Casting Samson

by Melinda Hammond

  “Now, before you get carried away, I think you should remember the survey of Templar property in England that was carried out in 1185. Moreton-by-Fleetwater is not included. So even if this Hugh is from your village, he did not build a Templar church there.” He smiled at her downcast face. “Sorry to disappoint you. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Um—I hope I’m not too early?” Deborah arrived at the garret at a few minutes past three. She looked at Josh standing in the doorway wearing tight denims and a loose white cotton shirt that emphasised his tanned skin.

  “No, great. Come in.” He’d answered her knock almost immediately, and he led her into a large, airy attic room with a steeply pitched roof that was painted white between the bleached wooden beams. The huge arched windows set in each gable flooded the room with light, which fell on the brightly coloured rugs scattered over the floor and bounced off the big scarlet sofa that filled the centre of the room. A large black cat was stretched out on one of the rugs, basking in a pool of sunlight.

  “Well, now you’ve actually dared to come inside, what do you think of it?”

  He was watching her, a faint smile in his eyes.

  “It’s great. Much bigger than I imagined. I thought it would be more like a bedsit.”

  He laughed.

  “So did I.” He pointed to the door. “The bedroom’s through there, and the bathroom and kitchen. Go and have a look.”

  She flushed, suddenly shy. “No, that’s okay. Besides, Demelza might not like it.”

  “Oh, she won’t mind. D’you want a coffee?”

  “Do you have any tea?”

  “Uh-huh. It won’t be long, the kettle’s just boiled. Take a seat.” He disappeared into the kitchen and Deborah sank down into the sofa. It was old and worn but surprisingly comfortable. She could imagine curling up on it on long winter evenings. Something rubbed against her legs and she looked down to find the black cat purring round her ankles.

  “Hello, cat.” As she spoke, the animal jumped up on her lap and settled down, purring loudly.

  “You’re favoured, she doesn’t take to everyone.” Josh returned, carrying two mugs which he put down on top of the newspapers that were scattered over the low table. “Hope you like cats, because she won’t leave you alone now.”

  “Yes, I do. I wanted one in London, but it wouldn’t have been right, keeping a kitten in a flat.” Bernard had refused to let her keep the stray that had adopted them. Too unhygienic, he’d argued. Looking back, she thought that if it had been a silky Persian, or an aristocratic Siamese, he might have kept it, but a common moggy didn’t suit his image. She smiled to herself as she smoothed the furry body on her lap, feeling its purr of pleasure under her hand.

  Josh handed her his lines and they got down to business. It didn’t take long, and after they’d gone through them a couple of times, Deborah declared Josh word-perfect. She didn’t hesitate when he offered her more tea.

  Josh refilled the mugs and sat back down at the other end of the sofa, watching her. “Any more thoughts on what you’re going to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How long are you going to continue helping your Dad with the restaurant?”

  She shrugged. “For a bit, while he needs me.”

  “What can you do, besides waiting at tables?”

  “I can do the whole lot, if I have to, but my cooking’s not as good as Dad’s. And I can run an office.” She grinned at him. “I was a facilities administrator in London. That’s a fancy name for an office manager.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I was good at it.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “No. You’re right.”

  “So?”

  She spread her hands. “I don’t know. I’m enjoying working with Dad, although it would be nice to be a little more—adventurous sometimes. Plaice and chips with toffee pudding or apple pie begins to pall after a while.”

  “I bet. But I might come over and try it sometime. It’s probably better than eating alone.”

  “I thought you said Demelza was here. Is she shy or something?” She put down her cup, her earlier suspicions resurfacing. “Are you sure she exists?”

  Josh’s dark eyes were gleaming with laughter.

  “Sure, she exists. She’s been sitting on your lap for most of the afternoon.”

  Deborah stared at him, then down at the cat. “You mean—”

  “Yes.”

  She drew a long breath. “You—you toad!”

  Josh, completely unaffected by her anger, leaned back at the other end of the sofa and grinned. Deborah’s lips twitched and she burst out laughing. Disliking this excessive movement, Demelza jumped down and strolled back to her sunny patch on the rug.

  “Then why did you tell me she was your girlfriend?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You implied it!”

  “Not the same thing at all.”

  She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Not a party animal! Oh God, how you must have laughed at me!” She snatched up a cushion and began to beat him.

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” He grabbed at the cushion, catching her hands at the same time. “But you must admit it was funny.”

  “I’m not admitting anything.” She threw herself back into the corner of the sofa, laughing, and Josh moved up beside her.

  “Am I forgiven?”

  “Never! I’ll have my revenge on you for this, you, you…”

  He was leaning over her and suddenly her desire to laugh faded. There was a constriction in her throat and she couldn’t speak. The next moment Josh was kissing her. It was a swift, tender touch at first, then as he gently nibbled at her lip, she found herself responding, hungrily pressing her mouth against his. Slowly he eased her down on the sofa, shifting to his knees on the floor beside her so that he could cover her face and neck with kisses.

  Her arms twined around his neck, fingers driving through the thick black curls as his mouth slid across her lips. When at last he lifted his head, they were both gasping, as if they had just run a mile uphill. Her eyes roamed his face, taking in the smooth skin, the fine cheekbones and sensitive mouth, the dark eyes glowing with a golden fire in their depths.

  She felt herself trembling and tried to smile to hide it. “I—um—”

  He kissed her again, and the fire he stirred within her robbed her of all coherent thought. Lifting her easily into his arms, he carried her to the bedroom. Bereft of all ability to speak, Deborah kept her eyes on his face as he laid her gently on the bed. They undressed each other, their efforts interspersed with long, lingering kisses.

  They made love as Deborah had never known it before. Josh caressed her, watching her responses and repeating the moves that made her shiver with pleasure. She ran her hands over his back, revelling in the feel of hard muscle beneath the silk-smooth skin, breathing in the masculine smell of him. Then, to prolong the moment, Deborah took the initiative, roving his body with her hands and mouth until she’d reduced him to a state of quivering ecstasy. The sun’s shadows had moved right across the floor before their lovemaking reached its zenith, and they collapsed back onto the bed, locked in each other’s arms.

  “So, are we all here?” Clara Babbacombe looked around the table at the committee. “Where’s Anne?”

  Alan Thorpe shook his head. “She said she was free today…ah, here she is!”

  “Sorry I’m late!” Anne hurried in through the doors and slid into her seat.

  Alan looked at her closely, noting the heightened colour in her cheeks, the added sparkle in her grey eyes. “Been somewhere nice?”

  Her broad smile encompassed them all.

  “Well, I enjoyed it. I’ve been searching through the records and resources of Flixton University.”

  Godfrey Mullett stared at her and slowly picked a humbug from the bag in his pocket. “Really! How on earth did you manage that?”

  “Professor Dug
gan invited me over, on the principle that we are both searching for the truth.”

  “And did you discover anything?” Godfrey asked, polishing his glasses.

  “We found a reference to a Hugh of Moreton who did go off to the Crusades, and he was a Templar!”

  “Excellent! And he came back and built the church?” Miss Babbacombe enquired eagerly.

  “Ah, well, no, actually…”

  “Well, it would help if we had some evidence that he had,” Alan put in, a slight edge of irritation creeping into his voice. “Have you seen today’s paper?” He held up a copy, folded open to a small article on an inside page. “Just look at that heading, Moreton’s Knightmare! And listen to how it goes on. An unholy row has broken out over Moreton-by-Fleetwater’s claims to have a hitherto undiscovered Templar church in their village.”

  Anne shrugged. “Well, perhaps I went a little far in my second article to the Advertiser, when I hinted there might be the graves of crusading knights buried under the church. But it’s good publicity, isn’t it, to make it into the national press?”

  “I’m not sure we want to make claims we cannot substantiate.” The vicar sounded doubtful.

  “Quite,” agreed Miss Babbacombe. “I’m not criticising your efforts, Anne my dear, but we don’t want to give the impression that this is some kind of publicity stunt.”

  Anne was busy scanning the article. “I never thought it would attract so much attention! Well, what do you want to do, remove all mention of the Templars from the programme?”

  “As far as I remember, it’s not mentioned.” Miss Babbacombe sifted through her notes. “Ah, here’s the proof from the printers…No, we only say there’s a legend that the church was built by Hugh of Moreton, when he returned from the Crusades. And no mention of Templars at all.”

  Anne sat back in her chair. “Good. So there’s no problem.”

  “Oh, yes, there is!” Alan said. “I’ve already had two calls from journalists asking me if they can conduct an interview—”

  “Just tell them we’re investigating a legend,” Anne said. “This is all a storm in a teacup. What do you think, Deborah?”

  Deborah was thinking about the way Josh had kissed her that afternoon. Nothing else seemed of much importance.

  “Me? I—ah—well, I don’t think it matters too much. It’s not a very sensational story, after all…”

  “Maybe not.” Godfrey reached for another sweet. “But there’s precious little news at the moment, no government scandals or natural disasters to fill the newspapers, so they’re looking for odd little stories.”

  “Exactly.” Alan slowly turned his gold-plated fountain pen between his fingers. He continued heavily, “The pageant is something for all the village to enjoy, and it doesn’t look good for the committee to be in dispute with the local university over the history of St. John’s. It looks…arrogant.”

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  “So what would you have me do?” Anne looked around the table, her cheeks still flushed, but this time by anger. “Do you want me to write to the paper, telling them it was all a mistake? Won’t that make us look even more foolish?”

  “Perhaps we should just keep quiet,” Godfrey offered hopefully. “These news stories never last very long.”

  “Unfortunately one of the journalists who rang me said he would be interviewing this professor whatever his name is—”

  “Duggan.”

  “Thank you, Anne. He said Professor Duggan is going to accuse the Moreton Pageant Committee of twisting the truth to attract the crowds.”

  Aubrey Bodicote shook his head, his countenance even more anxious than ever. “I really cannot think that this reflects well on St. John’s.”

  Clara Babbacombe leaned forward and addressed Anne across the table. “Look, my dear. You seem to know this professor quite well, now. Perhaps if you could have a word with him, explain our situation, tell him we won’t be publishing any more inflammatory reports—maybe he could be persuaded not to say any more to the papers?”

  Anne bit her lip. This was not the time to tell the committee she’d agreed to have dinner with Toby Duggan the very next day.

  “Okay. I’ll speak to him.”

  “Thank you.” Alan gave her a warm smile, then turned his attention to the notes before him. “Back to matters arising from the last meeting. Clara, can you pass a message on to the Mothers’ Union? I’ve cleared it with the chef that they can use the kitchens at the Towers to bake the Ten Commandments. Godfrey, the weapons for the David and Goliath battle are not to be handed out until the procession is about to begin and must be collected back again before the Scouts go home. PC Carrick is not so worried about the spears and swords, but thinks the slingshots could prove a danger to the public…”

  Chapter Twenty

  Anne dressed with care for her dinner with Toby Duggan. The simple woollen wrap-over dress clung to her slender figure, while a subtle slit in the skirt gave a tantalising glimpse of long legs that were usually hidden under trousers. She hadn’t worn the dress since Malcolm had died, but its classic styling hadn’t dated, and the warm coffee colour enhanced her creamy skin.

  If she was honest with herself, she wanted to impress her dinner partner. She’d declined when he suggested the Towers—no one in Moreton knew of her dinner engagement, and she wondered how Alan would react to her dining in his restaurant with another man, especially when that man was the pageant committee’s number-one enemy! Nothing daunted, Toby had suggested the Beaujolais in Flixton, an expensive French restaurant with a fearsome reputation for excellent food and high prices. It was too tempting to refuse.

  Toby was waiting for her in the small bar area when she arrived. She noted with some amusement that he’d graced the occasion with a tie, but it scarcely diminished the look of rumpled academic. The restaurant was small but elegant and she was glad she’d added a gold chain and earrings to her outfit, but she failed to detect any increased admiration in the professor’s eyes when he greeted her. She tried to ignore the faint feeling of disappointment.

  Anne looked around her with interest. “Lovely atmosphere. I’ve heard of this place, of course, but never been here before.”

  “You had no trouble finding it?”

  “None.”

  “And I suppose you felt happier coming in your own car.” He spoke without raising his eyes from the menu. “Gives you an escape route if you want it.”

  This was so close to Anne’s reasons for suggesting they meet at the restaurant that she could think of nothing to say, and concentrated on choosing her meal.

  The food was good, plenty of it and efficiently served. Anne could not forget that she’d promised to talk to him about the press interest in the Moreton Pageant, but the subject didn’t arise, although they seemed to cover everything else. Reluctantly she brought the conversation round to St. John’s.

  “Alan—our committee chairman—has had a call from The Guardian—about the history of the church and all that.” She paused. “They said you were going to write an article for them.”

  “Did they?” He sounded unconcerned. “Well, I’m not. I might have said I’d think about it, but in any case I doubt they would use it. Who would be interested in a story that just says we’re looking into the history of the place?”

  “Quite.” Anne agreed, feeling much more comfortable. “And after all, we haven’t mentioned anything about Templars in our programme for next week.”

  “No, but I have to object to your last article in the Advertiser—speculation about Templar burials.” He paused. “However, I suspect that was just to wind me up.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. “I was a bit cross with you. I went home and dashed off that piece after you’d come to the disco. It was a bit irresponsible—”

  “A bit! Heaven help your pupils if you behave that way in the classroom.”

  “I don’t. Besides, I teach English, and I’ll have you know I’m…” She bit her tongue. I
t would not help to antagonise him. “Look, let’s not argue. I really don’t want to spoil this evening. It’s one of the most enjoyable meals I’ve had in ages.”

  “Good. I’m enjoying it too. How long have you been a widow?” He asked the question with neither sympathy nor embarrassment in his tone, and she was thankful for that.

  “Three years.”

  “And he was a teacher, like you?”

  “Head teacher of a primary school. We moved to Moreton when he retired, planning to live in some rural idyll, you know, roses round the door, long walks in the country, that sort of thing.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry. Was it sudden?”

  She hesitated, and he added quickly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, but you seem to have recovered so well. You have a very calm aura.”

  She laughed at that. “I do? I’m not an angel, I assure you, but I am happy enough, I suppose. Malcolm and I had fifteen happy years together, and no one can take that away.”

  “No. You’re very lucky.”

  She paused as the waiter approached to clear away the empty dishes. “What about you, is there anyone in your life?”

  “No. A few liaisons in my student days, but my work has always been enough for me.” He grinned wryly. “And too much for a partner.”

  She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands. “Do you live at the university?” Some mischievous demon made her add, “I imagine you living in cluttered rooms at the top of a dark narrow stair, with your students hurrying through the cloisters to see you.”

  He laughed. “Flixton only built its university in the 1890s, so we’ve no cloisters there. No. I have a little house about five minutes’ walk from the university, but I confess it is cluttered, even though I do have the luxury of a cleaner.”

  “Would sir or madam care for coffee?” The waiter hovered solicitously, but they both ignored him.

  Toby was staring at her.

  “Would you like to see it?”