The Runaway Bridesmaid (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rosie had enjoyed their baking sojourn so much that, in a moment of madness, she had agreed to Charlie’s invitation to spend the following afternoon with him in return. Charlie’s spontaneity was rubbing off on her, the queen of organisation and list-making. She would never have believed it if Lauren had told her she would be spending an afternoon with a guy without first of all arranging a visit to the beauty salon and spending the whole week searching for the perfect outfit. Here, she had no endless choices; it was her black jeans and stilettos and a pale blue cashmere-soft sweater she had borrowed from Emily and forgotten to return.

At least Charlie didn’t arrive on his bicycle this time. A disturbing mental picture had appeared of the two of them riding in tandem around the village in their scruffy Barbour jackets and Wellington boots, gracing the local pub for a pint of ale under the gawping stares of the local patrons. However, his chosen transport for their afternoon date could only be described as one step up on the transport evolutionary scale, as an ancient, Air Force-blue Land Rover screeched to a halt at her gate. Charlie had obviously begged the vehicle from the Manor’s head gardener, she realised as she peered over her shoulder into the back which was crammed with spades, hoes and a couple of deathly-looking pitch forks. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t have to brake suddenly.

She was relieved to see he’d not made a huge effort in the clothing department, evidence that he hadn’t misinterpreted their meeting as a romantic date. He still sported his scruffy, olive-green Barbour, its corduroy collar turned up at a jaunty angle, but today his Wellingtons had been replaced by a pair of very old Nike trainers in honour of their afternoon foray into the Devonshire countryside.

‘No Louboutins allowed where we’re going, Rosie,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s a pair of old Hunter boots in the back for you as I see you don’t own a pair of trainers. It’s two extremes with you, isn’t it? Either designer stilettos or Wellington boots. Taxi or bicycle.’

Rosie scrunched up her nose at the thought of sliding her bare feet into pre-owned Wellington boots. Charlie noticed and, with his trademark smirk, passed across a brown paper bag.

‘What’s this for?’

‘Open it.’

She removed a pair of fluffy white socks.

Charlie glanced across at her shocked expression as he dragged the Land Rover at speed around the tight bends of the country roads with ease and experience.

‘They’re from the hotel’s spa. Don’t ever say I don’t know how to treat a girl!’

She couldn’t supress her smile and relaxed back into the paint-splattered passenger seat, enjoying the patchwork of autumnal countryside flash by the window, until they swept an abrupt left onto a bumpy dirt track leading to an isolated farm on the edge of Dartmoor National Park.

‘What are we doing here?’

‘Wait and see, nosey.’

She rolled her eyes but leapt down onto the farm’s cobbled courtyard, shoving her fluffy-socked feet into Charlie’s ancient Wellingtons.

‘Now you are a proper country farm girl.’ He swung his arm around her shoulders and directed their path to the farm’s chaotic office, the plethora of scattered agricultural implements straight out of a Hollywood western.

‘Hi, Mike. This is Rosie, the “high-flying New York City executive” I told you about. But today she’s kindly agreed to ditch the Louboutins and the Prada to join us for a fun day out on the farm.’

Rosie ignored Charlie and shook hands with Mike, a thick-set, thirty-something guy shipped straight from central casting for the role of farmer’s son.

‘You’re lucky to have this guy for the whole afternoon, Rosie. Many a girl would kill for that opportunity,’ said Mike.

Yeah, right
, thought Rosie, wondering how much Charlie had slipped Mike to sing his praises.

‘Here are your helmets, guys; the bikes are ready. Help yourself, Charlie. You know the score.’

‘Cheers, Mike.’

Charlie’s eyes shone as he led Rosie to the dirt track behind the farmhouse, almost exuberant in his anticipation. He grinned at Rosie’s horrified expression when her eyes landed on the stationary contraptions waiting for their drivers.

‘It’s great fun, Rosie. Ever been on a quad bike?’

‘No way! Charlie, look, I’m not sure this is a…’

‘Come on, coward. Give it a go,’ and he tucked her bushy tresses behind her ears before slamming one of the helmets down tight onto her head. Their eyes met for a split second and a coil of nerves mingled with excitement and something else wriggled through Rosie’s stomach.

After a short safety briefing from Charlie, she was let loose on the track. She squeezed the throttle of the bike gently, steering carefully around the muddy bends, her back and shoulders arched, eyes focused in deep concentration on the route ahead.

‘Relax! Let the bike lead you. It’s easier if you increase the speed and go with the flow,’ shouted Charlie from astride his quad bike on a raised grassy hill where he followed Rosie’s delicate progress.

As Rosie gained confidence, Charlie shot off to the rear of the track where he let rip, whooping with joy at the freedom to increase his speed. She watched him, guessing he’d done this many times before. She realised with a jolt how little she knew of Charlie’s background except for his broken marriage and his dreams to become a chef. Where were his family? Why didn’t he have a girlfriend?

A moment’s lapse in her concentration sent her quad bike crashing into the side of a muddy mound, stalling the engine. Her whole body ached – her forearms and hands from the tension in her grasp on the handlebars, and her legs from controlling the heavy, powerful machine between her thighs. As she looked over her shoulder, she witnessed Charlie ascend a hardened slope of soil, lift the full weight of the bike into the air and land smoothly on the other side accompanied by a whoop of exhilaration.

‘Wow, I’d forgotten how much fun this is. Come on!’

They returned to the farmyard where Mike was waiting to retrieve their helmets.

‘Enjoy that, Rosie?’ He helped Rosie remove her helmet, freeing her unkempt mane to ripple loosely in the sudden gust of wind.

‘I think so.’ She rubbed her arms and stretched the small of her back with her palms.

Charlie smirked. ‘And the fun’s not over yet.’

‘What? No, no more, Charlie. My arms are like lead weights!’

‘Moaning Millie. Come on.’

They followed in Mike’s brawny wake, his long stride necessitating a scamper from Rosie to keep up. As they rounded the back of the stone-built farmhouse, she was blown away by the spectacular view out over the Dartmoor National Park. A bruised, heavy sky pressed down, darkened to indigo and violet, reflecting the carpet of purple heathers, russet bracken and gorse.

‘Storm brewing, so there is.’ Mike pointed across to the west where bulbous charcoal clouds swollen with rain scudded across the moor, closing in on the farm, preparing to dump their weighty contents. ‘Should have a half hour tops, Charlie, then stop – enjoy!’

He handed them each a recurve archery bow and wrinkled leather quiver stuffed full of old-fashioned wooden arrows, gesturing towards the field and the two adjacent targets attached to straw bales.

‘Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll show Rosie the ropes,’ Charlie offered.

Mike smirked, clearly knowing when he’d been dismissed and left them to it. ‘Coffee in the kitchen afterwards, and some of your carrot and cardamom cake, Charlie.’

Rosie didn’t recall Charlie handing over a carrot cake to Mike when they’d arrived, but she shoved that from her mind because she was so looking forward to this activity.

‘Okay, this is how you hold the bow.’

Rosie nestled her body into Charlie’s, the curve of her back snug against his stomach, taut as steel cable. His muscular arms wove around her slender shoulders and held the out-stretched bow, primed with an arrow, strong and firm. She sensed the whisper of his breath on her cheek and neck but feared twisting her head even an inch to the right, as she envisaged her lips would meet the moist welcome of his own. As slivers of desire snaked through her abdomen and her heart hammered in her ribcage, she was certain Charlie could feel the lustful beat through his chest. He smelled of mint and his favourite citrus cologne. Her knees weakened and she leaned further into Charlie’s warmth as he released the arrow. Its flight fell way short of the target.

He stepped away, releasing her from his circular embrace. ‘Do you think you’ve got the hang of it?’

‘Sure I have, Charlie. I’m not totally useless, you know. In fact, how about a little competition?’

‘I feel honour-bound to tell you that I
have
done this before, Rosie.’

‘Scared I’ll beat you?’

‘No way. Okay, the loser pays for dinner.’

‘Agreed,’ she smirked.

Charlie’s brow creased in concentration as he took up his stance. His first arrow hit the red circle, scoring seven points.

‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Rosie as she took up her own stance and directed her arrow to hit exactly the same spot on her target as Charlie had on his.

Charlie reloaded his bow. This time his arrow pierced the boundary between the red circle and the gold centre, scoring nine points. He looked over at her, a satisfied smile curling his lips into a similar bow-shape.

Once again Rosie took aim and hit the exact same spot on her own target. Glances were exchanged to the accompaniment of a deep growl of thunder rolling over the Dartmoor moors on the horizon. The panorama had changed to dark and desolate. They ignored it.

Withdrawing his final arrow, Charlie took aim – his dark eyes pinned on the gold centre circle. He paused, then released the shaft, following its graceful flight path to the piercing of the bull’s eye.

Rosie’s arrow replicated its cousin’s path.

‘Okay, what’s going on here?’

Rosie wished she had a camera to record the look on Charlie’s handsome face. At last she had been able to impress this cocky guy. She took a moment to savour the feeling of satisfaction, as well as to send up a silent prayer of thanks to her father and Arnie for all the afternoons she’d spent in their company at the Stonington Beach Archery Club.

‘I’m impressed. You sure are a dark horse, Miss Hamilton.’

‘See, I told you I’m not totally useless.’

Heavy droplets of rain the size of grapes had started to splatter the field as they sprinted back to the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen, arriving with their tousled curls plastered to their faces. Mike tossed over a tea towel each and gestured to the cafetière of ground coffee and a gooey slab of the promised carrot cake. ‘I’ll leave you to it, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to park up the bikes in the barn – looks like this storm is set for the night.’

‘Thanks, Mike. I had fun.’

‘You are welcome here any time, Rosie, even without this joker.’

They drained their coffees and were preparing to leave when Mike returned, soaked to the skin. ‘It’s bad out there Charlie, not sure your Land Rover will make it down the track. It’s like a quagmire in the Amazon rainforest.’

‘We’ll risk it, Mike, but thanks for the warning.’

‘Okay, send my regards to your mum and dad. They must be so relieved the season’s over for another year.’

‘Yeah, will do, Mike. Bye,’ said Charlie hurriedly as he guided Rosie through the door.

‘What did Mike mean? Are your parents farmers, too? I don’t know anything about your family, Charlie?’

‘Oh, Mike’s parents are friends with mine. We’ve known each other since we were kids, that’s all. Come on; better make a run for it.’

They galloped across the slick cobbles to the Land Rover, their heads bent low against the downpour. As they leapt up into the seats, the rain accelerated its onslaught and a violent shard of lightning split the blackened sky. Charlie revved the engine and began to pick his way back down the dirt road, the ancient vehicle rocking from side to side in the muddy crevices.

At the end of the mile-long track, the Land Rover’s wheels refused to breach a particularly deep pothole and the tyres could gain no grip in the sleek mud. The more power Charlie sought, the deeper the rut became. He slammed his fists on the steering wheel and turned to face Rosie.

‘There’s a village pub about half a mile in that direction where I can fulfil my debt of honour to pay for dinner, or we could sit it out here until Mike gets the tractor down to drag us free?’

‘Oh, the pub please, I’m starving,’ Rosie grinned. Despite the weather, surprisingly, she was enjoying herself.

‘Good choice.’

Charlie helped Rosie down from the cab and flipped up her Barbour’s collar, resting his eyes on her gold-flecked gaze. ‘I’m sorry our date turned out so wet and muddy. I guess my promise that I could show a girl a good time hasn’t exactly been fulfilled. Bet Austin is looking like a superhero now?’

Rosie grabbed his elbow and linked her arm through his. She hadn’t realised Charlie had viewed this afternoon as a proper date, more an afternoon opportunity to show off his sporting prowess. It was her turn to smirk now; she enjoyed sparring with Charlie and, for the first time, she’d scored two hits!

‘Okay, okay. I admit I wanted to show you that I possessed some talents like Able Austin, but how was I to know you’d been selected by the US Olympic team for archery?’

They trudged the half mile to the pub in a barrage of rain under a canopy of iron-heavy clouds, the green-tinged heavens crackling with meteorological pressure above them, the air close and humid.

That day the sky unleashed an unprecedented torrent of rain on Devon’s shores and moors. Bridges were washed away in mud-slides, villages were inundated despite sandbagged precautions, and even four-by-four vehicles were abandoned as roads became impassable fords.

Soaked to the skin with rain and sweat, they rushed into the welcoming shelter of The Dog and Gun. Rosie couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so grateful to see a roaring log fire in front of which to steam her clothes and toes.

‘Hi, Charlie. Good to see you, mate. Usual?’

‘Good grief, do you know everyone around here?’

‘Not exactly everyone, but Rosie, this is James Edwards, the best pub landlord and mate in the whole county of Devon. James and I went to school together.’