by Liz Fielding
‘Fishing tackle? Bring some with you. We’ll be staying by a great fishing river.’
‘You’re not listening to me, are you?’
He might be listening, but he wasn’t taking any notice. He was too busy kissing the sensitive spot just behind her ear that he had discovered made her giggle. They were supposed to be having a row, for heaven’s sake! She concentrated hard, refusing to co-operate, determined to up the stakes. ‘You couldn’t just take a few days off in the middle of something important.’ A little feminist hackle-raising might help. ‘Just because I’m a woman—’
‘That certainly helps,’ he said, his mouth deepening at the corners as he looked at her in a way that made her insides melt. Then he lifted an eyebrow. ‘Did you just stamp your foot, Veronica? It’s a waste of time on grass, you know.’
Not only was he refusing to argue with her, he was laughing at her, and she knew she should be furious, but it was so hard … ‘I can’t go anywhere this week, Fergus. I’ve got meetings in London …’ his mouth teased across her lips ‘… and Birmingham …’ she protested, but his long, sensitive fingers were gentling the nape of her neck. Then, on a betraying little moan, ‘Maybe Friday—’
‘What about Friday?’
‘Maybe I could … manage … Friday.’
‘Only maybe?’ His thumb was tracing the line of her hair, and she leaned back into his touch and his lips began to trace a line from her mouth, across her chin and down her throat …
‘Definitely,’ she promised.
‘And Monday?’ he pressed.
‘Yes, yes.’ She gasped the words out as her legs began to buckle. He caught her to him. ‘And Monday.’ She collapsed against him.
‘You know, I have the feeling that if I kept that up long enough you would promise me anything.’
She raised her head and looked at him. ‘You know,’ she murmured huskily, ‘I think you could be right. But it would be a waste of time right now … A long weekend is all I can manage, really.’
One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. ‘I believe you. We’ll fly. It will save time.’
‘Fly? Where are we going?’
He took her arm and began to walk. ‘Only as far as Wales. Just across the border, in fact. Have you been there?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s green and peaceful and quite unbelievably beautiful. Rather like you, Veronica.’
‘I’m green and peaceful?’ she joked, but it was impossible to disguise the tremor in her voice.
He reached out, touched her cheek, gently rubbed the edge of his thumb along her jawline. ‘Did I ever tell you that you have a smart mouth, Veronica Grant?’
‘No, but I’m susceptible to compliments.’ And his kisses. She was terribly susceptible to his kisses and he knew it. He’d just melted away all her objections, all her justifiable irritation, with the heat of his mouth, the touch of his hand. And he’d barely started …
‘How susceptible?’
She turned and closed her eyes over the film of tears threatening to overwhelm her. ‘Try me,’ she invited.
‘Miss Grant? The doctor will see you now.’
He waited until she was seated, but he didn’t waste time in small talk. He told her, without dressing it up in frills or offering false hope, that the HSG he had performed only confirmed what she had been told years before. Her Fallopian tubes were damaged; it was impossible for her eggs to be fertilised. She could never conceive without the aid of a test tube.
He began to explain the procedures, but she stopped him. She had met women who had been through that, spent years of their lives obsessed with the desperate need to have a child. She’d seen marriages fall apart under the strain of it all.
She understood; she sympathised. If she had married George, she knew she would have done anything so that he could have had his chance of an heir, but this was different. And she loved Fergus too much to put him through that. But somehow she would have to convince him, when she walked out of this relationship, that it had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn’t have his child, and the sooner the better.
Except that her life seemed to be heaped up with complications. There was the christening of Nick and Cassie’s baby at the end of June. She couldn’t do anything until after then; it would hardly do for the godparents to be glaring at one another over the font.
She had six-weeks’ grace to think of something convincing, to distance herself, ease herself gradually away. But first she had the weekend, and she was determined that it would be perfect, a memory to treasure for both them.
‘She took that well,’ the nurse said, picking up the box of tissues she had left on the doctor’s desk in anticipation of tears.
‘She’s a very controlled young woman, and, to be honest, I don’t think she expected to hear anything different from what I had to tell her.’
‘Did you tell her that occasionally the HSG procedure can result in restored fertility?’
He glanced at his nurse, shook his head. ‘It’s rare,’ he objected.
‘Still—’
‘It would be unkind to raise her hopes. Did you give her the literature on IVF?’
‘She wouldn’t take it.’
The pilot was flying the helicopter low over the flat, grassy floodplain of a small river. They’d skirted Abergavenny and Crickhowell, but now they were apparently miles from anywhere, and Veronica, not particularly happy in small planes of any kind, was finding the all-round view particularly unnerving.
‘Where on earth are we?’ she asked anxiously. ‘There isn’t a village, or a town, or even a house as far as I can see.’ Then she groaned. ‘Don’t tell me this is a boating holiday? I warn you, Fergus, I get seasick crossing Waterloo Bridge—’
Fergus took her hand, held it between both of his. ‘Not a boat,’ he promised. ‘And not a tent,’ he added, anticipating her next question. ‘There. That’s where we’re going.’
Veronica looked about her, but could see no cottage, no house, not even a hotel tucked away in the quiet countryside. All she could see was a … She turned on Fergus. ‘You can’t have … You wouldn’t … Fergus, please—’
‘Please, what? Tell you that I haven’t bought a castle?’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘Okay, if it’ll make you happy. I haven’t bought a castle.’ She gave a sigh of relief. ‘But I’m thinking about it, which is why we get to stay here for the weekend. Actually, it’s not officially listed as a castle; it’s just a watch-tower. Not much more than a fortified turret that was extended in the eighteenth century by some gentleman for use as a fishing lodge. Not even a moat, d’you see?’
‘No moat?’ He couldn’t really be thinking of buying this. He couldn’t be that crazy, could he? She was afraid she knew the answer to that. Hadn’t they both been acting like idiots since the moment they met? ‘Since I don’t imagine it’s got a damp proof course, that’s probably just as well,’ she said, somewhat drily.
‘What a practical woman you are.’
‘Someone has to be. What on earth will you do with a castle?’
‘Give it to you. As a wedding present.’
Before her brain could unscramble sufficiently to formulate a sensible response and instruct her mouth to pass it on, the pilot had set the helicopter down with a bump, and Fergus had jumped down and was offering her a hand.
She knew she shouldn’t take it. She should stay right where she was and tell the pilot to take her straight back to Melchester.
‘You don’t like it. Is it a moat or nothing?’ Fergus asked as she hesitated, his face mock tragic. ‘I knew it. I told the estate agent it wouldn’t do. May warned me you’re a perfectionist—’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ he said. ‘I understand.’
‘Fergus, it’s quite beautiful.’
‘Beautiful?’
‘I love it.’ She shouldn’t have said that. She shouldn’t be encouraging him. ‘It doesn’t need a moat. I mean, there’s a river, isn’t there? And there’s even a
swan, look … ’
He didn’t take his eyes off her. ‘Two, actually. A pair. They mate for life, did you know?’
‘Everyone knows that,’ she said, cross with herself but quite unable to be cross with him. ‘Come on. You’d better show me around.’ And she put her hands on his shoulders so that he could lift her down.
They explored the small manor house built by some Stuart gentleman with lands along the borders. It was crumbling in places with age and neglect, but it was unbelievably beautiful.
‘Come and see the tower,’ he said, taking her hand, holding it as they wound up the stone staircase. ‘It’s like something out of a fairy tale.’ And he was right. At the top of the staircase was a large round chamber, sparsely furnished in Jacobean pieces, with a large four-poster bed as the centrepiece.
‘However did they get it up here?’ Veronica asked.
‘I guess it was built up here. It would have gone long ago, but no one could figure out how to get it out. I thought we might use this room.’ He crossed to the window and she followed him. ‘Just look at that view.’
It was green and soft, with the Brecon Beacons rising majestically in front of them. It was perfect. He was perfect. She was the only one flawed, damaged …
She shivered, and he took her into his arms. ‘Don’t worry, the heating engineers are coming in next week.’
It wasn’t the cold that was making her shiver … Then, as she took in what he’d just said, her head flew up from his shoulder.
‘You told me you hadn’t bought it!’
‘You asked me to,’ he replied.
For a moment she just stood there, too shaken to say anything. And then she found her voice. ‘You’re impossible, do you know that?’ She tried to jerk away from him, but he kept her within the circle of his arms, refusing to let her go. ‘You think that all you have to do is click your fingers and the whole world will jump to attention. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. I didn’t ask for a castle and I don’t want a castle—’ Even to her own ears she was beginning to sound a little desperate.
A lazy smile emphasised the sensuality of his lower lip as he glanced at her foot, then back to her face. ‘Stamping your foot again? It’s getting to be a habit.’
‘Did I say impossible?’ she said, with dangerous calm. Then she let rip. ‘I meant infuriating!’
‘You know, you’re quite adorable when you’re angry, Veronica. It must be the contrast with that cool, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth front you like to wear.’
‘Are you surprised?’ she demanded. ‘You could enrage a sloth.’
He just laughed. ‘Now you’ve got two bright pink spots,’ he said. ‘One there—’ he kissed her cheek ‘—and another one there.’ He kissed her other cheek. Then he kissed her mouth.
She knew she should resist him. She was angry with herself for having got them both into this impossible situation, but she refused to take responsibility for this latest nonsense—this was all his own doing.
‘You really are the most provoking man,’ she said eventually, when he allowed her to speak. But her anger had long since evaporated in the heat of his kisses, and now had all the impact of jelly that wouldn’t set.
‘But you love me anyway,’ he murmured, his mouth doing indescribable things to her neck.
‘Did I say that?’ Her voice was like cobweb. ‘When did I say that?’
‘You need reminding?’ His hand was low on her back, his thumb gentling her vertebrae through the silk of her shirt, sending warm flickers of desire coursing through her.
‘No …’ she said quickly. But he reminded her anyway, and she began to whimper softly as she clung to him.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Please …’
‘Please stop or please go on?’
How could he be so controlled when she was falling apart? ‘I’ll give you a hundred years … ’
‘Then promise you’ll marry me.’
The bones in her legs were dissolving. ‘I thought I had.’
‘No, darling, you just didn’t say no when I asked you. You’re counting on me changing my mind.’ She jerked back, stared at him. ‘I won’t. Promise me,’ he said, just a little roughly.
‘You’re serious?’
‘I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. The world is not a perfect place, Veronica. We can’t have everything; if I can have you I shall be content.’ There was something so intense, so desperate, in his eyes that she couldn’t doubt it. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘In November …’ she hedged.
‘Not November. I’ve booked the church for the third Saturday in July.’
‘July! That’s impossible!’
‘Nothing is impossible. You haven’t been the only one who’s been busy this week.’
‘But my mother—’
‘Leave your mother to me.’
Her heart was pounding like a copper kettledrum. ‘And if I refuse?’
The lazy smile made its slow way up his face to his eyes. ‘Why do you think I brought you here before I asked you? Say no and you’ll stay locked up in this tower until you change your mind,’ he said.
She didn’t doubt him for one moment. Just as she no longer doubted the power of his love to endure whatever the future held.
She smiled very slowly. ‘You’ve got until Monday to convince me,’ she said.
‘Will the godparents step forward?’ the vicar asked.
The parish church was full to overflowing, and Veronica smiled down at the baby lying contentedly in her arms, finger tightly holding on to hers, dark eyes fixed on her face. She glanced up at Fergus as he leaned forward and touched the baby’s head very gently, his finger teasing at the dark curls, before he looked up and for a moment their eyes met, held …
Then Veronica turned and surrendered her baby to Poppy before she, Richard and Nick stepped up to the font.
The vicar took the baby. ‘Name this child,’ he said.
‘Charles Fergus Grant,’ Poppy declared in her clear, bright voice.
‘Charles Fergus Grant, I baptise thee … ’
Charlie Kavanagh let out a wail of outrage as the vicar poured water over his head, and Fergus sought out and held Veronica’s hand in his, squeezed it hard.
Her throat was tight with emotion. This was a day she had never dreamt of, never dared to imagine—their son Charlie was a bonus, an unexpected but joyous addition to their lives.
She knew that Fergus was watching her, but she could scarcely dare to turn and look at him, knowing that this darling man would be struggling to hold back his own tears of joy. Knowing that he loved her so much he would have given up this for her.
Neither of them was in any doubt of the miracle that had happened for them. It had started as such a very small thing, on the eight-fifteen from Melchester, but Fergus had recognised it, nurtured it with the power of his love, his faith that whatever the future held life would be good.
IMPRINT: Special Releases
ISBN: 9781489226822
TITLE: A SUITABLE GROOM
First Australian Publication 2017
Copyright © 1998 Liz Fielding
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