by Anne Weale
She longed to take him in her arms and cradle his head against her shoulder. As the car left the city behind and the moon rose over a landscape still unexpectedly rural in a region associated with 'dark Satanic mills', Rosie made up her mind that, before this night was out, she would hold Nick in her arms.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A LOG fire was blazing in the hall of the hotel when they arrived. There was a lavish arrangement of hot-house flowers on the desk where they both signed the register. Normally, when taking a man on tour, Rosie asked for rooms on different floors. This time she had left it to chance. They might have been given rooms next door to each other or at opposite ends of the building.
They were escorted upstairs by the manager. He had seen Nick on TV in the past and also the regional news programme he had just appeared on.
Rosie's room was near the lift, overlooking the entrance to the substantial mansion built, according to the brochure, by a rich Victorian mill owner.
Her luggage had already been brought up and the porter had turned on all the lights in a luxurious bedroom furnished with twin brass beds and massive mahogany wardrobe in keeping with the age of the house. A great deal of money had been spent combining the solid comfort of a past age with the conveniences of present day, and she knew the hotel drew its patrons from as far afield as America.
'This is one of our nicest rooms. I hope you'll be comfortable, Miss Middleton,' said the manager.
'I'm sure I shall, thank you.'
As he turned to escort Nick to his room, Nick said, 'I'm going to take a shower, Rosie. See you later.'
'OK.' She gave a smile and a tip to the baggage porter and closed the door of her room. Now, at last, they would be alone together and undisturbed until the car came to take them to Liverpool for more interviews before they returned to London for a major chat-show appearance followed by the launch party in a private room at the Ritz tomorrow night. On Friday there was a signing session at Hatchards, followed by Saturday in Bristol, Sunday free, and then three more days of visiting provincial cities.
But for the next twelve hours they were on their own, on what amounted to their first ever date, an occasion she had first dreamed of ten years ago. Ten minutes later her case was unpacked. Twenty minutes later she had taken off her make-up, had a refreshing hot shower and rinsed out her bra, briefs and tights. By the time she had been in her room half an hour, she was wearing new Italian undies, and a new dove-grey silk robe bought especially for the tour, and was putting the finishing touches to her evening make-up.
With that done, she planned to fix herself a gin and tonic and sip it slowly until Nick called her on the internal telephone to fix a time to meet for dinner. It was only then that she discovered her room did not have an honour bar. Drinks had to be ordered from room service.
As well as the door to her bathroom, the bedroom had another door connecting it with the next room but at present locked or perhaps permanently closed and soundproofed. The sound-proofing wasn't perfect. She could hear the muffled murmur of men's voices and other sounds suggesting that her neighbours were having a meal served upstairs. The line to room service was engaged and it was a time of night when the staff were likely to be fully extended. But as always Rosie had what she called her St Bernard supply of liquor. She had blotted her lipstick and sprayed on her favourite scent, and was opening the drawer where she had stowed a half-bottle of gin, when there was a tap at the door. Thinking it might be the housekeeper coming to see if she had everything she wanted, she called, 'Come in.'
But instead of hearing a pass-key in the lock of the door to the landing, she was amazed to see, in the largest of the triple mirrors, the connecting door open and Nick standing behind her, wearing a dark silk dressing-gown.
'You must be ready for a revitalising shot of something, aren't you?' he said, as she stared at his reflection in surprise. 'I have some champagne on ice if that appeals to you? Or would you rather have a Martini or a G and T? '
'Champagne sounds wonderful.' She rose from the dressing-stool. 'Is that your bedroom?'
'No, it's our sitting-room. I thought, as the dining-room here is open to non-residents and is usually full, it would be more relaxing to have dinner here by ourselves.'
'But I didn't reserve a suite.'
'I did. You aren't the only one who has contacts. I know a guy on the editorial staff of the Liverpool Echo. He brings his wife here for their anniversaries. He fixed it for me.'
'I see,' said Rosie. 'Well, I'm not quite dressed yet. I'll join you in a minute.'
'Why not stay in that pretty dressing-gown? I'm planning to dine in mine if you have no objection?' He lifted an eyebrow but otherwise his expression was enigmatic. As she stood up she saw that although her legs were bare and her feet thrust into matching quilted silk travel-mules, he was wearing trousers under the dressing-gown, with loafers but no socks.
'Why not?' she said.
A log fire, sufficiently deceptive to pass at first glance for a real one, was burning in the adjoining sitting-room. A table spread with a long pale pink damask cloth was set for diner a deux near two tall velvet-curtained windows. A comfortable sofa was placed facing the fire with armchairs on either side. A large low glass-topped coffee-table served all three.
'This is much more peaceful than a public dining-room,' she said, sitting down on the sofa while Nick went to open the bottle in a bucket on a side-table. 'Was your nap in the car enough to revive you after the rigours of three days on the road?'
'The sight of you in that outfit would revive any man,' he said. 'To rephrase the old song... firelight becomes you. I noticed that in the library at my house.' He brought her a glass of pink champagne and, with another in his free hand, sat down beside her.
'What shall we drink to?' he asked.
'To your book, of course.' She raised her glass. 'To Crusade. . . here's hoping it stays at number one for many, many weeks and puts you among the top names in popular fiction. I' m quite sure it will.'
'Thank you. I'll drink to that.' But it was a sip taken in acknowledgement of the toast she had proposed rather than with a hearty swig that Nick sampled the champagne. 'Do you remember the Spanish toast we drank to at my house?' he asked.
'I've forgotten the Spanish but the translation was "Health and money and the time to enjoy them", wasn't it?'
'That's right. I'd like to drink to an adaptation of that. Health and money and someone to share them with.'
The way he was looking at her, his blue eyes as brilliant as jewels in his bronzed face, the deep tan all the more striking in this climate at this season, made Rosie catch her breath. Her voice was slightly unsteady as she repeated his version of the old toast. And then, as she was about to drink to it, Nick touched the rim of his glass to the rim of hers and said, 'That someone being you, my love. Will you marry me, Rosie?'
For a moment she could not answer, too overjoyed to speak. Because, although every instinct had told her that tonight she would sleep in his arms, she had not been sure that he would first say, 'I love you', and she certainly hadn't expected an old-fashioned, formal proposal.
When she could find her voice, and the words to express what she felt, she said huskily, 'I will marry you, and love you, and care for you all my life.'
And then, at the same moment, they both put their glasses aside and Nick took her in his arms, at first gently and then, unable to leash any longer the force of his feelings, crushing her against his chest in a fiercely possessive hug before kissing her in a manner which would have shocked the mill owner's unmarried daughters but to which Rosie responded with a pent-up ardour to match his.
But very soon kisses were not enough to express the depth of their need and longing for each other. Leaving the ice-cold champagne to grow tepid in the heat from the fire, Nick scooped her up with the same easy strength she had first experienced in the garden at Font Vella and carried her into his bedroom.
* * *
They were married in the village church wh
ere Rosie had been christened and confirmed and been a bridesmaid to her sisters.
Unlike their weddings, hers was a quiet affair held by special licence and attended only by her parents, sisters and brothers-in-law and Nick's closest friend and best man, the TV
cameraman who had been in numerous perilous situations with him. Rosie wore a simple dress of ivory georgette with a small Thirties-style hat with a fine silk veil. She carried a bouquet of mimosa brought by a courier service from the monastery garden where Nick had planted the seven different kinds of mimosa which grew in Spain. After an informal wedding breakfast prepared by Mrs Middleton, Rosie changed into travelling clothes and left the bouquet in a vase to bring a touch of spring to her parents'
sitting-room.
She and Nick had discussed various exotic locations for their honeymoon but they all involved long flights and in the end Rosie had said, 'We have all our lives to travel together. I can't think of anywhere nicer to start our marriage than El Monasterio... unless that would be dull for you?'
'Well, yes, it will be rather dull with nothing to do but make love to you, but as it's only for two weeks I guess I can stand it.'
It was dark when they arrived at Font Vella. Rosie was reminded of the night she had come to the village with Anna and Carolyn, dreading the confrontation with the man who was now her husband. Tonight she jumped out of the taxi eagerly, her heart full of joyous anticipation as she looked up at the wonderful display of stars which, if the sky had been equally clear and bright last time, she had been too preoccupied to notice.
Encarna was waiting to greet them. She had unlocked and opened the huge heavy doors with their pattern of metal bosses. As the taxi driver dealt with the luggage, Nick swept Rosie off her feet and carried her across the threshold of their home. Encarna did not stay long. Very soon the great doors were closed and bolted once more and they were alone.
They had not dined on the plane, knowing a better meal would be awaiting them. They ate by the fire in the library, at the same time reading the congratulatory messages and other matter which Nick's fax machine had cut and collated in his absence.
The machine was going to make it possible for Rosie to continue to run the agency from Spain. For the time being she would have to spend one week in four in London, but sometimes Nick would come with her. Although part of her longed to settle down and devote herself to her husband and their children like her mother and sisters, she knew that to be completely fulfilled she needed the stimulus of her work.
Nick gave a low whistle. 'Look at this!'
He passed her a letter from Carolyn, informing him that an American book club had made a stupendous offer for Crusade. Earlier they had seen the book on sale at Gatwick airport and Carolyn also mentioned that the first printing had sold so well that a second edition was being printed.
'Darling, that's wonderful. What have I done to deserve a husband who is kind, clever, handsome and on the way to becoming a millionaire?'
He grinned. 'You're prejudiced. Also this run of luck may not last. My next book may be a flop. It happens. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, fame and fortune are fine but they're nothing compared to having you on the other side of the table for the rest of my life.'
'That's exactly how I feel,' she told him softly.