The True Love Travels Series Box Set

by Poppy Pennington-Smith

  Walking over to the bookshelf, she traced her finger along the spines until she came to a wedge of what looked like Ordnance Survey maps. She pulled them out and smiled. Spreading them out in front of her on the desk, she narrowed her eyes until she found the cottage’s location. There was the lake, the trees, and the village Max had mentioned: Karefilley.

  Rachel sat back down and took out her stash of sticky notes. Walking, Scottish scenery, and fresh air was what she needed. She needed to blow away the remnants of London, and the stress of the last few months, and get into a different head space. So, Max would either have to suck it up and accompany her or let her go alone.

  She folded her arms and nodded to herself. Finally, she had a plan.

  8

  Max

  Max barely slept. In the still of the night, the cottage creaked and groaned. Outside, animals made strange noises. And the sky had cleared enough to allow the moon to shine brightly through the thin bedroom blinds.

  At three a.m. he gave up and went downstairs. He made tea – avoiding the tantalising leftover risotto that Rachel had left in the fridge – and sat down at the kitchen table. In her basket, Brandi turned over and put her paw over her eyes, clearly annoyed by the disruption to her sleep.

  Max took out his phone and tapped it up and down on the table top. He should be feeling better. Even a few weeks as Rachel’s bodyguard would solve his most imminent money worries. But the reason they’d started in the first place hadn’t gone away and, if he didn’t find a more permanent job, he’d soon be back where he started. Tyler would probably give him a full-time position if he asked for one. But he still couldn’t quite believe that it had come to this.

  Once upon a time, he’d dreamed of one day bringing his wife and kids to a place like this. Fishing, swimming in the lake, long walks through the countryside, cosy evenings by the fire.

  But the wife and kids hadn’t happened. And, instead, he was having to actively prevent himself from relaxing. When he’d smelled Rachel’s cooking, both his stomach and his heart had throbbed with melancholy. How lovely it would be to sit down, eat nice food, and have a decent conversation. Under different circumstances, he was sure he’d have found Rachel funny and engaging. But here, like this, he was being forced to keep his distance. And, somehow, it was compounding the loneliness that he usually managed to ignore.

  For fifteen years, he’d dedicated his life to his job. He’d let relationships slip away, socialised only with his colleagues, and lived a sparse existence in a small rented house. And now that his job was gone, he’d realised that he had nothing to go home to.

  Max swallowed forcefully and cleared his throat. In the past, he’d had no problem shutting off his thoughts and emotions. But here, now, in this place, he was struggling.

  In the corner of the room, Brandi grunted at him and sighed loudly. “All right, girl.” Max got up and switched off the light. “I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

  Walking slowly through the living room, where the embers of the fire were still glowing orange. He was about to go back upstairs, when he remembered the books in the study. He knew he wouldn’t get any sleep, so decided he might as well attempt to read.

  On the desk, a stack of notebooks sat beside a folded-out map of the surrounding area. Rachel had scribbled on small yellow sticky notes, but he didn’t read them. Instead, he turned to the bookcase and began sifting through the heavy old volumes that the owners had left there.

  He was about to settle on a copy of Dickens’ Great Expectations – one of those books he’d never read, but thought he probably should because it was a classic – when he spotted a pile of newer looking books on the console table over by the window.

  Max picked up the one on the top of the pile. Shattered Earth, book one in the best-selling Rogue Detective Series by R. French. He turned it over in his hand and read the blurb. It sounded engaging, but similar to pretty much every other detective book he’d seen on the shelves of his local supermarket or book store.

  He flipped open the front cover and let his eyes begin to read the prologue.

  Two paragraphs in, Max stopped and looked over his shoulder as if he was worried someone might walk in and disturb him. He tapped his fingers on the back cover. He wanted to close it and go back to Dickens but, somehow, he couldn’t make himself do it.

  Instead, he sat down in the armchair by the bookcase, crossed one leg over the other, and read until the sun began to creep up over the horizon.

  At six a.m., Max put Shattered Earth back where it came from and went upstairs to shower. Under the stream of hot water, he chewed his bottom lip and – for the first time in many, many years – wished that he could return to his book and just sit and read it all day.

  When Rachel appeared downstairs, in a cobalt blue sweater and light denim jeans, Max nodded gruffly and said, “Morning.” He was watching her closely and couldn’t quite tally the writer who’d created the only detective novel he’d ever enjoyed with the woman standing in front of him. Her book was, frankly, wonderful. If he’d read it without knowing who she was, he’d have assumed the author had a background in law enforcement. It was gritty, accurate, compelling, and smart.

  He handed her a mug of tea and Rachel narrowed her eyes at him. “Sleep okay?”

  Max shrugged. “Not really. New place. Strange sounds.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said, flopping down into a chair by the stove. “Did you hear that fox? At least, I think it was a fox.”

  “Foxes, owls, bats.” Max felt his lips crinkle into an almost-smile.

  Rachel laughed. “Us poor old city-folk aren’t used to it, are we?”

  Max leaned back against the countertop and sipped his tea. “No. We’re not.”

  “I meant to ask, which part of London are you from?” Rachel had gotten up and was tipping muesli into a bowl. “Sorry,” she said, leaning over him. “Milk.”

  Max felt her brush against his chest and instantly moved aside, pushing the milk carton towards her. “Greenwich,” he said. “I live in Greenwich.”

  Rachel sloshed milk onto her cereal. “Knightsbridge,” she said. “But you probably know that already.”

  “I do.”

  She paused, then looked pointedly at the fridge. “Did you eat the leftovers?”

  Max shuffled uncomfortably. Rachel French watched him the same way that he watched people – reading body language, taking in their speech and facial expressions. It made him feel uneasy, but he wasn’t sure how to explain to her that sitting alone and eating leftovers had felt too… sad.

  When he didn’t answer, Rachel changed the subject. “Listen, I’m suffering from some serious writer’s block at the moment. And if one good thing is going to come of being locked away up here, it’s that I will finish this book. So, I need to get out. Lots of walking, fresh air... hopefully something will shift the cobwebs in my head and spur me back into action.”

  Max recalled the map on the desk and nodded. “All right.”

  “Really?” Her forehead had crinkled into a surprised frown.

  “When do you want to leave?”

  Rachel looked up at the clock above the cooker. “Half an hour?”

  “Sure.”

  9

  Rachel

  From the cottage, they walked through the trees and onto a path that led through swathes of deep green countryside. The footpath was steep and hemmed in on either side by bright purple brushes of heather. Rachel let her fingers touch the tops of it and contemplated picking some to take back to the cottage. Perhaps on the way back, she would.

  After half an hour, she stopped and looked at the map she’d tucked into her coat pocket. She was wearing her white trainers and they were horribly muddy already, but she didn’t care; the scenery was breath-taking.

  “We should see the sea soon,” she called over her shoulder. It was windy and she had to shout to make herself heard.

  Max was a few paces back. He looked miserable. His hands were thrust deep into his pock
ets, his head was down, and his shoulders were hunched up under his ears.

  “Not one for the great outdoors?” she asked as he stopped beside her.

  “Not one for cold and wind,” he said sharply.

  Up ahead, Brandi was wagging her tail at them. She was panting, her mouth hanging open in what looked almost like a grin.

  “Brandi seems to be enjoying it.”

  “Brandi has a fur coat,” Max muttered.

  Rachel laughed and lightly punched his arm. “Come on, grumpy-guts. I bet the view will change your mind.” She was shaking her head at him when she stopped and stepped back. Her default position with most people was to be friendly, and she knew she was sometimes too tactile. But Max was definitely not the kind of guy who’d appreciate that side of her personality.

  “View?” He folded his arms in front of his chest.

  Rachel held out the map and pointed to where they were. “We’re about to break onto the coastal path that goes to the village you mentioned. If I’m right, we’ll see ocean, and cliffs, and a big old castle.”

  Max shuffled from one foot to the other and nodded. “Okay, let’s keep moving then.”

  Rachel turned away and, when she knew he couldn’t see her face, rolled her eyes. How could he not be finding this beautiful?

  A little way up the path, they wound around a corner and then there it was – the sea. Rachel stopped and breathed in. Just the sight of it filled her chest with calm; she had always been drawn to water. Every time she left London and spent a day at the beach or by a lake, she dreamed that one day she’d leave the city and live beside water.

  She turned to Max and saw that he looked less hunched. He unfolded his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Nice bit of sea.”

  “Yes,” Rachel smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Shall we go to the castle, then turn around and head back?” Rachel looked at her watch. By the time they reached the castle, it would be mid-day and she hadn’t thought to pack any food in her small leather backpack.

  Max nodded. “Sure.”

  As they started on the coastal path beside the cliffs, Rachel took out her phone and paused to take a picture. The sky was moody and swollen with clouds. “Pete will think this is very Scottish,” she mumbled.

  “Pete?” Max was watching her closely. She wondered if he was sifting back through his memory to see if he could recall a mention of someone called ‘Pete’ in her background information.

  “My neighbour.”

  Max gestured to Rachel’s phone. “You’re not sending him that, are you?”

  “Actually, I was about to upload it to Facebook.”

  Max’s eyes widened and, instantly, he snatched the phone from her hands.

  Rachel laughed, but stopped when she noticed his steely frown. “I’m joking,” she said loudly, taking back her phone. As her fingers brushed against his, she noticed how large his hands were. They were twice the size of hers and there was a scar, slightly bigger than the one on his eyebrow, across his right knuckles.

  Max’s jaw twitched. He looked like he was grinding his teeth. “You’re sure? Because that castle is an identifying landmark, Rachel. If someone saw it or if the post was made public...”

  “Max. It was a joke.” She met his dark brown eyes and didn’t look away. “I promise.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  “Sorry, Rachel, for assuming you were an idiot...” she said in a mocking, deep voice.

  “I apologise,” he said slowly. “But a small slip-up could–”

  “I get it.” Rachel raised her hands at him and then turned back in the direction of the castle. “You don’t need to keep reminding me what an awful situation I’m in. I get it.” As she started walking, tears sprung to her eyes and she swiped at them with the back of her hand. For a short while, she’d been able to pretend that she was simply away on some rather odd walking holiday. Now, she was back in the reality of the situation. And the fact that she couldn’t even text a picture of something beautiful to her friends and family made her heart hurt.

  10

  Max

  After their disagreement about the photograph, Rachel strode ahead and didn’t speak until they reached the castle. Then, standing inside its tumbledown walls, she finally said, “Okay. I’ve seen enough. We can leave.”

  Max sighed quietly through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. He wasn’t particularly enjoying the walk. It was cold, and bleak, and he couldn’t quite see the same picturesque landscape that Rachel did. But he hadn’t meant to ruin it for her.

  “I brought coffee.” He set his backpack down on a low gap in the wall that perhaps used to be a window.

  Rachel’s head tipped ever-so-slightly to one side. “You did?”

  “And sandwiches.” He took out a cheese sandwich wrapped in brown paper and handed it to her. “That’s cheese but there’s ham if you’d prefer.”

  Rachel frowned at him and shook her head. “No. Cheese is fine.” She leaned back against the wall, unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. When he handed her a small plastic cup of coffee, she finally smiled.

  Max hadn’t realised how much he’d disliked seeing her unhappy until the upturn of her lips made his shoulders relax and his stomach untense. He tried to smile back but felt self-conscious and stopped. Half way through his sandwich, he breathed in sharply and looked up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you back there.”

  Rachel had been looking up at a small brown bird that had perched on top of one of the turrets in the distance and now turned back to Max. “Thank you. I appreciate the apology.” She tilted her head from side to side and made a hmm sound. “And I’m sorry for the bad joke.”

  Max smiled, naturally this time, and rolled his eyes at himself. “It wasn’t a bad joke. I overreacted.”

  “Maybe next time, make sure that ‘don’t send or upload pictures that might give away your location’ is listed in the house rules.” Rachel looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup. A glint in her eyes told him that she was, again, joking.

  “I’ll add it to the list.”

  Turning to look through the gap that may have been a window, Rachel leaned on it and sighed. “I love the ocean. I really should move out of London.”

  Max had finished his coffee and tossed the last cold mouthful onto the ground. “You don’t like London anymore?”

  “Oh, I love it,” she said. “I just love the beach more.” Handing him her empty cup, she added, “Have you ever thought of moving?”

  “Away from the city?” Max had thought about it. Often. “Maybe one day.” He shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders and looked up at the sky. “I’d say rain’s moving in. Shall we head back?”

  Rachel took one last look through the window, then nodded. “Yep. We should. Except...” Her eyes had brightened and there was an expression on her face that he didn’t recognise. Suddenly, she sat down. Right there, on the grassy floor. “I have a thought,” she said, raising her index finger at him. “I need to get it down before it disappears.” She was reaching into her backpack. “I have a notepad in here somewhere...”

  Max stood back and watched as Rachel slid quietly into her own little world. For ten minutes, she didn’t look up, just scrawled page-after-page in her small black notebook.

  Finally finished, she breathed out as if she’d been running. She flicked back through the pages, then looked up and said, “Okay.” She began to smile, and then she laughed. “Okay. I think I’ve got it!” She stood up, shaking her head so that her blonde curls fell over her shoulders. “I know how to end my series.”

  Max was trying to keep his facial expression neutral but, inside, he was wondering whether he’d be able to read all eleven books in Rachel’s Rogue Detective series before she finished this new one. Reluctantly, he was becoming a fan. And seeing her in action – watching inspiration strike like that – had simply solidified his belief that, contrary to what he’d expected, she was very talented.

&
nbsp; As they walked back towards the cottage, Max purposefully stayed a few steps behind and allowed Rachel and Brandi to go up front. He wanted to ask her what had happened to make the idea come. He wanted to ask about the book he’d started reading last night. He wanted to watch her face light up as she spoke about her writing. But that was not why he was there. He was there to protect her, not befriend her.

  Max hung back and allowed a larger distance to open up between them. Rachel French was beguiling. And he could not let himself give in to it. He had a job to do. He was a professional. He would not give in.

  11

  Rachel

  After their walk to the castle and back, Rachel ensconced herself in the study and didn’t set foot outside until seven p.m. By this time, she’d filled an entire notebook with ideas and was dizzy with adrenaline.

  It was always this way when she was planning her books; first, she’d get an idea and scribble it down by hand. She’d allow every single random thought out of her head and put them down on paper. Sometimes, this process would last for days. Then she would take a break and read through it all, making new notes and sifting things into ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘maybe’, and ‘needs more research’ piles. After that, she’d research what needed to be researched. And then, several weeks later, she’d start actually writing.

  She honestly hadn’t expected an idea to come to her so quickly. But something about that old, tumbledown castle and Max’s tall, brooding silhouette against the angry sky had sparked an idea. It had begun as a flicker, but after scribbling it down and mulling it over on the journey back, it had solidified.