Restored to Love
by Anna Rockwell
Gillian ran her hands over the cracked and damaged oak wall panelling. Even though it was impossible to replace, she still felt she could save the 15th-century woodwork that was an important feature of Dashambly Hall. If she was successful, Clive Rushington-Hydes had promised to give the rest of the contract over to her and her company. Certainly a challenge as the Hall had been derelict for some time, so it wasnât going to be a simple lick-and-spit job.
She was about to head back to the small workshop sheâd set up on the site when she heard a voice somewhere behind her. Indistinct and whispery, as if close by, yet somehow distant.
Apart from Gillian, no one had been prepared to live in the old place until more than just the basics had been reconnected. Even Mrs Newly, the housekeeper, only worked weekdays part time, and she always left by noon. As it was nearly 4pm, there shouldnât have been anyone else in the rambling old place.
Cautiously Gillian looked around for something to protect herself with. The only thing to hand was a length of broken curtain pole, which she used to test the floors in the more decrepit rooms before walking on them.
Straining to hear anyone moving around, she stepped out into the Long Gallery. With grime coating the tall windows, the main corridor was not bright, but it was light enough for her to be able to see well enough.
She heard the sound again, louder and to her right this time. Another burst of whispered muttering, now obviously coming from the Library. Her anger took charge, and she immediately burst into the room, curtain pole held high, ready to do battle.
Hurriedly she looked around for whoever had been making the noises, but all she saw were rows of empty bookshelves, the soot-stained marble fireplace, and the old Victorian wallpaper peeling off the almost-bare walls.
The library itself had been stripped bare, with almost all of the paintings, along with the majority of the books, taken away and sold off before the Hall had been abandoned. She turned back to the door. The only footprints visible in the dust were hers.
Even with no one there to see her blush, she felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment, amazed at the way sheâd let her imagination run away with her. Then she suddenly gasped in surprise as something small ran up the inside of her jeans and over her inner thigh.
Immediately, she unzipped them, then kicked them off along with her canvas pumps, trying all the time to control the panic she felt. Wherever the bloody mouse was, sheâd beat the little fucker to death the first chance she got! Yet, when she checked, she found nothing small and furry trapped in the folds of the material at all. Even so, she poked at them several times before she bent down to pick them up.
As she did so, she heard a distinct male voice coming from behind her.
âWhat fine, rounded globes, encased in such a diaphanous prison. They cry out for release!â
Gillian spun round, conscious that she was now only wearing her T-shirt and light pink knickers. In front of her stood a Roman Centurion, in full ceremonial dress and helmet. His shoulders and arms were imposing, and the hand resting on the pommel of his short sword had long, slender fingers. As he strode forward and removed his helmet, Gillian caught sight of his muscular calves, circled by the straps of his sandals, and just above the knee, she could see where his thighs disappeared under the metal and leather skirtle he wore.
Gillianâs anger pushed her embarrassment to one side. âWho the hell are you, and how the hell did you get in?â For some reason she couldnât put her finger on, she found herself becoming more than a little aroused by the sight of this man. He was probably some clown from one of the local re-enactment societies, she thought, out to play some kind of practical joke. With his helmet now under his arm, she was able to see his face
by Anna Rockwell
Gillian ran her hands over the cracked and damaged oak wall panelling. Even though it was impossible to replace, she still felt she could save the 15th-century woodwork that was an important feature of Dashambly Hall. If she was successful, Clive Rushington-Hydes had promised to give the rest of the contract over to her and her company. Certainly a challenge as the Hall had been derelict for some time, so it wasnât going to be a simple lick-and-spit job.
She was about to head back to the small workshop sheâd set up on the site when she heard a voice somewhere behind her. Indistinct and whispery, as if close by, yet somehow distant.
Apart from Gillian, no one had been prepared to live in the old place until more than just the basics had been reconnected. Even Mrs Newly, the housekeeper, only worked weekdays part time, and she always left by noon. As it was nearly 4pm, there shouldnât have been anyone else in the rambling old place.
Cautiously Gillian looked around for something to protect herself with. The only thing to hand was a length of broken curtain pole, which she used to test the floors in the more decrepit rooms before walking on them.
Straining to hear anyone moving around, she stepped out into the Long Gallery. With grime coating the tall windows, the main corridor was not bright, but it was light enough for her to be able to see well enough.
She heard the sound again, louder and to her right this time. Another burst of whispered muttering, now obviously coming from the Library. Her anger took charge, and she immediately burst into the room, curtain pole held high, ready to do battle.
Hurriedly she looked around for whoever had been making the noises, but all she saw were rows of empty bookshelves, the soot-stained marble fireplace, and the old Victorian wallpaper peeling off the almost-bare walls.
The library itself had been stripped bare, with almost all of the paintings, along with the majority of the books, taken away and sold off before the Hall had been abandoned. She turned back to the door. The only footprints visible in the dust were hers.
Even with no one there to see her blush, she felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment, amazed at the way sheâd let her imagination run away with her. Then she suddenly gasped in surprise as something small ran up the inside of her jeans and over her inner thigh.
Immediately, she unzipped them, then kicked them off along with her canvas pumps, trying all the time to control the panic she felt. Wherever the bloody mouse was, sheâd beat the little fucker to death the first chance she got! Yet, when she checked, she found nothing small and furry trapped in the folds of the material at all. Even so, she poked at them several times before she bent down to pick them up.
As she did so, she heard a distinct male voice coming from behind her.
âWhat fine, rounded globes, encased in such a diaphanous prison. They cry out for release!â
Gillian spun round, conscious that she was now only wearing her T-shirt and light pink knickers. In front of her stood a Roman Centurion, in full ceremonial dress and helmet. His shoulders and arms were imposing, and the hand resting on the pommel of his short sword had long, slender fingers. As he strode forward and removed his helmet, Gillian caught sight of his muscular calves, circled by the straps of his sandals, and just above the knee, she could see where his thighs disappeared under the metal and leather skirtle he wore.
Gillianâs anger pushed her embarrassment to one side. âWho the hell are you, and how the hell did you get in?â For some reason she couldnât put her finger on, she found herself becoming more than a little aroused by the sight of this man. He was probably some clown from one of the local re-enactment societies, she thought, out to play some kind of practical joke. With his helmet now under his arm, she was able to see his face
Similar Books
