Valtieri's Bride & A Bride Worth Waiting For: Valtieri's BrideA Bride Worth Waiting For

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘Seven years. It’ll be weird without you. I’ll miss you.’ Unaccountably she felt herself tearing up again and looked away crossly. ‘Sorry, I’m being an idiot. I’m delighted for you, I really am. It’s just—’

  ‘You’ll miss me. I know. I’ll miss you, too.’ Ruth patted her arm awkwardly. ‘You’ll be fine. You’ve got my mobile number—perhaps we could go out for a drink one evening, if Stephen’s with a friend or something?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said, knowing quite well it was unlikely to happen but grateful to Ruth for suggesting it. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done for me in the past few years, especially since Roger died. You’ve been a star.’

  ‘My pleasure. You’ve been a good friend to me, too, Annie. There were times when I couldn’t have got through without you.’

  That unexpected frankness was nearly her undoing. Annie swallowed and gave a little shrug. ‘What are friends for? I’m glad you’ve found someone. You deserve to be happy.’

  Ruth nodded and turned her attention to her coffee, looking at it rather than at Annie, stirring it with meticulous care. ‘I just wish you could be as happy,’ she said quietly after a moment. ‘I know you and Roger were very fond of each other, but you weren’t exactly soul mates, were you? You’ve never really told me about Stephen’s father, but I get the feeling you’re still a little in love with him. Is there any chance—?’

  Annie felt her smile slip. ‘No. He’s dead—years ago, before I started running this place. The way I felt—well, it was a one-off, crazy thing. I don’t know if it was the real thing, but it certainly felt like it at the time. He was French, and such a charmer—I just fell for that broken English and gorgeous, sexy accent hook, line and sinker. I adored him, but you can’t base a marriage on it. At least we didn’t have time to get bored with each other. I don’t know. It might have worked given time, who knows, but I doubt it. We just didn’t get the chance to find out.’

  ‘But maybe now—if the right man came along—?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t need any more heartache, and nor does Stephen. He’s lost two fathers, although he only ever knew Roger. I think that’s enough for anyone.’

  Ruth was quiet for a moment, then she looked up and searched Annie’s face. ‘Do you think Stephen’s suffered for not knowing his real father?’

  Annie shook her head slowly. ‘No—not really. I know we had an unconventional marriage, but Roger was a good father to all the children. Stephen adored him, and I would have been horribly lost without him—even if I could never compete with his first wife.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The amazing Liz. Ghosts are always the hardest. She was a bit of a legend, by all accounts. They still talk about her, you know.’

  Annie nodded. ‘She was certainly loved in the village. Her death was an awful shock to everyone. I couldn’t believe it. She’d been my college lecturer, you know—taught me everything I knew about catering, but she was more than that, even then. She was a friend, a real friend, and I was lost when she died, but at least we’d set this place up by then, so she saw her dream become reality. Still. Time moves on, and they’re together again now. And you’ve got your Tim. I really, really hope you’re happy together.’

  ‘We will be. Do keep in touch. Can I come and have coffee still?’

  Annie laughed. ‘Of course. I run a coffee shop—what else would you do?’

  ‘But you’re busy.’

  ‘Never too busy for a friend. Please come. Don’t be a stranger. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.’

  ‘You won’t lose me—promise.’

  Ruth hugged her again, and then went out, running up the stairs to the flat above to start her packing, and Annie scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled, determined not to let the stupid tears fall. It wasn’t as if Ruth was a bosom buddy, but as busy as she was, Ruth was probably one of her closest friends. Bringing up the children and working the hours she did didn’t leave a lot of time for socialising.

  She straightened up, threw the tea towel she’d used for polishing the worktops into a bag to take home, and looked round, checking to make sure she was ready for the morning.

  What would her landlord make of it? she wondered. And how would he want to change it? Refurb covered a multitude of sins. A shiver of apprehension went down her spine. The Ancient House was Grade II listed, so there were restrictions on what he could do to it—she hoped. She didn’t want it to change. She’d had enough change recently. But what if he wanted to throw her out and turn it back into a house? That was always a possibility now she was the only tenant.

  It was old, very old, a typical low Tudor house, stretching all across one side of the square, with a big heavy door in the centre that led to a small rectangular entrance hall. There was a door straight ahead that led to the flat above, another door leading to Miller’s, her little tearoom that ran front to back on the right of the door, and one opening into the left-hand end that was occupied by the little antique shop.

  Ex-antique shop, she reminded herself, now that Mary had wound down her business and closed the door finally for the last time only a week ago, so what better time for him to move in and make changes?

  More changes. Heavens, her life was full of them recently. Roger’s death in June last year had been the first. Even though they’d been waiting for it, it had still been a shock when it came. Still, they’d got through somehow, comforting each other, and it hadn’t been all bad.

  Kate, Roger’s younger daughter, had got the grades she needed for uni, and there had been tears, of course, because her father hadn’t been there to see her success. And Annie, telling her how proud he would have been, had reduced them all to tears again.

  In September the girls had gone away—Vicky, the eldest, back to Leicester for her second year and Kate to Nottingham to start her degree—and the house had seemed unnaturally silent and empty. Stephen was back at school, and without the tearoom Annie would have gone crazy.

  She’d grown used to the silence, though, and the holidays since had seemed almost too noisy. Much as she loved them, she’d been glad this September when the girls had gone away again and taken their chaos and untidiness with them, but without them, and with Ruth moving on, it would be very quiet. Probably too quiet.

  She laughed softly to herself.

  ‘You are perverse. One minute it’s too noisy, the next it’s too quiet. Nothing’s ever right.’

  Still, from Monday things would liven up with the refurb starting. And she’d finally get to meet her landlord, the broodingly sexy Michael Harding. Whatever that implied.

  Well, she hoped it turned out right and he didn’t have an ulterior motive. Here she was trying to work out what broodingly sexy might mean, when all the time he might be going to give her notice or put up her rent. It wouldn’t be unreasonable if he did, but it would be the last straw.

  Roger’s pension kept the girls in uni. The tearoom provided the means to keep her and Stephen and run the house, but the balance was fine and she didn’t need anything unexpected thrown into the equation.

  There was always the trust fund, but she had no intention of touching that, even if she could. It was Stephen’s, from some unknown distant cousin who’d died intestate; it had been passed down to him as the man’s youngest living relative, which was apparently how the law worked. She wasn’t going to argue, and as only one of the trustees she wasn’t sure she could get access to it, even to provide for her son. Still, to know it was there was like a safety net, carefully invested for the future.

  Whatever that might hold. Maybe Monday would bring some answers.

  She went home, cutting the corner to where their pretty Georgian house stood at right angles to the tearoom, centred on the left-hand side of the square. Like the Ancient House, Beech House occupied a prominent position in the centre of the village, its eleg
ant, symmetrical façade set back behind a low wall enclosing the pretty front garden.

  The fact that it was so lovely hardly ever registered with Annie, though. For her, the main feature was its convenience. It was handy being so close. That was why Liz had chosen to open the tearoom there, of course, and its proximity had been a godsend while the children were young.

  It didn’t feel like home, though. It never really had. She was like a caretaker, and with Roger gone and the girls flying the nest she wondered what on earth she was going to do with it. Keep it for ever, so the girls felt they could always come home? Or just until Stephen was eighteen?

  Another nine years. Heavens. The thought of another nine years of this was enough to send her over the brink.

  She closed the door behind her, leant back on it and listened to the silence. She was right, it was too quiet, and Stephen with his bubbly chatter wouldn’t be home until eight. God, the house was so empty.

  She made herself a cup of tea, then settled down on the sofa in the little sitting room to watch the news for company. She kicked off her shoes, tucked her feet under her bottom and flicked on the TV with the remote control.

  And then she froze, riveted by the commentary and the picture she saw unfolding before her eyes.

  ‘—a vineyard in the Rhône valley, high up on the steeply terraced hillside where only the most exclusive wines can justify the exorbitant labour costs for handpicking the grapes—unless, like Claude Gaultier, you use a migrant workforce.’

  The reporter waved an arm behind him at the serried ranks of vines, bursting with fruit just starting to ripen. ‘For the past eleven years, the vines here have been worked by what amounts to slave labour, the workers kept in very basic accommodation and forced to work hugely long hours in appalling conditions on these steep mountainsides to bolster Gaultier’s extortionate profit.’

  The picture scanned over the familiar scenery, the bunkhouse, the farmhouse where she’d cooked, the winery, the terraces where they’d walked hand in hand—

  ‘All the workers were young men, most of whose parents had paid extraordinary sums to give them an opportunity to escape from countries such as Albania to the riches of Western Europe. They were lied to, cheated for the sake of money, but at least these young men were only forced to work hard. The young women, on the other hand, were shipped all over Europe and sold into prostitution, many of them in London and Manchester, and the fate of these innocent girls has been far worse. The dawn raid today, the culmination of a decade of work by the security services of several countries, has seen many of Gaultier’s accomplices arrested. Gaultier himself, the mastermind behind this hideous empire trafficking in innocent lives, died resisting arrest when his house in Antibes was stormed this morning, and it must be said there will be few tears shed for this most evil and wanted of men.’

  The picture returned to the newsroom, and Annie stared blankly at the screen.

  Dear God. She’d always known the conditions there were dreadful, but she’d had no idea they were that bad. People-trafficking? Slave labour? She’d not really been involved with the labour force, more with the managers. Like Etienne. And Etienne had taken her mind off anything but him, from the moment she’d set eyes on him…

  * * *

  ‘Bonjour.’

  She looked up, her heart hitching into her throat at the slow, lazy lilt of his voice. Blue eyes, a smile that started gradually and kicked up both corners of his mouth to reveal perfect, even teeth—no. Not perfect. Not quite. One of them was chipped, and his nose was nothing to write home about, but the smouldering eyes and the lazy smile were enough to counteract that in spades.

  ‘Bonjour,’ she replied, her hand hovering over a steaming dish of lamb casserole. ‘Desirez-vous un peu de ragout?’

  The smile widened. ‘Tu,’ he murmured. ‘Vous is too—how you say—formal?—for me.’

  She felt herself colouring. ‘Oh. Sorry. I thought it was correct.’

  He grinned. ‘It is—but we do not need to be correct, hein, you and me?’

  She found herself smiling back, her heart fluttering against her ribs like a thing demented. Her hand still hovered over the casserole, her eyes trapped by his. ‘How did you know I was English?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Your delightful accent,’ he replied, in a delightful accent of his own, and her heart melted into a puddle at his feet. He held out his hand. ‘Etienne Duprés—at your service, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Annie Shaw,’ she said breathlessly, and he took her hand, wrapping it in warm, hard fingers. His thumb slid over the back of it, grazing it gently, sending shivers up her spine while his eyes locked with hers.

  ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ he murmured, then after an age he bent to press his lips to her hand—but not the back. Oh, no. He turned it over and pressed his lips firmly and devastatingly to the palm, then folded her fingers over to enclose the kiss and straightened up to meet her eyes again, a slow, sexy grin teasing at his mouth.

  He wasn’t the only one who was enchanted. Annie could hardly think straight for the rest of the meal, dishing up for the family and the skilled staff. The grape-pickers had their own catering arrangements in the bunkhouse, and her job was to help Madame Chevallier to cook for the permanent staff who ran the vineyard. And if she didn’t want to lose her job, she’d better concentrate on what she was doing.

  Finally they were all served and seated, and she took her own meal and went and sat in the only space left. Which just happened, by a curious coincidence, to be next to Etienne Duprés.

  ‘You must be new here; I haven’t seen you,’ she said, but he shook his head.

  ‘I have been away—en vacances. On holiday?’

  She nodded. ‘I wondered.’

  ‘So you have been thinking about me. Bon,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘And you must be new here.’

  She nodded again. ‘I’m here for the harvest. I’m sorry, my French is dreadful—’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m sure we understand what is necessary,’ he said, and his eyes locked with hers again, their message unmistakeable.

  ‘You’re outrageous,’ she told him, blushing, and he laughed, not a discreet chuckle but the real thing, throwing back his head and letting out a deep rumble of a belly-laugh that had all the others smiling and nodding and ribbing him.

  ‘No, mademoiselle, I only tell the truth.’

  And he was right, of course. She could understand enough of the muddle of his French and English to know precisely what he was trying to say to her, and he seemed to be able to understand English better than he could speak it, so between them they managed.

  After all, it didn’t take much facility with the language to walk side by side along the rows of vines in the setting sun, and to pause under the spreading branches of an old oak tree and exchange slow, lingering kisses.

  That was all they ever did, and then he’d sigh and turn back to the path and wrap his arm around her, tucking her into his side and shortening his stride to hers as they strolled back to the farmhouse. On her nights off he took her to the village and they sat in the bar and talked in their halting French and English until late, then he walked her home, pausing to kiss her under the tree.

  She learned that he was an estate manager, that he’d trained in Australia and California, that he had been brought in to supervise the production of the exclusive and very expensive wine produced here. She told him she had trained as a cook, but was going to run a tearoom—a café—called Miller’s, with a friend in a village in Suffolk on her return.

  He seemed interested, so she told him about Liz Miller, and about their plans and how Liz was getting it off the ground now and how they’d share it when she got home, and he grinned and promised to come and visit her. ‘To take tea—in Miller’s, a very English tearoom. I shall look forward to
this. After the harvest,’ he promised, and she believed him.

  She learned to tease him, and he teased her back. One evening as they sat in the bar she reached out a hand and ran her fingertip down the bumpy and twisted length of his nose. ‘What happened to it?’ she asked, and he laughed.

  ‘I was—pouf!’ he said, making a fist and holding it to his nose and grinning.

  ‘You had a fight?’

  He nodded, blue eyes laughing.

  ‘Don’t tell me—over a woman?’

  The grin widened. ‘Mais oui! What else is there to fight about?’

  She chuckled. ‘And did you win?’

  ‘Bien sur! Of course. I always win the lady.’

  ‘And was she married, this lady?’ she asked, suddenly needing the answer to be no, and he frowned, serious for once.

  ‘Non. Of course not. I would not do that. I am— How do you say it? A gentleman.’

  And he was. He walked her home, kissed her lingeringly, sighed and handed her in through the door like the gentleman he said he was, then wandered off, whistling softly under his breath.

  A week later, one cold October night, he seemed different. Distracted, somehow, and for once not focusing on her with that strange intensity, as if she was the centre of his world. At least not then, not in the bar, but later on the way home he drew her off the path, away from the farm buildings and up into a little wood, then he turned her into his arms and kissed her in a way he’d never kissed her before.

  His body was strong and lean and full of coiled energy, warm and hard under her hands, his heart pounding against her chest, a strange urgency about him. He’d always been playful before, but that night there was no time for play. He kissed her as if he’d die without her, touched her as if she was the most precious thing in the universe. They made love then for the first and last time, on a bed of fallen leaves under the stars, and in his arms she found a happiness she’d never even dreamed of.

  She’d been totally innocent, but he’d been so gentle, so thorough, so—incredible—that she’d felt no pain, only joy and an unbelievable rightness.