Saving Nathaniel

ISBN
             
1453837914

EAN
             
9781453837917

Copyright 2009 Jillian Brookes-Ward. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance between them and any person,  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover photograph by Paul Hardy

'Saving Nathaniel' is published by Taylor Street Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:

http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com

http://ninwriters.ning.com

*Some adult content and strong language*

Chapter 1

She was wet. She was cold. She was late.

The rain made her fingers slippery and in her haste to get into the warm and the dry she fumbled with her keys. It took two attempts to unlock the heavy wooden door before she could dart through and slam it closed, shutting out the squall.

She took a moment to examine the tattered article in her hand, but only one glance was needed. The damage to her umbrella was indeed terminal. She rammed the useless object into the waiting mouth of the waste bin, striking out with her foot for good measure.

'A lot of bloody use, you were!'

She shrugged off her coat, shook free a shower of water droplets and hung the sodden garment on the provided hook, all the while directing loud and vehement curses toward the unseasonably foul weather. With her back to the room, she failed to notice the kitchen already had an occupant.

'And what time do you call this?'

She wheeled around, her hand to her mouth, stifling the squeal of fright erupting from her throat. Her wide eyes sought the source of the unexpected voice and she found it, seated at the kitchen table.

Leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, a man peered at her over a pair of reading glasses. His face carried an expression of quiet amusement. 'Good morning,' he said.

She slid her hand from her mouth, letting it lie protectively at her throat where a rapid pulse fluttered beneath her fingers. The man had given her a thorough scare and her heart raced like a rabbit's.

'Did I startle you?' he asked.

She bobbed her head briskly, momentarily unable to speak.

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but I couldn't resist.'

Her restored voice came out small and tight. 'You…you're not supposed to be here…why are you here?'

As if addressing a half-wit, he said, 'Because it's
my
house, and if you're not who I think you are, one of us is in serious trouble.'

She continued to stare at him, letting a drop of water run down her nose and cling to the tip. A flick of her hand brushed it away. He reached behind himself to a large pine dresser and opened a drawer from which he pulled out a cotton tea towel and tossed it over the table toward her. She mumbled a guarded, 'Thank you,' and reached for it. He waited patiently, observing her with interest as she dried her hands and face and stemmed a rivulet of water leaking from her hairline.

'So,' he said. 'Would I be wrong in assuming you're my accident-prone housekeeper's sister…um...' He pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and squinted at it through his spectacles. 'Me-gan...at least I think that's what it says...I can't always read my own writing.'

'It probably does, yes, I mean no, no you're not wrong…I'm her…Megan…Megan Thomas.'

Oh good grief, stop flustering woman
, she admonished herself.
He's going to think your glass is cracked!

'Good, I'm glad we've sorted that out,' he said, seemingly unconcerned by her babbling. He stood, and with a welcoming smile, offered her his hand. 'Nathaniel Mackie. It's very nice to meet you, Ms Thomas.'

Megan's own smile was small and cautious and she warily placed her hand in his. His skin felt warm and smooth and the grip firmly masculine. 'Just Megan, please,' she said.

After a perfunctory shake, the essentials of introduction were complete. Mackie gestured for her to sit and while she continued to dab her wet hair with the towel, he poured coffee into a squat, round mug, passing it over the tabletop to her. She thanked him and tasted the contents carefully; it was strong and quite delicious.

An expensive brew,
she thought.
That's a good start.

'You're late, Just Megan,' Mackie said.

She shook her head. 'Now that wasn't my fault. I set off in plenty of time. It's been pouring with rain all night and there was a flood on the road. I had to detour and because I'm fairly new to the village, I got a bit lost. I know it's a pathetic excuse, but it's the truth.'

'I'm sure it is. And what happened to your brolly?'

'The wind ripped it in two…serves me right for buying cheap rubbish.'

Her initial surprise quickly began to subside. Her heart rate slowed and her composure gradually reinstated itself. Mackie appeared to be waiting for her to say something else. She thought an apology for her outburst, and tardiness, might be a good start. 'I'm sorry for being late and so…vocal,' she offered.

'Nae bother,' he replied. 'Although last time I heard language like that I was down the docks.'

She felt heat rising in her neck and feared she might blush. 'I'm really sorry. Rebecca told me you would be away until tomorrow; I wasn't expecting anyone to be here. I don't say things like that in company, honestly.'

'I'm very glad to hear it. It's not at all ladylike.'

She took a good drink of her coffee, savouring its richness, and all the while scrutinised Mackie over her cup. Her sister Rebecca's description of her employer had been fairly accurate; he was in his mid-fifties with soft grey-green eyes and hair nicely greying at the temples. He appeared to be a smart if casual dresser and overall, well groomed. Rebecca had, however, forgotten to mention his gently rolling Scots accent and that he was quite handsome, in a stern sort of way.

'Rebecca said you'd gone on a business trip,' she said.

'That's right.'

'What sort of business?'

'My business.'

'Where'd you go?'

'Glasgow.'

'Really! That's a fair way and over the mountain too. Did you drive?'

'Aye, I did.'

'I didn't see your car.'

'It's in the garage…and you ask a lot of questions.'

'Do I?'

Mackie cleared his throat, taking back command of the conversation. 'Rebecca left me a message telling me about her accident and to expect you in her stead,' he said. 'How long do you think you'll be here?'

'For as long as it takes.'

'I think that's for me to decide, don't you? '

Be careful
, Meg, she warned herself.
Don't get the sack before you even start. Just tell him what he wants to know. Don't get clever.

'Rebecca's got herself a complicated break to her elbow and they had to use all kinds of fixings to stabilise it,' she explained. 'It's likely it's going to be a good few months. Are you okay with that?'

He shrugged. 'I don't appear to have a lot of choice in the matter. I just want the work done. If you don't want to do it, I'll get someone else in.'

'There's no need to do that, I'm happy to do it.' She folded the towel neatly on the table, pressing the creases until they were straight and sharp. 'I actually started yesterday. Rebecca insisted I should, even though you weren't here. She thought I should get my bearings. It's a big house, all those bedrooms and bathrooms, there's a lot to take in.'

'Were you late then, too?'

'No! I'm an excellent timekeeper…usually.'

'That's good to hear, at least one of us will be.'

He took a drink from his mug and Megan noticed the plain gold band on the third finger of his left hand. 'You have a beautiful home,' she said, admiring the ceiling rose from which hung a light designed to resemble an antique oil lamp. 'It's quite charming. Victorian isn't it? You must be very proud of it. I would be.'

He shrugged again. 'It's just a house. It serves its purpose. It keeps me warm and dry and gives me somewhere to work and sleep in peace. What else would I need?'

Home is where the heart is…isn't it?
she thought, feeling his indifferent attitude towards his home to be a little sad.

The old granite house was one of the most imposing in the village. It stood in proud isolation, set back from the road and enclosed by a high wall, ensuring privacy and security. A pair of wrought iron gates granted access to a wide gravelled driveway which swept in a lazy arc around a gigantic ancient oak tree and through immaculately maintained garden to deposit visitors at a front door guarded by twin bay trees in terracotta pots.

On her visit the day before, she had been initially overwhelmed as, with Rebecca's instructions in hand, she made a tour of the house to acquaint herself with the layout.

She had taken in the sitting room, dining room and conservatory on the ground floor – all impeccably decorated, spotlessly clean and tidy and it appeared, rarely used.

A curved staircase carried her up from the hallway to the first floor where she counted seven bedrooms and four bathrooms. Apart from the master bedroom, Mackie's own she concluded, all the others too appeared not to have been troubled for a long while.

She peered out of one of the bedroom windows and over the extensive rear garden. Even outside, everything was as neat as a pin. Neatly clipped shrubs bordered an expanse of manicured lawn in one corner of which stood an enormous apple tree, its trunk surrounded by a slatted wooden bench. She saw too a vegetable patch and a well stocked greenhouse.

An elderly man in Wellington boots puffed on a pipe clamped between his teeth as he trundled a wheelbarrow across the lawn. When he reached the garden wall, he took out a pair of secateurs and through clouds of tobacco smoke, began snipping at a fading rambling rose. He, she presumed, would be Old John, the taciturn gardener.

After her tour, she returned to the kitchen. It didn't take long to come to the conclusion that this was undoubtedly the hub of the house's activity, the room where she would be spending most of her time. A combination of rustic charm and modern efficiency, it too was immaculately clean. There was no doubt Rebecca did a good job, and she would have her work cut out maintaining such a standard.