‘I beg your pardon?’ Lydia looked at her.
‘It’s obvious you’re smitten with him and I saw the way he looked at you when he brought you into the pub. I’ve known that lad since he was in nappies, and in all my years, I’ve never seen him look at a lass the way he looked at you. Proper old fashioned, it was. So what if he’s been giving you the cold shoulder all day, a man’s pride is always his biggest downfall. Go over there and tell you want him and I bet you my pension you’ll get him. The direct approach never fails to work for me.’ Gracie puffed herself up, proudly. ‘I’ve had eighty-six lovers, you know.’
‘Right,’ Lydia spluttered through the remnants of her last mince pie. ‘You know what, Gracie, you’re right. Fuck it, I will, then!’
‘Lyds!’ Joanna gasped as Lydia got up, slightly unsteady on her feet after perhaps a little more warm Cava than was entirely sensible. ‘Where are you going?’
Lydia pointed at Will’s back as he headed out of the marquee and into the pub.
‘To tell that man that he can’t live without me.’
It seemed an impossible feat, particularly as she’d changed from wellies into her stilettos at the first opportunity, to catch up with Will as he headed in exorably towards the door. Nice, kind, friendly locals kept stopping her, some of whom she’d met before, some new folks, but all greeting her warmly. Always compulsively polite, Lydia found it impossible to ignore them, and she was only thankful that Will was in equally great demand for a chat and several kisses under the tired-looking sprigs of mistletoe. Finally, as she saw him head outside into the night, and spurred on by Gracie and two or three glasses of Cava, she left Mrs Grimsdale from the dairy mid-sentence, and barged through the crowd after him, yelling over her shoulder, ‘Sorry, got a man to catch!’
‘Will!’ she called out after him as he disappeared out of the well of light coming from the pub, and into the darkness. Tottering forward with some difficulty in her heels, Lydia was just about able to make out his figure in the gloom.
‘Will!’ He stopped in his tracks and then, ever so slowly, turned around. He was waiting for her.
‘Will.’ Lydia repeated his name once more as she finally caught up with him, slightly out of breath, and stumbling like a newborn foal.
‘Lydia.’ He said her name, slowly, deliberately.
‘I didn’t want you to go.’ Lydia gasped in a breath of cold air. ‘What I mean is I didn’t want things to end between us like this, not that they ever really started, I suppose … But, anyway, I didn’t want you to walk out on me without you realising that … well, Gracie says I should just tell you I want you and drag you to bed, but I don’t have the kind of balls that Gracie does, and anyway, I don’t think you’re the sort of man to be dragged anywhere. But what I’m really trying to say is, don’t go, because you really do need to kiss me again.’ Lydia banged her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘That sounded much better in my head.’
Will almost smiled, resting his hands on his hips as he looked up at the stars.
‘Lydia, Lydia, Lydia,’ he said, redirecting his gaze to her. ‘Jackson told me the whole thing, about him and Joanna and you.’
‘Did he?’ Lydia said uncertainly. ‘And how did I come out of that?’
‘Maybe a little confused and impulsive,’ Will said. ‘He said that none of it was your fault, really. He said that you were one of the most remarkable women he’d ever met, actually. And he was a fool to let you go.’
‘Really?’ Lydia asked him. ‘Remarkable? What does that even mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Will said, darkly. He started walking again, forcing Lydia to try and canter alongside him, to keep up with his long strides.
‘Oh fine,’ she said bitterly. ‘Fine, fine, fine. I come out here and all but throw myself at you, and if all you can do is be moody and northern and mysterious, then I don’t want to kiss you anyway. It can get old, you know, the whole Heathcliff-Bob-the-Builder fusion thing you’ve got going on.’
Will stopped dead outside a little double-fronted cottage, which had a simple holly wreath tied with a red ribbon to its shiny brass knocker.
‘Can it?’ he said. ‘Well, so can you, getting off on all the men that follow you around finding you bloody “remarkable”. Bloody Americans.’
‘Oh, oh well, as we’re on the subject of delusions of grandeur, you might think you’re the best-looking man around here, but quite frankly a sheep in a hat would give you a run for your money.’
‘Would it?’ Will took a step closer to her. ‘Would it really? You come out here in your high heels and your off-the-shoulder top …’
‘Yes, and another thing …’ Lydia did not get to complete her sentence as Will took her unceremoniously in his arms and covered her mouth with his. No gentle kiss, this time, no shy politeness. Instead he crushed her body into his body, encircling her entirely with his arms, so that she couldn’t move a muscle, not even to return his embrace. But Lydia didn’t care, she was lost in the sensation of the heat of his lips against hers, the grate of his stubble on her neck, the whisper of his breath in her ear, so much so that when he finally broke off, she groaned. ‘No, don’t stop. More kissing.’
‘But you’re freezing,’ Will whispered. ‘You must have left your coat behind when you came running after me.’
Freeing one arm, with some difficulty, Lydia punched him lightly on the chest. ‘I did not come running after you. It’s impossible to run anywhere in these shoes.’
‘Come on.’ Will took her hand, leading her through the little wrought-iron gate that sat neatly between the slate-built walls and up the short path to the cottage door.
‘Don’t you think these people will mind us going into their house?’ Lydia asked him. ‘Although I must say, it’s so quaint, this whole never having to lock a door business.’
‘Quaint? Did you actually just say that?’ Will raised a brow. ‘This is my house. And I always lock it.’
‘Your house?’ Lydia looked at the smartly painted front door with new significance. Will had a proper, grown-up house, which surprised Lydia, although she didn’t know why. Perhaps she had suspected that he lived in a cave he’d carved out of the rock face with his own bare hands. ‘With your bedroom in it?’
‘Most houses do contain at least one,’ Will said. ‘Even up here in the north. And I’ve got an indoor loo.’
Unlocking the door, he pushed it open and gestured for Lydia to walk in.
‘What are you suggesting we do in this house?’ she asked him, primly. ‘Because I don’t want you think I’m easy.’
Will’s smile was unbridled. ‘Lydia Grant, in the last thirty-six hours you’ve kissed three men, why on earth would I think you were easy?’
‘Yes, but only because …’ Lydia began to protest, but Will stopped her with a kiss.
‘Don’t be dim,’ he said. ‘Easy is the very last thing you are. I’d say that you are actually extremely difficult.’
Nervously, Lydia walked into the flagstone hallway, lined with what looked liked certificates of various building awards, and to her left an open door revealed a small sitting room, floorboards stripped bare, a distressed but comfortable-looking brown leather sofa and an old telly, on a stool in one corner. There were a few framed photographs on the wall that caught her attention. They looked old, like they might be of relatives long gone.
‘Come here, you’ll like this,’ Will said, leading her into the sitting room and standing her before a sepia-toned photograph.
‘Recognise that veranda?’ he asked her.
Lydia found herself looking at a photograph of two Victorian women, sitting side by side. Struggling to see past their faces, unsmiling and of indeterminate age, but definitely well past the first flush of youth, she studied the architectural detail, the pattern in the wrought iron pillars and the lacy wood detailing.
‘Oh, it’s Heron’s Pike!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes, back when it was two houses, and that is Margaret, on the left, and her si
ster, before she ran away to get married, I suppose.’
Lydia studied Mad Molly’s face; it didn’t look mad at all, but even behind the composed mask of respectability that was fashionable in those early days of photography, Lydia thought she could see some expression in her pale eyes, one of sadness and loss. Or perhaps she was just imagining it.
‘Where did you find this?’ Lydia asked Will, fascinated.
‘Flea market, this one,’ Will said. ‘I collect as many old photos as I can find. I think it’s sad. All these peoples, all their lives and hopes and pride put on display for their future generations, and then in just a few years they end up nameless and lost with no one to look at their faces, wonder what they were like or even remember their names. And besides, it’s great to document all that authentic detail for my renovation work.’ Will caught Lydia gazing dreamily at him. ‘What?’
‘I’ve just never met anyone like you,’ Lydia said.
Suddenly uncertain of what to do, or how to act, Will turned away, slipping off his jacket and hanging it on the door.
‘So, what shall we do now?’ Lydia asked him, her stomach spinning itself into knots.
‘Hmmm,’ Will said thoughtfully, looking her up and down with such intensity that his gaze swept a wave of shivers along the length of her body. ‘Well, you look a little cold, so …’ He took her by the hand and sat her on his sofa, next to the inglenook fire place, where the ashes of an earlier fire lay cold and grey. Filled with anticipation, Lydia watched as, with expert efficiency, Will built up the fire again, and had it roaring away within a few minutes. Wiping ash from his hands on his jeans, he turned round and looked at her.
‘You are on my sofa,’ he said. ‘That makes me feel nervous.’
‘Does it?’ Lydia said. ‘I could move.’
‘No, stay right there.’ Lydia held her breath as Will kneeled down in front of her, leaning over to slowly kiss her, teasing and tickling her lips with his tongue, flicking it gently across her mouth. Catching his breath, he pulled back.
‘This is surreal, having you here. I never thought this would happen,’ he told her. ‘I thought my stupid stubborn streak had blown it.’
‘You are quite stubborn,’ Lydia agreed, smiling sweetly.
‘I know, but now I’ve got you here, I want to savour every moment. Can I take your clothes off, Lydia?’
‘Oh, um … okay, then,’ Lydia squeaked.
Taking her hands, Will sat Lydia up a little, pulling her Christmas sweater dress over her head and dropping it in a silk pool on the floor boards at her feet. With each of her wrists gently secure in his hands, Lydia forced herself to keep her eyes open as his gaze roamed freely over her. Releasing one hand, he traced the swell of her cleavage with his forefinger, slipping it under first one bra strap and then the other, sliding them down over her shoulders. And then, with both hands, he pulled away the cups, scooping out her heavy, full breasts. Lydia sighed as his thumbs caressed her nipples, his eyes drinking her in.
‘You are very beautiful,’ Will told her, his voice hoarse. ‘I could look you for ever.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ Pulling him between her knees, Lydia wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard, thrilling at the touch of his rough shirt against her bare skin. Will pushed her back, his lips tracing a path down her neck and breasts, circling her nipples with his tongue. Urgently, Lydia pulled his shirt over his head, running her fingernails along his back, feeling the muscles of his shoulders rippling and shuddering under her touch.
His hands and mouth everywhere, Will guided her off the sofa and onto the floor, laying her out on the floorboards, pausing to admire her for a moment in the firelight, her dark hair spread out around her.
‘Wait a second,’ Will said, running out of the room.
‘What? Where are you going?’ Lydia laughed, propping herself up on her elbows. ‘Have you lost your nerve?’
‘No … I thought we’d better …’ Will looked a little rueful as he produced a packet of condoms. ‘Good news is, they’re still in date. Just about.’
Lydia held her arms out to him as he joined her on the floor, kissing her deeply.
‘Off,’ he muttered, fumbling with the buttons of her jeans for too long, standing up to remove his own as Lydia lifted her hips and slid hers off, deliberately choosing to leave on the lace panties she was wearing. Looking up at Will, standing naked over her, Lydia caught her breath. He was a very impressive-looking man.
Kneeling down, Will ran his palms across her thighs, circling her breasts and groaning as he gripped the lace of her underwear and pulled it aside, sliding the weight of his hot, hard body into hers.
‘Now,’ Lydia whispered, looking into his eyes. Will groaned and in the next moment he was moving inside her, filling her up with the most exquisite sensation of pleasure. His eyes fixed on hers the whole time, Will cupped her cheek in his hand, kissing her as each thrust of his hips brought her closer to climax. And then, in one perfect moment, Lydia cried out with joy, feeling a rush of pure pleasure as Will collapsed, spent, onto her, tenderly kissing her face again and again.
‘Lydia.’ He whispered her name into her hair. ‘I don’t want ever to let you go.’
‘Then don’t,’ Lydia whispered back, winding her arms around him. ‘Don’t ever let me go.’
Chapter Eighteen
26 December
Lydia woke up smiling, and happily exhausted. At some point during the night, they had made it to Will’s bedroom, but had slept very little until perhaps an hour or so ago. Yet, as tired as she was, Lydia didn’t want to sleep. Real life was so very much better than her dreams.
Rolling onto her side, she looked at Will, who was lying on his back, his black lashes sweeping the rise of his perfect cheekbones, dark stubble thickening in the dimple of his chin. He really had the most handsome nose she had ever seen, and, she decided, the kind of strong, manly jaw that would be at home on the cover of any romance novel. And as for his body … ever so lightly, Lydia traced the tip of her finger over his torso, biting her lip as it reached where the dishevelled sheet lay across his hips. Lifting it, she took a peak at what lay below, and quietly congratulated herself. She’d managed to cop off with the modern-day equivalent of a Greek god, and best of all, a Greek god who, it seemed, not only didn’t mind her fleshy hips or rounded bottom, but actually rather loved them.
Withdrawing her hand and rolling onto her back, Lydia pressed her palm across her mouth, suppressing the gurgle of laughter that bubbled in her chest. This was ridiculous, she was acting like a love-sick sixteen-year-old, and part of her wanted to laugh out loud, text all her friends and write his name in Tipp-Ex on her pencil case.
Except that, if she did, she would wake him, and then she wouldn’t be able to admire the dramatic sweep of his eyebrows or the perfectly proportioned pout of his full but manly lips. It was safer to get up, Lydia decided, not only for her but also for Will, who she thought probably couldn’t take her pouncing on him again. After all, she had to give some time to recover, at least half an hour, she thought.
Carefully, Lydia climbed out of bed, and, as all of her clothes were still on the sitting room floor, including a very ripped pair of lace knickers, she slipped on one of Will’s shirts that she found in his wardrobe, and a pair of socks neatly rolled into a ball in his top drawer. Make him breakfast in bed, that’s what she’d do, Lydia thought happily; feed and hydrate him, and then ravish him. It sounded like a plan to her.
Quietly, she tiptoed down the creaky stairs, remembering as she ran her fingers down the oak banister what delights she had sampled last night on that very spot. It was all she could do not to skip across the flagstones to the kitchen, where she revelled being in a room that was so purely Will. Hand-built units, that seemed to be made from an assortment of reclaimed and recycled pine furniture, resulted in a harmonic patchwork of cupboard doors and drawer fronts, each finished off with a different style of brass, ceramic or glass handle, all topped off with the di
stinctive greenish Cumbrian slate that Will loved so much. The whole room made Lydia smile, loving that someone so forthright and mannish as Will would screw a cream ceramic door handle, delicately decorated with a pink rosebud, into his cupboard door.
Cheerfully, she opened and closed cupboards until she found a jar of instant coffee and two mugs, and some pretty stale bread to toast, humming to herself as she waited for the kettle to boil. Drawing the window blind up a little to peer outside, Lydia supposed that it must have started raining sometime in the night, not that she’d noticed, what with all the wild passionate love making, and it was still raining now. So heavily, in fact, that patches of green were already beginning to show through the snow, a cascade of water was running in a steady stream down the guttering and into the drain, and the icicles that hung from the roof edge, above the kitchen window, were dripping steadily onto the sill. The thaw was here at last, and chances were, Lydia thought to herself, the roads would be clear enough tomorrow for her to head back to London as planned.
And then it was as if the heavy rain cloud that crouched over the peak of the mountain outside the window settled in her heart, and Lydia realised that tomorrow she would have to leave, and go back to real life. Working all hours, never sleeping enough, eating and drinking too much, watching TV all night instead of sleeping and, most importantly, not kissing Will.
Don’t be stupid, Lydia told herself. Don’t let your silly romantic head break your heart for no reason again. Will is brilliant; he’s amazing. But don’t forget you thought that about Jackson too, and he still left and then you didn’t want him anyway. Don’t kid yourself this is yet another love affair that means more than it really does. Grow up, Lydia Grant, and remember who you are. Barrister, crusader for justice, that’s you.
‘How can you be awake?’ Will’s arms encircled her waist from behind, his stubble grazing her cheek. ‘You’ve worn me out, woman, I need to sleep for a month and I would have, except I missed you.’
‘The snow’s thawing,’ Lydia said, swivelling round in his arms. ‘The roads will be clear soon.’ Will smiled into her eyes as it took a moment for him to realise what that meant.
The Night Before Christmas Page 24