Arthur

by Nancy Warren

  “Desire,” he said. “That’ll keep your fear at bay.”

  Oh, how wrong he was. Now, she began to fear that this very inconvenient and impossible-to-stop attraction was going to totally screw up her work.

  The author of a book couldn’t have sex with its villain.

  Chapter 5

  Meg was finger combing the last dampness from her hair. She hadn’t been able to decide what to wear for dinner at the big house, and finally settled on a simple coffee colored linen dress with chunky amber beads and earrings. Her heels were never going to make the tramp all the ten miles or whatever it was up to the house, so she stuck on her walking shoes and carried her ridiculously high-heeled Miu-Miu sandals in a shopping bag.

  After days being cooped up with her muse, she was pretty excited to be going out.

  A butler opened the heavy oak door to her. A real, honest to God butler. Oh, and wasn’t he straight out of central casting with his beaky nose, long face and air of gentility.

  She gave her name and he looked discreetly off into the distance when she hastily changed her shoes, then relieved her of her shopping bag.

  He trod with stately slowness down the flagstone hall. She almost expected him to announce her, like at a ball, but he merely opened a door and said, “You’ll find his lordship and Miss Maxine in here.”

  “Thank you.”

  She entered and saw, not Maxine, or George or anyone except the tall, dark man standing beside the fireplace, one elbow on the mantel and a crystal glass winking amber in his hand. His eyes warmed when they looked at her and she felt suddenly as breathless as she had in that moment right before he’d kissed her.

  Then Maxine rose from her chair and came forward, breaking the spell.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” she said. “George needs cheering up.”

  Meg smiled at the poor earl, sitting with his bare foot wrapped in a tensor bandage and resting on a low footstool that had to have been embroidered by the Normans shortly after the conquest. Other than the bare foot, which showed a certain purple aspect, he looked movie star handsome.

  “How’s your ankle?” she asked him as she walked over and gave him her hand.

  “It bloody hurts,” he complained. “If that great oaf hadn’t trodden on me, I’d be standing up and greeting you properly.” Since the wicked way he was grinning at her had her thinking that Maxine was going to have her hands full, she shook her head at him. “It looked to me like you were both playing like you were ten years old.” The soccer players were all in their thirties, with a few who looked to be in their forties, but they’d played their football, as they insisted on calling it, as though they were kids, running and shoving and getting filthy. Max was right, though, they were all men in their prime and they looked totally hot. One pub owner in particular.

  “Nonsense. You don’t understand the complexities of the game,” he told her.

  “You are such a wally,” Arthur told him. “And if you can’t greet your guests properly, I can.” Then he walked forward, said “Hello,” and gave her a quick kiss. Just a brush of his lips over hers, really, but the thrill danced all the way down her spine.

  “Hello,” she said, telling herself there was no need to blush. He was only winding up their host. Still, the tingle remained.

  Arthur, who was standing in for George as host, it seemed, in anything that required standing, asked her what she wanted to drink. “Um, I don’t know.”

  He lowered his voice. “Mrs. Brimacombe, the cook and housekeeper, tends to cook solid British fare. I recommend a good stiff belt of something before we eat.”

  “Surprise me,” she said, knowing that one way or another, he was going to do exactly that.

  There were two other couples. Old friends of George’s who’d also played today and their wives. She fell into the evening feeling almost like a spectator at a play. These people had known each other forever and the back and forth banter, the inside jokes and shared history were laid out before her. Of course, they were polite well-brought up people and they included her. The discussion was general, but every once in a while there’d be a line, or a joke that had to be explained.

  Since she was now writing a book set in England, with a British villain and a lot of characters much like these, she was only too happy to watch them live their very English lives in front of her, while she absorbed.

  The perfect butler, Wiggins, announced dinner and a single waitress served it, a come down she suspected from earlier days when there would have been a full staff. The meal was fine. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with peas and green beans and roast potatoes. Maybe a little overcooked for her taste, but not so dire that she really needed the martini in her system. She wondered if Arthur had ulterior motives for getting her drinking and one glance at him convinced her that he did.

  The conversation flowed with the wine. From British-American relations to books to new plays in London’s West End.

  She discovered that George and Maxine were at the stage in their relationship where they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other. A touch here, a steamy glance there. Obviously, these two were deep-down crazy for each other.

  And she discovered that Arthur had a sneaky sense of humor and that he was a local chess champ.

  “Do you play?” he asked her.

  “Sometimes. But I’m not very good.”

  “We’ll have to have a game,” he said, and the way he looked at her made her wonder if chess was the game he had in mind.

  And then Maxine brought up the subject of Meg’s writing. “You know, I’ve always fancied writing a book,” said Charles, one of the men.

  “Then you should do it,” she said. She heard this all the time and always wondered why, if they wanted to do it, people didn’t sit down and try. It was like saying, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to speak German,” without ever taking a lesson.

  “Meg writes the most incredible murder mysteries,” Maxine said. “I can never sleep when I’m in the middle of one. Honestly, they’re terrifying.”

  “Don’t you find it difficult to imagine the mind of a killer?” asked Charles’s wife, Nora.

  “Well, yes and no. The thing to remember is that in his or her mind, the killer has no other choice, no option but to kill. He may be insane, but in his mind, it’s the right thing to do. He or she is the hero in their own story. If I can find a compelling enough reason for what they do, then my villain comes to life.”

  “You sound like you approve of your villains.”

  “Not approve. But they are my favorite characters.” She glanced at Arthur and found him rapt.

  “But, a killer? Someone like that would be so evil.”

  Arthur spoke from across the table. “I think every man has it in him to kill.”

  Yes. She’d known he would see it that way, of course.

  “Could you kill a man?” Maxine asked him, her eyes wide. She reached for George’s hand.

  “I have done,” he said, matter of factly, and Maxine gasped. Meg looked at him and saw the lines harden in his face. His eyes grew suddenly stony.

  “Arthur was in the army,” George said. “That’s different.”

  “Is it?” Arthur asked.

  “Well, of course it is,” George insisted. “You were fighting for your country.”

  “That’s what I was saying. It’s all a question of motive. Am I not right, Meg?”

  “Yes. I think so. People kill for many reasons. Duty to your country, of course, but also revenge, greed, obsessive love.”

  “I don’t think I could kill anybody,” George said, making a face. “All that blood. It would put me off.”

  “What if your home were threatened?” Arthur challenged. “Or Maxine? You’d kill to protect them.”

  The glance Maxine and George shared was intimate and powerful. Oh, yes, she thought. George could act the upper class English twit, but he had a great deal of strength.

  She knew from Max that he’d pretty much given up his caree
r as an architect when his father died suddenly, and he was forced to come home and manage a cash-draining estate. He didn’t complain, though. He was managing to hold everything together, run a huge estate and build it into a business. That took guts. And drive. Yes, she thought, he was one you could rely on in a tough corner.

  When the evening broke up, Wiggins appeared with her bag of shoes. She changed into her flats even as Maxine said, “Why don’t I drive you home in the car?”

  The other couples were staying the night, since they lived in different villages quite far away and the wine had been flowing.

  “No. It only took me ten minutes to walk here. I need the air.” She’d understood what Arthur had meant about the cooking when the dessert turned out to be bread pudding.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Arthur said, as she’d somehow known he would. A quiver went through her.

  “It’s not far.”

  “No. But it is dark. Don’t want you tripping on a rabbit hole and ending up like George there.”

  “I don’t know,” George said, having hobbled into the hall with the aid of a cane and Maxine’s arm. “I think it would be great if you sprained an ankle. You could come round and keep me company in my infirmity.”

  “Goodnight, George,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. She hugged Maxine, whispering, “Thanks. This was just what I needed.”

  “Come anytime.”

  Arthur and Meg set off in the direction of her cottage.

  It was surprisingly dark. Well, duh. What had she expected? Street lights? As though he’d read her mind, Arthur said, “I’ve got a penlight. Let me know if you want me to switch it on. I always find my eyes adjust in a minute or two.”

  “No. It’s fine. There’s some light from the moon.”

  The night was quiet and still. She liked the dark, though she was intensely aware of the man beside her. Once she stumbled over a rock she hadn’t seen and he grabbed her hand to steady her.

  He didn’t let go. She could have pulled away, but she liked the feel of him; the sturdy, capable hand, the warmth of his skin.

  “I bought one of your books today, when I was in town.”

  “You did? I thought Max was going to lend you one.”

  “I decided I’d like to have my own.”

  “Well, thank you. Which book did you choose?”

  “Tying Up Loose Ends, I think it’s called.”

  The book that first put her on the Times list, but she didn’t tell him that. “Well, let me know what you think of it.”

  “I will.”

  After that, they didn’t talk much.

  When they reached her cottage, he still didn’t talk, merely turned her to him and took her mouth.

  Okay, so she’d guessed it was coming, had spent most of the short walk wondering how she felt about getting intimate with Arthur and whether she’d stop him if he tried to kiss her. Now she knew that he wouldn’t give her time to stop him and how she felt about it was indescribable. It was even better this time. He was so warm, so strong, his mouth both taking and giving.

  Drugging pleasure began to overtake her senses. It had been so long since she’d felt like this. Excited at the possibilities of a man, wanting, with quiet desperation, to be with him. Held by him, taken by him. She began to shiver and he moved closer, so her back was against the stone wall and his warm body pressed against her.

  Her hands were in his hair, wonderful, thick, luxurious hair. Her mouth open on his, wanting, giving, taking. She felt him hard against her belly and experienced a purring sense of her own power. And also a stabbing sense of regret.

  She couldn’t do this, she reminded herself. Her book. Her book was her priority. If and when she finished the novel, then she could think about indulging herself like this. Not until then.

  So, she tipped her head back out of kissing range and looked up into that dark, intent face. “What was that about?” She’d meant to sound sophisticated and slightly amused. A woman who got hit on all the time on every continent. Instead her voice sounded husky and, even to her own ears, like a total goner.

  “I’m interested. I’m letting you know.”

  “Telling me with words would be too mundane?”

  “Words are your world. I’m more a man of action.” Oh, man of action. Oh, aphrodisiac to her senses. She’d always gone for the cerebral types, but there was something about a man who tackled the world in a physical way that appealed to her on the most basic level. His words from dinner came back to her. He’d kill to protect those he loved. Every other man she’d been with had been of the pen is mightier than the sword persuasion, mostly, she suspected, because their swordplay was so minimal.

  Arthur was a man who would make her feel safe. When she crawled into bed, terrified of the fruits of her own imagination, she could see herself burrowing against his warm skin, his arms coming round her in comfort.

  Then she gave herself a mental slap. What was she doing? Always imagining things. Arthur ran a pub. Was obviously single and probably took a fancy to every unattached woman who rented the cottage. How convenient.

  She shook her head, with mingled irritation and regret. “I’m here to work. I really don’t have time for…anything personal.”

  “That’s a shame.” He ran his warm, leathery palm down the side of her neck so she wanted to press against it. Rub against him like a kitten.

  “I have to finish this book. I can’t afford any distractions.”

  “I’m glad I distract you,” he said, a thread of amusement running through his voice.

  “You are?”

  “I wouldn’t want to think I was the only one feeling…distracted.”

  “Well, it was a very nice evening,” she said, easing away.

  “Did you not want me to come in, then, and check under the bed for monsters?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll tell you what. You see that lighted window, across the way there?”

  “Yes.” There was only one lighted window. It wasn’t that tough to spot.

  “That’s my house.”

  “You don’t live over the pub?” For some reason, she was surprised.

  “No. I live in that house there. And anytime you see my light, you can call me.”

  “I told you—“

  “I know. But even a hard working writer needs a distraction now and then.”

  Before she could respond, he was kissing her again, fast and addicting, like a shot of heroin before he headed away, so sure she’d soon be pining for more that he didn’t bother to say goodbye or even glance back.

  Well. If he thought she was going to run after him, he was going to be seriously disappointed.

  He was a dark shadow, and then he was gone, blending into the night, so only the odd scuffling sound allowed her to chart his progress.

  “Go on in, now,” he said, from the direction of the stile, and she was annoyed with herself that she’d so obviously been staring after him in the blackness.

  She didn’t say a word but opened the door and slipped inside.

  Right. For two days now she’d played. It was time to get back to work. She licked her lips, tasting his kisses, and was flooded suddenly with a wanting so sharp she closed her eyes against it.

  Chapter 6

  Arthur felt his heart pound and his innards clench. When he turned the page he noticed his fingertip was damp with sweat. No wonder Meg Stanton was afraid of her own books. She wasn’t the only one.

  Knowing the author herself was a stone’s throw away, as needful of him as he was of her, made him half-crazy with the wanting. Reading her book was a poor substitute for going to bed with her, but he’d thought it might at least lull him to sleep. Instead, she’d not only left him aroused and unsatisfied, but now she was scaring the wits out of him.

  One more chapter, and then he’d put the damn thing down, he promised himself.

  When the phone rang he jumped, jarred out of his terrified skin. Fool, he admonished himself, glancing at
the clock. Two am. Who’d be calling at…

  He glanced out the window on his way to pick up the ringing phone and noted that his wasn’t the only light on in the area. Meg’s upstairs light was glowing like a beacon.

  A grin tugged at his mouth as he identified himself on the phone.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” It was Meg, as he’d known it would be, but still, the sound of her voice acted like stroking fingers on his skin.

  “Wake me? You kept me awake, woman.”

  “You were thinking about me?”

  “Aye, I was. But worse, I started reading your book. Blood-curdling stuff.”

  “I know,” she said with smug pride.

  “Are you working this late, then?” He rubbed a hand across his chest. Hoping that she wanted more than a chat.

  “I was. Now,” she blew out a breath. “I’m too scared to sleep.”

  “Well, that’s two of us.” He grinned broadly and settled back on the bed. “What do you think we might do about that?”

  “Do?” She sounded startled. “I don’t want to do anything. I mean, I wanted to explain. I was kind of abrupt earlier.”

  The stiff paper of the book jacket crinkled as he opened the cover, revealing a photo of the author. It was a professional photo of Meg looking full on at the camera, in a black dress, smiling slightly. She wore pearl earrings and her hair was suitably restrained. Looking at that photo acted on him more powerfully than graphic nude photos in a men’s magazine.

  “You were telling me you don’t have time for me, with your book to write. I understood.”

  “Yes, but I think I was a bit arrogant.”

  Not arrogant, he thought, but hasty. They could have been tangling the sheets and enjoying each other at this moment instead of talking on the phone. Obviously, she was feeling as aroused and deeply unsatisfied as he.

  She sighed. “In the daytime it’s peaceful here. But at night, it’s so black out there. Not a light for miles.”

  “It’s perfectly safe.” He soothed her automatically, hearing the trace of nerves.

  “Oh, I know. It’s not that. It just feels…well, kind of lonely.”