by Sara Forbes
“So you do exist,” I can’t help saying. “I would’ve gotten you a pint had I known.”
The wary eyes trained on me tighten only microscopically as he grins. His face seems porcelain, even robotic, in the dim light.
“Terribly sorry,” I say, wiping the damp from holding the glasses onto my pants. I offer my hand.
We shake. Well, he’s got a pulse, at least.
We settle back in our chairs, me glancing in wonder from Alex to his strange best friend. Alex is looking particularly smug at my amazement.
“Alex told me you had a spot of trouble with your horse,” Marty says. No preambles with this guy. His accent is London and something else I can’t identify. I take a gulp of the ale and try to decide whether I like him or not. It doesn’t usually take me this long.
“You’ve come all the way here to talk about this?” I ask. But you couldn’t make it to Alex’s wedding?
Marty exchanges a quick glance with Alex. “That’s correct.”
“All right.” I hold his gaze. “What can you do about my horse?”
“If it’s a wider problem, we’d like get to the root of it.”
“Fine.” I tell him about how I found Sill, all the details I can think of, as factually and dispassionately as I can. He listens carefully, head cocked, but something tells me he hasn’t ridden a horse in his life, nor ever experienced a horse with diarrhea.
All the while I’m making mental notes about the man, so I can tell Letty every microscopic detail later and drive her mad with jealousy that I’ve met him and she hasn’t. Frankly, I don’t expect much else good coming of this meeting.
An hour and a half later, having veered way off topic, we’re all on better terms. I’ve been fed school-days stories about Alex and Marty that I’ve definitely never heard before. My world is softer around the edges and I’ve managed to set aside my worry for Sill.
The only problem is, the more I drink, the more my thoughts drift towards Liv MacKenzie. They’ve mellowed into soft-focus images of her naked body, which I’ve never actually seen. She’s in the living room, but this time she’s draped across the sofa, inviting me into her secret world. In this fantasy, I’m not rough like before; no, she’s the one who comes onto me, ordering me to start at her toes and lick my way up her beautiful body.
“Ken?” Alex is saying.
I shake my head.
“Last orders.”
I stretch. “Think I’ve had enough, actually. I want to head over and see Sill before I crash for the night.”
“Yeah, I’ve had enough too,” Alex says. “Marty? Call it a night?”
The secret agent nods.
“Everything looks, tastes, smells, feels better down here in the country,” Marty says wistfully as we step outside and the damp evening air brushes our faces.
“You need to get out of the city more often. Ever think to settle back on the farm?” Alex asks.
“Not an option,” he answers in a clipped tone and Alex doesn’t press.
We reach the point where I want to break off and go to the stables, letting them go to the main house. I wonder if Marty is staying with us in Belgrave Castle. That would negate any informational advantage I have over Letty.
“I’m going this way across the old battlements,” I announce. “Quickest way to the stables,” I explain to Marty.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Alex says. “It’s not the quickest way to my bed.”
Yeah, yeah, but I can’t blame him. He’s got his loving wife, Hayley, waiting up for him. “All right, see you in the morning.”
“Hold up. I’ll come with you,” Marty says to me.
Alex cocks an eyebrow but seems happy to leave his friend with me. He heads off down the road towards Belgrave Castle.
Marty turns to me. “Battlements?” He can’t hide the note of boyish excitement in his voice.
“Yeah, from the original castle. Gives a view over our property and… the MacKenzies’.”
“Earl of Strathcairn, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s dying, I hear.”
“You’re well informed,” I answer.
“It’s my job to be.”
We traipse off-road through a gap in the bushes and clamber up the grassy hill until we reach the top where there’s a bare patch of soil punctuated with a ring-like structure of huge boulders, our own mini-Stonehenge. This spot marks the border between Alex’s estate and the Earl’s. It’s the highest point around, serving as a lookout point.
From below, the sound of raucous laughter drifts up to us as the last customers leave the pub.
“It could be anyone who did it,” I say. “There’s a lot of new folk in the village that we don’t know.”
“Let’s not rule anyone out,” Marty says quickly, “new or old.”
“So, you’ve done stuff like this before, have you?”
“Never dealt with a racehorse, but I’ve come across kidnappings abroad. If there is a mafia targeting British racing, then it may be international. I’d just like to keep my eye on it, as a side project.”
I scowl at the thought of it being a side project for him. But despite my annoyance, something about his utter seriousness makes me feel I can confide in him. “I do have a theory,” I say as we traipse though the tall grass, trying to avoid the cow pats in the dark.
His stillness encourages me to go on.
“It may be nothing, but it’s best you know. I do have a particular enemy who has a motive to see me fail, and fail spectacularly.”
“Care to tell me?” he asks mildly.
“It’s Peter Maxwell. See, he used to date… well, not quite ‘date’ exactly. He used to pursue my sister, Letty. My parents were all for the match. He’s a wealthy earl and has been a friend of our family since forever. But Letty—well, she was having none of it.”
I glance at Marty. He’s listening keenly.
“Yeah, so…” I draw in a breath. It’s still painful to think about this, let alone talk about it to some semi-stranger. “This same Peter Maxwell came out of bloody nowhere and stole my girlfriend Liv from me two years ago. Married her and everything. I had just gotten crippled by a series of horse bets gone wildly wrong, so I was the broke idiot, the gambler. Her father hated the sight of me and was more than thrilled when Peter swept in and saved the day. Their marriage didn’t last, though. Now she’s back here, next door, and I can’t help but wonder if he had something to do with Sill.”
“A jealous ex-husband’s warning not to mess with his ex-wife?” Marty surmises.
I shrug. “Not impossible, right?”
Marty’s face cracks into a wry smile but I sense it’s to humor me. “Nothing ever is.”
I stomp on in silence, waiting to see if he passes any other judgement on my tale, but he doesn’t. The only sound is the soft plod of our footfalls on the turfy ground and the crickets chirping. But as we approach the stables, a very weird sound hits our ears.
Singing.
I recognize Letty’s strong alto voice. “Oh no,” I groan.
“Greensleeves,” Marty says.
“It’s my sister.
“Fantastic set of pipes.”
“What the hell is she doing? She’s torturing him. Why, I’ll—”
I speed up and run towards the stable, flinging open the stable door.
“What the—?”
She’s not alone. Two blonde heads are bent over my horse: Liv is with her. I retreat in amazement.
Liv bolts upright and whips her hand away from the horse’s neck. “As… I was saying, Letty, I really must be going,” she says. She rises, brushing the straw off her jeans, and scuttles in the direction of the door—which I’m blocking.
“Hi Ken,” she mutters and ducks under my arm, which had been strategically stretched across the doorway to stop her.
“Wait,” I call out. Then I sneeze in the straw dust she’s created. And sneeze again.
When I look out the door, she’s fleeing across t
he grass, clutching her unbuttoned coat to her chest. She’s taking the shortcut home, but it’s still a good nine kilometers to Strathcairn Castle from here. Is she out of her mind?
She’s gotten a head start, but I take off after her, cursing my loafers on this uneven, cowpat-strewn ground. Moonlight illuminates her sylph-like silhouette against the dark skyline.
She’s giving me a good run for my money until she reaches the stile, the entrance to the MacKenzie fields. This stile demarcates the border between our families’ estates. She swings a graceful leg over it, then turns to face me. But by now we’re away from the lights of the stables, in near darkness, and all I see is a petite shadowy figure.
“I’m on MacKenzie land now,” she says, panting.
“Meaning what?” I ask, approaching her. “I have to pay a toll or something?”
I can’t see what her face is telling me. I have to rely on the sound of her breathing—which is fast—and the precise timbre of her voice.
“I’ll gladly pay a toll,” I add.
“Meaning don’t follow me.” Her tone is resolute. Maybe a little wistful.
Well, two can play that game. “I have a right to know what you were doing in my stable with my horse,” I say sternly.
She’s still. Silent. I draw closer. It’s easier to deal with her when I can’t see those crystalline eyes burning into me, reminding me of how they used to glow with happiness for me not so very long ago.
“Ken, what are you doing? Why are you being like this?”
“How about you answer my question first.”
“I was helping Letty, that’s all. She wanted to see Sill, so I accompanied her. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
I’m right up at the fence, the one she’s gripping. I hear every labored breath. She killed herself running, that’s for sure. I’m glad I’m not the only one. I lean in and feel the gusts of her breath on my neck, tickling pleasurably, putting my body on high alert.
She doesn’t move away as I expect, but holds her ground as if a simple wooden fence with two parallel planks is somehow going to protect her from me. I could grab her waist and lift her clean over this barricade and she wouldn’t be able to stop me. I could pin her down in the grass and do things I’ve been dreaming of for two years, continuing the danger play she used to enjoy but that we never quite finished. It would be so easy, and I’ve nothing to lose.
A waft of her delicate rose-scented perfume hits me, flooding me with memories of better times together. I move even closer to her so I can feel the heat from her body. My pulse is pumping fast, and I imagine hers is in sync with mine.
I plant my hands on top of hers so they’re trapped on the fence. My eyes close at the sensation of her smooth warm skin and delicate bones, these fingers that I’ve missed for two years.
Her hand jerks beneath mine, but I hold firm, holding her fast.
“Ken?”
There’s a tiny note of alarm in her voice, but it’s a turn-on rather than a warning. I let her question hang between us unanswered as she struggles. No more Mr. Nice Guy. She can’t knee me in the groin because the fence is stopping her. I lean back so as to be out of any danger of a head butt—not that I think she’ll go that far. Her wriggling already feels half-hearted, as if she’s only doing it because that’s what’s expected of her. After some attempts of wriggling and pulling, her efforts grid down to a halt.
That’s better. Acceptance.
“You’re trapped,” I say in a low voice, leaning in, not quite touching her with my chest. “How does it feel?”
I don’t have to see her face to know what she’s thinking—her breath is coming fast.
“Ken… stop this.” There’s a new quality to her voice, a longing I’ve never heard from her before. My body’s listening—I’m hard as a rock and my jeans feel very tight.
“Stop, or else what?” I tease. You can’t do anything to me, woman—nothing that you haven’t already done.
“I could spit.”
“Go right ahead. I’ve been dealing with horse drool all day; a little human saliva won’t hurt.”
She makes a slight movement with her head and I imagine she’s smiling. God, I hope she’s smiling.
“Or I could bite,” she says.
My cock throbs at the intensity of her words. Liv and I have never played this game before, but that’s what makes it so exciting. My eyes have adjusted to the dim light and I think I detect a half smile on her face.
“Go right ahead,” I say, with a huskiness that comes out sounding a little too needy. “Anywhere you please.”
Her upper body rocks back and forth, as if contemplating where to strike, and my own body thrums in anticipation of the sweet pain she wants to inflict. I’m so ready. I need to feel something. And she’s the only one who can do that for me. She’s been haunting me night and day for the past two years and now it’s come to a head. I want her to lash out. I want her to bite me.
“We can talk about this,” she says in a soft, meek voice that sets my nerves on edge, like she’s talking to a kidnapper.
No.
“Words, words, words.” My voice rings out harsh and angry in the deafening silence. Even the crickets have stopped their chirping. “I’ve had enough of empty, useless words.”
She gasps. I think I may have shouted that last bit.
I raise my hands from hers, granting her freedom to escape if that’s what she wants. I can’t stop her. I never could. I back away from the fence, arms crossed, fed up with this game. I need to walk around to ease the pressure on my cock, which feels like it’s ready to explode.
She doesn’t move away immediately. Her arms stay in the same position where I’d held them pinned, as if to reinforce the idea of being my willing captive. And yes, I like that.
“Ken, I really do think we should talk,” comes her sweet, pleading voice. Two years ago, I’d have done anything for her, gone anywhere. I listened for hours and hours to her soft voice—all her thoughts, fears, aspirations. I was mesmerized by it all. But now? Now, it’s not enough for me. Because when it came to the real thing, the raw, carnal knowledge of her deepest inner secrets—she offered herself to Peter.
Deeds, not words.
There’s only one thing I need from Liv MacKenzie, and it sure as hell isn’t talking.
I storm back up to the fence, grab her arms and yank her hard into my body. I tug her shoulders into my chest. Grasping her chin in my hands, I tilt her face up to mine. Her upper body stiffens but then a shudder rips through her. Her palms shoot up against my chest to push me away. Her struggle is real this time. I grab her wrists and pin her arms back onto the fence, wider apart now.
I lean in, nose to nose. She leans backward, as far as her neck will stretch.
I smooth my cheek along hers to see if it’s as soft as ever. It is. I let out an involuntary groan.
Then I move my lips to hers, but I don’t kiss. I trail my tongue along her bottom lip, probing the soft flesh, testing. Her breath is coming in sharp gusts. It’s somewhere between excitement and panic, which is exactly what I’m feeling.
“Unbelievable woman,” I murmur and trail the tip of my tongue under her top lip, pressing against her teeth, which have left a tiny gap open for me.
Not yet.
I explore the entire edge of her lips, picturing how I want to enter her, stretch her, debase her—and not just with my tongue. She’s trembling at my gentleness; she wants this, but if she could only read my dirty thoughts, she’d be quaking in those silly boots she’s wearing.
I yank my head back and release my hands from hers, setting her free again.
She gasps and bucks toward me, clutching empty air.
“Go on home, Liv,” I say. “I need to see to my horse.”
I turn and march off. Walking away from her feels both incredibly good and incredibly stupid.
7
LIV
AFTER VISITING THE ABDULS and their new neighbors—another Syrian family, dis
tant relatives of the Abduls—I’ve got a whole new reason to be furious with Ken Belgrave, as if last night was not enough.
Ken’s been here earlier. “The big man from the castle with the blond hair”—who else could it be? And he’s been interrogating them.
Poor Marwan was the first to meet him at the door. Ken got short with him, apparently, mistaking his reticence for covering up for someone.
The teenager has retreated to his room and won’t talk to anyone. I knocked on a few more doors and it seems Ken’s been on the rampage, asking everyone if they’d seen anything. But the Abduls and their neighbors felt the brunt of the accusations, as they tend to get blamed for anything that goes wrong in the village, even when everyone knows there’s been a problem of teenage gangs since long before they arrived in the country.
This is the last straw. Ken’s as overbearing as any man I know when things don’t go his way. And I’m not just thinking this because of the way he set me on fire last night and then walked away.
How well do I really know Ken? He had been drinking—I could smell the ale on his breath, and that’s something he never did much of when I knew him before. I understand he’s emotional because of Sill, and I don’t blame him for that. The poor animal’s in a bad way. Its moans are a chilling sound. How could anyone do that to a horse?
But there’s something about him that wasn’t there before. All these things don’t add up to the way he was last night with me—possessive, teasing, hard to the point of being cruel. He wanted to make a point, and he sure made it. I actually whimpered into his mouth.
I cringe to think of it.
What came over me? What other evidence does he need that I still dream of him sometimes? Lately, my dreams have turned darker, more compliant to his demands when I see his hard, muscular body straining at the seams of his designer clothes, and the determined look on his face when he undresses me with his gaze. Now I have a lot of new material to work with.
But when it comes to reality, I had my chance and I made my choice. I crushed him. I can live with that guilt; all I have to do is think back to how I was feeling when I heard Daddy’s diagnosis and how I needed support at that time. It doesn’t matter how it turned out. I don’t get to relive parts of my life just because I’ve made a decision that turned out wrong.