All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3)

by Watts, Beverley

  A few minutes later I’m sitting on the wall overlooking the river. The fine day has brought out all the yachties, and the water is teeming with boats of all sizes. Snuggling down into my jacket, I idly watch the Dartmouth Queen take a few late autumn tourists on a trip up the river to Totnes.

  I can’t help but wonder if I’m making a mistake. From the first time I saw him in Bloodstone Tower, Jason Buchannan has got under my skin. Obnoxious he might be the majority of the time, but I can’t remember the last time a man made me feel so alive.

  I think back to the last relationship I had, nearly five years ago now. He was an auctioneer in London. We met on one of my many buying trips, and the whole long distance things worked for me, but ultimately not for him. He really was a sweet guy - wanted us to move in together. The problem was it would’ve meant me leaving Dartmouth for the bright lights of the city, and I guess I’m a country girl at heart – or maybe I just didn’t love him enough.

  Deep in reverie, it takes a couple of seconds before I hear my name being called, and looking down, I spot Jason in one of the college motor whalers at the bottom of the steps. My heart starts beating faster as I jump off the wall and climb down to the waiting boat. Like me he’s wearing a warm wax jacket and jeans, complete with a life jacket over the top.

  As I step on board, he quickly unties the rope and manoeuvres away from the side, heading towards the middle of the river. Without speaking he points towards another life jacket and indicates I should put it on. So much for small talk.

  I struggle into the jacket and sit down, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously watch this enigmatic man while his attention is elsewhere. His profile is as attractive as the rest of him. Hard, uncompromising, his hair tousled as though he’d just got out of bed. I shiver, wondering what it must be like to wake up next to him. I find myself speculating whether he’s ever been married. There must be women in his life surely – anyone as gorgeous as Jason Buchannan has to be fighting them off – even if his personality is less than sparkling. Suddenly he turns towards me and I colour up as though somehow he can read my thoughts.

  ‘Have you ever been to the Ferryboat?’ he asks after a short silence. I shake my head,

  ‘We usually go to the Anchorstone café in the summer.’

  He nods his agreement. ‘The pub really only comes into its own in the cold winter months.’

  ‘Do you go often?’ I ask quickly when it looks as though he’s going to subside into silence again.

  ‘I used to when I was here as a cadet,’ he responds after a couple of seconds. ‘I’ve been a couple of times since coming back, but my job keeps me pretty busy.’ Back to silence. Maybe he really doesn’t do small talk. Hard to imagine how the hell he got to where he is though – every naval officer I’ve ever met can generally talk for England.

  I decide to give up trying to make conversation for now, choosing instead to relax into the quiet as we leave Dartmouth behind. It’s actually strangely comfortable. The only sounds I can hear are the occasional seagull, together with the low rumble of the engine, and the soft music of the waves lapping up against the side of the dinghy. Flashes of pulsing light dance along the water as we cut through, and with a small sigh, I close my eyes, revelling in the warmth of the sun on my face.

  In what must have been about half an hour, but seems like only a few minutes, my reverie is interrupted as Jason says abruptly, ‘We’re here.’

  Opening my eyes, I spy the small pontoon that services Dittisham, a small idyllic village situated on the edge of the Dart - affectionately known as Ditsum by the locals.

  We’re approaching the pontoon before Jason speaks again.

  ‘Do you have any experience sailing?’ he asks shortly. I’m beginning to wonder why he actually invited me out to lunch today. He certainly doesn’t appear to be enjoying himself.

  ‘Some,’ I answer cagily, ‘I’ve crewed a few times over past regattas.’

  ‘Are you capable of tying up?’ he responds, staring ahead at the area set aside for visitors’ mooring.

  Thoroughly tired now of his rude (not to mention patronizing) attitude, I answer, ‘Quite capable,’ in lofty condescending tones, equal to his. He glances over at me in surprise. Could it be he has no idea how bloody charmless he actually is?

  Hurriedly I step towards the forward end of the motor whaler and he tells me to throw the fenders over the side. To be fair he has moderated his tone slightly. Then he hands me the rope.

  ‘I’ll ease slowly past the mooring as you jump out onto the jetty and tie the rope onto the cleat.’ (what’s a cleat?)

  ‘Once you’ve got a few turns on it, I’ll put the whaler in neutral so you can pull us in.’

  I nod my head dismissively as though I’ve done this a thousand times. In reality – never. My friend Ben Sheppherd usually takes me on to crew for him more out of sympathy than anything useful I can provide. I’m usually relegated to chief (and only) coffee maker.

  I look over at Jason’s arrogant features. I’ll be buggered if I’m going to give him the satisfaction of backing down now. I’m sure the cleat must be that metal thing you tie the rope round.

  Mind you, as we approach the pontoon at what currently feels pretty bloody fast, I have to admit to feeling a little nervous. There are at least five yachty types standing idly watching as we come in. But come on, how difficult can it be? I’ve seen my crewmates do something similar a thousand times.

  As he eases alongside, he shouts, ‘Now,’ and, clutching the rope, I leap onto the pontoon. Or at least part of me does. Unfortunately, as I jump, my left foot slips awkwardly and only one foot makes it to dry land. ‘F**k, stop,’ I shout frantically as I slowly start to do the splits.

  Glancing round, Jason swears and immediately puts the whaler in reverse, and just as my nether regions are about to be intimately acquainted with a river full of freezing cold water, the gap slowly begins to close, and a warm gnarled hand grabs mine, hauling me up onto the jetty. The same hand deftly takes the rope from me and wraps it expertly around the cleat, pulling the motor whaler into the correct position. As Jason turns off the engine, the hand finishes off securing the rope, throwing the remainder back to my stony faced sailing companion.

  Hugely embarrassed, I look up, stammering, ‘Thank you,’ to my knight errant, who actually turns out to be an elderly lady. Bugger. Everyone watching has identical grins on their faces, and as Jason climbs onto the pontoon, I daren’t even look at him.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ His voice sounds surprisingly gentle as he takes my arm. Feeling tears of mortification prick behind my eyelids, I wonder if I should pretend an injury. In the end, sniffing slightly, I look sideways at him murmuring, ‘Just my pride.’

  At my words, he relaxes and now he knows I’m okay, I get the expected lecture as we walk up the floating bridge towards the shore. I ignore most of his words, basking slightly in the knowledge of his concern. Maybe he’s not such a knob after all.

  Five minutes later we’re cosily ensconced on a window seat in the small bar of the Ferryboat Inn which is only a few steps away from the water’s edge. Apparently the pub’s known locally as the FBI, and looking round, I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. As Jason heads over to get us a drink, I examine the menu, suddenly famished – it must be all the hard work and sea air.

  By the time Jason gets back to the table, I’ve narrowed it down to two - beer battered haddock or seafood linguini, both sound equally delicious. As he seats himself next to me, I take a grateful sip of my red wine - just what I need after my close brush with death (or at the very least a dunking).

  Taking a sip of his beer, Jason asks me again if I’m okay. His concerned tone is completely at odds with his earlier surliness and I’m beginning to realize there really are two sides to Jason Buchannan.

  Talking about sides, the insides of my thighs are definitely sore, and I think it’s very likely I’ll be walking like John Wayne by tomorrow morning, but other than that, I’ve escaped relative
ly unscathed. I smile back at him and nod my head.

  ‘I’m fine thank you. Sorry I gave you such a scare. I might have neglected to mention that my previous sailing experience has been pretty much restricted to making hot drinks for more experienced crew members.’ I smile again, this time ruefully.

  ‘Well, if you’re interested, maybe we can look at giving you a few lessons in the spring,’ he responds with an answering grin. I feel a bubble of excitement at the thought that he still expects us to be friends in five months. ‘That’d be great,’ I reply enthusiastically, ‘I hope you’re a patient teacher.’

  ‘Patient’s my middle name,’ he responds wryly, then raising his glass, he smiles, saying, ‘Here’s to our future sailing adventures. Now, what are you having to eat?’

  The next two hours fly by. Contrary to my earlier misgivings, Jason turns out to be an entertaining and affable companion – he obviously knows how to turn on the charm when he wants to. He regales me with stories of his many naval exploits, some funny, others more serious, making me feel on every occasion as if I’d been there. I’m finally beginning to understand just how and why he’s risen in the naval ranks as quickly as he has.

  ‘So how about you?’ he asks at length as we finish up our fish and chips. ‘I didn’t realize you were in the event management business, I thought you ran an art gallery.’

  ‘I did, up until approximately six weeks ago. However, the building housing my gallery was sold, resulting in a sudden unavoidable change in career.’

  I don’t elaborate on the fact that it was my parents who effectively sold me out, and I think he senses my reluctance to go into more detail, because he doesn’t pursue the subject.

  ‘Are you married? he asks out of the blue instead, and I almost choke on my last chip. Eyes watering, I take a large sip of wine and shake my head.

  ‘Why on earth would I be here if I was married?’ I question, realizing too late that I’m effectively admitting that I think our lunch is a date. Colouring up, I look hurriedly down at my plate.

  ‘Have you ever been tempted?’ he presses, his voice so serious that I look back up in surprise.

  ‘Not really,’ I respond, equally seriously ‘I don’t think I’ve never met the right man.’ Let him make of that what he will.

  ‘How about you?’ I ask, neatly turning the tables. He stares at me for a second without answering, then just as he opens his mouth, the waitress comes bustling up to our table.

  ‘Was everything okay with your meal?’ she gushes, looking coquettishly at Jason.

  ‘It was lovely thank you,’ Jason responds with a polite smile, and she giggles, leaning forward to take his empty plate. As her ample bosom brushes against his arm, I feel a sudden unaccountable urge to slap her, telling myself it’s because she’s acting very unprofessionally and not because just one of her assets is bigger than both of mine.

  ‘Would you like a dessert?’ Jason asks after she reluctantly departs with our finished dishes. ‘I can vouch for the treacle tart – it was amazing the last time I had it.’

  I look over at him, glad I’ve managed not to show my peevishness about the waitress. Nodding my head, I smile. ‘With clotted cream of course,’

  ‘Naturally,’ he responds with an answering grin, ‘To eat treacle tart with anything else is sacrilege.’ As he slides out of the booth and makes his way to the bar, I realize he hasn’t answered my question.

  It’s nearly three thirty before we finally head back to the motor whaler and now the sun has disappeared, the afternoon is turning cold. Shivering, I snuggle down into my wax jacket, wishing I’d brought a scarf. We manage to board the whaler and cast off with no unexpected incidents, and as Jason goes back to silent, concentrating on guiding the boat back down the river in the gathering dusk, I hunch down in my seat, going over the events of the afternoon in my head. I’ve enjoyed it so much more than I thought I would, and sneaking a quick look at Jason’s profile, now slightly indistinct in the gloom, I wonder if he’s aware of the effect he has on me.

  All too soon we arrive back at the boat float. I insist Jason lets me have another go at tying up, and this time I do it without any problems. Tossing the end of the rope back to him, I pose on the bottom step with a triumphant smile before undoing my life jacket. Shrugging the heavy thing off awkwardly, I lean forward to give it back, expecting him to simply untie the rope from the cleat and push off. But, after casually throwing the jacket into the bottom of the whaler, he turns off the engine and jumps out, ostensibly to help me back up the steps.

  ‘Frightened I’ll fall in?’ I murmur drily over my shoulder as we climb to the top.

  He laughs softly, and as I turn round to face him, my heart starts to thud at the look in his silver eyes.

  ‘Did you know your aunt has invited me to her murder mystery evening on Saturday?’ he murmurs, gently pushing a piece of hair away from my eyes. I didn’t know that, and the realization that I’ll be seeing him again so soon infuses my body with a tingling warmth.

  ‘Would you like me to pick you up?’ he goes on to ask quietly, seemingly unaware that his thumb is stroking my temple.

  Unable to trust my voice, I simply nod and wait, hardly able to breathe, as he continues to watch me, his face unreadable, clearly locked in some kind of silent internal battle. Then, finally, achingly slowly, he bends his head until his lips find mine.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘What do you mean you’re married to Florence Davies?’ Jimmy’s tone was appalled and he looked as though he was about to have an apoplectic fit. Not for the first time, Charles Shackleford bemoaned the fact that his closest friend was a bit of a prude.

  ‘I’m not married to her now you imbecile,’ was the Admiral’s irritable though undeniably speedy response. ‘We got the bloody thing annulled donkeys years ago.’

  Jimmy opened and closed his mouth but nothing came out. ‘What has this got to do with Boris?’ he finally asked faintly.

  The Admiral sighed. ‘He was the one who married me and Flo. We were only eighteen, babies really. I’d just joined up and we thought getting hitched would keep us together. Of course we didn’t tell anyone. Her father was a right bastard. We thought it was romantic.’ He shook his head despondently.

  ‘Boris was the chaplain at Dartmouth when I joined up, but as soon as we’d tied the knot, he was drafted to the Falklands for a bit then buggered off to the bloody wilds of Africa to do a bit of God walloper work - that’s where he eventually picked up the problem with his rear end.

  ‘Anyway, by the time he came back, Flo had scarpered off to America with some nutter she met while I was away, I was married to Celia and we had Victory on the way.’

  The Admiral paused, taking a sip of his pint and pulling the bowl of chips back towards him. Funny how unburdening tends to help with the appetite. He offered the bowl to Jimmy who shook his head weakly.

  ‘So what happened?’ the small man whispered impatiently when it looked as though the Admiral intended to finish the whole bowl before continuing.

  ‘When old Boris found out that I’d not technically ended my nuptials with Flo before doing the business with Celia, he was pretty bloody angry at first – at least until I had chance to explain what had happened. He said we had to find Flo pronto and get her to sign the damn divorce papers.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Celia about Florence before you married her?’ Jimmy asked incredulously when the Admiral paused to take another drink.

  ‘Frightened I’d lose her,’ Charles Shackleford said bluntly, waving to the barmaid to bring them both another pint. ‘It was easier to let sleeping dogs lie I suppose,’ he continued more softly, staring morosely into his empty glass.

  ‘Anyway, I did tell her eventually – had to. Boris did all the leg work tracking down Flo - she was living in some bloody hippy commune in South Carolina. He got her to sign the divorce papers and bob’s your uncle.

  ‘That’s when I came clean to Celia. Thought she’d be done with me when she found out, b
ut instead, she agreed to marry me again. She also wanted Boris to be Victory’s godfather, but he refused. Said he wouldn’t be around enough to do the right thing.

  ‘Instead he asked if he could be the one to marry her. Joked that he would make sure there were no skeletons in her intended’s cupboard like there had been in mine…’

  He turned towards Jimmy before saying earnestly, ‘That’s not the whole story Jimmy lad, but it’s the bit that’s mine to tell. And it’s why I can’t let old Boris down. But I can’t tell Victory either, because if I do, the rest of it’ll come out.

  ‘Truth is, I thought the old bugger had forgotten – and, anyway, Victory showed so little interest in any bloke, I really did think he’d have picked up his one way ticket before she finally got herself hitched.

  ‘I even said he could marry me and Mabel instead.’ The Admiral heaved a sigh and fumbled for a handkerchief in his pocket. For a second, Jimmy wondered if the large man was actually going to cry, and felt like doing the same. In all his nearly seventy years he’d never known another man who attracted as much drama as Charles Shackleford. Calamities seemed to follow him around. In fact it was beginning to look doubtful as to whether he truly knew his friend at all.

  Silently Jimmy stared into the amber depths of his pint. He tried to remember when Florence Davies had come back to Dartmouth. It must have been about thirty years ago. He wondered what had made her come back.

  Looking back over at the Admiral, he took a deep breath. ‘Sir,’ he said firmly, ‘I don’t care what your reasons are for wanting old Boris to do this thing, but at the end of the day, you’ve got to tell Tory and Noah what they’re letting themselves in for. You’ve got to stop fudging the issue.

  ‘I’m sure you can be a bit sparing with the truth – I know how talented you are at delivering a good sob story,’ He ignored the Admiral’s frown at his words, determined to get his message across – once and for all.

  ‘But this is the biggest day of your daughter’s life and you cannot ruin it to pay off an old debt.’