by Sasha Morgan
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, we’ve picked a good time to come. There’s an arts festival here this weekend. It’s always a great atmosphere. There are flags hanging from the shops and bunting across the streets. There’s lots going on, with dance, music, singing, workshops and films, in all kinds of venues.’
‘Fantastic! When you say venues, do you mean shops and pubs?’
‘Not just that. Churches, libraries, hotels and galleries open up, too. The festival’s a big deal in Deacon’s Castle.’
‘Marcus, it sounds amazing!’ Finula could hardly contain herself.
Then, he carefully turned down a rural side road.
‘It’s a bit bumpy,’ he warned as the 4 x 4 jostled up and down the uneven dirt track, which ran up into the hills.
Eventually he pulled into a cobbled driveway and parked outside his home. Finula’s eyes widened with delight. It was every bit as pretty as she’d remembered from seeing it online, with its black timber frame, the white walls covered with ivy. The windows were leaded and had boxes underneath them containing bright winter pansies. The garden, although quite void of colourful plants, with it being November, was still perfectly maintained.
Together they carried their luggage to the front porch and, once inside, Finula was struck by how neat and tidy Marcus’ home was.
‘Who looks after your house when you’re not here?’ she asked. Clearly someone was keeping the place shipshape.
‘A couple from the village come once a fortnight to clean and garden.’ He smiled to himself again: she didn’t miss a trick. Her eyes were darting about the place, taking everything in, from the wood burner nestled inside an open brick fireplace, embedded with a driftwood mantle, to the wooden beams running along the ceiling, to the stone floor covered mainly with rag rugs. A rocking chair stood under a window, which looked out on to the lush jade hills. There was no television, nor any kind of music system that she could see, just bookcases crammed full of books, and magazines piled high on a coffee table. As if reading her thoughts Marcus explained.
‘I don’t like any form of distraction when I’m here. It’s strictly chill-out territory. In fact, you’ll struggle to get a signal for your phone, or internet connection.’
‘Is that why you bought this place?’ she laughed, ‘so no one can contact you?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, looking deep into her eyes. He moved to stand in front of her. Finula’s heart started to beat faster. ‘It’s just you and me now,’ he said quietly, and Finula’s legs went weak.
They spent the day exploring the many stalls, open studios and the artisan market that Deacon’s Castle Festival had to offer. Finula was captivated by the place. She loved wandering among the artists and crafts people selling their wares of furniture, jewellery, ceramics and silk. Inside the Public Hall, oil paintings, watercolours, textiles and cards were exhibited, whilst the Women’s Institute served afternoon tea under gazebos in the vicarage garden. Circus acts performed along the steep, narrow streets: jugglers, stilt walkers and unicyclists. A bake-off was taking place in a nearby café and a banquet was laid out in the restaurant next door. Classic films were played in the top room of the Deacon Castle Inn and a brass band could be heard playing from inside the church. All in all, it was magical and Finula was totally spellbound.
‘Oh, Marcus, it’s just wonderful!’ Her eyes shone with excitement.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ he replied, passing her a cup of mulled wine from a nearby stall. Dusk was falling now and the old Victorian streetlamps had started to glimmer, giving the little town an even more enchanting feel.
‘Let’s get something to eat.’ She pointed towards a spit roast on the side of the street.
‘Yeah, but let’s take it back.’ They’d spent all day at the festival and Marcus wanted a sit down, plus an Irish whiskey in front of his wood burner.
Within the hour the pair were munching their hog roasts, sipping whiskey in Marcus’ cosy lounge. He never drew his curtains, preferring to look out at the dark sky, scattered with stars like diamonds. Only the light from the fire filled the room. Finula hadn’t felt this relaxed for a long time and suspected Marcus hadn’t either.
Once they’d finished eating, Marcus refilled their glasses. She was sitting leaning against him on the sofa, totally at ease.
‘Marcus, tell me about your ex-wife,’ she asked quietly.
Although a touch taken aback by the question, he answered without hesitation.
‘I met Niamh at uni. We were together for two years, then married when we found out she was pregnant. Unfortunately, Niamh miscarried our baby and then… well, we drifted apart. We’re still good friends, though. I see her occasionally through work. She’s a researcher.’
‘Oh,’ Finula replied flatly. Marcus again smiled at her transparency.
‘I’m good friends with her husband, too. In fact, I’m godfather to their eldest son, Callum.’
‘Oh, right.’ She sounded a little perkier, making Marcus laugh out loud.
‘What?’ She looked up at him, bewildered.
‘You. You’re such an open book, Finula.’
‘I am not!’ she replied indignantly.
‘You so are.’
‘To be sure, I am not Marcus Devlin,’ she mimicked his Irish voice, badly.
‘That, darlin’, has got to be the worst Irish accent I’ve ever heard,’ he spluttered.
She loved the way he’d called her ‘darling’. Suddenly they caught each other’s eye and sat completely still until Marcus put his glass down. ‘This way,’ he said huskily.
He led her up the creaky, wooden stairs, ducked under the low beam on the landing and into his bedroom. It was small, containing only a double bed covered in a pale grey bedspread, and a bedside table. The room was filled with moonlight shining through the large, leaded window. Marcus took her in his arms and his mouth sought hers. Finula responded instantly, kissing him back urgently. She breathed him in, that sexy, tangy citrus fragrance he had, and pulled him closer. Marcus took a gentle handful of her hair and tugged her head further back to deepen his kiss. Finula’s hands moved over him, encouraging him out of his clothes. In moments he was stood naked in front of her. Her eyes devoured his broad, dark chest, hard, muscular thighs, slim waist and swollen erection.
‘I want you,’ she whispered as Marcus pressed his lips to the hollow at her throat and to the freckles that dusted her shoulders.
Feverishly he yanked her top off and unbuttoned her jeans. Soon their bodies were entwined on the bed. He eased back a little to savour the moment and ran his hands down the length of her naked, alabaster-white body, over the curve of her breasts, the swell of her stomach and the round of her hips. She felt soft and warm beneath his touch. He cupped her breasts as his lips and tongue sucked and licked them. He heard her moan. Then he slid his hands between her thighs and pushed them apart, feeling the slick heat and smoothness of her. ‘Finula,’ he groaned, easing himself between her legs. He edged into her, with infinite slowness and unhurried strokes. Her hands brushed his toned back as he thrust deeper, making her arch in pleasure. He started to move harder and faster, taking Finula into ecstasy, and she cried out his name as he finally exploded inside her. They held each other tightly. Marcus blinked back the tears in his eyes, which took him by surprise. He hadn’t felt this close to another person for such a long, long time. He rolled to one side and pulled her onto his chest. ‘Finula, you’re amazing,’ he said gently, kissing her head. Finula hugged him.
‘So are you,’ she whispered back.
Together they fell into a blissful sleep.
36
The next morning Finula woke to the sound of church bells ringing. Rubbing her eyes, she turned to see an empty space next to her. Frowning, she listened carefully, to see if she could hear Marcus in the house but all was silent. Then she noticed a note on the bedside table.
I’ll be back by 10 a.m. Help yourself to breakfast, or enjoy a lie-in and I’ll make it when I retu
rn. x
Where had he gone? Deciding to shower and get dressed, Finula got up from the crumpled bed. No wonder it was so creased, the action it’d seen last night, she giggled to herself. Then, curiosity got the better of her and she decided to take a peep inside Marcus’ bedside table. Opening the drawer reminded her of when she had opened Nick Fletcher’s glove compartment and found that rather incriminating evidence of his bisexuality. The drawer was empty, apart from one envelope and Finula couldn’t resist taking it out and looking. Inside was the same photograph he’d sent her two months ago. The one he’d taken of her as a bridesmaid. A warm glow tingled inside her. He’d kept a copy for himself. How flattering, she thought with glee, carefully placing it back inside.
*
The church was fairly busy as Marcus slid quietly into the back pew. He had just lit a candle and offered up a prayer. Marcus felt closest to his mammy in church, she having been a devout Christian. Marcus did have a faith deep down, but he also had some burning questions that needed answering. Like why did his mammy have to die? She was all he had. No other family except an aunt, a scattering of cousins and a father he’d never known. His eyes misted over at the injustice of it all. Stark, vivid images of her fading away from him in pain swamped his mind. Her sallow, sunken skin and dark, bruised eyes haunted him. Then, as always, his memories inevitably cast back to her last words, telling him in breathless gasps, but with utter determination to finish, who his father really was. Marcus often wondered how it would have unfolded if Richard Cavendish-Blake hadn’t died and he had been given the opportunity to actually meet him. What would he have said? Would his father have believed him? He turned to watch the candle he’d just lit flicker. How fragile life was; how easily it could be snuffed out, just like that flame.
A little later, driving back, Marcus’ mood began to lift at the thought of being with Finula again. It felt warmly comforting returning to a home that wasn’t empty for once. Entering through the back door into the kitchen, he was greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs cooking. Finula was there, hovering over the hob, bright eyed and smiling.
‘Ah, good of you to make it, Marcus.’
Marcus laughed and kissed her lips. ‘Hello, you. I’ve been to Mass,’ he explained.
Finula’s eyebrows raised, ‘Really?’ She didn’t have him down as a churchgoer.
‘Hmm, I do occasionally. It feels good for the soul,’ he smiled.
Finula couldn’t work out if he was serious or not.
‘I’d have gone with you, if you’d mentioned it.’
‘Would you?’
‘Sure. Now, sit down and enjoy.’ She’d laid the small table in the kitchen and placed two English breakfasts down.
‘This looks delicious, Finula. Thanks.’
They chatted over a leisurely breakfast and Marcus couldn’t remember when he’d ever felt this relaxed. Finula, too, seemed less stressed, just spending time at her own pace, instead of rushing round The Templar at top speed. It was times like this that made her reflect a little on her own lifestyle. Would she always want to live with her dad in a busy pub, permanently on call?
As if reading her mind, Marcus looked into her eyes and said, ‘Finula, let’s stay another night. We can head back tomorrow morning.’ He reached his hand out over the table and she held it.
‘Let’s,’ she replied.
They spent the day wandering around Deacon’s Castle again, only this time it was a lot quieter. The festival had finished and packed up, leaving the narrow cobbled streets bare. Only a few shops were open. One of them was a book and record shop, which also doubled up as a café. Marcus was obviously well known to the shopkeeper as they sat down and ordered coffee and cake.
‘Good to see you, Marcus,’ said an elderly lady with a twinkle in her eye. ‘And who’s this young lady?’ She turned to Finula.
‘Margo, meet Finula,’ he answered with a grin.
‘Oh, what a pretty name,’ said Margo.
‘For a pretty lady,’ replied Marcus, still smiling at Finula, who was by now blushing slightly.
‘Please to meet you, Margo.’
Finula loved Deacon’s Castle. It had a vibe all of its own, in a vintage, quirky kind of way. Again, thoughts of leaving The Templar crossed her mind, and she realised she wasn’t in any hurry to go home. She liked the idea of being hidden away here with Marcus. She looked at him as he chatted comfortably with Margo. Gone was the frown that so often etched his brow, and the tension that radiated from him frequently. Here, he was just Marcus, just one of the locals, not an award-winning documentary producer with the stress and worries that involved. What was that comment he’d made this morning about good for the soul? He did seem a tortured soul at times and it was starting to concern her.
Later that evening, after eating a stir-fry that Marcus had rustled up, they sat by the wood burner again, sipping red wine. She made him laugh with stories of her childhood.
‘How old were you when you lost your mammy, Finula?’ Marcus asked quietly.
‘Eleven.’
He hugged her into him, ‘Jeysus, that’s no age.’
‘I know, and I miss her every day. How about you, Marcus, do you have any contact with your dad?’
He stiffened suddenly and she could see he was trying to stay calm. ‘He’s dead,’ he replied flatly.
Finula was startled by the coldness in his voice, which was completely devoid of any filial emotion. ‘And I never met him,’ he finished with a firmness that closed the conversation.
Finula took the hint and remained silent. Marcus, realising how abrupt he must have sounded, put his wine glass down. He ran his hand through her silky hair and kissed her neck, then made his way to her mouth and kissed her deeply, running his tongue over hers. Finula responded by clutching him nearer, suddenly wanting to feel his skin against hers. Their kiss grew more urgent. They tugged and pulled at each other’s clothes impatiently until they were both naked, lying on the rag rug by the wood burner. Marcus closed his mouth over her creamy breast and flicked his tongue over the jutting nipple, whilst running his hand between her soft thighs. His finger slid into her warm parting and slowly circled her core, making Finula gasp in pleasure. ‘Have you any idea what you do to me?’ he asked huskily, looking into her face as his finger probed inside her.
‘Marcus,’ she gasped again, arching her back upwards towards him. He increased the pressure of his touch, intensifying her desire. Then, just when she thought she’d burst, he thrust himself firmly into her. His strokes were hard and rapid, he was pent up with emotion and passion and needed a release; it came within seconds, leaving them both dizzy. He sunk his head into her neck and took deep breaths.
Finula felt wetness on her shoulder. ‘Marcus,’ she whispered, ‘are you crying?’
He lifted his head up and tears were streaming down his face.
‘Marcus, what’s the matter?’ she asked, her face etched with concern. She wrapped her arms round him, like a mother would her child. Gently she rocked him, whilst his sobs finally came to a halt.
‘I’m sorry, Finula, you shouldn’t have seen that.’ He unwrapped himself from her embrace and wiped his face.
‘Don’t be silly, Marcus. It’s never wrong to show your feelings.’ He looked away, embarrassed. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
He turned and stared into her. Should he? Could he? No. ‘I can’t,’ he simply replied, leaving Finula at a complete loss.
37
Tobias eyed the report with utter satisfaction. When he’d asked David Lombard to do some digging, he never expected a find like this. As Lombard had told him, his contact had only had to scratch the surface, and the results were startling.
Viola Kemp – or Vera Kemp, to be more precise – had led quite an eventful life, and not in a good way. From what the PI had discovered, she’d left a trail of destruction behind her wherever she went. Although described as intelligent and ambitious, there was no camouflaging the dark, sinister streak running through her. Viola h
ad been born into humble surroundings, but had undoubtedly made the most of her brains, as her impressive qualifications proved. She had also made the most of her looks, undergoing extensive plastic surgery. But for all that she had achieved, the brushes with the law remained the most telling part of her story. Viola had been labelled a ‘troubled teenager’ and had been arrested for shoplifting. In her early twenties she had been stopped by the police for driving whilst under the influence of alcohol.
However, the most chilling turn of events had left Tobias wide eyed with shock. Viola had been convicted of stalking an ex-boyfriend and, more alarming, had taken to drastic, frightening measures to warn his, then, partner away. Viola had left dead animals on the girl’s car bonnet, squashed hedgehogs, birds, mice. Then came the relentless hate mail, phone calls and text messages full of scorn and threats. Eventually, Viola had had a restraining order issued against her with – and this is where Tobias’ interest was really piqued – a suspended sentence. Basically, if Viola Kemp ever stepped out of line again, she’d likely face imprisonment.
Well, it seemed I’ve struck gold, thought Tobias, smiling to himself. He could very easily report her for harassment; she’d admitted to ‘following him around for some time’ to the point that she claimed to know more about him than his own wife, plus she had exposed herself to him, then trailed after him to his study, propositioned him and then threatened him. If this wasn’t enough ammunition to keep Viola quiet and out of the way, what was? In fact, he would demand more than just her silence. The interview she had conducted was a travesty. He was in no doubt just how it was intended to portray him, given the nature of the questions, insinuations and allegations thrown at him. He should have trusted his own instincts and kept the media away, even though Treweham Hall wouldn’t have benefited from the hefty fee paid. After a few moments’ consideration he decided on a plan. The film crew had taken enough footage inside the Hall and the grounds, plus they had the interview with Sebastian – they could use that. His interview had to go, though: wiped clean, deleted. Was it his fault if it suddenly went missing? After all, he had kept his side of the bargain, hadn’t he? And he knew just the person to clear this mess up.
