The Trouble With Emma (29 page)

She remembered, too, the young woman in the poppy-print dress she’d seen with him in London, the day she’d spent with Mark and his nephews. The girl had been angrily texting someone on her mobile phone. Only after Mr Churchill appeared, and offered her a few soothing words of reassurance, had she taken his arm and strolled away with him.

Who was she? Emma wondered. If she were another of his conquests, as she suspected, then James Churchill was a
very
busy man indeed…

“Emma. Fancy meeting you here.”

She spun around to see Mr Knightley. He regarded her with a slightly raised brow and a quizzical expression. “Mark! What are you doing here?”

“Like you, I came out for a walk. We finished for the day a few minutes ago, so I thought I’d enjoy a bit of this perfect – and rare – English weather before I close myself up in my hotel room for the night.”

“Are you a vampire in reverse, Mr Knightley?” she teased. “Closeting yourself away at night and prowling by day? This is Litchfield, you know, not Whitby.”

“How clever of you to figure me out.” He smiled. “You know all of my secrets now.”

Although she returned his smile, his words gave her pause.

Your Mr Knightley is a dark horse.

Emma fell into step beside him, and Isabella’s words rang in her head as they made their way back down the hill.

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to leave your hotel room, and Litchfield, behind,” she observed after a moment.

He glanced at her. “Yes and no. There are some aspects – my hotel room, living out of a suitcase, dealing with Simon and Jackie – that, I confess, I won’t miss in the least. But there are others,” he added, and looked at her and away again, “that I shall miss, very much.”

Chapter 52

She felt a thrill at his words. Did he – could he – possibly refer to her?

But of course not, Emma scolded herself. Mark Knightley had no interest in her. She and her father were just two of many people he’d met during the course of filming the programme. He’d meet many more, no doubt, and he’d soon forget all about them…and her.

He’d return to London, just like Tom and all the rest, and that, as they said, would be that.

“I can hardly believe that the month has gone, and filming’s nearly over,” she said now. “Time is slipping away.”

With summer waning and the tourists gone, Litchfield had returned to the quiet village it was before the invasion of sand-pail toting children, teenagers, and sun cream-slathered couples. The regatta bunting and ice cream vans were gone as well. It was early September, and already there was a hint of chill in the air.

“I love this time of year,” she went on, pausing to let Elton sniff a fencepost. “The sky’s so blowy and blue, and the holiday makers are gone, and everything settles down and returns to normal.”

“You don’t like the summer crowds?”

“Oh, I like them well enough. They keep the shops and restaurants busy for the season. But I prefer the off-season. The bake sales, the craft shows, the hand-stitched quilts for sale, draped over someone’s fence…I look forward to it. All of it.”

“You make it sound charming.”

“It is. Once you lot are gone, daddy will head straight back to the kitchen, baking pies and scones and sending the scents of cinnamon and cardamom wafting all through the house.”

He stopped. “You’re making me very, very hungry.” He eyed her. “I’ve not eaten much of anything all day. I suspect you haven’t, either.”

She shook her head. “I’ve not had time. I’ve been too busy helping Martine turn out the beds and give the house a good cleaning before winter sets in and our first guests arrive.”

“Would you like to join me at the hotel for an early dinner? After we take this fellow home, of course,” he added, and smiled down at Elton.

“I would.” And as she agreed, Emma realised she was quite ravenous herself.

And so it was settled; and in no particular hurry, she and Mark and Elton made their way together back to Litchfield Manor.

***

“Tell me something, Mark,” Emma ventured later, after they’d finished their entrées and studied the dessert menu.

“Ask me anything,” he agreed, and paused. “Except…”

Her eyes widened. “Except what?”

“I won’t tell you where my casket’s hidden,” he confided, and leaned forward. “I don’t want you slipping into my room at midnight and driving a stake through my heart.”

She regarded him in mock affront. “I’d never do that. It’s incredibly rude. Not to mention messy. I might get blood on my best dress.” She glanced down at her ivory cashmere jumper in regret. “I’ve already managed to get wine on my sweater.”

He took a bundled napkin from the table next to theirs and dumped out the cutlery, dipping the napkin in his water glass before holding it out to her. “Dab it with this.”

She took the napkin but eyed it doubtfully. “Plain water?”

“Works a treat. The trick is to dab, not scrub the stain, and it’ll come out. Promise.”

“You’re full of surprises.” She smiled, still not convinced, but did as he said. “Script writing, child minding, household tips… If this stain
does
come out, I’ll be forever in your debt, but my jumper will stay damp for the rest of the evening.” She regarded him with an upraised brow. “I might catch my death of cold. And if I do, it’ll be all
your
fault.”

“You can come up to my room and stay until it dries.” His eyes met hers across the table, and all traces of amusement were gone. “It might take some time. But you can stay as long as you like.”

Emma felt a wave of heat rise from her throat to her face. “Mr Knightley,” she managed to say after a moment, struggling to keep her tone light, “are you asking me to…stay the night, with you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to; his eyes said everything that needed to be said.

A flutter of desire – and nerves – gripped her. “How very improper of you.” She was only half teasing. “You’ve caught me a bit off guard.”

“We’re both adults, Emma.” He rested his forearms on the table’s edge. “I want you, I make no secret of that; and I think you want me, too. There’s nothing more to be said, surely?”

She blushed. “Well, since you put it that way…no. I suppose not.”

“What is it?” he asked her, gently. “If you have any doubts –?”

“No doubts, at least – not precisely.” She hesitated. “It’s just that you sound as if you’re brokering a business deal. I can’t help but feel as though I should sign a document first, before we take things any further.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked taken aback, and slightly embarrassed. “It wasn’t my intention to be so…so unromantic.” He ploughed a hand through his hair and grimaced. “I’m rubbish at this sort of thing, I admit. I’m badly out of practice.”

Emma smiled and laid her hand atop his. “Then that’s greatly to your credit. I’m out of practice myself. But –” her smile stilled and her eyes grew serious. “I confess, I feel the same, Mr Knightley. Shall we go upstairs?”

Without further conversation, he signalled the waiter and paid the bill, signing his name on the slip with a flourish, and stood.

And as he drew out her chair and escorted her from the dining room, Emma’s hand slipped into his, and she followed him upstairs to his room, her previous doubts forgotten.

They were barely through the hotel room door when Mark kissed her.

His arms came around Emma, and he pressed her hard against the entryway wall as his lips devoured hers, moving down her neck to the slope of her shoulder, finding and tasting the tender skin behind her ear. She let out a soft sigh of pleasure and offered no resistance.

She relished the feel of him against her.

He was all she was not – hard, muscled, strong, bold – and she revelled in the differences between them. How she’d longed to feel his thick, gorgeous hair sliding through her fingers, how she’d dreamt of kissing him like this – with no constraint, their hands clutching, stroking, rubbing each other as they kissed with open mouths and seeking tongues – now it was a dream no more, but reality.

Emma felt the back of her legs touch the sofa, and found herself sprawled upon the cushions with Mark atop her, still kissing her.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he confessed as he dragged his mouth from hers.

“How long?”

“Since that first day I saw you in the bakery.”

She bracketed his face in her hands. “When you detected that first, intoxicating whiff of the barnyard –?”

“Damn it, Emma,” he growled, and brushed a stray strand of hair back from her cheek. “Let it go.”

And with a sigh of pleasure as his lips found hers once again, she did.

Chapter 53

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Emma sat up afterwards to see their clothes and shoes strewn on the floor in front of the sofa, and she blushed. “I feel so wanton,” she confessed as she nestled, naked, back against him. “And completely unrepentant.”

He brushed his lips against the top of her head. “I have no regrets, Emma.” He frowned. “None. Except for one, perhaps.”

She lifted her head and regarded him quizzically. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“I only regret we didn’t do this sooner. Such a waste of time.”

“I agree.” She smiled and snuggled back against his chest, her fingers toying with the light matting of hair. “You’ll be leaving soon, going back to London.” Her smile faded as she bit her lip. “And other parts unknown.”

“London’s hardly Antarctica,” he pointed out. “It’s only a couple of hours away; we can still see each other. And we will.” His words left no room for debate on the matter. “So there’s no need for you to worry.”

She tightened her arms around him and felt sadness well up inside her, sudden and strong. “I miss you already.”

He put his hand under her chin and tipped it back to fix her eyes with his. “There’s a remedy for that, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Would you like me to show you?”

She met his gaze, and blushed. “I would, Mr Knightley. Very much.”

Later, when they were both languid and spent, Mark got up, resplendent in his unapologetic nakedness, and went into the kitchenette to fix them a snack. “Tea and biscuits?” he inquired. “Sorry, but that’s all I’ve got on hand.”

“Please.” She sat up on one elbow and eyed him. “Only, have a care. I wouldn’t want you to spill hot water on anything…important.”

He laughed. “No danger of that, I assure you.”

“Mark,” Emma asked as he turned away and busied himself fetching two foam cups and a plate for the biscuits, “tell me something.”

“Of course.”

“That day you came into the bakery and asked for directions to Litchfield Manor, you said that you’d been there before, years ago.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. My mother took me there once, to talk to Mr Bennet. He was the vicar then, so it must’ve been a church-related matter. I don’t remember much about it.”

“Was your mother a parishioner?”

“No. We lived in Surrey, in Richmond. But she knew of your father; he and my father went to seminary together.”

“So your father was a vicar, too?”

“God, no. He left seminary, and got accepted to Sandhurst and started a new life with a commission in the British Army.” He turned away. “Mum often remarked that Mr Bennet impressed her straight away with his sensitivity and compassion. Two things,” he added evenly, “that my father sorely lacks.”

“Oh.” Emma frowned. “How odd. I wonder what they would have talked about, my father and your mum?”

“No idea.” He opened a package of Hobnobs and arranged several on a paper plate. “I played outside the entire time. We stopped somewhere afterwards, at a little farm stand nearby, for eggs. My mother talked to a man, and he spoke with me for a few minutes and gave me a sweet, and when we left, she cried. That’s the only reason the memory sticks, I suppose. My mother seldom cried.”

He returned with the plate of biscuits, balanced carefully atop two cups of tea in his hands, and sat next to her. “Here we go.”

Emma reached out for the plate and set it down, then took a cup and a sip of tea. “Perfect…strong, with just a tiny splash of milk.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He picked up a Hobnob and took a bite. “Why the questions?”

She took another sip of tea and considered his question. Granted, it was difficult to concentrate, with an exceptionally handsome naked man sitting next to her eating a biscuit, but she
did
try.

“Just curious. I remember you mentioning you’d once been to Litchfield Manor, and I wondered what brought you to our house, that’s all.”

“Well, now you know.”

“What’s he like, Mark? Your father?”

He brushed the crumbs from his fingers. “He’s remote and, growing up, he was seldom home due to his military career. He left the seminary early on for the life of an officer in the British Army. He was an infrequent, and thankfully a largely absent, father.”

“I’m sorry.” She touched his arm. “That must’ve been difficult.”

“Not really.” He shrugged. “Until she died, we managed pretty well, mum and I. The only bad times were the ones when he was around. You’re very lucky to have a father like Mr Bennet. He’s a good man.” His expression closed as he handed the plate to her. “Biscuit?”

It was plain he had no further wish to talk about his relationship with his father, and Emma let the subject go. “Thanks. Perhaps just one –”

The angry buzz of her mobile phone sounded from inside her handbag, where she’d tossed it on the floor in the entryway.

“That’s yours,” Mark said.

“Sorry. I thought I’d turned it off.” Emma rose and padded, naked, to her handbag and knelt down to retrieve it. “Probably nothing…”

But as she saw Martine’s number displayed on her screen, she frowned. Why on earth would she be calling Emma at – she cast a guilty glance at her wristwatch – half past nine on a Monday evening?

“What is it?” Mark asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just had a call from Martine.” She put the phone to her ear and listened to the message.

“Miss Emma,” Martine said in a rush, sounding frantic, “it’s me. Mr Bennet’s gone and fallen off the ladder while he was paintin’ the shutters, and now the ambulance is here to fetch him to hospital. I don’t think he’s bad hurt, but he’s in a fair bit of pain all the same, so I thought I’d call as I knew you’d want to know.”