Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (8 page)

Peter came across with gravitas, too. Smoking an elegant briar pipe, he talked about the company’s plans for an international publishing center and how they would soon be hiring more local workers for the printing, dispatch, and editorial departments.

Not a word was said about whips and chains. By the time the interview was over, all the weirdness of the night before had vanished. Sherwood, Ltd. was obviously well regarded in the community.

Even though they mostly published books about people having bad sex in clothing that featured black Pleather and grommets, I had to admit nothing really scary seemed to be going on. Time to stop worrying.

I was ravenous by the time the newspaper people left. As if reading my mind, Peter gave me a grin and said he was going to treat me to a “full English breakfast.”

We set out walking along a cobbled path beside the river, between weeping willows and old brick buildings hung with pots of cascading flowers. Peter stopped and pointed at the far bank, where the fluffy sheep grazed in their blossom-strewn meadow.

“That’s Nottinghamshire on the far side. Sherwood Forest used to come right up to the river in Robin Hood’s time. Richard the Lionheart’s time, I should say. Nobody’s quite sure when—or if—Robin Hood existed. But I like to believe, don’t you?”

Although the flat, treeless meadow looked nothing like a forest, I did want to believe—in Robin Hood and Maid Marian and Merry Olde England, and Sherwood.

Peter led me around the picturesque town, by an open market where peddlers and farmers sold brightly colored ribbons, produce, cakes and meat—probably much as they had in Robin Hood’s day—and down a narrow street to an adorable café called The Mary Ann Evans Tea House.

“It’s where Mary Ann Evans, a.k.a. George Elliot, lived when she wrote her great novel,
The Mill on the
Floss
,” he told me.

We sat at a tiny lace-covered table and ate two “full English” breakfasts—heaping platters of sausage, mushrooms, beans, grilled tomatoes, eggs, something savory called “black pudding,” and fried bread. It was enough to feed a family for a week, but I ate and ate. The abundance helped quell the panic that had been living in my stomach for months.

I relaxed and listened to Peter tell me the history of the town—founded by a Viking named Sven Forkbeard—Swinsby meant “Sven’s home” he said—and of the mighty river Trent, which George Elliot had dubbed “the Floss” in her famous novel.

“The name Trent comes from the Celtic word meaning ‘trespasser’,” he said. “Because the river floods its banks so often. It has a tidal bore called the Aegir: a wave caused by the funnel shape at the river’s mouth. It’s unpredictable, especially in spring. I’m a damned good sailor, but I’d rather fight a Caribbean hurricane than the Aegir in April.”

The darkness of his tone felt ominous.

But his sunnyness returned as we finished up our feast and he led me on a walking tour of the little town—its medieval manor house where Henry VIII had met Katherine Parr, and the hill where Cromwell and the Royalists once battled.

As we walked along a path lined with flowering trees that showered pink petals on us like rosy snow. I let Peter put an arm around me. Although the sky had clouded and a soft drizzle misted our clothes, I enjoyed exploring the ancient streets and listening to Peter fill me in on his own history, entertaining me with tales of his life as a rock music promoter.

“Then I sold up and chucked it all.” He stopped under an archway to light his pipe. “Four years ago, I bought a yacht and sailed to the Caribbean to live the richly rewarding life of a beach bum. I’d still be there if I my boat hadn’t sunk—and the banking collapse hadn’t bollixed up my finances.”

“It’s been hard on everybody,” I said. I hadn’t told him about my own slide into financial ruin, grateful he didn’t pry. I hoped he hadn’t read the nasty things Jonathan said about me during the throes of our divorce. He’d made me sound so cruel, when in truth, I hadn’t stopped loving the man; he’d stopped being the man I loved.

I kept on my polite smile, reminding myself to resist Peter and all this English charm. Jonathan had charmed me once, too. I needed to stay on my guard. It wasn’t just the kinky books. I still didn’t know the full story about Lance.

“What made you give up all that glamour and become a beach bum?” I asked, trying to banish my suspicions.

“My heart.” He clutched at his chest in that self-mocking way he had. “It broke. Literally. My wife left me for a drummer—took the kids, the house, everything—and then I had a heart attack. But the Caribbean was better medicine than any doctor could prescribe. I don’t even take me tablets any more half the time. I feel like a boy again.”

A heart attack. They did happen to youngish people, didn’t they? Like Lance. I should suspend my worries about murder until I had more facts. It would be as silly to succumb to irrational fear as to fall in love with such a charming stranger.

Peter brushed pink petals from his hair and went on with his tale.

“After my yacht went down, I flew home, and a sweet deal to buy Dominion Books fell into my lap. I saw their outsourced printing operations were eating their profits, so I rounded up the lads, bought some POD machines, and found the Maidenette Building here in Swynsby. They’re practically giving away real estate in this town to anybody who will bring jobs. A ladies’ underwear company abandoned the place nearly a decade ago.”

“Ladies’ underwear? Appropriate for Dominion books.”

Peter laughed. “Brilliant, isn’t it? I only needed something a quarter the size, but I couldn’t resist the idea of a knickers factory—and the price was too good to pass up.”

When we turned a corner I was surprised to see we were back on Threadneedle Street. The Merry Miller was just ahead, its timbers sagging with the weight of centuries of English history. The upstairs accommodations might be charming. I should rethink.

Peter gave my hand a squeeze.

“You’re helping to make this all happen for us—and for Swynsby, lass. You’re the first well-known author we’ll be publishing—and you’ll look a sight better than Trask on a telly chat show.” He stopped and looked into my eyes, his mocking mood gone, “Thank you so much, Camilla. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“I’m the one who should be grateful.” I tried not to react to the closeness of his body. “And you’re so efficient! I used to have to wait years for a book to come out with my old publisher.”

He gave a nervous laugh.

“We didn’t plan to accelerate quite this fast, but everything was in place: TV and radio spots, caterer for the launch party. I was planning to officially launch Major Oak Books at the same time as Trask’s book.”

I stepped away. Of course. This was Trask’s tour. Not about me at all. Okay, I had to ask the question rattling in my mind.

“What happened with Gordon Trask?”

Peter’s smile slipped for a moment, but he soon recovered his cheery tone.

“I haven’t the foggiest. Maybe it was that awful karaoke at the Merry Miller—perhaps it scrambled his brain. That’s new, you know—the karaoke. That chappie Alan Greene brought it in only a month or so ago. Something not right about that bloke. Bloody southerner.”

It was possible Trask had simply snapped. I remembered reading he’d had some sort of mental problems after Vietnam. Maybe he didn’t want the stress of a book tour.

“Look!” Peter pointed toward the river, where a rainbow had appeared in the mist, with another forming above it. “A double rainbow. I think it’s a sign we’re going to have a great partnership, Camilla Randall.”

He looked in my eyes, then leaned over and kissed me, long and hard.

I could blame all those romantic Robin Hood films, or Hugh Grant, who made the self-deprecating Englishman such an irresistible sex object; or even the disorienting effects of jet travel. But the truth is the fault was entirely my own.

But I can’t say I regret playing Lady Marian to Peter’s Robin Hood. And there was nothing “pervy” about his gentle, generous lovemaking.

We were lying on the futon, under the duvet, beneath the painting of the Major Oak, basking in our blissfully silly, animal act, when the door burst open. It was Davey.

“We’ve no bloody paper,” he said. “I can’t finish the Whippington run. Our Friday shipment wasn’t delivered because the last check bounced. Which my paycheck did as well, by the way… are you awake under there?”

Davey caught sight of me and his fearsome eyebrows glowered.

“Oh, Duchess, you didn’t…Peter, you’re an ass.”

He slammed the door and was gone.

Davey’s intrusion didn’t seem to have the alarming effect on Peter that it did on me. He laughed. I fought grogginess and tried to tell myself I’d mis-heard.

But a familiar panic seized my gut. I seemed to have come halfway around the world to work with somebody in as dire financial straits as me. Somebody who seemed to be as much of a slimeball with women as my ex-husband

“Vera must have been slow making the deposits again.” The futon bounced as Peter jumped off. “It’s disappointing we won’t have Henry’s book for the delivery date, but the pervs will survive without their new dose of smut for a few days. I’ll sort out things with Vera in the morning.”

I opened one eye as he flipped the light switch. In the bright fluorescent glow, his pale body looked skinny and child-like, except for a few blond chest hairs. His sweet vulnerability rekindled my warmth.

“Do you have to go? Is it morning?” I held my arms out to him.

But he barely gave me a glance as he grabbed his jeans and sweater from the back of his office chair and scrambled into them.

“No lass, it’s still Sunday.” He put on his watch—a showy blue and gold Rolex Yachtmaster II. “But we’ve slept half the evening away. It’s high time we went down the pub.” He gave my shoulder another pat. “Don’t worry, lass. Davey will be fine once I’ve poured a few pints in him. Besides, it’s quiz night. With you on our team, we’ll beat them all to hell on the bloody American geography questions.”

“It’s nighttime? You’re going out?” I didn’t bother to cover a yawn. I hadn’t the slightest desire to go “down the pub.” All I wanted was sleep—for days, weeks—however long it took for all the crazy panic to go away for good.

“You’ll come, won’t you?” Peter gave me a quick kiss. “Don’t mind Davey. Bloody Northumbrian. Those Geordie bastards are in a temper from the day they’re born. Any normal bloke would be happy to have an excuse not to work on a Sunday night. Besides—the lads need him for quiz night. The locals keep beating us. Bloody embarrassing. Please come?” He handed me the clothes I’d left draped on the desk.

I pushed sleep from my brain as Peter sat next to me on the futon and put on his shoes—Bruno Maglis, from the look of them. Six hundred dollar shoes and a ten thousand dollar watch. Even in the heyday of his TV talk show, Jonathan wouldn’t have made such purchases lightly. Peter must be used to money. Every new business had cash flow problems—and dark little Davey did always seem in a foul mood. I suppressed the fears again. Peter was a wealthy businessman who believed in my book. Besides, he was adorable—and a gentle, cuddly lover.

As we walked through the evening drizzle to the Merry Miller, I told Peter about my thoughts of taking a room there after all. “Earplugs might make the situation bearable.”

Peter looked wounded. “I thought that now…you might want to bunk with me.”

I’d often written in my column about how too much togetherness, too soon, destroys a relationship. But Peter’s kicked-puppy look warned me that this was not the time to quote the Manners Doctor.

Instead I gave him a kiss.

“I’m flattered by your offer, but a lady needs her privacy.”

He kissed me back, and kept his arm around me as we walked.

“We’ll find you some decent digs soon,” he said as we reached the Merry Miller. “Better than here. Don’t bother Brenda right now.”

His tone had the sound of a command, so I dropped the subject.

The place was crowded and loud, but the atmosphere seemed less merry than the night before. The “lads”—all but the Professor—were already at their booth, scowling into their beers. The big, scarred man with the shaved head, who seemed to have no name but “Ratko,” greeted Peter with an expression even darker than Davey’s.

“You’re buying tonight, Peter,” he said. “Brenda says it’s cash only from now on. Which we ain’t got, on account of our paychecks bouncing, doncha know. Me bank account wouldn’t spit out a penny at the hole-in-the-wall today. Same with all of us.”

Liam gave Peter a sulky look over his bottle of Belgian lager and Davey nodded.

Vera’s slow depositing seemed to be having a lot of repercussions. Odd that Peter didn’t look concerned.

“Alan was kind enough to buy us a round.” Ratko nodded at the karaoke man.

Alan turned to me. “Nice to see you again, Duchess. I hope you’ve got your thinking cap on. These blokes have lost the past three quiz nights.”

So “Duchess” seemed to be my new nickname. It wasn’t flattering to be linked with the unpopular, aging second wife of the Prince of Wales, but I smiled anyway.