by Erica James
‘There,’ said Romily behind him, ‘the room should soon start to warm up. May I offer you something to drink? And I expect you’re hungry too.’
She had completely recovered her composure, he could see and was now the perfect hostess, graciously at ease with an unexpected guest. ‘A drink would be great,’ he said, ‘thank you. But I don’t want to put you to any unnecessary trouble.’
‘It’s the least I can do. What would you like, tea or coffee? Or perhaps something stronger?’
He’d sworn to go easy on the hooch, determined to keep a cool head on his shoulders while here. His sister had been right to say he’d started drinking too much. She had told him that the time before when it had got out of hand. ‘I’ll have some of your famous British tea, please,’ he said. ‘When in Rome and all that.’ He winced at the cliché, but she merely smiled politely.
‘Make yourself comfortable by the fire,’ she said, ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
In front of the fire that was satisfyingly ablaze now, the logs popping and crackling like a barrel of firecrackers, Red inspected the objects on the mantelpiece. There was an elegant carriage clock, two expensive-looking porcelain vases, and a number of Christmas ornaments. One of which was a glass snow globe with a wintry scene of trees and a snowman. He couldn’t resist picking it up and giving it a shake, sending glittery snowflakes fluttering. It made a faint chiming sound and he realised it was a musical snow globe. A couple of twists of the metal winder underneath produced a tinkling rendition of ‘Silent Night’.
Listening to it was like having a thousand tiny hammers tapping tacks into his skull. He could never hear the carol without thinking of hiding in a cold, damp cellar and hearing it sung in its original language, German. He promptly returned the globe to its position on the mantelpiece, the unwelcome tune playing on to its tinny and mawkish end.
Stille Nacht . . .
For as long as he lived, he would never fathom how soldiers could have sung the carol with such mellifluous harmony and feeling, but two days later carry out such inhuman acts of barbarism. Lining up the courageous men and women who had helped the Resistance, they had shot them in a torrent of gunfire, while forcing the rest of the villagers to watch.
Hidden on the back of a cart, Red had heard the shots and the screams of terror. The cries of the children too. It was a sound he would never forget. He sometimes dreamt he was back there in that small French village having rewound the clock so that innocent people weren’t murdered because of him.
‘Are you quite warm now?’
He spun round at the sound of Romily’s voice, his hand catching on the snow globe. It fell from the mantelpiece and crashed onto the stone hearth. The glass shattered on impact and liquid splashed into the fire with a hiss.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, bending to pick up the debris. ‘I’ll replace it for you. Of course.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she said, putting the tea tray down, then coming over to him. ‘In fact, you’ve done me a favour by breaking the thing. I’ve never liked it, but out it comes each year because it was a gift and I’ve never had the heart to throw it away. Careful with that glass,’ she added.
Her warning came too late and with a perversity that served him right for his clumsiness, a shard of glass sliced his thumb, drawing from him a muttered expletive.
‘Here, let me see,’ she said.
‘It’s okay, I’m not about to bleed to death all over your hearthrug.’
‘I couldn’t give a damn about the rug. Hold out your hand.’
He did as she said. What man wouldn’t when confronted with those violet eyes? Goddammit, she was even more beautiful than he remembered!
After inspecting his hand, she took a linen napkin from the tray behind her, and deftly wound it tightly around his thumb.
‘My surprise visit is not going well, is it?’ he said. ‘Should I just fetch my coat and leave you in peace? God knows what next I might break or inflict on you.’
‘Curiosity makes me inclined to let you stay,’ she said, ‘if only so I can see what else you get up to. But you must warn me if there’s a danger of you breaking anything of value.’
He held up his hand with its makeshift bandage applied. ‘I knew there was something about you I liked. Your absolute commitment to making me look more foolish than I already am.’
‘Nothing could be further from the truth. Now please, sit down and have your tea and cake, then I’ll find a proper dressing for your thumb, Mr St Clair.’
‘Are we to be so formal now . . . Mrs Devereux-Temple?’
She placed the dainty cup and saucer and plate on the occasional table next to him. And then her face broke into a smile. It was the smile that had lured him thousands of miles across the Atlantic on a mission to win her over. As Rudyard Kipling said, ‘Nothing is ever settled until it is settled right.’ And he was here to do exactly that.
‘I don’t know why I said what I did,’ she said, sitting down, ‘it just came out.’
‘It’s probably because I have put you on the spot by arriving unannounced.’
‘Was that your intention?’
‘No. And this may come as a surprise to you, I came all this way because I wanted to apologise to you. I was unforgivably rude to you. Not to say, pig-headed too. You should speak to my sister on that particular subject; she’s an expert on my manifold failings.’
‘You could have simply written.’
He drank some of his tea, before saying: ‘I did.’
‘Oh? I haven’t received a letter.’
‘That’s because I lost my nerve and didn’t post it. And you know what? It was a masterpiece of writing. Possibly my best.’
She smiled. ‘I’m disappointed I was denied the pleasure of reading it.’
He took another sip of his tea. ‘And this is the bit when you say, but instead of a mere letter, you have the pleasure of seeing me in the flesh once more.’
‘Red, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’
He smiled. ‘With a little more conviction, if you could manage it. You know, just to put me at ease.’
‘Do you feel very ill at ease?’
‘You bet I do!’
She too drank her tea, while he took a bite of the cake. Followed by another. It was delicious. And he was starving into the bargain. He settled back into the armchair and stretched out his legs in front of him.
‘What are your plans?’ she asked, as though warning him not to get too comfortable.
‘For the rest of my life?’
A smile twitched at the corners of her lips. ‘I was thinking more of the immediate future. Have you booked somewhere to stay tonight?’
‘You afford me more common sense than I possess. Forward planning is not one of my strong suits. Half-baked schemes, that’s more my line.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. In the absence of a plan, you must stay here.’
‘I couldn’t possibly put you out. Well, no more than I have already.’
‘Come, come now,’ she said archly, ‘don’t be disingenuous. You know jolly well that I could no more turn you out into the cold, than I could accept your apology without giving you one of my own.’
‘What do you have to be sorry for?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Something which has been on my mind since we last saw each other. I was inexcusably rude to you and overreached myself when we were talking. And if we’re speaking of failings, that is one of mine. I’ve always been too meddlesome for my own good.’
‘You did nothing wrong,’ he said. ‘I overreacted to a question which . . . which scratched at a raw spot. As you doubtless suspected it would. Which is why you asked the question in the first place; you were trying to shake me out of my evasiveness.’
‘I had no right to do that. You were perfectly entitled to be as evasive as you wanted.
More cake?’
‘Thank you.’ He leaned forward and held out his plate with his injured hand.
‘How’s your thumb? Has it stopped bleeding?’
He gave it a cursory look. ‘I believe it has. But I’m afraid your napkin may never be the same again.’
‘A good soak overnight and it’ll be as right as rain.’
‘If only all life’s problems could be so simply resolved,’ he said with a smile.
‘And what problems do you have that you wish you could be rid of?’
He fixed his gaze directly on hers. ‘I have one very tricky problem and I’m darned if I know how to go about resolving it.’
‘Can I help in any way?’ she asked, relaxing into the cushions behind her on the sofa.
‘I’d like to think you could. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner? May I take you somewhere this evening?’
Her unwavering gaze still locked on his, she said, ‘I have a better idea; I shall cook for us. Nothing fancy though.’
At the powerfully penetrating look she was giving him, he felt practically cooked himself!
Chapter Sixty-Three
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
At Red’s suggestion, or rather his insistence that she didn’t go to any trouble on his account, they ate in the kitchen. Romily often did, preferring it to the dining room, which was a beautiful room, but it felt much too grand to eat in when alone. When she’d told Red she would cook, what she’d actually meant was that she would put the ham and chicken pie Mrs Collings had made into the oven and boil the potatoes and carrots which had also been prepared. The meal eaten, Red further insisted that he would earn his keep by doing the dishes.
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she remonstrated.
‘I think you’ll find I will.’
He began rolling up his sleeves until she pointed to his thumb and the plaster which she had earlier applied. ‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ she said by way of compromise, opening a drawer for a clean tea towel and giving it to him.
‘You’re used to doing things your way, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘And you’re not?’ she replied, selecting a wooden-handled mop from the pot on the windowsill.
‘I guess we’re just two of a kind,’ he replied with a small laugh.
They worked steadily together with Romily trying to kid herself that there was nothing out of the ordinary in them performing this simple domestic chore together.
‘We’re like a married couple, aren’t we?’ he said when some minutes had passed. ‘And yes, I’m well aware that that comment will strike an uncomfortable chord with you.’
He was right, but she chose to ignore it. ‘Do you make a habit of flying halfway around the world to help with a person’s washing up?’ she asked.
‘I do if the person is worth it.’
Her head down as she concentrated on scrubbing a pan, she smiled to herself. He had an answer for everything, didn’t he? She had to admit, though, she couldn’t help but admire his boldness and the impetuous spirit that had brought him here. It was a long time since anyone had gone to so much trouble to make an impression on her, and she would be lying if she didn’t feel enormously flattered. Moreover, his arrival could not have been better timed; it had provided a welcome diversion from the sadness of reading Matteo’s letters. The instant she had seen Red’s handsome face staring back at her with his large frame filling the doorway, Matteo and the past was swept away.
With everything tidied and put back in its proper place – Mrs Collings would play merry hell tomorrow morning if she found her domain with so much as a teaspoon in the wrong place – they returned to the drawing room. While Red dealt with building up the fire again, Romily poured two glasses of brandy.
‘Only a very small one for me,’ he said, ‘I need to keep my head when I’m around you.’
As do I, she thought with growing awareness that, minute by minute, she was becoming increasingly susceptible to what she could only describe as Red’s potent masculinity. He somehow seemed taller and broader here than he did in Palm Springs. Was it because the little time they had spent together there had been mostly outside, and here his large frame was confined by bricks and mortar? She smiled to herself, thinking that his presence was as incongruous as it would be if one of those enormous cacti she had seen in the desert with him were suddenly to pop up in her garden. It would be wildly out of place, but dramatically attractive all the same.
When he’d coaxed the fire back into life, and she’d given him his glass of brandy, they made themselves comfortable on the sofa, one at each end. Kicking off her shoes, she tucked her legs beneath her.
‘Am I forgiven for storming your castle and intruding on your privacy?’ he asked.
She swirled the brandy around in the large balloon glass and took a long and appreciative sip. ‘What do you think?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I think we’ll never have a conversation that doesn’t resemble a ping-pong ball being batted backwards and forwards.’
‘Is that the way it feels to you?’
‘There you go again, answering my question with one of your own.’ He smiled. ‘You’re like a very beautiful butterfly, tantalisingly close, but always hovering beyond reach.’
‘I’ve been described as many things, but never a butterfly. It makes me sound disagreeably flighty and insubstantial.’
His smile widened, deepening the lines around his dark eyes. His profile was brought into sharp relief by the flickering flames of the fire, accentuating his cheekbones and the lines either side of his mouth. How would it feel to kiss that mouth? a covetous voice whispered in her ear.
‘Insubstantial is absolutely not the word that springs to mind when I think of you,’ he said.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
He drank from his glass, tilting his head back, his neck and Adam’s apple revealed in the soft light. How tempting it was to lean over and touch that patch of exposed smooth skin. To place her lips against his jawline and breathe in the scent of him. She cleared her throat and took a large mouthful of her drink, willing her scheming desire to get back in line.
‘More brandy?’ he asked. She stared at the glass in her hand, realising that it was empty. Before she could say no, he had taken it from her and was on his feet. He went over to the console table where the bottle of Rémy Martin was. It was only then, as he refilled her glass, and not his, that she registered he was barely limping. Until then she had forgotten all about his artificial leg.
When he sat down again, he had contrived to close the gap between them, brushing against her knees with his thigh. The fire popped and crackled, adding to the forcefield of static that was fizzing between them.
‘You’re limping less,’ she said, grasping at something normal to say in a thoroughly abnormal situation.
‘How very observant of you. And if I can be equally observant, you have the most bewitching eyes I have ever had the good fortune to gaze into.’
In danger of losing herself in his at such close proximity, she said, ‘Your eyes aren’t so bad either.’
He tapped his glass against hers. ‘Well then, here’s to our mutually appreciated eyes.’
‘I have a confession to make,’ he then said.
‘Don’t tell me you’re here to resurrect Gabe and Melvyn’s idea about us working together.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m out of the picture on that project; they’re looking for another writer who might tempt you to take up their offer.’
Her agent had told her much the same. ‘I’m sorry if my decision to leave so suddenly made things difficult for you,’ she said.
‘Don’t give it another thought. It was my fault for rubbing you up the wrong way.’
‘So what is your confession?’
�
�Well, it’s kinda weird, and you have to promise not to laugh, but I have a thing for English women; it’s the accent. It makes me do crazy and improbable things.’
She worked hard to keep her face from breaking into a smile. ‘Is that so?’ she said. ‘And how many English women have you known who have had this effect on you?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Why else would I have asked?’
‘You might not like the answer.’
‘That’s not a reason to avoid asking the question in the first place.’
‘In that case I have no choice but to risk it. You see, it’s just the one English woman, and the one English accent that drives me nuts. It’s yours.’
Determined to keep her expression as neutral as she could, she said, ‘How interesting. I wonder why that is?’
‘I was hoping you’d put me straight, because I’m damned if I know why. I’m in uncharted territory here; I’m all at sea.’
‘You don’t strike me as a man all at sea,’ she remarked. ‘Far from it.’
‘I hide it well. But then I hide so many things. As you pointed out to me that day when I behaved so badly.’
‘We all hide things,’ she said, thinking of Matteo’s letters.
‘Even you?’
‘Oh yes. I have plenty of things I’d sooner not reveal.’
‘Bad things?’
‘Bad enough.’
For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Romily put down her glass and went to put another log on the fire. After nudging it into place with the poker, and seeing Red’s empty glass on the table next to hers, she offered him a refill.
He shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’ve cut back. I go through phases when I drink far too much.’
‘Is there a reason for that?’ She was surprised at his admission.
‘There’s a reason for everything.’
