The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  ‘And what would have happened if you hadn’t? Just like a man not to think things through properly,’ she added, picking up her rucksack where she’d placed it next to his. ‘I’m taking you down that hill. There’s a cottage of sorts, and we have chocolate biscuits,’ she wheedled.

  ‘Well then, that’s alright isn’t it? We’re stuck in the middle of nowhere in freezing temperatures, with no light, no heat and no water but we do have biscuits, and chocolate at that.’

  ‘I have light,’ she replied, pulling out her keys and pressing a button, a miniscule torch emitting about as much light as a glow-worm.

  ‘Yeah, right!’

  ‘I also have paracetamol and a picnic blanket but if you’re not interested…?’

  The walk down the hill was one she never wanted to repeat. They somehow stumbled and shuffled over the rough terrain his arm wrapped around her shoulder as she half pushed, half pulled and finally dragged him, all by the light of her torch because that’s all they had.

  His mood, dark before, was positively morose when she finally managed to propel him into the cottage and sink him to the ground. Shining the torch up into his face she was shocked to see grey skin where before there’d been rude health.

  She quickly unpacked both rucksacks before fashioning a pillow, of sorts, from the two empty bags and placing it under his head. That was about all she could do, apart from covering him with the blanket and helping him down a couple of tablets. She’d decided to leave his boot on. He’d obviously damaged his ankle being as it was swollen to balloon proportions but it would be suicide to try and attempt walking across the slate bed in the morning in socks. She’d untied his laces and would have liked to have elevated his leg if there’d been anything to elevate it on but there was nothing…

  By now it was six o’clock but it felt a lot later. It was pitch black and she was tired, hungry and afraid. He’d fallen back to sleep again but, touching his hand, he was cold, so cold and it wasn’t as if she could click a switch to turn up the heating. If she’d seen any wood on the island she’d have attempted to light a fire but there was nothing to burn. Cramming her mouth full of biscuits she took a sip of coffee but only a sip. They’d need it in the morning. He’d need it, if only to swallow more painkillers.

  Sitting beside him, his hand in hers she thought back to earlier and the romanticism she’d felt at the thought of living the puritanical life of an islander with a good man at her side. It wasn't romantic, a solitary tear tracing its way down her cheek. It wasn't heart-warming and life fulfilling. It was bloody awful, her gaze now on the other side of the room where the pot was, the big black pot full of the biggest blackest spider. Even as she imagined it, she heard the sound of something scuttling across the floor. Scooting beside him she shifted a little of the rucksack from under his head before squashing up next to him under the plaid rug. The best thing, the only thing for it was sleep. Asleep she could get through the night. Awake - no chance.

  She was asleep. She was dreaming. She was dreaming of him again. Oh, it wasn't the first time. She’d been dreaming about him for quite a while now, long before she’d even met him. It was only recently she’d finally been able to put a face to the lips, the arms, the skin, the feel. Ever since her parents had reminded her of his existence he’d featured as the sole dream inhabitant. She’d never been a great one for dreaming. Even after the incident with Louis she hadn’t taken the bedroom scene into her subconscious to dwell on. So why now did she wake up each morning with a lingering sense of happiness just out of range? She didn’t remember the dreams. She didn’t remember anything other than they featured him in a range of guises and she’d felt happy.

  But life has a way of intruding on dreams. We sleep, we dream, we wake and wake she did only to find her dream, for once, wasn't a dream.

  Somehow during the night the earth had shifted, or she’d shifted. Whatever the reason, instead of lying tucked under his arm snuggling up for warmth she was now lying on top of him, her head tucked into his neck, her knees bent up around his waist as if she was holding on for dear life. She could feel his breath on her cheek just as she could feel his heartbeat thumping next to her through the thickness of their jackets. But it wasn’t just her that must have moved as she felt his arms wrapped around her back, his hands pressing her even closer and not just pressing as she sensed a shift. He was awake and she was trapped.

  She didn’t know what to feel; happy or sad. But she certainly wasn't upset about this turn of events, just a little worried as to what would happen next.

  ‘If you could just move your leg a couple of centimetres to the right,’ his breath coming out in a gasp and she finally realised just where her knee was resting.

  ‘Oh, sorry…’ she stuttered. ‘I must have… It must have been cold,’ she finally managed to squeak into his neck.

  ‘Very cold, but the temperature does appear to be hotting up,’ he added, raising his arm and lifting her head up, his gaze running over her face with a smile. ‘Did I thank you for yesterday, or was I a beast?’

  ‘More like a bear with a sore head. How is it today?’ she said, trying and failing to sit up as the hand across her back turned to a ribbon of steel.

  ‘I think I’ll live, but only if I have a good woman to look after me. Are you a good woman, Tansy?’

  ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘Shame, well I’ll just have to make do with a bad one then.’ His lips finally doing what she’d been hoping they’d do all along.

  She forgot she was lying on a hard floor in the middle of nowhere with no creature comforts like a feather bed or even a comb. She forgot she hadn’t cleaned her teeth or washed her face. She forgot everything except his mouth on hers, his teeth snagging at her lower lip exploring, teasing, pulling before finally descending inside to plunder without apology. She was his completely, utterly, undoubtedly and he was staking his claim. His hand was on her face, her neck, her back before wandering through all the layers and lighting a trail of fire across her skin, despite the cool morning air inveigling its presence. She was lost then; lost but for the very first time in her life not alone as she joined him kiss for kiss, her knees pressing against his body, ever closer, ever more daring…

  She hadn’t wanted to start. Now she didn’t want it to end but end it did slowly, reluctantly, fatefully his hand still lingering on her breast.

  ‘You’d better stop me, because I don’t seem to be able to stop myself where you’re concerned,’ he sighed, placing one last kiss against her lips before removing his hand and helping her to pull her jumper back in place.

  ‘You didn’t have to stop…’ She blushed, but managed to keep hold of his gaze all the same as she stood up and dragged her coat back in place.

  ‘Oh didn’t I? So you’d be happy for me to take you on a dirt bed, would you? Like some feudal war lord? I think I can manage something a little more romantic or…’ He paused, his gaze raking her from head to foot. ‘Or is that what you’re used to, Tansy? Is this the real Tansy? Not the shy, little girl that gets lost in the hills but a fully-fledged woman who’s happy for a bit of rough? Who’s happy to take whatever she can get from whoever’s available even if she doesn’t like them more than that. You don’t like me very much, do you?’ His voice harsh.

  She stared down at him, her face going from red to pale in an instant. She didn’t like him very much. No. She loved him with all her being and that’s what she thought she’d been telling him with, if not her words then her lips. He obviously hadn’t got the message and she was blowed if she was going to translate.

  ‘No, I don’t like you more than that,’ a crack in her voice as she struggled to keep tears at bay. He didn’t like tears but if he shouted at her again, she very much doubted she could hold them back.

  Their journey back was a silent one, silent apart from his apology. Oh, he wasn’t apologising for calling her a tart in all but name. He was apologising for having to place his arm on her shoulder as his ankle was still unsteady, still
hurting. He was apologising for having to rely on someone, anyone other than himself. He was apologising for everything and anything except what he should have been apologising for. She hadn’t deserved his treatment of her but there it was. She wasn’t going to get even a stray sorry for that.

  They managed between them to row the dinghy back to the boat and, if his entry across the gunnel wasn’t perfect at least they were on board after a fashion and his hands were able to work the engine. By the time they’d reached the shore his face was set into a permanent frown. He was angry, furiously angry with her. So angry he’d stopped speaking all together but - if looks could kill she’d be at the bottom of the ocean now swimming with the fishes.

  She remained silent, her face turned away from his stony glares. She’d offered herself to him on a platter and he’d thrown it back in her face. So what if she’d lied and said she didn’t like him? After all, he wasn't the most likeable of men. Did he honestly think she enjoyed being shouted at even if she’d been in the wrong, yet again? The chickens, the kiss. He’d even blame her for his accident if he could.

  His mood didn’t improve when he realised there was no way he was going to be able to drive.

  ‘But you’re not insured,’ the first words he’d uttered in over an hour.

  ‘Yes I am,’ she said. ‘I’m insured to drive any vehicle’ - Including an HGV - but she wasn't going to tell him driving was a hobby. More than a hobby, more like an obsession. She wasn’t going to tell him both Hamilton and Isaac were car obsessed and that they’d dragged her around all the motor shows. She also wasn't going to tell him she had her pilot’s licence. Information like that was on a need to know basis and, after the way he’d just treated her, he needed to know as little as possible.

  ‘You enjoy driving?’ were the next words out of his mouth, and only uttered as she turned into the driveway of Brayely Castle.

  ‘Yes,’ the only word out of hers as she pulled to a stop, the smile on her face for Mr Todd waiting on the top step. Hopping out and collecting her bag from the backseat her voice was deliberately cheerful even though her heart was now rattling around her chest like a bag of broken china. ‘Lord Brayely has had a bit of an accident if you could help him, please. ‘

  ‘Right you are. Her ladyship is back. She’d like pork chops for supper so I took the liberty of calling the butcher.’

  She placed a hand on his shoulder with a smile. ‘Thank you. I’ll make extra for the staff so and perhaps one of my fruit pies?’

  Saturday afternoon came and went with no more disturbances on the Tor front. It was Saturday evening when she next heard his name mentioned, although just because no one had mentioned him didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about him with every waking breath. She was a fool, more than a fool to let it get this far. She was a fool not to have taken it further, as she kneaded and pummelled the latest batch of dough before placing it in the prepared loaf tin and coating it with poppy seeds.

  She was getting into the swing of this cooking lark having rediscovered the trick; preparation, preparation, preparation so that when it was actually time to do any cooking everything was to hand. She had the bacon sliced for breakfast and the plumpest pork sausages. She was a great believer in a hearty Sunday morning breakfast as there was nothing worse than sitting in a cold church with only hunger for company. She wasn't sure what Lady Brayely thought about baked beans but tomorrow morning she was about to find out.

  Mary wandered in with her ladyship’s cup and saucer all set for a chat.

  ‘Hot chocolate, Mary, and a slice of apple tart?’

  ‘Yum, but only if you’ll join me? Her ladyship is in a right ole mood this evening.’

  ‘Oh? What’s got up her goat then?’ she said, putting hot milk in the pan to boil. She didn’t do instant hot chocolate. Hot chocolate was an art she’d learnt in France and, whilst it was fiddly the final result topped with hand-whipped cream and a sprinkling of dark chocolate shavings held little resemblance to the ‘just add hot water’ varieties sold across the land.

  ‘That son of hers.’

  ‘What’s he been doing to upset her now?’ she said faintly, adding a little cold milk to cream the cocoa powder in the bottom of the mugs.

  ‘She’s desperate for him to settle down. To be honest, I think she’d be happy for him to marry anyone, as long as it’s not Cassandra.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ She started pouring the hot milk, beating with a little hand whisk until all the lumps disappeared before topping with cream, lots of cream followed by lots of chocolate.

  ‘That looks amazing,’ Mary said, pulling the mug towards her and taking a small sip, a smile breaking across her face. She threw her a quick glance before continuing. ‘I think it’s because of his wife.’

  ‘His wife? I didn’t know he was married.’ She reached for a cloth and wiped the table where she’d just spilt the top off her chocolate.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Mary smiled again, but this time not with her lips, her eyes twinkling amusement. ‘It was when he was in college - some bimbo or other. Lady Brayely thinks Cassandra is of the same mould.’

  ‘Mould?’

  ‘Yes, you know, tart. It was when his father was alive and the castle couldn’t move for staff. Three months into the marriage he found her pushed up against the wall in the still room with her knickers around her ankles and her skirt around her waist, being given a good seeing to by his father’s valet. Apparently it caused all sorts of problems, not least the loss of what was a bloody good valet,’ she added, taking a large sip of her drink before picking up her fork and starting on the piece of pie in front of her. ‘He divorced her, of course. At least there weren’t any children to worry about but, ever since, he’s stayed clear of a certain type of woman, until Cassandra that is.’

  ‘I can imagine. And she’s got her hooks in, has she?’

  ‘Seems like. Apparently he’s arranged to spend the afternoon riding after church, although I’m not sure there’ll be any horses involved unless, of course, he gets a better offer.’

  ‘His ankle must be better.’

  ‘What was that? His ankle? It was fine when I spotted him walking across the hall earlier.’ She gathered together her plate and mug before wandering over to the dishwasher. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot; her ladyship said you might as well have a couple of hours to yourself tomorrow afternoon. She’ll only be needing sandwiches for supper. You can borrow me bike, if you like?’ she added, rinsing her mug under the tap. ‘That’s just what the doctor ordered, thanks Tansy. I’ll be sure to sleep like a baby as soon as my head hits that pillow.’

  She wished she could follow Mary’s example but sleep wouldn’t come. Usually all she had to do was close her eyes to drift off into oblivion but not tonight. It might have been something to do with her staying up late to start on tomorrow’s lunch, a lunch she wanted to be absolutely perfect because chances were it would be her last. It was roast beef. She’d strolled down to the vegetable patch earlier, the only light coming from the torch they kept by the back door. There was nothing like a nice cauliflower cheese and she had just the right cheese to accompany it tucked away in the back of the fridge. Roast potatoes and light as air Yorkshire puddings all smothered with lashings of her special Dijon mustard gravy. All a bit of a challenge seeing as she wouldn’t be returning from church until gone eleven but doable, just.

  She’d had a shower and dressed in one of the old t-shirts she kept to wear in bed before weaving her still damp hair into a tight plait. He was right about her hair, she thought peering in the mirror at the golden roots starting to shine through, but there was nothing she could do about them now. Maybe tomorrow she’d find a chemist open, or maybe she’d take to wearing a hat both inside and outside the castle.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘You’re up early, Mother?’

  ‘Yes, well, I couldn’t sleep.’ She turned her head slightly. ‘Just toast and a sliver of bacon, Todd,’ she said, with a sharp glance at the little pot of baked beans on
her son’s plate. ‘Are you still planning on going out with that person later?’

  He laughed, placing his cup carefully back on its saucer. ‘That person happens to be a fine horsewoman and I’m just in the mood for a hard ride.’

  ‘Well, she certainly has the bottom for it.’

  ‘Mother, that’s beneath you.’

  ‘No, actually it’s beneath her – It must be the largest bottom in the whole of Oban,’ she added, smoothing marmalade over her toast with a generous hand. ‘I do wish you’d settle down with Wilhelmina’s daughter. It’s my dearest wish, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do know, mother. But these things can’t be rushed…’

  ‘You mean it’s still on the cards after that hopeless trip to London?’ her eyes on his face.

  ‘Her father is of the same view and, as I don’t care one way or the other…’ He paused at the lie, because lie it was. It was the biggest lie of all. He wanted her more than he’d possibly wanted anything, ever and if it took marriage then so be it. At least his mother would be happy. He placed his knife and fork neatly in the centre of his plate, his appetite suddenly deserting him. Thirty-four was probably time to think about taking a wife and she’d do. She’d more than do as he remembered the soft texture of her skin under his. He frowned, remembering she disliked him, something he’d have to think about.

  He’d also have to think about what game she was playing coming all the way to Scotland. Maybe she’d come to meet him on his own turf or perhaps to get to know him as a man before she accepted, or refused? There would be little likelihood of her being allowed to refuse as he remembered his meeting with her father; a difficult meeting with a difficult man. He’d like to think her father had her best interests at heart. He’d like to think the offer of a dowry was just to sweeten the deal and not the act of desperation by a desperate man. Just why was he so desperate to get her married? Whilst all that stuff in the newspapers was unfortunate it wasn't unheard of for girls like her to be hounded by the press. He could well imagine she wouldn’t be able to sneeze without a cameraman handing her a tissue.