All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3)

by Watts, Beverley

  Chapter Two

  ‘Good morning Ms Davies, would you like some tea?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ My rude response comes out before I have time to bite it back and Jason Buchannan’s raised eyebrows at my bad manners makes matters worse.

  ‘I was expecting to be meeting with Captain Taylor this morning,’ I continue, trying for a much softer tone on the off chance that the Captain in question is lurking somewhere behind the sofas dotted around the room – at the end of the day I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the man responsible for allowing us access to the College on the big day.

  ‘Captain Taylor has moved on. I am now responsible for BRNC.’ His voice is cool and distant, giving no indication that imparting this little gem has given him any satisfaction at all. Even though my face must be a complete picture.

  I continue to stare at him wordlessly. I just can’t believe it. The knob is responsible for consenting to Victory and Noah’s wedding being held here.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ he asks again politely as the ongoing silence starts to become oppressive.

  I make a concerted effort to gather my scattered wits. ‘Err, yes that would be pleasant.’ Pleasant. Oh my God, from rudeness to a bloody extra from Pride and Prejudice. Just kill me now.

  ‘Tea for both of us PO Steward,’ he speaks over my shoulder giving me the uncomfortable realization that the damn butler, steward, or whatever the hell he is, also witnessed my boorish behaviour.

  ‘Please, take a seat Ms Davies.’ He waves towards one of two sofas facing each other over a large coffee table. As I gingerly sit on the edge, I can feel my cheeks bloom and my forehead begin to get clammy. Add to that sweaty armpits and I’ve got myself a full blown panic attack about to descend at any moment. Trying hard not to hyperventilate as he sits opposite, I lean forward to place my completely empty filofax on the coffee table between us, before coughing and surreptitiously trying to wipe my sticky forehead with the back of my hand.

  ‘Are you hot Ms Davies?’ His question is mild, but something in his tone makes me glance quickly at his face. Yep, the bastard’s enjoying this.

  Unexpectedly this knowledge has the effect of calming my nerves, and taking a deep breath, I lean back against the comfortable sofa.

  ‘I’m fine thank you.’ My voice is now a study in politeness. Two can play at this game. ‘How are your father and grandmother?’

  ‘My father’s well thank you, I think all the, err, excitement over the summer actually agreed with him. Not so my grandmother I’m afraid.’

  ‘She’s not ill is she?’ My efforts at polite nonchalance disappear as I lean forward anxiously. Tory will never forgive herself if something had happened to the old lady as a result of our brief but memorable visit to the Buchannan family pile (or should I say ruin) in Scotland.

  ‘No, nothing like that. She’s simply become more reclusive than ever. I think she’s a little afraid of our resident ghost.’

  I shake my head in dismay, but stay guiltily silent (mainly because I have no idea what to say - the whole ghost episode was more my fault than Tory’s).

  Luckily the PO Steward chooses this moment to reappear with our tea, and any response I might have made is overtaken by the time honoured English ritual of pouring the perfect cuppa.

  There’s a large plate of chocolate biscuits, and as the plate comes towards me, I realize I’m actually starving, having eaten nothing up to now due to my almost hysterical anxiety. I’m just about to refuse (in the interests of politeness of course, and the fact that for some reason I don’t want the knob to think I’m greedy – sad I know), when my stomach growls loudly enough for everyone to hear. The steward says nothing but keeps tactfully still, holding the plate out in front of my nose. Primly, I take a single biscuit off the top of the pile. ‘Thank you David,’ I murmur, staring fixedly at his name badge.

  ‘Please help yourself to more Ms Davies, it sounds as though you’re hungry.’

  ‘One is fine, thank you,’ I respond through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to tell him exactly what he can do with his biscuits. After a quick look at my face, Dave the steward diplomatically withdraws, leaving us to our little tête à tête. Oh joy.

  For a few seconds I preoccupy myself by nibbling on the edge of the biscuit, trying to eke it out as long as possible. I really could have done with half a dozen. Unfortunately long before I’m ready, Jason decisively places his cup back onto the coffee table and looks at me expectantly.

  I cough self consciously and reluctantly pop the last of the biscuit into my mouth, following it quickly with a gulp of tea. To my horror, as the tea goes down, I feel the biscuit lodge itself in my throat.

  Closing my eyes, I attempt to swallow, frantically trying to dislodge the lump without alerting the knob. Time seems to stop completely as my life slowly flashes before my eyes, and it’s only as I start metaphorically writing my own epitaph that my fear of death finally overcomes my fear of embarrassment, and I manage to cough and splutter back into my cup. Luckily Jason has a tissue and hastily stands up to hand it to me before I begin decorating the sofa and coffee table.

  As the coughing subsides however, death definitely begins to feel like the better option. My face is now the colour of a ripe tomato and my eyes are watering profusely, completing my humiliation. The obnoxious bastard in front of me is only making a token effort to hide his amusement.

  Swallowing an insane urge to burst into tears, I blow my nose, then try to find an unused bit of tissue in an effort to wipe underneath my eye without getting strings of snot or gobbed up biscuit in it.

  Finally, staring down into my lap, I take a deep shuddering, and thankfully crumbless breath. ‘Would you like some water?’ he asks softly after a moment – incredibly I can hear sympathy in his voice.

  ‘No, I’m fine, really,’ I wheeze without looking up, ‘Just give me a couple of seconds.’

  He doesn’t appear to believe me however and I hear him stand up and head towards the door, reappearing a couple of minutes later with a large glass of water which he places on the coffee table without speaking. After taking a long gasping drink, I return the glass to the table and finally look up.

  He’s seated back on the sofa and is staring at me silently. His silver eyes are hooded and completely unreadable. The light from the large French doors is turning his chestnut hair to a burnished copper, and I realize it’s shorter since the last time I saw him.

  The way he’s sitting is plastering his shirt to his chest, barely concealing the play of muscles beneath. Idly I reflect that this is the first time I’ve seen him in naval uniform, and I can’t deny that he looks good enough to eat. The whiteness of the short sleeves contrasts almost shockingly with the deep tan of his arms and I suddenly find it difficult to catch my breath again, even though this time there’s nothing blocking my airways.

  ‘Are you okay to continue?’ His voice when he finally speaks is polite but clipped, immediately breaking the spell.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I answer nervously, hating myself for feeling so intimidated. I have no idea how to get back on an even footing with this enigmatic man. If anything, the conversation to come is likely to end with me being tossed out on my ear. Hurriedly I lean forward to pick up the hated filofax and fumble around inside my bag for a pen.

  ‘So.’ He leans forward with his arms crossed and resting on his knees, waiting.

  ‘Aren’t you a little young to be a Captain?’ I ask, stalling, and causing him to blink a little at the abrupt change of subject. His eyes narrow as he recognizes my delaying tactic, and my heart hammers in response.

  ‘I’m very good at my job,’ is his curt response. Then sighing, he looks pointedly at my still tightly closed filofax. ‘Let’s cut to the chase Ms Davies. It’s my understanding that Ms Shackleford and Mr Westbrook would like to hold their wedding here in the Naval College on the twentieth of December. Is that correct?’

  I nod my head wordlessly and simply wait for him to
continue. Frowning at my continued silence, he carries on. ‘Of course we both know that this whole affair is going to be very difficult to manage, especially given the fact that the groom is so, err, well known and there are only actually seven weeks to the date suggested.’ He waits for my comment, so I dutifully nod my head again. I’m seriously hoping that if he continues talking, he might end up organizing the whole thing for me…

  ‘Ms Davies,’ he barks finally, making me jump and quickly quashing any vague hope I might have of handing over the reins. ‘I would like to know how you intend to organize this wedding without it turning into a complete cake and arse party as Admiral Shackleford would no doubt say.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Please call me Kit,’ I finally reply faintly.

  ~*~

  It was five pm, which in Florence Davies’ book meant the sun was definitely over the yard arm, and as the blustery weather of yesterday had unexpectedly reverted to back to the more clement Indian summer, a glass of chilled white wine on the patio was definitely called for.

  Seating herself with a sigh at the small round table on the terrace, Florence sipped her wine appreciatively and admired the beautiful vista before her. The sea looked almost turquoise today and lapped gently against the pebble shore of the beach below. Her cottage sat high on a bluff with panoramic views over the privately owned beach of Blackpool Sands one way, and the whole of Start Bay on the other. She never tired of this view and often mused that the only way she would ever leave her beloved home would be in a box.

  Which actually might not be that far away. Grimacing, she thought back to her recent hospital appointment. The shadow on her lung may or may not have been caused by her forty a day habit when she was (much) younger. Nowadays she limited herself to the occasional spliff – when Kit wasn’t around of course. To be fair, the consultant hadn’t yet given her a final prognosis, and her own doctor had ordered her not to go planning her funeral yet.

  Her thoughts moved quickly on to a much pleasanter subject - her much-loved niece. Kit would never have to worry about money when she was gone. Florence vowed to herself that she’d make sure her niece was well provided for when she finally exited this mortal coil. Which is more than her bloody good for nothing brother and his wife were likely to do. The only thing they were good at was actually spending money.

  Florence’s blood boiled when she thought of the last conversation she’d had with her sibling. His complete lack of appreciation for anything that Kit had achieved was mind boggling. Florence took another large sip of wine in an effort to calm the frustrated anger inside her. Kit’s hurt and confusion over her parents’ actions during the last couple of months had been so very hard to watch. Luckily her friend Victory had stepped in and things were finally looking up now that Kit had got the job of Tory’s wedding planner.

  Suddenly her dog Pepé appeared from goodness knows where. His muzzle was completely covered in soil. Florence sighed. He’d obviously been digging again. Leaning down, she picked the little Yorkshire terrier cross, and placed him gently on her knee. He promptly busied himself turning in little circles in an effort to achieve the optimum position, completely ignoring the dirt which was now liberally spread all over his mistress’s skirt. Patiently, Florence waited until he was settled to his satisfaction, then planted a small kiss on his head. At least the earth now decorating her skirt wasn’t muddy.

  She loved this time of day. The peace and quiet was so soothing, just the bird song and Pepé’s gentle snoring.

  Abruptly the tranquility was shattered as her mobile phone shrilled loudly. Glancing down, to see who the caller was, she was disappointed to find it wasn’t Kit. Her niece had gone yesterday for a preliminary meeting with the Captain of the Naval College and she’d yet to call to say how it had gone.

  Instead the caller was her agent. Grimacing slightly, Florence let it go to answer phone. Her publishers were champing at the bit for the initial draft of her latest book. It was pretty much done, but she didn’t want to get into a wrangling match with her agent over deadlines late on a Friday afternoon. It was the start of the weekend, and she’d always made it a rule that her writing stopped at wine o’clock. It didn’t stop her agent harassing her though. They’d been working together for nearly twenty years, and Neil was more than just her agent. He was her friend. With benefits…

  The phone pinged to say a message had been left. Neil knew better than to think she’d call back and Florence smiled. He never changed, but then neither did she. They had the perfect relationship. Thinking about that of course caused her to think about the relationship that finished long before she met Neil. The one that had ended so disastrously that her life had spiralled out of control, and she’d felt there was no reason to live anymore, except for one thing.

  Perhaps it was finally time to tell Kit the truth.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Bloody hell Kitty Kat, that’s a disaster.’ Victory’s face is suitably horrified at my announcement that our old friend Jason Buchannan is now the Captain at BRNC.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ is my glum response. I am still battered and bruised over yesterday’s encounter with Captain Buchannan.

  Victory and I are sitting in my flat with a bottle of wine. Unfortunately for me I’m the only one drinking it. Tory is sitting with a glass of sparkling water, along with a bucket next to her chair. To say she’s suffering from morning sickness would be to completely ignore the throwing up she’s doing during the afternoon, evening and night time. I think it’s safe to say that she’s not exactly enjoying her pregnancy. I sincerely hope she doesn’t have to carry a bucket up the aisle in lieu of a bouquet…

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she continues, picking up her dog Dotty who is still shivering at her feet after witnessing the last bout. It’s a good job I’m her best friend or I’d be down there too.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ I respond gloomily. ‘We’re just going to have to work with him. At least he didn’t throw me out on my ear.’ Victory takes to biting her nails, which just goes to show her level of agitation given the fact that she trying to grow them for the wedding.

  ‘So what did he say?’ she whispers finally after disgustingly spitting out the piece of nail she’s torn off with her teeth. I resist the urge to tell her to put it into a bin – with the hormones and the anxiety about the wedding, I’m seriously beginning to wonder whether we’ll all make it in one piece. Come back Noah, all is forgiven.

  ‘Is Noah still coming back from Ireland next Wednesday?’ I ask, trying hard not to show how desperate I am for his calming influence.

  Tory frowns as if she can’t understand my reason for asking. ‘What does that matter?’ she snaps. ‘You think we can’t deal with the knob without male backup?’

  ‘Of course we can,’ I sigh. God knows what Tory would say if she knew the real truth. That her best friend is likely to completely screw up her big fat Hollywood wedding. I take a large sip of my wine while Victory looks on longingly.

  ‘So what happened yesterday?’ she continues with a huge effort to speak more calmly.

  I heave another sigh. ‘It would be so much easier if you’re weren’t holding the wedding in a military establishment.’ I wait for the inevitable snappy retort, but to my surprise it doesn’t come. Instead she nods her head.

  ‘I know Kitty Kat, but it’s so important to my dad. It would break his heart if I did it anywhere else.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I respond with a small scowl. And I do. A royal pain in the arse the Admiral might be. But his beloved College means everything to him.

  ‘Anyway, back to business. Captain Buchannan wants a detailed list of absolutely everyone who will have access on the big day, including guests, caterers, florists, hairdressers, photographers, cake makers and uncle Tom Cobley and all. And he wants it by next weekend.

  ‘Shit,’ breathes Tory. She might not be aware of just how far I am from coming up with such a list, but she can recognize a tall order when she hears one.

&
nbsp; ‘He would also like to have an informal chat with you and Noah at the earliest opportunity.’

  Tory screws up her nose and is about to respond when I deliver the punch line.

  ‘So I invited him up for dinner at the Admiralty next Saturday.’

  ~*~

  Jason Buchannan came out of the shower and looked at his watch, registering the time – eighteen hundred - still an hour before dinner. Wrapping a towel around his waist he walked to the window overlooking the River Dart. The wind had died down from yesterday and the sun was casting a late afternoon shadow on Dartmouth situated on this side of the river mouth, bathing Kingswear on the opposite side in bright sunshine. The view was breathtaking. He shook his head. How could a place so beautiful hold such bitter memories?

  His arrival at BRNC just over a week ago was almost the first time he’d set foot in the College since his passing out here nearly twenty years ago. Now at thirty eight, he was pretty much the youngest captain in the Royal Navy and being groomed for bigger things. The politics surrounding BRNC were an excellent training ground for someone who had the legs to get to First Sea Lord. It didn’t matter to those doing the grooming that he absolutely hated this place.

  As he stared over the parade ground, completely unchanged since he was here as a cadet, Jason felt his thoughts pull back to the last time he’d stood on the hallowed ground in front of him. The last time he’d seen Laura.

  Closing his eyes, he turned away from the window in an effort to banish the memories, and thought instead of the woman he’d entertained in the drawing room yesterday.