“What can I say? I lost my temper. I hit him. He hit me back. We fought. You know what happened next. I shouldn’t have done it – I know that. I’ve always regretted it, not just because of what happened to me, but because it was wrong. Stooping to that level, it made me as bad as the people I’d been trying to put away. The papers can talk as much as they want about me being on the side of the angels, but I was wrong. I’d never done anything like that before and I never will again. Afterwards, when I looked down at him crumpled on the floor of my office, when I called the ambulance and saw my knuckles were scraped and scarred and my hands were covered in his blood, I was sickened. Sickened by what I’d done. What I’d allowed myself to become. And I’ve regretted it every single day since.”
He stopped, looked at her, his eyes shining with the pain of the memory, his voice rough, tense, his breath coming in fierce bursts, as though he’d worn himself out forcing the words she’d asked him to share.
“Is that what you wanted to know?” he asked, as she studied him intently, still silent. “Because I can tell you more…I can tell you how many times I hit him, how it felt when my fist slammed into his jaw; how hard it was to control myself and stop…or do you want to know what prison was like? How I’ve walked outside every single day since I got out, to try and clean myself of the memory? Do you want to know what my fiancée said about it on the day she left me there? Is that what you want to know?”
“No,” Pippa replied quietly, getting to her feet and tugging her top down, tucking stray hair behind her ears. She slipped her feet back into the flip-flops and looked up to face him. “That’s enough. That’s all I need. Thank you for explaining. I know it was hard for you, but I needed to hear it.”
He stood, looked at her, feeling the familiar anguish well up inside him. Waiting for the “but”. It had been a long time since he’d discussed this with anyone and he felt sick to his stomach even thinking about it. The whisky ran warm through him and he realised – completely inappropriately – that it had also been a long time since he’d been with a woman. Almost two years since he’d felt the touch of soft skin, the drape of long hair in his hands, since his fingers had skimmed delicate curves.
He closed that thought down and waited for the verdict, hovering next to her as she prepared to leave. With Johanna, he had expected forgiveness. The reassurance that she loved him and they would get through this together. The touch of her fingers twined in his, the feel of her lips promising she’d be there for him. That she understood, and that she’d wait for him – that they’d still build a life together.
He’d been wrong to expect any of that, and the memory of the cold sheen in her eyes was something he would always carry with him. It had been a stark lesson in what women were capable of: a ruthlessness he’d never seen before. She’d shut him out, closed him down, thrown him out with the trash and moved on to better things. The papers could call him a hero as much as they liked – but headlines didn’t keep you warm at night. They didn’t love you, give you hope or belief in the future. He hadn’t had any of those things for a very long time – thanks to his own actions and Johanna’s response.
And now here he was again, having poured out his heart, waiting for a woman’s verdict – and with almost as much tension as he’d felt in court. This was the part, he knew, where Pippa Harte told him to pack his bags and leave, and did it all with a sweet smile. Off you go, Mr Retallick! Don’t let the barn door hit you on the arse on the way out…He was braced, he was ready. In fact he hadn’t even unpacked at all, just in case – just plugged in the laptop to charge, showered and changed clothes, and left everything else in his bags. He had his polite smile ready for when she told him to sling his hook – or at least phoned him a cab, because he’d drank far too much whisky to be driving.
Instead, she reached out. Took one of his hands and gently squeezed it, as he’d seen her do with Scotty that afternoon. He felt the shock of the unexpected contact like a delicious slap: her slender fingers in his, all that glorious hair only inches away. The tempting shape of her body beneath her shabby old clothes.
“That’s enough,” she said. “The rest is private. I know what I need to know. I’m so sorry that happened to you, all of it. And we’d be glad to welcome you at Harte Farm for as long as you need to stay. Just try and keep a low profile – the last thing I need is the villagers deciding to throw you a street party or storming the castle with pitchforks. But…stay. Enjoy the place, for as long as you’re here.”
He was stunned. Silent. Flooded with emotion at her gentle acceptance, the way she looked up at him, her eyes liquid. Her hand, warm, soft, still in his. Sweet Jesus – this slip of a girl, this virtual stranger, had given him more comfort and consolation in that one short speech than he’d received in the last eighteen months. It warmed him even more than the whisky.
“Thank you,” he murmured, pulling her gently towards him, needing to feel her against him. To share the way he felt, even for a second. She came, taking tiny steps, and laid her head against his chest. He could feel her breath, hot and fast against him; could smell the lavender of her shampoo, the slight tremble in her arms as they slid around his waist, briefly stroking his lower back before she slipped back out of reach.
“Now I’d better get to bed,” she murmured. “Before I start letting out war cries and jumping on your head.”
He watched her go – face flushed, breasts rising and falling, eyes blinking too rapidly – and knew that she’d felt it too. That moment. That magical moment between a man and a woman, where you feel the thrill of potential, the primal joy of heat calling out to heat.
Scarier than a war cry any day, he thought, as the door slammed shut behind her and she disappeared back out into the darkness.
Chapter 4
By the time the roosters started calling, Pippa had already been awake for an hour. Her days always started early, but this, she thought, glugging coffee, was ridiculous. Up and about by 5am, ready to get the feeds done and crack on with some paperwork.
She grimaced as she drank the last cooling dregs, tried to convince herself it was a good head start to the day. Except it didn’t feel like that. She normally valued these quiet hours before the rest of the family got up, the time on her own to think, to plan. To eat chocolate digestives and occasionally have a little cry.
But today was different. Today, she didn’t feel alone – because her head was full of Ben Retallick. Full of his story, his sadness, the pain in his chocolate-brown eyes. Full of the feel of him as they’d embraced, the way it felt to run her fingers over the packed muscle of his back, the way her heart sped up the minute he touched her. It was all…weird.
She wasn’t a blushing virgin by any means, but her sexual experience was limited to one boyfriend several years ago. And when he’d touched her, it certainly hadn’t felt anything like the fireworks that had popped in psychedelic glory when Ben held her the night before.
Growing up on a farm, you got your sex education the natural way – but at no time in her life had she experienced anything like the flood of sensation she’d felt in Ben’s arms.
All he’d done was hold her, wrap her in his arms as she leaned into him. It was comfort, it was innocent. It was one human being in need recognising another. And yet…she’d left Honeysuckle a mess. Knowing that it would have been so easy to raise her head to his, to invite his lips. To invite his touch. To invite absolute chaos into a life that was already pretty ragged around the edges. If he’d wanted more – if he’d wanted to throw her on the floor and ravish her – she wouldn’t have been able to stop him. Wouldn’t have even wanted to. Luckily, she thought, he’d been a gentleman. Even though part of her was wishing he hadn’t been.
She needed to get a grip. She didn’t have the time for a relationship, no matter how much her body told her it wanted one. She didn’t even have time for a mindless quickie on the shag pile of Honeysuckle, for goodness sake. That could all come later, when the kids were older. When life was more sett
led. She’d switched off those thoughts years ago, set it all aside. It hadn’t been easy – but there was so much else to do.
She wasn’t a saint, she had her moments of desperation. Of self-pity. Of wishing she had someone else’s life. For one small period she’d hoarded travel brochures in her bedroom, giving in to fantasies about jacking it all in – letting Social Services take the kids and backpacking around Asia to find herself. Or lose herself, whichever came first. But that’s all they were: fantasies. Even they left her with the guilt hangover from hell, when Lily and Daisy had found the glossy magazines and asked if they were going away on holiday.
So she compartmentalised, as the books say. Learned to set aside her own needs and focus on everyone else’s so hard she almost forgot she had any. It had seemed the only way to cope.
Until now, until last night, it had been working. Last night she seemed to have regressed to being a love-struck teenager, wondering how it would feel to slip her hands beneath that t-shirt; to have him bury his hands in her hair. How it would feel to put her skin next to his and let all that heat take its course.
She’d be doodling his name on a pencil case inside a loveheart next, she thought, shaking her head in an effort to clear it. This was real life, not a romance novel: and real life was busy. Hard. Challenging in every single way. She didn’t have time for mooning around, or for imagining Ben naked, or even for drinking coffee and staring out of the window down to the bay.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing and she felt a swoosh of panic flow through her. Phone calls late at night or this early in the morning never meant anything good. It’s not as if it was going to be the man from the Premium Bonds telling her she was a millionaire, or even a utility company trying to persuade her to change supplier. Not at this time of day.
She lifted the receiver, muttered a cautious hello.
“Sis? Is that you?” said Patrick, his voice low and whispering.
Patrick. Of course. She’d glimpsed into his room when she’d woken up and seen that he wasn’t there. At least she thought he wasn’t. It was hard to tell for sure under all the mess. She’d expected him to roll up in a few hours, hung over and smelly, as usual. Except he was calling her – and sounding scared.
“Yes, of course it’s me. Who else would it be?” she replied, trying to hold down her temper. After all, for once her agitated mental state wasn’t Patrick’s fault – it wasn’t down to him that she’d been tossing and turning all night. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know what to do, sis,” he replied, voice urgent and sounding way younger than usual. “Me and Robbie got into a bit of trouble last night. We didn’t mean anything by it, honest, but we went a bit too far. It was after the pub. Old man Jensen had been in there, winding us up, telling us all those stupid stories about what he was doing at our age – all that crap about the war. So later, after we’d had a skinful, we went round to his house. We only meant to scare him, maybe throw a few bricks at the window, whatever. But…well, we got carried away. Made a real mess of the garden. Broke the windscreen of that ancient Volvo he drives round in. And, well, the thing is, I think he saw us.”
She couldn’t tell which he was most upset about – that he’d done this awful thing, or that he’d been spotted. If it was the latter, she didn’t know what she could do for him. Please God, she thought, closing her eyes and clenching back the tears that were stinging at her tired eyes, let him actually regret it. She so didn’t need this right now – not with the review coming up. Not with her mind full of Ben. Not ever.
She felt like hanging up. Giving up. Entirely possibly shooting up.
“Okay,” she said, keeping her voice calm despite her inner turmoil. If she screamed at him, he’d bolt. He’d do one of his disappearing acts and leave her fretting for days on end. “Where are you now?”
“In that phone box by the Surf Shack. Mine’s out of charge. Robbie’s still crashed in the back of his car. What should I do, sis?”
She wanted to yell at him, “Grow up!” but she didn’t. Instead she took a deep breath and told him to stay where he was. That she’d come and get him.
Then she put the phone down and wondered how exactly she was going to manage that. How she could leave the kids alone, feed the animals and rescue her brother all at the same time. Yet another impossible day stretched ahead of her.
She looked up at the kitchen clock. Almost six. The kids would be awake soon. Scotty would be climbing into her bed looking for a cuddle and the twins would be ready to rampage their way through another day. The guests in Foxglove were settled, so no worries there. And the elderly couple in Primrose had gone to Penzance for the night. Which only left…Ben.
Could she ask him for help? Should she? It seemed as though she had no alternative. Yet again, Patrick had her boxed into a corner.
Pippa got up, rinsed out her coffee mug and looked across the courtyard to Honeysuckle. The curtains were open in the living room. Looked like Mr Retallick was an early riser as well – that or he’d had problems sleeping too.
She made her decision and walked across the cobbles. Before she’d even had chance to knock, the door opened. At least, she thought, he was dressed this time. Although the damage was already done – her brain had logged every inch of his bare torso last night and her imagination was keeping it on file for future reference. She could replay it with a glass of wine later.
“Hi,” he said. “You’re up early…is everything okay? You look terrible.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she replied, suddenly conscious of her unbrushed hair, the fact that her denims had holes in the knees, that she hadn’t worn make-up for what felt like years. Not that any of it mattered, she told herself. Those were things other girls worried about. She had more pressing concerns.
“I’m really sorry to ask,” she said, “but I wondered if you could do me a favour?”
An hour later, she pulled up in the driveway, the wheels of the battered Land Rover spitting gravel the same way she felt like spitting swear words. Holding it all in, she unlatched the door of the farmhouse, Patrick following silently behind her. She was desperate to see how the kids were, hoping against hope that they’d all stayed in bed for a lie-in.
Instead, they seemed to have got up early and decided to start a bakery business.
The twins were at the kitchen table mixing currants into a big bowl of dough. Scotty was standing on a chair by the counter using his tiny fists to knead another bowl of slop. And Ben – he was standing right next to him, making sure he didn’t slip.
“Pippa!” said Lily and Daisy in unison. “We’re making scones for breakfast!”
“I see that,” replied Pippa, “weren’t cornflakes good enough today?”
“We’ve built up quite an appetite,” said Ben, flicking on the kettle and preparing a mug of coffee for her. “We’ve done the morning feed and mucked out Harry Potter. That was fun. I’d forgotten quite how…productive pigs could be. A magic wand would have been quite helpful. So…now we’re preparing a feast. I hope that’s okay? I promise we all washed our hands very thoroughly.”
He handed her the coffee and she grabbed it gratefully, using the hot china to warm her shaking hands. It was still early, still chilly and her life was still a mess.
Yes, she wanted to say, of course that’s okay. But…she felt weird. It was odd coming in here, back into the family kitchen and seeing him in it. Seeing the kids so happy and occupied. Seeing Scotty without him running straight to her for a hug. Seeing Ben leaning against the counter, hair all messed up and his face smudged with flour. Looking right at home.
For years, it had only been them. The occasional visitor from the village, but mainly just them. Now she felt like her territory was being…invaded, somehow. She felt like she should ask him to leave: they were fine before he arrived and they’d be fine after he left. She could make her own scones, even if they did always burn around the edges. It wasn’t rational – but it was definitely t
here, like an eyelash stuck under her lid.
She pulled herself together, reminded herself that Ben had been invited. That he’d done her a favour. A big one. And that she should be happy to have had some of her chores done. The man had shovelled pig poo for her, for goodness’ sake! She smiled and nodded, watched as he lifted Scotty carefully down from his perch and sat him at the table. Everything felt way too calm – or maybe it was only chaos when she was around. Ben certainly seemed to have everything under control. She could tell from the white powdery smears around Scotty’s mouth that he’d even brushed his teeth.
As she sipped the hot coffee, her spider senses tingled, and she turned around in time to see Patrick trying to slink off into the background. She fixed him with a stern look and placed one firm hand on his chest.
“Front room,” she said. “Now.”
He pulled a face, but did as he was told – which was damn-near miraculous. She followed him and realised that Ben was right behind her. She looked up at his concerned face, wondering exactly how rude it would be shut him out now. To tell him politely that his services were no longer required, and that he should bugger off back to Honeysuckle. There was still an hour before they had to leave for school – plenty of time for her to do everything herself. Which felt, somehow, safer.
“I might be able to help,” he said simply, as though sensing her hesitation. She nodded in return. Maybe he could. It’s not like he was inexperienced in the ways of troubled youth or criminal damage. And she knew, deep down, that she was reacting like this out of stubbornness – she’d done everything on her own for so long, she’d forgotten how to accept help at all. Which, she knew, was downright stupid.
Patrick slumped sullenly into one of the armchairs, refusing to make eye contact with either of them. Her heart broke to look at him: his beautiful hair dirty and long, his face streaked with scratches from his latest crash. Reeking of beer, wearing the same clothes he’d had on for days. He hadn’t always been like this. Sure, he’d been a sulky kid – but after their parents died, something seemed to die inside him as well, rotting away until he was incapable of recapturing any joy that didn’t come out of a bottle. He’d never really talked about it and had always fought her pathetic attempts at authority – which was completely understandable as she was only a teenager herself at the time. She didn’t even respect her own authority.
Pippa's Cornish Dream Page 4