A Bride Worth Waiting For

‘Oh, yes. I’ve had every kind of scan, believe me.’ Liz searched Annie’s eyes, and frowned. Even then, in the midst of such agony, she noticed that something was wrong. Her hand found Annie’s, gripping it hard. ‘Annie, what is it? What’s happened to you? You shouldn’t be home yet. What’s going on? You look awful, my love.’

She swallowed the tears, not wanting to cry about something that must seem so remote to this very dear friend in the midst of her own grief, but unable to hold them back. ‘Etienne’s dead.’

Liz’s face was shocked. ‘What? How? Why?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. All they’d tell me was he’d been mugged in an alley in the town. He was with another man, and he was killed, too. They were beaten to death—’

‘Who would do such a thing? Do they know who did it?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. They wouldn’t tell me much. I just—Liz, I can’t believe it. First him, and now you—’

And then the dam burst, and they held each other and wept the raw, bitter tears of grief…

The gravel crunched under his tyres as he drew to a halt, cut the engine and got out, a lump in his throat. He was about to ring the doorbell when an elderly terrier trotted round the corner of the house and came up to him, sniffing.

‘Nipper?’

The dog pricked his ears, whined and jumped up at him, his stubby little tail thrashing wildly in apparent recognition, and the lump in his throat just got bigger.

‘Nipper, it is you,’ he murmured. ‘I can’t believe it! What a good old boy!’ He crouched down, and the dog lashed his face with his tongue in greeting, all the time whining and wagging and wriggling furiously under his hands, unable to get enough of his old friend.

‘Nipper! Nipper, get down! Bad dog. I’m so sorry. Nipper!’

He straightened slowly, taking in the changes that time had carved in his godmother’s face. The lump wedged itself in his throat, so that for a moment he couldn’t speak but could only stand there and let the homecoming fill his heart.

‘I’m so sorry about that. What can I do for you?’ she said, moving closer, and then suddenly she stopped, her hand flying to her mouth, the secateurs clattering unheeded to the ground at his feet. ‘Michael?’ she whispered sound-lessly, and then recovered herself. ‘I’m so sorry. For a moment there, I thought you were someone else—’

‘Oh, Peggy, I might have known I wouldn’t fool you,’ he said gruffly, and he felt his face contort into a smile as his arms opened to receive her…

A river of tears later, they were sitting in the kitchen, his godmother on one side, his godfather on the other, catching up on nine very long years while the dog lay heavy on his feet, endlessly washing his ankle above the top of his sock as if he couldn’t believe his old friend had really returned.

The dog wasn’t alone. Peggy kept touching his face, her fingers infinitely gentle and tentative, getting to know the new him.

‘It doesn’t hurt,’ he assured her quietly. Not much, at least. Not with the painkillers.

‘But it did. It must have done.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. It did. I’m glad you didn’t see it.’

She shook her head. ‘We should have been there for you.’

‘It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t safe. I’m sorry they had to tell you I was dead.’

‘I knew you weren’t,’ she told him. ‘The flowers on my birthday, the cards. They said you were dead, but I knew.’

‘I didn’t believe her,’ Malcolm said. ‘I thought she was imagining it. At one point I thought she had a secret admirer—someone from the local horticultural society.’

‘Silly man,’ Peggy said with a fond smile. ‘As if.’ She paused, then went on, ‘I don’t suppose you can tell us—’

He gave a twisted smile. ‘You know better than to ask that. I’ve told you all I can. It’s all over the television, anyway—and all that really matters is that it’s over and I’m alive—even if I don’t really look like me any more.’

His godfather nodded wordlessly. ‘If I may say so,’ he muttered gruffly, ‘the nose is better.’

He chuckled. ‘I agree. The nose is a bonus. The headaches I could live without, and the teeth aren’t great. At least they don’t go in a glass at night, though, so I should be thankful for small mercies.’

‘So—I take it they gave you a new identity? Who’ve you been all this time?’

‘Michael Harding.’

‘Oh—like the thriller writer. How ironic. I’ve read all his books…love ‘em. Fancy you having the same name.’

‘I am the writer,’ he said diffidently, and shrugged. ‘I had to do something while I was marking time, and I thought I might as well put all that experience to good use. I had no idea it was going to be such a success or that I’d love it so much.’

Peggy’s eyes filled again and she nodded slowly. ‘I wondered if it was you. I could hear your voice in the words. Oh, Michael, I’m so proud of you!’

Malcolm’s hand curled round his shoulder, squeezing tight as he stood up. ‘Absolutely. And your parents would have been proud—very, very proud, and with good reason. Many good reasons.’

‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly, unbearably touched. ‘I’m just glad they didn’t have to go through what you have done.’

‘Amen to that.’ He harrumphed and made a great production of clearing his throat. ‘Well, I think this calls for a drink,’ he said, retrieving a bottle of champagne from the fridge and putting three flutes on the table. He stripped off the foil and twisted the wire cage, just as Michael put his hand in his pocket.

‘There’s something else you should know,’ he said, and pulled out a photograph and slid it on to the table. ‘It seems I have a son.’

The cork popped loudly in the silence and, while the wine foamed unheeded over Malcolm’s hand, Peggy started to weep again.

CHAPTER TWO

‘GOOD morning.’

She looked up, and for a second her heart stopped.

And then he moved, stepped forwards into the room, and as the light hit his face Annie felt the stupid, foolish hope drain away and her heart started again.

She picked up a tea towel, drying her hands for something to do that didn’t involve anything fragile like crockery. Crazy. For a moment there—but it was silly. It was just because she’d been thinking about him—

‘You OK?’ he asked, his voice low and rough and strangely sensuous. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

She nearly laughed aloud, and dragged her eyes from the battered, lived-in face in front of her, staring down in bewilderment at her shaking hands. Lord, she should have stopped doing this after all these years, clutching at straws, seeing him in any random stranger, but there was just something—

‘Sorry. You reminded me of someone. Can I get you anything?’

He shook his head. ‘You must be Annie Miller. I’m Michael Harding—your landlord. It’s good to meet you. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’

He held out his hand, and she dropped the tea towel and reached over the cakes and placed her hand briefly in his warm, strong grasp—a grasp that was somehow safe and solid and utterly reassuring.

She fought the urge to leave her hand there—probably for ever—and tried to remember how to talk.

‘That’s OK, I know you’re busy. Ruth said you’d be coming over,’ she told him, her voice unaccountably breathless. She retrieved her hand and found a smile from somewhere, and his lips tilted in answer, a crooked, distorted smile, one corner of his mouth strangely reluctant. It should have made him ugly, but it didn’t, something about the eyes and firm, sculpted lips devastatingly attractive—