Fragrance of Violets (2 page)

“Oh, stop it!” she exclaimed in irritation as she arrived at the warehouse.

She concentrated on the list of items they needed in the shop and spent the next hour piling boxes into her shopping cart. On the way back to Rusthwaite, she diverted her mind to the small group of local teenagers with whom she’d been working on a drama project. Anything to stop herself thinking about Jack Tremayne.

When she reached the road junction outside the village, she drove straight on without even glancing up toward Fir Garth. Reaching the car park, she did a quick u-turn so she was facing the main street again, and pulled up beside the shop. After she’d unlocked the side door and switched on the light, she returned to the car and opened the boot.

As she lifted out the first box, a voice startled her. “Do you need any help?”

She spun around in the direction of the voice. It was dark but she didn’t need to see him. Her mouth went dry and her hands tightened on the box. “No, thanks, I can manage.”

Jack Tremayne stepped into the dim light cast by one of the car park lamps. As her eyes adjusted, Abbey’s breath caught in her throat. His navy sweatshirt stretched across wide shoulders and a broad chest, and mid-blue jeans encased his slim hips and long legs. No longer a teenage boy, but a man whose compelling physique exuded strength and unequivocal masculinity. Her heart started to thud hard against her ribs.

“What are you doing here?” Resentment at her involuntary reaction to him lent an extra sharp tone to her voice.

He laughed, the deep rich laugh that still sounded so familiar. “I’m not psychic; I didn’t know you’d be getting out of your car right here and now. And I’m not a lurker either. I’ve been for a walk by the lake and was taking a short cut through the car park when you did your handbrake turn.”

“I did not do a—and I didn’t mean right here—I meant—”

Damn! So much for being polite and cool with him
. Why on earth couldn’t she be a mature and self-assured twenty-eight year old, instead of stuttering like a gauche teenager? She steadied herself. “I meant, of course, why the hell have you come back to the village?”

“Welcome to Rusthwaite,” he said with amused irony.

“You aren’t welcome here. Not by me, not by anyone.”

He shrugged. “Maybe not, but I’m back, and I intend to stay.”

Shock bolted through her. “You’re staying?”

“Why not? It’s my home.”

“The home you betrayed.”

“That was eight years ago. People forget.”

As he took a few steps nearer, the light spilling from the shop doorway illuminated his face. His hair seemed to have darkened to the colour of damp sand and was brushed back instead of the tousled blond mop she remembered. A few stray strands escaped over his forehead, and her glance took in his handsome features—the blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the well-defined jaw, the perfectly shaped mouth, and the cleft above his chin.

A quiver rippled through her but she ignored it. “This village hasn’t forgotten. People here won’t ever forgive you.”

“What about you?” His eyes challenged her, forcing her to remember the night everything had gone wrong between them.

She returned his scrutiny with a defiant glare and tried to distance herself from the unwanted sensations that threatened to destroy her composure. “I don’t think you and I have anything further to say to each other, so if you’ll excuse me, I need to unload this stock.”

“Are you sure I can’t help?”

“Absolutely sure.”

She turned away and took the box into the storeroom. When she stepped outside again, he’d gone. She stared through the darkness toward the main street, but he’d obviously walked quickly. There was no one there.

For the next few minutes, she concentrated on carrying the boxes inside and stacking them tidily, ready to be unpacked the next morning. Only when she put down the last box did she realise she was shaking.

Meeting Jack Tremayne again had catapulted all her feelings into total disarray.

CHAPTER 2

Jack let out a frustrated exhalation as he strode along the dimly lit main street. Abbey was the last person he expected to meet here in Rusthwaite. He’d assumed she was in London, or elsewhere, either on stage or filming. When he saw the car doing a u-turn, he didn’t think anything of it. Only when the woman got out of the car and tossed her hair back from her face did he realise it was her.

His irritation at her curtness subsided, and he brushed aside his uncomfortable sense of guilt and self-reproach. Instead, he let other memories surface. Memories of the laughing girl with long dark brown hair who had once been his best friend.

In those innocent days, they’d been inseparable, going for long bike rides in the forest, splashing around in the shallow waters of the river, hiking along the valleys or on the fells, sailing on the lake, or simply sitting on the swings in the small park on the outskirts of the village and talking about anything and everything.

Involuntarily, his mind drifted to some almost forgotten scenes from the past. Abbey squealing with laughter as they chased around the field at Thompson’s farm, throwing handfuls of new mown grass at each other. Abbey serious and reflective when they sat on the rocks dangling their feet into the cool water of the stream. Abbey racing her bike along a woodland path and turning her head to yell, “Come on, slowcoach!” before she hit a tree stump and went sprawling into the undergrowth.

He smiled as he recalled how he rushed to the prone figure in panic. When he reached her, she lifted her head and grinned. “Ha! Fooled you, didn’t I?”

He quickened his pace, annoyed that he’d allowed the memories to breach the emotional wall he’d built around himself, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not the teenage Abbey, but the Abbey he’d just met again. She was even more attractive now than she’d been ten years before, with her heart-shaped face, sparkling green eyes, and enticing mouth. Her long dark hair swung when she turned, her shoulders moved in a tantalising way as she walked, and her trim hips swayed sexily as she went into the shop.

He shook his head in an effort to blank out the image, and his long strides took him toward the centre of the village. Outside the White Lion, he hesitated, muttered, “Oh, to hell with it,” and pushed open the door.

The pub hadn’t changed much. Oak beams and panelled walls, dark red upholstery on the bench seats, matching red curtains at the windows, even the same paintings of Lakeland scenes on the walls. Maybe some of the small round tables were new, but that was all.

He didn’t recognise most of the people sitting in the lounge. Tourists, he assumed, before glancing at the two older men who supped their pints at the bar, and dragging his memory for their names. Billy Neale, the local plumber, and Dave Sanderson, a retired farmer. Neither of them acknowledged him, but that didn’t come as any surprise.

Mike Barron, the landlord, was behind the bar. With his rough-hewn face and curly black hair, he looked exactly the same as when they’d been at school together. If Mike refused to serve him, he’d know it had been a mistake coming back to Rusthwaite.

“Hey, Jack, good to see you,” Mike said. “A pint, is it? Or do you have more extravagant tastes these days?”

Relief swept through him. “A pint of Hardman’s will be perfect, Mike. How’s things?”

“Recession’s biting a bit, but can’t complain too much.” Mike poured a beer from the pump and handed the glass to him. “On the house, Jack.” He paused, gave him a shrewd glance, and went on, “Surprised to see you back here, though.”

Jack took a quick gulp of his beer. “I’ve already been told I’m not welcome.”

“Yeah, a few folk around here still feel sore, but it was your job. Hard-hitting journalism, someone has to do it.”

Their eyes met in silent understanding, and Jack nodded. “Thanks, Mike.”

“And you’ve done well for yourself,” Mike went on. “I’ve seen some of your articles in the nationals.”

It was probably better not to admit that his infamous article in the local
Chronicle
had given him the opening to the national papers. He was head-hunted, and forged a successful career with one of the London broadsheets. Five years ago, he’d gone freelance, and contracts for newspaper and magazine articles had taken him all over the world.

He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I’ve been lucky. Been in the right place at the right time.”

“How long are you staying here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, whatever might be said in the rest of the village, you’re always welcome here, Jack. The money was raised and the gatehouse was restored a couple of years ago. It’s all water under the bridge now, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I appreciate that. Cheers, Mike.”

He took his pint over to an unoccupied table in the corner and thought again about Abbey.

Ten years ago, he’d forced himself to put her out of his mind. Ten years ago, when her green eyes no longer sparkled with laughter. Ten years ago, when she said, “I’ll never forgive you, Jack.”

It had been his fault. Two years older than her, he was in his second year as a journalism student at university. He’d come home for the summer vacation and got a temporary job at the
Lakeland Chronicle
office. It meant he wasn’t able to see as much of Abbey as he’d done when they were both still at school, but in the evenings he borrowed his mother’s car and they went to the cinema or theatre in Kendal, or out for a meal, or sometimes for a sail on Coniston Water.

Everything seemed the same, but it wasn’t. At least, not for him. He’d seen her in a new light that summer. Not a kid any more, but a beautiful woman, and he wanted her.

He cringed as he recalled the night of the
Party in the Park,
the final event of the local Agricultural Show. The memory was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. A couple of days before the party, Helen Cardew, one of Abbey’s friends, told him Abbey was hoping something would happen between them at the party.

“Promise me you’ll never tell Abbey I’ve told you,” Helen said. “She’ll kill me if she finds out I’ve said anything.”

He promised. A promise he couldn’t break even when things went so disastrously wrong.

Abbey looked stunning at the party. Her dark hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, contrasting with her white blouse, low cut enough to reveal the swell of her breasts and an enticing glimpse of her cleavage. Her short red skirt showed off her beautiful legs, too. His expectations grew during the evening when she seemed to be flirting with him while they danced, drank, and laughed together.

At the end of the party, they walked along the lake shore. He caught her when she stumbled—and kissed her.

Her mouth was soft and yielding against his, and she responded. Or he thought she did, and the urgent demands of his body short-circuited his brain. He pulled her down on the grass, his hands roving everywhere, quickly, hungrily—until he realised she was struggling away from him.

“Jack, what the hell d’you think you’re doing?”

Fuelled by too much alcohol and raging hormones, he tried to pull her back. “Don’t you mean what we’re doing? Come on, you know you want to.”

She pushed him away, and stood up, her eyes wide with shock.

That was the moment, he’d told himself a million times afterwards, when he should have held up his hands, and said, “I’m sorry.”

But he didn’t. The blood surged through his veins, his heart thundered with excited longing. He wanted her, needed her. Still lying on the grass, he laughed. “Stop playing hard to get, Abbey.”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are.” Frustration clawed through him. “You’ve been coming on to me all evening.”

“I have not! God, is that all men can think about?”

“Oh, here we go,” he groaned, reluctantly scrambling to his feet. “Back to the
all men are bastards
thing, are we? I thought you’d grown out of that by now.”

Her green eyes narrowed dangerously. “It’s been reconfirmed tonight.”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

The whole thing escalated. He accused her of wanting to blame every man for all the hurt she’d received from her father. Told her she should grow up and face the realities of life.

He’d been callow, immature, and insensitive. And a total idiot, too, for believing what Helen had said, instead of understanding what Abbey wanted, or rather didn’t want.

She was furious, yelling back at him that she thought he was different, that she’d trusted him but he’d betrayed her trust.

It was an ugly fight when too much was said that couldn’t be unspoken.

Finally, her face streaked with bitter tears, she spat out the words, “I’ll never forgive you, Jack. Never.”

She turned and went back to the beer garden outside the pub where their friends were still hanging out. He didn’t follow her. Things might have turned out differently if he had, but he’d been too frustrated and angry, as well as sick with humiliation.

The next afternoon he saw her younger sister Ellie in the village. “Is Abbey at home?” he asked, as nonchalantly as he could.

“Nope, she’s gone to visit a friend in Durham. She’s staying there for a couple of weeks, I think.” Ellie’s green eyes, so similar to Abbey’s, met his. “What on earth did you do to upset her, Jack?”

“We—er—we had a bit of an argument.”

“A bit of an argument? I’d say it was a lot of an argument. She was steaming.”

“What did she say?”

“Only that she’d never speak to you ever again.”

And he knew she wouldn’t. Knew he’d ruined everything between them. He thought about ringing her, but guessed she’d slam the phone down on him. He even tried writing to her, but tore up a dozen or more efforts when the words on paper seemed empty and meaningless. Finally he sent her a short note saying, “I’m sorry, I was an idiot. Can we still be friends?”

There was no reply. She’d probably ripped up the note, if she even opened the envelope. There’d been nothing else to do but put Abbey out of his mind.

He returned to university and dated other girls, none of them very seriously. He’d been determined to succeed in journalism and concentrated on his career.

And then he met Rachel.

Abruptly he drained his glass. This was the wrong time to be thinking about Abbey Seton. He’d returned home to try to come to terms with the tragedy on the Californian freeway two months ago, not to start agonising over the disastrous mistake he’d made ten years earlier.

He stood up and took his empty glass to the bar.

* * * * *

After unloading all the boxes and locking the shop door, Abbey sat in her car, staring out across the dark car park. Her mind jangled with all the thoughts that battled against each other. She couldn’t deny her pulse quickened and some primitive sensation shivered through her when she first saw Jack, but dismissed it. Those were involuntary physical reactions to a good-looking man, nothing more.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as the past invaded her mind, along with the image of the teenage Jack. He had always been there for her. She’d confided in him, told him things she never told anyone else, especially her feelings about her father.

It was Jack who tried to reassure her that her father still loved her, even though he forgot her birthdays. He consoled her when her father made one excuse after another for breaking his arrangements for visits or excursions, commiserated with her when she related yet another fight her mother was having over child support payments, and put his arm around her when she gave way to huge hiccupping sobs after she discovered the real reason why her father had cancelled her trip to New York with him. Jack always listened as she struggled to justify why she would never forgive her father.

But it was the same Jack who told her to stop behaving like an emotional adolescent, the same Jack who mocked her determination to become an actress.

“Damn you, Jack Tremayne,” she whispered fiercely, and switched on the engine.

As she passed the White Lion, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Nearly nine-thirty. If she took her car home and walked back to the pub, Sally might have finished work in the kitchen. After tonight’s encounter, she needed someone to talk to, and her old school friend Sally was the closest friend she had in the village. She’d married her childhood sweetheart, Mike, and they’d taken over the pub from her parents.

Most of the other friends she’d known from her schooldays had moved down to Kendal or further afield to find work or cheaper housing. Sally was one of the few who had stayed, and they’d picked up their friendship when she returned home shortly before Christmas.

She parked her car at the side of the small stone house near the edge of the village, dropped her bag on the table in the hallway, and popped her head around the living room door. Her mother was sitting with her feet up, watching a police drama on TV.

“Hi, Mum. I got everything except the slate plaques with the picture of the lake. The man at the warehouse said he’ll call you when the new stock arrives. It’s okay,” she added, as her mother made to swing her legs off the couch. “I’ve taken all the boxes to the shop and stacked them in the storeroom. We can unpack them tomorrow.”