by R B Marshall
I lifted a shoulder. “Taking a couple of mares to stud. You?”
Fishing in a pocket, Muscles Mortimer pulled out a tenner, slapping it on the bar. Taking his beer from the barman, he took a long pull before setting it carefully on a beermat, then smacked his lips appreciatively. “Customers,” he said succinctly. “New an’ old.”
My brow creased. “Old customers? I thought you were new here?”
“Well, you’re a right clever one, ain’t you? Can’t get anythink past you.” He put a hand on his chest. “I’ve been ’ere a few months. Enough for a couple o’ shoeings. Reckon that makes me new-ish.”
That made sense. Horses were usually shod every six weeks.
Pocketing the change the barman had counted into his hand, Richard switched the subject. “So, eh, what did ’er ladyship say?” he asked.
I frowned again.
“When you told ’er about my visit yesterday?”
I was saved from replying by a new arrival. Craig of the amazing sea-green peepers appeared in the doorway, his black Labrador following at his heels. His eyes widened. “Izzy! Fancy seeing you here!”
Gone was his gamekeeper garb, and in its place he wore a grey down-filled gilet, charcoal jeans, ribbed t-shirt under a blue check shirt with casually pushed up sleeves, and all topped off by his blue baseball cap. Somehow he exuded effortless chic, looking more Milan than Morningside. “Craig!” I answered, stalling for time while my brain processed the sight before me. A mystery wrapped in an enigma.
Walking behind us, Craig leaned against the bar to my left. “Well, good evening, Izzy. Nice to see you again. Can I be getting you something?” At his feet, Jet sat down, without needing any command.
“I’m fine thanks.” I looked from Craig to Richard. “Do you two know each other?”
“Aye, we’ve met.” Craig gave the farrier a curt nod, then caught the barman’s attention. “The usual thanks, Zak, when you’ve got a minute.”
At that moment, the door swung open again. In came a heavy-set older man with eyebrows that would put a Neanderthal to shame and a handlebar moustache of the type that would usually have been accompanied by a military uniform and at least three stripes on his arm. He jerked his chin at Richard, then stomped across and sat at one of the wooden tables in the main part of the pub.
As the barman placed a bottle of beer on the counter in front of Craig, he was collared by the farrier.
“Double whisky, mate, thanks. Single malt.” From his back pocket, Richard produced a roll of money and peeled off another ten pound note.
Pouring from an ornate bottle, the Ozzie dispensed some peaty-smelling amber liquid into a short, thick-bottomed glass, then handed it and some coins to Richard in exchange for the tenner.
The farrier picked up his pint and raised it in my direction. “’Scuse me, darlin’.” He took the whisky in the other hand. “Gorra take this to the man.” Off he went to join the sergeant major.
Craig must’ve seen the question on my face. “Oliver Seaforth, the local vet.” He tilted his head at a table in the corner. “How about us getting a more comfy seat?”
“Hope you didn’t mind me crashing your conversation with Richard?” Craig said as we sat ourselves at the corner table. Jet circled twice, then lay down quietly at his feet.
“Not at all. It was hardly a conversation. He’d just started touting for business again when you arrived. You saved my bacon.”
The corners of Craig’s eyes crinkled. “Well, then, I’m glad to be of service.” Tapping a finger on the menu cards that were propped between white porcelain salt and pepper cellars in the centre of the table, he looked at me from under the brim of his cap. “And since you were talking of bacon, I was planning to get something to eat here. Would you want to keep me company?”
I nodded. “That’s why I came. Thanks, that would be nice.” Then my mouth dried up. It seemed I’d lost the power of coherent speech, because the intensity of his gaze was frazzling my brain.
“Well, that’s great.” Craig smiled, seemingly unaware of the effect he was having on me. “Did you manage to get the mares sorted okay this afternoon?” He punctuated his question by taking a swig from his bottle of beer, which drew my attention to his lips and messed with my head even more.
Get a grip, Paterson. You’re acting like a hormonal teenager. I covered my discomfort by squaring up the beermat under my drink, concentrating on getting my heart rate under control. “Yeah.” I risked meeting his eyes again. “But I just about got my guts for garters from old Hamish the hard-nosed.”
Craig chuckled. “Aye. Why d’you think I skedaddled out of the way before himself appeared? It’s enough that I have to deal with him every morning, without meeting him in the afternoons too.”
“Wait—you work with him? I thought you were a gamekeeper or something. Although,” I waved a hand at his outfit, “you confused me tonight.” In more ways than one.
“I could say the same of you,” he countered, pointing at my skinny jeans and open-necked white shirt. “What happened to the horsey girl look?”
I shrugged. “It’s nice to get out of work clothes now and again.”
“That’s it, exactly.” He screwed up his nose. “Those guys at the estate want me to look like I just stepped out of the pages of Field and Stream. It’s like a uniform to them, with tweed oozing out of every orifice. But I like to rebel.” He touched his cap and winked. “Just a bit.”
Definitely an enigma. “You never said what you do there?”
He gave a mirthless chuckle. “They call me Pony Boy.” Catching my frown, he explained further. “Actually, I’m Hamish’s second-in-command at the stud. But it’s me that’s responsible for getting the garrons—the Highland Ponies—ready and looking after them up the hill when the shoots are on. It keeps me out of his way, too,” he added with a lift of his eyebrows.
“Oh! So it’s you that Hamish was talking about to the Child Catcher,” I said without thinking.
“The Child Catcher?” Craig looked intrigued.
I blushed. “One of your tweed guys. Came by the stables this afternoon. Reminded me of a character in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”
This caused a full-on laugh. “Aye, you’re so right. Miles Ainsworth the gamie. Now I know where I’ve seen him before!”
While Craig laughed, I stared at him, a nasty suspicion brewing. There aren’t that many men that work with horses. And many of those that did were of a certain persuasion. Especially if they did more than work with them. “So, do you ride?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Well, yes, when I can, I like to. But a lot of the time I’m leading the ponies rather than riding.”
My heart sank. It was all falling into place now. Good looks. Fashionable clothes. Horse riding. Typical! The first attractive guy I’d met in months. Years, actually. And he wasn’t interested in women. What was the line in that Robbie Williams song? Something about all the handsome men being gay? I stifled a sigh. But at least he’ll be good company. I picked up a menu. “Shall we order?”
Chapter Five
My realisation that Craig wouldn’t be interested in me was quite freeing. With my hormones under control, I was able to enjoy dinner—and his company—without worrying about what I said or what he’d think of me. I even relaxed enough to decide to give work a miss for the rest of the evening and treated myself to a bottle of cider. Thistly Cross, my favourite, from an East Lothian brewery not far from where I was brought up.
Around us, conversation in the pub ebbed and flowed, customers arrived and departed, meals were served and devoured—just a typical evening at a local hostelry.
Dinner long finished—a tasty mushroom risotto followed by raspberry cranachan—Craig and I had got to the part of the evening when you reminisce about TV programmes you watched as a child, arguing about who was the best character and who had the most memorable catchphrase.
We were busy discussing the Blue Peter pets—they were much more important than the presenters, natu
rally—when the outside door opened with a gust of wind and a trim old lady stepped carefully over the threshold. Wearing a tweed skirt and cashmere jumper, she had white-grey hair permed in loose waves round her head.
For a moment I thought the Queen had come to visit.
Beside me, Craig straightened in his seat. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.
The old lady’s nostrils flared as if scenting for prey, and her sharp eyes darted from left to right, scanning the room. When she spotted Craig, she hurried over. “Mr MacDonald,” she said in a breathy voice, “have you seen my Hamish here this evening?”
Not the Queen, then. I was a little disappointed. It would have been a good story. And it would’ve been nice to know that royalty could escape protocol now and again and have a drink in a pub like the rest of us. Poor woman. I’d realised long ago that having lots of money wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Craig shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs Douglas, he’s no’ been in th’night.” It seemed like a few beers made Craig’s accent stronger.
Hamish’s wife turned her mouth down and thrust her hands onto her hips, scanning the bar again. “Where can he be?” she said, almost to herself.
“He was at the stables this afternoon,” I offered. “I left him in his office.”
Head tilting like a sparrow who’s spotted a stray crumb, her bright eyes focussed on me. “And you are…?”
“Izzy Paterson.” I held out a hand. “I work for Lady Letham. Brought a couple of mares up to stud earlier.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said perfunctorily, but her mind was obviously elsewhere.
“Could it be that a client brought him a bottle o’ whisky, and he’s in his office doing a quality check?” Craig offered, slowly spinning his empty beer bottle, rotating it on its thick base. He gave me a quick glance.
She pressed her lips together and clenched a fist. “Maybe. I’d better go check.” Without a backward glance she was off, leaving the pub door swinging wildly behind her.
I raised my eyebrows at her departure, then nodded at Craig’s empty bottle. “Is it my round?”
He shook his head. “I’d better call it a night. I’ve an early start wi’ the garrons the morn.” He speared me with those green eyes. “Can I walk you back to the B&B?”
My stomach flipped. “I—It’s okay,” I stammered, suddenly tongue-tied. Somehow, with the arrival of Mrs Douglas, the atmosphere had shifted. “There’s no need. I can’t imagine there’s any Jack the Rippers in a wee place like this.”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’ll be no trouble. It’s on my way home.”
It was only a few minutes’ walk back to the B&B, along a path beside the River Dee, which tumbled and burbled loudly enough to make conversation difficult. I buttoned my jacket against the slight nip of frost, gazing up at the canopy of stars twinkling in the velvet sky overhead. We were about twenty miles from the nearest street lights, but there was enough moonlight to easily see the path ahead.
Scattered pine needles covered the peaty earth beneath our feet, their scent mingling with wood smoke from the houses we passed and the faintest hint of Craig’s signature sandalwood after-shave.
Beside me, he studied the ground as if searching for treasure, hands thrust into his pockets. Jet trotted at his heels, his nose similarly scanning the ground for secrets.
We were almost back at the guest house when I broke the silence between us. “Thanks for your company tonight, Craig. I probably won’t see you in the morning. Hamish told me to be there by ten.”
The lorry—my only mode of transport up here apart from my feet—loomed out of the darkness, and Craig stopped by the cab, opposite the gate to the B&B. “Aye, my party leaves at nine.” His face tightened. “You’ll likely ha’ left for home by the time we get off the hill.”
I nodded. “Probably. Assuming Eagle does his job quickly. I can’t imagine he’ll have much of a bedside manner,” I joked.
Craig grimaced. “No.” He looked into my eyes, and my stomach did that rollercoaster thing again. “It’s been good chatting wi’ you the night, Izzy. It makes a change to meet a girl who’s interested in more than just make-up and celebrities.” He scuffed a toe on the ground. “Might you be up this way again?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. If the mares don’t take and need to come see Eagle again.”
“In three weeks,” he said, referring to the time gap between mares’ seasons. He twisted his mouth. “Or you could just come visit.”
“I suppose,” I said slowly, trying to work out if Lady Letham was likely to send me here again.
Obviously, I didn’t sound very convincing, because his eyes darkened and he stepped closer. “Perhaps I need to persuade you.” Catching my hand, he pulled me towards him. His eyes never left mine as he slowly bent his head and lightly touched his lips to mine.
I blinked in surprise. Not gay, then.
My brain was still processing this unexpected turn of events when his other arm circled my waist and he pulled me closer, drawing me into a kiss that was so sweet, so intense, that it had my pulse racing and every particle in my body tingling like I’d just had an electric shock.
In the distance somewhere I thought I heard sirens. Makes a change from fireworks. Or the earth moving. His kiss really was that good. Reality receded again for another minute or two, while Craig’s sensitive mouth ignited sparks in every fibre of my being.
When the porch light went on behind us, at first I thought it was another effect of Craig’s rather talented lips—electric shocks, sirens, fireworks, and now a light show!
But then I realised that someone was maybe trying to drop a hint, and I jumped away from him, my face turning crimson. I’d told Mrs Beaton I wouldn’t be out late, so she hadn’t given me a key. What will they think of me?
He kept a hold of my hand, stopping me from fleeing. “Tell me you’ll come visit again?”
I swallowed, then nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.
“Or I could come down to Glengowrie next time I get a day off. If that’s okay?” He handed me his phone. “Will you give me your number?”
Typing quickly, I added my number to his directory, and gave him the handset back. He pressed some buttons, and seconds later I felt my mobile buzz in my pocket.
“And now you’ve got mine too,” he said with a smile, dropped one last butterfly kiss on my lips, then spun on his heel and walked back down the path, Jet following behind like a silent shadow.
I found my voice again. “I thought you said this was on your way?”
Turning, he walked backwards for a few steps, a big grin on his face. “I lied. I just wanted to spend some more time with you.” He blew me a kiss. “Sleep well!”
Chapter Six
Unsurprisingly, after my emotions had been jump-started for the first time in years, I didn’t sleep that well. Or at least, not that quickly.
After I left Craig, I floated along the corridor of the B&B, sure Mrs Beaton would be hovering somewhere, desperate to know who I’d been painting the village red with—me who said I’d not be out late, and had lots of work to do when I got back. Oops. But my luck was in, and I managed to avoid her. Perhaps my stealth-tiptoeing skills had something to do with it.
Before I finally fell asleep, I’d only replayed our kiss in my head about a hundred times. Maybe a hundred and one.
So when, minutes later—or at least, that’s what it felt like—my alarm went off, it took a scalding hot shower to slough the cobwebs at least partially away. I knew it would take caffeine to get me fully awake.
With my second cup of coffee at the breakfast table, I was starting to feel more human. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t the only guest in the dining room at the B&B, so Mrs Beaton hadn’t yet been able to interrogate me.
I glanced across at the other table—three men in tweed, quite possibly Craig’s shooting party for this morning—then checked my watch, trying to gauge how near finished they were, and whether another slice of toast would leave me
alone and vulnerable to a grilling. Probably, I thought with a sigh, glimpsing the proprietor hovering in the background.
But I was saved by the bell—literally—a moment later when a metallic ‘ding dong’ echoed through the house, and Mrs Beaton scurried off down the hall. I took my chance to spread some strawberry jam on another slice of wholewheat. I can always leave it half-eaten. Although the waste would probably send my gran, who’d lived through the war and rationing, spinning in her grave.
What happened next would definitely have had my gran spinning in her grave.
I’d just sunk my teeth into the toast when Mrs B opened the door to the dining room and ushered in a policeman. “Sergeant Lovell to see you, Ms Paterson,” she said, squinting at me like I was a convicted felon.
My heart stuttered. Why is it when you see a policeman you automatically feel guilty? Casting my mind back to my journey yesterday, I tried to remember if I might’ve been caught by any speed cameras. Nope. I was driving the lorry, and careful not to go above fifty, so as to give the mares a good trip. So not speeding then.
As he stepped into the room, I realised that this was not just any old policeman. No, this one was relatively young—thirties, maybe—and full-on Hollywood. Or Pinewood at least. He had that Jon Snow thing going on, all dark and broody. But not the shoulder-length hair. Must be regulations. No hair trailing enticingly below your collar, PC Plod. But any amount on your face. Would that be enough to stop coppers being mobbed in the street by Game of Thrones fans desperate for a selfie with their hero? I wasn’t sure.
After what had happened last night with Craig, I couldn’t believe that my hormones were in overdrive again. But this guy definitely pushed some of my buttons—the geeky medieval fantasy ones at least. Wasn’t it just typical—I hadn’t met a man that got my heart racing in months, probably years, and here they were like buses, two at once!
Giving myself a mental wrist-slap, I chewed manfully on the toast and tried to concentrate on what was happening around me.