by Sara Forbes
Evening is my favorite time to be out here. The sky is pink in the west, suggesting it’s going to be fine tomorrow. I sit down on the tree stump at Miller’s Lane to give Samwise a rest and me a chance to catch up on phone calls and emails. It’s a relief to get out of the house. I couldn’t do that yesterday with all the after-wedding furor, and the Dave business.
I watched Mara leave the castle grounds in her running gear twenty minutes ago, so if we meet on the road it will hardly be a coincidence. It’s my only chance to talk to her alone, save visiting her in her room, and I don’t want to resort to that. In the rush of the wedding, I never properly dealt with the issue, but now that she’s going to be around another few days, I need to apologize for what happened at the rehearsal, and clear the air between us.
Mara likes to keep to herself. She wouldn't hang out with us yesterday, despite Letty inviting her to watch Netflix. Emails to catch up on, she said. No amount of persuasion would change her mind. I’ve never met anyone who could resist Letty’s entreaties. I was slumped in my high-backed armchair, and I don't think Mara even knew I was there. I found the whole exchange entertaining.
Sure enough, I'm soon treated to the spectacle of Mara running towards me with an athletic gait. Her all-black tracksuit accentuates the contours of her body in a way that’s understated, yet sexy. I stare until she comes up close and then I focus my attention on Samwise.
She jogs up, panting lightly. “Hi Seb. Cute dogs.”
“Thanks.” I indicate the dog pawing at my pocket for the stash of dog biscuits. “This one’s Meriadoc.” He’s a rollicking, somewhat flighty dog that I secretly compare to Alex. “That one beside you is Samwise.” Calmer, loyal, but sensitive—and, at times, manipulative—Ken down to a tee.
She smiles. “Hayley did say something about animals around Belgrave Castle being named after Lord of the Rings. Sauron the cat? Gandalf and Frodo the horses? That was your doing, I suppose?”
“Having a system makes naming creatures easier.”
“Are you one of those Tolkien cosplayers? Do I get to see your Aragorn costume?” Her brown eyes flash with mischief. “Oooh, your big sword?”
I fold my arms. “Technically, a longsword.”
“A longsword? Oh my.” She sucks on her bottom lip and then says what’s she’s obviously dying to say. “Do I get to see that too?”
I feel my face cracking into a smile. “Be careful what you ask for.” I love watching her mouth slacken in surprise. “If I get to see your Arwen costume, it’s a deal,” I add.
She points to her red hair, strands of which whip wantonly about her face, and then vaguely to the rest of her. “Do I look like Arwen?”
I use the opportunity to give her body a blatantly long, searching once-over because she's just given me permission. I shake my head. “Too athletic."
This earns me an eyeroll.
“How far did you run?” I ask.
She checks her Fitbit. “Three miles, give or take.”
“Impressive. Next time, take Meriadoc for a proper workout then. He needs it.”
“I’d be glad to.” She’s started jogging on the spot right in front of me, her lean thighs at my eye level. I imagine them thrashing on a mattress at the same speed. This woman makes me think things I have no business thinking.
“So, do your cattle all have orc names?” She waves at the herd in the nearby field, which are not actually mine, but Liv’s father’s. Clearly, Mara’s not ready to let go of the Lord of the Rings joke yet.
“I try to avoid getting attached to creatures destined for steak and kidney pie.”
“No kidding.” She smirks again. “And the sheep?”
“Have no names either, I’m afraid. We let them wander about, nameless. They don’t even have to be particularly sociable.”
“No?”
“No. We keep maximum four ewes to the acre.” I eye her face. As a rule, I don’t talk farming to people not in the industry, as a favor to them and to myself. But I’m hoping to segue into an apology any moment now.
She hunkers down on a boulder about five feet away from me, a sign she’s interested in hanging around for a bit. “I don’t know much about farming.”
“Lower stocking rates means less-stressed animals.” I explain. “Fewer diseases. It’s a principle of organic farming.” Oh God, why can’t I shut up?
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“Anything else is cruelty,” I say darkly.
“I’ll take your word for it.” She’s petting Meriadoc who’s responding in a totally smitten way, practically tying himself in a knot around her ankles. He doesn’t do that with everyone. I slap my thigh, hoping he’ll return to his master. But Meriadoc, the traitor, stays right where he is.
Mara smirks and rubs his ears lovingly. “He likes me better.”
I watch as she attempts to unravel the dog leash from her ankles. Before I know it, I’m striding over there, then crouching by her feet to unravel the strip of leather.
“Look at you, all tied up,” I say, unwrapping the leash slowly from her ankle. The redness in her cheeks deepens as if she likes that idea. I know I do, and I’m also enjoying making her so heated.
This close, it’s easy to remember why I grabbed her at the rehearsal—because I’m itching to do it all over again. It’s not helping that our mouths are at the same level and her body heat is wafting over in gentle waves of scented air. I want to ditch the conversation and just cover her mouth with mine. I inch my body towards her with the intention of doing just that, but she flinches back.
Damn.
Her dark eyes fill with misgiving, all mischief gone. “Careful there,” she whispers. She rises abruptly. “That house by the junction,” she says, pointing behind her to where the rooftop of the Millhouse is visible between two oaks, “now that I’ve seen it by daylight, I’m intrigued. Who owns it?”
“Why are you intrigued?”
“It’s quite an amazing house. Has anybody tried renovating it?”
“Not in a long time. But I intend to.”
“You own it?”
“Yes. It’s the one thing I do own.”
“It’s not part of Alex’s estate?”
“No, I bought it with my own money from Father’s inheritance. I have planning permission to extend. I wanted to get started rather soon, actually.”
“Wow. I see it’s important to you.” Her voice is gentle, serious, and her soft touch on my arm reminds me I’m supposed to be apologizing. She removes her hand again, and takes a few steps forward to get a better view through the trees. “Historic renovation always takes a lot longer than people think.”
“Do you know much about it, Ms. Architect?”
“Oh yes.” Her gaze strays to the Millhouse again. “I did a paper on it last term. It’s far removed from my normal routine, but I love it.”
I can tell from her tone that she means this, is not just saying it for effect. “I was thinking of making it habitable piece by piece. I want it to be ready by Christmas.”
“Really? Show me?” Her expression is open, eager.
“I don’t see why not.”
There are several reasons why not, but fuck ’em.
We saunter down the road together until we reach the high, overgrown red-brick walls. I lead the way through the gate and up the graveled drive and star mimicking a tour guide from a BBC show. “The earliest phase is Tudor—a prime example of a timber-framed Suffolk long house.”
“Tudor?” she repeats. “You said Georgian.”
“Extended with the Georgian facade in the 1700s.”
She nods and tugs the leash so Meriadoc follows along. “Such great sash windows,” she says.
“They make the most of the southerly aspect.”
She’s nodding like this was her exact thought.
“The façade was re-done in 1854 by an old Suffolk farming family. There’s also a Victorian bake house at the rear that used flour from the mill.”
“The mill?�
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“There’s a mill in the rear garden—hence its name, the Millhouse. The water has been diverted underground. It’s also Georgian, built in 1809 on the site of a yet older mill.”
“Christ,” she mutters. “Okay, keep walking. And talking.”
I push open the heavy front door and step over the threshold into the pamment-tiled hall. Other doors there lead to the principal rooms, and a grand staircase to the first floor. I lead her to the most impressive reception room, the drawing room, with its full-height sash windows and shutters, stripped floorboards, and ornate cornicing framing the high ceilings. Even though it’s stripped bare and musty-smelling, she gives the impression she’s picturing some blissful domestic scene as she stands there, her eyes filled with a soft glow as they roam the walls.
“This is a dream project,” she declares.
“Or nightmare,” I groan.
"Not necessarily. An old house like this is easier to work with than something that’s been remodeled three or four times,” she says, fingering the walls. “But this hasn’t, not really; the load-bearing walls seem to be intact.” She swings around to me. “And the great thing about it being a genuine mill-house is that it has that impressive waterwheel, which can be restored to provide electricity to the house. Upstairs you’ve got a long open top floor for storing the wheat, right?”
“Right.”
“That would convert into an opulent master suite, or multiple bedrooms, in addition to the ones already there. Done right, you could make this a mansion, Seb, a beautiful, authentic home.”
Warmth fills me, hearing my goals spoken in such measured, optimistic tones. “That’s the idea.”
She taps her fingers lightly against my chest. “Come on, Earl, show me more,” she says, walking ahead of me like it’s a game of catch.
I overtake her and lead her through the house at a good pace, pointing out the butler’s pantry, the cellar, the library with the open fireplace. By the time we reach the heart of the original sixteenth-century house, her outbursts have taken on a breathless quality. “I can’t believe it. It looked so gloomy the first night I saw it, but this… it’s a treasure.”
Her enthusiasm is an invitation to really blow her mind. “There’s more.” I swing open the door to my favorite room: the dining room, with exposed beams, large brick fireplace, and two windows flooding the wooden floor with natural light. “Ta-dah.”
“I’m in love,” she declares, rushing in.
I follow so close on her heels that when she swings around, we miss each other by mere inches. As her face tilts up to meet my gaze, I say, “You haven’t seen the bedrooms yet.”
“Indeed.” She mimics my accent. “I have not.”
“So, you like it then?”
Her eyes shine. “Seriously, this place is a gold mine.”
“Not the Rocky Horror picture show?”
“Don’t you ever forget anything? I didn’t mean that. It was so dark, and I was tired and grumpy. I take it back. If it offended you, I’m sorry.”
“Not at all.” Here’s my cue to say I’m sorry too, for kissing her, and taking advantage of her at the rehearsal. But she’s so close, this red-haired goddess, with her perfect blend of soft body and sharp mind, that I don’t want to apologize. I want to make things worse again.
I reach up to her ponytail. It's too short to wrap around my fist so I just grip the hair and use it to tilt her head up, gently, but letting her know I’ve taken control. I search her eyes for any hesitation, any negativity, but all I see are her dilated pupils drawing me into their depths. She has exactly two seconds to protest before I do this, so help me God.
I bring my lips to hers and stroke her bottom lip gently with my tongue. A tiny moan escapes her throat. Her lips are as soft and supple as I remember, yet insistent. The hesitation of before is gone. She’s welcoming me and it feels like coming home.
I want to learn everything about her, find out what drives her wild. I clasp her hips and maneuver her to the wall so she’ll have some support when I press hard into her. There’s a whump as her back engages the wall, and pieces of plaster flutter down as chalky dust rises up. We break off, coughing.
“Holy crap, Seb,” she laughs. “You’re going to wreck this house before you build it again.”
“You’re going to wreck my sanity.” I tug her away from the wall, grasp her chin and kiss her again, more forcefully this time.
She molds her body to mine. She feels so perfect there. My cock agrees and strains against the denim to get closer to her. I’m determined to bring her to the edge first so I slip my hands under her tracksuit top and then under the t-shirt. Her breath hitches. Her skin is warm and inviting; any sweat from her running must have evaporated by now. I want more, but it’s too cold to undress her.
My fingers grapple upwards to where a sturdy sports bra blocks all my fun, but I soon set her free, giving me access to the flesh I desire. I cup her breasts in my hands as take her mouth again with mine. She moans into the kiss, and I can tell she’s losing it before I even reach her nipples. When I finally tease those hardened nubs, she makes a deeper sound in her throat and digs her nails into the back of my neck.
“God,” she gasps, breaking off the kiss. Strands of hair flutter against her cheekbones, her neck. Her dark eyes are stormy. I want her. All of her. And she wants me.
But not here.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I rather wish we were elsewhere.”
“Me too.” She leans her forehead against my shoulder.
On second thought, we don't need a bedroom. My hands trace down the curves of her waist. Just as my fingers slip under the waistband of her tracksuit trousers, heading south over deliciously smooth buttocks, Meriadoc comes prancing up like a bloody lunatic and launches himself into Mara's legs with full force.
She buckles. I yank my hands from her trousers to support her. “Meriadoc, get off, idiot dog!”
Meriadoc doesn’t, of course. He barks, yelps, and scrabbles with his front paws against Mara's legs. I press firmly against his side to shove him away, but he’s having none of it. Joyfully, he leaps again, aiming for me this time, and lollops around in a circle of frenzied excitement like he can’t believe his luck in finding two humans just standing around waiting to play with him.
Mara flinches away from Meriadoc as he leaps against her.
I grip the dog by his collar. “Come on, ya big mutt.”
She brushes herself off, still snickering, and catches my gaze. I return her smile but my heart is sinking; our moment has passed. Samwise potters through the door as if to say hey, what’s happening?
Mara struts over to the older dog and takes his leash as she exits the room. She’s talking to him as she leads the way down the stairs, adjusting her clothes. I follow, yanking the uncontrite Meriadoc along behind me.
We’re halfway home before either of us knows what to say. Our pace is slow, like we’re keen to prolong the moment, not sure what’s coming next.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Are you serious about commissioning this renovation?” she asks, ignoring my apology.
“Of course.”
“It’d fetch a tidy sum if you sold.”
“No, I want my … biological mother, and my sister—my half-sister—to live there.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she’s not half as startled as I am, having revealed this much to her. I swallow a lump. I sense she wants to ask more but doesn’t trust herself to do it. She should, though, because I want to tell her all about Rachel and Orla. She makes me want to share things. Everything.
Walking under the sycamores of our castle entrance, Mara finds her voice again. There’s a softer note to her tone, as if she understands what it meant for me to reveal this much about myself. It’s more than I’ve ever told anyone. “Well, I’m not sure about planning regulations in this country, but if the land all around here belongs to you then the renovation shouldn’t be an issue.”
“It’s not all mine yet,” I qualify. “But it will be soon.”
“Why? Whose it is now?” she asks.
“Liv’s father.”
“Oh.” Her voice is toneless.
I glance at her. She blinks rapidly like she’s been hit. Then her face freezes over. “Well … that’s convenient.”
“Yes.”
There’s a long pause. A very long pause. It lasts all the way to the stone lions guarding the front door.
“I feel icky.” She gives me a baleful look and tugs at her tracksuit top to indicate how dirty she feels. “Think I’ll go shower.”
“Of course.” I tug open the front door and usher her in.
As she races up the stairs, my heart implodes, like a dam bursting and a rush of unexpected emotion flooding the banks. Why does my long-term plan seem so shoddy all of a sudden?
9
MARA
DAMN SEBASTIAN BELGRAVE anyway. I’ve given him professional advice for free. If I could take it back, I would. He doesn’t deserve it. So I’m just the disposable mistress. He’s planning to marry Liv. It’s just a matter of when and where. The why is all too well calculated.
It’s clear he regrets our kiss. Kisses. I suppose he expects me to stay real quiet about them too. But I’m good enough to give him architectural advice on how to renovate his millhouse? Yes, there I can talk till the freaking cows come home. Sheesh.
I can hardly claim to have gone into this blindfolded. Hayley did warn me that they’re all into their advantageous marriages, and that she and Alex were somewhat of an anomaly—but I suppose I didn’t really grasp the full reality of it until it whacked me right in the face.
Well, fuck him.
The Millhouse is exactly the kind of project I’ll be leading in about three years’ time when I’m a registered architect, and charging toffs like him through the nose for, hah! I’ll put it down as experience.
After a shower and change, scrubbing away all memory of Seb’s hands on me, I head over to Dave’s room to see how he’s holding up. I’m fed up with Britain. I want a slice of home.
Home has seen better days, however. Hayley’s poor dad is propped against a mountain of pillows and has a drip, feeding antibiotics into his arm. He’s ashen-faced.