Kingfisher Morning

Perched uncertainly in front of him, she shut her eyes as they freewheeled down Bundle Lane, the old machine rustily protesting at their combined weight. Air rushed past her face. Then sun warmed her skin, the wind blew back her hair against Ross's cheek. His arm held her tightly, his chest pressed against her shoulders.

'I borrowed this from Lucy Todd,' he said close to her ear.

'I hope you didn't tell her anything too alarming,' she said. 'It was really my fault, not Juniper's, you know. I frightened him.'

'I told her the truth. Considering how many kinds of danger you were risking, a few thorns were a very mild punishment.' His voice was penetrating. 'You brought this on yourself.'

'I've admitted it,' she said tautly.

'So I should let bygones be bygones?' His tones were scathing.

'I won't do anything so foolish again,' she said, then with a return of her fiery irritation against him she added, 'But you might try being less aggravating yourself! You have a lordly manner which is enough to make the mildest female rise in rebellion!'

'And you certainly aren't the mildest female,' he retorted with undisguised amusement.

'You know very well you drove me to do it! You were far too cocksure!'

He laughed softly, and his hands tightened on her waist. Emma looked down at them, strong brown hands, hard and firm, with deft fingers which were capable of so much. Then she shrieked, 'You aren't steering!'

One hand moved away, lazily adjusted the handle-bars as they spun crazily towards the hedge. They veered back into line once more and the cottage came into view.

'Home sweet home,' said Ross contentedly.

'I'm longing for a bath,' Emma groaned. 'Every muscle of me is aching…'

'Good!' Ross was infuriatingly amused.

The old machine slowed down as they turned a last, hedge-blind corner, and then Ross spun into a final spurt, only to draw a deep breath of which Emma was immediately, painfully conscious, as they came in sight of the sleek car drawn up on the grassy edge of the road outside the cottage gate.

Emma knew it at once, before she saw the chauffeur in his peaked cap and dark uniform.

Ross's hand tightened again on her wrist, yet this time she knew no personal pleasure in the intimacy of the touch. Ross's mind was not on her, she sensed.

He braked carefully before they reached the car. 'You'd better run down to Mrs Pat's and get the children,' he said quietly.

'Yes,' she said, forgetting her desire to have a bath, the pain of her scratched legs. Was this the long-awaited reconciliation? Had the old financier come at last to see his grandchildren?

She slid down while Ross steadied the bicycle and walked past the car towards the whitewashed inn at the end of the lane. She kept her eyes averted from the back of the car. She did not want to know if Leon Daumaury was alone, or if he had brought a triumphant, taunting-eyed Amanda with him to witness the family reunion. Ross had made it clear that she, Emma, had no part in this moment. She had been sent to fetch the children, her role as children's nanny firmly re-established for the benefit of Amanda, no doubt.

Back straight, eyes clear, Emma had no intention of permitting herself any weakness. She found the three children cosily seated around the fire with Mrs Pat, reading a tatty, dogeared edition of Beatrix Potter.

Edie was ironing, her cheeks pink, her eyes contented. Mrs Pat looked up as Emma came into the kitchen, and grinned at her.

'You're back early, m'dear.'

'We have visitors,' Emma said.

Her tone was careful, but Mrs Pat looked shrewdly back at her and lifted one eyebrow.

'Have you, then? My, my.' She looked at the three children. 'You need a bit of a wash and brush up before you go home, m'dears. Edie…'

Edie obligingly led them away, protesting. Mrs Pat smiled at Emma, observing the storm signals in her face, the suspicious over-brightness of the brown eyes.

'Visitors, you say?' she probed gently.

'Leon Daumaury, I think,' Emma said flatly.

'Ah,' said Mrs Pat on a long, indrawn breath. She rose and poured Emma a cup of tea from the fat brown pot which never seemed to be empty. 'You look as if you need this!'