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  The two-storey portion of the house, narrower than the tower, extended back along the ridge and then widened again at the end. Jane decided that the whole scene reminded her of a long, graceful ship, suspended somewhere in space. This impression was heightened as she glanced outside and saw that the weather had changed dramatically. A thick mantle of fog had crept quietly across the hills and enveloped the house. Looking out at the impenetrable whiteness gradually obliterating even the trees at the bottom of the ridge, she felt as if she were floating in a cloud.

  When Simon Wade returned he found her gazing out one of the many windows with an expression of consternation. It had suddenly occurred to her that this change in the weather was going to make her return trip to Toronto extremely hazardous.

  "Quite a change, isn't it?" he drawled. "It's one of the things I love about this area. The weather is constantly changing. Sometimes you will have half a dozen kinds of weather between sunrise and sunset. It keeps one from getting bored."

  "That's all very well for you, Mr. Wade," she answered with some spirit, thinking to herself that it was typical of him to think only of himself, "but I have to get back to Toronto."

  "My dear young lady, one thing you must learn if you take this job is that one doesn't argue with the weather here. If it stays like this, you'll simply have to stay over."

  Jane's shock at such a suggestion showed in her voice, "Oh, but I couldn't."

  He gazed at her with amused tolerance and his voice when he spoke was a low drawl. "What's the matter, my dear? Afraid I might seduce you?"

  Jane felt the colour mounting in her cheeks and she tried in vain to keep her voice level. "I assure you such a prospect had never occurred to me."

  "But why not? You're a very attractive young lady, you know."

  Now Jane was furious. Her image of herself as "plain Jane" was so strong that she was convinced he was making fun of her.

  "Mr. Wade, I must get back to town before the fog gets any thicker."

  Now he lost patience with her and his voice was harsh as he said, "Don't be a little fool. You wouldn't make it to the bottom of the ridge. Besides, we haven't even discussed the job yet, and that was why you came, wasn't it?" She nodded without speaking.

  "Anyway," he continued, "let's have lunch and our discussion, then we'll see what the weather is like. If you have to stay over, Mrs. Armitage will be here as chaperone. If you take the job, you'll have to stay here anyway. To commute every day would hardly be practical. An hour and a half of driving night and morning, especially in the winter, wouldn't be possible."

  Jane had to admit, to herself at least, that what he said was true. After all, she did need the job and she had fallen in love with the house and the countryside. Perhaps she could learn to tolerate the hateful Mr. Wade if it meant spending the next year in this Eden.

  Mrs. Armitage served them a delicious lunch, quietly, efficiently and with kindness to Jane. Her concern about Jane's enjoyment of the food, the odd conspiratorial smile, made Jane feel that if she did take the job at least she would have one friend.

  The dining room was quite small actually, with the same stucco walls and broadloomed floor. Jane found herself thinking that for all his man-of-the-world air, Simon Wade was not accustomed to hosting large dinner parties. Against the wall were two low cases with glass shelves which displayed some of the most beautiful china and glassware Jane had ever seen. One whole wall of the dining room consisted of a sliding glass door, beyond which was a slate patio with comfortable-looking outdoor furniture. Jane guessed that if the day had continued fine, perhaps they would have lunched out there. Beautiful and exotic paintings, some originals, some obviously reproductions, graced the walls. As she surveyed this room and remembered the living room the phrase "restrained good taste" came to her mind.

  After they finished their luncheon, Simon Wade became almost human as he described her duties. His boyish enthusiasm about his new book was infectious. It was to be an historical novel set in Ireland at the time of Cromwell; a love story about an Irish girl and one of Cromwell's officers.

  "An unlikely occurrence," Jane interposed, given courage perhaps by the fine Spanish wine that accompanied lunch.

  Simon grinned. "I see you know something about Irish history. Don't think I didn't take that into consideration when offering you the job. After all, your name is Sullivan."

  Jane smiled and Simon, perhaps emboldened because this sad, prickly girl had started to unbend, went on.

  "I had decided to make my heroine black Irish—you know, raven hair, green eyes, but after seeing you, Miss Sullivan, I am inclined to change her image. Perhaps dark golden hair and blue-grey eyes would be more appropriate." His voice had become deep, languorous and teasing again, and the combination of this and the speculative insolence of his glance as it explored her face and then moved over the rest of her body visible above the table, sent an involuntary shudder through Jane. She was suddenly terribly conscious of the maleness of this creature seated across from her, the powerful shoulders, the sudden tension in him as his long, brown fingers turned the fragile wine glass around and around, but most of all it was the way he was looking at her, a way in which no man had ever regarded her before. She thought desperately that she must get this conversation back into safe waters.

  With great effort she kept her voice reasonably steady as she asked, "And what about the other—the cataloging of your library?"

  He remained as he was for a moment, his eyes continuing their lazy exploration and then he suddenly sat up straight and became impersonal and businesslike.

  "Well, to be quite frank, my library is a mess. I've been accumulating books most of my life, and they're thrust away willy-nilly in my study. They must be sorted out and catalogued and put in some kind of order, so I'll know what I have at least. Incidentally, my study is on the third floor at the front of the house and that's where you will be spending most of your time."

  Jane caught her breath. "Do you mean your study is at the top of the tower? What a perfect place to work."

  "You mean you approve of my house?"

  "Oh, yes. It's simply beautiful!" Jane's voice was full of enthusiasm and he laughed out loud, a deep, resonant chuckle full of delight.

  He rose and held out his hand to her. "Come then, and I'll show you my study."

  Jane ignored the outstretched hand, but followed him readily enough, consumed with curiosity and anxious to savour any fresh delights that this fairy-tale house had to offer.

  As she might have guessed, a spiral staircase led to the upper floors. It was tucked away just behind the living room, in one corner of a wide hall, the floor of which was covered in a Spanish terrazzo. The walls were filled with bookcases.

  Simon waved an arm indicating the book-lined hall and remarked, "This is the overflow from the study. They will have to be catalogued too."

  Jane preceded Simon up the winding staircase in a state of confusion. She was brought up to believe that a love of books and reading indicated virtue, but her encounter with the enigmatic Simon Wade did not lead her to believe that he possessed many virtues. He was as mercurial as the weather in this district, changing before your eyes from moment to moment. Sarcastic, almost cruel at times, enthusiastic as a small boy at others, and then that other facet of his character that had been so apparent at luncheon, insolent and suggestive. At the thought of the way his eyes had explored her, she stumbled and a firm, warm hand caught her around the waist.

  "I'm not good at heights," she managed to say. He replied, in that low, insolent drawl, "Well, we'll have to get over that, won't we?" His hand remained on her waist until they had reached the landing on the second floor.

  Jane gasped as she looked around. If the other parts of the house she had seen had indicated a restrained good taste, then the second floor of the house was something else entirely. If Jane had been asked to describe the decor, the closest she could have come was "sumptuous Hollywood." The walls were covered with deep gold vinyl wallpaper, the
corridors carpeted in off-white shag rugs so deep that Jane felt she were wading through the surf. The room doors opening off the corridor were white. Because the whole area was circular, chests had evidently been custom-made to fit the contours of the walls. They were adorned with some of the most unusual pieces of art that Jane had ever seen: Chinese vases, Waterford crystal, some pieces that looked as if they were African and on others, simple ceramic bowls filled with spring flowers.

  The bedroom doors stood open, but the only one Jane could see into without being obvious was the one at the very front of the house. She could not restrain an involuntary gasp as she glanced inside. When Simon saw the direction of her fascinated gaze his finely chiselled lips tightened and his voice was low and gruff.

  "Quite a sight, isn't it? Come inside and look around. After all, it is the showpiece of the house." His voice was so threatening that she shrank back, as much from fear as from the embarrassment she felt at having displayed such gauche behaviour. But his hard, strong fingers closed around her wrist with a pressure that almost made her cry out and he literally dragged her into the bedroom. Once inside, he let go of her so quickly that she almost fell.

  "This was my former wife's room." His voice was low and bitter as he gestured towards the painting hanging over the corner fireplace. The portrait depicted one of the most beautiful women Jane had ever seen. And then Jane recognized her. The jet-black hair framing the almost transparent skin, the high cheek bones and jade green eyes, slightly slanting, giving her almost an Oriental appearance. If she wore a dress it could not be seen. The slender, perfectly proportioned body was swathed in an enormous silk shawl, patterned in bold, exotic colours. It was draped low around her lovely shoulders, exposing the curve of snow-white breasts. She was Mona Moore, the actress.

  Simon Wade was gazing at the picture with such an intense expression that Jane turned away as if she had stumbled on a scene far too intimate to be shared with strangers.

  Her eyes explored the rest of the room. Like the living room, the many windows revealed the whole sweep of the beautiful countryside and were hung with scarlet velvet. The walls themselves were covered in royal blue velvet and the deep rug was a silver-grey. A huge dressing table had been designed to fit the contour of the wall and against the other walls floor-to-ceiling mirrors concealed closets. For a moment Jane caught sight of herself in one of the mirrored doors, and then automatically her eyes sought the painting. Never had she felt so much like a "plain Jane."

  Simon turned to her abruptly; his voice still held the same harsh anger.

  "Well, have you seen enough?" Jane felt the tears, always close to the surface these days, prick her eyelids. Perhaps he was right to blame her for opening up an old wound, but how could she have known that by involuntarily displaying curiosity about a beautiful room she had managed to hurt him so much?

  They climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor of the tower. This time Jane steeled herself to climb steadily, never looking down, and to keep well ahead of Simon. She had no desire to feel those strong hands steadying her again. She had an idea that now they would be less than gentle.

  The staircase this time led directly into the study. It occupied almost the whole of the top floor of the tower. One part was concealed by a door and Jane guessed that behind the door was Simon's bedroom and bath. As if by a prearranged signal, the sun came out and, glancing out one of the many windows, Jane saw that the unpredictable weather had changed again. A strong wind was sweeping the fog away and the deep blue spring sky surrounded them. Also surrounding them were books, and Jane gave a cry of pleasure as she turned in a circle taking in the huge room with bookcases occupying every inch of space between the omnipresent windows; floor to ceiling they rose, row after row after row. Simon laughed out loud, his mood of a few moments ago seemed to have evaporated in the sunshine of her enthusiasm.

  "Are you by any chance a book lover, Miss Sullivan?"

  Jane turned to him, forgetting, foolishly perhaps, all the reservations she had had about this strange, changeable man since she first met him and said, "Mr. Wade, if you think I could do the job, I'd love to work for you."

  Chapter Three

  Simon Wade, in his usual imperious manner, had given Jane exactly one week to make whatever arrangements had to be made in order to close the chapter on her previous life and move out to the Culloden Hills. The most important thing, the renting of the bungalow in Mississauga, had proven to be the easiest. A professor at the University, newly arrived from the United States and desperate for accommodation for his young family, had almost fallen at her feet in gratitude when she had offered it to him. So grateful had he been that he had even offered to go through her father's papers, sort and store them for her. Jane had met him years before when he had been a devoted student of her father's so she felt she could trust him with both the house and the papers. Her own small affairs were quickly dealt with and now, as she carefully navigated the sharp turns in the road leading to the house on the ridge, she felt a strange lightness of spirit, as she put behind her the sorrows of the past and looked forward to a new adventure. She smiled to herself at the thought. Simon Wade was hardly her idea of a new adventure. She had long ago decided that the only kind of man who could mean anything to her would be someone with a great capacity for gentleness and compassion—someone like her father. Her eyes misted at the thought. These requirements were certainly not met by Mr. Wade.

  As she turned off the sideroad and started to climb the long twisting driveway an involuntary gasp was drawn from her at the sight of the lovely house rising before her. It was a sight she would never get used to. Another perfect spring day provided a stage backdrop to the soaring tower. And standing just outside the glass doors of the living room was a figure tall and straight like the tower. Simon Wade, hands in the pockets of the usual blue jeans, a pale blue cotton knit shirt, open at the throat, stood looking down at the car as if he had been waiting for her.

  There was no welcoming smile as he opened the car door for her and Jane's heart sank a little.

  "Well, you've really come," he said, "I thought perhaps you'd change your mind."

  "When I say that I will do something, I do it," Jane replied sharply, and walked to the back of the car to open the trunk. Before she could reach inside for her bags she felt his presence behind her and then he was leaning over her, swinging her luggage out effortlessly. She was suddenly aware of the clean, airy scent of good soap, or more likely, she thought to herself, it was one of the new, expensive colognes for men. That would be more his style. He was striding towards the house now, one bag under an arm, carrying the other two heavy suitcases, one in each hand, apparently without effort. He turned his head slightly. "Follow me," he said.

  Jane followed meekly. The side door from the small parking area led into the wide hall containing floor-to-ceiling bookcases and Jane, unable to resist the impulse, slowed her steps and scanned the titles of the books as she passed.

  "Coma on, come on," he snapped. "You'll have plenty of time to study the books."

  Jane's sense of anticipation had disappeared completely now. Why, she thought, did he always have to make her feel so small?

  He was leading her towards the back of the house. Probably the servants' quarters, she thought irritably. At the back of the house there was another spiral staircase, which somehow he managed to climb still carrying the bulky, heavy suitcases. Jane followed and at the top found herself at the other end of the hall from the tower bedroom of Simon's former wife. It was like being in another world. This part of the second floor was separated from the other, containing the tower by a heavy oak door. The gold wallpaper of the other wing had been replaced by white stucco, and even Jane's limited knowledge of art was enough to tell her that the paintings on the wall were genuine. Simon was standing at the door of a bedroom and as she turned towards him he said gruffly, "This wing was constructed to separate my sane guests from some of the people I once had to entertain. I hope you'll like this room. T
he things in it have belonged to my family for many generations. That, for instance, belonged to my great grandmother." He gestured towards a harp standing in a corner. Jane could think of nothing to say. She stood in the doorway transfixed. The room was furnished with exquisite antiques. A fourposter bed with bedspread and canopy in a delicate blue and white crewel design dominated the room. There were no drapes at the windows, only jalousied inside shutters, so that the countryside seemed part of the decor. An old-fashioned chaise longue, covered in the same pattern as the bedspread, stretched beside one of the windows. And on the walls, in antique oval frames, were family photographs of men and women from another age. As her eyes took in the room, Jane had a glimpse of a final touch, a bathroom containing a Victorian bathtub with gold fittings and a deep red rug covering the floor.

  Jane turned towards him, her eyes glowing. "Oh, Simon," she said. She didn't realize that it was the first time she had used his first name.

  He stood looking down into her glowing face for a moment, expressionless. Then he said gruffly, "Dinner's at seven. You'd better change. We may be in the country, but we still observe the amenities." Then he was gone.

  Jane felt as if he had slapped her. She looked down in dismay at the jeans she had chosen to wear today in order to match his casual style. Did he really believe she would turn up to dinner wearing them? Or was he just deliberately doing everything in his power to hurt her? Whatever his motives, Jane decided she would show him. Through a haze of tears she unpacked, placing on the bed a long, black jersey knit dinner dress that she had never worn before. She had bought it on sale several months ago on impulse because of the ridiculously low price tag and because it had suited her so well. At the time she had laughed and said to herself, who knows, maybe I'll find a use for it someday.