The Chocolate Tin

by Fiona McIntosh

  He nodded, impressed at the silk and lace contrivance that felt near weightless in his hands. ‘I could wish I had a pair of my own.’

  Her joyous giggle made him feel as though his cares and responsibilities were drifting, lifting off his shoulders to be frozen in time by the chill in the room.

  ‘Your turn,’ she urged.

  He grinned, enjoying the carefree attitude that Alex had adopted since entering the cottage. ‘How long have we got?’ he asked, peeling off his own clothes as fast as he could.

  ‘Charlotte’s gone for the whole weekend.’

  ‘So we can stay the night?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only in our dreams. No, darling Harry, we can have a few hours before I will need to return.’ She fell suddenly silent as she regarded him pulling off his vest. ‘Oh,’ she murmured sadly. ‘You were hurt?’

  He tossed aside his vest, his hair dislodged and unruly as he remembered the scars. Harry kicked off the remaining item of clothing. ‘Few left the battlefields unscathed.’

  ‘Let me kiss those wounds,’ she offered. He stood naked before her and enjoyed the rush of colour to her cheeks as she let her unabashed gaze roam over him. Her voice sounded raspy when she spoke again. ‘You are ridiculously handsome, Harry. I think I’ll have to insist you abandon your bathing outfit and swim as natural as the day you were born from now on.’

  ‘Only in your presence,’ he said, lowering himself onto the bed as she pulled away the coverlets to greet him. He felt skin on skin, warmth like no other, and an experience he’d been denied for longer than he would admit to Alex. ‘I don’t think we can take this as slow as I’d like to,’ he admitted breathlessly.

  She giggled again and he rolled on top of her, feeling all of her long, slim frame beneath him. He found the wherewithal to pause on his elbows so that he could hungrily absorb the sight of her, stroking away the dark wisps of hair. ‘Wherever our lives go after today, I want you to know this man loves you more in this moment than he has loved anyone or perhaps ever will. When I’m with you I’m lost in your . . . your . . . sexiness.’ He saw tears well and kissed her eyes, tasting her salty emotion. ‘Don’t cry. You needed to hear it. You need to know that you are immensely lovable, desirable and uplifting to be around. Your husband may be intelligent and talented and wealthy, but he’s a fool to not rush home to your bed every night.’

  She kissed him with such tenderness it felt like they were already in the depths of a farewell. He wished they might never have to leave this cottage, this room.

  ‘I did need to hear that,’ she whispered.

  ‘Now I’m going to keep a promise.’

  ‘Which one is that?’ She sounded perplexed.

  ‘The one about kissing every inch of you, and I think I shall start right here,’ he said, snuggling down beneath the sheets to provoke the delicious giggle he wished he could hear in his life until he had no more breath to share with the world.

  19

  They lay side by side in a comfortable silence, warm and linked: limbs entwined, fingers laced together, her hair lying across his neck, heads touching gently.

  Alex wanted the sleepy silence to never end but the clock relentlessly ticked on as a sonorous reminder of how short-lived this romantic escape had to be. She didn’t want his skin to draw away from hers; she wanted to touch it daily with wonder because everything about his flesh contradicted Matthew’s, which was pale, hairless, freckled in places, more rounded, smoother, softer . . . Given a choice she preferred Harry’s scarred, leaner, tougher body with its broad planes and hard angles. She loved the hair on his arms and the taut hollow of his belly. She could trace a line around his muscles that stood out starkly against his far-too-leanly fleshed frame that needed nourishing and loving. Matthew smelled of soap, hair pomade and cologne. She couldn’t give a name to the flavour of Harry but she knew instinctively it was the scent of masculinity. For the first time in her life she knew what it was to be held down by strong arms, rolled over, ravished and adored by a man with big hands, who stared at her intently before kissing her, who poured emotion silently into those kisses. No words were necessary because his loving said all there was to say to her about how he felt in her presence. Harry had shown a hunger – almost savage – that was exciting for her. It was an experience she’d not once, in all the time of lying with Matthew, witnessed in his expression or shared in his arms.

  And now all that pent-up passion and desire had subsided, they were still and content.

  ‘We’re like chocolate melting around one another,’ he murmured, and Alex smiled at the image. ‘Tempered, of course,’ he added.

  ‘I like that you paid attention.’

  ‘So, when does your chocolate empire begin?’

  ‘In a month or so. I’ve found a site in town. I just have to get some equipment imported. There’s some machinery in Switzerland I want but it’s a headache to get it to York.’

  ‘I’m sure I can help.’

  ‘Can you? How?’

  He shook his head as if he didn’t want to talk about it. ‘What are you going to make first?’ he said instead.

  ‘Well, let me see,’ she said, turning within his embrace and planting a kiss on his chest. ‘I think I’ll do a small range of soft centres,’ she said, sounding thoughtful as though genuinely considering his question but unlacing her fingers to trace a line from the middle of his belly, then dipping beneath the sheet. She felt the response she hoped for. ‘And yes, indeed, perhaps an even bigger range of hard centres,’ she added.

  She heard his sleepy laugh rumble through his chest. ‘What a little fox you are, Mrs Britten-Jones. Tell me more. I like to hear your dreams.’

  ‘Don’t you have any of your own?’ Alex sat up on an elbow to regard him.

  He opened his eyes to meet her gaze and shook his head. ‘None. I find I don’t look forward to tomorrow.’

  ‘How bleak . . . You survived a war, Harry. Please try harder.’

  ‘I am. After our phone call last evening, it was the first contented night’s sleep I’ve had in years and the only morning I can recall in recent history that I’ve whistled.’ She chuckled. ‘Really, I whistled!’

  ‘Whatever’s got into you?’ she asked, mockingly.

  ‘You have. You’re in my head; I can’t shake you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be shaken out of your mind, Harry. I want to live in here,’ she said, touching his temple, ‘forever . . . your secret lover that you never quite get over.’

  ‘That’s a deal,’ he murmured and she welcomed his shifting position to deliver a searching kiss that she knew was given to banish their sudden sad exchanged glances.

  Harry’s kiss deepened as he shook off his sleepiness and she privately marvelled at the effortless manner in which his passion ignited again. Guilt-ridden thoughts of Matthew simmered around her; Matthew always found ways to divert her advances, usually through laughter. He’d start telling her a long, often convoluted story and then claim that he’d lost the moment or was suddenly desperately tired. ‘Save it for tomorrow’ was his favourite line as he planted a fleeting kiss on her cheek and left her bed to sleep down the hall like an old-fashioned gentleman.

  ‘I need to look at you,’ she heard distantly and was gently but firmly manoeuvred to sit above him – a fresh and exciting experience for her. As Harry’s hands reached around her buttocks, all thoughts of cool, detached Matthew were scorched away by the heat of Harry’s desire, which turned her mind empty of everything but this new, deeply intimate sensation that appeared to give her control over him. Harry helplessly closed his eyes, his back arching as he let out a groan that aroused her fully to share this next few moments – it was theirs for no one else to trespass upon. Harry was surrendering to her and as her mounting need began to reach further, higher once again, it felt as though invisible bonds were being loosened.

  When exquisite release shuddered through them, whatever had held her back in life seemed to break clean and Alex felt a sense of epiphany
. . . of power. Yes, that was what it was, she realised, her breathing slowing.

  It was as though Harry could hear those thoughts. ‘Look at what you do to me,’ he accused, smiling, eyes still closed.

  ‘What I do?’

  ‘You weaken me,’ he continued.

  She grinned, enjoying this reveal, this arrival of her own sense of control. Suddenly the notion that Matthew manipulated the strings of where they lived, where they went, who they entertained, even what she wore, settled like a hard pit in her belly. His control came as suggestions or often a compliment – ‘You are a picture in blue, my darling. Always wear it’ – and yet there she was living a life of obedience without fully realising it.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Harry suddenly asked. ‘You’re frowning.’

  ‘That I wish we never had to leave this cottage, that it was ours and we lived a simple life here.’

  He sat up to kiss her gently. ‘A delicious thought.’

  ‘Would you try to control me, Harry . . . if we were together, I mean?’

  ‘Control? That’s a harsh word. No, I don’t believe I could control you, nor would I want to. I like you like this: hair long and loose, a temptress who has me weak for her, who can feed me chocolate, wear sexy knickers, share pots of tea, drive around the countryside.’

  ‘Ride a horse,’ she added.

  ‘And make love so sweet I am helpless.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, lying down beside him again. ‘So, why are you like this, then, while other men want us to do what we’re told?’

  ‘Any man who thinks he has control over a beautiful and intelligent woman is fooling himself. She owns him.’

  ‘Even if she’s poor?’

  ‘Well, being poor doesn’t stop her being street smart or wily. She can still make strong decisions to improve herself and feel she’s carving her path.’

  ‘I love that you believe that.’

  He shrugged, clearly not interested in having a political discussion in bed, but she was feeling galvanised, whether it was from a sexual awakening that had long been missing or the revelation that the old Alex Frobisher was a new woman from today.

  How would this affect her life from here on? It was all very well to feel strong now, lying with a man filled with empathy and love for her. How would she be tomorrow when he was gone?

  Did he have to go? Did they really have to part? Was there no way they could be together?

  Alex didn’t even want to glance at her watch, although she was aware that time had likely passed faster than she was presuming. They would need to disentangle themselves soon.

  ‘Harry, can I ask you something personal?’

  ‘I suspect you’re going to anyway,’ he said, stirring and looking at the time for her. He was polite enough not to mention the lateness but she could tell their few hours of intimacy was now already her past and she would shortly have to dress again, allow the mantle of respectability to descend onto her shoulders, and to play the good wife once more.

  ‘I feel I must ask.’ She paused only briefly. ‘Why are you not in love with someone already?’

  ‘I am.’ He threw her a shrugging glance. ‘But it’s a hopeless love.’

  She swallowed. ‘All right, I walked into that. I should have said why aren’t you married?’

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and she missed his large, dependable warmth immediately. ‘Never found the right girl.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Harry. Women must have been flinging themselves at you for years.’

  He gave a soft snort.

  ‘Let’s approach this another way.’

  ‘Must we?’ He stood and began picking up his clothes.

  She noted he covered himself now, suddenly coy. He was feeling exposed by her question, no doubt.

  ‘I insist. Is there anyone in your life?’

  ‘There’s you.’

  ‘I don’t count.’ She sat up against the bedhead and watched him dress.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why.’ He was quick, already pulling on socks, his attention diverted to scan for shoes. This was no doubt a throwback from his military days. ‘Who else?’

  ‘My mother.’

  She laughed. ‘She doesn’t count either. Every boy loves his mum. There have to be others . . . and don’t say your aunt or your favourite dog or horse. Give me the truth. I deserve it.’

  She waited while Harry appeared to think on this as he quietly did up the laces of his shoes. The bed rocked softly as his weight shifted and the silence, she realised, had also shifted into uncomfortable. In a heartbeat the atmosphere had thickened with a tension she’d not felt around him previously. She wished she could pull the question back, never utter it again, but it was out and he was clearly working out how best to reply.

  ‘There is someone, isn’t there, Harry? Someone you’re running from. It’s why you’re here in York on an errand no one asked you to make?’

  The sudden stillness in the room – Harry now like a statue with his back to her, head bowed – gave her the answer she hadn’t realised until this moment she’d not wanted to discover, even though to all intents and purposes she had bullied him into responding.

  ‘There’s Bethany,’ he said, voice sounding as heavy as the weight he seemed to carry on his shoulders.

  ‘Bethany?’ Alex repeated, trying not to choke on the name.

  ‘My brother’s fiancée.’

  She hesitated but as Harry didn’t elaborate, she pressed, like painfully picking away at a scab. ‘Why is your brother’s fiancée in this conversation?’

  Harry straightened and stood. He didn’t meet her gaze yet, instead choosing to look out of the window into the distance to trees and fields. She knew exactly what he was seeing; this was her bedroom whenever she stayed with Charlotte. They’d been coming to the cottage since they were youngsters and if asked she could describe the landscape he was blinking at with accuracy. She refused to follow his gaze but fixed hers upon him and the internal struggle that showed itself in the frown and the shadows that seemed to dance behind his distant look. The memory of him near naked in the swimming pool yesterday flashed through her mind and how she had been unable to raise her gaze from the exposed, muscled chest that sported silvery scars and puckered flesh she had only today given what she called healing kisses to.

  Bethany.

  She didn’t mean to hate the name or the poor woman it belonged to, but Alex tripped over them both in her mind like a fallen log, an obstacle to her way forward.

  Forward? What did she think that meant, she berated herself, while she waited out the awkward pause. Going forward with Harry? Without Matthew? Divorce? Impossible. What was she thinking? She would never do that to her parents, to her family’s name, to herself. Imagine the humiliation. When it came down to it, she may not worry so much about what her immediate family thought of her and her actions but it seemed she did care enormously about what people beyond the doors of Tilsden Hall thought of the Frobisher name.

  She heard him clear his throat and refocused.

  ‘It’s not that I haven’t been honest with you but I haven’t explained my situation. Firstly, you need to know my name is Henry Blakeney. But I’ve always been called Harry by my family and for ease of not being treated differently, I called myself Harry Blake with everyone I introduced myself to in the army.’ He shrugged. ‘It stuck. I’m dreading going back to Blakeney.’

  ‘Blakeney,’ Alex repeated in a half whisper. ‘You don’t mean the Blakeneys of Southampton, do you?’ She blinked in shock. ‘Yes, of course you are . . . You passed yourself off as in imports.’

  He had the grace to pull a sheepish shrug. ‘Well, strictly speaking . . .’

  She ignored his attempt to sidestep, swinging out of bed, reaching for a familiar dressing-gown hung behind the door. It floated around her in a swish of chartreuse silk as she pulled it on, suddenly needing to cover her nakedness. ‘Don’t use semantics with me, Harry. Your family owns the shipping empi
re that I’m sure Rowntree’s uses to bring in its cocoa and vanilla, and other goods.’

  He nodded, sighing quietly with resignation. ‘That’s us. Southampton is where our business is; I keep a house in London and the family home is in West Sussex just outside a village called Cuckfield. My father passed away but my mother is still alive, alert and bullying the parish priest about his sermons.’ He gave a soft smile of memory.

  ‘Oh, Harry,’ she said, half awed, half horrified, her voice not much above a murmur. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘What good would it do?’ He sounded plaintive as he scratched his head, clearly embarrassed. ‘I’ve only known you a couple of days and in the beginning it just didn’t seem to matter who I was, other than a former soldier on a mercy mission. No details about me felt necessary, I suppose, until a night ago and then I simply didn’t have the opportunity. Besides, the truth is, I hate being judged because of my family name. Imagine your mother’s response . . . even you would have treated me differently.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ she asked, accusation in her tone.

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I accept that was unfair, but you of all people should know what it’s like. Didn’t the people at Rowntree treat you slightly apart from the general worker? You can’t deny it.’

  She felt a flash of guilt warm her face as she remembered the remark about her cut-crystal manner of speaking and how she would make the ideal VIP tour host. She was also reminded in that instant of the girls on her first day who kept a distance from the new recruit who lived on The Mount and could afford to volunteer her time because wages were unnecessary. She knew he saw it from the way his lips pursed as if preventing him from taking any pleasure in being right; still, she kept her gaze steady and said nothing. Harry continued. ‘Most of all I didn’t feel like explaining myself, Alex; I liked being just “Harry No One” on our tour. I just wanted a few more days of anonymity, and before you accuse me, I didn’t set out for this to happen between us. As strangers flung together, I didn’t expect to see you beyond that day at the factory.’