Читать книгу British Bachelors: Tempting & New: Seduction Never Lies / Holiday with a Stranger / Anything but Vanilla... - Сара Крейвен, Liz Fielding - Страница 11

CHAPTER SIX

TAVY SPENT A restless, miserable night, and responded reluctantly to the sound of the alarm the following morning.

Clutching a handful of damp tissues, she’d stared into the darkness trying to make sense of Patrick’s extraordinary behaviour, and failing miserably.

But the chief barrier between herself and sleep was her body’s unexpected and unwelcome response to Jago Marsh’s mouth moving on hers. The warm, heavy throb across her nerve-endings, the stammer of her pulses, and, most shamingly, the swift carnal scald of need between her thighs—all sensations returning to torment her.

Reminding her that—just for a moment—she had not wanted him to stop...

She’d been caught off guard—that was all, she told herself defensively. And she would make damned sure that it never happened again.

When she got to the school, Mrs Wilding was waiting impatiently. ‘Oh, there you are, Octavia,’ she said as if Tavy was ten minutes late instead of five minutes early. ‘I want you to sort out the library this morning. Make sure all the books are catalogued, and shelved properly. List any that need to be replaced and repair any that are slightly worn.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I shall be going out.’

Tavy could remember carrying out the self-same operation, fully and thoroughly, at the end of the previous term, but knew better than to say so, merely replying, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilding.’

As she’d suspected, the library was in its usual neat order, and there was nothing to add to the list of replacements from the last check. Although she could do something brave and daring like creating a parallel list of books, and suggest that the library should be treated to a mass buying programme.

Some hopes, she thought with self-derision as she returned to her cubbyhole. Mrs Wilding liked the idea of a library because it sent a positive literacy message to the parents, but did not regard it as an investment.

She reprinted the original list, then sat staring at the computer screen, wondering how to occupy herself. Apart from the cheerful sound of Radio Two emanating faintly from Matron’s room, the place was silent.

Her hand moved slowly, almost in spite of itself, clicking the mouse to take her online, then keying in ‘Descent’.

She drew a breath, noting that the entries about them seemed endless. She scrolled down the page and Jago smiled out at her, sitting on a step, a can of beer in his hand, next to a fair-haired guy with a thin, serious face, both of them stripped to the waist and wearing jeans.

For a moment she felt something stir inside her, soft, almost aching, and clicked hastily on to ‘The Making of Descent’. She read that while Pete Hilton, the fair serious one, and Jago had met at public school and started writing songs together, they’d only made contact with the other members of the band, keyboard player and vocalist Tug Austin and drummer Verne Hallam when they’d all subsequently enrolled at the Capital School of Art in London.

They’d started playing gigs at schools and colleges in London, their music becoming increasingly successful, allied with a reputation for drinking and wild behaviour, and leading them to be thrown out of art college at the start of their third year.

At first they’d called themselves Scattergun, and it was only when they’d been offered their first recording contract that they changed their name to Descent, soon scoring their first huge, groundbreaking hit with Easy, Easy.

Tavy went on reading about the tours, the sell-out concerts, the awards, all accompanied by a riotous, unbridled lifestyle, fuelled by alcohol and, it was hinted, drugs, that apparently became the stuff of legends. Or horror stories.

There were more pictures too, involving girls. She recognised a lot of them—models, film and TV stars, other musicians. The kind who made the covers of celebrity magazines. But not usually half-dressed, dishevelled and hung-over. And many of them entwined with Jago.

The narrative was punctuated by scraps of Descent’s music, raw, raunchy, ferocious, and available with one click.

It was, she thought with shocked disbelief, like discovering there were actually aliens on other planets.

Making her realise just how sheltered her life in Hazelton Magna had been from the overheated world of rock music, reality television and instant celebrity. Making her see why Jago’s arrival could well be regarded locally as an unwarranted invasion. How, in spite of her regrettable incursion into his grounds, he was the real trespasser.

She wanted to stop reading, but something made her continue. Some compulsion to know everything, as if that could possibly make her understand the inexplicable.

‘Sometimes the demons you find there make the return journey with you...’

His words. And she shivered again.

The band, she read, had broken up three years earlier, citing ‘artistic differences’. But they had reunited a year later, with a UK tour planned. But this project had been cancelled following Pete Hilton’s sudden departure, caused, it was rumoured, by a fight with Jago Marsh. After which Descent had come to an abrupt end, the other band members dispersing, said the article, ‘to pursue other interests’.

Like buying neglected country houses, thought Tavy, returning dispiritedly to the computer’s home page. And her researches had done nothing to allay her fears or quell her inner disturbance over Jago Marsh. On the contrary, in fact.

Because it was obvious from the tone of the article that, to him, women were merely interchangeable commodities, a series of willing bodies to be enjoyed, then discarded, which was only serving to deepen her resentment of him and the way he’d treated her.

His arrogant assumption that she would enjoy being in his arms.

A ‘treat of the week’ for the village maiden, no doubt, she thought furiously.

What she needed now was something to take her mind off it all. She required an occupation, and in the absence of any correspondence, she decided to tidy the stationery cupboard, and check whether more letterheads, report forms and prospectuses needed to be ordered.

Demonstrate my efficiency, she thought, pulling a face.

To her surprise, the cupboard was locked, but there was a spare key in Mrs Wilding’s desk drawer, eventually locating it under a bulky folder tied up with pink tape which she lifted out and left on top of the desk.

She opened the door, and inspected and rearranged each shelf with methodical care noting down, as she’d suspected, that more uniform lists were needed, plus compliment slips and letterheads. She was kneeling, examining a box of old date stamps that had been pushed to the back of the bottom shelf and forgotten, when an icy voice behind her said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Tavy turned and saw Mrs Wilding glaring down at her.

‘Just checking the supplies.’ She got up, feeling faintly bewildered. ‘I realised it was some time since I did so.’

‘But the cupboard was locked.’

‘I got the key from your drawer.’

‘Well, in future, kindly do only what you’re asked.’

Tavy watched as Mrs Wilding relocked the cupboard, ostentatiously putting the key in her handbag, then replaced the folder in the drawer and slammed it shut.

She said quietly, ‘I’ve made a note of what we need to re-order from the printers, Mrs Wilding. Shall I leave it with the library list?’

‘You may as well.’ Mrs Wilding paused. ‘I shan’t need you again today, Octavia. You can go home.’

Faced with an afternoon of freedom at any other time, Tavy would have turned an inner cartwheel. But this felt like being sent away in some kind of disgrace—as if she’d been caught prying—when she was simply doing her job. Because if any of the school’s stationery had run out, she knew who’d have been blamed.

She managed a polite, ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilding,’ then collected her jacket and her bag, and went to find her bicycle.

She was halfway down the drive, when she heard the sound of a powerful engine approaching, and drew in to the verge, just as a big Land Rover came round the corner, with ‘White Gables Stud’ blazoned on its sides, and Norton Culham at the wheel.

Tavy couldn’t remember him ever calling at the school before, so it was truly turning into a day of surprises, although Mr Culham driving past without appearing to notice her was certainly not one of them.

Everything normal there, she thought, giving a mental shrug and continuing on her way. Passing the church, she saw an unfamiliar car parked outside, and remembered the diocesan surveyor was expected.

Damn, she thought. I meant to wish Dad luck.

As she wheeled her bike up the Vicarage drive, she saw there was something in the porch, leaning against the front door, only to realise as she got closer that it was a large florists’ bouquet—two dozen crimson roses beautifully wrapped and beribboned.

She picked them up carefully, inhaling their delicate exquisite fragrance, then detached the little envelope from the outer layer of silver-starred cellophane, and took out the card.

There were just two words. ‘Peace offering.’

No sender’s name, but she knew exactly who needed to make this kind of atonement and whispered, ‘Patrick.’

This wonderful, extravagant, passionate gesture more than made up for the apologetic phone call that she’d expected but never received.

Smiling, she let herself into the house, and took the flowers through to the kitchen. She’d need at least two if not three vases for them. And wasn’t there something about cutting the stems and bruising them in order to prolong the blooming? Because she wanted to keep them fresh not just for days but weeks.

She took out her mobile and, for once, because she wanted to reassure him that peace had indeed broken out, she called him at work.

He answered immediately. ‘Tavy?’ He sounded surprised and none too pleased. ‘What is it? This isn’t a good time. I have a client waiting.’

‘But you must have known I’d ring,’ she said. ‘To thank you, and say how truly beautiful they are, and how thrilled I am.’

There was a pause. Then: ‘I don’t follow you,’ he said. ‘What’s “truly beautiful”? What are you talking about?’

‘Your peace offering,’ she said, her voice lilting. ‘The lovely flowers you just sent me.’

‘Flowers?’ Patrick’s tone was impatient. ‘I never sent any flowers. Why would I? It must be a mistake by the florist—or someone’s playing a joke on you. I suggest you get it sorted. Now I really have to go. I’ll call you later.’

He disconnected, leaving Tavy standing motionless, clutching the phone, and staring at the bouquet lying on the kitchen table, as if each long-stemmed blossom had suddenly turned into a live snake.

‘No,’ she said aloud, her voice clipped and harsh in the silence. ‘It’s not true. They can’t be from—him. I don’t—I won’t believe it.’

Peace offering...

She was trembling, her stomach churning in a mix of incredulity, confusion and disappointment. She brought her fist up to her mouth, biting down hard on the knuckle, trying to distract one pain with another.

She’d believed Patrick had sent the flowers because he’d spoiled the previous evening by getting stupidly and aggressively drunk, and she’d expected him to show a measure of remorse. But his attitude on the phone indicated quite clearly that was the last thing on his mind.

She didn’t want to speculate what Jago Marsh’s motivation might be. She only knew that to receive flowers—and red roses, the symbol of love at that—from someone as cynically amoral as he was, had to be a kind of degradation.

Suggesting to her where they really belonged. She snatched the bouquet from the table and marched out of the house, down the drive to where the bins were awaiting the weekly refuse collection, thrusting the flowers on top of the kitchen waste.

‘Good riddance,’ she muttered as she went back to the kitchen.

Back in the kitchen, she picked fresh herbs from the pots outside the back door to add to the omelettes she was planning for lunch in case the surveyor joined them, then set about assembling the ingredients for supper’s cottage pie. The browned meat was simmering nicely on the stove with diced onion and carrot when her father returned.

‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ he said, smiling with an obvious effort.

‘I was given the afternoon off.’ Tavy saw with concern the bleakness in his eyes.

‘Because we have a visitor,’ he went on.

So the surveyor was with him, she thought, summoning a welcoming smile. Which froze as Jago Marsh followed him into the kitchen, carrying, she saw with horror, the roses she’d put in the bin only a short while before.

‘And also something of a mystery,’ her father added. ‘We found these beautiful flowers outside, apparently thrown away.’

‘I suggested you might be able to shed some light on the subject.’ Jago put the bouquet back on the kitchen table, his mouth twisting ironically as he studied her flushed face. ‘Can you?’

‘Not really,’ said Tavy, keeping her voice steady with an effort. ‘I—I found them on the doorstep when I got home. They’re obviously a mistake.’

‘If so, they’re an expensive one,’ he commented levelly.

‘So I—disposed of them,’ she added lamely, not looking at him.

‘What a shame,’ said the Vicar. ‘I suppose we should try and trace the recipient, even though the card seems to be missing.’

That, thought Tavy, was because it was currently burning a hole in her pocket.

Aloud, she said, ‘Maybe they just weren’t wanted. And ours was the nearest bin.’

‘Ah,’ said her father. ‘A token of unrequited love, perhaps. How sad. In which case I’ll take them over to the church, where they’ll make a welcome change from Mrs Rigby’s everlasting spray chrysanthemums.’ He lifted the bouquet carefully from the table. ‘Jago came to return the book I lent him, my dear. See if you can persuade him to stay for lunch.’

He strode purposefully out and a few seconds later Tavy heard the front door close behind him.

Leaving her alone. With him. In the world’s most loaded silence.

Which he was the first to break. ‘So,’ he commented sardonically. ‘Not peace but a sword?’

She lifted her chin. ‘Did you ever doubt it?’

He looked at the mutinous set of her mouth and smiled. ‘There were odd moments,’ he drawled.

‘In your dreams, Mr Marsh,’ she said, her breath quickening. She began to whisk the eggs in an effort to hide that her hands were trembling. ‘And there is no invitation to lunch,’ she threw at him. ‘In case you were hoping.’

‘I’m not that much of an optimist.’ He looked at the bunch of herbs on the chopping board. ‘Besides, you might be tempted to include hemlock in my share.’ He turned to the door. ‘However, please give your father my regards, and tell him I look forward to our next meeting.’

And there would be one, Tavy thought, as she added the chopped herbs and seasoning to the eggs. It was almost inevitable. She would simply arrange not to be around when it happened.

‘Has Jago gone?’ her father asked on his return, sounding disappointed.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Tavy said with spurious regret. ‘He has places to go, people to see. You know how it is.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, how was the meeting?’

‘Not good,’ Mr Denison said heavily. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

Tavy abandoned the eggs and made two mugs of strong tea instead. She sat beside her father at the table and took his hand. ‘I suppose it’s the roof.’

‘That’s certainly part of it. Apparently, it’s gone beyond repair and would need totally replacing.’ He paused. ‘But the main problem is the tower.’

‘So what does he suggest?’

‘That we go on as usual until he has given his report to the Bishop and some decision about Holy Trinity’s future has been reached.’

He shook his head. ‘And, as he pointed out, it’s just another church—Victorian Ordinary instead of Victorian Gothic—with no great age or historical significance that might entitle it to special treatment. And, of course, only a small congregation.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I suspect the Bishop means to close it.’

‘But he can’t do that,’ Tavy protested. ‘It’s an important part of village life.’

He shook his head. ‘Sadly, darling, it’s happened to other churches in the diocese with similar problems.’ He sighed. ‘And as you know the Bishop is a moderniser, so we haven’t always seen eye to eye in the past.’

Tavy swallowed. ‘Would we have to leave this house?’

‘Almost certainly. It’s a valuable piece of real estate—more so than the church itself, I fear.’ He added quietly, ‘I’ll probably be asked to join the team ministry in Market Tranton.’

As Tavy brought the omelettes to the table, she said, ‘Dad, we have to fight this closure. Try to raise some serious money to kick-start the restoration fund again.’

‘I’ve been thinking along the same lines,’ he said. ‘But where would we start?’ He shook his head. ‘What we really need is a miracle or a millionaire philanthropist, but they’re in short supply these days.’

It was a good omelette but, to Tavy, it tasted like untreated leather. Because she could think of someone just about to lavish thousands of pounds on a country mansion—just to feed his own selfish vanity.

To them that hath, she thought bitterly. And it had never seemed more true, or more horribly unfair.

Oh, damn Jago Marsh, and send him back to the hell he came from. And where he truly belongs, with his drink and his drugs. And his frightful bloody women.

‘Octavia, my dear,’ the Vicar said gently. ‘I know we must fight, but for a moment there you looked almost murderous.’

‘Did I?’ She smiled at him. Kept her voice light. ‘Oh, dear. I must have been thinking of the Bishop.’