The Runaway Bridesmaid

by Daisy James

  ‘Relax! Let the bike lead you. It’s easier if you increase the speed and go with the flow,’ shouted Charlie from astride his quad bike on a raised grassy hill where he followed Rosie’s delicate progress.

  As Rosie gained confidence, Charlie shot off to the rear of the track where he let rip, whooping with joy at the freedom to increase his speed. She watched him, guessing he’d done this many times before. She realised with a jolt how little she knew of Charlie’s background except for his broken marriage and his dreams to become a chef. Where were his family? Why didn’t he have a girlfriend?

  A moment’s lapse in her concentration sent her quad bike crashing into the side of a muddy mound, stalling the engine. Her whole body ached – her forearms and hands from the tension in her grasp on the handlebars, and her legs from controlling the heavy, powerful machine between her thighs. As she looked over her shoulder, she witnessed Charlie ascend a hardened slope of soil, lift the full weight of the bike into the air and land smoothly on the other side accompanied by a whoop of exhilaration.

  ‘Wow, I’d forgotten how much fun this is. Come on!’

  They returned to the farmyard where Mike was waiting to retrieve their helmets.

  ‘Enjoy that, Rosie?’ He helped Rosie remove her helmet, freeing her unkempt mane to ripple loosely in the sudden gust of wind.

  ‘I think so.’ She rubbed her arms and stretched the small of her back with her palms.

  Charlie smirked. ‘And the fun’s not over yet.’

  ‘What? No, no more, Charlie. My arms are like lead weights!’

  ‘Moaning Millie. Come on.’

  They followed in Mike’s brawny wake, his long stride necessitating a scamper from Rosie to keep up. As they rounded the back of the stone-built farmhouse, she was blown away by the spectacular view out over the Dartmoor National Park. A bruised, heavy sky pressed down, darkened to indigo and violet, reflecting the carpet of purple heathers, russet bracken and gorse.

  ‘Storm brewing, so there is.’ Mike pointed across to the west where bulbous charcoal clouds swollen with rain scudded across the moor, closing in on the farm, preparing to dump their weighty contents. ‘Should have a half hour tops, Charlie, then stop – enjoy!’

  He handed them each a recurve archery bow and wrinkled leather quiver stuffed full of old-fashioned wooden arrows, gesturing towards the field and the two adjacent targets attached to straw bales.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll show Rosie the ropes,’ Charlie offered.

  Mike smirked, clearly knowing when he’d been dismissed and left them to it. ‘Coffee in the kitchen afterwards, and some of your carrot and cardamom cake, Charlie.’

  Rosie didn’t recall Charlie handing over a carrot cake to Mike when they’d arrived, but she shoved that from her mind because she was so looking forward to this activity.

  ‘Okay, this is how you hold the bow.’

  Rosie nestled her body into Charlie’s, the curve of her back snug against his stomach, taut as steel cable. His muscular arms wove around her slender shoulders and held the out-stretched bow, primed with an arrow, strong and firm. She sensed the whisper of his breath on her cheek and neck but feared twisting her head even an inch to the right, as she envisaged her lips would meet the moist welcome of his own. As slivers of desire snaked through her abdomen and her heart hammered in her ribcage, she was certain Charlie could feel the lustful beat through his chest. He smelled of mint and his favourite citrus cologne. Her knees weakened and she leaned further into Charlie’s warmth as he released the arrow. Its flight fell way short of the target.

  He stepped away, releasing her from his circular embrace. ‘Do you think you’ve got the hang of it?’

  ‘Sure I have, Charlie. I’m not totally useless, you know. In fact, how about a little competition?’

  ‘I feel honour-bound to tell you that I have done this before, Rosie.’

  ‘Scared I’ll beat you?’

  ‘No way. Okay, the loser pays for dinner.’

  ‘Agreed,’ she smirked.

  Charlie’s brow creased in concentration as he took up his stance. His first arrow hit the red circle, scoring seven points.

  ‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Rosie as she took up her own stance and directed her arrow to hit exactly the same spot on her target as Charlie had on his.

  Charlie reloaded his bow. This time his arrow pierced the boundary between the red circle and the gold centre, scoring nine points. He looked over at her, a satisfied smile curling his lips into a similar bow-shape.

  Once again Rosie took aim and hit the exact same spot on her own target. Glances were exchanged to the accompaniment of a deep growl of thunder rolling over the Dartmoor moors on the horizon. The panorama had changed to dark and desolate. They ignored it.

  Withdrawing his final arrow, Charlie took aim – his dark eyes pinned on the gold centre circle. He paused, then released the shaft, following its graceful flight path to the piercing of the bull’s eye.

  Rosie’s arrow replicated its cousin’s path.

  ‘Okay, what’s going on here?’

  Rosie wished she had a camera to record the look on Charlie’s handsome face. At last she had been able to impress this cocky guy. She took a moment to savour the feeling of satisfaction, as well as to send up a silent prayer of thanks to her father and Arnie for all the afternoons she’d spent in their company at the Stonington Beach Archery Club.

  ‘I’m impressed. You sure are a dark horse, Miss Hamilton.’

  ‘See, I told you I’m not totally useless.’

  Heavy droplets of rain the size of grapes had started to splatter the field as they sprinted back to the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen, arriving with their tousled curls plastered to their faces. Mike tossed over a tea towel each and gestured to the cafetière of ground coffee and a gooey slab of the promised carrot cake. ‘I’ll leave you to it, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to park up the bikes in the barn – looks like this storm is set for the night.’

  ‘Thanks, Mike. I had fun.’

  ‘You are welcome here any time, Rosie, even without this joker.’

  They drained their coffees and were preparing to leave when Mike returned, soaked to the skin. ‘It’s bad out there Charlie, not sure your Land Rover will make it down the track. It’s like a quagmire in the Amazon rainforest.’

  ‘We’ll risk it, Mike, but thanks for the warning.’

  ‘Okay, send my regards to your mum and dad. They must be so relieved the season’s over for another year.’

  ‘Yeah, will do, Mike. Bye,’ said Charlie hurriedly as he guided Rosie through the door.

  ‘What did Mike mean? Are your parents farmers, too? I don’t know anything about your family, Charlie?’

  ‘Oh, Mike’s parents are friends with mine. We’ve known each other since we were kids, that’s all. Come on; better make a run for it.’

  They galloped across the slick cobbles to the Land Rover, their heads bent low against the downpour. As they leapt up into the seats, the rain accelerated its onslaught and a violent shard of lightning split the blackened sky. Charlie revved the engine and began to pick his way back down the dirt road, the ancient vehicle rocking from side to side in the muddy crevices.

  At the end of the mile-long track, the Land Rover’s wheels refused to breach a particularly deep pothole and the tyres could gain no grip in the sleek mud. The more power Charlie sought, the deeper the rut became. He slammed his fists on the steering wheel and turned to face Rosie.

  ‘There’s a village pub about half a mile in that direction where I can fulfil my debt of honour to pay for dinner, or we could sit it out here until Mike gets the tractor down to drag us free?’

  ‘Oh, the pub please, I’m starving,’ Rosie grinned. Despite the weather, surprisingly, she was enjoying herself.

  ‘Good choice.’

  Charlie helped Rosie down from the cab and flipped up her Barbour’s collar, resting his eyes on her gold-flecked gaze. ‘I’m sorry our date turned out so wet and muddy.
I guess my promise that I could show a girl a good time hasn’t exactly been fulfilled. Bet Austin is looking like a superhero now?’

  Rosie grabbed his elbow and linked her arm through his. She hadn’t realised Charlie had viewed this afternoon as a proper date, more an afternoon opportunity to show off his sporting prowess. It was her turn to smirk now; she enjoyed sparring with Charlie and, for the first time, she’d scored two hits!

  ‘Okay, okay. I admit I wanted to show you that I possessed some talents like Able Austin, but how was I to know you’d been selected by the US Olympic team for archery?’

  They trudged the half mile to the pub in a barrage of rain under a canopy of iron-heavy clouds, the green-tinged heavens crackling with meteorological pressure above them, the air close and humid.

  That day the sky unleashed an unprecedented torrent of rain on Devon’s shores and moors. Bridges were washed away in mud-slides, villages were inundated despite sandbagged precautions, and even four-by-four vehicles were abandoned as roads became impassable fords.

  Soaked to the skin with rain and sweat, they rushed into the welcoming shelter of The Dog and Gun. Rosie couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so grateful to see a roaring log fire in front of which to steam her clothes and toes.

  ‘Hi, Charlie. Good to see you, mate. Usual?’

  ‘Good grief, do you know everyone around here?’

  ‘Not exactly everyone, but Rosie, this is James Edwards, the best pub landlord and mate in the whole county of Devon. James and I went to school together.’

  ‘You chose a great day to venture out to Dartmoor, Charlie boy. This storm’s set for the night. They’re saying the level of rainfall that has fallen in the last hour is unprecedented and the damage it’s causing is immense. They’re advising against all travel unless absolutely necessary. Where’s your transport?’

  Charlie explained its abandonment.

  ‘Ridiculous choice of vehicle anyway, Charlie. You want to get yourself a decent four-wheel drive instead of that big girl’s blouse you usually drive. Got a spare room if you want it? Reckon you should grab it before someone else does. We’ve suffered terribly this year with the floods. I reckon you won’t get your car moved until morning. Can’t ask Mike to liberate the tractor in this weather.’

  ‘Thanks, James. We’ll take it.’

  ‘Be careful with him, Rosie.’ James set down two drams of whiskey. ‘This’ll warm you straight to your bones. I’ve got pheasant stew tonight. Think we’ll be short on diners. I’ll bring it over to the fireside for you.’ James disappeared to the tiny galley kitchen.

  Rosie wrinkled her nose in distaste as she sipped at the proffered glass of amber nectar.

  ‘You’ve got to drink it like this.’ Charlie knocked his back in one.

  Rosie watched him and then, not to be outdone, repeated the action, which culminated in a coughing fit as the alcohol fumes shot up through her nose. Charlie laughed and shouted to James to bring over the bottle, which he obligingly left on their table.

  What strange customs they have in these isolated rural English pubs, thought Rosie. Leaving a full bottle of single malt for their customers to help themselves? But the medicine performed its cure just as James had promised. Warmth spread its smooth caress across her chest and scorched down to her extremities, after which a soft, mellow glow invaded her bones.

  Their meal arrived and, even though Rosie had not sampled pheasant before, she decided she had never tasted such delicious cuisine in her entire life. Every mouthful was accompanied by a slug of neat malt whisky. Even the French bistro Austin had taken her to couldn’t compete with this home-made hunter’s fare.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s the most scrumptious casserole I’ve ever tasted!’

  ‘Thanks, it’s a family recipe.’

  Rosie met Charlie’s eyes in puzzlement. Her brain felt befuddled as the alcohol worked its way through her veins. But her body wasn’t at all confused about what she wanted – a jolt of intense desire chased all immediate questions from her mind when she saw the way Charlie was looking back at her.

  The spell was broken when a bunch of rowdy rugby players spilled into the bar, chased by a roaring wind and shower of rain. The volume on the jukebox was unceremoniously turned up and one of the guys grabbed what Rosie hoped was his girlfriend to perform a twirl to Abba’s Dancing Queen whilst their audience jeered and wolf-whistled.

  Rosie laughed, joining in with the clapping, the whisky obliterating any inhibitions, and she was helpless to refuse when Charlie dragged her from her seat for Waterloo.

  As the last bars of the music faded, Charlie pulled her into his arms and lowered his lips to hers, testing for any objection and, to his surprise, Rosie dragged the front of his shirt towards her and kissed him as their audience whooped and called for more. They then staggered back to their table in the corner by the fire and polished off the bottle of whisky.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘God, my head feels like an anvil that has taken up residence at the Blacksmith of the Year awards,’ Rosie groaned, turning over to block out the shafts of pale light filtering through the red velvet curtains which she didn’t recognise. She stretched her toes but met an outstretched leg. She sat bolt upright, grasping at the flower-patterned duvet.

  ‘God! Charlie! God! What’s going on? Why are we here?’ As her eyes landed on his bed-dishevelled hair, her stomach was invaded by a restless colony of butterflies. He truly was gorgeous.

  ‘Nothing’s going on, and will you stop shrieking like a banshee. You drank a whole bottle of James’ single malt whisky last night. Then you forced me to dance to Abba songs with you, in front of an audience of the local rugby team I would add, and then you seduced me!’ He smirked at the look of horror his final words had produced on her freckled face.

  ‘I did not seduce you!’

  ‘Well, you managed to get me into your bed.’

  ‘I never seduce people!’

  ‘I can hardly be described as “people”, Rosie. But don’t worry; I was able to resist your drunken advances. Nothing happened. James and I had to carry you up to bed, you were comatose. Give me some credit for preferring my lovers to be compos mentis. If you don’t believe me – take a look beneath the duvet. You are still fully clothed, Rosie. My reputation is intact.’

  She took a peek before expelling a sigh of relief. Swiftly followed by what she was horrified to discover was regret. ‘I never do this.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Well, I don’t!’

  ‘Okay. I get the message. You are mortified at sharing your bed with a “person” whom you have known for five months and with whom you spent the whole day yesterday. Nothing happened, Rosie.’

  ‘Right. Good.’ Didn’t he fancy her? a little voice asked.

  ‘And I won’t tell Austin you spent the night with me, either. Although James might, they play cricket together. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t recognise him from all the games you’ve been attending, watching his game and cheerleading from the side-lines.’

  ‘Austin is not my boyfriend, Charlie. He’s just a friend.’

  Rosie crushed her rising irritation and threw Charlie a glance he could have framed as she locked herself in the bathroom. She leant her back against the door. What had she done! She was returning to a new life in New York and here she was starting to have feelings for Charlie – no, more than that. If she had to be completely honest with herself, she was starting to fall in love with this handsome but snippy guy. He seemed to know everyone, too. And she wouldn’t put it past his friend James to convey the juicy piece of gossip to Austin. But did she care?

  She groaned. She really was an idiot.

  The journey home to Brampton, after Mike had delivered their mud-splattered transport on the back of his tractor to The Dog and Gun, was one of the most uncomfortable Rosie had ever endured. Her options rotated through her mind until she became so nauseated she had to ask Charlie to pull over so she could g
asp in some fresh air and pull her thoughts together.

  ‘I was planning on going back to New York in a couple of weeks. But I really do love it here, Charlie. I love the clean, sharp air, the spectacular countryside, even the weather. Most of all I love the lodge. After everything I’ve done to the cottage and in the garden, I feel like it’s part of me. Does that sound stupid?’

  ‘Not at all. I love my home with a passion that you wouldn’t believe. So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I really don’t know. The US is my home, where I earn my living, where my family live. I have to go back, I can’t see how I can stay.’

  ‘Only you can make the decision about what you want your future to hold, Rosie.’

  ‘Yes. I know that now.’

  When they arrived at Thornleigh Lodge, she still had no idea what she was going to do. She may be falling in love with Charlie, but she was still attracted to Austin who was much more her kind of guy. Wasn’t her director of fates tired of throwing grenades in her path? Why had she been sent two completely different men to tangle with – no, not different, diametric opposites.

  Her head throbbed and she turned to her aunt’s trusty tome for inspiration and maybe a hangover cure. She knew she’d find it.

  Oat and Honey Cakes for Self-inflicted Headaches

  Oats are a morning staple. A bowl of porridge doused in honey is one of my favourite breakfasts. But oats are packed with fibre, vitamins and nutrients that can help ease the pain of a night of over-indulgence. They are said to line the stomach and regulate blood sugar levels. Give these little crunchy cakes a try and you will be as right as rain.

  Anyway, thought Rosie as she began to weigh out the ingredients, surely her vacillations over Austin versus Charlie were mute. They both lived in the UK and she had to go back to launch her new life in the US.

  Didn’t she?