Caroline Anderson - A Perfect Hero

Then he took the bags from her, dropped them into the cockpit and held out his hands. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said, and as she leapt forward he caught her under her arms and swung her on to the deck.

She fell against him, laughing, and as she straightened his head came down and he kissed her lingeringly.

‘Good morning,’ he said huskily.

‘Good morning yourself,’ she replied, suddenly breathless. ‘What can I do?’

He waved a hand at the bags. ‘Get all this lot stowed away in the cabin and come back and keep me company.’

She scrambled somewhat inelegantly over the high step of the hatchway, down the two rungs of the companionway into the main cabin, and took a deep breath.

Oh, yes. Varnish, and seawater, and diesel, and the unmistakable smell of the bilges. Clare hadn’t realised how much she had missed messing about in boats until she had caught that evocative smell. Heavens, it took her right back to her childhood! Suddenly light-hearted, she looked around her.

On her right was a desk next to a bank of navigational equipment, charts, radio and so on, and on her left a little galley, with a gimballed stove designed to remain stable as the boat tilted from side to side. In front of her was the main seating area, with two long benches down either side that would convert to berths, one L-shaped, with a fixed table in front of it that would collapse to make a double berth.

There was a door directly opposite her that led, she imagined, to another little cabin in the bows, and the ‘head’, that ghastly contraption that passed for a loo on board small boats.

She looked around her at the cabin, and a little smile touched her mouth. This was Michael.

There were a few books—Nicholas Monsarrat, Neville Shute, Hammond Innes—a couple of bottles of wine and one of brandy, two jars of coffee and some powdered milk, a few tins of staples—everything a man like him would need for a quick getaway.

She heard his light tread behind her and turned.

‘Are you a loner?’

He looked startled for a second, and then smiled. ‘No, not really, but I do need to escape every now and again and top up. Will that worry you?’

There he goes again, talking as if we have a future, she thought with a soaring heart.

‘No, it won’t worry me at all. We all need solitude periodically.’

He gave her a brief hug. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘Oh, she’s lovely—just right. All wooden fittings and personal touches—not at all like a modern boat.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t sound as if you approve of modern boats!’

‘Well, they have their place, I suppose, but they’re characterless by comparison.’

‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and hugged her again. After a moment he eased away from her with a reluctant sigh and headed for the hatch. ‘We need to get under way if we’re going to catch the tide up the Deben. There’s a sand-spit across the mouth of the river that closes it off at low tide, but if we go now we should make it just about right.’

She found a picnic in one of the bags and wedged it in the corner of the galley, and dropped the other bag, full of towels and sweaters, on the quarter bunk under the cockpit. Then she clambered back over the hatch to join Michael.

There’s a light breeze picking up—just do us nicely,’ he said, and pressed the starter button. The engine turned, coughed, and fired immediately. He cast off, jumped nimbly back on board and steered her carefully over to the lock. The top gates were open, and the lads working the lock made her fast and stood by to steady the boat as she lowered.

Tide’s only just coming in now, so we’ve got quite a long way to go. Will it worry you?’

Clare shook her head. ‘Must make it tricky if you get back too late,’ she said. ‘Do you have to find another mooring outside overnight?’

‘Oh, no—they have a motto here, “Lock around the Clock”—you can come and go whenever you please. Just as well—when I got her here from the Scillies it was nearly midnight.’

‘Isn’t that a bit hair-raising in the dark, in strange waters?’

He laughed. ‘Hardly strange! She’s been moored near here for fifteen years—my grandfather lives in Holbrook. I know this coast like the back of my hand.’

As the lock gates opened and Michael manoeuvred the boat out into the estuary, Clare sat back and relaxed. There was nothing she could usefully do, and Michael was clearly competent. She might as well give herself a treat and watch him at work.

And it was a treat, she admitted to herself some time later. He had changed into ragged cut-off jeans and abandoned his T-shirt, and she watched the smooth play of muscle in his back as he hoisted the mainsail and unfurled the foresail, tightening the sheets and bringing the head round into the wind.

‘OK?’

She nodded. ‘Super. I’d forgotten how much I love it!’

He laughed in sheer enjoyment. ‘Great, isn’t it? I’d die if I couldn’t do this!’

After a while he offered her the helm, and stood behind her, his hands steady on hers, his chest brushing lightly against her back. She leant back against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and made a small sound of contentment in her throat.

‘Happy?’

‘Oh, Michael, you have no idea …’

His lips nuzzled her neck. ‘You taste wonderful—fresh and clean and delicious. Mind the ferry.’

‘What ferry?’

He laughed. ‘Just testing. Want to take her round the point?’

She let out a breath. ‘I’ll try—just don’t go away.’

‘I won’t. Take your time.’

She took a steadying breath, let out the port sheet, spun the wheel and hauled in the starboard sheet. Henrietta yawed wildly for a second or two, then the sails filled with a slap and she settled down on the new course.

‘Well done.’

She laughed breathlessly. ‘It was awful!’

He chuckled, his arms wrapping round her waist to pull her back against him. ‘It wasn’t perfect, but it was fine. You’ll do, with practice.’

‘Hmm. Maybe another time. Over to you, Cap’n Bligh.’

She slid under his arm and sat in the cockpit, her feet propped on the other seat, and mopped up the sunshine. After a few minutes she started to overheat, and went below to put on her shorts and T-shirt. There was a cooling breeze off the sea, but it was going to be a gloriously hot June day nevertheless.

Michael’s eyes ran appreciatively over her legs as she climbed over the hatch, and he gave a gusty sigh.

‘How the hell am I supposed to keep my hands off you when you look like that?’

‘Well, ditto!’

Their eyes met.

‘Oh, dear God, Clare—I want you,’ he whispered.

She swallowed. ‘Can we talk about this later? You’re going to run us aground on the sand-spit if you don’t concentrate!’

He swore softly under his breath, and then gave a rueful chuckle. ‘It’s a deal. Just sit down and don’t fidget about, or I won’t stand a chance of thinking straight!’

It was a wonderful day. They tacked up the river towards Woodbridge, ate their picnic in sight of the Tide Mill, and dropped back down with the tide, rounding the point off Felixstowe at four o’clock. By five they were back in the marina, mooring Henrietta and packing up their things.

By the time they left, Clare’s nerves were at screaming pitch. Every touch of his hand, every brush of his body against hers as they manoeuvred round each other in the little cabin had left her senses reeling.

They drove back to the cottage in a potent silence, and when they arrived back, he stilled her hand as he moved to unload the car.

‘Leave that lot. I want to make love to you. I’ve been watching you bending around in those tiny little shorts for hours, and I really don’t think I can stand much more of it.’