In about two minutes he’ll finish that cigarette and make some cynical observation on your reasons for pretending you don’t want Duncan’s money ... Steel yourself, my girl, where’s your pride, your common sense?
With one swift movement Grant tossed away the butt, and before Sarah was aware his arm was about her shoulders, his other hand slipping over both of hers as they lay in her lap.
“Sarah!” She looked up startled, powerless to move, at the force of tender longing that swept her at his unexpected touch.
“Sarah, you didn’t finish what you were going to say.”
“When? Was I saying something? You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.”
“About three hours ago,” he said deliberately. “When we were sitting outside the Hall. You were talking about your reasons for not smoking. You said, ‘It even adds a subtle difference to—’ and stopped. What were you going to say, Sarah?”
She was glad of the darkness that hid the bright betraying color. She kept her voice light.
“I haven’t a clue. Didn’t the door open just then?”
“No, not just then. You remember it quite well, so don’t prevaricate. I asked you to finish that sentence. You told me second thoughts were best. That you were used to weighing your thoughts with me. Why not let go for a moment, Sarah? I’m in a good mood tonight. It adds a subtle difference to ... what?”
She was silent, turning her eyes away from the teasing ones that looked into hers in the moonlight. She’d never known him like this before. She could cope with him when he was bitter, scornful, angry. Then she could summon biting speeches to hide the tenderness she felt for him.
She looked away across the silvered paddocks and rising hills.
Grant said:
“I know what you were going to say ... it even adds a subtle difference to kissing!”
His fingers forced her chin round, his mouth came down on hers hard. He didn’t hurry, and when he did lift his head, his grip was still too firm for Sarah to withdraw without an undignified struggle. She saw the side of his mouth lift.
“Well?” he asked, his eyes full of mischief.
Sarah regained her composure outwardly, subdued her uneven breathing.
“I should say you smoke a very good brand of cigarettes.”
He laughed. “Was I referring to tobacco? I meant ... well, how about that for a kiss? After all, I must remember I’m acting proxy for Jeff, I don’t imagine he’d have let you say goodnight without ... that.”
His grip had loosened a little.
“No, probably not,” said Sarah coolly. “But don’t forget there are kisses ... and kisses. You were right about the subtle difference. Until I came here, I’d not been kissed against my will.”
She twisted out of his grip, gathered up her skirts and fled into the house. His laughter followed her.
As Sarah tumbled into bed, she told herself that, if she valued her peace of mind, she must not hoard the memory of that kiss. It didn’t mean a thing except masculine perversity.
CHAPTER NINE
They were frantically busy after that. There was late hay to be cut and baled, the small seeds reaped. The dry weather had brought the white clover to maturity early, and it was headed too. There were extra hands to feed, and the men were out in the fields—no, paddocks—all day.
Twice, gathering the mail, Sarah saw aerogrammes from Elaine for Grant; Sarah had a couple herself. Elaine was in Australia now. Her visit hung over Sarah, when she had time to think about it, like a cloud of impending doom. How silly! It wasn’t as if there was harmony between herself and Grant for Elaine to spoil ... it had never even existed.
Against her will, Sarah admired the way Grant mixed work with pleasure. He’d put terrific effort into the day’s work, then, on a blistering hot day, after milking, would say:
“Right, kids ... we’re for the sea,” and they would cut sandwiches, fill the flasks, and pile into the jeep, Grant, Sarah, Rory, Pauline, Wiremu and Ben and go down to the coast for a dip in the sea.
Mrs. Mac and Jock rarely went with them. Jock couldn’t swim, and Mrs. Mac vowed she enjoyed food better minus sand, and preferred an easy chair and her feet up to sitting against a rock.
She added to Sarah, “This is right down good for Himself. He was far too inclined to be old and staid before his time. It was all work and no play before you folk came here. He’s a different lad now.”
Sarah was amused. Mrs. Mac persisted in ignoring the situation between the two of them, probably on the philosophical principle that if grown-ups didn’t interfere, the bairns aye sorted out their own stramashings.
Sarah found gardening too hot now in the heat of the day and took to getting up early to do it. It gave her great satisfaction to be working away when she heard Grant come out of the homestead and start work.
She took an immense pride in her vegetable garden, growing everything for their own needs. The soil was rich and dark, though at present she had to keep the sprinklers going to keep it that way. The homestead kitchen garden was sadly neglected. The men simply hadn’t time. So Sarah, rather smugly, supplied the homestead with vegetables too. She felt it cancelled to a certain degree the fact that Grant provided them with a roof over their heads and limitless quantities of milk and mutton.
One morning when she came out she decided she wouldn’t garden. It was going to be another scorcher. She’d take Pauline’s pony and ride to the top of the hill where you could catch a glimpse of the Pacific and a sight of the seaward Kaikouras where now only a faint fleck of white here and there showed on the highest peaks.
It was so early that she was riding back, exulting in the feel of the pony beneath her, before Grant came out. For the last stretch of turf before the house paddocks, on the sweet rolling downland, she dug her heels into Russetty, and urged the little mare to some real speed.
Grant emerged from the house, a pail in each hand, and halted in amazement as he heard thundering hooves bearing down upon him. Who the deuce was riding—like that—at this hour?
He put the pails down, put up a hand to shield his eyes against the blinding sunlight ... Russetty was being ridden barebacked, with a slim figure in shorts and green silk shirt, crouched over the mare’s neck, knees gripped in.
He’d have to warn young Pauline it wasn’t safe for her to go riding in such fashion at this hour, with no one about. He held his breath as the rider put the horse at the far fence, cleared it easily, giving an impression of being at one with the mount.
Really, he’d enter Pauline for the jumping at the A. & P. show in Christchurch next year if she could ride like this ... He stiffened slowly in amazement. It wasn’t Pauline, but Sarah!
Sarah in skimpy, shabby shorts, barelegged and barefooted, the thin silk shirt outlined against her. He guessed she had nothing but a bra under it. No make-up on, her face shining from the exertion, her bright hair a tousled mass, blown back from her tiny, exquisite ears ... this was Sarah Isbister, the siren-type he’d thought to welcome to Challowsford. Heavens, she was only a kid, a tomboy.
She slowed the mare down as he started across the paddock towards her.
“Good morning, Grant. Isn’t it glorious? I meant to garden, but I’ve been up to the top of the hill to see the sea. It’s a wonderful sight, you could almost see down to the South Pole.”
He laughed at the absurdity of that, and said sternly, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll break your neck riding like that, at such a pace, bareback?”
Sarah laughed. “I like it best that way ... to feel the warmth of the horse beneath me ... I’d hate to be all dressed up in breeches or jodhpurs, and a stock with a gold pin. I learned to ride this way in Orkney. I had to save up myself for a saddle.”
Russetty was standing perfectly still, her chestnut coat glistening, her flanks heaving. She had the look of having enjoyed herself as much as Sarah.
“Why didn’t you say you wanted a mount? The farm can stand it. I’ve been thinking of getting one again for myself. My mare died last year. Didn’t like the thought of replacing her too soon. However, I was looking at some at Applefields the other day. There was a magnificent dapple grey ... much more suited to your coloring than the chestnut. Pauline suits Russetty ... she’s all browns and tawny shades herself.”
Sarah sighed, and her voice was impatient, scornful.
“How perfectly ridiculous, as if one chose horseflesh with an eye to a color scheme ... or a background setting. I’ve heard of women choosing a car to match their latest ensemble ... but a horse! Besides, I love chestnuts. Is there anything more lovely than looking out of the window at an emerald field with a chestnut grazing ... the sun turning its flanks to bronze!”
She didn’t strike any sparks from Grant this morning. He merely agreed with her.
“Yes ... a great pity if ever horses disappeared from the scene altogether. They are as much a part of the country as ... the lark above the meadow. Listen. We may not have robins or swallows or nightingales, they don’t seem to matter ... but never to hear a lark’s song would be a calamity.”
Their eyes searched the skies for the tiny speck in the brilliant blue, singing, singing.
“Can you miss what you’ve never had?” asked Sarah, thinking of Pauline’s remarks on another occasion.