Free Unknown by Unknown Page B

whether she should make some sign of recognition, or even if he would see her if she did ; some artists hated to be interrupted while they were working. As if he read her thoughts he turned his head in her direction, the blue eyes glinting recognition, and she raised one hand to let him know that she had seen him.
    To her surprise he left his stool and walked over to her, lighting a cigarette as he came. “Good morning,” she said, uncertain of her reception.
    “Good morning, may I join you?” He cast an envious eye at her patch of shade. “It’s rather too hot for comfort in the sun.” He sat down beside her on the springy turf, hugging his knees as she did, the cigarette apparently forgotten between his fingers. He turned his disconcertingly steady gaze on her critically. “I gather you’re fully recovered this morning,” he said.
    “Yes, quite, thanks.” She wished she did not always feel so much like a schoolgirl whenever he spoke to her. “I hope you had no ill-effects.”
    “ I wasn’t nearly buried alive,” he said with a return to his old manner. “I haven’t seen Fran this morning, so she’s probably avoiding me.”
    “Poor Fran!” She saw his brows tilt enquiringly as she spoke.
    “Why poor Fran?” he asked sharply.
    Katie tugged at the short grass beside her, not looking at him, “Oh,” she said casually, “it’s just that Jamie said he’d given her a telling off yesterday and it isn’t fair that Fran should get all the blame.”
    “Perhaps not, but it’s no more than she deserves,” he said unsympathetically, and Katie felt her temper rise at his callousness.
    “Oh, you’re far worse than Jamie,” she said crossly. “You’re as heartless and unfeeling as—as—”
    “An iceberg?” he supplied, remembering her accusation at Fran’s party, and she flushed, recalling instead the comforting strength of his arms the previous day when she had cried like a baby against his dusty shirt, as he held her close.
    “I’m sorry,” she flicked a glance at him, but meeting the steady gaze, lowered her own hastily. “I shouldn’t have said that, not about—about the iceberg either. I’m sorry.”
    He looked a little surprised at her apology. “You have a temper,” he said quietly. “It could get you into trouble.”
    She smiled ruefully despite the sting of the words. “It has been known to happen,” she admitted, and, seeking a change of subject, caught sight of his easel. “May I see what you’re doing?” she asked.
    “No.” The answer was uncompromising, and she felt her face colour.
    “Don’t you let anyone see your work?" she asked. “Or am I singled out for refusal?”
    “I don’t like anyone to see anything only half finished,” he said shortly, and added, “And it isn’t my work, it’s my hobby.”
    “Oh!” His abrupt refusal put her at a loss and she fell silent, uncomfortably aware of his nearness and the unbending arrogance of his manner that forbade any attempt at familiarity.
    For perhaps three or four minutes they sat side by side, sharing the sheltering shade of the gorse, silent but with a wealth of unspoken thoughts between them, until he glanced at his wrist watch and got to his feet, looking down at her small and rather downhearted, hugging her knees. “It’s almost eleven,” he said in his usual clipped, precise way. “Are you coming down for coffee?”
    She looked up at him, her grey eyes cloudy and rather soulful, looking and feeling more than a little sorry for herself. “Do you think I should ?” she asked.
    “If I say I’ve seen you, the family will wonder why you didn’t come in,” he answered shortly, and strode off to recover his painting gear. “Well?” he asked as he rejoined her, now standing on the path.
    “Thank you,” she said, more meekly than she intended, and added, “Only please don’t be horrible to poor Fran, she’s already been scolded by Jamie.” She cast a surreptitious glance at him from the comer of