by Nancy Warren
“So I came to invite you to watch the boys play soccer tomorrow,” Maxine said, “and come to dinner at our place after.”
“Boys? I didn’t know you had kids.”
Maxine laughed. A good, rich sound. “Big boys. George and Arthur, among others. They play soccer two Saturdays a month. Overgrown schoolboys who still like to run around in shorts and push each other into the mud. I thought we’d have a few people back for dinner.”
“By your place, I assume you mean the castle?”
“Not a castle, honey. A house. And if you ever figure out how a five-hundred-year-old pile of stone with hundreds of rooms doesn’t count as a castle, you let me know.” While she talked, she bustled about the small kitchen and Meg was still too stunned to stop her. She realized she’d become a little obsessed, so driven to work while the writing was going well that she’d lost touch with the world.
“So? Can you tear yourself away?” Maxine was opening the tiny fridge and poking in cupboards.
“I don’t know. Is amateur soccer something I’d enjoy watching?”
Maxine glanced up from her position crouched on the floor. “Between us? They look hot as hell.”
“I’m not sure-”
Maxine rose. “You have no food in this place and the milk’s sour. I am staging an intervention. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“To get you some lunch.”
“The café?”
“The castle.”
“I thought it wasn’t a castle.”
“Quit stalling. Come on.”
“I need to back up my files. And comb my hair.” She glanced down at herself. “And change my clothes.”
“I’ll wait.”
Meg glanced longingly at her computer. What if she left and the muse took off, too? Could she take that chance? “If I paid you fifty bucks would you leave?”
“Not a chance. Guests who work themselves to death don’t give the place the right ambience.”
“Okay.” She sighed heavily but there wasn’t much heat behind the gesture. She had to back up her files first on the device she kept on her key chain. It went everywhere with her, in case her house burned down when she was out. She had a secondary backup system, of course.
When she sat down to back up, she noticed she’d left a sentence half finished. She hated doing that, so she finished the sentence. And then she was worried that she’d forget where the scene was going. Maybe she could get in a couple of paragraphs before Maxine noticed…
The hand waving in front of her face startled her. “Whaa…?”
She turned to find Maxine staring at her and shaking her head. “You were somewhere completely different. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so scared I’ll lose the momentum. You don’t know how long it’s been since the writing’s flowed like this.” She inhaled and noticed a wonderful aroma of food. Real, cooked food that hadn’t come out of a can or box. She looked around and noticed a tray sitting on the low table in front of the couch. “How did you…? I thought we were going to the castle for lunch.”
“I lost you. After I called your name twice and you didn’t answer, I figured you were going to be a dud for lunch company. And you seemed so happy typing away that I walked over to the pub. It’s today’s lunch special. Vegetable soup, a Cornish pasty and salad. Now you sit down and eat while I make some tea.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not staying. I’ve got some things to do. I really only came over to invite you for tomorrow. And I’m picking you up, by the way, so you don’t end up forgetting.”
Meg knew she should feel guilty, and in fact she did, but she decided to simply be grateful for the food delivery instead. The soup was incredible. The Cornish pasty, a pastry-wrapped meat dish, was delicious and filling. By the time the tea was ready, she’d forked down the last of the salad and was feeling all the contentment of enjoying her first decent meal in days.
“Please stay and have some tea with me. I could use the company.”
“Won’t I interrupt your work?”
“No. I was getting a little crazy there.”
“Okay,” Maxine said, looking pleased.
Meg blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes.
“Is it always like this for you? Writing nonstop for days?” Maxine asked, pouring tea and passing it.
“Almost never. That’s why I’m scared to quit. It’s a case of whatever’s working…” She sipped her tea. “I’m a pretty organized person, and I have a fully equipped office in my home in Seattle with a wonderful reference library. I’ve written thirteen books there without a hitch. Inspiration comes to me when I’m already at work. Sure, I’ll get a spell where I can’t type fast enough to keep up with the story. Oh, those days are the best. And I have been known to write all night when the mood is on me. But with this book”-she nodded toward the computer, where the cursor winked at her coyly-“nothing was working. This trip was really desperation. And almost from the first day I got here, I’ve had that sense of urgency. The story’s suddenly bursting to be told. It’s amazing.”
She sipped more tea.
“Did you know you’d write better in England?”
“No. That’s the scary thing. I was so desperate. I had no idea I’d write here at all. I wanted to get away for personal reasons.”
“How did you find us?” Maxine asked.
“Your Web site.”
A cat’s-got-the-cream smile curled her new friend’s lips. “The Web site was my idea. I’m working all the time on new markets and profit centers for this place.”
“It’s wonderful. I’ll certainly recommend it to my friends and acquaintances.”
“Excellent. So.” Maxine settled back and tucked her feet under her. “Tell me about this guy?”
Meg laughed. “How did you know it was a guy?”
Maxine sighed. “Isn’t it always? Who was he?”
Did she want to talk about this? Strangely enough, for the first time in months, Meg found she did. “He was another writer. A good writer, too, but not very successful. It’s not easy to find interesting, attractive men who are also literate.”
Maxine snorted. “Been there.”
“I was fooled by the packaging, I guess, and saw what I wanted to see. He taught college English and wore tweedy coats with elbow patches. He smoked a pipe. You know the type.”
“I fell in love with an art prof exactly like that.”
“Well, I was a fool. I didn’t realize he was jealous of me until I let him start critiquing my work. He’d be so helpful, showing me all my weaknesses, pulling my scenes to shreds, poking holes in my plots, questioning my character motivations. I never realized he was destroying my confidence until I found myself struggling in a way I hadn’t struggled before.”
“Pompous-assed little weasel.”
“Yep.” She stared down into her tea, frowning. This part was hard. “I finally called him on it. I told him I wasn’t going to let him read my work anymore. It was interfering with my confidence. He called me spoiled and manipulative. That made me mad, so I yelled at him that he was jealous.” She shook her head. “Big mistake. Then he really let me have it. And the trouble with truly literate men is that they can destroy you with such beautiful, big words. We broke up, of course, and then these vicious reviews started appearing online. All with false names, or maybe he was getting his students to write them. Who knows? I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t write.” She made a face. “I ran away.”
“And what a good thing you did. That asshole is history and you can write here.”
“That’s true.” Meg leaned back and let her gaze roam the comfy cottage, take in the fields outside. A rabbit hopped across the grass in front of the French doors. “I feel free again. I’m having more fun writing than I’ve had in a couple of years.”
“Excellent.” Maxine beamed at her. “Maybe we can advertise a resident writer�
��s muse among the many other benefits of a holiday at Stag Cottage.”
Meg laughed. “I’m not sure muses work that way, but what do I know? This is a magic spot for me, though, that’s certain.”
“I’m glad you’re here. It’s great to have somebody from home to talk to.”
Somehow, Maxine’s visit broke the spell of urgency she’d been operating under. Meg had written more in the last week than she’d managed in months. And now that she’d been pulled out of her writing cave she felt stir crazy. When Maxine told her she was going into town if she needed anything, Meg begged a ride and had the fun of shopping in a British supermarket, looking at biscuits instead of cookies, crisps instead of potato chips, and discovering there were kinds of apples she’d never heard of. Her senses seemed starved after too many days indoors, so she spent time hovering over the Cox’s Red Pippins and the black currants, the grapes and melons and figs. She loaded up on fruit. And she bought cheese and fresh bread, veggies and chicken. Two bottles of French wine. And fresh flowers for the table, because she deserved them.
She discovered an Internet café, and while Maxine was at the post office she checked her e-mail, finding nothing urgent. A note from her agent about a book sale to Poland, a few fan letters, some chatty e-mails from friends, an invitation to join a panel in the fall at the Elliot Bay Book Company. Suddenly, she felt so far away from her regular life. But in a good way. She’d needed this break.
Once home, she put away the food and decided that a tramp around the countryside would do her good. The tray and the few dishes from the pub lunch were still on the table. She washed them and decided to begin her walk by dropping them off.
As she clambered over the stile and headed for the pub, she noticed her pulse was kicking up. She’d see her villain, her gorgeous/scary villain.
As it was, she saw Arthur sooner than she’d expected, nearly colliding with him as she rounded the corner. Only by amazing dexterity-and him having the sense to grab the soup bowl before it crashed to the ground-was disaster averted.
He looked even more dangerous somehow, when he wasn’t inside the pub. As though the lion had been let out of his cage. He’d be unpredictable. Unfettered.
Every time she saw him she experienced the shiver of attraction and the hint of danger. She’d assumed it was because she’d used him as the model for her villain.
But now she wasn’t so sure. There was something about him that made her very wary. She might write about dangerous men but in her life she preferred safe ones. The kind she could control. This man was not safe or controllable.
And she was far too glad to see him.
“I was starting to think you’d gone home,” he said, his voice as rich and rough as the Liffey River.
“No. I’ve been working.” She glanced up at him and admitted, “Maxine dragged me out today, and now I can’t seem to go back inside.” It was the weather, too, she decided. One of those days that was still warm, but with a hint of the coolness to come. There’d been some rain, she thought, in the last few days, but now it was clear and sunny. “I’m going to take a walk.”
“Well, that’s a good thing. Too much work isn’t good for a body. I’m taking a break myself.”
“Care to join me?” She said the words before she’d thought them through, before she realized she was thinking them.
There was the tiniest instant of silence, as though he were surprised, too, and then he said, “Yeah, all right. I’ll run these things inside.” He relieved her of the tray and dishes and was back, leaving her just enough time to beat herself up for asking him along.
They walked along the river, where there were miles and miles of footpath. “I hear from Max that you’re coming to watch the football tomorrow.”
“Yes. Maxine isn’t easy to say no to. She says she’s coming to pick me up so I don’t forget.”
“You don’t want to come?”
Was it her imagination or did he sound a little hurt? Oh, dear. She didn’t want him to think she was avoiding him. “No, of course I want to come.” But that sounded a bit too eager, didn’t it?
She made a grunty-groany sound she hoped indicated frustration. “It’s this book. It’s finally going well. I’m terrified to stop in case I can’t start again.”
“Lots of murder and horror?”
“I’m really getting to the good stuff now.”
He looked down at her, an expression almost of challenge on his face. “You haven’t called me in the middle of the night.”
Her stomach curled over, as though she were on the downhill rush of a roller coaster. She returned his gaze, feeling breathless. “I haven’t been scared enough.” Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she wondered how such a tough face could have such a sensuous mouth. “Yet.”
“I know a wonderful technique for chasing away fear,” he said softly, turning to face her. The river lapped quietly behind them, and a breeze ruffled the trees.
“You do?”
“Yes,” he said, and grasping her shoulders, he put his mouth on hers, soft and slow, but determined. She’d known it would happen, of course. She supposed she’d known it from the first second she’d seen him. His mouth was warm, so warm, his lips strong and agile. Her hands ended up on his shoulders, though she had no conscious thought of putting them there, so she felt the play of muscle, the warmth of his body.
He pulled away slowly, looking down at her as though he knew the single kiss had rocked her to her pedicured toenails.
“Desire,” he said. “That’ll keep your fear at bay.”
Oh, how wrong he was. Now she began to fear that this very inconvenient and impossible-to-stop attraction was going to totally screw up her work.
The author of a book couldn’t have sex with its villain.
Chapter Five
Meg was finger-combing the last dampness from her hair. She hadn’t been able to decide what to wear for dinner at the big house, and finally settled on a simple coffee-colored linen dress with chunky amber beads and earrings. Her heels were never going to make the tramp all ten miles or whatever it was up to the house, so she stuck on her walking shoes and carried her ridiculously high-heeled sandals in a shopping bag.
After days being cooped up with her muse, she was pretty excited to be going out.
A butler opened the heavy oak door to her. A real, honest-to-God butler. Oh, and wasn’t he straight out of central casting with his beaky nose, long face, and air of gentility.
She gave her name, and he looked discreetly off into the distance when she hastily changed her shoes, then relieved her of her shopping bag.
He trod with stately slowness down the flagstone hall. She almost expected him to announce her, like at a ball, but he merely opened a door and said, “You’ll find his lordship and Miss Maxine in here.”
“Thank you.”
She entered and saw not Maxine or George, or anyone except the tall, dark man standing beside the fireplace, one elbow on the mantel and a crystal glass winking amber in his hand. Arthur’s eyes warmed when he looked at her and she suddenly felt as breathless as she had in that moment right before he’d kissed her.
Then Maxine rose from her chair and came forward, breaking the spell.
“I’m so glad you could come,” she said. “George needs cheering up.”
Meg smiled at the poor earl, sitting with his bare foot wrapped in a tensor bandage and resting on a low footstool that had to have been embroidered by the Normans shortly after the conquest. Other than the bare foot, which showed a certain purple aspect, he looked movie star handsome.
“How’s your ankle?” she asked him as she walked over and gave him her hand.
“It bloody hurts,” he complained. “If that great oaf hadn’t trodden on me, I’d be standing up and greeting you properly.”
Since the wicked way he was grinning at her had her thinking that Maxine was going to have her hands full, she shook her head at him. “It looked to me like you were both playing like you were ten years old.”
The soccer players were all in their thirties, with a few who looked to be in their forties, but they’d played their football, as they insisted on calling it, as though they were kids, running and shoving and getting filthy. Max was right, though-they were all men in their prime and they looked totally hot.
“Nonsense. You don’t understand the complexities of the game,” he told her.
“You are such a wally,” Arthur told him. “And if you can’t greet your guests properly, I can.” Then he walked forward, said “Hello,” and gave her a quick kiss. Just a brush of his lips over hers, really, but the thrill danced all the way down her spine.
“Hello,” she said, telling herself there was no need to blush. He was only winding up their host. Still, the tingle remained.
Arthur, who was standing in for George as host, it seemed, in anything that required standing, asked her what she wanted to drink. “Um, I don’t know.”
He lowered his voice. “Mrs. Brimacombe, the cook and housekeeper, tends to solid British fare. I recommend a good stiff belt of something.”
“Surprise me,” she said, knowing that one way or another, he was going to do exactly that.
There were two other couples. Old friends of George’s who’d also played today and their wives. Meg fell into the evening feeling almost like a spectator at a play. These people had known each other forever and the back-and-forth banter, the in-jokes, and the shared history were laid out before her. Of course, they were polite, well-mannered people, and they included her. The discussion was general, but every once in a while there’d be a line or a joke that had to be explained.
Since she was now writing a book set in England, with a British villain and a lot of characters much like these, she was only too happy to watch them live their very English lives in front of her, while she absorbed.
The perfect butler announced dinner and a single waitress served it, a come-down, she suspected, from earlier days when there would have been a full staff. The meal was fine. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with peas and green beans and roast potatoes. Maybe a little overcooked for her taste, but not so dire that she really needed the martini in her system. She wondered if Arthur had ulterior motives for getting her drinking and one glance at him convinced her that he did.
