SARA WOOD - Expectant Mistress

God help him! He was sick in his mind. Perverted in his body. Louise was the woman he wanted, had pursued... No. She had pursued him. Made herself indispensable. Become part of his life, apart from his bed.

Maybe that was it. He was sex-starved. Relieved, he gave Trish a slightly sardonic smile and she wilted before him, then rallied.

‘Not non-stop,’ she said earnestly. ‘I agree that honeymoons are traditionally supposed to be the month after your marriage when you drink nothing but mead and—’

‘Do what?’ he asked, startled.

‘Mead. Honey. Where do you think “honeymoon” came from? Mead’s an aphrodisiac—’

‘I wouldn’t need it,’ he said with deliberate cruelty.

Her mouth thinned. ‘I’m sure.’ There was a moment’s awkward silence. Then she sucked in a breath and launched into speech as if she felt driven by compulsion. ‘There’s more to it than that, though! Honeymoons are for getting to know the person beneath the skin!’ she added vehemently. ‘Enjoying being in the same room. Finding pleasure in doing little things for each other—’

‘Trish!’

In his attempt to control his voice, he’d sounded harsh and angry. Amazed by her almost incoherent outburst, he stared at her. Longing to drink mead with her for the rest of his life. Adoring her passion and envying her uninhibited surrender to her emotions. Duty and responsibility holding him fast.

‘Sorry. I got carried away. I’ve no idea why. Champagne in my veins instead of blood, I suppose! I—I’m sure you love Louise in all those ways,’ she said huskily.

All he could think of was a sudden linking in his mind of Christine’s words ‘Love...Trish.’ But he kept his inner thoughts masked by a cold and unfriendly expression.

‘Louise and I are perfectly suited,’ he said with conviction.

‘That’s lovely.’

With her slender jaw set in hard lines, she gave a little grimace of a smile, turned and walked out of his life.

CHAPTER TWO

TRISH ran into the kitchen and flung down the flowers she’d been picking in the cottage garden Then she reached out to open the oven door a crack to check the Dundee cake, her other hand grabbing the ringing phone

‘Hi, Trish! It’s me! Petra! What happened to you?’

Adam had happened!

She closed the oven up. ‘Sorry I bolted. I was worried about Gran, all alone next door. But mostly I hated London,’ she said, shamefaced. ‘I didn’t have anything to say to anyone at the party so I stopped boring everyone with my yokel act, packed my polyester dress and took the sleeper back to Penzance. Caught the morning helicopter. Got back home a few hours ago. Sorry, Pets. I was going to call you when I got a moment.’

‘You rushed off without warning once before, duckie. Adam seems to be the common factor.’

Her friend was too sharp by half! ‘Nonsense! I get homesick.’

‘Yeah.’ There was a sceptical pause. ‘You haven’t got another runaway there, have you?’

Trish gently slid a tray of waiting flapjacks onto the shelf below the Dundee. ‘No, only me, Gran and the chickens. Gran’s watching my exhausted video of Dirty Dancing and the chickens are puzzling their greens.’ She reached into the fridge for the tea bread. ‘Why?’

‘Adam’s gone missing,’ Petra said casually.

The plate in Trish’s hand clattered to the floor. ‘What... what...?’ Confused, she thanked her lucky stars the plate had landed right side up and the bread was intact. ‘You’re joking!’ she cried, fascinated.

‘Nope. Vanished some time in the early hours. Left a note saying a job had come up. Forgot to leave a contact number and his mobile’s switched off. Louise is hopping mad. I wondered if he’d got sick of the rat race and booked in to your isolated pig-house.’

‘It’s a lovely stone cottage in an idyllic setting and you know it. You’ve been four tunes—it can’t be that bad,’ Trish retorted with a grin. ‘As a matter of fact, I do have a last-minute booking which came ten minutes after I’d set foot in the door this morning, but—’

‘Who?’ squeaked Petra excitedly.

‘Oh, put your hat back on. Nobody exciting. It’s a Mr Rowe. Mack Rowe.’

There was a choking sound on the end of the line. ‘Macro!’ Petra said eventually, her voice distorted by a mass of giggles.

‘What’s up with you?’ demanded Trish suspiciously. ‘Is someone tickling you?’

‘I should be so lucky! Gotta go! Give Macro my love—’ ‘Don’t be silly, Pets,’ Trish said fondly. ‘He doesn’t know you from Adam.’

A squeal of laughter ricocheted down the line. Trish realised what she’d said and began to giggle, too.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ jerked Petra, in fits of laughter. ‘Bye!’

With no time to wonder if her friend was cracking up at last, Trish prepared the best guest room. Vases of flowers, home-made biscuits in a tin, orange and cinnamon soap and bath oils ready in the en suite, magazines, soft, fluffy towels... She looked at the chintzy bedroom proudly, then she went to finish the vegetables for the evening meal and to set up a welcoming tea tray.

Trundling down to Church Quay in her borrowed hill buggy, with terns calling overhead and the scent of honeysuckle filling her nostrils, she reflected that it was just as well Adam wasn’t interested in her. He’d never give up city life with all its attractions, and she’d never give up Bryher.

It was still hard, though, coming to terms with the aching sense of loss she’d had, ever since she’d stolen out of the hotel like a thief in the night. She was glad to be busy. From past experience she knew that if she worked non-stop and fell into bed exhausted she’d have less time to feel sorry for herself.

The thought of going home had instantly lifted her spirits. As the train had gathered speed, London’s concrete and tarmac had melted away into the distance. Green fields and trees had flashed by the window and her aching heart had been soothed a little.

She’d even hugged herself when Land’s End came into sight. The end of England. Nothing ahead but the Scilly Islands, scattered like glittering jewels in the vast Atlantic. Together with the tourists on board the helicopter, she’d looked down on the dramatic jagged rocks and Caribbean-white beaches with enormous excitement.

It was good to be home. Tun might not make her feel ecstatic—and they didn’t see one another often, as he lived on the main island. But they were terribly fond of one another. Her future lay with him.

Her decisions made, Trish drove onto the soft white sand by the quay in quite a cheery frame of mind. Parked there already was the Land Rover which belonged to the only hotel on the island. She chatted with Norman, its driver, and watched the afternoon boat from Tresco island heading towards them.

Trish and Norman wandered along the quay to meet their guests. She greeted Bryher’s handful of schoolchildren, smart in their royal-blue sweatshirts, coming home after a day at Tresco Island School. They scrambled off the Faldore with an ease born of a lifetime spent getting in and out of boats. Trish watched them skipping and running happily to their parents. They were followed by a small group of holiday-makers—

And Adam.

She stood on the quay, dumbstruck. He wore what he probably assumed was suitable casual wear: beige linen trousers and a shirt and matching V-neck the colour of sam-phire leaves. But everything was too clean and pressed. He was far too well groomed to fit in. This was a city man to the core. In comparison with the other visitors, in their walking boots, well-worn jeans and sweatshirts, he looked totally out of place.

He put down his cases, smiled faintly and raised his eyebrows in query, as if his presence was the most natural thing in the world. Reluctantly she walked towards him. He intended to stay!