The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

  “That’s the Upper Bough colors.” Tarquin folded his arms, his jaw jutting in squire-like fashion. “Take a wild guess, Chris, as to who entered my house uninvited?”

  “No!” Chris whispered. “They wouldn’t!”

  “Help! Is someone out there? Oh, at bloody last! Help!”

  Tarquin pointed at the mantelpiece. “Unless my fireplace can suddenly speak, that sounds a lot like Bryan Reeve!”

  “Oh, God, no!” Chris gave a bark of amusement and called, “Is that Aubrey Reeve or is Santa very early this year?”

  “Let us out!” Bryan pleaded. “And don’t call me bloody Aubrey! That mad pig tried to eat me! We’re not coming out until the pig’s under control, or better yet, barbecue!”

  “Christopher!” It was Petunia, Tarquin realized. “Tarquin! Let us bloody out! She bit Bryan in the arse!”

  The Oracle squealed, presumably incensed all over again at the sound of Petunia’s voice, and scratched against the wall with her trotters.

  Tarquin banged his fist on the chimney breast. “Neither of you has yet explained what you’re doing up here. Hunting for Prince Albert’s PA again, were you? And how’d you get behind my fireplace anyway?”

  “Beardsley told me about this bloody manuscript and said it was behind a fireplace so we’ve tried them all and—well, we thought he meant in the chimney but as soon as Bryan knelt on the hearth it spun round,” Petunia admitted. “He said we’d need that gross Prince Albert to get at it, that’s why we tried to convince you to sell it, because I didn’t know your bloody combination!”

  “You’re well rid of her,” Chris said, earning a nod of agreement from Tarquin.

  “And Bryan’s stupid bloody stock market scheme was shut down thanks to Christopher and we need that manuscript because it’ll be worth a fortune!” she went on. “You should be proud, Christopher, you made such an impact on Bryan at school that he set it up just to ruin you. And to make us rich, of course, but they’ve frozen everything. I couldn’t even rely on getting that inheritance even though I was the last fancy!”

  “No, you weren’t!” Bryan spluttered. “I was! I’m in line to inherit a fortune, not you!”

  “You?” Petunia and Chris chorused as one. It was possibly the strangest thing Tarquin had ever heard. Bryan Reeve and Beardsley Hardacre? What was the world coming to?

  “Yes, me!” Bryan spat. “Me! He took a shine to me in my rowing gear, I went round his house, and I knew very well what a rich old bastard he was—and with my knowledge of first editions and all that twaddle, I charmed him! I was his last fancy, and Driscoll knows it. He tried to winkle the PA from Tarquin, but Tarks is such a dimwitted magpie surrounded by all his crap, he had no idea what he was sitting on.”

  “My arse, Bryan. That’s what I’ve been sitting on.” Tarquin shook his head. “So you came into my house, uninvited, to rob me. And now you’re insulting me. How terribly charming, Aubrey.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Bryan whined. “Do you know what they called me at school? Aubrey Strawberry! I won’t be called bloody Aubrey—and get us out of this bloody hellhole!”

  “Shut up, you sound like an idiot child,” Petunia sneered. “I’m going to slap you, you’re hysterical.”

  From behind the wall there came the sound of a hard, furious slap landing followed swiftly by a cry of pain. Tarquin winced as he remembered Petunia and that shotgun, ready to do some damage.

  “Right!” Petunia spat. “Christopher Hardacre, let us out right now! I know everything there is to know about his sordid little relic scam and I’m ready to tell! Two men going gay behind my back? Bloody hell! I’ve got receipts, evidence, messages! Tell your copper friends that I’m happy to talk!”

  “It’s very…rural, isn’t it?” Chris teased Tarquin. “Everyone having it away with the mad old millionaire just to get in the will?”

  “Isn’t it just?” Tarquin chuckled. Then he called through the wall, “Hold tight, Tuney, hold tight, Aubrey Strawberry—we’ll go and get the coppers. And the Oracle will stand guard outside. She hasn’t quite finished eating your shorts, Aubrey, and, Petunia—she’s really pissed off about you trying to shoot her in the head, so watch out, she’s got a hell of a bite. Hasn’t she, Aubrey?”

  “Stop calling me bloody Aubrey, you moronic country bumpkin!”

  Tarquin turned to Chris and laughed again.

  “No hard feelings,” Chris called merrily. “We’ll even get you a plaster for that bite on your bum!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tarquin decided that he would never grow tired of waking up with Christopher Hardacre in his arms.

  “Good morning, darling.” Tarquin kissed him and ruffled his hair. “Sun’s up, and I’ve got an hour until it’s time to milk the cows!”

  “And I’ll spend the morning convincing the Oracle to play along with Mr. Driscoll.” He grinned, snuggling sleepily against Tarquin. “And admiring my trophy, obviously. I might come along with Orry while you’re doing the cows. I’d like to be helpful if I can, it’s more fun than standing about in a noisy office like the old days.”

  “If you can help me get the milking cups on the ladies, we’ll have more time to have words with Orry before Mr. Driscoll arrives.” Tarquin chuckled as he ran his hand down Chris’ side. He was all warm and soft with sleep. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk shop while we’re in bed.”

  “It’s not the cash or the house, it’s the thought of one of those two getting their hands on Bea’s inheritance, even if they are in prison. And who knows how many other fancies are going to come swarming out of the woodwork?” Chris sighed and shook his head. “And if I’m honest, I rather like being the Hardacre of Bough Bottoms. It’s a home. In every sense of the word.”

  “You suit Bough Bottoms. You belong here, darling.” Tarquin kissed Chris’ forehead as under the covers he caressed Chris’ buttocks. “And you especially belong in my bed, captain!”

  “And you belong in my arms, squire,” he murmured. “So you can make love to me every single morning. Or whenever you fancy, really.”

  “How about—” Tarquin kissed Chris’ cheek. “Right—” Then he pecked his lips. “Now?”

  Chris draped his arms around Tarquin’s neck and told him, “Right now is always best of all.”

  Tarquin touched the tip of his nose to Chris’ and gazed at the sparkle of his blue eyes. Then he kissed him, soft and teasing to begin with until, responding to the heat in Chris’ kiss, it deepened. However today went, it would bring huge changes to Chris’ life, but they had each other, and Tarquin knew that whether Chris inherited a fortune or nothing at all, he would always love him.

  What had happened to the man who started the summer, the curmudgeon with a wedding to plan who had been so very ready to leap a garden fence in pursuit of the new fellow next door? Tarquin wasn’t sure exactly how that grumpy fellow had become the squire, but he had an idea that it had happened in the tack room where he had stood thousands of times before, but in one wild morning, had become the portal to this new world. The world where he had always dreamed he might one day find himself.

  As they made love, every tender caress heated into passion, just as it always did. Tarquin wanted for nothing with Chris in his arms, the man who had shown him how to accept himself, and how to love and be loved in return.

  What sauce they could enjoy as the squire and his captain, filled with heat and wildness, but what tenderness too when they were joined like this. No man could ask for more and Tarquin knew that he never would. He had everything he could ever want. Whatever happened to the house next door, the boy next door would always be his.

  They were made for each other, a Bough and a Hardacre, and Tarquin couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather share his life with. Such a man as Chris, loving and silly, handsome and extremely saucy, and who looked amazing in jodhpurs, and—

  “I adore you, Chris,” Tarquin whispered against Chris’ neck. His lover repeated the sentiment back to him, a tender gasp close to his
ear as Chris tightened his arms around Tarquin, stroking his foot down the back of his leg.

  “Oh, Tarks,” Chris cooed gently, “I love you, you gorgeous bloody farmer.”

  “I love you, you Canary Wharf canary!” Tarquin kissed him. “My handsome neighbor.”

  “Your man,” Chris sighed, his eyelids fluttering as their shared pleasure grew. “Love you…”

  Tarquin twined his fingers with Chris’ and together they tumbled into bliss. Tarquin soared in Chris’ embrace and everything in the world fell away apart from his man, his lover. His Chris.

  They lay together in the sunlight, listening to the gentle sounds of the village awakening as they drifted through the open window on the summer breeze. Tarquin didn’t want to move, but the farm wouldn’t wait and the cows, ready for milking, certainly wouldn’t appreciate any delays. Yet even that wouldn’t seem like work if he had Chris at his side.

  And Chris doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

  Together they fed the dogs and settled the Oracle with her own breakfast out in the paddock, in the cool shadow of the barn. Demure as ever, she waited a few seconds to begin eating, just long enough for Chris to tell her, “Just one day, Orry, then you can live wherever you like, but neither of us wants a convicted con merchant living next door.”

  The Oracle blinked up at Chris, her head tilted to one side. He met her look with a smile before ducking lower to kiss her pink head.

  “Right,” Chris said to Tarquin then. “Onto those cows, squire!”

  * * * *

  Tarquin was banging the mud from his wellies when he spotted the sun glint off Driscoll’s shiny car. He was heading to Chris’ house.

  The moment has come.

  “He’s early, the annoying git!” Tarquin muttered. He looked up to see Chris dash around the corner of the house, and from the look on his handsome face, Tarquin knew before he spoke that there was a problem.

  Please not the Or—

  “The Oracle of Delphi!” Chris stooped, resting his hands on his thighs as he caught his breath. “She’s gone, Tarks! Paddock’s empty!”

  Tarquin’s heart plummeted. Not now. Why now? “Oh no… Maybe she’s gone upstairs again? At least we know Bryan and Petunia haven’t done a number on her, but what if—oh, hell, no, do hitmen bump off pigs?”

  “Whatever happens, we don’t tell Driscoll, okay?” Chris stood up straight and put his hands on Tarquin’s shoulders as though steadying himself. “We keep smiling, and we tell him that everything’s perfect and… Let’s say she’s sleeping and we can’t disturb her! I don’t even know how she got out—pigs might be able to do stairs, but they can’t unbolt bolts. My gut says she’s safe, but I promise you we’ll find her as soon as we’ve charmed Mr. Driscoll back to town. Love you, darling.”

  “And without Petunia around to conveniently leave the gate unlatched…the Oracle’s a damn clever pig, though!” Tarquin arched an eyebrow. “Right, let’s pop over to yours, make him a cuppa, and while you charm him, I’ll do some pig-wrangling.”

  Tarquin’s dog pack appeared in a crowd of wagging tails, but there was no curly pink tail among them. “And there’s no point asking you useless bunch to help find her, is there?” But he fussed them all the same. Chris joined him, looking for all the world like a man about to face a judge and jury rather than a line solicitor whose fee today was entirely dependent on the decision made by an opinionated, escape-artist pig.

  “Mr. Hardacre, Mr. Bough!” Driscoll’s voice was cheery as he made his way through the yard, his navy pinstripe suit entirely incongruous amid the trappings of rural gentility. “I’m sorry to be a little early but I’m keen to discover the outcome of this most unusual last will and testament! Mr. Hardacre, you’ve certainly settled into the ways of the countryside. You both look very well for it, I must say!”

  “Mr. Driscoll!” Chris beamed and shook the solicitor’s hand. Nobody would know anything’s amiss, Tarquin told himself. We might still be able to pull this off. “I’m definitely settled into my new home, thanks to Tarks and the Oracle of Delphi and her doggy pals. It’s bye-bye, London, hello, fresh air and early-morning milking.”

  Chris winced just a little, no doubt hearing more than one meaning in his own words.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Bough.” Driscoll extended his hand again. “I hope your new neighbor hasn’t proven too much of a trouble, eh? No loud music at ungodly hours!”

  Tarquin tried to focus on Driscoll while trying not to look over his shoulder for the pig. “No loud music, but he’s been keeping me entertained!”

  “Typical Hardacre.” Driscoll rolled his eyes. “Well, where is she? Where does the lady in question now reside?”

  “Hardacre Grange.” Chris grinned, charming and easy as ever. “But it was a late night yesterday after the boat race celebrations and we wondered, is there any chance that you might be able to come back this evening, perhaps? Orry’s fast asleep and we wouldn’t like to wake her.”

  “Oh, I won’t wake her,” Driscoll assured them. “But I must see her in the Grange of her own free will, and clearly displaying a willingness to be there.”

  Chris darted Tarquin a rather worried glance and asked, “Would you really disturb a lady’s beauty sleep?”

  This time Driscoll’s face grew a little sterner and he asked Chris with deceptive levity, “Would you willingly give up the Hardacre inheritance rather than mildly inconvenience a pig?”

  “Well.” Chris beamed and this time it was Tarquin’s turn to wince, because the smile looked as though it hurt. “Well. Right. Shall we— How about a cup of tea before we—” But Driscoll shook his head slowly, a sure sign that he suspected something was afoot. And Tarquin couldn’t help a slight admiration for Chris as he plowed onward with his pantomime, as though hope alone might conjure the Oracle of Delphi into being in the cherished home he was surely going to lose.

  To Petunia.

  Or Bryan.

  Or God knows who.

  “Right.” Chris nodded and set off walking at a torturous pace. “To Hardacre Grange and the Oracle of Delphi!”

  As they walked he began to sing a medley of Orry’s favorite show tunes just a little too casually, as though he always strolled very slowly around farmyards singing eleven o’clock songs and showstoppers. Yet of the Oracle of Delphi there was no sign, and all too soon they were at the door of Hardacre Grange, waiting to face their fate. Chris stood politely back, allowing Tarquin and Driscoll to enter ahead of him.

  “She loves it here,” Tarquin promised the solicitor, trying to disguise the note of desperation in his voice. If Petunia and Bryan were in police custody, then…then perhaps someone else who considered themselves the last fancy had nobbled the poor pig. “Absolutely delights in the place. Doesn’t she, Chris? Gambols about on the lawn just as happily as when old Beardsley was alive. Adores Chris. She’s quite fond of me, too, but it’s Chris who’s her daddy now.”

  “She really does love it.” Chris beamed. “As the saying goes—well, it doesn’t, but the Oracle of Delphi has two daddies now!”

  “I had heard something to that end,” Driscoll admitted. “But where is she? Surely she doesn’t have her own room? A pig climbing the stairs?”

  “She’s a pig, not a Dalek,” Chris told him, just as Tarquin had reminded him last night. “She’s certainly not downstairs or she would’ve come running. Let’s have a look upstairs. I hope she hasn’t taken herself out for a constitutional!”

  At the top of the stairs, however, Driscoll held up his hand to halt them. He cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Hardacre, I believe you are leading me on a wild goose chase. If the Oracle of Delphi has come to some harm or has met with another fate, it’s best that you tell me now. I believe, at best, you have lost her. And that means, I’m afraid, that you have also lost your great-uncle’s inheritance. It will be forfeit as laid out in his last will and testament.”

  Tarquin swallowed, his throat dry.

  No, no, this wasn’t meant to
happen!

  “Please, Mr. Driscoll, as a farmer I have to tell you that animals can’t be beholden to instructions written on bits of paper. Dogs are meant to guard houses—did mine the other day when Bryan and Petunia broke in? No. Could you demand a cat to arrive through the cat flap at exactly a quarter past twelve? No. And the same goes for a pig. The Oracle is highly intelligent and most definitely her own boss, and she hasn’t a clue about wills and all that jazz. It simply won’t do—it simply isn’t fair—to turn up and declare poor old Chris destitute thanks to an impossible clause in a will!”

  Yet Driscoll clearly wasn’t listening. Instead he was looking at the door of Chris’ bedroom. It stood ajar and from behind it came the soft sound of snoring grunts, like those that might emanate from the snout of a slumbering pig. Chris seized Tarquin’s hand and whispered, “Mr. Driscoll, if you’d care to lead the way, I think you’ll find that Orry is definitely at home.”

  Had Chris had the foresight to plant speakers playing a recording of the Oracle asleep? Or was it—could it be—?

  Tarquin took the initiative and pushed the door open. There, in the newly refurbished bedroom, was a pig.

  The Oracle was snuggled on Chris’ bed, with her blanky that Tarquin had given the orphaned creature when she had first run in squealing circles across his garden. And beside her, the gnawed end of a turnip. She lifted her head and blinked at the trio, then gave a satisfied snort and laid it down on the pillows again, returning to her happy dreams.

  “Well.” Mr. Driscoll nodded, then took Chris’ hand and pumped it vigorously. “Since she is clearly under no duress and a pig can hardly open a front door, let alone be settled on a bed and bring her breakfast and blanket with her unless she is in agreement with her domestic arrangements, I declare that to my satisfaction that the esteemed Oracle of Delphi is indeed a very happy resident of Hardacre Grange. Congratulations, Mr. Hardacre, you have satisfied the conditions of your great-uncle’s will and the inheritance is certainly yours!”