Tarquin winced and pointed at the ceiling. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I best be off. You can stay if you like, though, with the Oracle. Just make sure Petunia doesn’t see you.”
Then there were footsteps crossing the landing above and the sound of the fragrant Almost-Mrs. Bough descending the stairs, no doubt with one of her most particular heads of steam. Chris was on his feet in an instant and he looked around, a man cornered where he really shouldn’t be. With a last wave to Tarquin, he darted behind the curtains and disappeared, at precisely the moment Petunia strode into the room in a cloud of ivory silk and face cream.
“Who were you talking to?”
Tarquin glanced about, just as the Oracle grunted in her sleep. As if there was nothing at all strange in the idea of a man getting out of bed to pay a visit to a porcine resident in the middle of the night. Tarquin stroked the Oracle and flashed a grin at his fiancée. “Erm…the pig.”
A lie. To Petunia.
A frisson of forbidden delight ran through Tarquin as Petunia looked around the empty room. Her arrival seemed to have disturbed the Oracle, and she lifted her head and looked directly at the curtain behind which Chris had concealed himself.
“What’s going on, Tarquin?” Petunia asked carefully, readying herself to begin his interrogation. “You’re up to something.”
And so are you, with horrid Bryan.
“I had an exciting day. I couldn’t sleep.” That wasn’t a lie, at least. “And the Oracle won’t be here for much longer. I’ll miss the old girl.”
The old girl who was now rising to her trotters and strolling toward the curtain, her ears twitching merrily as she went in search of her chanteur. For a moment Petunia looked set to follow her, then she tutted and thrust one finger toward her husband.
“It’s time Tarquins were in bed,” she informed him. “Put the pig in the boot room and then upstairs. I’ll see you in the morning. I want to talk about your so-called win. Sweet dreams.”
“For the first time in months, you’ve demanded I go to bed!” Tarquin snorted. “Although not with you. Of course not.”
And Tarquin wouldn’t have wanted to even if she’d asked. But what did she mean by his so-called win? She hadn’t seen Chris throw the race, had she? At least she hadn’t seen the kiss.
“Sleep tight,” she said, slamming the door as she left with enough force to rattle the windows.
Tarquin stayed where he was on the cold flags of the kitchen floor, rubbing his temples. Then he got to his feet and teased back a corner of the curtain where Chris was hiding.
“She’s gone, but you ought to go.”
Chris’ reply wasn’t quite what Tarquin had been expecting. He looped his arms around Tarquin’s neck and pulled him back behind the curtain, kissing him with a heat that he didn’t think Petunia was capable of, let alone had ever felt for him. Once he’d overcome his surprise, Tarquin held Chris at the waist and pressed him against the cool glass of the window as he kissed him return. A tremor went through him. He wanted this so much, but he couldn’t go behind Petunia’s back. Even so, he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. Chris’ body and Chris’ kisses were spectacular, and were Tarquin’s to enjoy.
“Bed!” Petunia bellowed from above and Chris laughed softly, resting his forehead against Tarquin’s. How his blue eyes sparkled, and those strong arms loose around his neck…it felt like being tipsy!
“I really”—Chris paused to flutter another stolen kiss to Tarquin’s lips—“fancy you.”
Tarquin held Chris’ face, touching the tip of his nose to Chris’. “Are—are you sure? Because bloody hell, I really fancy you!” He kissed Chris’ lips, then whispered, “I want you, Chris. Carnally.”
Carnally? Did I really need to specify?
“Carnally,” Chris repeated with a grin. Then he flicked his gaze up to the ceiling. “I suppose I’d better take my jodhpurs and go. Sweet dreams, squire.”
“May I say, before you head off… You have a fantastic arse.” Tarquin drew one hand down from Chris’ face and ghosted it across Chris’ bottom. At the last moment, his hand became unsteady and Chris must have felt a distinct wobble in Tarquin’s caress. “Does things to me, that rear of yours!”
“You should hold on to that thought,” he said. “Because I’m hoping you’d like to see a lot more of this rear of mine.”
“Darling, we mustn’t,” Tarquin said, but he was embracing Chris again. Why can’t I let go? With Herculean effort, Tarquin dropped his arms down to his sides. “Sorry, Chris. I need to stop pawing at you.”
“We shouldn’t.” Chris nodded, agreeing even though his arms were still around Tarquin’s neck. “But shall we anyway?”
“I really want to,” Tarquin murmured. “And you’re a terrible tease!”
“Tarquin!” Petunia thundered. “Get these lights out!”
Tarquin rolled his eyes. “You remember where the doggie door is, don’t you? If she hears me faffing about with the back door, I’ll be for it.”
“Goodnight, Squire Bough.” Chris finally withdrew his strong arms, stroking one fingertip over Tarquin’s cheek as he did. “Sleep tight.”
Tarquin took Chris’ finger and kissed its tip. “And you, too. Dream lovely dreams about me, Chris?”
“Lovely and probably fairly saucy too.” He winked, then stepped out from behind the curtain to scratch the Oracle behind her ears. With one last wave of his elegant hand, he slipped from the room, leaving Tarquin alone.
Chapter Seven
Maybe Petunia would forget. Maybe Petunia would have left the house by the time Tarquin had come in from milking the cows. Maybe he would wake up and discover that the past three years of his relationship had all been a horrible dream and he was free and single, loud and proud.
But no.
Tarquin paused on the gravel driveway to fuss Jasper and Mabel, his wellingtons still claggy with mud and cowpats from the dairy. Not that the dogs seemed to mind. “Has Mummy gone out? Is the coast clear for Daddy?”
The dogs blinked up at him, then, at the sound of clanking metal from next door, they swiveled their heads to stare at the trees that bordered the lane. What on Earth is Chris up to? Tarquin wondered, as he listened to the roar of a car engine that split the morning.
The Aston, probably.
Tarquin went up to the fence and peered through the trees. Someone was loading the Aston Martin onto a tow truck. Had it broken down? But something didn’t seem quite right, and Tarquin lurked, wondering what was going on.
There was Chris, jeans instead of jodhpurs today, a mug clutched in one hand. In the other was a clipboard and his attention was fixed on it, his expression almost stricken. The sleek silver car was safe on the truck now and a man slipped from the driving seat, calling, “If I had a car like this, I’d never sell it!”
In that moment Chris’ expression changed to his usual look of bonhomie and he lifted his head. “I need a new toy, someone else can enjoy this one. Just a signature here, right?”
The driver nodded. “Then she’s off to her new home in Dubai!”
Dubai?
That desert city of shiny skyscrapers was a world away from Bough Bottoms. Tarquin couldn’t understand why Chris was selling the car. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the space to park as many cars as he wanted to on his land, and he certainly wasn’t short of money. Tarquin wondered what was on that clipboard Chris was holding. Fascinated, he still lurked, his green waxed jacket and tweed flat cap offering him, he hoped, an excellent disguise among the foliage.
He saw Chris’ hand move as he signed the paper on the clipboard, then he handed it back to the man. The driver tore off a sheet and passed it to Chris, whose smile by now looked as though it hurt.
“Bye, old girl,” Chris told the car.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” the driver said. Tarquin watched him get back into the cab and start the engine. All the time Chris kept his eyes on the Aston, rubbing the back of his neck as it was driven away and finally, ou
t of his driveway and into the road.
Only then did Chris spit, “Bloody hell!” Then he turned and went back into the house.
Tarquin waited there a moment, processing what he’d just seen. If Chris hadn’t wanted to sell his car, why had he?
But it wasn’t any of Tarquin’s business, and now he kicked the mud off his boots against the fence. With every ounce of effort he possessed, Tarquin forced himself not to go over to Chris’ house to kiss him and make him happy again.
“Tarquin!” Petunia bellowed from somewhere inside the house. “Are you coming in?”
“It’s a lovely day. I’m quite happy outside,” Tarquin shouted in reply. He was the squire after all—he wasn’t going to be yelled at in his own home. Yet. All he had to do was avoid Petunia until she left for the auction house, then maybe— No. He couldn’t see Chris. He shouldn’t.
“I saw what happened yesterday.” Petunia appeared at the corner of the house, a pillar box in her red trouser suit and scarlet lipstick. “I saw what you and Mr. Hardacre did.”
How the hell did she see that?
A prickle of fear shot up Tarquin’s spine. But he decided to play the innocent.
“Saw what?”
“When I was parking, I had to go down that bloody cul-de-sac behind the church and do a nine-point turn and I saw you through the trees. He threw the race.”
Phew.
Tarquin felt pleased. At least she hadn’t seen—oh, bugger.
“He didn’t throw the race! Don’t be silly.”
“He pulled up.” She thrust her finger at him, the red talon on the tip just inches from his face. “A Bough taking charity from a Hardacre! Couldn’t you win it on your own? Do you need him to let you win? What sort of a man are you?”
The sort of man who likes to admire another man’s bottom in the saddle.
“He didn’t pull up. He was on an unfamiliar horse, on an unfamiliar route. All he did was see that slope and the approaching gate, and sensibly slowed down. But I know that route like the back of my hand, and Vulcan does too—we kept on going and overtook!”
There. Sounds plausible.
“He pulled up. I saw him pull up.” She shook her head. “And what if he tells people he pulled up? We’ll be the laughingstock of Upper and Lower Bough! Damage limitation, Tarquin. I think we should invite him for supper, maybe Shobna too if he doesn’t have a plus-one? We need to be sure he’s not going to show us up.”
“He won’t show us up!” Exasperated, Tarquin shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “He’s not like his uncle, he’s actually a nice sort of bloke. I’m sure he’d love to come round for supper, but really, we can’t invite the poor fellow then grill him!”
She rolled her eyes and gave a huff of utter exasperation. “Sound him out on girlfriends then get him invited. Friday. I’ll do something nice. Maybe pork, in honor of our unwanted houseguest!”
“No you bloody won’t!” Tarquin’s voice came out higher in pitch than he’d meant it to. “You know I’ve gone off sausages since the Oracle’s been living here. I won’t sit there eating a pork chop in front of that creature!”
Petunia shrugged and said, “You’ve had a letter. From a solicitor.”
“I have?” Tarquin scratched his head. “Oh, I suppose you could tell from the return address on the envelope?”
She reached into the pocket of her jacket and held up the letter. The opened letter. “Five thousand a month for the care of a pig? A hundred thousand if it meets with a natural death in your custody? Come on, Tarquin, catch up.”
Tarquin blinked, amazed at her brazenness. “That’s my post. You have no right to open my post.”
“I didn’t notice the name on it,” she said. It was a lie, of course. She held out the envelope. “Mum opens all of Dad’s post. Men need women to keep them on track, every girl knows that. Here’s your precious letter.”
Tarquin snatched it from her. “Yes, there’s money involved regarding the pig. A lot. We need to look after her.”
“If she dies, Tarquin, we get one hundred thousand pounds. If she dies.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting.
“Of course she’ll die eventually. She’s not getting any younger. None of us are!” Tarquin scanned the letter. Satisfied that it contained no nasty surprises, he shoved it into his pocket. “But when she finally goes trotters-up, that one hundred thousand will have to go to building a mausoleum and ensuring the whole village is in mourning for an age. It’s not to blow on handbags and a fortnight in the Seychelles.”
“What if she were to”—she lowered her voice—“meet with an accident?”
Tarquin pictured the pig running alongside the dogs, and heard again Chris’ beautiful voice as he sang to her. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not murdering a pig. No way.”
“I never said murder, you said murder!” She pressed her hand to her breast, as though shocked at the very idea of it. The diamond engagement ring she had chosen and presented Tarquin with caught the sunlight, blinding him for a moment. “What’s that line in the letter about an increased offer for the Prince Albert? Who’s making offers? How much?”
“The mad bastard’s last mistress, whoever she may be.” Tarquin shook his head. “It’s not for sale. I don’t care how much they offer me, that little piece of tilly-tadger jewelry finishes off the Bough Collection of Regal and Notable Sensual Artefacts. I’m not selling!”
“We can talk about it tonight,” Petunia informed him. Then she turned her cheek, ready for a kiss. “I’ll see you later. Hoping to shift a job lot of nasty Victorian lace today, so we might have something to celebrate when I get home.”
Tarquin didn’t want to kiss Petunia. He felt like an almighty imposter, but he gave her a peck on the cheek just to be done with it.
“I’ll get the champagne on ice,” he said, his words dripping with irony. With a tut she turned, straightening the Alice band in her red hair as she hurried away to wield her gavel once more.
I need a bloody good ride.
Chapter Eight
Tarquin went indoors and changed into his jodhpurs and boots. It was a warm day, so he opted for a waistcoat over his shirt instead of a jacket. He headed out to the stable block and from the path, he saw his dog pack on the veranda, sleeping in a heap with the Oracle of Delphi. The sight made him happy.
He tucked his riding crop under his arm as he pulled on his leather gloves, crossing the stable yard in easy strides.
The very thought of Chris Hardacre so close sent a frisson through his blood, but it shouldn’t. It couldn’t. He was the squire, the farmer, a pillar of village life, and he was to become Mr. Petunia Rudd and embark on a life of respectable domestic bliss. He couldn’t think of his neighbor’s legs in those skintight jodhpurs, nor his sculpted arms and wide shoulders, or the strong torso that tapered into a trim waist. That wasn’t any way for a Bough to look at a Hardacre.
A ride would get it out of his system once and for all.
Tarquin slid his crop into his boot and went into the tack room. He paused a moment to inhale the pleasing, masculine scent of leather and saddle soap. And straight into his mind came the image of Chris on horseback, that bottom tensing in the saddle as he rode.
And straight into Tarquin’s jodhpurs came an erection.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
“Hello, squire.”
I’m imagining things. That can’t be Chris.
But it was. Tarquin turned to see a vision in a dark blue shirt, ample chest showing as the garment was scarcely buttoned.
Tarquin tried to casually drape his hand in front of his jodhpurs, but there really was no disguising his erection.
“I wasn’t expecting you! Good morning—how nice to see you.”
And your jodhpurs. How nice to see all of that.
“I thought I’d come over and ask if you fancied a ride?” Chris leaned on the doorframe, one shoulder casually resting there. Then his gaze dropped momentarily but very deliberately to Tarquin’s groin. “Can I tem
pt you?”
“You can and you do,” Tarquin replied, almost breathless with longing. “I really need a ride. A good, hard ride, and if that was with you, then…”
Tarquin tried to readjust himself inside his jodhpurs, but he had a feeling the move hadn’t been quite as discreet as he’d hoped.
Chris stepped farther into the room, closing the door softly behind him as he did. There was no hiding the evidence of his desire in those skintight jodhpurs and nor did he try to. Instead he took a few paces toward Tarquin, closing the gap between them.
Tarquin breathed raggedly as he reached out to lay his hand on Chris’ waist. “You handsome, devilish bastard—I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”
Chris studied Tarquin’s face, then put the palms of his hands on his chest, resting them on the stiff fabric of his waistcoat. A very soft gasp escaped Chris’ parted lips as he caressed Tarquin’s chest with a sensuous touch.
“I can do devilish,” Chris promised. He pressed his mouth to Tarquin’s ear and drew one hand down his body until he cupped Tarquin’s erection in his palm. “Can you?”
Tarquin pushed his hips forward against Chris’ hand. “I—I’m willing to give it a jolly good go.”
Is this actually happening? Maybe it’s a dream and Petunia’s snoring will wake me up before—
Chris’ teeth nibbled at Tarquin’s ear and he whispered, “Let’s give it a jolly good go together?”
And—oh, God—he dropped to his knees.
We shouldn’t be doing this.
But no one would find out. Would they?
Tarquin combed his fingers through Chris’ hair. “We’re well on our way to devilish, that’s for sure.”
Chris looked up at him, that gentle smile on his lips once more. He held Tarquin’s gaze as, with a nimble movement of his fingers, he unbuttoned the squire’s jodhpurs and slowly, carefully, teased down the zip.
A delicious shudder went through Tarquin. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”
“So do I,” Chris purred, edging Tarquin’s boxers lower and releasing his erection. He dipped his head and kissed the very tip, caressing with his lips. Then he drew his tongue down Tarquin’s length, and all the time that bright gaze was fixed on him.
The Captain and the Squire Page 7
