For a moment or two he could only look at her. The smile had gone and there was a faint crease in her brow; strangely it made her look even more attractive.
‘Which way?’ he said.
She straightened. ‘What?’
‘Which way to your place. Left or right?’
‘Oh, left. Same direction as your cottage, but we turn off to the right before we reach your lane. I’ll show you as we go.’
Nell sat back in her seat, leaning back against the raised headrest. The smile had returned, but this time it wasn’t for him. It was a secret smile.
‘Seatbelt,’ he told her as he buckled up himself, then turned into the main road.
‘Oh I don’t worry ’bout that sort of thing,’ she replied pleasantly, looking straight ahead.
He shrugged and pressed his foot down on the accelerator pedal.
It took only a few minutes to reach Nell Quick’s home, which was situated at the end of a lane of similar-type cottages – redbrick, slate roofs, small front gardens. There was a good distance between each abode, the gardens bordered by low picket fences, with plenty of tall greenery between flowerbeds to ensure a certain amount of privacy. There was also an interesting variation in maintenance, some of these small homes well kept, one or two even made to look chocolate-box pretty – Thom guessed these might be weekend retreats for wealthy city-types – while others were badly maintained, with peeling window-frames and front doors in need of a lick of paint, these no doubt occupied by locals who had probably been in residence for many more years than their upmarket neighbours.
From the outside it was difficult to tell into which category Nell Quick’s cottage fell, for its walls and roof were covered in creepers, only small sections of its structure and windows spared. As instructed by his passenger, Thom pulled up in front of the short cracked path leading to the open porch. The small garden was a mess, with flowers slowly being strangled by weeds, shrubbery growing where it pleased, and the low fence rickety, with several uprights missing. There was no gate.
‘Will you bring the bike in for me, Thom? I keep it in the porch.’ Nell had already opened the passenger door and was climbing out without waiting for a reply.
‘I’m pretty busy—’
But she was already gone, a hand delving into the plastic bag for her door key, raincoat draped over her arm. What was he going to say anyway? I’ve got to get home because I’m pretty busy doing nothing?
‘Thom!’ She was under the porch, at the front door. Her call was more like a command.
He quickly released his seatbelt and swung the door open. What the hell was wrong with him? The woman was indulging in a little flirting, that’s all there was to it. My God, was he so vain that he imagined such a good-looker would be interested in him? Sure, he’d had a number of girlfriends in London, but his work was too important to him to let serious romance get in the way. And he was no stud, any female could see that. Nell was teasing him because she sensed his innate shyness, that was all. Probably did it to every man she met. Hugo certainly seemed taken by her. Thom remembered the way she had spoken to her employer and wondered again if anything was going on between them. Good luck to Hugo, if there was.
A tiny worry nagged at him. Hugo was soon to be a wealthy man despite the family’s downturn in financial matters. When Sir Russell died, then as the only son and heir, Hugo would inherit everything. He’d be a fine catch for any woman . . .
By now, lost in his thoughts, Thom was at the back of the Jeep, hands on the tailgate catch. Only Nell’s further call prompted him into action.
He quickly pressed the catch button and lifted the tailgate, then dragged the bicycle out. It bounced to the ground on its front wheel and he pushed it through the gateless opening in the fence, this time without bothering to lift the flat tyre; it made a scudding noise as he guided the bike along the worn path. By the time he reached Nell under the cover of the porch, she had opened the door to her cottage and pushed it wide. It seemed so dark inside, the shadows unnaturally deep, and Thom had a moment of unease. The door itself was of dark oak and was in two sections, a stable door whose lower section reached above his hips. He peered into the gloom, but could not make out much: wood flooring, wooden beams set in terracotta walls, a tall, plain chair-stool just inside the doorway.
‘Leave the bike there, Thom, and come inside,’ he heard her say as he leaned forward to see more. ‘You look hot. S’pect you could do with a cool drink.’
He caught himself and straightened up. ‘Uh, no, I’m fine. I’ll just be on my way.’ He leaned the Raleigh against the side of the porch.
‘Nonsense. You come inside, let me repay your kindness.’
Without waiting for further dissent, Nell disappeared from sight, leaving him with no other choice but to follow.
It was cool inside, and shadowy, the small windows fringed with creepers that obscured much of the light from outside. Compact might have been an estate agent’s description of the interior and cluttered was the word Thom would have added. There seemed scarcely an unfilled space in the room: dog-eared magazines and weary-looking books were piled high on chairs and windowsills, while straw containers and dried herbs hung from ceiling beams; astrological symbols were daubed on the brown terracotta walls between inset wooden beams and a round centre table was crowded with clay pots and jars, more books and magazines, pens, coloured inks, a vase of pink lilies, cotton reels of various colours, needles pushed into the threads, tiny ornaments, and a few metres of red ribbon. A large copper kettle, its bottom blackened by fire, stood on one of the brick shelves inside a large (so large it took up most of the wall opposite) inglenook fireplace, an old-fashioned black cooking-pot on the other side, along with tongs and poker; the thick wooden mantelshelf above held many more pots and jars. A rickety-looking staircase next to the inglenook led to the upstairs rooms, its first turn lit by a small window visible from where he stood; an open doorway on the other side of the fireplace went through to the kitchen – he could see part of a sink and draining board from this same spot. On a sideboard beneath the window overlooking the road was a remarkably erotic carving in dark brown polished wood of a naked woman, only her thighs but not her pubis covered by a fold of the drapery she reclined upon; the tips of her long breasts caught the daylight from behind and one hand was positioned provocatively close to the dip between her upper legs. Through the opposite window overlooking the back of the property, he saw a garden that was even more unkempt and overgrown than the front; the difference here, though, was that vivid splashes of colour fought valiantly against the tangled greenness, these being different specimens of flora. He could see the side of a ramshackle greenhouse, its windows filthy with grime.
Although there were shadowy corners in the overcrowded room, and its beamed ceiling was almost oppressively low, it was not quite as dark as he had expected from the outside with the creepers crowding the windows.
‘So, Thom, what would you like your reward to be?’
Nell was standing by the lumpy sofa on which she’d dropped her coat and bag, one fist on her hip in a pose that was now familiar to him. She wore the same mocking (or was it provocative?) smile that he was also becoming used to.
‘No, I’ve really got to get going.’
Why was he being so coy? he wondered. Maybe it was because there was something about this woman that instinctively he did not trust. Or maybe you’re afraid you might have to perform, a sly little inner voice scorned. Maybe you think you might not be up to it now. After all, it has been a long time, hasn’t it? And your whole system has been knocked through a hoop.
‘Oh come on, just a lemonade, or a fruit juice,’ she persisted, her voice coaxing. ‘Something stronger, if you like. I’ve got gin. Or wine. Whatever you like.’
He sighed inwardly, knowing she would not give up until he acquiesced. ‘Okay, just a lemonade then. That’d be fine.’
‘Wasn’t so hard, was it?’ she teased before disappearing through the doorway into the kitchen.
Before she did so, however, Nell glanced into a gilt-framed mirror on the wall and gave a little push here and there to her hair. Yeah, Thom mused. He’d been right: there was something vain about this woman. But again, why not? She had something to be vain about. ‘Take a seat, Thom, make yourself at home,’ she called back. ‘Try the sofa – it doesn’t look it, but it’s very comfortable. Just dump my things on the floor.’
He went over to the sofa and placed the bag on the untidy table, then laid the light raincoat over the arm of the seat. He settled back.
Out of sight, Nell leaned against the kitchen dresser, disturbing the jars and pots standing on the middle shelf behind her. The shelves above and below were filled with more pots, some tall, others squat, and containers of various shapes and sizes. All were neatly labelled – basil, garlic, mint, marjoram, verbena, honey, and many more – while on the topmost shelf there were oils – thyme, lemon, lime, rose and geranium. Her eyes closed briefly and her smile was no longer mocking; her expression was one of secret pleasure. Her tongue licked her upper lip, just once, making it moist, and there was a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead, on her neck, between the cleft of her breasts. When she exhaled, there was a light trembling in her breath.
Nell could not be sure if it was the man himself that aroused her this way, or the thought of what she was to do to him. He was certainly handsome enough in a certain way, and his body, although perhaps a little wasted after his illness, was young and firm enough to make the seduction a pleasure. Nell pulled at her long, light skirt, raising the hem so that her bare legs were uncovered. She ran her fingertips along the length of her thigh, enjoying the touch, the skin moist from the humid heat of the day, before sliding her hand inside her cotton panties, delving into the coarse black hair between her legs. She drew in a sharp breath when her middle finger dipped into her vagina, slipping easily through the raised lips, using only gentle pressure to open herself further.
Another breath as she thought of Thom, only a few feet away on the other side of the wall and unaware of what she was doing to herself, and her body shuddered helplessly as juices inside her began to flow. She rubbed herself, but only gently, unwilling to take it too far, for she had other plans. Her first finger joined its companion in stroking her vaginal lips, occasionally dipping further, feeling her swelling clitoris, collecting the slickness there so that when she withdrew they were silky wet.
She allowed the hem of her skirt to fall, then held the fingers to her nose, sniffing their scent. Her breath was heavy by now, her breasts almost heaving with barely suppressed excitement. She ran the damp fingers around her neck, between her breasts, behind her ears, smearing herself with her own secretions, for they contained pheromones, the most natural but barely perceptible aphrodisiac. The chemicals mixed with those produced by her light perspiration, enhancing the effect. Male pheromones were generally more powerful than those of the female, but Nell was well aware of her own special allure.
Fully aroused, she reached into the kitchen’s refrigerator and took out the lemonade bottle. Quickly filling a beaker, she returned to the other room where Thom was perched uncomfortably on the very edge of the sofa, studying a wicker cat that stood on a small sideboard at the other end of the room, the animal perhaps fashioned by Nell herself. He turned his attention to her and she saw the edginess in his eyes. It broadened her smile.
‘Here, this should cool you down a little,’ she said, handing him the full beaker, the innuendo not lost on him.
He took the drink with a murmured thank you and swallowed half the contents at once.
‘I knew you were thirsty,’ she remarked as she sat next to him. Thom had to move along the sofa to make room, but even so, their knees were almost touching.
‘Aren’t you lonely there, Thom, out in the woods, all by yourself?’ she asked, leaning sideways so that her face was even closer to his, no hint of mockery or teasing in her eyes now.
A slight mustiness drifted across to him from her, a faint smell that was difficult to identify. It was not unpleasant.
‘It’s how I like it,’ he replied before taking another sip of lemonade. ‘The quietness makes a change from London and the solitude . . . well, it gives me space to think.’
‘Sometimes too much thought can be a bad thing. You start gettin’ inside your own head and it’s not always easy to get out again.’
It was a strange thing to say, but he thought he understood what she meant. Since the stroke and particularly in the early stages when he could only lie helpless in bed, he had often felt himself trapped inside a shell, his body no more than a mobile container for his mind – not his brain, but his mind. His eyes were merely the portals through which his mind gazed out at the world.
‘I’ve pretty much kept myself occupied since I’ve been there.’ An understatement if ever there was one. For a brief moment he was tempted to tell her all that had happened to him since arriving back at Little Bracken, but something – that little niggling voice again – warned him not to.
‘You surprise me.’ Her arm slid along the top of the sofa and, because he had leaned back, her hand brushed the nape of his neck. ‘I wouldn’t have thought there’d be anything to do there.’
‘Well, I’ve got regular exercises to get me fit again, and I can take long walks through the woods. In a few days’ time I intend to get back to some easy carpentry.’
‘Ah yes, the master carpenter. Hugo told me how good you are.’
This last remark gave him the opportunity to turn the conversation around. ‘Just how long have you known Hugo?’
‘A year or so. I knew of him, of course – everybody hereabouts knows of the Bracken Estate – but we’d never met until he came to me for help one day.’
‘When he was looking for someone to nurse Sir Russell?’
‘No. Hugo came to me because of his warts.’
‘What?’ Thom almost spilt his drink and Nell laughed at his expression.
‘You didn’t know he had warts on his back?’ She gave another short laugh.
Thom shook his head, wondering what Hugo’s mild affliction had to do with anything.
‘I’m a healer, didn’t you know? Didn’t Hugo explain that to you?’ She looked genuinely surprised.
‘Well, no. I just thought he’d hired you because you had some training as a nurse or carer.’
‘And so I have. I worked in a health centre in Wales before an old aunt I never knew I had died and left me this place. I was her only living relative, so everything she possessed became mine.’
‘You’d never met her?’
‘Never met her and didn’t even know she existed. My mother had never spoken of any family, so I’d always assumed there was nobody. Imagine my surprise when I learned we shared the same vocation. She was a healer too.’
‘A nurse, you mean?’
‘A healer, Thom. A herbalist, a homeopath. Some folk around here believed she was a witch.’
Again the laughter, but her eyes were fixed on Thom’s.
He looked again at the astrological symbols painted on the brown walls, then, almost laughing at himself, at the rough broomstick leaning against a corner of the inglenook, the big black pot on the shelf inside which now, to him, resembled a cauldron.
Her laughter had stopped, and her expression was enigmatic. ‘And they think I’m one, too,’ she said.
His turn to grin. ‘In this day and age?’
‘You think there are no witches?’
‘I’ve heard of people claiming to be so. I’ve always thought it’s in their own heads. I suppose they’re harmless enough as long as nobody takes them too seriously.’
‘I won’t argue with you, Thom. But I’ve always been able to heal.’
‘That’s a different thing. I can accept that. But magic spells and curses? No, I’ll leave that to storytellers, the kind who write for children. What happened about the warts, by the way?’
He felt her fingers curl into the hair at the back of his neck an
d was aware of a slight tug as he leaned even further forward.
‘Hugo had heard about me, how I could make old country cures, potions to help the troubled body and mind.’
‘Potions? Sounds like you were carrying on your aunt’s work.’
‘I learned everything from my mother and she from her mother actually. The secret ways of the Wicca have always been known to my family even though we’ve never been accepted by those who call themselves true Wiccans.’
She caught the cynicism in his eyes and her grin made him uneasy.
‘Don’t believe in such things?’ she scorned. ‘And you from Little Bracken.’
There were all kinds of things implied in that last remark, but Thom kept quiet.
‘It has nothing to do with belief anyway,’ she went on. ‘The Wiccan values, Thom. They value and celebrate the natural world, they have the feelin’ for magic. They also value the natural ways, cures and remedies that aren’t synthetic or chemical.’
‘But you said you’ve never been accepted by them,’ Thom interrupted.
‘Some of us like the unnatural ways.’ She laughed, a full throaty sound. He felt chilled for a moment.
Her laughter stopped abruptly and her sly charm returned. ‘I could make you feel much better, Thom, if you’d let me.’
‘I’ll stick to mild pills and therapy.’ Now he managed a smile.
‘You don’t believe I can make you better?’
‘With herbs and potions?’ His smile broadened.
‘You don’t believe me?’
He was blunt. ‘It’s a little far-fetched.’
‘Ask Hugo about his warts. I made them disappear.’
This time he laughed. ‘My illness is just a bit more severe.’ He became serious again. ‘I still don’t understand why Hugo took you on as a nurse. Sir Russell is gravely ill and needs all the expert medical attention he can get.’
‘I told you, Sir Russell is dyin’ and the best doctors and nurses in all the world can’t alter that. That’s why Hugo wanted my help once he’d listened to me and learned to have faith.’