Man of the Trees by Hilary Preston Read Free Book Online Page A

overspill. Or one could always have a caravan in the garden.’
    She gave him a swift look. Was he serious—or simply being sarcastic again?
    ‘That’s your studio up there, is it?’
    Ruth nodded, hoping he would not want to go up. On the other hand, there was still one more bedroom to see—her own. And the bed was still unmade with various kinds of underwear scattered around.
    ‘May I see?’ he asked. ‘Or is it forbidden territory?’
    Perhaps if she allowed him to go up, she could slip on some clothes and tidy her room, she thought swiftly. Or he might even forget about the other room entirely.
    ‘Go ahead,’ she told him. ‘There’s a light switch just on the left as you reach the top stair. I’ll join you in just a moment. I—think I can smell something burning,’ she added for good measure.
    His hand on the rail and one foot on the bottom stair he half turned and gave her a disbelieving look. Nevertheless, he proceeded upwards, and Ruth disappeared swiftly into her room. She knew she would not have time to tidy up the chaos completely, but she stuffed a few articles of clothing into a drawer and pulled up the bed cover, then cast around frantically for something suitable to wear. Sometimes on Sundays she wore a long skirt in which to relax, but if she were going up the step-ladder she would probably trip over it. Jeans—no. At least, not the ones she wore for work. On the other hand, she didn’t want to dress up too much. She really must buy some more clothes, she thought desperately, as she heard him moving about up above.
    At last she snatched up a patchwork skirt she had made for fun and which she wore a lot at one time but had grown rather tired of. It would have to do. The red sweater she usually wore with it was too shabby for words. Her mind raced from a half formed idea of not wearing red because he had said he thought white suited her better, and deliberately choosing another red top simply because of what he had said. In the end she compromised by wearing a white blouse topped by a scarlet waistcoat. She looked vaguely like a Swiss or Norwegian peasant, but if she did not put in an appearance soon goodness knew what he might start thinking. He might even come and find her.
    Only having time to put on the minimum amount of underwear, she made her way barefoot up to her studio. She hoped he had seen all he wanted to see—which was presumably the size and possibilities of the attic for the hoards of children he seemingly wanted to have, because she was reasonably certain that he did not really appreciate art.
    She had several canvases on the go, and he stood before one which was nearing completion. It showed a forest glade and a group of deer which were one of the main species in the New Forest—the Japanese Sika, a dark-coated animal with white spots which became lost in the winter coat. Not very original in the opinion of some people, but Ruth preferred to paint from nature rather than indulge in what she called ‘splurges of the imagination’ which sometimes, she suspected, showed a sick mind.
    She wondered what Ross Hamilton’s taste was in art, if indeed he had any, and waited for his opinion, steeling herself against almost certain criticism. She switched off the artificial light. There were two windows in the gable of the north side which made it ideal for the artist. Those on the south side she had blacked out.
    As she flicked off the light he glanced at her swiftly, then back to her painting, but not before he had noted her appearance.
    ‘You’ve changed, I see,’ he remarked.
    She paddled towards him, and he glanced at her bare feet, but Ruth ignored his interest in her appearance. She was more concerned with what he thought of her work, though why this should worry her, she didn’t know.
    ‘Well?’ she prompted, as the aggravating man still did not offer his opinion.
    ‘It’s good,’ he said decisively, and she nearly fell over. ‘I like it. You have a real eye for