Then he took the bags from her, dropped them into the cockpit and held out his hands. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said, and as she leapt forward he caught her under her arms and swung her on to the deck.
She fell against him, laughing, and as she straightened his head came down and he kissed her lingeringly.
‘Good morning,’ he said huskily.
‘Good morning yourself,’ she replied, suddenly breathless. ‘What can I do?’
He waved a hand at the bags. ‘Get all this lot stowed away in the cabin and come back and keep me company.’
She scrambled somewhat inelegantly over the high step of the hatchway, down the two rungs of the companionway into the main cabin, and took a deep breath.
Oh, yes. Varnish, and seawater, and diesel, and the unmistakable smell of the bilges. Clare hadn’t realised how much she had missed messing about in boats until she had caught that evocative smell. Heavens, it took her right back to her childhood! Suddenly light-hearted, she looked around her.
On her right was a desk next to a bank of navigational equipment, charts, radio and so on, and on her left a little galley, with a gimballed stove designed to remain stable as the boat tilted from side to side. In front of her was the main seating area, with two long benches down either side that would convert to berths, one L-shaped, with a fixed table in front of it that would collapse to make a double berth.
There was a door directly opposite her that led, she imagined, to another little cabin in the bows, and the ‘head’, that ghastly contraption that passed for a loo on board small boats.
She looked around her at the cabin, and a little smile touched her mouth. This was Michael.
There were a few books—Nicholas Monsarrat, Neville Shute, Hammond Innes—a couple of bottles of wine and one of brandy, two jars of coffee and some powdered milk, a few tins of staples—everything a man like him would need for a quick getaway.
She heard his light tread behind her and turned.
‘Are you a loner?’
He looked startled for a second, and then smiled. ‘No, not really, but I do need to escape every now and again and top up. Will that worry you?’
There he goes again, talking as if we have a future, she thought with a soaring heart.
‘No, it won’t worry me at all. We all need solitude periodically.’
He gave her a brief hug. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘Oh, she’s lovely—just right. All wooden fittings and personal touches—not at all like a modern boat.’
He laughed. ‘You don’t sound as if you approve of modern boats!’
‘Well, they have their place, I suppose, but they’re characterless by comparison.’
‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and hugged her again. After a moment he eased away from her with a reluctant sigh and headed for the hatch. ‘We need to get under way if we’re going to catch the tide up the Deben. There’s a sand-spit across the mouth of the river that closes it off at low tide, but if we go now we should make it just about right.’
She found a picnic in one of the bags and wedged it in the corner of the galley, and dropped the other bag, full of towels and sweaters, on the quarter bunk under the cockpit. Then she clambered back over the hatch to join Michael.
There’s a light breeze picking up—just do us nicely,’ he said, and pressed the starter button. The engine turned, coughed, and fired immediately. He cast off, jumped nimbly back on board and steered her carefully over to the lock. The top gates were open, and the lads working the lock made her fast and stood by to steady the boat as she lowered.
Tide’s only just coming in now, so we’ve got quite a long way to go. Will it worry you?’
Clare shook her head. ‘Must make it tricky if you get back too late,’ she said. ‘Do you have to find another mooring outside overnight?’
‘Oh, no—they have a motto here, “Lock around the Clock”—you can come and go whenever you please. Just as well—when I got her here from the Scillies it was nearly midnight.’
‘Isn’t that a bit hair-raising in the dark, in strange waters?’
He laughed. ‘Hardly strange! She’s been moored near here for fifteen years—my grandfather lives in Holbrook. I know this coast like the back of my hand.’
As the lock gates opened and Michael manoeuvred the boat out into the estuary, Clare sat back and relaxed. There was nothing she could usefully do, and Michael was clearly competent. She might as well give herself a treat and watch him at work.
And it was a treat, she admitted to herself some time later. He had changed into ragged cut-off jeans and abandoned his T-shirt, and she watched the smooth play of muscle in his back as he hoisted the mainsail and unfurled the foresail, tightening the sheets and bringing the head round into the wind.
‘OK?’
She nodded. ‘Super. I’d forgotten how much I love it!’
He laughed in sheer enjoyment. ‘Great, isn’t it? I’d die if I couldn’t do this!’
After a while he offered her the helm, and stood behind her, his hands steady on hers, his chest brushing lightly against her back. She leant back against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and made a small sound of contentment in her throat.
‘Happy?’
‘Oh, Michael, you have no idea …’
His lips nuzzled her neck. ‘You taste wonderful—fresh and clean and delicious. Mind the ferry.’
‘What ferry?’
He laughed. ‘Just testing. Want to take her round the point?’
She let out a breath. ‘I’ll try—just don’t go away.’
‘I won’t. Take your time.’
She took a steadying breath, let out the port sheet, spun the wheel and hauled in the starboard sheet. Henrietta yawed wildly for a second or two, then the sails filled with a slap and she settled down on the new course.
‘Well done.’
She laughed breathlessly. ‘It was awful!’
He chuckled, his arms wrapping round her waist to pull her back against him. ‘It wasn’t perfect, but it was fine. You’ll do, with practice.’
‘Hmm. Maybe another time. Over to you, Cap’n Bligh.’
She slid under his arm and sat in the cockpit, her feet propped on the other seat, and mopped up the sunshine. After a few minutes she started to overheat, and went below to put on her shorts and T-shirt. There was a cooling breeze off the sea, but it was going to be a gloriously hot June day nevertheless.
Michael’s eyes ran appreciatively over her legs as she climbed over the hatch, and he gave a gusty sigh.
‘How the hell am I supposed to keep my hands off you when you look like that?’
‘Well, ditto!’
Their eyes met.
‘Oh, dear God, Clare—I want you,’ he whispered.
She swallowed. ‘Can we talk about this later? You’re going to run us aground on the sand-spit if you don’t concentrate!’
He swore softly under his breath, and then gave a rueful chuckle. ‘It’s a deal. Just sit down and don’t fidget about, or I won’t stand a chance of thinking straight!’
It was a wonderful day. They tacked up the river towards Woodbridge, ate their picnic in sight of the Tide Mill, and dropped back down with the tide, rounding the point off Felixstowe at four o’clock. By five they were back in the marina, mooring Henrietta and packing up their things.
By the time they left, Clare’s nerves were at screaming pitch. Every touch of his hand, every brush of his body against hers as they manoeuvred round each other in the little cabin had left her senses reeling.
They drove back to the cottage in a potent silence, and when they arrived back, he stilled her hand as he moved to unload the car.
‘Leave that lot. I want to make love to you. I’ve been watching you bending around in those tiny little shorts for hours, and I really don’t think I can stand much more of it.’
Her heart was pounding as she followed him into the cottage and up the stairs. In his bedroom he turned to her, his hands cupping her sh
oulders lightly. His eyes searched her face, his expression serious. ‘Is this what you want, Clare?’
She nodded, beyond speech.
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded again. ‘I’m terrified—I’ve never done it before, and I don’t really know what to expect, and I’ll probably be a dreadful disappointment to you, but yes—I’m sure.’
‘Oh, my love …’
He was so gentle, so careful with her, his hands tender, his voice coaxing her softly. And it was easy—much easier than she had imagined, and so—beautiful wasn’t the word, it was too earthy, too positive for that, but as she reached the crest, something deep inside her shattered and she felt freer than she had ever felt before.
Dear God, I love him! she thought, and clung to him as his body quivered under her hands and he cried her name.
CHAPTER THREE
‘I THOUGHT we were going to give this relationship time to flourish,’ Clare said sleepily, much later.
Beneath her ear Michael’s chest rumbled gently with suppressed laughter. ‘Yes, well, it flourished quicker than I dared to hope.’
He levered himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, his face gravely tender. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve never felt so good in my life.’
‘I’m glad. Neither have I.’
‘Oh, come on,’ she laughed self-consciously. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing——’
‘Yes, you did. You were making love. It doesn’t require technical competence, darling.’ He kissed her gently, his voice roughened with emotion. ‘You were wonderful—warm, generous, funny—I love you, Clare.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Michael, I love you too.’
She clung to him, her heart overflowing with happiness. She didn’t understand how it could have happened so soon, but it had, and it seemed so right loving him, as if she had been waiting all this time for him to come along and fill her life with sunshine and laughter.
He kissed her lingeringly, his hands tracing lazy patterns on her skin, and she tentatively laid her palms against his chest.
That feels good,’ he murmured.
‘Can I touch you?’ she asked hesitantly.
He flopped on to his back and spread his arms wide with a wicked grin. ‘Do whatever you want—I’m yours!’
His laugh turned to a groan as she ran her fingertips experimentally down the centre of his chest. His eyes closed, he lay rigid while she explored the changing textures and planes of hair and skin, tracing the smooth line of muscle and sinew, revelling in the feel of satin over steel. Fascinated by the contrast between vulnerability and strength, she dallied over the jut of his hipbones and the slight hollow of his pelvis above the taut, hard muscles of his thighs. His legs were strong and straight, well-muscled and smoothly tanned beneath the dense scatter of blond curls.
She knelt by his feet, her fingers tracing each toe in turn, smoothing the strong arch as her eyes trailed slowly up his body, absorbing his beauty like a drug.
‘You’re perfect,’ she said huskily, ‘so perfect. A perfect hero!’
He laughed self-consciously and reached down to pull her over him.
‘I’ve got scarry knees,’ he confessed.
‘So? All little boys have scarry knees. They probably aren’t any worse than mine.’
‘Shut up and kiss me,’ he commanded softly, and she bent her head and laid her lips against his.
‘I love you,’ she murmured, and with a ragged groan he rolled her beneath him and took her with him to heaven.
They climbed off the high old-fashioned bedstead at midnight, raided the fridge and took the feast up to bed with them, pausing in the middle to make love again. They fell asleep as the early fingers of dawn crawled over the horizon, and woke again at eight, ready to take on the world.
‘Do you know how to windsurf?’ he asked her.
Clare, feeling like the cat that got the canary, shook her head contentedly without bothering to open her eyes. ‘Sounds energetic.’
‘It is—would you like me to teach you?’
She forced an eye open. ‘Now?’
‘Maybe in a little while,’ he laughed.
It was another hour before the world penetrated their little cocoon, and then Michael chivvied her through the bathroom and into her clothes.
‘You’re hassling me,’ she complained gently.
‘You need hassling to stop you getting side-tracked—it’s only self-defence, I’m exhausted!’
She giggled wickedly.
‘Oh, no—come on, out!’
He shooed her into the Volvo, loaded up the roof-rack with the board, and they set off for the reservoir.
‘It’s harder than it looks!’ she said ruefully later on, after yet another ignominious dunking.
‘It’s a bit windy for learning. Do you want to try again?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll just sit here and watch you—it’s better for my ego!’
He was good—very good, she acknowledged, studying him and the other windsurfers as they tacked back and forth across the water. She smiled with great self-satisfaction.
She was still smiling when he rejoined her.
‘OK?’
‘Very impressive. Can I join your fan-club?’
He dropped on the grass beside her and blotted his wet hair with a towel. ‘It’s very exclusive—only one member so far.’
‘Will she mind if I join?’ Clare asked, shocked at the little twist of jealousy.
‘He—O’Malley. No one else has been invited. No, I don’t suppose he’ll mind, although he might get a bit miffed if I keep throwing him off the bed all night.’
She laughed. ‘I refuse point blank to share you with a cat,’ she told him.
‘Possessive, eh?’
She faltered, her confidence a little rocked for a moment. ‘Do you mind?’
He lifted his hand and rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. ‘No, love, I don’t mind. I feel the same way about you. I want you all to myself forever.’
She met his eyes, startled. ‘Forever?’
He nodded, slowly. ‘I think so. It certainly feels like that to me.’
She reached up her hand and wrapped it round his wrist, turning her face into his palm and kissing it. ‘To me, too. The thought of my life without you in it now is unbearable. I feel as if I’ve know you for years, not less than a week.’
‘You have known me for years—I’m your other half. We just haven’t met until now.’ He lifted her face and she thought she would drown in the love she saw there in his eyes. ‘Marry me, Clare. Stay with me forever.’
‘Oh, yes … oh, Michael, yes!’
She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him, revelling in the hard strength of his body and the steady thud of his heart against her ribs.
Then he let her go, pulling her to her feet and gathering up all their things. ‘Come on, we’ll go and see my grandfather and tell him the news. He’s been nagging me for years to settle down.’
The old man was obviously delighted at his grandson’s unexpected visit, and welcomed him with open arms. The sight of Michael hugging him with such affection brought a lump to her throat.
Michael eased away from the old man and beckoned to Clare.
Pop, I’ve brought someone special to meet you. Her name’s Clare. Clare, this is Pop.’
The old man turned sightless eyes towards her, and Clare realised with a sudden shock that he was blind. He held out his hands, and she took them firmly, standing still while he stared blindly at her, finally nodding.
‘What colour’s your hair?’
‘Blonde.’
‘Your eyes?’
‘Grey——’
‘They’re the colour of the early morning mist on still water,’ Michael corrected.
‘My grandson always was an old romantic. May I touch your face?’
She smiled. ‘Of course.’
His gnarled old hands explored her features gently, a
nd then he grunted with satisfaction. ‘Good strong chin. You’ll need that to deal with this young scamp. Do you love him?’
‘Yes, I do, very much.’
He turned away abruptly. ‘Been out on Henrietta recently, boy?’
‘Yes, we went out yesterday.’
‘You took Clare?’
Michael winked at her. ‘Yes, I did. She’s got the makings of a good sailor.’
‘Humph. Must be love—none of his other women has been allowed near her.’
He shuffled across to his chair and sat down with a sigh. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea, then, Michael—go and put the kettle on.’
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n!’ Michael snapped to attention, winked at Clare again and left the room.
‘So, how did you meet my grandson?’
‘He’s working at the same hospital as me. We met on Monday.’ Less than a week, she realised in surprise.
‘Not long, then. Still, if it’s right you know straight away, I reckon. Knew the moment I clapped eyes on Lottie that she was the girl for me. Don’t suppose Michael’s any different. Has he asked you to marry him yet?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ Michael told him, coming back into the room, ‘and she very sensibly said yes.’
His grandfather snorted. ‘That remains to be seen. So, my girl, do you intend to make him a good wife? Can you cook? Keep the house clean, do his washing, that sort of thing? A man needs to be looked after, you know, and you’ll have to make sure you keep your looks—it’s no damn good if he doesn’t want to come home to his own bed, you know! Don’t want the lad straying because you let yourself go.’
She blushed. ‘Of course I can cook and clean—probably just as well as Michael,’ she said spiritedly, ‘and I have no plans to let myself go. As for Michael, if he “strays”, it will be because there’s something wrong in our marriage, and it will be up to both of us to put it right.’
The old man cackled and slapped his leg. ‘Well said, young lady, well said. You’ll do. Michael, show her the kitchen. I want to talk to you while she makes the tea.’
She fled gratefully.
‘Sorry about that,’ Michael said ruefully. ‘I tried to catch your eye to warn you he was winding you up, but you were so busy glaring at him you didn’t see me.’
A Perfect Hero Page 4
