Oxford Shadows

by Croslydon, Marion

  “I am a native speaker, you know.” He could do stubborn too.

  “Please, let me treat you tonight. Anyway, I don’t want to change my habits and get champagne taste with my beer pocketbook. You always go for the most expensive choice on the menu.”

  He rolled his eyes and searched for a compromise in the low-beamed ceiling of the Turf. “Okay.” Compromising with Madison meant agreeing with her.

  The bartender took the card payment and gave them a piece of paper with their order number. Rupert took hold of her hand and led her to the table where Ollie was nursing a beer, his shoulders hunched so that Rupert expected him to drown in his pint any second.

  Madison sat next to Ollie and extended her hand toward him, but stopped midway. Her gaze searched for Rupert’s, and the uncertainty in her eyes betrayed her unspoken question: Would Ollie recover one day? Rupert hadn’t the faintest idea. A heavy silence settled over their table. Rupert grabbed the jug of water and poured some for Madison. She took a sip, her fingers gripped tightly around the glass.

  Rupert dug deep into his PR skills in an attempt to lift everyone’s spirits. “So when can we meet the infamous Aunt Louise?” he asked Madison.

  A strangled noise erupted from Madison. She raised her hand to her chest and grimaced as she swallowed. “Why?”

  “It’s pretty much self-explanatory. Your aunt is now living in Oxford. She’s your immediate family, so I should meet her.” Being your boyfriend and all.

  “Okay.” Her eyes had lost focus, a sign that she was still processing his request.

  “What about Sunday lunchtime? I’ll book a table at the Randolph. And that will be my treat.” Rupert leaned over the table, bracing himself for a debate.

  “Not for me.” Ollie had addressed the waiter, who now stood next to Rupert. Ollie’s finger pointed back and forth between Rupert and Madison to direct where the plates should be set.

  Madison’s eyes rounded. A pink flush spread across her cheeks, across her nose. Rupert wasn’t the one having this effect on her.

  The waiter was.

  7

  RUPERT HAD TO TWIST in his chair to get a view of the waiter. The man’s muscular arms burst from his short-sleeved T-shirt, hiding half of a circular tattoo. His skin was several shades darker than Rupert’s, the guy’s black hair several inches longer. Rupert wanted to size the guy’s guts by locking eyes with him, but he was absorbed in eyeing up Madison.

  Back off.

  “You work here?” Madison’s voice and lips trembled. Waiter Guy answered with a nod. A shy smile broke across her face.

  They’ve already met.

  “Hi, mate. I’m Ollie. You two know each other?”

  Thanks, Oliver.

  “I’m Sam. Nice to meet you, Ollie.”

  American. A Southerner. Maybe an acquaintance from Yale or Louisiana.

  Madison’s flush had subsided, and she twirled a wisp of hair around her index finger.

  “So how did you meet Sam here?”

  Rupert repeated Ollie’s question but addressed Madison only. He extended his legs and relaxed against the back of his chair. His laid-back pose contrasted with the tightness of his clenched fists. He didn’t miss the exchange of glances ping-ponging between Sam and his own girlfriend. The smell rising from his plate didn’t tempt his appetite. Instead of indulging in his favorite meal, his stare drilled into Madison.

  She let go of the strand of hair and straightened her spine. “Sam helped me find my bag the other day.” The subtext was clear: Stop acting like a cuckolded husband. I just happen to know the guy.

  Sam’s mouth twisted into the quip of a smile, as if he knew more or better. He slid his hands into the pocket of his tight jeans. Rupert was now staring directly at him. If Geronimo was counting on his English reserve to save his cocky ass, he was going to taste disappointment.

  “You guys enjoy your dinner.” Sam waved and retreated. Only three steps away, he spun around. “If you ever feel homesick, Pumpkin, I have a well-aged bourbon here. You know where to find me.” He tipped his head in the direction of the bar.

  Rupert leaned forward and grasped his glass of water. If anyone needed to knock back several glasses of bourbon, it was he. He had to shut up. Going all caveman on Madison wasn’t an option.

  Ollie cleared his throat. He raised his eyebrows at Madison as a request for a further explanation. A shrug was her answer. She took a bite of her dinner, chewed and swallowed. Only then did she gratify them with an answer.

  “Sam grew up in New Orleans.”

  If the whole New Orleans male population was schmoozing Madison like that jackass, she was never setting foot in Louisiana again. At least, if Rupert had any say in the matter.

  Between Ollie’s I’ve-drowned-in-my-beer silence and Rupert’s brooding, tonight was the second worst dinner Madison had had at the Turf, right behind the time her boyfriend had almost gotten into a fight with his ex, Harriet. Her last mouthful of bangers and mash taken care of, she savored a sip of the Chardonnay Rupert had bought for her. She had asked for a small glass, and he had indulged in a tall one for himself. After his encounter with Sam, he looked as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine, and his teetotal resolution had obviously gone down the pan. But if she told Rupert about the mugging and her rescue by Batman, it would probably warrant another Turf drama.

  Rupert slid his hand through his hair, and it gave him the out-of-bed-look she saw on him the few mornings they had awakened next to each other. She swallowed more Chardonnay, hoping to wash away the wave of desire.

  “So you’ll ask your aunt if she’s free for Sunday lunch?”

  Madison welcomed the shift of focus to Louise with another sip of wine. “I’ll ask her. She’s settling in at the moment, so it might be better for her to wait another week or two.” Madison didn’t want her aunt to share her concerns about Rupert. The truth? Madison was scared those same doubts would seep into his mind and trigger a wake-up call in the vein of: What the hell am I doing with this trailer trash?

  Rupert’s right eyebrow lifted in a phlegmatic James-Bond-like movement that shouted “British” out loud. When he had followed her to Louisiana, Madison’s mother Bernadette had built up a repertoire of Rupert’s swoon-worthy features. The eyebrow-arching thingy topped the list. In both Madison and her mom’s opinion.

  “Whenever’s convenient for her. I’m at her disposal,” he answered in a purr.

  She could resist and stand up to angry, jealous Rupert, but when he turned himself into this sexy pussycat, melting was the only option available to her. That and jumping on him, straddling him, sliding her hands underneath his shirt to feel the taut skin on his torso … Holy hell. She cleared her throat.

  He checked the time on his limited edition Omega. “Monty should have packed by now. It’s not as if he can take a lot with him to jai—where he goes. I’d better be off.” He stood and grabbed his jacket.

  A shadow had spread over Rupert’s face. Madison knew what he was thinking. When would Monty be back? Would he return to Oxford once he had finished his sentence? Monty was the brother Rupert had never had. She jumped to her feet and pressed herself into his arms. He welcomed her within his embrace, and his head rested over hers.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered against the cotton of his shirt. For the first time they would be apart and a core part of his support system would vanish.

  “I’m off, too.” Ollie was standing beside them. The dark under his eyes was now more pronounced, while his mouth had the bitter twist Madison kept trying but failing to erase.

  “I’m coming with you,” she offered.

  Ollie shook his head as one of his trademark curls fell over his forehead. “I need some time on my own.”

  Madison hid her disappointment with a flat “Okay.” Rupert squeezed her hand to soften the blow Ollie’s indifference had caused, and she faked an improvement in her mood by perking up her voice. “I’ll knock at your door when I’m back and tuck you up in bed.”

 
“Sure.” Ollie headed toward the exit and dived back into his own little grieving world.

  “It’s going to take time, Maddie.” Rupert dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose.

  Before he could stand up straight, she had taken hold of his shirt collar and clung to him. She wanted to keep him with her longer, even for a few minutes. His hands cupped her cheeks as he always did to strengthen his words.

  “I’ll help with Ollie. Between the two of us, he’ll get back to full-on geek mode. I promise you. Can we see each other tonight?” Rupert asked.

  “I can’t. I have to finish my paper for a tutorial tomorrow. Medieval art and feminism.”

  Rupert faked a shudder of fright. “Oh dear.”

  “You go to Monty. I’ll give Ollie thirty minutes, then I’ll check on him back at Christ Church.”

  His gaze lingered on her, testing the truth in her smile. Satisfied, he parted with one last kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the cricket.”

  Madison’s shoulders dropped a couple of notches when she found herself alone in the middle of the laughing pub crowd. Her skin tingled when she felt the eyes of the girl Rupert had talked to in the courtyard. She was giving an order, her massive boobs spilling out of her cleavage all over the bar. Gross.

  Slapping the burning jealousy back into control, Madison lifted her chin. She wouldn’t let the herds of sluts who would happily toss her into hell to sleep with Rupert slide under her skin. No paranoia here. Not. At. All.

  The girl turned her focus back to her drink and Sam’s arms delivering it. Madison couldn’t see her face but registered her hungry grin and her silent “Yummy” squeals.

  Sam was a dark and dangerous male package. His testosterone-filled stare and wicked grin moved over Cleavage Girl and targeted Madison. He gestured for her to join him at the bar. She took a step forward, but hesitated. Rupert didn’t like the guy. But Rupert couldn’t stand any guy coming within a yard of her, period. Correction, comma: except Ollie. But Sam had saved her butt big time two days before. She owed him a chat and another thank-you. Besides, in her heart and in her head, she knew Rupert had nothing to be jealous about. She was his.

  “Wanna taste some of that bourbon?” Sam pointed toward the bottles lined up next to the crowded rows of Scotch. “On the house.”

  Madison climbed onto the bar stool and supported herself with her elbow to screen the collection lining up on the other side of the galley. The brands were all familiar. God knew she had served enough of those when working—under-aged—at Le Perroquet, her mother’s honkytonk.

  “Southern Comfort will do just fine.” Her choice dripped with homesickness.

  “With this wet-cat face of yours, a double shot is what you need.”

  On her right, the girl with the big boobs released a bitter sigh before strutting away, her curvy bottom swaggering through the recently arrived cricket team.

  “Fraternizing with English girls, huh?”

  “They’re friendly enough.”

  Sam poured out the Southern Comfort and handed it to Madison. She knew girls would be friendly toward Sam, wherever they came from. His gaze escaped to the pretty blond who served behind the bar with him. Cassie. Madison had talked to the girl before. Cassie was from Kansas, very nice … and she was totally ignoring Sam.

  Throwing her head back, Madison knocked down half of the drink, shut her eyes, and let the soft burning heal … and comfort. Cleanse and repeat. When the therapy session was over, she reopened her eyes and met Sam’s dark brown ones.

  “Better?”

  “Much, much better.” A giggle betrayed her alcohol-induced good mood.

  “You didn’t tell your boyfriend about what happened the other night.”

  His statement cancelled the benefits of the drink, and the last gulp of bourbon got stuck mid-throat. She swallowed and coughed. “I don’t want to worry him for nothing. No damage done.”

  Sam refilled her glass. “You’re pretty relaxed about the whole thing. Do you often get attacked in dark alleys?” The weight of his gaze on her contrasted with the teasing tone in his voice.

  “You have no idea, my friend.” She exhaled, and her whole body deflated over the bar.

  White-trash rapist in the Louisiana swamp, cloaked figure in the Oxford night, her best friend in a goddamned crypt … The thugs after the dinner at the Randolph would make the list only one item longer.

  A sexy laugh burst from behind her, grabbing her heart and twisting it. Madison swiveled on the bar stool; hope awakening the part of her heart she thought had died with Pippa. The rush of excitement crashed when she saw the girl who had laughed. No flaming red hair, no curvaceous hips and boobs. No Philippa Connelly. Pippa was very much dead. With a downcast gaze, Madison turned back to face the bar. A knot of guilt tightened in the pit of her stomach.

  With a gentle push from the tips of his fingers, Sam delivered her another remedy. Madison grabbed the glass and killed it in one straight swallow.

  “Good heavenly days.” She shook her head to diffuse the rush of alcohol that was shooting through her veins.

  “Go easy on it, Pumpkin.”

  The bittersweet taste of nostalgia replaced the sour tang of the liquor.

  “Let’s notch it up in a way that won’t have you puking all night.” Sam headed toward the stereo system, perused a pile of CDs, picked one, and slid it through the panel. Dolly Parton’s voice exploded throughout the pub, her childlike and effervescent tone causing the crowd to pause momentarily.

  Sam lowered the volume and returned to Madison. “‘Tennessee Mountain Home.’ Close enough to Louisiana, hey?”

  His gaze warmed Madison up, and she let a grateful smile break through her gloomy expression. “Thank you.” What she really meant was: I’m so glad I met you.

  He gave her a fake military salute. “You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the girl.”

  After humming along with the song, Madison warned, “A piece of advice though: if you want to attract girls your own age you should reconsider your choice of music.”

  Sam threw his head back and let out an all-male laugh. “Thanks for the advice, buddy.”

  The drawl in his words eased some of the tension that had been pent up inside Madison since the concert at Christ Church Cathedral.

  8

  RUPERT HIT THE HARD leather cricket ball and it raced through the outfield. He and Monty managed to make three more runs. Rupert faced the next ball and smashed it through a gap in the field, then watched it cross the boundary at great speed to bring them victory. The applause of the crowd drowned the cheers of the winning side. The half-day was over.

  Rupert took off his batting gloves and tightened his hand into a winning fist. Monty’s last day of freedom would end with a victory. Mission accomplished. Still, worries for his friend tempered any satisfaction he derived from one of his best batting performances.

  “You were on fire, man.” Monty slapped Rupert on the back in congratulations.

  “I wasn’t bad at all, I must say.”

  They crossed the rectangular field toward the back of Blenheim Palace. A short ride from Oxford, Blenheim was the seat of the dukes of Marlborough and the birthplace of Winston Churchill. It made Magway Manor, the Vance family estate, look like a country cottage. But Rupert had never been a fan of Blenheim; to him, the palace looked like a mausoleum.

  “Well done,” Madison called.

  She was strutting in their direction, a glass of Pimm’s in her right hand. She was celebrating the sunny day with a dress Rupert had seen her wearing in Pierre Part during mid-term. A dress he had lifted in one of the scarce intimate moments they had shared away from her family. Shutting his eyes, he killed the lust building up inside him. He hadn’t touched Madison since the brief fumble before the concert at Christ Church, and this three-day drought was the longest he could survive without sex with her. Planting a kiss on her lips, he tasted the minty flavor left by the Pimm’s.

  “I still
can’t understand the rules, but it looks like you gave the other team a good ol’ thrashing.” Her arm circled Rupert’s waist, and she leaned against him. “You both look irresistible in your whites. This game makes baseball look so—”

  “American.” There was no jesting to Monty’s tone. The word had fallen sharp and humorless.

  The crease between her eyebrows showed Madison hadn’t missed the nuance. “You guys deserve a cold drink. They have some lemonade in the marquee. I’ll go and get some for you.”

  She slid away, while Rupert appreciated the swaggering of her hips.

  “Nice ass she has,” Monty commented while staring in the same direction as Rupert.

  Rupert’s grip on his cricket bat tightened. Anyone else but Monty and the bat would have flown straight into the moron’s head. “I’m lucky,” he managed to answer instead. Monty’s last day, Monty’s last day, he repeated silently, like a mantra.

  “Not really Hugo Vance’s idea of a suitable match, though.”

  “Since when are you in my father’s confidence?” Rupert immediately regretted the scorching tone to his question.

  “I’m not. My parents are. And your dad’s been rather open about what he thinks of your new girl.”

  Rupert’s father sure didn’t make it easy for him to build bridges and forgive. But no matter what he thought about his stepmother Camilla, Rupert had never shared his opinion with anyone. With a wave of his hand, he brushed away Monty’s concerns.

  “He’d better get used to it. Madison’s the one for me.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Monty burst out.

  “What do you mean?”

  Monty took two steps forward and hammered his index finger into Rupert’s chest. “You’ve just met this girl and you’re both at it like rabbits. Stop thinking with your dick.”

  “Enough.” Rupert grabbed him by the wrist. Conscious of the anger that threatened to explode inside him, he released his grip. “I didn’t know I could love anyone like I love her.”