hand. “I could smell the antagonism between you.”
She opened her mouth to complain. Then shook her head and smiled as their eyes met. “Could you also smell too much beer?”
“Any amount is too much for Chadwick.” He leaned back in the chair and watched her, willing himself to ignore the warm blood singing through her veins. “You despise him.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go that far. He irked me the first time I met him. He isn’t my type. You can’t despise someone you’ve only known one day.”
“It’s possible. Trust your instincts.”
“Yes, much safer than trusting a stranger who tries to pick me up in a pub.” She looked around as Vernon thumped a plate down in front of her.
Her dinner. Good. A nice distraction. Dixie stared at the plate in front of her. A jacket potato was baked, without sour cream. She wanted to eat and read in peace. Fat chance. Man number two was a distinct improvement over James but anything would be. Dixie mashed butter into her potato as she thought about the tall man sitting opposite. He wasn’t that tall. He just blocked out the rest of the room with his broad shoulders, black turtleneck and black slacks. All he lacked was the black hat to complete the villain outfit. But he had disposed of James Chadwick for her. That was a definite recommendation. Even if he looked like Long John Silver with his eye patch.
“Bon appetit,” he said.
She looked him straight in the eye. Straight in his one eye, dark and warm as velvet. “You’re going to sit there and watch me eat?”
The corner of his eye wrinkled. Was he smiling? “You’d rather I left?” Placing his hands flat on the polished tabletop, he made to stand.
“No!” She grabbed his wrist. Stunned at her action, she met his eye again. This time the smile was unmistakable.
He looked down at the hand circling his wrist. “I’ll stay, if you insist. Why don’t you eat before it gets cold?”
Dixie didn’t think she’d ever be cold again. But he was. His wrist felt cold and dry. Hardly surprising, the night was cool. Hadn’t she gone back for a sweatshirt? She took her hand off his wrist. “I’ve no idea who you are.”
“The name’s Marlowe, Christopher Marlowe.” Dixie noticed a silver signet ring with a black stone on his offered hand.
Long, cold fingers met hers. Strong, cold fingers. “Here to meet Will Shakespeare?” His fingers stiffened in her hand. His brow wrinkled. “Sorry. It just slipped out. I bet everyone you meet makes that crack.”
“You’re not the first.” He smiled. He had a very nice smile. She wasn’t about to think about his smile. Or the goose bumps on her arm. Holding his hand was quite enough. More than enough. She shook it and then let go.
“I’m Dixie LePage.”
“Great-niece and heiress of the renowned Misses Underwood. Just arrived from America in one of Stanley Collins’s vehicles. Staying with Emily Reade for the nonce.”
He had her gaping for the second time. “How did you…?” She gave up. Maybe jet lag caused terminal confusion.
“Village telegraph. It’s chronicled your progress since you drove into town. Someone, somewhere already knows your shoe size, the color of your toothbrush, and how many sugars you take in your tea.”
“Just like small towns everywhere.”
He nodded. Slim fingers stroked the stem of his glass. “You may find Bringham…unusual.”
“May? I have already. Total strangers accost you in pubs.”
“I did offer to leave.”
He had and she’d grabbed him. Maybe wrist-grabbing was a come-on in England. She hoped not…. “You don’t have to. I’m going as soon as I finish eating.”
“Stay and finish your drink.” He nudged the second Guinness towards her. “I won’t proposition you on the strength of one drink.”
“How many does it take?” Dixie almost choked. She must be getting drunk. She never said things like that.
“I’m interested in your library. Not you.” Reassurances like that shouldn’t be disappointing.
“My library?”
“The one you inherited in your house.”
It took her a couple of seconds to realize he meant Orchard House. “You want to buy my library? I’m not sure it’s for sale.”
“Just a few books. I’m interested in the paranormal. Your aunts had quite a collection. I’d like to buy some of them. I’ll pay market price. I’m not bargain hunting.”
A reasonable business proposal; it shouldn’t leave her breathless. “I haven’t even seen them yet. If I think of selling them…”
“You’ll give me first refusal?” He leaned forward, waiting on her reply.
She nodded. “Yes, if I sell.” She stood up to go. “Where can I find you, Christopher?”
“I drop by here every so often.” He would from now on. “If not, I live in Dial Cottage, up from the station.” Goose bumps again. It definitely was his smile. He stood with her. “Shall I walk you home?”
This was like something out of Jane Austen. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
Dixie was out the door before she wondered how he knew she’d walked. Lights from the pub windows lit the lane in each direction; they also showed the beginning of a dirt footpath across the green. Looking up at the stars in unfamiliar positions in the cloudless sky, Dixie realized she wasn’t the least bit ready for bed. Emily had said Orchard House was on the other side of the green. It couldn’t be that far, and Dixie wanted a glimpse of the house she’d come to claim.
Chapter Two
The lights from the Barley Mow, and the moon shimmering on the pond gave Dixie a clear view. It would be an easy walk to cross the Green and circle back to Miss Reade’s. The dry, well-trodden path skirted around the water’s edge and joined the lane near three tile-hung cottages with neat hedges and lighted front doors. Turning right, Dixie followed the curve of the lane.
Five modern, brightly lit houses caught her attention with glimpses of flickering TV screens and a woman filling a kettle at the sink. The path ended and the road narrowed past a clump of trees that cast ragged shadows over the lane. Something fast and warm scuttled inches from Dixie’s feet. Tempted to abandon what now seemed like a crazy moonlight hike, Dixie glanced back across the Green and realized the Barley Mow was a good hundred yards away. She had to be near Orchard House. She’d tramped this far. She wasn’t going back. If she walked in the middle of the lane, she’d avoid four-footed nocturnals and tree roots.
Then she heard the owls. Two of them, calling back and forth like a pair of feathered Harpies. Nothing like it to add a bit of atmosphere. She was alone, in the dark, on a deserted country lane, in a foreign country, looking for a house she’d never seen. Dixie willed courage, marched round the next curve, and stopped.
This was her house. She knew it.
She peered through high wrought-iron gates. A gravel path led past shadows of overgrown shrubs to a square brick house where moonlight flickered on long sash windows. Paint and rust flaked in her hands as she shook the gate. The chain clanked like Marley’s ghost, rattled and fell to the ground. Budging the gate took more effort. Either the gate had sunk or the drive risen in the past months. The hinges complained, but a few hard shoves opened it enough to slip in sideways.
Dixie stood on the gravel driveway and surveyed her property. Even in the dark, she could see she owned an elegant house. Eight double-hung windows were set in a beautifully proportioned façade, and four dormers rose from the roof. A dark shadow of a front door stood at the end of the uneven path