Page 71 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
Vicky had been delighted when Dan the builder had rung to say that a last-minute delay on another contract, due to an unforeseen problem with the drainage on the site, meant that he could fit in the work on the cottage straight away, if it was convenient.
Since then it had been full on. Scaffolders had arrived at seven thirty the next morning so the men could get started on replacing the cracked roof tiles and the guttering.
The second-hand furniture shop on Church Road had been very happy to take Molly’s bed and the recliner, but the mattress and the sofa were now sitting in the front garden waiting to be collected by the council’s recycling lorry.
Keeping them company was a large yellow skip now full of building debris, including the old toilet and sink from the bathroom. The bathroom had been tiled and the new items installed — Dan knew someone who could come and repair the enamel on the bath.
The cottage was full of noise and dust, loud music blasting from a radio, and half a dozen beefy young men working around each other as they rewired the electrics and replaced the radiators. They were a friendly bunch — she knew all of them by name now, and how much sugar they liked in their tea.
She had been glad to escape to the garden most of the time, where there was plenty of weeding to do. In the evenings she’d been able to sit down at the kitchen table with her laptop and do some work on her book.
She had created her two main characters. She could see them so easily. Lady Cecily, lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth Woodville, was fair, delicate. An English rose, but with a steel core and a deep loyalty to the queen.
And he — Lord William Beaufort — was tall, with wide shoulders and a face carved in strong planes and angles. And dark, dark eyes that could glint in sardonic amusement, or glow with a warmth that could ignite the fires inside her.
Her sketch of the genealogy had made William a cousin of the Duke of Somerset. She had decided that he had been wounded and captured in the Battle of Losecoat, and was being held at Ludlow Castle.
She had already written the scene when the two had first met. The queen had sent her with a special ointment to dress his wounds — a slash on his forehead and a sword-thrust beneath his shoulder. She had enjoyed writing that — Cecily’s first reaction to a glimpse of his hard-muscled chest.
Now she was going to write a scene where they wouldalmostkiss. With a coffee close to hand she closed her eyes and let her imagination roll...
“You’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Lord Richard has negotiated an exchange of prisoners.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“Are you?”
“Of course. You’ll be back with your own people, your friends.”
“Yes. But...” He lifted his hand and touched her cheek, so gently. “You’re crying.”
“I’m not . . . I am. I’ll miss you. We’ve been . . . friends . . .”
“Yes . . .”
Did she lean in to him, or did he lean in to her? Gazing up into those mesmerising dark eyes, she felt as if she was melting inside. Her lips parted as his head bent over hers...
A clatter of footsteps on the stairs drove them apart...
Vicky dragged in a long, ragged breath. She had been drawn right into it — and it hadn’t been Lord William in the vivid scene, but Tom Cullen. Her heart was racing, the image of that hard-boned face had seemed so close to hers — so close that she could almost feel the heat of his breath against her cheek.
Oh, boy . . .
Quickly she saved the file and put the laptop aside. She urgently needed a coffee... No, not coffee — she was going to have enough trouble getting to sleep. Camomile tea might help — if she had any. Or maybe a strong hit of whiskey.
Molly had left a half-full bottle of rather good eighteen-year-old triple-distilled Irish malt in the walnut sideboard, with a set of fine crystal tumblers. She poured herself three fingers, laughing as she toasted herself.
“Oh, Lord William — you’re absolutely gorgeous. You’re going to be one heck of a problem for poor Cecily.” And the same could be said for Tom Cullen.
Draining the whiskey, she went up to bed.
* * *
“How’s it going?”
Vicky rolled her eyes at Debbie’s question. “Don’t ask! I’ve been exiled from the sitting room while they’re sanding the floor — there’s dust everywhere.”
