Strange Inheritance

STRANGE INHERITANCE

By Serena Fairfax

Copyright ©2011 by Serena Fairfax

Smashwords edition

http://www.serenafairfax.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The right of Serena Fairfax to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-0-9569748-5-3

Strange Inheritance

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Strange Inheritance

Chapter 1

Gemma’s slim frame hunched tensely over the Honda motorbike as it jolted through the stormy January night. Behind her visor the dark violet of her eyes dilated involuntarily as lightning streaked across the sky to light up the signpost - Fenwick 4 miles. Her stomach tightened with fear as she swung onto the narrow loop road. The bike’s wheels hissed along the wet surface; a flurry of hailstones bounced off the crash helmet that hid her chestnut curls. Storms and disaster seemed to be inextricably linked ever since those seven years ago, just after she’d turned eighteen, when just such a storm orphaned her when her parents’ small rowing boat capsized on Lake Windermere. Then the devastation of loss was softened by Uncle Arthur’s gruff but kindly support. Who’d have guessed that a crusty bachelor founder of a salmon canning business empire was capable of such unobtrusive help? Now Uncle was fighting for his life in the intensive care unit of the infirmary. She accelerated and let rip. It was a race against time - mercifully masking the all too scary thought that, once again, she could be left all alone.

As trees creaked ominously, Gemma’s black-gloved hands instinctively hardened their grip on the handlebars. She checked the wing mirror and frowned. That car tailgating her was the same 4x4 she’d seen parked in the lay-by at the crossroads. Her teeth began to chatter under the drenched black leather biking jacket, the dampness leaking through her tee shirt to her very bones. Suddenly she registered the intermittent on-off, on-off flash of the vehicle’s white headlights. Damn you, she muttered, bikes have every right to be on the road. She killed her speed and it followed suit silently, menacingly, signalling impatiently with its naked beam as it had done for more than half a mile.

I ought to have stuck to the main grab. It occurred to her that it had been a crazy idea to detour via Fenwick. But the situation called for action not empty regrets. She glanced swiftly over her shoulder. Her stalker was too close for comfort - she decided to change tactics, watching with a certain satisfaction as the speedometer needle shot way off the gauge. But the car’s big body thrust effortlessly forward to keep apace, the hard glare of its lights reflected in the wing mirrors dazzling her. She drew a sharp, terrified breath, her forehead damp with sweat behind her visor. The 4x4 hooted repeatedly. Its lights blazed like searchlights Gemma thought, but I’m not a convict on the run. She adjusted the angle of the screen and lowered her head; another wild gust of wind tore across her as she struggled to keep the Honda on course. The prowler bore down on her and, pinned by its headlights, she slammed on the brakes and the bike squealed to a halt only inches from the ditch.

‘What’s your game?’ The harshness in the man’s deep voice fuelled her sense of alarm. A flash of lightning outlined the duffle-coated figure - legs astride, hands on hips, the hood thrown back, he towered over her 5’6" by six or seven inches, his lean face angry, challenging.

Gemma said nothing, her heart pounding. She swung a leg over but stayed by the bike her fear growing. Something in his hand moved and she recoiled instinctively but, as he pointed the object towards her, she saw it wasn’t a cosh but a heavy, rubber-ended torch, and for a moment she was engulfed in a bright pool of light.

‘I’ve been trying to attract your attention for the last two miles but you’ve been riding like a maniac. There’s an oak tree down, just before the pub. The warning came over the car radio - I heard it just as you turned off. You’d have gone slap into it. You won’t be able to get any further along here tonight. Dump your bike in the back and I’ll run you over to the far end of Fenwick via the main road. Come on - you can’t stay here.’ There was a note of authority in the cultured voice.

But I don’t have to go along with it, Gemma told herself. Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, her usual ineffectual gesture of self-protection. She was almost sick with panic. She hadn’t bargained for this.

The man saw her hesitate. ‘Are you daft, lad?’ he asked curtly, ‘what are you waiting for?’

He’s accustomed to giving orders and having people jump, Gemma thought wryly.

‘Get in now, there’s plenty of room - for the two of you.’ His tone was assured and faintly mocking as if he thought the rider was loath to leave a much loved friend. ‘Look sharp, lad or...’ the rest of the sentence was shredded by the crash of a falling tree.

Gemma took one look at his face and that decided her. He seemed quite capable of swooping down on her and bundling her, bike and all into his 4x4. Reluctantly, she wheeled the Honda round to the rear of the car and he raised the boot lid. He stood aside and jangled his keys watching with ill concealed impatience as she struggled to hoist the bike. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to give her a hand but she stopped herself in time. It was obvious he’d mistaken her for a young man and, in the circumstances, it might be to her advantage to keep it that way. Equally it might not! She felt trapped and stopped to catch her breath. The bike hadn’t budged, its wheels still obstinately planted on the road.

‘Like this, mate.’ He grabbed hold of it and manhandled it in. ‘Now get in the front.’ He reversed swiftly, going back the way they’d come. The main road glistened oily and whipped up by the wind the rain fell in a frenzied torrent, negating the effect of the high speed wipers. He made no attempt at small talk. She angled her head and observed the arresting, dark head; his hair beginning to dry in the heated car curled slightly into the neck, and for one crazy moment she imagined her fingers threading through that thick, black hair which expensive cutting hadn’t managed to tame.

He swore under his breath. ‘It’s hell – visibility’s nil. I wonder..?’ He wrenched off to the right onto a rough track, bumping along muddy ground until they came to a rickety farm gate. He got out to open it, leaving the engine idling.

Now’s your chance to cut and run, Gemma urged herself. But almost immediately she realised the futility of it. Without the bike, she was marooned - she wouldn’t get far - and she couldn’t heave that out single-handed. She groaned inwardly. The man returned and cautiously edged the vehicle forward; its tyres made slurping sounds as they wallowed inch by inch across the muddy, waterlogged field. They’d only managed to cover a short distance when he stopped again.

‘Can’t make it. Even this ruddy thing will get stuck.’ He strode round to the offside and beckoned. ‘Out.’ His tone was imperious.

I’ve no option Gemma realised, her heart racing. Reluctantly she began to decant herself and as she collapsed towards him, he jerked her up roughly. Another gust of wind almost blasted her sideways and she stifled the instinctive cry that formed on her lips. He was already striding ahead expecting her to follow. Gemma forced herself forward stumbling over debris strewn farmland.

‘Where are we heading?’ she shouted.

‘Not long now,’ he bellowed over his shoulder. He paused for a moment, a line between his brows as he watched her panting towards him.

I’m done for, Gemma thought dejectedly. How can I extricate myself? Despair began to prick at the back of her eyelids and she raised her visor slightly to dash away a tear. In her soggy trainers, her feet felt like blocks of ice. She and the man must have been squelching along for at least half an hour she reckoned, as she trailed after him.

‘Over there - see it?’ A small, stone barn loomed up out of the darkness. He stopped abruptly and eventually she’d caught up, veering towards him.

‘Hold it.’ Long fingers briefly gripped her elbow, catching and steadying her, making her nerve ends tingle. He preceded her into the barn and shone his torch around and it picked up the shapes of rusting farm equipment.

‘Well this isn’t exactly virgin territory,’ he said with a short laugh as he prowled around. Black graffiti, obscenities and crudely sketched hearts and arrows scrawled Wayne loves Tracey disfigured one wall. He left on the torch propping it up on a narrow shelf and the gloom separated into eerie grey shapes.

In the shadowy half-light, Gemma made out a rather patrician face with high cheekbones in a tanned face. The straight, arrogant nose and the set of the jaw and mouth hinted at individuality quite different from conventional male good looks and at a guess he was about ten to twelve years older than her.

He lowered himself to the floor, leaning his supple body against the wall, stretched out his long legs and kicked off his thick, rubber boots. Totally absorbed in what he was doing, he began to peel off his red socks, his feet surprisingly slender for a man of his height. What else is he going to take off? She looked away uneasily, shifting into a circle of light. He glanced up as he wrung out his socks.

‘Training to be an astronaut, lad?’ He jerked a thumb at her crash helmet, his lips curving in amusement. The moment she’d been dreading was upon her. Gemma slowly removed her gloves and undid the chin-band with trembling fingers. She lifted off the helmet and her thick chestnut hair tumbled to her shoulders.

‘So! Benedict is Beatrice.’ He said it swiftly, almost fiercely as if she’d deliberately set out to deceive him. He rose to his feet and gave a deep, exaggerated bow. ‘At your service, madam.’ Ocean green eyes travelled over her in a sharp, slow appraisal, registering the creamy skin with its delicate colouring, the retroussé nose and the soft inviting lips that were invariably curved in a smile now pursed.

Gemma looked at him warily under level brows, the road lid cradled under her arm, unaware of the expressions that flitted across her face. Doubt, anguish, and fear - he read them all.

‘And your bike’s the same colour as your eyes.’ Humour lurked in the sensuous line of his mouth. The observation was totally unexpected but she met his gaze.

‘Art not design,’ she managed weakly.

‘And if I’m not mistaken, eye shadow to match.’

There’s no answer to that, Gemma thought ruefully, particularly as she was sure it had begun to run. She dabbed at it ineffectively.

He unbuttoned his duffle coat and threw it down on the cold, rough floor and flung himself down on it. ‘This makes a passable rug.’ He patted it and she hesitated. ‘Come on now, you can’t possibly stand there all night.’

He’s right, of course, she thought dismally as she gingerly eased herself onto it. She drew up her knees, trying to keep as much distance as she could between herself and that lean, powerful body. Sitting or standing, she was no match for his tempered steel. Suddenly, uncontrollably, she began to sneeze and groped for a handkerchief.

‘You’ll need more than that.’ He ripped off his navy Guernsey pullover, revealing a maroon shirt. ‘Put this on. You’ll catch your death if you don’t get those wet things off.’

Thick and heavy, it was tempting. Gemma was torn between a desire for comfort and an instinct for self-preservation. He