by Sasha Morgan
‘Most likely concussion, after the bump on the head and several cuts and bruises, but apart from that, you should be OK.’
‘Great,’ said Dylan flatly, then silently reprimanded himself. He’d got off lightly. He’d known jockeys dumped into ditches at thirty miles an hour, dragged face down through birch fences, break collarbones and even necks, never to walk again. Paralysis was the fear of all riders.
‘You’ve two visitors waiting patiently to see you,’ said the blonde doctor.
Flora? Could Flora be here? Dylan’s heart leapt, then hit rock bottom when his rational brain kicked in. Of course not. How could she have got here that fast? Tobias and Seamus, waiting like caged tigers at the hospital room door, were finally allowed to enter.
‘Dylan, how are you?’ Tobias was pale with worry. Seamus pushed back his copper fringe with an unsteady hand. Dylan was touched by their obvious concern.
‘I’ll live,’ he gave a shaky grin. Then an idea struck him, which lifted his spirits considerably. ‘Flora. I need to see Flora.’ He looked intently at Tobias, urging him to respond.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get in contact with her.’
‘Now, Tobias. Do it now,’ pressed Dylan.
Tobias frowned and looked at Seamus, who was signalling him to go and use his phone.
‘Give her a ring, Tobias,’ he gently advised, sensing Dylan’s desperate need.
*
Outside, in the corridor, Tobias took out his mobile and scrolled through his contacts to find the training yard’s number. Hopefully, Flora would be there. On the second ring it was answered.
‘Delany’s Racing Yard,’ said a voice he recognised as Flora’s, but he could hear clearly that she’d been crying.
‘Flora, it’s Tobias—’
‘Where’s Dylan? Is he all right?’ she interrupted, hysteria setting in again.
‘Yes. He’s in the hospital. Flora, he’s asking for you.’
Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. ‘I’m coming,’ she replied immediately, sobbing uncontrollably now.
‘Not in the state you’re in, you’re not fit to drive. Listen, I’ll arrange for a car to come and pick you up.’
‘Thank you,’ Flora replied with relief.
‘Just sit tight, Flora. Everything with be OK.’
‘Thank you,’ she gulped again.
*
It was late in the evening by the time Flora arrived at the hospital. Dylan had only managed soup at dinner time, then slept solidly, in the sound knowledge that Flora was safely on her way. Tobias and Megan had booked into a local hotel for the night and arranged a room for Flora to stay in too. Seamus and Tatum had reluctantly made their way home to pick up the children.
Outside the hospital, the press was gathered in force already, desperate to catch any glimpse of celebrity visitors, or Dylan actually leaving. A short statement had been made by Dylan’s agent, Connor, informing them all that Dylan was now in a stable condition and badly needed rest.
Tobias met Flora outside the hospital gates as arranged and together they were driven through the main entrance with a flurry of flashbulbs and cameras chasing after them. Flora took a deep breath, ducking her head as a bright light suddenly blasted through the car window.
‘We’re nearly there, Flora,’ Tobias tried to sooth, knowing full well the effect all this was having on her.
At last they were ushered into the hospital. Tobias took Flora to Dylan’s room, a small, private haven tucked away from the main ward.
‘I’ll leave you alone,’ Tobias told her. ‘I’ll wait outside here.’ He pointed to a row of chairs nearby.
Flora nodded then looked through the window. Dylan was asleep. She quietly pushed the door and crept inside and immediately Dylan stirred. Flora rushed to his bedside.
‘Dylan,’ she whimpered, and swallowed hard to stop herself from crying. She clutched his hand and he curled his fingers round hers tightly.
‘Hey,’ he smiled.
‘Oh, Dylan…’ Then her shoulders started to shake with emotion.
‘Flora, don’t cry,’ he said quietly.
‘How… how are you feeling?’ she choked.
He attempted humour. ‘Well, I certainly went out with a bang, didn’t I?’
‘I’m sorry, Dylan. I’m so sorry…’
‘Listen,’ he gently interrupted, ‘it’s me that’s sorry. Sorry for hurting you, but please believe me, we weren’t an item when Samantha Tait—’
‘I know,’ she butted in, not wanting her name to be mentioned, especially not here, not now.
‘Flora, I’m lost without you. Please come back. I… I… love you.’ There, he’d said it. Three words he’d never, ever uttered to another human being. He’d stunned himself, as well as Flora. She gaped at him.
‘You’ve never said that before.’
‘More fool me. It doesn’t mean I’ve never felt it, though.’ His blue eyes twinkled, looking straight into hers. Flora swallowed, then nodded.
‘Yes, of course I’ll come home. Someone needs to look after you, don’t they?’ She attempted humour now too, making Dylan smile. He loved the fact she called his house ‘home’.
‘Come here, you,’ He gave her his most seductive look, making her melt. Leaning carefully over him, she closed her lips over his. It was the sweetest kiss they’d ever shared.
‘I love you too, Dylan Delany,’ she whispered in his ear.
22
Marcus strode to the far end of the dining room. He had arranged with Dermot to have a private area screened off to hold a meeting. As usual the team sat waiting patiently for their producer to arrive. Viola was brimming with information after being directed to delve further, which she had with gusto. Jamie was still in awe after his audience with Sebastian Cavendish-Blake, while Libby and Len had quietly and reliably got on with the job in hand. As was his way, Marcus slammed down his clipboard, sat down abruptly and stared at the team expectantly.
‘Well, where are we up to?’ he asked, almost accusingly, casting his sharp eyes round the table.
As always, Viola was the first to speak. ‘I’ve spoken with a few prominent members of the community. The vicar, tenants of the Treweham estate, a councillor, local farmers and the vet, Nick Fletcher.’
‘And?’ Marcus’ eyes narrowed.
Viola tilted her head to one side, as though considering, all to build tension, of course.
‘Some of it could prove interesting,’ she hinted.
Marcus never had the patience for Viola’s mind games.
‘What?’ he asked sharply.
‘Well, Nick Fletcher certainly has an axe to grind. He couldn’t spill quickly enough about how Lord Cavendish-Blake practically beat him to a pulp.’
‘On camera?’ butted in Marcus, looking towards Len.
Len nodded. ‘Yes. Viola contacted me the moment Nick agreed to be filmed. I also took shots of his veterinary practice: him tending to animals, and a couple of the staff who work there.’
Marcus smiled in approval. Good, let Nick Fletcher come across as the kind, caring vet who was victimised by Tobias.
‘Did he mention his relationship with Sebastian?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ interrupted Viola, who didn’t quite care for the way Len was getting all the praise. ‘According to Nick, Tobias put a spanner in the works, splitting them apart when he learnt about their relationship.’
‘Really?’ This was all music to Marcus’ ears, even though he knew it wasn’t quite the truth; far from it, in fact, but what the hell? It was a good story and, more importantly, portrayed Tobias in a bad light.
‘There’s also a couple I’d like you to meet – lottery winners, apparently – who moved into the village.’ Marcus didn’t look too impressed. ‘They bought the Gate House on the Treweham Hall estate. Rumour has it that didn’t go down too well with Lord Cavendish-Blake.’
Marcus rolled his eyes. ‘Why’s that? New money, I suppose?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘Exactly,’ ch
ipped back Viola, sensing his growing interest. ‘A reliable source tells me Tobias Cavendish-Blake basically blanks his neighbours, although he was happy enough to exploit their winnings. It’s believed they overpaid for the Gate House. They’re from the North and he took advantage of their unfamiliarity with the area.’
Absolute perfection. This was going better than expected.
Marcus turned to Libby. ‘I’d like to go through the rushes with you.’ The last thing he needed was Libby editing anything without his consent.
‘Yes, no problem. I’ve sorted, labelled and put them in some form of sequence. I’ll let you look at it before reordering the footage to tell the best story, or making any cuts.’ Marcus nodded in agreement.
‘One other thing,’ said Viola, making them all turn to face her. ‘Have you heard of the Straw Man Festival?’
There was a slight pause before Marcus sighed, again his impatience evident. ‘Elaborate,’ he said curtly.
‘It’s held here in Treweham every year on the first Monday after Twelfth Day. It marks the traditional start of the English agricultural year.’
‘What happens?’ asked Jamie.
‘A local chap dons a five-stone metal and straw costume and parades through the village, accompanied by a motley crew of morris dancers and a decorative plough.’
Marcus spluttered, his mind spinning back to their first meeting, when he’d mentioned The Wicker Man. This wasn’t a wicker effigy used in human sacrifice, but more a symbol, a talisman, celebrated by farmers. Viola continued, ‘The straw man is then ceremonially burnt at the end of the festival, or the costume is.’
‘Sounds a bit creepy,’ Jamie said. Subconsciously he was associating it with the horror movie too.
‘Hmm, burnt by the Lord of the village,’ finished Viola with satisfaction at seeing Marcus’ eyes glitter. She knew he was concocting his own spin on this.
‘OK. Let’s include it. Len, we’ll need you back here in January. Let’s get the whole festival, especially when Lord Cavendish-Blake sparks the straw man.’ He looked at his clipboard. ‘Right, we film in Treweham Hall at the end of the week. Finula will be joining us, and,’ he paused looking at each one in turn, ‘I want you to make her as welcome as possible. She’s done us a great favour getting us in there. Show your appreciation.’
Bet you’re showing her plenty of appreciation, thought Viola tartly. Everyone agreed politely, before Marcus strode off as abruptly as he’d entered.
Marcus was practically bouncing, buoyed up on adrenalin with the way things were nicely stacking up into place. He caught Finula’s eye behind the bar and made his move.
‘Hi there.’ He gave his most charming smile. Finula blushed.
‘Hi,’ she replied, her heart started to thump.
‘Fancy that nightcap later this evening?’ he asked, slowly looking her up and down. Did she ever, with him looking so devilishly handsome in his black fitted jumper, showing off his broad shoulders and biceps.
‘Why not?’ She tried to sound casual, but felt anything but. ‘I finish here in a few hours.’ She turned to face the multi-coloured bottles stacked neatly on the glass shelves. ‘What are we drinking?’
‘Jameson always goes down well,’ replied Marcus with a grin. He really fancied an Irish whiskey tonight, amongst other things.
‘Jameson it is, then,’ said Finula, reaching for the green bottle.
‘I’ve got glasses in my room, just bring the bottle.’ He looked into Finula’s eyes, challenging her to object. Was he being too forward? His high spirits were encouraging him.
‘Will do.’ She gave a wink, then instantly regretted it. Why couldn’t she just be cool for once? Because it wasn’t in her, she dully acknowledged. Marcus’ face creased into laughter. He loved her openness, finding it amusing.
An hour later and Finula discreetly made her way to his room, choosing to go the back way, used for staff only. She tapped quietly on the door and it was immediately opened. Marcus stood there grinning broadly.
‘Come in.’
He’d set the scene flawlessly, with just the lamps on his desk and bedside warmly glowing. The Corrs were playing softly in the background. Finula handed him the bottle of Irish whiskey.
‘Ah, lovely,’ he smiled.
Finula went to sit on the small sofa at the side of the room. She watched the back of him, his slow, confident movements as he smoothly poured generous measures into the two glass tumblers on his desk. He turned, holding both glasses, and met her stare.
‘There you go, that’ll put some hairs on your chest.’ Finula giggled, half with nerves. He sat next to her and raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ She clinked her glass and took a sip. Gulping back the potent liquid made her eyes water. Once it had finished burning the back of her throat she wheezed, ‘Pretty strong, isn’t it?’
Marcus laughed. ‘Sorry, I assumed you’d had it before, being a landlord’s daughter and all.’ His eyes twinkled with mischief in the dim light.
Finula couldn’t tear her gaze away from him, taking in his defined cheekbones and full lips. His eyes found hers and for a second neither of them spoke, they just appreciated the moment. Marcus admired the shape of her elegant, creamy neck and shoulders sprinkled with freckles that her silk, strappy top exposed, and he had a sudden impulse to bury his face in them. Knocking back most of his drink, he faced her again.
‘Finula, can I kiss you?’
‘Do you always ask first before kissing a woman?’ she replied with laughter.
‘I don’t often kiss women,’ he replied straight-faced. She frowned. ‘I’m considered to be somewhat prickly,’ he told her with a wry grin.
‘You’re not!’ Finula protested indignantly.
He looked off into the distance over her shoulder, as if considering. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I’m not with you. You obviously bring out the best in me.’
Finula was touched. She understood what he meant, though, after seeing how he acted round his film crew. She put it down to the stress of the job. For a moment she sensed a more vulnerable Marcus and wanted to wrap her arms round him.
He read her thoughts; her expression was so telling. Finula really was an open book. Again, he thought how out of place she appeared here in the Cotswolds. Finula would blend in seamlessly in his home town. A part of him wanted to pick her up and run all the way back to Roscommon.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he softly reminded her with a glint in his eye. Finula put down her glass and looked him straight in the face. The whiskey had given her Dutch courage. Then she moved closer to him and tilted her head towards his.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
His lips joined hers in an instant, gently at first, then more forcefully as his tongue probed her mouth. Finula’s head swayed, her hands clung to his shoulders to steady herself, and they felt firm and solid beneath the fine, black wool. His arms encircled her closer into him, and she inhaled his delicious scent of citrus limes and bergamot.
‘Finula,’ he murmured thickly, as his hands ran through her long, red curls, loving the silky feel of them.
Finula was on fire with the sensation of his touch and she needed to feel him too. Her hands ran up his jumper and stroked his muscular back. The feel of his warm, smooth skin heightened her desire. His kiss plunged deeper as he leant forward, leaving her in no doubt of his arousal. He pushed further into her, whilst Finula feverishly ran her hands over his body.
There was a knock at the door. They both froze. For one dreaded moment Marcus thought it may be Dermot. ‘I’ll get it,’ he whispered, getting up from the sofa. He pulled his jumper straight and opened the door slightly.
‘Marcus, can I run something past you?’ It was Viola.
‘Not at the moment. We’ll speak tomorrow.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Good night, Viola,’ he said firmly and closed the door.
Finula’s mouth twitched and Marcus shook his head with exasperation. ‘Bloody woman n
ever knows when to switch off,’ he muttered with a frown.
Finula sat up, still a little hazy from the passionate kiss. She had suspected that he would be passionate; cool on the outside, yet burning hot underneath.
‘Let’s have another,’ she sighed. Marcus raised his eyebrows and gave a wicked grin. ‘Drink, that is,’ she replied, handing him her empty glass.
23
Viola was fuming. How dare Marcus be so dismissive, and judging by the look of his flushed face, ruffled hair and creased jumper he was obviously up to no good. Evidently someone was in his room. Three guesses who, she thought with spite. Slamming her bedroom door shut, she decided to have a glass of wine to help her calm down. Instead of phoning for someone to get one for her from the bar, she pulled a bottle of Pinot Grigio out from under her bed and unscrewed the top. She tilted her head back and took a great swig. Then another. That was better.
Then she reached for her notebook. A list of questions lay neatly written on the front page. Questions either approved or predetermined by the interviewee. What a joke. Deciding there and then, Viola clicked her pen and began to add a few notes of her own. If Marcus was too preoccupied to speak to her, she’d take matters into her own hands. It wasn’t live television, after all. If Libby thought it inappropriate then it would end up straight on her cutting-room floor, wouldn’t it? Viola’s blood was up. She was on a mission, and with her that was dangerous. Once she became focused, her mind ran wild and knew no boundaries. She lost all rationalisation, becoming either fixated or neurotic.
The sad scenario regarding her ex-boyfriend epitomised this precisely. Refusing to accept the relationship was over, she totally ignored his pleas to leave him alone. Being in denial meant it became normal for her constantly to ring, text, email and follow him. When he acquired another girlfriend, Viola upped the ante. She took stalking to a whole new level, till in the end the poor girl reported her to the police. Well, having dead animals sprawled over her car and death threats posted through her door left her with very little option. Viola was prosecuted and a restraining order was imposed to protect the girl. Luckily for Viola, she was given a suspended sentence. News hit the local newspapers, so she moved away, far enough for nobody she now knew to have any idea of her sinister past. Changing her name to Viola by deed poll helped, too. In every sense she had reinvented herself, changing her name, address, hair, dress style and career. The only thing that she had kept, unfortunately, was her disturbing nature.