Читать книгу British Bachelors: Tempting & New - Сара Крейвен, Liz Fielding - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

FOR A WHILE Tavy stayed where she was, waiting until she could be totally sure he had gone. Then, and only then, she swam to the bank and climbed out, her legs shaking under her.

She would normally have dried off in the sun, but this time she dragged her clothes on over her clammy skin, wincing at the discomfort, but desperate to get away. Cursing herself inwardly for the impulse which had brought her here. Knowing that this special place had been ruined for her for ever, and that she would never come back.

And she didn’t feel remotely refreshed. Instead, she felt horribly disturbed, her heart going like a trip-hammer. And dirty. Also sick.

See you around...

That was the second time someone had said that to her today, and her silent response had been the same to each of them—‘Not if I see you first.’

Well, she probably couldn’t avoid Fiona Culham altogether, but, after this recent encounter, she could let the police know that there were undesirables in the neighbourhood.

And gentle teasing be damned, she thought, pulling on her T-shirt and sliding her damp feet into their shabby canvas shoes. Remembering the wide shoulders and the muscularity of his arms and chest, she knew she could have been in real danger. Because if he’d made a move on her, there was no guarantee she’d have been strong enough to fight him off.

Trying to make her wet hair less noticeable, she dragged it back from her face and plaited it into a thick braid, fingers all thumbs, securing it with one of the elastic bands that had been round the newsletters.

Now she felt more or less ready to face the outside world again. And some, but not all, of the people in it.

When she got back to the gate, she was almost surprised to find her bicycle where she’d left it. Dad had always dismissed the old saying about bad things happening in threes as a silly superstition, but it occurred often enough to make her wonder. Only not this time, it seemed, she thought with a sigh of relief, as she cycled off, determined to put as much distance as she could between herself and Ladysmere Manor with as much speed as possible.

When she got back to the Vicarage, she found her father in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a pot of tea and the crossword, plus the substantial remains of a rich golden-brown cake.

She said lightly, ‘Hi, darling. That looks good.’

‘Ginger cake,’ said Mr Denison cheerfully. ‘I had some at the WI anniversary tea the other week and said how delicious it was, so the President, Mrs Harris baked another and brought it round.’

‘You,’ Tavy said severely, ‘are spoiled rotten. I suppose they’ve guessed that my baking sets like concrete in the bottom of the tin?’

His smile was teasing. ‘One Victoria sponge that had to be prised loose. Since then—straight As.’

‘Flatterer,’ said Tavy. She paused. ‘Dad, have you heard if the travellers have come back?’

‘It’s not been mentioned,’ he said with faint surprise. ‘I confess I’d hoped they were safely settled on that site at Lower Kynton.’

You can say that again, thought Tavy, her mind invaded by an unwanted image of a dark face and tawny eyes beneath straight black brows gleaming with amusement and something infinitely more disturbing.

She banished it. Drew a steadying breath. ‘How’s the sermon going?’

‘All done. But if the caravans have returned, perhaps I should write an alternative on brotherly love, just to be on the safe side.’

He turned to look at her, frowning slightly. ‘You look a little pale.’

But at least he didn’t mention her wet hair...

She shrugged. ‘Too much sun, maybe. I must start wearing a hat.’

‘Go and sit down,’ he directed. ‘And I’ll make fresh tea.’

‘That would be lovely.’ She added demurely, ‘And a slice of ginger cake, if you can possibly spare it.’

* * *

She arrived at work early the following morning, aware that she hadn’t slept too well, for which she blamed the heat.

But she’d awoken feeling rather more relaxed about the incidents of the previous day, apart, of course, from the encounter at the lake. Nothing could reconcile her to that.

She’d even found she was glancing at herself in the mirror as she prepared for bed, imagining that she’d somehow had the chutzpah to walk naked out of the water and reclaim her clothes, treating him contemptuously as if he’d ceased to exist.

After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. She was probably on the thin side of slender, and her breasts might be on the small side, but they were firm and round, her stomach was flat and her hips nicely curved.

At the same time, she was glad she’d stayed in the lake. Because the first man to see her nude was going to be Patrick, she thought firmly, and not some insolent, low-life peeping Tom.

As she let herself in through the school’s rear entrance, she heard Mrs Wilding’s voice raised and emotional, mingling with Patrick’s quieter more placatory tones.

He must have told her about us, was her first thought, the second being a cowardly desire to leave before anyone knew she was there. To jump before she was pushed.

‘Oh, don’t be such a fool,’ Mrs Wilding was raging. ‘Don’t you understand this could finish us? Once word gets out, the parents will be up in arms, and who can blame them?’

A reaction that could hardly be triggered by her relationship with Patrick, Tavy decided.

As she appeared hesitantly in the sitting room doorway, Patrick swung round looking relieved. ‘Tavy, make my mother some tea, will you? She’s—rather upset.’

‘Upset?’ Mrs Wilding repeated. ‘What else do you expect? Who in their right mind would want their innocent, impressionable child to be exposed to the influence of a drug-addled degenerate?’

Tavy, head reeling, escaped to the kitchen to boil the kettle, and measure Earl Grey into Mrs Wilding’s favourite teapot with the bamboo handle. This was clearly an emergency and the everyday builder’s blend would not do.

‘What’s happened?’ she whispered when Patrick arrived for the tray.

‘I ran into Chris Abbot last night, and we went for a drink. He was celebrating big time.’ Patrick drew a deep breath. ‘Believe it or not, he’s actually sold the Manor at last.’

‘But that’s good, surely.’ Tavy filled the teapot. She found one of her employer’s special porcelain cups and saucers, and the silver strainer. ‘It needs to be occupied before thieves start stripping it.’

Patrick shook his head. ‘Not when the buyer is Jago Marsh.’

He saw her look of bewilderment and sighed. ‘God, Tavy, even you must have heard of him. Multimillionaire rock star. Lead guitarist with Descent until they split up after some monumental row.’

Something stirred in her memory, left over from her brief time at university. A group of girls on her landing talking about a gig they’d been to, discussing with explicit detail the sexual attraction of the various band members.

One of them saying, ‘Jago Marsh—I have an orgasm just thinking about him.’

Suppressing an instinctive quiver of distaste, she said slowly, ‘Why on earth would someone like that want to live in a backwater like this?’

He shrugged, then picked up the tray. ‘Maybe backwaters are the new big thing, and everyone wants some.

‘According to Chris, he was at a party in Spain and met Sir George’s cousin moaning he had a country pile he couldn’t sell, no reasonable offer refused.’

‘He’s changed his tune.’ Tavy followed him down the passage to the sitting room.

‘Seriously strapped for cash, according to Chris. So Jago Marsh came down a while back, liked what he saw, and did the deal.’ He sighed. ‘And we have to live with it.’

Mrs Wilding was sitting in a corner of the sofa, tearing a tissue to shreds between her fingers. She said, ‘I would have bought the place myself when it first came on the market. After all, I’ve been looking to expand for some time, but my offer was turned down flat. And now it’s gone for a song.’

‘But still more than you could afford,’ Patrick pointed out.

‘There were other offers,’ his mother said. ‘Why doesn’t Christopher Abbot check to see if any of them are still interested? That way the Manor could be sold for some decent purpose. Something that might bring credit to the area.’

‘I think contracts have already been exchanged.’

‘Oh, I can’t bear to think about it.’ Mrs Wilding took the tea that Tavy had poured for her. ‘This man Marsh is the last type of person we want living here. He’ll destroy the village. We’ll have the tabloid newspapers setting up camp here. Disgusting parties keeping us all awake. The police around all the time investigating drugs and vice.’ She shook her head. ‘Our livelihood will be ruined.’

She turned to Tavy. ‘What is your father going to do about this?’

Tavy was taken aback. ‘Well, he certainly can’t stop the sale. And I don’t think he’d want to make any pre-judgements,’ she added carefully.

Mrs Wilding snorted. ‘In other words, he won’t lift a finger to protect moral standards. Whatever happened to the Church Militant?’

She put down her cup. ‘Anyway, it’s time you made a start, Octavia.

‘You’ll find yesterday’s correspondence waiting on your desk. When you’ve dealt with that, Matron needs a hand in the linen room. Also we need a new vegetable supplier, so you can start ringing round, asking for quotes.’

From doom and disaster to business as usual, thought Tavy as she went to her office. But to be fair, Mrs Wilding probably had every right to be concerned now that this bombshell had exploded more or less on her doorstep.

She found herself wondering if the unpleasant tough at the lake was the shape of things to come. Security perhaps, she thought. And I rambled on about CCTV. No wonder he was amused.

Let’s hope he advises his boss to increase the height of the perimeter wall, and then they both stay well behind it.

* * *

It was a busy morning, and Mrs Wilding’s temper was not improved when Tavy gave her the list of bedding, towels and table linen that Matron considered should be replaced as a matter of urgency before the start of the new school year in September, and told her that no one seemed able to provide vegetables more cheaply or of a better quality than the present supplier.

‘Perhaps I should wait and see if we still have any pupils by the autumn,’ Mrs Wilding said tight-lipped, and told Tavy she could go.

Tavy’s own spirits had not been lightened by Patrick whispering apologetically that he wouldn’t be able to see her that evening after all.

‘Mother wants a strategy meeting over dinner, and under the circumstances, I could hardly refuse.’ He gave her a swift kiss, one eye on the door. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

As she cycled home, Tavy reflected that for once she was wholly on the side of her employer. Because the advent of Jago Marsh could well be the worst thing to hit the village since the Black Death, and, even if he didn’t stay for very long, the damage would probably be done and quiet, sleepy Hazelton Magna would never be the same again.

Pity he didn’t stay in Spain, she thought, as she parked her bike at the back of the house and walked into the kitchen.

Where she stopped abruptly, her green eyes widening in horror as she saw who was sitting at the scrubbed pine table with her father, and now rising politely to greet her.

‘Ah, here you are, darling,’ the Vicar said fondly. ‘As you can see, a new neighbour, Jago Marsh, has very kindly come to introduce himself.

‘Jago—this is my daughter Octavia.’

‘Miss Denison.’ That smile again, but faintly loaded. Even—oh, God—conspiratorial. One dark brow quirking above that mocking tawny gaze. ‘This is indeed a pleasure.’

Oh, no, she thought as a wave of hotly embarrassed colour swept over her. It’s the Dark Lord himself. I can’t—I don’t believe it...

Only this time he wasn’t in black. Today it was blue denim pants, and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, with its sleeves rolled back to his elbows, adding further emphasis to his tan. That unruly mass of dark hair had been combed back, and he was clean-shaven.

He took a step towards her, clearly expecting to shake hands, but Tavy kept her fists clenched at her sides, tension quivering through her like an electric charge.

‘How do you do,’ she said, her voice on the chilly side of neutral, as she observed with astonishment a couple of empty beer bottles and two used glasses on the table.

‘Jago is a musician,’ Mr Denison went on. ‘He’s coming to live at the Manor.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ She picked up the dirty glasses and carried them to the sink. Rinsed out the bottles and added them to the recycling box.

Mr Denison looked at his guest with a faint grimace. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The village grapevine, I’m afraid.’

Jago Marsh’s smile widened. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. As long as they keep their facts straight, of course.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Tavy said shortly. ‘They generally get the measure of newcomers pretty quickly.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘That can work both ways. And, for the record, I’m now a retired musician.’

‘Really?’ Her brows lifted. ‘After the world arenas and the screaming fans, won’t you find Hazelton Magna terribly boring?’

‘On the contrary,’ he returned. ‘I’m sure it has many hidden charms, and I’m looking forward to exploring all of them.’ He allowed an instant for that to register, then continued, ‘Besides, I’ve been looking for somewhere quiet—to settle down and pursue other interests, as the saying goes. And the Manor seems the perfect place.’

He turned to the Vicar. ‘Particularly when I found a beautiful water nymph waiting for me at the lake. A most unexpected delight and what irresistibly clinched the deal for me.’

Tavy reached for a cloth and wiped out the sink as if her life depended on it.

‘Ah, the statue,’ Mr Denison mused. ‘Yes, it’s a lovely piece of sculpture. A true classic. One of the Manning ancestors brought her home from the Grand Tour back in the eighteenth century. Apparently he was so pleased with his find that he even renamed the house Ladysmere for her. Until then it had just been Hazelton Manor.’

‘That’s a great story,’ Jago Marsh said, thoughtfully. ‘And I feel exactly the same about my alluring nymph, so Ladysmere it shall stay. I wouldn’t dream of changing it back again.’

‘But the house itself,’ Tavy said very clearly. ‘It’s been empty for so long, won’t it cost a fortune to put right? Are you sure it’s worth it?’

‘Octavia.’ Her father sounded a note of reproof. ‘That’s none of our business.’

‘Actually, it’s a valid question,’ said Jago Marsh. ‘But I’m in this for the long haul, and I like the quirkiness of the place, so I’ll pay what it takes to put it right. Although I suspect what it most needs is TLC. Tender loving care,’ he added, surveying her flushed and mutinous face, before allowing his gaze to travel down over the white blouse and dark grey skirt worn well below the knee, according to Mrs Wilding’s dictates.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I am familiar with the expression.’

How dared he do this? she raged inwardly. How dared he come here and wind her up? Because that’s all it was.

Maybe he was just piqued that she hadn’t recognised him yesterday. Maybe he’d thought one glance, a gasp and a giggle as realisation dawned, would bring her out of the water and...

Well, she didn’t want to contemplate the rest of that scenario.

And with a lot of girls, he might have got lucky, but she had no interest in rock music, or the people who played it, so she was no one’s idea of a groupie.

As well as being spoken for, she added swiftly.

Although, it would have made no difference if she’d been free as air. However famous, however rich he might be, she had known him instantly as someone to be avoided. Someone dangerous with a streak of inner darkness.

His talk of settling down was nonsense. She’d give him three months of village life before he was looking for the shortest route back to the fast lane.

Well, she could survive that long. It was enduring the rest of this visit which would prove tricky.

Oh, let it be over soon, she whispered inwardly, and with unwonted vehemence.

But her father was speaking, driving another nail into her coffin. ‘I’ve asked Jago to stay for lunch, darling. I hope that’s all right.’

‘It’s cold chicken and salad,’ she said tautly, groaning silently. ‘I’m not sure there’s enough to go round.’

‘But I thought we were having macaroni cheese,’ he said. ‘I saw it in the fridge when I got the beer.’

And so there was. One of Dad’s all-time Saturday favourites. She’d got up specially to prepare it in advance.

‘I’d planned that for supper,’ she lied.

‘Oh.’ He looked faintly puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be seeing Patrick tonight.’

‘Well, no,’ she said. ‘His mother’s had some bad news, so he’s spending the evening with her.’

‘Ah,’ he said, and paused. ‘All the same, let’s have the macaroni now. It won’t take long to cook.’

‘Dad.’ She tried to laugh. ‘I’m sure Mr Marsh can do better for himself than very ordinary pasta in our kitchen.’

‘Better than a home-cooked meal in good company?’ her antagonist queried softly. ‘It sounds wonderful. As long as it isn’t too much trouble,’ he added, courteously.

Tavy remembered an old Agatha Christie she’d read years ago—The Murder at the Vicarage. She felt like creating a real-life sequel.

Hastily, she counted to ten. ‘Why don’t you both have another beer in the garden,’ she forced herself to suggest. ‘I—I’ll call when it’s ready.’

While the oven was heating, she mixed breadcrumbs with Parmesan and scattered them across the top of the pasta, found and opened a jar of plums she’d bottled the previous autumn to have with ice cream as dessert, and made a simple dressing for the salad.

We’ll have to eat the chicken tonight, she told herself grimly as she put the earthenware dish into the oven, then turned away to lay the table.

All the domestic stuff she could do on autopilot, which was just as well when her mind seemed to have gone into free fall.

Under normal circumstances, she’d have run upstairs to take off what she regarded without pleasure as her ‘school uniform’, change into shorts and maybe a sun-top, and release her hair from its clasp at the nape of her neck. Preparation for a lazy afternoon under the chestnut tree in the garden—with a book and the odd bout of weeding thrown in.

But there was nothing usual about today, and it seemed infinitely safer to stay as she was. To show this interloper that the girl he’d surprised yesterday was a fantasy.

And to demonstrate that this was the real Octavia Denison—efficient, hard-working, responsible and mature. The Vicar’s daughter and therefore the last person in the world to go swimming naked in someone else’s lake.

Except that she had done so, and altering her outer image wasn’t going to change a thing as far as he was concerned. Any more than his lightening of his appearance today had affected her initial impression of him.

She sighed. Her father was a darling but she often wished he was warier with strangers. That he wouldn’t go more than halfway to meet them, with no better foundation for his trust than instinct. Something that had let him down more than once in the past.

Well, she would be cautious for him where Jago Marsh was concerned. In fact, constantly on her guard.

She didn’t know much about his former band Descent but could recall enough to glean the social niceties had not been a priority with them.

Top of her own agenda, however, would be to find out more, because forewarned would indeed be forearmed.

He’s playing some unpleasant game with us, she told herself restively. He has to be, only Dad can’t see it.

Although she suspected it was that faith in the basic goodness of human nature that made her father so popular in the parish, even if his adherence to the traditional forms of worship did not always find favour with the hierarchy in the diocese.

But that was quite another problem.

Whereas—sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, she thought. Which, in this case, was Jago Marsh.

And she sighed again but this time rather more deeply.