by Sasha Morgan
‘Do you mind if I take a look at the stables?’ He also couldn’t resist sizing up other people’s horses. Plus there was a rather nice blonde he’d noticed earlier, sweeping up in the yard. Not waiting for a response, Dylan stood up and left the room, leaving Tobias and Seamus looking at each other in amusement.
As luck would have it she was still there tending to the horses when he jumped over the fence and made his way to the stables. She recognised him immediately. ‘Hello, Mr Delany,’ she gushed.
‘Please, call me Dylan,’ he smiled, giving her the full benefit of his white teeth and gleaming eyes. She blushed.
Embarrassed, she blustered, ‘Would you like a ride? Erm, my name’s Flora.’ He looked at her pert bottom in tight jodhpurs, and cleavage spilling out of a partially unbuttoned check shirt.
‘I’d love a ride,’ he answered, looking her full in the face. Flora gazed back in admiration; Dylan had been her hero since Pony Club. Now, at twenty, she was working in the stables as a groom and loving every minute, especially with the chance of meeting Lord Cavendish-Blake’s close friend the one and only Dylan Delany. And he was here! He moved closer and asked quietly, ‘Anyone in those stables?’
The penny dropped. Startled yet thrilled, she slowly shook her head.
‘No,’ she replied huskily. He pulled the band out of her hair, making it tumble over her face. She pulled it back hastily. ‘But I’m expecting Lord Cavendish-Blake to arrive any moment.’
Dylan, however, knew better. ‘Not for some time yet. He’s busy at the moment.’ Flora turned her head sharply towards the Hall, as if willing Lord Cavendish-Blake to suddenly appear, and her hair swung over her face again in a silky blond wave.
He found it incredibly sexy. He could just about see her eyes through the blond waves, her pupils had dilated and she was breathing deeply, making her chest heave up and down. He was home and dry.
‘Could you show me inside the stables?’ he whispered in her ear, gently licking her lobe. Flora’s sensations swam, totally mesmerised, yet she tried to hesitate.
‘I’m not sure, what if…’ But Dylan gently took her hand and guided her inside.
It was dark and warm. Hay bales were piled up against the walls. He took two and placed them on the floor. Turning to her, he slowly began unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, sighing with delight at the creamy breasts bursting out of a red silk bra. He dipped his head and kissed one, his tongue seeking the nipple and flicking it hard, making her gasp. His hands found their way inside her jodhpurs and stroked the pert bum he had so admired earlier.
‘Now, about that ride…’
Chapter 6
Megan’s Fiat Panda had actually made the journey all the way to the Cotswolds, much to her surprise. Packed to bursting with her belongings, complete with a roof rack creaking with the weight of suitcases, the little car had chugged along gently until it reached its destination, Treweham village. Staring at the stone cottage, with its pretty front garden packed with daffodils, Megan still couldn’t believe all this was actually hers. Her heart longed for Gran to come scurrying out of the front porch and up the cobbled pathway to greet her. But no, everything stood still, except for the soft, gentle sway of the conifer trees and the overgrown pampas grass. The trickle of the nearby stream and a wood pigeon calling in the distance were the only sounds. Taking a deep breath, Megan got out of the car, reached her suitcases down from the roof rack and began to heave them up to the front door.
She had been given a key to the cottage, but on impulse she bent down to the flowerpot standing at the side of the porch, bursting with purple, white and yellow crocuses. As always, a spare key was buried underneath it, amongst the gravel and soil. A lump suddenly appeared in Megan’s throat that she couldn’t swallow. The key still had the familiar key ring attached to it, a copper heart, all tarnished and worn now from years of being hidden under the terracotta pot. Megan turned the key and slowly opened the door. The hinges creaked and the place smelt slightly of damp.
Everything was just as she remembered it: the tiny kitchen with the white ceramic butler sink, brass taps and wooden draining board, the stone floor and oak table and chairs, the Welsh dresser displaying various pieces of crockery, the cosy inglenook fireplace in the lounge, the floral wallpaper that was now blotched with damp patches, the steep, narrow staircase with squeaky wooden boards.
Upstairs, her gran’s bedroom was exactly as she’d left it, with her patchwork quilt cover neatly spread over the bed, patiently waiting to be pulled back and to keep its occupant warm, the French-polished dressing table stood at the side with photo frames containing pictures of Megan and Christopher, and bottles of perfume. Megan walked towards it, picked up a round, lilac bottle and sprayed it into the cold air. A comforting memory seared through her immediately: Parma violets, the smell of Gran. Her knees buckled and she quickly sat on the edge of the bed, taking steady breaths. After a few moments her eyes searched the room, and she smiled when they rested on the cast-iron fireplace, then stopped when she noticed the pile of ash at the bottom of the grate. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A chill hovered over her momentarily. This was ludicrous, Megan chastised herself. There was no need to feel uneasy here. This had been Gran’s home, and now it was hers. This was a safe place, away from everything that had caused her pain. The only communication she had had from the office was a phone call from Kate, whom she had worked alongside and had grown close to. Megan had told her she wasn’t coming back, despite Kate’s pleas for her to return. Megan hadn’t needed to ask if she was the subject of office gossip – she knew damn well she would be. Kate had kept her word and not told a soul where Megan was, especially Adam, who had come sniffing round her for information. She allowed herself a moment to picture Adam, slouched in his chair, hands behind his head, swivelling behind his desk, oozing confidence that once she had fallen for. She shuddered, then with determination hauled herself up and made her way back down to the kitchen. She could almost hear Gran’s voice saying, ‘It will all seem much better after a cup of tea.’
‘Yes, Gran, I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said aloud.
Chapter 7
In a little terraced house tucked away in the back streets of an industrial town in Lancashire, Gary Belcher was settling down for the evening. He’d had a very long and tiring day at the supermarket and his hands were red raw from stacking the freezer cabinets. Although he was only in his mid-twenties, and in good shape, his body still ached. He’d done a double shift and was knackered. His crew-cut hair was wet with sweat and he longed for a hot bath to ease his aching muscles, but had opted for a quick shower, knowing how much it cost to heat the water. Tracy, his wife, was still working at the care home, but would be back soon. As it was Saturday he’d treated them to a curry on the way home, just one portion, but they’d share it along with some oven chips and bread to spread the meal out. He opened a can of lager and swigged it back. After gulping the last drop he burped loudly and reached for the remote control.
Flicking through the channels, he rolled his eyes at the talent competitions that dominated Saturday night TV. Call that singing? He could do better down at the club. He smiled to himself, remembering how he had serenaded Tracy on their wedding day. It had been a small but intimate affair in the local church, then a big booze-up in the hall next door. Tracy and her sister had decorated it with bunting and balloons, and used two wallpaper pasting tables covered with pink plastic tablecloths on which to lay out the buffet. Later a couple of his mates from the club had set up a karaoke machine and Gary had set the ball rolling with his rendition of ‘Lady in Red’, which he changed to ‘Lady in White’, gaining him a collective ‘Ah’ from the wedding party. Tracy had been bowled over. She’d never heard him sing before. He could just picture her now, looking slim and tanned in the off-white meringue dress she had snapped up in a charity shop, her long, blond hair all done up by Sharon from ‘Cut Above’ on the corner. She looked beautiful and he’d never felt so proud or happy as he serenaded her, meanin
g every single word.
He turned the television off, then pulled out his phone from his pocket to check the lottery numbers, as he routinely did on a Saturday night. Six figures stared at him. He screwed his eyes, shook his head then looked again. He’d recognise those numbers anywhere: 27 his age, 25 Tracy’s age, 11 the number of the house, 2 because they’d got married on 2nd February, 30 the age Tracy wanted children and 13 as it had always been a lucky number for him. And tonight, if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he had been bloody lucky, absolutely fucking lucky… Surely not? He sat up straight and gaped at the six numbers lit across the screen. Yes, there they were, plain as day, numbers 27, 25, 11, 2, 30 and 13. He sat still, frozen on the settee.
He heard the door bang shut, then Tracy’s voice call out. ‘Hi, Gaz, I’m home!’ He was motionless, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his chest, boom, boom, boom.
‘Gary? Are you all right, love?’ asked Tracy, full of concern at seeing her husband still as a statue, perched on the edge of the settee. Oh my God, he’s had a stroke. She dashed towards him. ‘Gaz! Talk to me!’ She slapped his face in panic. This seemed to shake him out of his reverie. He gave her a lopsided smile. Had he been drinking? She looked around her and noticed only one can of lager on the coffee table.
‘Trace, we’ve done it, we’ve bloody done it, love,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Done what, love?’ she asked gently. Something was definitely wrong. He wasn’t himself at all. She stroked his face tenderly. ‘Gary, you’re shaking, love. What’s the matter?’ He pointed to his phone. Frowning, she turned to look and then she too saw the numbers, each one holding some small significance to them. Now they held so much more. Those six numbers held their destiny, their fate, their future. She faced her husband and they gazed into each other’s eyes before screaming and jumping in the air. ‘We’ve won the lottery, Gaz!’
‘I know, I know Trace, we’ve won the fucking lottery!’
Chapter 8
Megan woke the next morning with the sun piercing through the gap in the floral curtains. She had chosen to sleep in her old room, snug under the eaves, rather than in the main bedroom, and after a moment’s disorientation she smiled at the comforting surroundings. This had always been her favourite room in the cottage, and it held so many fond memories. Glancing at the patchwork quilt on the bed she was reminded of how she and Gran had painstakingly matched up the small squares and carefully sewed them together on the old Singer sewing machine.
That gave Megan an idea. The sewing machine would come in very handy now that she had decided to completely refurbish her new home. Whilst she loved everything about Bluebell Cottage, Megan wanted to put her own mark on it, though still keeping the traditional look. New curtains would be a good place to start, along with freshly painted walls to replace the damp, curling wallpaper. Megan was filled with a bright optimism. It was amazing what a good night’s sleep could do.
Flinging back the sheets, she scrambled in the bedside cabinet for paper and a pen. A ‘to do’ list was in order whilst she was feeling so positive. Number one, ‘Get a job’. Although she did have some savings, they wouldn’t last for ever and she had to do something. Local would be best. On her arrival in the village she had noticed a sign outside The Templar asking for part-time bar staff. Although she’d never worked behind a bar, it would be good to work so close by.
Ideally she wanted to work from home. Since leaving her old office job she had visions of fulfilling her dream to make a living as an artist. She had studied art at college but, instead of continuing on to university, she had opted to get a job and stay at home. Maybe she had inherited her mum’s reluctance to fly the nest. Her dad had always said it was such a waste of talent. Her portfolio was bursting with paintings, from the buzz of street life in vibrant cities, with their bright lights and towering buildings, to the rolling velvet hills and swaying cornfields of the countryside. Megan longed to paint, but she had hardly touched her brushes since… well, since she had met Adam, actually. She missed the smell of the paint, mixing the colours into misty sea turquoises, fresh verdant greens and pale pastel shades. Deciding there and then to resurrect her talent, she wrote number two on her list, ‘Start painting again’.
Maybe she could combine both action points? Get paid to paint, start commissioned work. The more she thought about it, the more appealing the prospect became. She’d get business cards made, advertise in magazines, print flyers… Excitement tinged inside her as the idea began to flourish. She would need to fetch her portfolio from Mum and Dad’s so that she would be able to display samples of her work where she could. Perhaps the local tearoom would be a good place to start. A shiver of anticipation rushed through Megan as she imagined the quaint little café showing off her paintings, with a card and price tag discreetly lodged in the corner of the frame. It would be a good idea to paint nearby locations, capturing the essence of the village with its old-fashioned post box, its beautiful fifteenth-century church, its bubbling brook and, in high summer, its poppy fields. On impulse, Megan decided the first thing she’d paint would be Bluebell Cottage and dedicate it to Gran.
Spurred on by her master plan, she jumped out of bed; there was a lot to do today. First stop was The Templar, so she dressed smartly in black trousers and a fitted short-sleeved white blouse, wanting to make a good impression.
*
Entering the pub Megan was greeted by a cheery, ‘Hello there!’ from a red-headed girl serving behind the bar. Megan guessed they were a similar age, judging by her pale, smooth skin covered in freckles and her skinny jeans and crop top.
‘Hello,’ Megan replied with a smile, making her way towards the bar.
‘All moved in?’
Megan grinned, she was accustomed to village life, having spent so much time with Gran, but it would take a little adjustment, having neighbours who knew your every move 24/7.
‘Yes, thanks. I’m Megan, by the way.’ She held her hand out.
‘Finula. Pleased to meet you.’ She gripped Megan’s hand in a firm, confident shake, making her silver bangles jingle.
‘I’ve come about the part-time job advertised.’
‘Great, have you any experience of bar work?’
‘Not exactly, but I’m a quick learner.’
‘Right,’ laughed Finula, ‘let’s see how you pull a pint then.’
Megan, rising to the challenge, joined Finula behind the bar.
‘OK, so slowly does it, tilting the glass.’ Finula had obviously pulled many a pint, making it look so easy as the amber fluid gradually made its way up the glass. ‘Now your turn.’ She handed Megan a pint glass. Licking her lips in concentration Megan pulled back the hand pump, which hissed and a slight spray of beer squirted in their faces, making them giggle. After several attempts and much chuckling, Megan was getting the knack of it.
‘We do bar snacks and there’s also the restaurant, so we’d need you to wait on the tables, too,’ Finula informed Megan.
‘That’s fine, no problem.’ Megan looked towards the room where the restaurant tables were neatly dotted about in cream linen tablecloths with tall-backed leather chairs. It all looked very elegant; a good contrast to the real traditional bar area with its stone floor and wooden benches. ‘It’s lovely, Finula. You must love working here.’
‘It is a friendly environment. I do a lot of the catering. All our food is sourced locally. The vegetables are from Treweham Hall.’
‘Really?’ Megan pictured the impressive manor, with virginia creeper and wisteria growing up its majestic stone walls. She’d always admired it and had often wondered what the Cavendish-Blake family would be like, hidden away in such a vast, imposing home.
‘Sure, the Cavendish-Blakes are keen to support the village. So, when can you start?’ asked Finula.
‘What, that’s it?’ Megan asked, startled. ‘Don’t you have to ask anybody first?’
‘Well, only the landlord and he’s my dad. To tell you the truth, we’re desperate
and so far you’re the only one that’s showed any interest. Anyway, you seem keen enough so why not? And Dad usually does what I tell him,’ Finula smirked.
‘Yes, that’s usually the way, isn’t it, Fin?’ called a loud Irish voice from the side of the room.
‘Ah, here he is, the man himself. Dad meet Megan, our new barmaid.’
‘Is she indeed?’ quipped the larger-than-life chap. He had thick silver hair and sideburns, reminding Megan of an Irish Pa Larkin. ‘Hello, Megan, I’m Dermot.’ He nodded towards the pint glasses filled with ale. ‘Got the hang of it?’
‘Think so. I’m honest and reliable, too,’ Megan added with a winning smile.
‘To be sure you are, Megan,’ laughed Dermot. ‘Tell you what, you supply a reference and I’ll give you a month’s trial, lass. When can you start?’
‘Er… tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow it is then. Come at lunchtime on the first day, when it’s not too busy If you cope with that you can do some evenings as well.’
‘Thanks.’ Megan was elated. ‘And thanks too, Finula.’
Finula beamed, it was about time she worked with someone closer to her age instead of the middle-aged housewives in the village. Something told her Megan would prove to be just the tonic this pub needed.
Chapter 9
As he opened the door the smell of damp hit Tobias immediately. Cobwebs hung from almost every crevice. He scrutinised the interior of the Gate House with a critical eye. Outside it was clear what work was to be done. The Cotswolds stone needed sandblasting, ridding the walls of the murky stains that defaced the original honey glow. The gardens needed landscaping, fencing mended and stained; the roof needed replacement tiles and the outhouse needed to be renovated into a double garage. All straightforward jobs that he could fix, no problem.