The wait was interminable. She felt sure he’d gone back to tell his family that he’d left her stranded and crippled, that they’d be loading Nutmeg on to a trailer any minute. Then she heard the distant sound of an engine. He came back on a quad bike.
‘I thought this was the easiest way to get you back.’
Being left with little choice, she climbed on behind him, sitting as far away from him as she could. Eventually, however, she had to relent and relax into his body to make the ride more comfortable. Every rut in the fields felt like fire shooting up her ankle, and by the time they got to Lower Faviell Farm she was nearly in tears. She reluctantly allowed him to take her arm as she hobbled into the farmhouse, where she was very relieved that the rest of the Deacons all seemed to be out. Despite the fact that her rescuer appeared to belie all the rumours, she would have been terrified to find herself in their midst.
He sat her down on an armchair while he made tea in quite the most chaotic kitchen she had ever seen. There was a basket of newborn kittens in one corner. Someone had been cleaning tack on the kitchen table, leaving behind a tangled mass of reins and stirrup leathers. There were at least a dozen mugs lined up next to the sink, waiting to be washed. A huge bar built out of old cider barrels stood in one corner, with proper optics behind it for gin and whisky and rum, but as well as those the counter was smothered in bottles of every type of alcohol one could imagine. He picked up a bottle of brandy and poured a substantial slug into a mug of very hot, very sweet tea which he handed to her. She protested.
‘I don’t really drink.’
‘It’s medicinal. It’ll do you good.’
She sipped at her mug obediently and soon felt the luxuriously numbing effects of the alcohol slide into her veins. Meanwhile, he applied some ointment to her ankle, evoking a curious mix of pain and pleasure: the sprain was agony, but his warm fingers on her skin were very soothing indeed.
‘My sister uses this for bruising whenever she falls off. You probably know her. Tanya.’
Jamie certainly knew Tanya by sight, and repute. Tanya had a string of unlikely and rather moth-eaten ponies that she used to sweep up all the rosettes at local horse shows. She would strut around the showground with her shirt unbuttoned and knotted at the waist, a leopard-skin bra shamelessly visible underneath and a matching thong deliberately showing above the waistband of her skin-tight jodhpurs. Her hair varied in colour from peroxide white to magenta to blue-black. When the time came for her to go into the ring, she would button up her shirt, sling on her tie and show-jumping jacket, two sizes too small and with all the buttons missing, then, kicking the living daylights out of whatever dozing mount she’d chosen, nonchalantly pop every fence. Before she’d even left the ring she would have lit another cigarette, displaying no emotion at the reluctant round of applause that would follow her achievement. Jamie had been up against her in a clear round several times. She was terrified of Tanya. Everybody was. Not that she ever said anything to anyone; she just glowered, collected her rosettes ungraciously and left. The one time Jamie had scooped a rosette from under her nose, Tanya had given her a cool, appraising stare from between her spidery lashes, then looked away as she blew out a long stream of disparaging cigarette smoke, as if to say that the competition hadn’t been worth the effort of winning.
As she sat curled up in the chair, taking in her surroundings, Jamie found herself drifting off. Perhaps it was the brandy, or the shock, or the rug that had been tucked round her, but she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She awoke to find him brushing her hair gently away from her face, and realized she didn’t even know his name.
‘Which one are you, anyway?’ she murmured sleepily.
He grinned, showing white even teeth.
‘Rod. Second youngest. I was thinking… maybe you’d like me to drop you home? The others will be back soon – it’ll be chaos.’
She certainly didn’t want to be an object of curiosity for the rest of the Deacons, like Goldilocks being peered at by the three bears, so she let him help her to a filthy old pick-up. He grinned ruefully, apologetic.
‘Sorry – you need a tetanus jab to get in here.’
Inside, it was littered with old Coke cans, cigarette ends and Mars bar wrappers. But Jamie didn’t mind. All she was worried about was the fact that, in a few minutes’ time, she was going to have to say goodbye. And she absolutely didn’t want to. And for the life of her she couldn’t think of an excuse to see him again.
Luckily, Rod was two jumps ahead of her.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, see how you are. Then we can make arrangements to bring your horse back. I’ll get Tanya to ride her over.’ He paused. ‘Or I could…’
He looked at her sideways and smiled.
Luckily for Jamie, her parents were both preoccupied that week. Louisa had gone to talk to a gallery owner in London about showing a new series of paintings, and Jack had gone with her to negotiate some deal. By the time the two of them got back, she had fallen head over heels in love.
To her amazement, she had found a kindred spirit in Rod. They both loved the outdoors and, whilst they enjoyed other people’s company, were happiest when they were on their own. And they both shared the same frustrations: parents who were seemingly disinterested in their futures. Rod told her how he was fulfilling his dream to set up his own kitchen company, and how his father was pouring scorn upon it.
‘He says a self-employed man is never his own man; he’s always at someone else’s beck and call. He reckons I should just stick to a wage and be done with it.’
Jamie told him her dilemma; how her parents seemed to think it perfectly reasonable for her to have no ambition whatsoever, and how frustrating she found that. And she was grateful for Rod’s understanding. All her other friends just envied her not being pushed – they didn’t get how it undermined her confidence.
She felt comfortable and safe with him, but at the same time tingly inside. When he wasn’t looking, she feasted her eyes upon him, admiring his dark, gypsy curls, the eyes the colour of liquid amber that crinkled kindly at the corners when he laughed. His physique made her quite weak with longing, especially his hands with the long, brown fingers that were obviously so skilled at their craft. He wore faded jeans and Doctor Marten’s, tight white T-shirts and soft cotton lumber jack shirts open over the top. Once, when he had left one of them in her car, she had taken it to bed with her. It smelled of his tangy, salty maleness, and it was almost as if he was with her. She wished fervently that he was, realizing that at long last she had met someone she felt sure was ‘the one’. She felt alive with anticipation and expectation, wondering where it would all lead.
Added to this was the thrill of keeping Rod a secret. She’d never done anything forbidden before, quite simply because nothing was forbidden to her. But something told her Jack and Louisa would not be happy about her liaising with a Deacon. Besides, if their relationship was out in the open, she’d be expected to bring him into the Wilding social life, and she had a feeling he wouldn’t be comfortable with that. She couldn’t bear the thought of him sitting at the table, a fish out of water trying to make polite conversation. Nor could she imagine him wafting about on the lawn sipping Pimm’s, or standing with his back to a roaring log fire clutching a glass of mulled wine at Christmas. He wouldn’t fit in to the Wildings’ way of life. And she didn’t want him to. She wanted him just as he was, and all to herself.
So, like a delicious square of chocolate surreptitiously enjoyed by a dieter, or a nip of whisky taken unobtrusively by the secret alcoholic, she revelled in the clandestine nature of her sin. She didn’t even have to lie. Her parents trusted her so implicitly, would never have imagined in their wildest dreams what she was up to, that they rarely enquired as to her whereabouts.
They would never have believed what a gentleman Rod was. How he went to great lengths to find excursions to delight her, taking a boat out on the river, visiting a wildlife park, exploring the ruins of a castle. They went to the films in the mid
dle of the afternoon, and sat holding hands with a box of popcorn between them.
Only once did something happen to shake her belief in Rod and remind her that there was no smoke without fire, that people hadn’t branded the Deacons as gypsies, tramps and thieves for nothing. She’d gone to collect him from their secret meeting place, up a track that ran alongside one of their outlying fields. She didn’t flatter herself that the Deacons knew about her any more than Jack and Louisa knew about him.
A horse was running up and down beside the fence, in the agitated way horses do when they arrive at a new location, before they have satisfied themselves of their surroundings. With its tail high and its ears pricked, it was snorting and whinnying through flared nostrils, muscles tightly bunched in preparation for flight should anything untoward appear. It was clearly highly strung and highly bred. Jamie looked at it with interest. It was stunning; not the Deacons’ usual calibre at all.
‘Wow!’ she said, as Rod got into the front seat. ‘What a fantastic horse.’
Rod gave it a cursory glance.
‘It’s Tanya’s.’
‘It must have cost a fortune.’
Rod shrugged. Jamie leaned out of the window to get a better look.
‘Seriously.’ She examined the immaculate conformation, its sleek, streamlined perfection. ‘It looks like a racehorse.’
She looked at Rod, puzzled, not wanting to be so rude as to ask where they’d got the money.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, turning on the radio. She frowned. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it. Suddenly, a cold realization hit her.
‘It’s not stolen, is it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, where did she get it?’
Again a disinterested shrug. ‘Off some dealer.’
‘You should check the paperwork very carefully. She might have bought a stolen horse without knowing it. It must be worth thousands. Thousands and thousands.’
She knew she was right. This wasn’t a gifted amateur’s horse. It was quality, bred for speed and endurance. Surely they must realize? Jamie persisted.
‘Maybe you should just check with the police. I mean, it would be awful if Tanya was found with it, and it turned out it had been stolen.’
Rod turned to look at her, his eyes hard.
‘Jamie, the horse isn’t stolen. OK?’
The tone in his voice told her she was supposed to shut up. But she wasn’t going to give up that easily.
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s… on loan. Let’s just leave it at that, OK?’
Jamie sat at the wheel, turning everything over in her mind. Why would anyone in their right mind want Tanya Deacon to be in charge of a valuable horse like that? And why was it being kept in the field that was farthest from the road, where no one was likely to clap eyes on it?
The penny dropped. She turned to look at Rod, who was staring ahead, frowning.
‘It’s an insurance job, isn’t it? Someone’s arranged to have it nicked, and you’re looking after it.’
His lack of response was sufficient answer.
‘That’s terrible! That’s absolutely terrible! You can’t let them do that –’
‘Look,’ said Rod. ‘I don’t criticize your family. So don’t criticize mine. OK?’
There was something in his tone that made her drop the subject immediately. But the incident had frightened her, unsettled her. Somebody somewhere had made a substantial claim on their insurance for a horse they’d declared stolen, knowing full well it was perfectly safe with the Deacons, who had no doubt received a generous payment for ‘stealing’ it. This made them out-and-out criminals. Rod, by doing nothing, clearly condoned this behaviour, even if he wasn’t directly involved. She was quiet for the rest of the afternoon, unable to help wondering what else he was happy to accept. It was in his blood, after all.
In the end, she decided to keep quiet and not mention it again, though she couldn’t help worrying if that made her as bad as they were. She’d toyed with the idea of phoning the police anonymously, but she was too frightened. She didn’t want anything to come between her and Rod. And she was sure he hadn’t had anything to do with it directly. He wasn’t like the rest of them. And she didn’t want to risk upsetting him, possibly losing him. Not when she’d finally found someone she wanted to spend time with; someone she thought about the minute she woke up, and fell asleep dreaming about. And who she was pretty sure felt the same way about her.
Thus they continued their sweet, rather old-fashioned courtship, enjoying innocent pastimes and days out that most people would have dismissed as dull, but they got their excitement from each other’s company, discovering as much about each other as they could.
And then finally, one day, when they’d taken a picnic to a tranquil secluded spot by a river, they made love. It seemed entirely natural, not the terrifying, traumatic occasion Jamie had always imagined it to be. They were lying side by side on a rug under an oak tree, dozing after having devoured thick ham sandwiches and crisps and a cloudy bottle of local cider, when he leaned over and looked deep into her eyes.
He said just one word. Her name. And she knew in that single word was a question, a request for permission. And her reply was to reach her hand up behind his head and pull his lips to hers. She could taste the appley cider on him, rough yet sweet, just like his kisses, and she devoured the sensation eagerly. She was wearing a skimpy sundress, and as he pushed it up, caressing her thighs, she knew she had no intention of protesting, that she was going to let him go as far as he wanted, that she was totally happy to give herself up to whatever was to come. And as his firm, strong fingers began to explore her further, it was as if he’d unlocked a magic box. She pushed herself against his hand, which suddenly wasn’t enough, urging him on with a frenetic desperation. He tried to calm her, a little frightened by what he had unleashed.
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Please. Just do it. Please.’
He was incredibly tentative, and at first she felt nothing. Somehow, she’d expected pain, but there was none. Then gradually he began to move, and so did she, relaxing into his rhythm, shutting her eyes and letting herself go. Then a little tingle started right in the core of her belly, twisting round and round like a tiny tornado, elusive at first, seeming to tease her. As it grew stronger, and then stronger, she heard herself give a little whimper of pleasure, then felt Rod stop. She opened her eyes: he was looking at her in concern.
‘Are you OK?’ he whispered. She nodded, and as if to confirm it pulled him to her urgently, for fear the magical sensation would vanish. It didn’t; on the contrary it spread, spilling through her insides like an upturned tin of golden syrup, seeping through her veins. Nothing else in the world mattered; she didn’t care if the whole of Shropshire was lined up to see her.
All too soon, it was over. Rod lay on top of her, and she could feel their hearts hammering in unison, their breath gradually subsiding. For a moment she felt bereft; terrified that had been the first and last time. It couldn’t possibly happen again. Not like that. It was…
Heaven.
The next day Jamie was walking on air. She had hardly slept, just gone over and over what had happened that afternoon. It had been beyond her wildest dreams and expectations. She wondered if it was like that every time, and if it was like that for everyone. And if it had been as fantastic and momentous for him – though she didn’t flatter herself that she’d been his first by any means. Not that she minded. She hugged his shirt to her, and every time she smelled him on it her insides turned over.
Eventually she dragged herself out of her bed and away from her daydreams, and went into Ludlow to run some errands. Rod was working, and they’d arranged to meet later that evening. She was in a frenzy of anticipation, longing to see him but somehow feeling shy as well. She didn’t want to seem too cheap, too eager to have sex again, but the truth was she couldn’t think about anything else. She let herself imagine the day when they coul
d be together for ever, when they could fall asleep in each other’s arms and wake up the same. She knew somehow that their relationship had changed, that it had gone up a gear, and that they were going to have to make some serious decisions. She would have to reveal the truth to her parents. How desperately she had wanted to tell Louisa what had happened, and ask her if it was like that for everyone. And had it been with anyone else, she would have done. Her mother was very open and frank. But Jamie had kept quiet. If she and Rod were going to come clean about their relationship, they would have to do it together. There was going to be uproar from both sides, she was sure of it, and they would have to demonstrate their conviction for each other in order to heal the rift between the two families.
Neither of them was too sure what dark history there was between the Deacons and the Wildings. Being such close neighbours, life would have been much easier if they had at least agreed to co-operate with each other. But for as long as both Rod and Jamie could remember, the Wilding name was anathema to the Deacons, and vice versa. Perhaps it was just the good old English feudal system, the haves and the have-nots. Or some petty disagreement years ago that had grown out of all proportion.
Maybe, thought Jamie, allowing her imagination to run away with her, maybe a wedding would heal the breach. Everyone loved a wedding, didn’t they?
She was drifting past the market square, indulging in what she knew was a ridiculous fantasy, but which involved Nutmeg dressed up and pulling a little flower-decked cart and Jamie in a shepherdess frock, her hair in ringlets, and the church bells ringing all over Upper and Lower Faviell while the villagers turned out to witness –
‘Hey – you’ve cost me good money, you have.’
A booted foot stretched out and blocked her path. It was Lee, the oldest and baddest of the Deacon brothers. He was the one that had actually done time, several times. His black hair was slicked back, his skin was pitted from teenage acne, his fingers were bedecked with huge silver rings: a skull, a dragon’s head, a serpent. His sideburns were pointed and reached nearly to the corners of his mouth. He was sitting at a table with his hand curled round a pint of rough cider that was, judging by his slurred words and glittering eyes, not his first.
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