Heart of the Cotswolds: England

by M. L. Buchman

  Another step sideways—foreshadowed by a firm tug with his elbow—placed a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses neatly between the two of them and the incoming squad. He took two flutes, trusting Jane’s degree of panic to keep her holding on to his arm after he released his hold on her. She did. Good.

  Following the flow of the waiter, a seemingly casual stroll at a forty-five degree angle of attack, set up a tortoise topiary as a running block. Looping behind an incoming lad with a tray of finger canapes, he came up beside the earl and his Number One son. He calculated that they were his best shot at sanctuary.

  Tactics 101. Come at them head-on, then you’re the enemy. Come up beside them, they’ll wait to see if you’re a friend.

  “This is really a splendid house, sir. I was so glad when Jane offered me the opportunity to see it up close.” Aaron launched in as if they were already in mid-conversation and he and Jane went way back. Old friend of the family, mate. Don’t mind me. He waved his full champagne glass at the towering edifice of the manor house, while Jane focused (a little too deliberately) on emptying her own glass. Next time he’d have to find coffee.

  Before the earl could do more than start a bewildered acknowledgement, he continued.

  “I know that the foundation is Jacobean. It’s a pity that none of that survived the fire of 1232, except that base run.”

  Jackpot. He could see that the earl didn’t know that fact about his own home.

  “Fire turns the Cotswolds’ yellow limestone reddish when it is exposed to high heat. That’s why the lowest part of the outer wall is red. I love the Byzantine design of the main house and the blending of the two wing additions: the Gothic of 1497 and the early Baroque of 1651 to repair the damage from your Civil War. It wouldn’t have worked if not for the consistent use of the Birdlip Limestone Formation.” For perhaps the first time since he’d started working English stone, he blessed Trent’s wandering stories. The old mason who he had apprenticed himself to was so dug in to the history of the town, stone by stone, that he never seemed to run out of tales to tell. And many of those were about the construction of “that monstrosity on the hill.”

  Monstrosity or not, Aaron blessed Trent now. Soon he and Jane were away from the initial hazards of the wedding party and firmly entrenched behind enemy lines. They were escorted on a personal tour of the interior—only the earl and his first son along for the ride. Large scales of capital had been used to purchase ancestral quality antiques to fill the rooms. Thankfully the twenty-first century interior designer had been expensive enough to have more taste than the ancient architectural ones.

  As long as they were talking about stone, Aaron could at least pretend he knew what he was doing. A long-ago part of his training had been in interrogation techniques. The “Knowledgeable Friend” technique was an undercover tactic run from a few facts and then asking apparently casual questions to keep the targets talking. Normally he’d be looking for the element of operational opportunity.

  This evening he was only after survival.

  Survival, and not letting Jane anywhere near her poisonous sister.

  “How did you do it?”

  “What?” Aaron (Aaron) responded with all innocence.

  Jane sat shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the old limestone wall around the front of the stables. This wall, instead of having the normal vertically-set capstones that Aaron (Aaron) said kept the sheep from jumping over, had a rounded cap of smooth mortar more suited to sitting on.

  No one was likely to find them here. Night had fallen, and while the bright Chinese lanterns (which had been kitschy even for Debbie) lit the grounds far and wide, the only thing here was moonlight and stars shining down on the broad Cotswold valley. The fine racing horses were bedded down in the majestic stone building behind them and the rolling valley before them offered pale fields crisscrossed by dark lines of hedgerows and stone walls. A distant field of yellow rapeseed (that Aaron had said was the same as canola) shone in the moonlight like a magic carpet.

  “Well, I slipped the waiter a ten pound note if he promised to deliver two slices of cake without exposing our secret operation.” He tapped the edge of the dinner plate in his lap. She looked down at the plate, which held two enormous pieces of cake, but couldn’t remember who they had operated on to get them.

  “Which secret operation?” Maybe it was a secret from her too.

  “Operation Sugar.”

  “Oh, right.” She’d forgotten but she knew about that secret operation. Or was there some other one that she didn’t know about? Not knowing if the vague swirls in the moonlit canola fields were due to a breeze or the fact that the world had slipped off its axis, she decided to keep her focus on Aaron.

  The last hours had been a dizzying whirl of architecture, family history, brandy in the library (Earl Conrad Evenston had also appeared glad of an excuse to temporarily escape the wedding), champagne for the toasts, more champagne for Debbie’s long-winded dinner speech that had clearly and carefully included their deceased parents but left out her only sister. That last had bothered several in the crowd, though Jane couldn’t care at all. She tried a what-do-I-care dismissive hand wave, but it felt silly.

  Besides, she’d had enough to drink that Debbie could break into a striptease on the wedding table and Jane wouldn’t bat an eye. Again, wouldn’t be surprised.

  Aaron’s whispered, “She’s even more of a bitch than I first thought,” had been all the support she needed.

  Somehow Aaron’s presence had given her permission to let loose on the stranglehold she’d been using to stay under control. Of course, she’d let loose in other ways as well. The last time she’d been this drunk…college…maybe?

  No, the final night of Larry Jenkins. Her final academic lover—ever! Now that she’d spent a night on the arm of an alpha-sexy male, she was never going back. He’d been so protective of her and instead of being irritating, it had been charming. Got some news, Mom. Debbie isn’t the one who needs protecting. Not that Jane did either, but it was nice to try it on for one night, like a cashmere ensemble. It definitely didn’t suck.

  Jane remembered that last night of Larry. Her Last-Larry. Of Larry the Lech. Of… She had been riding high from finishing an overnight systems upgrade hours ahead of plan, only to come home to… Old story.

  Arriving home at two a.m. she’d found her almost-fiancé and some coed bimbo in pigtails passed out naked on the living room rug. They’d still been bleary enough with alcohol that she’d been able to get them both outside and lock the door before they really came to. She’d taken their half-finished bottle of whiskey and killed it off herself with her back against the front door while they pounded on the other side. Something about wanting their clothes, but she couldn’t rouse herself enough to care.

  She had finally given the clothes to the nice policeman who some neighbor had called to take the two “disturbers of the peace” away—after she’d made sure to recover the house key from Larry’s pants pocket. Good old Jane Tully was efficient if nothing else, she’d assured herself. She’d also sorted through Ms. Bimbo’s purse (turned out she was a Bimbette). Jane had made sure the policeman noticed the birthday on the ID. Barely old enough to drive a car (not old enough to be in one of Larry’s college classes). Once the courts were done with him, apparently Ms. Bimbette hadn’t been the first in line, it had turned out that Larry wasn’t going to be a problem for a long time.

  Now, instead of weaving, as the floor had done that night, the old limestone wall seemed to be floating on a gentle sea.

  Of course, she wouldn’t even be here in England if her career hadn’t—

  She didn’t want to think about that.

  “Tell me something. Anything!” Jane desperately needed a distraction from the morass of her thoughts.

  “I screwed up our operation.”

  “No you didn’t. You were magnilliquent. Manifiquent. Magnificent,” she finally wrapped her tongue around it. He’d protected her at every turn—her staunch, d
usty champion in the red racing tie. Maybe it was a magic tie, because none of it should have worked, but on Aaron it had. They’d survived.

  “I forgot to tell the waiter to bring forks along with the cake.”

  Jane looked down at the plate that seemed to glow in the moonlight. The two massive slices of cake nearly filled it to the gold-trimmed rim—real gold, she’d wager—but there were no forks to be seen.

  Today was so thoroughly not the day she’d been expecting. The horrors of her sister throughout the preparation and ceremony, the unexpectedness of finding a White Knight with a Vermont accent in the dim corner of an English pub, Debbie’s multiple forays at Aaron throughout the endless evening (and her utter failure at taking him away from Jane—major happy dance), and the copious amounts of alcohol.

  She herself wasn’t what she was expecting either. With each passing hour, Jane had shed another piece of Debbie’s ability to affect her mood until she was practically giddy.

  “That’s not me at all.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Practically giddy. I’m big on the practical part. Always had that down. Giddy? That’s like new territory.” She always hated it when people used “like” that way. Thankfully she was too drunk to hate herself at the moment.

  Aaron nodded in the moonlight as if she was making perfect sense. Or as if he already knew that giddy wasn’t really her, but more like, dunno, someone else.

  She broke off a big bite of the cake with her fingers and bit down on it. Frosting caught on her fingers and lips.

  “Yum,” she managed around the mouthful. “Dark chocolate with cherry jam and cream cheese frosting. My sister always hires the best caterers when someone else is paying.”

  Aaron broke off a small piece and snapped it down neatly between clean white teeth that shone in the night. “It’s good.”

  “You can’t tell from that little bit.” She broke off a huge piece and aimed it at him. When he opened his mouth to protest, she shoved it in. Icing smeared his nose, cheeks, and chin as she struggled to correct her aim. She finally managed to land it properly.

  Aaron managed a “Mmgrumph” as he attempted to wrestle it down without losing half of it down his front.

  “Don’t mess up Hal’s tie,” she wiped at the white frosting dotting his nose and chin and then licked it off her fingers. It took several tries to get it all.

  “I’m trying to be good here,” Aaron’s voice was deep and dangerous once he could speak again.

  “Why? About what?”

  He merely snarled and looked away.

  “You’re so…” she didn’t have the right word for it, “…male.”

  “Meaning what?”

  What did she mean? He was her White Knight. Staunch and artful. By siding with the Earl of Evenston and his first son whose name had escaped her again—though she still remembered Aaron (Aaron)—none of the others had dared to mess with them. Even Debbie had finally backed off after one particularly pithy look from her new father-in-law. Her new husband might be wealthy, but one glance at the manor house said where the real money and the power of this family resided.

  Aaron’s looks had grown on Jane during the long evening. Through her near permanent attachment to his elbow, she’d felt not only his muscles, but his mood until she could tell when he was hesitant (rarely) or decisive (pretty much all the time), ready to move (he seemed permanently poised for action) or momentarily relaxed (almost never). She slipped her hand about his arm again and wondered at the strange tension that had been there, especially for the latter half of the evening.

  He was trying to be good, huh? Well, she was pretty bloody sick of being good. Being bad sounded like a good thing right at the moment.

  She searched around for the champagne glass she’d brought with her but couldn’t spot it. Aaron had one propped on the wall to his other side. No, he had two. How had her glass gotten way over there?

  Leaning across to reach for it, Jane could feel the warmth of him in the cool night.

  When her chest brushed his, he cursed softly, “Bloody hell.”

  “Careful with that. The B-word over here—”

  Suddenly those strong arms of his were wrapped around her, pulling her body hard against his. There wasn’t a thing tentative about his kiss, rich with chocolate, cherry, and cream cheese.

  If her seat on the wall had been floating before, it was suddenly a rocket ride upward. England, the Cotswolds, the wedding, all fell away until there was only the heat of his kiss crushing against her lips.

  Someone moaned. Jane was fairly sure it was her. No one had ever kissed her that way: so powerful, so self-assured, so full of need—for her!

  One moment she was in the best kiss that had ever happened to womankind and the next she was sitting alone on the wall watching the back of a man as he strode away.

  He didn’t go past ten paces.

  But they were hard, pounding strides that seemed to punch his anger into the ground.

  He jolted to a halt with a sharp hiss of anger that seemed to shatter the night.

  She took his glass of champagne and slammed it back.

  Spotting hers in her other hand, she emptied that one as well.

  Rejection. She was not ready to deal with one more moment of that.

  Aaron should just leave. He should just walk away.

  But his hip had finally given up on hiding his limp and he couldn’t stop the hiss of pain. The pain and the stupidity. He’d kissed her. The beautiful, drunk, and obviously hurt woman that he’d committed to protect—he’d failed to protect her from him.

  The guys in his US Army unit had always teased him about being so square about women. But during his tenure with the British SAS, he’d fit right in.

  Sure, there were always blokes who treated women as if they all were fast and easy. But most of the Brits were soldiers who knew what was proper.

  “Proper” did not include kissing a drunk woman simply because she was being vulnerable. Nor running his hand down the side of her perfect breast, past her waist, and onto the delicious swell of her hip. Her chiffon and lace dress hid none of her heat or softness. And proper definitely didn’t include how close he’d just come to pulling down the long, side zipper and tossing her naked onto the grass.

  He watched the stars—Vega was up, Cygnus the Swan was rising—until he had himself together. At least somewhat together. Then he turned to face her. He’d apologize, even if he wouldn’t mean it. Women like Jane weren’t for broken men like him, but he didn’t want her one bit less for all of that.

  She had lain down atop the wall, every perfect curve accented by her dress shimmering in the moonlight, shifting and reflecting the light with each breath—the Faerie Queen indeed. A horse sighed in its sleep as it shifted in the nearby stables. A thin trail of music sounded from the wedding, sounding as if it was coming from miles away.

  He knew he was hopelessly befuddled. Not drunk. He hadn’t dared risk that, needing his wits in that crowd. But Jane Tully made him think serious thoughts. The kind of thoughts that weren’t his to think.

  “Well, you can’t leave her on the bloody wall all night.”

  “Careful with that B-word…” her voice was a whisper on the night that trailed off into the darkness. Her eyes remained closed.

  He staggered back to the wall, limping hard now that his hip had given up.

  “Can’t sleep here, my queen. Where are you staying? I’ll walk you there.” I’ll limp you there and hope that you’re too drunk and it’s too dark to notice.

  She waved a hand vaguely toward the manor house, then tucked it back under her cheek.

  “Bloody hell,” he whistled out softly.

  She didn’t respond this time.

  He couldn’t return her to that den of vipers, especially not drunk on a wedding night.

  “Come along, Queen Jane,” he took her hand and tugged her to her feet.

  Instead of taking his arm, she slid up against his side with her arm around his wai
st. She fit like—

  Don’t go there, lad.

  His attempts to disengage her failed, so he finally slid his arm around her waist and led her back up the path through the woods.

  He’d managed to avoid the dancing earlier, partly because of his aching hip and partly because he didn’t dare the risk of holding her close.

  Now they walked as close as lovers, moving slowly and, courtesy of his sore hip and bad knee, arrhythmically along the moonlit path.

  Chapter 3

  Jane woke, then wished she hadn’t. Her head throbbed, aching like it had been overrun by an entire phalanx of wedding guests.

  Wedding!

  No wonder she felt ill.

  She unburied her face enough from the pillow to inspect her environs. The first thing she spotted was a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water on the rustic night table. She took two and considered a third. Maybe later.

  Bless the holy ghost of foresight that had her put it there.

  Then she looked a little farther afield and saw her dress hanging from a hook on the back of the door. Except the door didn’t have delicate wood-carved panels. It looked like a battered old wooden door—stout, but from another century. The room was low-ceilinged and part of it sloped even lower. Two small gable windows let in the first light of dawn.

  There was only enough space for the bed and two chairs. If this was the manor house, she’d ended up in entirely the wrong room, though she liked it better. It was small and cozy. Comfortable. The room they’d given her in the manor house, as the bride’s sister and only remaining family member, had been vast and austere.

  Closing her eyes for the worst of it, she managed to push herself upright. The room spun, even with her eyes closed. Hungover or still drunk? She couldn’t tell, but either way it was awful.

  She hadn’t even taken off her bra and panties, though she’d tugged on a long t-shirt. A t-shirt that…she didn’t recognize. It had the blazing red B on a field of blue for the Boston Red Sox, instead of the stylish A of the vastly superior Atlanta Braves. Some damned Yankee had trash-dressed her while she’d been under the influence.