“Don’t know. Don’t really care, do you?” he said, eyes half-closed. She sat down beside him; she could smell peat in his hair. She pressed her lips against the soft skin of his neck, massaging his temples gently. He gave a murmur of pleasure.
“I saw Miss MacReady wearing the most spectacular emerald and diamond ring the other day. I wondered at the time if it might go astray, conveniently ending up in her jewellery box.” Marianne smiled.
“Hmm, quite a radical thought. How did you come to that conclusion?” he asked.
“Something she said recently. ‘Don’t be surprised if I’m robbed in my bed, now Larry’s told the world there’s a collection of jewels worth millions in the Innishmahon post office strongbox.’ Almost flagging it up. Did she seem truly shocked about it all?”
Ryan thought for a moment.
“She seemed genuinely shocked it was Pat and Phileas alright, though she did babble on a bit, but she was delirious, bound to be, they’d been a bit rough with her, if truth be told.”
“The bastards, a pair of chancers it sounds like to me,” she said.
“You could be right.” He slid his arms around her, pushing his hands up her top, caressing her breasts gently. It was her turn to murmur with pleasure. He knelt before her, pulling the soft fabric over her head, freeing her breasts and then drew her to him in an embrace. He pushed his fingers through her hair, kissing her mouth, his tongue darting in and out of her lips. He stopped suddenly, stood up and dragged off his sweatshirt. She watched as he unbuckled his belt, sliding the fabric down his strong thighs, stepping out of his jeans. The light from the fire made his still-tanned skin gleam; shadows shaded the contours of the muscles of his arms, his hard, flat stomach.
She could see his growing arousal as he looked at her, she stood before him, longing to feel her breasts crushed against his chest. He held her tantalisingly at arm’s length, looking directly into her eyes. The slate-blue glittered with heat; she could feel his gaze burning into her. He bent to kiss her mouth and then ran his tongue from her chin, down her throat, along her collarbone and past the space between her breasts. She watched as his mouth pressed kisses against her stomach, drawing down her pants with his teeth. He nipped at the flesh at the inside of her thighs, she could feel his hot breath between her legs. Weak with desire, she dropped to the floor and, wrapping her legs around him, pulled him on top of her. He lifted his chin and grinned at her, a wicked flicker of lust in his eyes.
“Take me Count,” she whispered in her dreadful Transylvanian accent, “I vont you inside me, all of you inside me, now!” The Count did not need asking twice, he lifted her hips and pushed himself gently inside her, as deep as he could go. She shuddered with pleasure and kissing his mouth, held onto him as he started to move rhythmically, making love to her, filling her with himself, right there on the rug, in front of the fire, the way they had, the very first time he had totally and completely seduced her, in what seemed a lifetime ago.
Later, snuggled together before the fire, he toyed with the replica weathervane at her throat - the exquisite platinum and diamond pendant he had commissioned for her - to remind her that whenever he was away, scattered to the four corners of the earth, she was his rock, his anchor and whatever life threw at them, he would be coming home, to Weathervane, Innishmahon and to her, his true love. Pulling her to him, he kissed her as she dozed.
“And would you like a beautiful emerald and diamond ring my darling, more precious than anything anyone has ever seen?” he whispered.
She was half asleep. She murmured, turning to nestle beneath his chin.
“Would you? Shall I buy you a beautiful ring, a symbol of my love. Would you like that?” he said into her ear.
She stirred, placing her fingers on his lips to quieten him.
“Would you, my love?” he pressed.
“I have plenty of jewels.” She tried to sound blasé, but he felt her tense.
“Really? I thought all women loved jewels, especially spectacular ones, bought for them by their men.” He was curious.
“Not me thanks.” She touched the pendant at her throat. “I love my weathervane, it’s very special. No, I’ve enough jewels to last a girl a lifetime.”
“Not even a wedding band?” he asked. She squirmed away, wriggling free of the throw.
“Ha,” she forced a laugh. “If that was a proposal O’Gorman, it lacked your usual dramatic flair, I have to say.” She pulled herself up, arranging the fabric around her, hiding her nakedness. “Anyway, you know my track record. Mention marriage and everything falls apart, enough said.”
“But,” he caught her by the wrist, “surely it’s something we should discuss at some point?” She turned away.
“Not now though Ryan, the very word holds bad memories for me. Claude was a mistake. I thought we’d marry, but that ended in disaster and then, getting engaged to George, everything arranged just before ... he died. ” She let her shoulders droop, avoiding his eyes: they had both loved George.
“Third time lucky?” he offered, squeezing her hand, giving her his lopsided grin.
She looked at him, willing her eyes not to betray her heart. “It’s too soon to talk about marriage. I’m not sure it’s for me, can we just leave it there for now?”
He pulled a face, then hugged her. She waited for him to mention the ‘no marriage’ clause in Angelique’s custody deal, wondering if something had come to light. She already felt guilty about reading his private papers, maybe he knew. But he made no other comment, just put some more peat on the fire and settled down beside her. She was soon fast asleep.
Ryan was restless. He pulled up the collar of his jacket as he walked along the coast road. It was pitch-black, a good hour before the first glimmer of dawn would be visible on the eastern horizon. He crossed the familiar track of sand down to the beach, found a clump of grass and sat down. He was exhausted and in seriously bad humour to boot. Why had he mentioned a ring? What was he thinking? He knew how anti-marriage Marianne was. He knew neither of them had particularly good track records where relationships were concerned, but he did know, deep down in his heart of hearts, how much he wanted things to work out with Marianne, always to be there for her and she for him. He wanted to bow out of his hugely successful career and return to make his life on Innishmahon with his son and yes, Marianne Coltrane his wife. He bounced the heel of his hand off his forehead.
“Why do I never think anything through, why do I just open my big Irish gob and say whatever comes into my head? No wonder I need a script to do the fecking day job,” he told himself wryly as he wriggled down into the sand, zipping his jacket up. Now the sea air had hit him, e Hehe was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.
Further along the beach, Dermot Finnegan was talking into a handset. “So, looks like it’s going to be the week after next? You can’t give me anything more definite than that? Over.”
“Not yet, but it’s definitely on its way. Over,” came the crackly reply.
Dermot sighed, exasperated, he would never work with this fella again, talk about unprofessional.
Dermot flicked the switch. “And how will I know it, any word on that? Over.”
“It’s a fishing boat, I know that much. Over.”
Great, thought Dermot, that narrows it down then, fishing is the main occupation of the entire area.
“Will it be flying the skull and cross bones? Over.” He was in no humour for ditherers.
“No, she won’t be flying anything and Captain Hook’s not on board either. Over.” His contact sounded tetchy.
“Look,” Dermot barked, “I need firm details, co-ordinates, timescales and, you know, something a bit more specific if I’m to intercept a vessel and arrest those on board, which is what I’ve been tasked to do. Over.”
“On your own?” squeaked the other voice.
“No, aren’t you supposed to be helping me? OVER.” Dermot was really frazzled now.
“Ah no, sorry about that, I can’t make it.”<
br />
“WHAT?” Dermot roared, “What do you mean you can’t make it? I thought you were supposed to be working with me?”
“I am, but I’m on annual leave that week. I have to take it or I’ll lose it and I can’t do that, I need a break, this job is very stressful.”
“JESUS CHRIST!” Dermot yelled, “OVER!”
Ryan stirred. He pushed himself up on his elbows. The merest slice of light across the bay had turned the beach to grey, he could see a dark figure striding towards him. It looked like Dermot. Ryan fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He lit one.
“Hey, who’s there?” came his friend’s gruff voice across the sand.
“Count Dracula, who do you think?” Ryan responded. Dermot was beside him in a couple of strides.
“What are you doing sleeping rough? Trouble ‘ut Mill?” Dermot asked in a perfect Lancashire accent; he had always been good at dialect.
“Nah, just needed a breath of fresh air,” Ryan said, indicating the cigarette. “Everyone’s asleep. Yourself?”
“Couldn’t sleep, mad day, weird ole night, what with one thing and another. Fancy a jar?” Dermot asked.
“I’d love a good cup of coffee. Marianne never makes it strong enough.” He smiled, offering his friend a hand to haul him up.
“She’s not perfect then?” Dermot asked cheekily.
“Oh yes she is,” Ryan replied.
“Isn’t she though?” Dermot said under his breath, letting go of Ryan’s hand at the crucial moment, so he fell back, landing on his arse. “Gotcha! You always fall for that one,” he said laughing.
As they clattered up the gangplank Ryan noticed the lettering picked out in navy edged with gold on the side. Dermot had named the boat Dream Isle.
“Nice one,” he said, “a play on words. Dream I’ll, I’ll Dream, is that it?”
Dermot smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. Good isn’t it? Suits her?”
“It does, certainly. Hope it turns out to be a dream isle for you, we all need one.” Ryan said.
“Well, it has for you,” Dermot replied.
“Still in the planning stages it would seem,” Ryan told him and then, “getting there though.”
They were sitting down below, a mug of fresh coffee apiece.
“Who were you shouting at over the radio back there?” Ryan asked. He had seen Dermot push the handset into his sailing jacket, when he came upon him on the beach.
“Ah, someone I’m doing a bit of a job with.” Dermot stirred his drink.
“Not going well?” Ryan asked.
“It’s a two man job and he just told me he’s on annual leave so can’t make it. Annual leave - why doesn’t anyone take holidays anymore?”
“Is this police business? I thought you’d taken early retirement?” Ryan asked him.
“Sort of,” Dermot was serious. “This is my last job.”
“Well, if you need a hand, I’m your man. I’m not required back at the studio for a few months, and as soon as Marianne starts on the holiday home project we won’t get a minute’s peace, believe me.” Ryan told him.
Dermot frowned. “It’s very hush-hush, totally undercover. If I tell you I’ll have to kill you.”
“No change there then.” Ryan looked him in the eye, “I am an international super-spy, you know, it really is an offer you can’t refuse.”
Dermot took a deep breath. He knew Ryan. He trusted Ryan. They had been through a lot together.
“Okay, here’s the scenario, purely fictional of course but here it is anyway.” And Dermot explained to one of his oldest friends, how his latest job was to intercept a consignment of cocaine disguised as a shipment of arms, destined for a drugs cartel masquerading as a breakaway gang of Freedom Fighters.
“Wow,” Ryan exclaimed, “a classic double bluff, designed to totally confuse the authorities no doubt.”
Dermot nodded. “And of course no-one is acknowledging the arms have even gone missing. The entire investigation is undercover, so much so I wonder myself at times if anyone knows who anyone else is and precisely what the hell is going on.”
“And does this purely fictional scenario have any basis in reality at all? Anything to do with the fact that you’ve always wanted to work undercover and this could be your big chance?” Ryan pushed him.
Dermot shook his head, “Nah.”
“And you’ll need a hand with this imaginary job when?”
“Probably the week after next, when I get the intelligence I need,” Dermot said.
“Is that the real week after next or a fictional one?” Ryan responded.
“Pretty real, I think.” Dermot replied.
“Well, I’ll probably be around to help if I’m not showjumping my unicorn or having the moat dug around my fairy-tale castle,” Ryan told him with a grin.
“Cool,” Dermot said. They chinked mugs. “That’s good, coz you might be needed, you know how dreams come true from time to time.”
“And nightmares,” said Ryan, drinking back his coffee as he made to go.
The two men clambered down the ladder and onto the marina. Dermot wanted to walk Ryan back to Weathervane, apart from filling him in on some details regarding the forthcoming job, he was also hoping Marianne might prove to be the angel he fantasised she was and have a full Irish breakfast on the go by the time they arrived at the cottage. He was over-optimistic; it was not yet seven on the first day of November and the day before had been very long indeed.
They were striding purposefully down Main Street when something or someone scuttled across the road. Ryan looked at Dermot.
“Anyone we know?”
Dermot shrugged. “I couldn’t see, could you?”
“No,” Ryan replied.
“Not someone else after the jewels?” Dermot asked. The post office was next door to the pharmacy.
“I hope not,” he replied, “besides I wouldn’t take on Miss MacReady and Sinead after the night they’ve had, would you?”
Dermot smiled. “No way!”
They carried on; the morning growing brighter as they walked. A cat meowed as a light came on above the pharmacy - the village was awakening.
There was no home-cooked breakfast waiting for them in Weathervane. Marianne was still asleep on the sofa with Monty wrapped in her arms and was far from impressed at being disturbed.
“Thought I’d make us all a decent breakfast,” Ryan announced as she opened a bloodshot eye.
Dermot lifted a hand in silent greeting. “I’ll make the toast,” he offered, as she slumped back on the sofa, pulling the throw over her face.
The men retreated to the kitchen and, having decided everything in the fridge needed eating, were cooking up a storm. Dermot took down one of Marianne’s antique meat platters and started piling it with food. Rashers, sausages, white and black pudding, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and the essential ingredient no self-respecting male breakfast can be without - baked beans. Ryan was just finishing off the scrambled eggs, when Marianne, fully dressed with her hair scraped back in a cap appeared in the kitchen. Monty, who had been the happy recipient of two overdone rashers and half a sausage, pricked his ears, wagging his tail at her.
“Not staying for breakfast?” Dermot asked, laying the table. Ryan was frying bread in a large iron pan.
“No thanks.” She went to where Ryan was cooking and put her arms around his waist. “Smells good but oh dear, the cholesterol!” She took Monty’s lead from behind the door.
Ryan looked up; she had her serious walking boots on.
“Will you be gone long?” he asked.
“I need a good walk,” she said, “still groggy.”
“Ah stay and have a decent breakfast first,” he waved the spatula, “we’ve done loads.”
“I’ll take the healthy option,” she said, spotting yesterday’s barn brack on the dresser. She took a knife, and sliced a piece off, putting it in her mouth. She bit on something hard; it was a parcel of greaseproof paper. She unfo
lded it to reveal a small brass ring; one of the secret ingredients stirred into the cake mixture during baking. Traditionally the ring foretold of a wedding before a year was out. She looked at it glinting teasingly up at her from the palm of her hand, then pushed it into her pocket, fastening her coat. She popped the remainder of the cake into her mouth and left the men to their feast.
The early November morning was remarkably still. A soft sea mist trailed tendrils across the cliffs as Marianne and Monty walked briskly towards the beach and up the track. They climbed steadily, the lights of the village twinkling in the distance as they went. The ground was moist. Marianne slipped. Dislodged sand and shale tumbled downwards. She gripped a clump of grass and pulled herself upright, checking in her pockets for her flashlight and phone. Monty stopped sniffing the undergrowth and looked up at her, they had been caught out on the cliffs before, he hoped history was not about to repeat itself. But the further they climbed the clearer it became, until nearing the summit and the cliff road, Marianne slipped off her jacket, tying the sleeves around her waist as they pushed on to the top.
Reaching the picnic bench just beyond the lay-by, Marianne sat down gratefully. It was where she and Oonagh spent many happy afternoons, baby Bridget sharing her lunch with Monty and the women dividing whatever delights Oonagh had secreted in her backpack ahead of their excursion. As Oonagh’s cancer took hold and she grew weaker, Marianne would load them all into the 4x4 and take the long shiny black road up to their special place.
She lifted Monty up for a cuddle as they sat gazing out to sea, the autumn sun chasing the mist away as the Atlantic glimmered below. She took a deep, cleansing breath of air which became a sigh, and before she knew it, tears burned her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and dripping into Monty’s fur. Despite the heart-lifting beauty all about her, she was suddenly, inexplicably sad. She missed Oonagh desperately. Her blunt, wise-beyond-her-years chubby chum was probably the closest friend she ever had.
A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 24