by Sara Craven
‘So tell me about the Smuggler’s Chair,’ Tarn said when their order had been given.
‘Well, in the bad old days, the village had a reputation for being involved in free-trading,’ Caz said. ‘And cargoes from France were regularly landed here.
‘The leader of the gang used to come here to drink quite openly—apparently he had an eye for the landlord’s daughter—and he always sat in the same chair by the fire.
‘An informer told the Excisemen who organised a surprise raid. When they burst in, there was this man sitting in the chair with his pipe and his pint pot, just as they’d been told. They ordered him to stay still, but he reached into his coat, and thinking he was going for his pistol, they shot him.
‘However, when they searched the body, they found government papers authorising him to compile a secret report on the local free trade. It seems the smugglers had their own informers, and were expecting his visit.
‘Which is why, when he arrived at the inn, he was made welcome—and offered the best chair by the parlour fire.’
‘Nasty.’ Tarn wrinkled her nose. ‘What happened to the gang leader?’
Caz shrugged. ‘Got away, scot-free, and presumably found somewhere else to drink, complete with some other obliging wench.’
‘And the chair?’
‘Oh, that’s allegedly still here in the other bar, but it seems no-one fancied using it after the shooting in case the Excisemen returned and made a second mistake, so it was always left empty, and the story got around that it was haunted, and that doom and disaster would pursue anyone reckless enough to sit there. Even these days, it’s given a wide berth.’
Tarn laughed. ‘You surely don’t believe that.’
‘I heard the story at a very impressionable age,’ Caz said solemnly. ‘My parents used to rent a house nearby for the holidays. The then landlord used to offer a fiver to anyone who’d take the risk. I gather it’s currently gone up to a hundred quid, but still no takers.’
Tarn took a reflective sip of her spritzer. ‘It’s quite a reward—just for sitting down. I think I might try it.’
Caz put down his glass. ‘No.’ The negative was sharp and held a note of finality.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said laughing. ‘It probably isn’t even the same chair.’
‘Possibly not,’ Caz agreed. ‘That doesn’t change a thing.’
Tarn gave a provocative whistle. ‘Palmistry, now superstition,’ she marvelled teasingly. ‘I would never have believed it. But you were quite right,’ she added. ‘This is certainly a voyage of discovery.’
‘Nothing of the kind,’ he returned. ‘If you sit in the smuggler’s chair and lightning fails to strike, you’ve ruined a perfectly good legend forever, and it’ll be the landlord’s curse you need to watch out for if you spoil his trade.’
‘The pragmatic response,’ Tarn said lightly. ‘I’m disappointed. But I suppose you’re right.’
‘Besides,’ Caz went on thoughtfully. ‘Disasters I can well do without.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘But I’d be the one to suffer.’
‘Not any more,’ he said. ‘What happens to you, happens to me. That’s the way it is, lady.’
Tarn looked down at the table, her heart hammering. Dear God, she said silently, please don’t let that work both ways. Not this time.
The seafood platter was piled high with prawns, mussels, oysters, cockles, spider crabs and crayfish, and came with finger bowls and a pile of paper napkins.
Sharing it with him should have been a problem, an intimacy she could have done without, but in some strange way it was fine, even enjoyable, as if they’d been doing it all their lives.
And, at the same time, it was messy, funny and totally delicious.
Of all the meals we’ve eaten together, she thought suddenly, this is the one I shall always remember. And stopped right there, because she didn’t want any memories of him to take, alone again, into the next chapter of her life. Because she couldn’t afford that kind of weakness.
They decided to forego the desserts, choosing instead a pot of good, strong coffee.
‘Shall we take a walk along the beach before the tide turns?’ Caz suggested, as he paid the bill.
There was flat sand beyond the pebbles and shingle, and the sea was just a murmur, its surface barely ruffled by the breeze. Tarn drew the clean air deep into her lungs as she lifted her face to the sun, wondering at the same time how things would be if nothing existed but this moment.
‘So, tell me what you did in New York.’ He spoke softly, but his question brought her sharply back to reality. Because it was clear he expected to be answered.
She shrugged. ‘I suppose—pretty much what I do now.’
‘Your editor was sorry to lose you.’
‘I owe her a lot.’ Especially for that reference.
‘Will the job be waiting for you—if you go back?’
‘That or another one. I’ve rarely been out of work.’ She didn’t want the interrogation to continue, so she bent, slipping off her loafers. ‘I’m going to find out if the sea is as inviting as it looks,’ she threw over her shoulder as she headed for the crescent of ripples unfolding on the sand.
‘I warn you now—it will be cold,’ Caz called after her, amused.
‘You can’t scare me. I’ve been to Cape Cod,’ she retorted, speeding into a run.
He hadn’t been joking, she discovered. The chill made her catch her breath and stand gasping for a moment, but an ignominious retreat back to the beach was out of the question for all kinds of reasons. So she waded in a little deeper, finding that it grew more bearable with every step, until eventually it bordered on pleasure.
However, it was also bordering on the turn-ups of her linen pants, which was not part of the plan at all, so she opted for discretion over valour and walked slowly back to the shore.
Caz looked at her, shaking his head in mock outrage. ‘Crazy woman.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Chicken!’
‘But not a chicken risking pneumonia. Or with wet feet and no towel.’ Before she could stop him, he picked her up in his arms and carried her up the beach, scrunching over the pebbles before setting her down on a large, flat rock. ‘I prefer my seas warm, like the Mediterranean or around the Maldives.’
He produced a spotless white handkerchief from a pocket in his chinos and unfolded it. ‘I’m afraid this is the best we can do.’ He dropped to one knee in front of Tarn and began to dry her feet, slowly, gently and with immense care. ‘Like blocks of stone, as my old nanny would have said. Even your nail polish has turned blue.’
Forbidding herself to laugh, she tried to free herself. ‘There’s no need for this. I can manage—really.’
‘Is it the reference to Nanny that’s worrying you?’ Caz looked up at her, his hazel eyes warm and amused. ‘Do you think I’m going to revert to childhood and play “This little piggy”? Or are you afraid I’m a secret foot fetishist seizing his opportunity?’
‘It’s just—inappropriate,’ Tarn managed lamely, aware that some totally foreign instinct was prompting her to wriggle her toes into the palm of his hand, and not just for warmth either.
‘Is it?’ He was grinning openly now. ‘I do hope so. I’d hate to be politically correct at a moment like this.’ He traced the delicate bone structure of her slender toes with the tip of a finger. Cupped the softness of her heel. ‘They’re adorable,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe these foot fetishists have a point.’
‘Caz.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Don’t—please.’
‘Why not? Isn’t this where women like to see men—kneeling at their feet?’
‘I am not “women”.’ Tarn could feel that betraying heat spreading through her body again. ‘And I want to put my shoes on.’
‘In a minute. This is a new experience for me, and I like it.’ He bent his head and kissed each instep, warmly and lingeringly. ‘They taste of salt,’ he whispered.
The breath caught in her throat. She said
with difficulty, ‘People—there are people coming. You must get up.’
Caz shook his head. ‘And lose this perfect opportunity? Not a chance.’ He looked up at her, and there was no laughter in his gaze. It was serious and intent. ‘Tarn, my sweet, my lovely girl, will you marry me?’
‘You—you said you wouldn’t rush me.’ Her voice was a whisper too.
‘I dare not wait,’ he said quietly. ‘After all, you came out of nowhere. I’m terrified that you may disappear in the same way.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I—I won’t do that. But it’s too soon. You must see that.’ She spread her hands almost beseechingly. ‘We—we hardly know each other.’
‘Something I’m seriously trying to redress,’ he said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed? Sweetheart, we can catch up on the details as we go. But I think I knew from that first moment that you were the one. I guess it was too much to hope that you felt the same.’
He added almost harshly, ‘But now that I’ve found you, Tarn, I can’t let you go, and I won’t. Not when I love you and want you to be my wife. You and no-one else for the rest of our lives.’
‘This isn’t fair…’
‘I think there’s a cliché that covers that—something about love and war.’
But this is war, she cried out silently, from the pain and confusion inside her. It’s just that you don’t know it yet.
Aloud, she said, stumbling over her words, ‘I—I have to think. You must give me time. We have to be sure.’
Caz sighed ruefully. ‘My darling, I am sure. Now, I just have to convince you. But I’ll be patient. I won’t even ask if you love me in return. Or not yet.’
He took her loafers and fitted them back on to her feet. ‘There you go, Cinderella. They fit. Now you can’t turn me down.’
‘You may believe you’re Prince Charming,’ Tarn said, forcing herself somehow to speak lightly as she scrambled up from her rock. Struggling to behave as if the whole world had not turned upside down. ‘But this couple walking their dog probably think you’re an escaped lunatic.’
Caz turned towards the elderly man and woman, walking arm in arm along the beach, their Jack Russell scampering ahead of them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he called. ‘Isn’t this a wonderful day?’
The man looked dubiously at the sky. ‘I reckon we’ve had the best of it, and it’s clouding over for rain. The weather’s always treacherous at this time of year.’
Treacherous, thought Tarn. Why had this man, this stranger, chosen that of all words?
‘Darling, you’re shivering, and our coats are in the car.’ Caz spoke with compunction. He untied the sweater looped casually around his shoulders. ‘Wear this.’
Obediently, Tarn pulled the enveloping softness over her head, knowing as she did so that the freshening breeze from the sea was not the problem, and that a dozen layers of cashmere would never be enough to alleviate the icy numbness building inside her. Possessing her. Making her feel she would never be warm again.
Oh, God, she thought desperately. What have I done? And what am I doing? I don’t seem to know any more.
Worst of all, I’m not sure I know myself. And that terrifies me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS a largely silent journey back to London.
Caz was quietly attentive, asking if she was warm enough, or if she’d like to listen to some music. Tarn assented politely to both propositions, hoping that the second option would avoid any more discussion of his plans for their future. However, she declined a further suggestion that they should stop somewhere for tea.
She wanted to get back, she thought, because she needed to think. To work out what to do next. If that was possible.
The CD he picked featured a woman singer she did not recognise, with a deep, almost harsh bluesy voice, whose lyrics were, without exception, a disturbing exploration of love, and all its confusing complexities.
Something else Tarn could well have done without.
She told herself that everything Caz had said to her on the beach was entirely meaningless and just part of a well-worn routine. That he’d probably gone on his knees to Evie in exactly the same way.
Yet, in spite of all that, she could still remember how the look in his eyes had made her breathless and the way his smile had reached out to touch her. Could feel the clasp of his hand round hers as they returned to the car, strong and sure as if he would never let her go, and catch the familiar scent of his cologne on the sweater she was still wearing.
Which, of course, she could return. Disposing of all those other sensations was an entirely different matter.
How, she asked silently, was it possible for him to sound so sincere? To almost make her believe…
She stopped right there. That was not a line she needed to follow.
Although for him to want her had been, of course, an essential part of her plan. She’d intended to rouse him to a fever pitch of unsatisfied desire, before slamming him into limbo, harshly and very publicly. And thanks to Lisa, she’d already worked out the perfect occasion.
‘Each June, there’s a garden party at a house called Winsleigh Place,’ her editor had told her. ‘Everyone in the company is invited from the directors to the cleaners and catering staff. Coaches are laid on to take us all there and back, so no-one is tempted to drink and drive. There’s a wonderful buffet lunch, with non-stop champagne, and in the evening, a dance, with more glorious food. And Caz provides it all.’
So the entire Brandon ensemble would hear the unpleasant truth about their supposed Lord Bountiful, Tarn had resolved, even as she smiled and said with perfect truth, ‘It sounds perfect.’
But today’s turn of events had thrown her scheme back into the melting pot. If she refused his proposal, she would have revenge of a sort, but it would be a private matter between the two of them, and she wanted more than that.
On the other hand, if she agreed, then she would almost certainly attend the garden party as his fiancée, and any attempt to discredit him would reflect just as badly on her. People would wonder how she could possibly have become engaged to him, knowing what she did.
And I wouldn’t be able to answer them, she thought.
Unless, of course, he intended to keep her under wraps until he was tired of her, as he’d clearly done with Evie. A thought that twisted inside her like a knife.
But even that possibility seemed totally unable to negate any of the feelings towards him that had taken such an astonishing and unwelcome hold on her almost from the beginning, and intensified so alarmingly over the last forty-eight hours.
She felt as if two entirely different women were occupying her skin and fighting for the domination of her mind. And she had to make sure that the right one became the ultimate winner.
Because she could not let herself be beguiled by the sensuous passion of his mouth, or give way to the kind of impulse which had almost led her to stroke the dark silk of his hair as he knelt at her feet.
Nor could she allow herself to forget that, in the end, she’d been saved, not by her own strength of will, but by an amateur weather forecaster with a Jack Russell terrier.
And how shameful was that? she thought bitterly.
Della had once asked how she might have reacted to Caz if they’d simply met as strangers without Evie’s involvement, and she’d replied dismissively, defensively.
If she asked me the same question now, she thought, I don’t know what I’d say.
When they eventually reached her flat, Caz left the engine running as he turned and gave her a long, steady look. ‘I’m not going to ask if I can come up with you,’ he said quietly. ‘Because I know damned well that I’d try a different kind of persuasion—in bed. And that wouldn’t be right or fair.’
She bit her lip. ‘Thank you. I want you to know that, whatever happens, you’ve given me the loveliest day.’ She reached for the door handle, and hesitated. ‘Oh—your sweater…’
‘Keep it,’ he said. His smile was faintly crooked. ‘It looks far better
on you than it ever did on me.’ He paused. ‘When you’ve made up your mind, whichever way it goes, call me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I don’t trust myself to kiss you either, in case you’re wondering.’
Her own attempt to smile was a failure. ‘You’re—very strong-minded.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I feel I’ve put quite enough pressure on you already.’ He ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. Touched it briefly to her mouth. ‘Promise me we’ll talk soon?’
She nodded, dry-mouthed, and left the car.
She didn’t watch him drive away. She walked upstairs, aware that her legs were shaking. Fumbled the key into the lock. Closed the door behind her and leaned against it, staring blind-eyed into space, aware of little but the deep, rapid thud of her heart.
She was thankful that she was alone. That she could keep the day’s events to herself, without having to offer excuses or explanations, because she could imagine what Della’s reaction would be to this latest development.
Eventually, she forced herself to move. To walk to the kitchen and put on a pot of strong coffee to brew, while she took a shower. All sensible measures to dispel the ice which had apparently settled inside her.
But while the shower warmed her, it failed to make her feel any cleaner, so its comfort was, at best, limited, she thought wearily as she dried herself.
Wrapped in her dressing gown, she curled into a corner of the sofa, sipped her scalding coffee and tried to force her teeming brain to focus. She caught sight of her bare feet, and, realising that she was shivering voluptuously at the memories they evoked, hastily tucked them away under the skirts of her robe.
How was it possible, she wondered dazedly, for all that apparent tenderness, all that caring to be only an illusion?
She wished she still had the diary, which might give her some clue as to what to expect next. After all, didn’t they say that forewarned was forearmed?
Unless his proposal was simply a ploy to get her into bed. A form of deception Caz hadn’t needed with poor Evie, she thought bitterly. But if he thought she was merely playing hard to get, he would soon discover his mistake.
