Boot Camp Bride (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-six
Mates?

‘Wait up, Ffinch, I want a sandwich,’ she called out after ten minutes of trudging through the mud. They’d reached a second bench overlooking the marshes, so she swung her rucksack off, sat down and started to unwrap the packed lunch The Ship Inn had provided.

‘Hangry?’ Ffinch inquired, searching her face to see if it was safe to approach.

‘Hangry,’ she agreed. She was about to explain that low blood sugar wasn’t the only cause of her anger towards him, but then changed her mind. Best to let the matter rest and get everything back on an even keel. Perhaps she could put her racing heart and sense of confusion down to a delayed caffeine buzz. She’d had little to eat at breakfast apart from a slice of toast and two double espressos.

‘Mates?’ he asked, watching her attack a ham and mustard sandwich.

‘I guess,’ she said, her mouth full of food.

Slipping off his rucksack, he perched on the back of the bench to give him extra height. He raised his binoculars and stared once more over the marshes towards the channels and gulleys revealed as the tide receded.

‘Are we anywhere near the boot camp?’ Charlee asked, taking a large swig from a bottle of mineral water.

‘See where the vegetation is a deeper, richer green, and where some boats are moored? That’s the beginning of the boot camp’s territory. It stretches all the way to the Coal Shed and sluice gates at Thornham Staithe and out to the Wash.’

‘Coal Shed?’ Charlie frowned.

‘You’ll see when we get there. I want to walk across the marshes and down to Thornham Beach to familiarise myself with the lay of the land.’ Noticing her curious look Ffinch went on to explain. ‘I’ve thought of a few scenarios that might arise and I want us to be prepared for them.’

Excitement fizzed through Charlee’s veins. This was what she’d been born for - adventure, derring-do, the scoop …

‘Such as?’ She kept her tone level. She didn’t want to come across as just another overexcited intern.

‘I was thinking, say Markova suspected you of taking too many snaps of her. She might complain to the management and they might ask you to hand your phone over,’ Ffinch said thoughtfully.

‘That’s a lot of mights, isn’t it?’ He nodded. ‘So - what do you propose?’

‘As a contingency - you inform me via the public phone of your itinerary for the next day and I’ll station myself somewhere on the marsh and take the photos with my long range lenses as you all trot by.’

‘I’m not sure why you can’t do that anyway …’

‘We’ve been through all this, Montague. It’s because we want detail for the column - what the bride-to-be’s thinking, who’s designing her dress, where they’re holding the wedding, having their honeymoon. All the detail the readers of
What’cha!
expect - you know the score.’

‘Moon in June, roses round the door. Got it,’ Charlee said, getting in a little dig at the same time.

‘Exactly. Now buckle up, you’re in for a yomp over to Holme-next-the-Sea and then back to The Ship Inn for some chill-out time before dinner. What now?’

‘Can we have dinner in the bar tonight? I mean, last night was great, don’t get me wrong - but I would like to sit in the Smuggler’s Retreat and absorb the atmosphere, listen to the locals, pick up the vibe. Now what have I said?’ she demanded as Ffinch gave her an inscrutable look.

‘You really are a conundrum, aren’t you, Charlee?’ His use of her first name showed that he’d consigned their spat to the past. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck stood to attention as if he’d trailed his fingers across them. ‘You weren’t fazed when I turned up in a vintage camper van on Christmas Eve, and genuinely seemed thrilled it had a Porsche engine. You settled right in at my grandparents’ mews flat and didn’t complain about the retro decor and offer to give it some kind of horrendous girlie make over. Now you’re turning down a champagne dinner?’

‘Well, I simply thought … there’s only so much dressing up a girl can take.’ She wanted to hear the second instalment of what had really happened to him in Colombia and instinct told her that he’d open up more readily in the Smuggler’s Retreat with its low beams, dark walls and roaring fire.

‘Okay, you’re on,’ he said in a light-hearted fashion. ‘I didn’t feel much like putting the old whistle and flute back on tonight, in any case.’ Charlee laughed at his use of cockney rhyming slang.

‘Lead on then, me old cock sparrow - and as we make our way down to the beach, let’s work out our game plan - just in case anything does goes wrong. There is one good thing, though,’ she added mischievously as she gazed out over the vast expanse of sea, marshes and reed beds, ‘at least there aren’t many hills in Norfolk.’

‘I’ll mention that to the tourist board, it’d make a great advertising slogan: Come to Norfolk for your holidays - it’s so wonderfully flat!’ Laughing, they made their way towards Thornham Staithe and the sluice gates which controlled the flow of water around the Coal Shed.

Mates.

Charlee was glad that Ffinch had told her to meet him in the bar at seven, sharp. She didn’t think she could take another grand progress down the wide oak staircase and into the hall with everyone thinking them love’s young dream. Turning right in the hall, she went into the low-ceilinged Smuggler’s Retreat where she found Ffinch standing at the bar, his right foot on the polished brass rail and looking very much at home. As she approached, she heard him talking about the tides to someone whose flat vowels and nasal twang marked him out as Norfolk born and bred.

‘Course, the most spectac-clear toides are later in the year,’ the man was saying to Ffinch. ‘But last noight’s was quoite ’igh cause o’ the full moon. In the old days, the smugglers would have landed their contraband and taken their chances with the revenue men. There’s been murder, and worse, committed on these marshes,’ he said, drained his glass and thumped it on the bar, meaningfully.

Charlee wondered what could be worse than murder but said nothing. Ffinch was unaware of her presence and she was happy to keep it like that. He signalled for the barman to refill his new-found friend’s glass and swirled his whisky round and round in his tumbler without touching it.

‘So what about the Thornham Boot Camp for Brides?’ Ffinch asked.

‘Lot o’ daft women runnin’ round loik idiots in my opinion,’ the barman put in his two pennyworth. ‘Moind you, in the summer you do get a good eyeful of posh tottie in skimpy shorts, tops and the loik - if you get my meaning.’ He leaned forward and jiggled his hands up and down like he was weighing water melons. Then he summoned Ffinch to move in closer. ‘The old owner sold out last year and those damned Ruskies took it over. They normally drink in the Lemon Tree on the main road where all the Londoners hang out. But they comes in ’ere occasionally, turning their noses up at moi best vodka and ordering champagne. We in’t posh enough for ’em and they in’t welcome.’

‘Why did the previous owners move out?’ Turning, Ffinch probed his new-found friend as the barman handed over his pint.

‘They was getting old. Couldn’t manage the big house no more - and the Ruskies offered them more than it were worth. Anyway - here’s your young loidy waiting for you.’ He gestured at Charlee with his pint glass, obviously keen to go join his mates who were setting up a game of cribbage by the fire.

‘Charlee,’ Ffinch greeted her, openly speculating how long she’d been standing there. ‘What would you like to drink, darling?’

Charlee’s insides turned to liquid at the endearment, momentarily forgetting that it was all part of the act.

‘
Vodka-i zakyski iz menu. Ymerau ot goloda
,’ she said with a flourish in Russian to cover her weakness. Realising what a brick she’d just dropped, she hurried on, hoping that the barman had poor hearing. ‘Vodka - and the bar snack menu. I’m starving.’

‘You can’t be,’ he said, glancing at his watch.

After their long walk to Holme-next-the-Sea, they’d ordered afternoon tea and Charlee had attacked hers with relish. In contrast, Ffinch had pushed his sandwiches and scones aside and drank gallons of strong black tea while poring over Ordnance Survey maps of the marshes, marking certain areas in black felt-tip pen - his face a study in concentration.

‘I was always hungry when I was a child. My father said I had worms and threatened to mash up worm tablets in my dinner, like he did with the dogs. What, too much information?’ She laughed at his expression. ‘My dad’s a vet, I’m a country girl at heart - get over it.’ She took a bar snack menu and sat down at a small round table in an alcove well away from everyone. The ideal spot for grilling Ffinch over Colombia, later. ‘Nothing prissy about me.’

‘I had noticed,’ Ffinch said rather dryly.

‘You think that a little more priss is called for?’ Charlee asked.

‘Just a smidgeon,’ Ffinch observed as he took his place at the table. ‘You have a way of killing the moment, Montague, know that? Worm tablets, indeed. Just as well you’re not my real fiancée.’

‘How would a real fiancée act, then?’ she asked, smarting at his tone. Playing the role of someone not held back by an excess of priss, she downed her vodka and slammed the shot glass down on the table. She managed to hide that her throat was burning and her eyes watering, but she’d made her point. ‘Maybe I should have ordered a small, dry sherry in one of those old-fashioned glasses I saw back at the mews - what do you call them?’

‘A schooner.’

‘Well, Miss Prissy Pants wouldn’t be much good to you on this occasion, now would she?’ Charlee opened the menu, dismayed to discover that the catch in her throat and the hot tears misting her eyes had nothing to do with the vodka. ‘Arranging flowers and knitting doilies won’t be much use, whereas being able to read and write in six different languages might just be an advantage over the next few days.’

Ffinch said nothing for a few minutes as he read down the menu, clearly aware that he’d upset her but wasn’t quite sure how. ‘You’re right, you are the woman for the job. And, by the way …’

‘Yes,’ Charlie raised her head and looked at him.

‘You don’t knit doilies, you crochet them.’

He got to his feet and sauntered over to the bar to order. Although she almost hated him in that moment, Charlee was nonetheless aware how he drew glances from men and women alike. The men because they sensed his air of confidence and authority; and the women because he looked as if he’d just stepped out of a Rohan catalogue - straight leg black trousers, boxy shirt under a lightweight gilet and expensive looking trainers/walking boots. It took a lot of money to look so casually dressed and Charlee wondered about his privileged - if peripatetic - upbringing, which he never mentioned.

Apart from the aforementioned family coffee plantation in Brazil, she gathered that there was a strong highland connection, on his mother’s side. Quite a mixture, that - fiery Latin and mystical, romantic highlander. When he returned from the bar with a bottle of wine and two glasses, she was unravelling the edge of her beer mat and staring into the blazing fire.

‘Moving on from doilies to origami frogs?’ he joked, joining her at the table.

‘Oh, I thought a life-sized replica of the Taj Mahal … seeing how we’re celebrating our engagement. You didn’t mention edifices to undying love on your list of forbidden topics. Did you?’

‘No, I rather thought it was implied. And that goes for anything made out of matchsticks, too.’ He looked up from his menu and sent her one of his slow, considering looks and then poured out two glasses of wine, holding his aloft. ‘To undying love, boot camps, dodgy Russians and your first real assignment.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Charlee replied and clinked glasses. After a few thoughtful sips, she took a deep breath and cautiously approached the elephant in the room.

‘So, Ffinch, are you going to tell me the rest of the story? What happened after your captors marched you through the jungle in the rain for days on end?’

Ffinch put down his glass and let out a long breath, raking his fingers through his thick, dark hair. Then he rubbed at the scars on his wrists, as if they were suddenly in some way bothersome. In the light from the oil lamps and the log fire, his face was pensive and in shadow, his eyes immeasurably troubled and sad.

‘Do you mind if I don’t, Charlee? I will tell you one day, just not tonight. Talking about it drags me right back there and to everything that … that happened and - well, tonight I just want to be. Can you understand that?’

‘Sure.’ Charlee shrugged and concentrated on the bar snack menu, hiding acute disappointment. But she took him at his word - if he said that he would tell her one day, then he would. ‘I’m going for the rack of ribs with chips and salad, followed by sticky toffee pudding and home-made ice cream. Cheese and biscuits, too - if I have room. The thought of those rice cakes, early morning runs and being made to drink water drawn from the marsh is haunting me.’

She glanced at Ffinch who had his head bent over the menu, and wondered if he was even listening. She sighed, guessing that the elephant would have to stay in the room and do its best not to damage the furniture until he was in a more receptive mood. She just hoped that would be sooner rather than later - and before they parted company, for good.

Chapter Twenty-seven
The Whole Truth

Charlee woke in the middle of the night with a raging thirst and swung her legs out of the bed. She opened the bottle of water on her bedside table and glugged it straight down before heading for the loo. When she returned, Ffinch’s voice reached her from the other side of the connecting doors, his cries much louder than the night before.

His moans grew more voluble and Charlee was worried he’d wake the hotel at this rate. Cautiously, she edged closer to the interconnecting doors and tried the handle. She hadn’t bothered to relock the doors and neither had Ffinch. She pushed the heavy doors open and was in the middle of his room before she knew it. In a reprise of the previous evening, Ffinch thrashed around in bed, muttering incoherently in Spanish.

‘
Dejadla en paz
,’ don’t touch her. ‘
Llevadme a mí en su lugar
,’ Take me not her. And then a plaintive, heartbroken - ‘
Elena, primita
,’ Elena, my little cousin.

When his cries rose in volume, Charlee rushed to his side. ‘Ffinch - wake up.’ Tentatively, she poked him in the shoulder but it had no effect. If anything, his muttering grew louder and she didn’t need to be fluent in Spanish to understand what followed.

‘
Cabrones
…
hijos de puta. Allesandro
…’

This time she leaned over his bed, took him by the shoulders in an attempt to shake him awake. ‘Ffinch - Rafa … it’s me, Charlee.’

She let out a muffled shriek as Ffinch lunged out and grabbed her, although clearly still asleep. He dragged her onto the bed, rolled her under him and pinned her down as though shielding her from hurt and pain. Charlee began to panic; she’d read about a husband who’d strangled his wife in his sleep and had no recollection of it the next morning. Using all her strength she tried to push him off, but it was no good. Fearing for her safety, she took his ear between her teeth and bit down on it.

Hard.

‘Wha - what?’ he murmured groggily, waking slowly as if from a drugged sleep. It was apparent he had no idea of time or place - and was possibly mistaking her for someone else. This Elena person he kept mentioning, perhaps? In a dreamlike state, he nuzzled her neck and kissed along the line to her throat until he reached her lips. Charlee’s moue of protest was lost as he kissed her with such thoroughness and passion that her heart snagged. She knew he was on automatic pilot - half-awake and half-asleep. She positioned herself more comfortably beneath him, savouring the kiss and the moment before she pushed him off. His right hand pushed questingly under her thin vest top and encircled her breast, while his other hand slid under her narrow buttocks and tilted her pelvis upwards and towards him.

But even as she writhed in delight at being kissed so comprehensively, in error, Ffinch swam to the surface and his eyes blinked open. Dazed, still lying on top of her, he pushed himself onto his elbows and looked down into her face.

‘Charlee? What the fu - what are you doing in my bed, and -’

‘Lying under you?’ She finished his sentence as best she could, given that his full weight was pressing down on her. Acutely aware that he was naked apart from cotton pyjama shorts which did nothing to conceal the strength of his erection, Charlee experienced a weakening heat that left her feeling warm and golden - as if she’d been dipped in expensive, organic honey. Aflame with desire, she sighed and automatically began stroking his back lightly with her fingers.

It would be the easiest thing in the world, she thought, to shrug off her clothes and lie naked in Ffinch’s arms. She wanted that more than anything. But she knew she couldn’t give in to these pleasurable feelings, their relationship didn’t allow for it - it wasn’t part of the deal. Her fear of being throttled receded, replaced by a need to explain how she came to be in his bed in the middle of the night, and quickly too.

There being nothing else for it, she reverted to type. ‘Gerroff me, will you!’

Ffinch, now coming fully to his senses and aware of his aroused state, rolled off her. He sat on the edge of the bed, reached down for a discarded pillow on the floor and pulled it across his lap. He then switched on the bedside light and remained there, silent and with his head bent forward and his back turned towards her. His skin was taut over his vertebrae and rib cage, and he looked painfully thin. Charlee longed to run her hand along the vulnerable curve of his spine and massage away the tension knotting his neck and shoulders.

‘How did you - did we?’ He spoke without turning round, still half-asleep.

‘I heard you calling out in your sleep. I came into the room and tried to shake you awake, but you were deep under. Then you grabbed me and pinned me to the mattress.’ Her cheeks flamed and she glossed over the part where he kissed her and she’d responded just a little too enthusiastically for someone who believed that she was about to be strangled.

‘Did you bite my ear?’ he asked, massaging his lobe and struggling to make sense of waking up in the middle of the night with Charlee lying beneath him.

‘I did. But calm down, it wasn’t meant as foreplay.’ Charlee used sarcasm to cover up how instinctively her body had responded - was still responding - to his nakedness. Her breasts felt heavy and she wanted his hands back in place, working their magic. ‘It was the only way I could wake you up. Sorry.’

‘Yes, it’s the medication, it zonks me out, but never mind all that. My ear hurts like hell. Have you severed it?’ he demanded, as if using anger to cloak his reaction to finding her being in his bed.

‘Oh, don’t be such a baby.’ Charlee tutted and pushed herself up into a sitting position, kneeling behind him to examine his ear. To her shame, it did look rather red and she could see the impression of two faint but definite teeth marks. ‘I thought you might strangle me,’ she explained somewhat lamely.

‘Strangle you?’

‘I read about this man, once -’

‘Believe me, Montague, if I’d wanted to strangle you I would have done it before now - and in broad daylight.’

‘Cheers!’

‘Don’t think I haven’t been tempted.’ There - normal service was resumed.

‘Thanks again.’ Charlee watched as he dragged his T-shirt off the back of the chair and pulled it over his head. Then he fetched the towelling robe off the sofa and slipped that over his makeshift pyjamas in a kind of double indemnity against her. ‘Don’t worry; I’m not going to leap on you - or under you, for that matter,’ Charlee assured him snarkily, guessing what was going through his mind. ‘Being pinned down in your bed in the dead of night doesn’t make for a pleasant experience.’

‘Didn’t your mother teach you that you shouldn’t enter a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night?’

‘There are a lot of things my mother didn’t tell me,’ Charlee said dryly. ‘Anyway, I thought I was safe with you.’

‘Because I’m not manly enough?’

‘Stop fishing for compliments, Ffinch. I think you’ve established your credentials in that area, thank you very much.’ She coloured, obliquely referring to his earlier state of arousal. Ffinch was a little taken aback by her response, and then he looked at her over his shoulder and grinned at her sauciness.

‘Well, now that’s established, you can go back to your room. I won’t have the nightmares again. They usually only come once each night, when I’m in the REM phase of sleep.’

‘REM?’ Charlee queried, in no hurry to leave.

‘Rapid eye movement, the phase of sleep during which dreams and nightmares usually occur.’ He stood on the carpet looking at her expectantly, openly suggesting that she should return to her own room. Pronto.

‘But, what if you start shouting again,’ Charlee began, not entirely sure where she was going with this.

‘Then you’ll hear me and come in and bite the other ear.’ He smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Evidently he was aware of what Charlee was proposing and doing his best to resist the candid invitation in her eyes.

She took a step closer. ‘But, next time, I might be asleep and not hear you. Then the management would have to knock on your door and tell you to keep it down - as if we were indulging in noisy sex.’

‘Is there any other kind?’ he asked before he could stop himself. His frown and the faint flush along his cheekbones told Charlee that he wanted to call the words back. As the senior partner he probably felt that it was down to him to keep a lid on this … attraction they felt for each other.

‘Depends, doesn’t it?’ Charlee said casually and shrugged.

‘On what?’ Seemingly, Ffinch couldn’t stop responding to Charlee’s teasing, provocative words.

‘On the man. The circumstances.’ Boldly, she moved even closer to him. ‘Don’t push me away, Ffinch. Not tonight. We’re partners. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

‘More than you know,’ he said with a passion that surprised her. Then he passed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘If we do - this - it’ll ruin everything and our partnership will fall to pieces. I’ve seen it happen before - ’

‘With you? Is that why you always work alone?’ She experienced a pang as she thought of him with other women in this very situation. Had he turned them away as he was now proposing to do to her?

‘Go to bed, Charlee,’ he said without answering her question. Charlee backed away from him and climbed back into his bed, which was still warm and smelled of his aftershave and a manly muskiness. ‘I meant, your bed.’

‘I’ll just stay until you’ve told me the rest of your story and you’re asleep. Then I’ll leave, okay?’

‘Very much not okay,’ Ffinch demurred, taking a couple of steps closer to the bed. ‘But I know enough about you to realise that you won’t budge. So maybe I’ll go to your room, instead …’

‘Look. You can trust me, I won’t make you do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. We’ll just snuggle up in your bed together, like -’

‘Babes in the Wood?’

‘If you like. Or maybe more like Byron and his half-sister. Okay, that wasn’t funny,’ she apologised as she peeled back the corner of the duvet and patted the mattress invitingly. ‘And, don’t worry; I’ll still respect you in the morning.’ That, apparently, was a challenge too far for the alpha male in Ffinch. Shrugging off his dressing gown he leapt into bed, gathered her into his arms and pulled her up close.

‘Don’t start what you can’t finish,’ he whispered warningly, their noses touching. But Charlee wasn’t afraid. Closing her eyes she went limp in his arms, the blood sang in her ears and her heart beat out an uneven tattoo. Ffinch groaned as though resigning himself to the inevitable outcome of their situation. He rolled her under him and started to kiss her with a slow thoroughness that made lust scud through her and her womb contract in anticipation of what the kisses might herald. Then, reluctantly, he put her from him, rolled over onto his back and flung his arm across his eyes as if to block out the enticing sight of her, all warm, rosy and inviting.

‘Charlee - no, this isn’t right. Go back to your room, for God’s sake.’

‘But I don’t want to. I want to - to hear the rest of your story.’

‘Okay,’ he breathed, seemingly sensing she was not to be dissuaded. ‘I’ll tell you the rest of my story -’

‘All of it?’

‘All of it. Then you go back to your room. Deal?’

‘Deal.’ She held out her hand and he shook it, his expression making plain he’d made a deal with the devil. Charlee relaxed, took his arm and wrapped it round her shoulders and then snuggled into his side.

‘Comfortable?’ he inquired ironically.

‘Very. Now, lights off - more atmospheric.’

‘Not sure that’s a good idea … okay; lights off.’ He stretched out and switched off the lamp on the bedside table. ‘Although I should warn you -’ he paused.

‘Yes?’

‘I only have so much control, so don’t push it. Although, to be honest, since -’ he stopped and then rushed on, ‘since Darien, I haven’t …’

‘Haven’t?’ Charlee pretended not to understand what he meant.

‘Haven’t wanted sex or …’

‘Or?’

‘Or found any woman capable of - arousing me. Happy now?’ he asked in constricted tones, as if this confession was being wrested out of him. It was apparent, from the way his penis was pushing against the fabric of his pyjama shorts, that one problem had been dealt with tonight.

Charlee snuggled more closely into his side and sighed.

‘Quite happy. But, just so as we’re clear, I’m here for research purposes and to learn more about my partner - not sex.’ She pressed her lips against his rib cage, his skin was warm and tasted slightly salty and she breathed in the scent of him. ‘Just saying …’

‘Glad we’ve cleared that up,’ he said, his voice rumbling low in his chest and his words reverberating against her ear.

 ‘I really want to know the whole story,’ she said softly, encouragingly.

‘And I’ll tell you all of it. Maybe then you’ll go scuttling back to your bed and leave me in peace.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ she agreed, ‘or perhaps I’ll stay the night.’

‘Charlee, that isn’t an option -’

‘Okay. Story …’ she commanded. She slipped her fingers through his and squeezed his hand encouragingly. ‘Go on, Ffinch, you can’t renege on the deal now.’ He took a shuddering breath and although she couldn’t know for certain, Charlee felt sure he was staring wide-eyed in the darkness, remembering …