Defiant Love

Defiant Love

Jessica Hart

Published by Coleman Hart Publishing at Smashwords

Originally published in Great Britain 1993 by Mills & Boon Limited

Copyright Jessica Hart 1993 and 2013

All rights reserved

Cover design by and copyright Debbie Lishman 2013

Image of couple copyright Yuri Arcurs 2013, used under licence from Shutterstock.com

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

Table of Contents

About Jessica

Also available in the Jessica Hart Vintage Collection

Jessica Hart introduces Defiant Love

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

About the Jessica Hart Vintage Collection

Bonus material: Woman at Willagong Creek, Chapter One

About Jessica

Jessica Hart was born in West Africa and has suffered from itchy feet ever since. She had a haphazard early career that took her around the world in a variety of interesting but very lowly jobs, all of which have provided inspiration on which to draw when it comes to the settings and plots of her stories. She eventually stumbled into writing as a way of funding a Ph.D. in medieval history and since then has written 60 romances for Harlequin Mills & Boon, collecting a number of awards along the way, including a RITA®, and the coveted Romance Prize (now the RoNA Rose Award), awarded by the UK’s Romantic Novelists’ Association. Jessica lives in York, a historic city in the north of England, although she still yearns sometimes for wider horizons.

Jessica loves to hear from readers. You can contact her and join her mailing list for news of new books and more at jessica@jessicahart.co.uk

You can follow Jessica:

on Facebook

on Twitter @JessicaHartXX

or through her website: www.jessicahart.co.uk

Also available in the Jessica Hart Vintage Collection

A Sweeter Prejudice

Legally Binding

The Trouble with Love

Woman at Willagong Creek

Find out more about the Vintage Collection, and read the first chapter of Woman at Willagong Creek, at the end of this book!

Jessica Hart introduces ... Defiant Love

I’m not a patient person. I like to make a plan and put it into action straight away. The first step in my plan to fund a PhD by writing romance was to get a book accepted, and that took rather longer than I had expected. So once I got there, I was eager to move on to step two, which was to sell my flat in London. The theory was that I would have enough to live on while I wrote full time and got a few more books under my belt, and when the chance to stay in a castle near Alnwick for free in exchange for dog and cat sitting came up, I jumped at it.

Well, it wasn’t quite as exciting as it sounds. The castle was mostly a 19th century renovation and had been divided into a number apartments (although there was a stuffed bear still in the original 15th-century hall), while the dog, a rescue Dobermann cross, was completely out of control. But I loved Northumberland, and I wrote Defiant Love while I was there, surrounded by beautiful countryside. Ecological campaigner vs. developer was a bit of a cliché even then, but I always liked Gussie with her weakness for expensive chocolates, and given how the environmental movement has grown since then, she was a woman ahead of her time, too.

Chapter One

‘Here they come.’

Gussie wriggled forward and peered through the bracken. A sleek black car, the kind that looked as if it might snarl if you went too close, was just drawing up by the gate to the field, and as she watched a man got out and closed the door behind him. He was powerfully built, with dark hair and an angular face, and she had a fleeting impression of charismatic authority before he turned away.

He walked over to the gate and stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the view. It was a peaceful scene. Black thunderclouds were gathering menacingly behind the hills, but the golden evening light still shafted defiantly down on to the meadow which rolled gently down to the river.

The man seemed unaware of the group hidden on the edge of the oak wood behind him. Lost in thought, he let his gaze rest on the long grass, its luxuriant green interspersed with tiny stitchwort and splashy red poppies.

Probably working out how long it would take him to plough it all up and cover it with concrete, Gussie thought bitterly, waving the flies out of her eyes.

‘That must be Hunter Scott,’ she whispered. Janet, their contact in the estate agency, had tipped them off that the London developer would be coming up for another look at the site, and it seemed she had been right. She had told Gussie that the estate agent would be with him, but there was no sign of anyone else. ‘He must have decided to come on his own after all.’

‘So much the better.’ Mark crouched down beside her and regarded Hunter Scott with a sneer. ‘He’s going to get a shock when he finds himself surrounded!’

‘Ye-es,’ Gussie agreed doubtfully. Her clear golden-brown eyes rested on the man standing still and thoughtful by the gate. From her hiding place, she could see little of him other than the well-cut hair and the broad shoulders beneath the tweed jacket, but there was just something in the way he stood that suggested a man unlikely to be easily shocked or surprised.

Hunter was a good name for him, she thought. There was a watchful air about him, a suggestion of controlled strength in his stance.

Mark misunderstood her hesitation. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve now we’ve got this far!’ he whispered in disgust. ‘I told Simon you weren’t tough enough to lead this protest!’

Gussie flushed. ‘Of course I haven’t!’ she hissed back.

It was true that Simon had been doubtful about putting her in command, but she had begged for the chance to prove that she was as committed as everyone else at Future Green. They all thought that because she wasn’t loud and aggressive about her beliefs she didn’t really care, but she did. She cared desperately about the countryside, too much to be content with her present contribution of collecting signatures for petitions. Gussie wanted to show that she was capable of real action. Saving Whin Farm from the developers was her big opportunity to show that she wouldn’t shrink from a fight if it was necessary.

Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders and beckoned the group forward. There were nine of them altogether, all young, all dressed alike in jeans and dark green T-shirts with Future Green’s bold logo across their chests.

‘Are you all ready?’ she asked in a low voice. She had never led a protest before, and she had vague thoughts of making a stirring speech, but it was hard when you had to whisper and the flies buzzed excitedly around her eyes. The sooner they could get out of this bracken the better.

‘Remember, we just want to give him a fright, and let him know that we won’t let him get away with his plans for Whin Farm. These companies hate any publicity, so I rang the Echo and asked them to send a photographer along to witness the first shot in our campaign, as it were. His investors are bound to take fright when they hear how serious the opposition is.’

There were several nods of approval at this, and Gussie felt insensibly cheered as she glanced at her watch. ‘I can’t see any sign of the photographer, though,’ she had to admit. ‘What do you all think? Shall we wait for him to turn up, or shall we tackle Hunter Scott while he’s on his own?’ Future Green were committed to a truly democratic approach.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ Mark said impatiently. ‘We can’t hang around here all evening, and for all we know you might have given the photographer the wrong instructions!’

Gussie struggled to subdue her resentment. Her quietness and deceptively fragile appearance hid a burning passion for nature that was rarely suspected by those who had never witnessed her temper roused in defence of an ill-treated animal or in fury at a despoiled piece of countryside. Friends and family pointed out that most people found such hot-headed passion laughable or embarrassing. It was more effective to use cool, well-reasoned arguments, they said, and Gussie tried very hard to follow their advice, but being cool never seemed to get her very far. She had joined Future Green a few months ago, hoping that here at least she would find some kindred spirits who felt as passionately about the environment as she did, but somehow she had never seemed to fit in with the group. Gussie suspected it was because she wasn’t interested in their interminable discussions about politics, but surely it was more important to be out doing something for the environment instead of sitting around talking about it?

Still, this was her chance to act instead of listen. She mustn’t let Mark intimidate her. She must be cool, decisive, a leader.

Shooting a worried look at the storm clouds, Gussie made up her mind. All the signs were that they were in for a thunderstorm. It might freshen the air, which was uncomfortably hot and close, but if she hesitated too long their protest would be washed out altogether. She took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. Remember, we’re all fighting for a green future!’

At her signal, the group erupted into yells as they burst from the undergrowth, and ran towards Hunter Scott, brandishing placards and shouting defiance.

Infuriatingly, Hunter didn’t appear the least bit intimidated to find himself suddenly surrounded by nine fierce protestors, and Gussie began to feel a little ridiculous. It was all very well making a lot of noise and waving placards, but their vehemence seemed rather unnecessary when faced with one calm man who merely raised an interrogative eyebrow and waited.

Signalling to the others to quieten down, she stepped forward.

‘Mr Scott?’

‘Yes?’ He showed no surprise that she knew his name. He had a strong face, Gussie saw, with a forceful nose and chin and amused, intelligent eyes the blue-grey colour of slate. As her gaze met his, she stepped back involuntarily, unprepared for the full impact of his personality. There was a compelling quality about him, a carefully leashed power that the glinting laughter in his eyes did nothing to disguise. This man was tough, Gussie realised with a small shock, and she shifted uncomfortably as he took a silent inventory of her.

She was coltishly slender, and her gentle face was given character by a pair of striking eyes beneath winged dark brows. Framed by naturally dark lashes that emphasised the unusual colour, they were a clear honey-brown flecked with amber and old gold. Her thick, coppery hair was tied back in a ponytail, but the severe look she had hoped to achieve was rather spoiled by the wisps that kept falling about her face.

The amusement in Hunter Scott’s expression deepened as he studied her, and for some reason Gussie felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Mark shaking his head at her courteous tone and although it didn’t come naturally she forced herself to sound more truculent.

‘Mr Scott, we represent Future Green, and I have been chosen as spokesperson this evening. Future Green are an environmental pressure group, and, although we are naturally concerned with the future of the earth as a whole, our particular responsibility is the area around Bracklewick.’

She knew that instead of the assertive effect she had aimed for she had sounded merely pompous and stilted, and it was obvious that Hunter Scott thought so too.

‘And you’ve taken time off from saving the world to come and see me?’ he mocked. ‘I’m flattered!’

‘You might be less flattered when you hear what we have to say,’ she said, eyeing him with hostility. He was a typical bloated developer, grown soft on profits, sneering and jeering at anyone prepared to stand up and fight to protect the countryside!

‘And what exactly is that?’ Hunter asked with deceptive softness, but the gleaming amusement had vanished from his eyes, leaving them sharp and unnervingly hard. They seemed to bore through Gussie, who rapidly revised her opinion. There was nothing soft or bloated about this man. Suddenly, he looked alarmingly tough, and for one craven moment she wished that she had never asked to lead the protest against him, before the thought of what he was planning to do to Whin Farm squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine.

‘We know all about your plans for Whin Farm,’ she said, hoping that she sounded braver than she felt. ‘And we’re here to tell you that you’d better abandon them right now, because we don’t intend to let you develop in this area.’

There was an encouraging murmur of support from the group behind her and she lifted her chin to meet Hunter’s eyes defiantly, but he was not noticeably impressed.

‘Don’t you think you’re exceeding your so-called responsibility somewhat?’ he said coldly. ‘I hate to point it out, but Whin Farm belongs to Mr Wilson. If he chooses to sell his land to me, that’s his business, not yours.’

‘Anything that affects the countryside around Bracklewick is our business,’ Gussie said, gaining confidence. ‘The environment belongs to all of us and we’re not prepared to stand by and let you destroy it. Whin Farm isn’t going to be another casualty of development!’ Where was the photographer from the Echo? she wondered crossly. He should have been here to record this confrontation! Surely this was a bigger story than the fêtes and jumble sales that usually filled the front page of the Echo?

Hunter sighed. ‘Why on earth would I want to destroy the environment?’ he asked.

‘To make money!’ Gussie flashed back, annoyed by his lack of concern at her accusations and more than a little ruffled by the mocking gleam that had reappeared in his slate-coloured eyes. Did she have a smut on her nose or something? That cold look had been unnerving enough, but somehow the glint of amusement was even more unsettling. Something about him set her on edge; she wished he would decide whether he was going to be furious or entertained.

‘Making money is certainly one of my interests,’ Hunter admitted without embarrassment. ‘It would be foolish to pretend otherwise, but it’s not the only one. I’ve also got an interest in preserving the environment as far as possible, and while your concern is commendable,’ he added with dismissive sarcasm, ‘I’m afraid it’s misplaced. I can assure you that you’ve no need to worry about my plans for Whin Farm.’

‘No need to worry?’ Gussie echoed incredulously. He didn’t really think she would believe that, did he? ‘No need to worry when you’re about to turn Whin Farm into a leisure centre?’

She waved an arm at the woodlands behind her. ‘You don’t care about what happens to the wildlife when you cut down those trees! You don’t care that the meadow you’ve been eyeing so greedily is home to nearly thirty species of wild flowers! Oh, no, what do they matter when you can turn them into car parks and make lots of money? It makes me sick