move into the Hall. As a result, Poppy’s cottage was required for his new head gardener, as yet to be appointed, to tame the jungle resulting from a whole year’s neglect—since Poppy’s father had died, in fact.

  Poppy skipped down the enclosed staircase into her cosy sitting room, where logs burned merrily in the inglenook fireplace, sending out a wonderful heat. Going through to her tiny but neat kitchen, she picked up the supper tray she had already prepared, with a bowl of homemade soup, a boiled egg and an orange, and returned to the fireside to eat. As she did so, she picked up the letter again to study its stark black-and-white phrases.

  The arrival of the new owner being imminent—in two weeks’ time, it was mooted in the village—it would be appreciated if you could vacate the cottage without the statutory month’s notice, and accept one month’s rent in lieu. We understand you have no dependents, so you will doubtless appreciate this opportunity to move to a younger, more go-ahead city environment.

  “Like hell I would!” she stormed aloud.

  The only answer was the wind, finding its way through every tiny crevice, rattling the windows in their frames, slamming against the sturdy front door and howling down the chimney to suck up flame and sparks and send occasional flurries of smoke into the room.

  Well, they’d got another think coming! She had a right to stay here! Her father had been both gardener and handyman at the Hall, besides being a superb craftsman, making exquisite wood carvings in his spare time. Her mother had been housekeeper and seamstress for the late Percy Hugh, and had stitched beautiful petit point pictures as a hobby. Their artistic streak had emerged in Poppy, after a stint at art college, in a flair for knitwear design. She bought her yarns locally, and dyed them in the washhouse attached to the cottage, using natural dyes from garden and hedgerow. Just the sort of thing you’d find in your smart, city environment!

  What was she to do, though? Fate had dealt her several cruel blows: first her mother had died after a lengthy battle against cancer, then her father, two months later, of a heart attack, brought on, Poppy was sure, by grief. Now this.

  With fluid grace, she stood up and went to peer out at the October night. The moon, clad in drifting veils of black, disappeared behind one of the heavy masses of cloud that floated in ghostly procession across the stormy sky. Strong gusts of wind buffeted everything in their path, bending the black outlines of some of the sturdiest trees, and lifting unsecured items to toss around like flotsam.

  “There goes the dustbin,” Poppy groaned, as something landed with a metallic clang, followed by rhythmic rocking movements like those of some crazy diabolo.

  At the top of a slope, some quarter of a mile away, stood the solid outline of Cranford Hall, harshly silhouetted against the stormy backcloth of night.

  Letting the curtain fall, Poppy switched on the television in time for the final news headlines: another shooting in Belfast, a political scandal in France, more regional demonstrations in Russia, a worrying situation in the Middle East. Finally, the weather forecast.

  “A storm warning is issued for…”

  Everything went black, and silent. There was just the glow of the fire to light the room, the rhythmic tick-tick of the mantel clock to be heard inside, while outside the storm raged unabated.

  The power lines were down—a not-uncommon occurrence in this locality. Poppy soon unearthed and lit some candles, a necessity she always kept handy. That done, the room looked cosy and almost Victorian, with just the candlelight and a crackling fire. Luckily, she had the ancient Aga on which to make her coffee.

  She was just sipping the hot brew and, unavoidably, listening to the storm blustering outside when, above the noise of the wind, buffeting the flint-and-brick cottage, came a crashing, almighty thud.

  Christ! What was that?

  With nothing to do but fret, Poppy, not normally a nervous person, debated whether to sit tight and wait for the storm to pass, or venture out to investigate the provenance of that crash. She was half out of her chair, having decided on the latter, rather than do nothing, when she thought she heard a knock at her door.

  Who on earth would come calling at this hour? Her nerves must be playing tricks. The house stood on the edge of the village, with only the back lane to the Hall running beside it, itself a turning off the main village street. She must have imagined it. No, there it was again, a definite, insistent hammering.

  It was something she had always dreaded—an unknown caller after dark. If only she had a dog! Or a gun—even a toy replica! She had always meant to get a door chain fixed. The poker! That would be the best weapon, in case whoever it was was calling with evil intent.

  It was probably some stranded motorist who had strayed off the road in search of a garage. Nevertheless, she armed herself with the sturdy brass poker before leaving the sitting room. She stood quaking, undecided, in her small, square hall, little larger than a cupboard, when whoever-it-was chose that moment to seize the knocker to deal further punishing blows to her door.

  She grasped the doorknob, turned it and pulled, opening the door with a flourish while brandishing the poker in her other hand. Whoever-it-was crashed inside, bringing with him a fair portion of howling gale, lashing rain and swirling autumn leaves. She felt as though she had been charged by an elephant as her caller stumbled wetly into her, dashing the poker to the ground, before turning to close the door. Despite his size, he was having considerable difficulty in doing so against the force of the wind. Instinctively Poppy joined her meagre strength to his and together they managed it.
He then picked up the fallen poker and, with a courteous nod, handed it back, making her feel thoroughly foolish. His bulk filled the small, shadowy space and she stepped backwards, pushing wide the inner door to the sitting room. He exuded an aura of potent masculinity and she felt an urgent need to put some space between them.

  “C-come in,” she invited. “I’m afraid the power’s off, but at least there’s candlelight in here.”

  He stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard. In what light there was, she took a closer look at him. His coal-black hair, flattened by rain, was dripping onto the collar of a green Barbour jacket. Khaki cords tucked into studded green Wellingtons clung wetly to long, muscled thighs. Candlelight glowed in amazing, light-hazel eyes fringed with thick black lashes, now wetly gummed together. He was handsome in a harsh, uncompromising way, his bone structure strong, his brown cheeks lean. Only the curving lines of his lips suggested something softer, more sensual in his nature. She peered more closely at the rain trickling down the grooves of his face.

  On the right side, she quickly discovered, it wasn’t rain at all—it was blood!

  “You’re hurt!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

  She now noticed a certain glazed puzzlement in his extraordinarily beautiful eyes.

  “A tree crashed down on my Range Rover.”

  “That must have been the noise I heard! My God, it fell on you! Can I take a look?”

  With shaky fingers she reached up and lifted a lock of black hair that had fallen forward. There was a nasty gash across his temple.

  “Will I live?” he asked wryly.

  “Probably,” she told him with a hint of mischief. “I think you ought to see a doctor, though, as soon as possible. I’ll call him.”

  She was soon through, explaining to Dr. Wilson what had happened.

  “There’s no way I can get to you tonight,” he told her regretfully. “Every road hereabouts is blocked by fallen trees. It’s a good sign, though, if he’s talking lucidly. Clean up the wound, keep him warm and comfortable, and call me in the morning. If you’re worried during the night, I’ll advise over the phone. Don’t hesitate to…”

  The line went dead, and Poppy was alone with her unknown caller.

  “He says you’ll be just fine,” she assured him cheerfully. “You just need to stay warm and comfortable till the farmers can clear the fallen trees and Dr. Wilson can get through. You’d better get out of that wet gear. I’m Poppy Winters, by the way.”

  He nodded fractionally, his features contracting as if in pain.

  “Do you have a headache?”

  “The mother and father of one. Have you any painkillers?”

  She did, but should he be taking anything? At the moment he was having difficulty getting his jacket off.

  “Let me help you,” she offered.

  She slid the jacket from his shoulders, which were so wide they needed no padding to enhance them, and then urged him to sit near the fire while she removed his boots. That done, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “No, I ate…” he waved a hand vaguely, “…somewhere on the road.”

  He fell silent and leaned his head against the back of the chair, looking down at her through lowered lashes as if seeing her for the first time. Despite his obvious pain, in his eyes she discerned a masculine appreciation of her vibrant colouring and soft curvy body in the autumnal sweater and well-fitting cords. Her heart began to pound unnaturally fast within her breast. He was the most attractive man she had ever set eyes on, and just looking at him caused a strange, alien fluttering at the pit of her stomach.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” Her voice emerged maddeningly husky.

  “How about a stiff whisky?”

  His was equally soft. Well, why not?

  She returned with his drink and a bowl of antiseptic. He accepted the whisky gratefully and downed it in one. Settling on an upright chair beside him, she proceeded to clean the wound. The gash was not deep but he had taken a hard knock—he’d have a terrific bruise in the morning. She held away a lock of dark, silky hair while she tended the cut; her fingertips wanted to stroke the line of a glossy black brow, as dark as his incredibly long lashes. He glanced up, turning his warm, golden gaze on her as if to commit to memory the wide green eyes; small, straight nose; curvy, generous mouth; and shiny tumble of chestnut hair caught up carelessly on one side.

  As she worked, she recalled Dr. Wilson’s words. He had told her to keep him warm till morning, so he was taking it for granted that the man would stay here. And she could hardly turn him out—it would be inhuman on such a night, and where could he go?

  “I—it looks as though you’re stuck here till morning,” she told him, and, remembering the kettle of hot water on the Aga: “I’ll put a hot-water bottle in the bed in my parents’ room—the guest room, I should say.”

  She escaped to perform the task and gather her wits together.

  “Where are your parents?” he enquired on her return.

  “I’m afraid they’re both dead. It was not that long ago, so I still think of the room as theirs. Oh, they didn’t actually die in there.”

  She didn’t know why she was telling him that. He didn’t look the sort of man to be scared of ghosts—or anything else, for that matter.

  He set down his empty glass and leaned back, wearily closing his eyes. He mustn’t fall asleep here—the room became chilly at night, and she didn’t fancy getting up every couple of hours to stoke the fire.

  “Would you like another drink?” she asked.

  He half opened his eyes. “Mm-mm,” he grunted negatively.

  “You really should go up to bed,” she said gently. “There’s a portable gas lamp in the kitchen. I’ll light it for you.”

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have given him that drink. His eyes looked more glazed and distant now—she would hate to have his death on her hands! She fetched the lamp.

  Reaction at last! He leaned forward and tried to stand up. He stumbled, but she was there beside him, supporting him as best she could—he was no lightweight.

  “It’s this way.” She guided him towards the enclosed stairs and then slowly upwards, step by step, holding the lamp in her free hand. “The bathroom’s in there, and this is your room. I’ll find you a robe, and some pyjamas…”

  This brought his head swivelling to hers. “Pyjamas?” There was even the glimmer of a smile.

  “Okay, okay, so you sleep in the raw. Me too, but in case…”

  She fell silent, turning scarlet at the admission she had just made. A good thing the man was almost non compos mentis!

  He collapsed on the edge of the bed, bringing her down beside him. She extricated herself, found a robe which had belonged to her father, and hastened to the door, where she paused.

  “Can I get you anything else, Mr.…?”

  “You could run me a bath.”

  She shrugged, surprised that in his state he wanted to bother, but complied anyway, standing the lamp on a Victorian chest on the landing where spare towels were stored, relieved to escape his ambience, that both compelled and threatened. Once the bath was full, she turned the taps off, and straightened to find him just behind her. She stepped away smartly, annoyed by the smile that played about his mouth.

  He threw the bathrobe over a chair and started unfastening his shirt, seemingly unconcerned by her presence—he had already discarded his sweater. The shirt fell to the ground and she stared in wide-eyed fascination at his huge shoulders and wide, muscled chest with its dark coating of hair. Shaking herself mentally, she thrust a bath sheet and a toothbrush still in its wrapper into his hands, set the lamp down and left, closing the door behind her.

  Downstairs she tidied up and made the fire safe, then went back upstairs, using a candle this time to light her way. She could
hear nothing—suppose he had fainted in the bath? Oh God, there were times like these when she fervently wished she did live in the middle of town.

  Times like these? What was she thinking about? When had times ever been like these, with a total stranger lying in her bath, in heaven only knew what mental state? Yet, irrationally, she felt no fear. As she reached the landing she heard the sound of a large body raising itself from the bath. She listened for a few seconds more, heard a couple of grunts and the odd oath, and then, deciding it was safe to leave him to his own devices, she went to her room and shut the door.

  She had showered earlier, so now she merely cleaned off her makeup as best she could by the light of her candle, and started brushing her hair. There was something definitely alluring about candlelight, she decided. No wonder the Victorians weren’t too bothered about makeup. This gentle glow didn’t rob the complexion of its natural colour as electricity did. Her hair tumbled in gleaming chestnut ripples about her face. She’d have to do her teeth when he had finished in there. Meanwhile she might as well undress.

  She folded her sweater neatly, placed her cord trousers over a chair and removed her underwear. She dropped this into her linen bin and was reaching for her robe when the door opened.

  “Get out!” she yelled, clutching the robe to hide her curvy slenderness, her eyes wide with horror at the huge man standing in her doorway, looking shocked and rather confused.

  “Sorry, wrong room,” he mumbled, and left, quietly closing the door.

  But not before he had glanced beyond her, she now realized, where the mirror offered a perfect rear view of her. As she climbed into bed a little later, she was still suffering from a racing pulse in the knowledge that his brief visual inspection had not been entirely unpleasant. The wind continued pounding the cottage, though with slightly less vigour, as through sheer exhaustion Poppy fell asleep.

  A strange sound woke her. She groped around for the light switch, and when it didn’t work, she remembered the events of the night before. Lighting the candle proved difficult in the dark, but she finally managed it. Her bedside clock showed half past one. She listened intently.