The Bride Wore Scarlet

He looked as if he really meant it. She followed him over the cobbled approach feeling awful, because she had promised, hadn’t she? She hated letting people down, and never did, if she could help it. But she couldn’t help feeling sorry for Enid, who was in love with him, and his parents who were so anxious to see him settle down.

Annie hadn’t expected to be able to eat a thing. But after relishing the delicious crispy bacon and scrambled eggs she knew that not even a guilty conscience could curb her healthy appetite.

And the coffee was good, very good, and as Mark poured a second cup for them both he said, ‘Look at it from my point of view. I didn’t ask Enid to fall in love with me, or to “Save herself” for me, as Mum so archly puts it. She’s your age and never had a boy-friend—and I guess that makes me feel guilty. But, dammit all, I shouldn’t have to!’

He looked so grim. Annie couldn’t help but sympathise. Only a week ago, after a particularly hectic day at the Threadneedle Street head office of his import/export business, he had invited her to his parents’ home for the August Bank Holiday weekend. It coincided with his mother’s birthday, and, as with any family gathering, he’d told her resignedly, Enid Mayhew would be there, gazing at him with adoring eyes and following him around as if tied to him with invisible string.

The daughter of a near neighbour, she’d had a crush on him since she wore gymslips and pigtails and braces on her teeth, and his entire family—including his rather terrifying-sounding big brother—thought Enid eminently suited for the part of tying him down, putting a curb on his wilder schemes and generally domesticating him.

‘If you appear as my guest—five-four of gorgeous curves, dressed to knock their eyes out—they might all get the message,’ he’d said. ‘Let me alone to get on with my life. I love them all to pieces, but I want them off my case. I’m sick of them throwing Enid at my head!’

It hadn’t seemed too much to ask then, but now, cradling her cup in her hands, savouring the strong dark brew and watching his gloomy expression with sympathy, she asked, ‘And what do you feel about Enid—as a person?’

At first he looked as if he didn’t understand the question. Then he shrugged. ‘She’s fine. I’m very fond of her. She can be good company when she forgets to moon over me, and there isn’t a mean bone in her body. But—’ he set his coffee cup down with a clatter ‘—that doesn’t mean I want her tethered to me like a whopping great anchor. I want to fly high.’

He already had, Annie thought, but wisely held her tongue. His business wasn’t the tinpot affair Rupert had scathingly called it. Business was booming and, ironically, two months after she’d broken her engagement, Mark’s assistant had left to set up a PR consultancy and she had been chosen to take his position at a hugely increased salary.

So it seemed that without even trying she had become what Rupert had wanted her to be. A career woman. Certainly she had put all her fond ideas of marriage and a family on hold.

She wouldn’t let another man into her life until she was sure his aims were the same as her own.

She wouldn’t let another man get close to her until she could find one who could make her senses sing to sweet wild music, just as...

But she was not going to think about that, because whenever she did embarrassment sent her into a state resembling shock, all bound up with a decidedly uncomfortable riot of clamouring hormones.

Discovering that the stranger she’d leapt on had been none other than the chief executive of the bank, Daniel Faber, had given her screaming inner hysterics, and Rupert’s slagging off as he’d driven her home on that dreadful December night—on the unsuitability of her dress, her untidy hair, the way she’d skulked in a corner, then practically dragged him away—had been just what she’d needed to tell him to get lost, to get out of her life and stay out

So she could understand why Mark wanted to get his family off his back. Nobody liked the feeling of being forced into a mould they didn’t fit.

‘I guess I should have said I couldn’t make it,’ Mark said gloomily. ‘Invented some excuse. But Mum would hate Dan or me to miss her birthday. I’m too fond of the old meddler to fob her off with a lie and a bouquet of flowers by Interflora.’

Any man who was good to his mother had Annie’s vote. And she knew how awful it was when people tried to turn you into something you could never be.

Annie stood up from the table, smoothing the soft silky shorts over her curvy hips, settling her big round sunglasses back on the end of her neat nose. ‘I’m on. Crisis over. So lead the way and tell me something about your home county. All I know about Herefordshire is that it’s crammed with black and white Tudor houses...’

Mark’s family home wasn’t one of the timber-frame houses the county boasted but a mellow stone rambling affair, surrounded by trees in heavy, late summer leaf. Hot sunlight beamed down from a cloudless sky and a pack of dogs of all shapes and sizes streamed from the open door in welcome.

Mark, retrieving their luggage, said, ‘If you want to get Dad on side, admire his roses. Since he retired, the garden’s given him a new lease of life. And if you praise Mum’s cooking and clear your plate she’ll forgive you anything.’

Anything? Even stealing her beloved younger son away from the so-suitable Enid? Mark had promised Annie he wouldn’t go so far as to say they were an item, or make advances—public or otherwise. He’d stated that her presence as his guest would be enough because of the way she looked, and because he hadn’t taken a girl home since his college days—the type of woman he socialised with in London wasn’t the type to take home to meet the family. Nevertheless, she was getting cold feet all over again, agonising over whether her shorts were too skimpy, her top too revealing.

Bending down, she greeted the tide of dogs to hide her misgivings, wishing she were back in her Earl’s Court flat, listening to Cathy rave about her latest boyfriend or discuss the merits of the newest fad diet.

‘Annie, I’d like you to meet my parents.’ Mark’s voice, laid-back as ever, had her shooting upright. Hopefully they’d relate the flush she could feel creeping all over her skin—every exposed inch of it—to the enthusiastic licking the dogs had bestowed on her.

Mr and Mrs Redway were both somewhere in their sixties, his mother comfortably plump, his father tallish, sparish, very much an older version of Mark himself, his curly nut-brown hair greying, his hazel eyes hinting at a smile that had gone into hiding at the moment.

The greeting she received was nothing if not polite. Too polite, Annie thought, cringing.

Then, ‘Take your things up, Mark. I’ll show Miss Kincaid to her room. And Father, fetch Enid from the kitchen; we have time for a drink before lunch.’ Mark’s mother turned to her son, her smile wistful. ‘The dear girl’s making preparations for the buffet this evening. She refuses to let me do a thing. So thoughtful—as always.’

Maternal frost enveloped Annie as she followed her reluctant hostess up the twisty stairs, along one corridor then down another—as far from Mark’s room as she could possibly get, she guessed.

Annie felt like turning tail and running, but when the older woman paused, pushed open an ancient oak-board door and said, ‘Your room, Miss Kincaid. I do hope you’ll be comfortable,’ she grabbed her slipping courage by the edges, decided to be herself and not the threatening femme fatale that her boss thought his family would see her as, smiled warmly and insisted, ‘Call me Annie. It’s awkward, isn’t it, when strangers descend on you? I was brought up by an elderly aunt who had to have a week’s notice, preferably in writing, before anyone dropped by for afternoon tea! And by the way, many happy returns of the day.’

‘Oh—Mark must have told you!’ The blue eyes crinkled with pleasure and Annie nodded, her smile widening.

‘Of course he did. He wouldn’t have missed your birthday for the world. You know,’ she added confidingly, ‘although he likes to fly high and far, the homing instinct’s very strong. He’ll always come home to roost.

‘I was going to bring you flowers, but he said they’d have wilted long before we got here.’ She walked further into the room—pretty and airy, rosy sprigged wallpaper, its delicate pattern repeated on the curtains and bedspread. ‘I don’t know your tastes, but I remembered Mark once mentioning your weakness for Belgian chocolates.’ She bent and opened her weekend case, scrabbling around for the gift-wrapped box, uncomfortably aware of the brevity of her vividly coloured shorts.

But when she turned and extended the beribboned package there wasn’t a hint of disapproval on her companion’s comfy face.

‘How kind, Annie.’ She took the gift. Then, after a tiny pause, asked, ‘Have you been seeing my son for long?’

Annie wasn’t going to lie to this patently nice woman. ‘I work for him. We’re friends. Nothing more than that.’

If he could hear her, Mark would probably fire her on the spot—or reduce her salary by half. But Annie wasn’t into subterfuge and there wasn’t much she could do about it. Whether his mother believed her or not was another thing. But at least the older woman did seem more relaxed.

‘Come down as soon as you’ve freshened up. There’s a bathroom right opposite. We’ll all have drinks out in the garden—out of the front door, turn right and you’ll find us. Dan should be home any time now, and then we can have lunch.’

‘Dan’ would be big brother, Annie thought, the confidence engendered by being her natural self seeping out of her as soon as she found herself alone.

Meeting the lovelorn Enid would be the next hurdle. She’d rather not jump it, would rather skulk in her room.

She wondered whether to change and decided against it. Whatever she put on she’d still be noticeable. Unpacking took five minutes, washing and renewing her make-up—sunblock and her usual scarlet lipstick—took another five, while brushing the tangles out of her windblown mane took ten.

Irritated with the whole situation now, she dropped her brush down in the clutter she’d already created on the pretty Victorian dressing table and headed for the door. Only another forty-eight hours or so to get through, so she’d just have to grin and bear it—and remind herself to harden the mush that passed for her heart if her boss ever asked her to do him a favour again!

Halfway down the twisty stairs, feeling sick, still trying to remind herself of exactly why she had agreed to come here as Mark’s weekend guest, she felt very ill indeed when she recognised the austerely handsome face and power-packed frame of Daniel Faber as he suddenly rounded one of the quirky bends in the sixteenth-century staircase.

‘I’ve come to bring you down. Everyone thought you’d probably got lost. This house is something of a warren!’

But Annie had already subsided in a heap, sitting down on the nearest tread because her legs had given way, muscle and bone turning to water.

Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise her. It had been dark out on that terrace. They hadn’t been introduced at the party, either. And she and Rupert had left before he’d come back into the room. She’d made sure of that! And the embarrassing happening had been more than eight months ago...

‘Just what the hell are you doing here?’

Annie gave a faint groan. As soon as he’d had a proper look at her, he’d recognised her all right—and the quietly rasping tone told her he didn’t remember their brief encounter with any pleasure whatsoever!

But then, neither did she, she reminded herself bracingly, gingerly hauling herself back to her feet, hanging onto the banister. And even though it had been she who had hurled herself at him, he hadn’t passed up on the opportunity to kiss her back—he’d done more than that, too, she recalled, righteous anger momentarily quelling severely intense embarrassment.

‘I’m here as Mark’s guest, as I guess you must already know. Surely you were told who to fetch.’

Proud of her cool tone, she made the mistake of raking her eyes over him, slowly, from top to toe. And once she’d started the appraisal she couldn’t seem to stop.

How she could ever have mistaken him for Rupert, even in pitch-darkness, she would never know. Long legs encased in cool cotton chinos, topped by a body-hugging black T-shirt—his superb physique owed nothing whatsoever to expensive tailoring.