Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  So be it, then. She would let him make his own mistakes.

  Maybe it was tough love, but if she caved, if she dumped Hugh, bargained with Tom, pretended his actions with the firm had no consequences—then he would become the ultimate spoiled brat.

  I’ve been way too easygoing, Sophie thought. Tom wanted all this. Now he’s got it. Time to let him figure things out for himself.

  She would get a good night’s sleep, then take a limo to the airport in the morning. She’d go to see Hugh. Sophie had never been to Ireland; this would be a holiday. And a chance to figure out if her feelings had any substance. True love, this time? Or infatuation?

  She would find out. And whatever the answer might be, Sophie would start a new life.

  “We’re just starting our descent into Shannon,” said the captain’s voice on the tannoy. “If you’ll fasten your seatbelts, return your seats to their upright position . . .”

  Sophie was only too glad to oblige. She hated flying, even first class. The stewardess smiled obsequiously as she collected the glass flute of indifferent champagne that Sophie had nursed throughout the short journey; she’d been fascinated by Sophie’s jewels and was sure she was some kind of European royalty. Or maybe a film star, someone she just didn’t recognize. Who wore diamond studs like that? They were almost the size of pebbles.

  Sophie gazed uneasily out the window as the plane came in to land. On the one hand, the earth seemed horribly far below her; on the other, she was foolishly glad not to be over water. She’d rather die in a fireball than drown in the sea. She shook her head—stupid, morbid thoughts. It was childish to have a fear of flying, wasn’t it? What would Hugh say? He’d been a soldier, faced gunpowder and lead; he’d probably have no patience for the small phobias of a pampered widow like her.

  She felt a bit stupid, in fact wholly inadequate. One thing you could say for the château, even if at times it had been the proverbial gilded cage, at least it was a cage she knew. It seemed as though every part of her old life had evaporated along with Pierre’s company. A year ago she’d been a placid married woman, living in luxury on the dividends of millions of shares. Now she was a widow, with no home, no income, no relationship with her son.

  That’s right, Sophie chided herself, nothing but a paltry few million euros and a world-class wardrobe of priceless jewels!

  She had to stop the self-pity. It was stupid. She had done her best, and she knew in her heart she would do the same again in similar circumstances.

  And perhaps she wasn’t being completely honest.

  The plane banked, and she reflexively grasped the armrests of her seat. The ground was rushing towards them now, green and beautiful, the houses like the tiny wooden ones in Tom’s old play set.

  “Don’t you worry, miss; it’s a very safe way to travel,” the stewardess said.

  Sophie smiled thinly. “I’m sure,” she managed.

  Crazy. All modern people flew. But under the fear, there was a little flame of excitement—almost of relief. She might have hated flying, but it hadn’t stopped her. She hated confronting Tom, but that hadn’t stopped her, either. Courage wasn’t about not being afraid; in the end, it was about acting, no matter how you felt.

  And Sophie was on this plane.

  The plane grunted and shuddered as the wheels dropped down. Sophie smiled. She was here, and she was going to meet Hugh.

  Maybe it was mad. Maybe there’d be reporters right there at the airport. But she almost didn’t care. Let the reporters say what they like. Things couldn’t be any worse than they were with Tom right now, could they? Sophie had nothing to hide; she was a free woman, and she liked Hugh Montfort. A lot.

  And now she was going to Ireland. At his request. To stay in his house and figure out if they could mean anything to each other.

  The plane jolted. She pressed her head back against the soft cloth of her luxurious seat, but when she glanced outside, they had landed. A wave of joy and anticipation washed through her.

  Hugh was here. In a few moments, she’d see him again. It had been days, and Sophie found she couldn’t wait. She felt so light, she could float.

  She was free—free of so many things. And Sophie had the strangest notion. She would step off this plane and into a whole new life.

  He remembered it clearly, even years afterwards.

  Hugh had been sitting in a study in the East Tower. It was one of the smaller living spaces in the castle, but one of his favourites: a snug, ancient little room, with curving walls, a fireplace, and a lead-paned window that looked west, to the wood. He had had a local craftsman install thick oak bookshelves, and leather-bound volumes mixed with pulp novels from the fifties and sixties; he especially enjoyed rereading one of his first-edition Bond novels, with a glass of Scotch, while the sun set over the forest and red light bathed the grey stone walls.

  His study had not seen much use these last few years. It had been all business, all the time. After these weeks back here, though, the place was starting to seem like home.

  But if his body was at rest, Hugh’s mind travelled. It winged across the Irish sea, banked at the Channel, and turned to Paris.

  Sophie.

  She was like a fever that wouldn’t quit. He tried to shake the feeling that if this didn’t work, nothing would; that if the new glimmer of hope, the possibility of personal happiness, was taken from him, his life was over.

  He liked her; he respected her.

  And he wanted her.

  Those long, tapering legs, her tiny waist, shapely breasts—he was driving himself nuts imagining her naked. It was desire, though, not lust. Hugh was torn with curiosity. All that femininity, and a loveless marriage. She had poured it into her son. He could tell—practiced with women, as he was—how she’d been in Pierre’s bed: nervous, cold, almost certainly a virgin, and one that had never warmed to sex.

  He wanted, badly, to try. Not try, in fact—do. There was no doubt in Montfort’s mind that in his arms, Sophie would be different. Utterly, spectactularly different. He didn’t think she’d ever been turned on, not really—never wanted to let go. If he could make her his, he would teach her, in the full flower of her womanhood, what that was like. And sex was so much better, so infinitely better, when you knew that after you’d come you wouldn’t be full of disgust, of self-loathing.

  Hugh had wanted the hookers, sure. But he’d hated himself for the physical need, the mechanical, ugly nature of it. And he’d wanted Georgie; that had been different, a good thing, one that made him feel alive.

  Wanting Sophie, wanting to feel the taste of her lips, her belly, her hair in his hands, that was the same way. He wanted her to be his. To be with her. Forever. The problem was going to be talking her into it.

  They’d only gone on one date. The damned business with her son meant he hadn’t seen her since. And now, after the call earlier that evening, Hugh wasn’t sure he’d see her again.

  He set his tumbler of whisky aside, distracted, laid down his novel. Damn it, he wouldn’t just accept it. He’d swim back to bloody Paris if necessary. Whatever it took to win her. To get his ring on her finger, and her body into his bed—

  And then the phone rang.

  “Montfort.”

  “It’s me.”

  So it was, and he felt as though he were suspended in glass, waiting for her to give him a decision.

  “I’m glad to hear from you. Are you coming?”

  “I’d like to. There’s a flight that lands at Shannon at ten tomorrow.”

  A rush of gladness swept through him. “Just in time for lunch. I can have the cook make you something. Or would you prefer to go to the village pub?”

  “The pub. Much rather,” Sophie answered, and laughed. “I haven’t eaten in a pub for years.”

  “I hope you can stay a good long time,” he said, seriously.

  “Let’s take things as they come.”

  Yes, let’s, Hugh thought. He was immensely cheered. “I’ll be there to pick you up. Do you have a
lot of luggage?”

  “One suitcase; I’m going to buy it tomorrow and get some new clothes.”

  “You really are starting over. Well, make sure you include some wellies and a mack. We’ll be doing a lot of walking.”

  “It sounds blissful,” Sophie said. And he thrilled to hear the smile in her voice.

  “I aim to please. See you tomorrow.”

  “Goodbye, Hugh.”

  Energized, he hung up and bolted from the study, half-running down the wide stone staircase that led to the entrance hall. Mrs. O’Connor, his head housekeeper, was in the kitchen, talking to Miss Miers, his cook, sixty-eight years old and the best in County Cork.

  “Mrs. O’Connor.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  A motherly, comfortable woman, she was completely unflappable. Hugh smothered his excitement; he didn’t want to appear like an overeager schoolboy.

  “Can you get the Oak Room ready? I’ll be having a guest to stay for a while, a lady.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Mrs. O’Connor rather superbly turned to Miss Miers and went back to getting lead shot out of peasants. Hugh hovered a bit.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Connor, but do we have any woman’s things ready?”

  “Such as what, Mr. Montfort?”

  “You know.” He felt awkward. “Shampoos . . . soaps . . . bath oils . . .”

  “Plenty. And before you ask, night things, dressing gowns, slippers as well.”

  Hugh stared. “But Mrs. O’Connor, I haven’t had any women to stay here for over eight years.”

  “That’s right,” the housekeeper said, and finally cracked a smile. “But we always hoped you might, one day.”

  “Meet the right girl and come to your senses,” said Hannah Miers with a loud sniff.

  “Ah. Right.Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Hugh, and absolutely felt himself blush as he headed back upstairs.

  Emily O’Connor turned to her friend and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  “Well, finally,” she said.

  “It won’t work, you know,” Hannah replied. “Your man’s a great brooding lump of a thing. Never saw anything like him.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Handsome lad like that, rotting away by himself.”

  “You never know. Give the girl a chance. All it takes is the right one,” Emily said, ever the optimist. And the two women smiled at each other, hopefully, like teenagers sharing a secret.

  It was strange that Hugh didn’t feel awkward. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, as though Sophie were coming to him for the hundredth time, not the first. As if she’d been away for a week or so, and Hugh was just here to pick her up.

  He leaned forward and broke into a wide grin. There was Sophie, coming out of customs, pulling her suitcase. God, she was sexy, he thought.

  “I’ll get that,” Hugh said, springing forward. She blushed, and looked at him; she was so beautiful today. She didn’t look like a woman in mourning. For Pierre or anything else.

  Hugh grabbed the case.

  “Shall we get in the car?” he asked, because she didn’t speak.

  “Oh—yes,” Sophie said.

  For a second, though, he didn’t walk. Hugh wanted, badly, to kiss her, but he didn’t believe in public displays of affection. So he squeezed her hand, and looked her full in the face. It was like drinking a large glass of water after a long, gruelling run; he felt the life flood back into him.

  Sophie was looking up into his eyes; although he knew her to be a mature and confident woman, in this moment there was still a nervousness, a vulnerability about her. Hugh suddenly realized that it was his reaction. He hadn’t kissed her, and now she was afraid his feelings for her had evaporated already.

  Sophie was too used to French manners, Hugh thought; he’d have to remind her what side of the Channel she really came from. He traced one rough finger against the softness of her palm.

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  “Sounds good.”

  He walked her to the car, threw the case in the trunk, and held the passenger seat open for her. When Sophie slid inside, he waited, then turned to face her.

  She looked at him, eyes darting all over his face. Hugh heard her breath quicken.

  “What?” Sophie said.

  “Just this.”

  He bent his head towards her and kissed her. Lightly, on the lips, but with a slight tease, brushing her skin, almost claiming her mouth, but then pulling back.

  Sophie responded, instantly. Her mouth parted softly, and when he drew back, he could see that the blood had flushed into her cheeks, that her pupils were dilated, her pulse raised.

  Oh, she’d be passionate. Hugh knew it. And he sensed that she did, too.

  “We’ll be there in less than an hour.” Hugh turned his eyes to the road, deliberately breaking the spell. He smoothly put the car in gear. As she pretended to look out the window, he felt her disappointment.

  Hugh always loved the ride out to the countryside, but today it was different—and infinitely better. Sophie loved the wild fields, the thick woods, and soft bogs that lined their route; it was like seeing Ireland again with a newcomer’s eyes. His eyesight seemed to have become keener, all his senses sharper. He noticed the glint of a stream in the forest, relished the wind in his face, blowing the strands of her hair loose from its elegant chignon. He wanted to kiss Sophie, he wanted to make love to her. But he also felt hungry. And hopeful, and if Mayberry or Massot came into his mind, it was to wonder that he had ever considered them worthy of a moment of his precious life.

  Seeing his home for the first time with Sophie was like waking from hibernation; the blood sang in his veins, his eyes, he knew, were alight with pleasure. He enjoyed everything, even noticed the beautiful handling of his racing green Aston Martin as it took the sharp corners coming into Kilcarrick.

  Hugh felt invincible, like nothing could ever go wrong again.

  “I hope you aren’t expecting too much,” he said.

  She turned those gorgeous brown eyes on him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Kilcarrick Castle isn’t like Château des Étoiles. It’s small—it’s not a family seat. When I bought it, it was a ruin. Took me eight years to restore, and I’m not quite finished.”

  Sophie smiled wickedly. “You mean it’s just your jobbing castle?”

  He chuckled. “Exactly.”

  “Do you have hot water?”

  “Yes, and electricity and lots of fires.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.” She sighed with contentment.

  “This is Kilcarrick,” he said, spinning the car left and parking. There was a space just off the market square, by the Victorian stone Celtic cross that dominated it. “We’ll have lunch before we go to the castle, shall we? Just the two of us.”

  “Why, do you have other guests?”

  “Of course not.” Hugh chuckled. “I’m a miserable old sod, ask anybody; I never socialize. But there are staff. Have to be—it’s a good-sized place, and I’ve abandoned it for far too long.”

  “I see.” Sophie got out and looked around her. “Wow. It’s a beautiful village.”

  “Isn’t it.” He loved Kilcarrick; it typified the mixture of gorgeous old houses with grey slate roofs, cobbled streets, and chic little internet cafés that had come to characterize Ireland. “The Celtic tiger’s been roaring for years, but the traditional side of the country’s still there.”

  “Do you drink in this pub, too?” Sophie asked, turning in through the front door.

  It was called the Black Lamb and had an inviting little garden and pink dog roses around the door.

  “Often.” Hugh looked straight ahead.

  “How are ya, Hugh?” the barman called out. He was a strong man, and his eyes flickered with interest over Sophie.

  “Great, Jack. Yourself?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “I’m sorry.” He steered her to a little corner table near the back window; Sophie looked
at the horse brasses and the low-hanging black beams on the ceiling. “Village pub; you’ll be the news of the day. You know how gossip is.”

  “Well, we’re used to that.”

  Jack sent over a lad with a couple of menus. Hugh recommended the shepherd’s pie; Sophie opted for that, and he had a rabbit stew. They both ordered cider.

  “Gosh, I haven’t had cider in . . . forever.” Sophie held it up to the light, admiringly. “There are things you miss in France.”

  “I don’t think the great Katherine would approve, do you?” He was surprised that he felt bold enough to tease her about what she was leaving behind, but on the other hand, sod it; Hugh was comfortable with Sophie, and he needed to see if she felt the same way.

  “No. Well—sod her,” Sophie said with vigour.

  Hugh laughed. “Is this the same Sophie Massot I left in St.-Aude?”

  Sophie shrugged. “I thought about things, that night. Before I called you back.”

  “Tell me.”

  “And I decided that I have to get on with my own life. And let Tom get on with his. Not abandon him, you understand. But let him make his own mistakes, let him go. Perhaps that’s the best thing I can do for him right now.”

  Hugh paused. “I’m impressed.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve spent your entire adult life pleasing other people. It takes guts to decide to please yourself.”

  Sophie smiled. “Thank you, Hugh.”

  “Especially, I would imagine, when you love your child.”

  The waiter came over with their food; Sophie took a forkful of shepherd’s pie.

  “Delicious.”

  “Nothing fancy, after French cooking.”

  “So much the better,” she said. “You know—it’s amazing. I just lost my house and almost everything I own, my son’s estranged from me, and I got thrown out of the only career I’ve ever had.” She laughed. “And I actually feel—just tremendously happy.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I feel so free. Like I got out of jail. Not having to deal with the press—or think about Katherine, that evil old witch. And I know that I’ll eventually reconcile with Tom.”