The Storm Within Read online

  THE STORM WITHIN by SUE PETERS

  Martyr's Green was a perfect, storybook English village, and Rob would have loved living and working there as assistant vet — if it hadn't also contained her new boss, the incredibly difficult Hallam Rand!

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  THE PUBLISHERS Harlequin Romances

  Original hard cover edition published in 1974 by Mills & Boon Limited.

  Sue Peters 1974

  ISBN 373-01850-9

  Harlequin edition published February 1975

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Harlequin trade mark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ROB changed gear for the umpteenth time, and regarded yet another twist in the narrow lane with a sigh of resignation. The heavy foliage of early summer met overhead on the high banks, and turned the ribbon of road in front of her into a green tunnel, speckled with moving splashes of gold where the sun managed to penetrate the gaps made now and then by the light breeze.

  She manoeuvred the Austin cautiously through the semi-light, her eyes and ears alert as she nosed the little car round the U-corner, her right toe gentling the accelerator pedal, and nerved for instant transfer to the brake. But nothing appeared in the lane on the other side of the U, and Hoppy's bonnet rose with a rattle of protest to meet the steep ascent that seemed as much a part of the Barshire lanes as those of Rob's native Devon. Hoppy did not like those, either.

  "Sorry, old girl," apologised Rob ruefully, "it's as bad as being at home !"

  But Hoppy ignored her. It had been a long day's journey from Devon, and her ancient components were tired.

  A T-junction loomed ahead, and the car steamed to a halt at the white line. Rob thrust her head through the open window, and surveyed what she could see

  of a sagging signpost that leaned precariously against a fence for support. She could not see the writing on the arms for leaves.

  "Like everything else in these lanes," she thought in exasperation, "it's smothered in foliage." She had travelled about forty miles through Barshire since she crossed the county line, and had only caught glimpses of it now and then through infrequent gaps in the greenery. The lanes were deep, and the hedges high. "You need a helicopter to see the views in this county," she grumbled disgustedly. "Oh, well, we can only go one of two ways. I'd better find out which."

  She twisted the door handle, and applied her shoulder to the door with the ease of long practice. It always stuck. This time it didn't. The door opened with an unprecedented ease that could only have been retaliation, and deposited Rob in an undignified heap, upside down in the middle of the lane.

  "Hoppy ! You. . .."

  "That is not the way to speak to an old lady !"

  Two sturdily booted feet appeared in her range of vision, and a pair of hands reached down and took her arms in a massive grip. The hands were large and sinewy, with a fluff of hairs across the backs that looked oddly pale against the dark, outdoor tan, and contrasted with a work-stained white shirt tucked carelessly into the ample waistband of a pair of faded blue overall trousers. Their grip tightened, and Rob found herself lifted as easily as if she were a child, and gently stood the right way up.

  "Do you usually get out of your car in that manner, or is today special?"

  The deep voice held laughter, its rich Barshire dialect modified by education to a more understandable speech from that she had encountered when she had lunch a couple of hours ago at a small hostelry along the road. There, she had been barely able to understand mine host, though fortunately he had been able to understand her well enough to produce a satisfying meal.

  She screwed up her eyes against the glare of the sun, and squinted at the face above her. It was the same weathered colour as the hands that still gripped her arms, their steely strength belying the fifty-odd years that were betrayed by the lines about the blue eyes regarding her. Her eyes lifted further still, taking in a pair of flaxen eyebrows, and a thatch of hair of the same albino colouring, thinning noticeably at the front.

  "It's like icing on the top of a dark fruit cake," she thought irreverently. "At least no one will ever know when his hair turns white."

  "Do you think you'll know me again ?"

  The grin on the man's face broadened, and the lines about his eyes crinkled until his face presented the appearance of a friendly prune. Rob realised with horror that she had been staring at him for fully a minute. A hot tide of colour flushed her normally pale skin, the transparent pallor of the truly auburn-haired, and her lovely amber eyes darkened with embarrassment.

  "Oh, my goodness! I'm sorry. I mean ... oh dear...."

  Her voice trailed off, and she put her hands up to her cheeks, an unconsciously childish defence that softened the twinkle in the blue eyes looking down at her. Her own gazed back, wide with dismay, and the man's grin warmed to a smile.

  "Don't look so bothered," he chuckled. "Everyone reacts like that at first. I've got a daughter who looks like it, too, only of course she's better to look at than I am," he quipped, talking quickly to cover her embarrassment. "It's our Danish ancestors."

  "You don't sound like a Dane?"

  "Oh, I'm not. The Wades are as English as Barshire. We come from Wade Hollow, the farm in the dip over there."

  He released her, and flung a careless arm towards the corner by the sagging signpost. Rob stood on tiptoe, and followed the direction of his pointing finger, but all she could see was the all-pervading foliage.

  "I don't suppose you can see over the rise. You need to be a bit taller to see over Barshire hedges in the summer." The man eyed her trim, trouser-suited figure appreciatively. The soft, amber-coloured jersey wool matched her eyes to perfection, and the cream silk sweater underneath set off the creamy pallor of her face. Her fine skin needed no make-up, and except for a patch of red on one cheek, her short curly hair supplied all her colour.

  A frown of concern creased his forehead.

  "You're hurt," he declared bluntly. "There's blood on your face."

  "There can't be," denied Rob. "My face didn't hit the road."

  "No, but your hands did, and you put those to your face just now. Here, let me look."

  Disregarding her protest, he took both of her hands in his own, and turned them palm upwards. They lay there, tiny but capable-looking, in his work roughened ones, and he gently straightened the fingers.

  "I thought so—gravel rash. Wait here while I get something to wash them with."

  He seemed to assume that she would obey him, for he turned his back on her and crossed the narrow lane, disappearing under a stay branch of elderberry, dipping with its weight of bloom, through a field gate that had been previously hidden from her view until the branch swayed away at the behest of the farmer's arm. He reappeared almost at once, with a water container dangling from one hand.

  "I've been haymaking in the field on the other side of the hedge," he explained. "I was just going to sit down for a sn
ack when I heard you clank up the hill."

  "That was my car clanking, not me," retorted Rob. "We've come a long way today," she explained, somewhat wearily, "and Hoppy doesn't like hills. Or me, at the moment," she added ruefully.

  "So it seems," laughed Mr Wade cheerfully. "Here, come and sit on the bank by the gate, and wash your hands with this "

  "I don't think it's much," she protested. But her

  hands, particularly the right one, were beginning to smart, and as she opened her fingers her right palm oozed blood.

  "You can't be too careful." He helped her up the bank, and unscrewed the container cap. "We mustn't have stray travellers getting tetanus. It would give Martyr's Green a bad name."

  "Martyr's Green? Why, that's where I'm making for—ouch !"

  The water stung as it hit her palms, but the cool of it was soothing, and she held them there, grateful for the steady stream that her companion poured carefully across the grazes until he was satisfied that they were clean.

  "I didn't realise I was so close to the end of my trip. To Martyr's Green, I mean."

  "You're in it, or at least within the parish boundary," seeing her puzzled look. "The village itself is just past Wade Hollow, about a mile further on, but you. . . ."

  "I know. You can't see it for the leaves," chanted Rob, drying her hands on her handkerchief. "I wonder how anyone ever managed to make a map of this county. I've been running through it now for the past two hours, and haven't managed a decent view yet. It's all foliage—and hard lanes," she added ruefully, eyeing her scraped palms.

  "Ah, you have to take to the footpaths and walk over the rises to see the views. Rises is Barshire for hills," he explained. "Then you'll see something worth—

  I

  while," he added, with all a native's pride. "It's fine farmland around here."

  "You said you farmed in the hollow." Rob felt that she ought to be polite, after all, she had used up nearly all of her companion's drinking water to bathe her hands, but the tiredness of the long day's drive from Devon was starting to tell, and she felt herself beginning to flag.

  "Yes, if you stand up and look over the gate you can see the chimneys of Wade Hollow among the trees."

  He ducked under the elderberry branch, and Rob followed him reluctantly, impatient to be on her way. She longed for a cup of tea, and any other seat but the rather lumpy one that the Austin had to offer.

  The farmer came to a halt in front of her, and he moved aside so that she had a space against the gate. It was up to her chin, but she could see well enough over the top bar, though it was too high for her to follow his example and lean her arms along.

  "There's a view for you," enthused the farmer proudly. "Like it ?"

  "It's fine," breathed Rob.

  It was not just politeness that put the very real enthusiasm into her voice. The view was indeed lovely, and country bred herself as she was, her heart warmed to the rich green sweep of land falling gently away at their feet to a tree-sheltered hollow several fields distant. And what fields ! One of these would easily take four or five of the little red-earthed squares from her native county. Red and white Hereford cattle spotted the intervening green, and Rob's sharp eyes

  caught sight of the curly forehead of a huge bull. "There's no footpath through that field, then ?" She pointed.

  "No." The man regarded her consideringly for a moment, accepting the implications of a rural background from her comment. "It's not against the county laws in Barshire to keep a bull in a footpath field," he added slowly, "but it is against the laws of common sense."

  She nodded, appreciating his point, her eyes busy searching the varied green until they picked out the tops of several tall chimneys rising out of a fringe of dark woodland. They gave the impression of a sturdy house underneath, built strong to carry them. A house like that would be safe, she thought, sheltered by the woods.

  "Wade Hollow," she murmured. "It's a long way from Denmark," glancing up at her companion's unusual colouring.

  "Oh, it's about four hundred years since the Danish member of the clan." He spoke matter-of-factly, without pride. "Our hair is about the only reminder we've got now. I soon won't have that." He laughed indifferently.

  Four hundred years in Wade Hollow. They must be an old family.

  "Martyr's Green is an old village ?"

  "It is. Wade Hollow itself is mentioned in the Domesday Book. The place was originally a feudal castle, then a monastery, then a manor house. Now it has to work for a living as a farm. You must come and

  see it sometime if you're staying in the district long enough," he invited. "My wife and daughter are proud of the old place," he told her, completely ignoring his own obvious affection for his ancient home. "They're always willing to show an interested visitor around."

  "I'd love to," accepted Rob. "I shall be around for quite a while, I expect. We might even meet professionally."

  "Professionally?" The farmer's colourless eyebrows raised in query. "We're all past school age at Wade Hollow, and in perfect health."

  "Oh, I'm not a teacher, or a district nurse," said Rob, laughing. "I'm a vet. Not long qualified," she added, with her usual candour. "I've got a job as assistant to your local vet," she explained.

  "To Hallam Rand ?" The white eyebrows rose still further. "It seems I misjudged the man." His eyes twinkled "He's not so quiet as I thought."

  Rob's ready colour rose again.

  "I came to Martyr's Green to work," she retorted, with some asperity. "Mr Rand needs an assistant, and here I am. Or at least, I'm still a mile or so away."

  Her voice betrayed her tiredness, and instantly the farmer straightened up from the gate.

  "In ten minutes you'll be sitting down in the Mill House and eating one of Martha Main's scones, and drinking some of her tea," he promised.

  "Martha who ?"

  "Main. Hal's housekeeper."

  Wade grasped her arm and helped her down the steep bank. She noticed the 'Hal'. It sounded as if the

  farmer and her future boss were friends, or at least on familiar terms. As a farmer and the local vet would be, she assumed. They would probably be about the same age.

  Her feet slipped slightly on the dry grass, and she hesitated. The bank dipped sharply down to the lane below, and her hands tingled a warning of what another tumble could mean. The farmer reached up matter-of-factly, and before she had time to protest he lifted her up and set her down safely on the gravel beside her car.

  Rob realised that she had still not looked at the signpost, but it did not matter now, she knew which way to go. She turned to her companion.

  "It was good of you to.. .."

  "Pick you up ? My pleasure."

  The kindly smile broadened, and a spark of temper showed for a second in Rob's eyes. Then, meeting his, she laughed.

  "Thank you, just the same, Mr Wade."

  "Don't forget what I said about coming to see Wade Hollow," he reminded her of his invitation. "My wife and Verity just love a new pair of ears to pour the history of the old place into," he laughed.

  "I won't," responded Rob enthusiastically. It would be pleasant to have somewhere to go, she thought, and someone she knew in a district where she was otherwise a complete stranger. From the look of the farmer, his daughter would probably be a girl of about her own age. It would be nice to make friends, and a

  common interest in historical buildings would make a good start.

  She slid into the driving seat and pressed the starter. As if ashamed of her previous contrariness, the Austin burst into life at the first push.

  "Goodbye. And thank you again."

  Rob smiled at her rescuer, and waved her hand. He raised his in reply, and as she turned right into the main lane ahead of her, she caught a glimpse of his white head in the driving mirror as he ducked under the low-slung elderberry branch towards the field gate, and his interrupted snack.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NO sooner had Rob turned right than the T-junction was lost to s
ight in another series of hairpin bends.

  Hoppy seemed to have benefited from her brief rest; she no longer steamed, and the lane soon began to dip, which made the going easier. About half a mile from the junction, a sign painted on a five-barred gate proclaimed the track that led from it towards a distant clump of trees to be the entrance to Wade Hollow. Rob dared not risk more than a glimpse, which gave her no more information than the view from the top of the hill had done.

  Just as she thought the bends would never end, the lane gave one final diabolical twist and opened out,

  unbelievably, on to a village green, complete with a duckpond.

  Across the fair-sized stretch of water, the neat sward made a perfect foil for the grey walls of a squat-towered church, dozing peacefully under the inevitable elms. It was surrounded by a cluster of slightly unreal-looking thatched cottages, and completing the picture an ancient set of stocks still stood, offering a deterrent to any local would-be evildoer.

  Rob gazed, entranced. It was a scene more reminiscent of a picture postcard than a real life village, and for a wild moment she rubbed her eyes and wondered if it was the effect of tiredness. But when she opened them again the village was still there, placidly asleep under the bright sunshine. '

  The village pub, thatched as were the other buildings, stood a little aloof, as if shunned by the church and the cottages; its painted sign named it as the Martyr's Arms.

  "I bet it's the sort of place where you crack your head on the beams when you stand up," thought Rob. "What a subject for a photograph. Why, there are even ducks on the pond."

  She felt glad that she had brought her camera with her. She would send some photographs back to her parents at the first opportunity, she promised herself. They shared her love of old places; it would be fun to rout out the history of Martyr's Green and send it on to them, complete with pictures. It would give a point to her free time until she got to know more people, and add a bit of interest to her letters home.