His Runaway Bride

‘Crysse? Nice girl. Not a patch on you, but—’

‘And you know that Crysse lives with her boyfriend, Sean.’

‘People do that these days,’ he said, his hands on her shoulders, serious now. Concentration was getting harder by the minute. ‘Move in with me. I promise you, no one is going to throw stones at you in the street…’ And he kissed her again, moving her gently, but inexorably back towards the bed. It would be so easy to say yes. She wanted to say yes…

Mike’s grin was firmly back in place, his grey eyes gleaming with the prospect of success. He clearly thought his case unanswerable.

‘No! Listen!’ She dug in her heels. Literally and metaphorically. ‘Before they lived together, Sean used to take Crysse out all the time. Make a real fuss of her. Every Friday night they went to the cinema, or the theatre. On Saturday they’d go out for the day, or have a meal out at a nice restaurant. On Sunday, he cooked her breakfast and brought it to her in bed. They stayed there most of the day and talked about what they’d do when they were married. How many kids they’d have. Dreaming, you know?’

‘Isn’t that what we do?’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe we haven’t got around to discussing the number of off-spring, but breakfast in bed is a good start. I’ll bring you breakfast tomorrow—’

‘Then he suggested they move in together.’

‘Do it tomorrow. I’ll make you breakfast in bed for the rest of your life.’

‘That’s what Sean said. Crysse was so excited. She sold her flat, redecorated his…’

‘I’m beginning to get the uneasy feeling that this story doesn’t have a happy ending.’

‘That depends on your point of view,’ she said. ‘Sean’s happy. He goes out with his mates on Friday while Crysse, after a hard week attempting to drill the rudiments of mathematics into thirty twelve-year olds, cleans the flat they “share”.’ She made little quote marks to indicate her doubts about the sharing part. ‘These days the highlight of Saturday is a trip to the supermarket while he plays football, or cricket, or whatever other macho pursuit happens to be in season. And on Sunday she takes him breakfast in bed, where he stays until lunch-time to recover from his exertions on the sports field.’

‘And Crysse?’

‘Crysse gets on with the ironing. His as well as hers.’

‘She should take a break for a while. Let him see what he’s missing. She could move into your flat—’

‘It doesn’t work like that, Mike. What happens is that, while Crysse is proving that she’s indispensable to Sean’s well-being, some other girl comes along and sees this poor suffering man with no one to iron his shirts for him. It’s practically irresistible and she’ll come over all motherly. She’ll cook and iron and this time, having learned his lesson, Sean will fall over himself to make it permanent.’

He looked at her for a moment, and there was no trace of a smile as he absorbed the message. ‘I take it that’s a definite no, then?’

‘It’s nothing personal. If I was the moving-in kind of girl, there’s no one I’d rather move in with than you. But I like my life—’

‘And if I make it personal?’

‘Please, Mike.’ She made a move to collect her clothes, but he blocked her way. ‘It’s late.’

He remained very still. ‘And if I make it personal?’ he repeated.

The mood in the flat had changed. Suddenly it was far too intense and Willow felt as if she was balancing on the edge of a precipice that five minutes ago hadn’t existed. Her heart flared in panic, she didn’t want to lose Mike. She loved him. But before she surrendered the life she had, a life she enjoyed, she had to know he loved her, too. Loved her enough to make a total commitment. No compromise.

‘Move in or we break up?’ she asked. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, angel.’ He reached out, cradled her cheek for a moment, then raked his fingers through her short dark curls, holding them back from her forehead so that her face was entirely revealed. ‘What I’m saying… What I’m asking…’ He seemed to hesitate, consider his words carefully. ‘I want you to live with me, Willow Blake. To have you beside me every morning when I wake. To hold you every night as I fall asleep. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m not prepared to risk making Sean’s mistake with you. So, how soon can we get married?’

CHAPTER ONE

‘I NEED an answer today, Miss Blake, or I can’t guarantee—’

‘You’ll have one!’ Willow rang off, then instantly regretted her short temper. It wasn’t the builder’s fault that she couldn’t make up her mind about the cupboards for her new kitchen. That she didn’t care a fig for her new kitchen. It was the kitchen out of her worst nightmares, one in which she would be expected to cook three meals a day. Just like her mother…

Why on earth had she ever said she’d marry Mike? Why couldn’t she have just moved in with him and settled down to uncomplicated domesticity like her cousin? Crysse was happy, wasn’t she? Ironing a few shirts for Mike would have been a lot simpler than living through her mother’s idea of the perfect wedding and Mike’s father’s idea of the perfect house.

It was as if their lives had been taken over by aliens.

Perfectly amiable aliens maybe, but aliens who, in their excitement, their desire to help, had accidentally switched off their ‘listening’ button. And had clearly never had any kind of grasp of the word ‘simple’.

For Willow, a simple wedding conjured up visions of a small country church, a dress from the local bridal shop, standard grey morning suits all round for the men, two bridesmaids. Two grown-up bridesmaids who could be relied upon not to eat their posies, burst into tears, or worse. A simple reception.

Her mother’s version of simple involved Melchester Cathedral, scrubbed choirboys in starched-white surplices, massed bell-ringers and a full-scale posse of bridesmaids and page-boys. Add in enough flowers and ribbon to keep a florist in business for a year…

Then there was the reception.

No. She was stressed enough, she absolutely refused to contemplate the reception. Or the vast edifice of the confectioner’s art that was her wedding cake. Forget simple. From Willow’s perspective her life appeared to be attracting complications in the manner of a magnet confronted with a open box of iron filings.

And the wedding was just the visible, outward sign of ‘complicated’. Liveable with. Just. Real complications came in small, less obvious packages. Long white envelopes with the logo of a national newspaper in the corner.

If life was simple, she’d phone the telephone number on the letter in her bag, say, thanks, but no thanks. She was no longer available. They’d left it too late to offer her the job of her dreams. She was getting married on Saturday. She’d phone and she’d say all that and she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from grinning while she said it. But she kept putting it off.

Which was why it was so complicated.

‘Are you all right, Willow?’

‘What?’ She started, realising that Emily Wootton was staring at her with concern. ‘Oh, yes. It’s nothing.’ And she lifted her shoulders in what she hoped was a convincing shrug. ‘I’m getting married on Saturday—’

‘Really?’ The older woman smiled. ‘How lovely.’

Willow had her doubts. ‘I’m sure everyone else will enjoy themselves. I’m just looking forward to next week when I’ll be on a beach in St Lucia and the last few weeks will be nothing but a blur.’ She made a big effort at a smile. ‘You were telling me about these cottages the Trust has been given by the Kavanaghs?’ she invited, before she broke down and poured out her misgivings to a woman she’d only met a couple of times. But who else was there? No one who knew Mike and had seen the house, could be expected to understand; she didn’t understand herself. If she could just go back to the night he’d proposed, hear him say it again. Convince herself that he really meant it. He’d seemed so distracted lately… ‘You need money to convert them into a holiday home for deprived children, is that it?’

‘No, that’s all done. All that’s left is the decorating and we’re looking for volunteers to help out.’ She grinned. ‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you to change your honeymoon plans? I mean who really wants to go to the West Indies?’ A great fat tear escaped and slid down Willow’s cheek. ‘Willow?’ She wanted to put her head down on her desk and howl. ‘Willow, dear, is there anything I can do?’

‘No.’ She sniffed, searching her pocket for a tissue. ‘It’s just pre-wedding nerves.’ Probably. Pre-wedding nerves and the strain of trying very hard not to let anyone see that she’d fallen in hate at first sight with the house Mike’s parents had bought for them as a wedding present. A huge red-brick edifice with five bedrooms, three bathrooms and half an acre of landscaped garden that would take every minute she could spare from cooking and dusting to keep it from reverting to wilderness.

She and Mike hadn’t come to any decision about where they’d live. His flat or hers. They were both convenient, easy to run, perfect for a busy couple. Then—whammy. An invitation to lunch from Mike’s parents at a country pub with a route that just happened to bypass the house from hell. The kind of house that needed a full-time wife, not a woman with a life of her own and a career that was about to take off into the stratosphere. Or would be, if she wasn’t getting married.

It was becoming clear that as Mike’s wife she wouldn’t have a life of her own.

No more Willow Blake. She’d be Mrs Michael Armstrong, consort to Michael Armstrong, newspaper proprietor. In the fullness of time she’d become mother to the statutory two-point-four children, with a busy life as a champion of local good causes and all-round pillar-of-the-community. In ten years she’d have turned into every woman’s worst nightmare, a carbon copy of her mother.

Oh, she’d carry on working for a while—quietly shunted off into the more ladylike stuff, the WI meetings, the garden club, local celebrities. Just until the babies came along. That house demanded babies to fill its echoing spaces. Mike’s father was already referring to bedroom number two as ‘the nursery’. As if the Peter Rabbit decor wasn’t enough of a hint.

As for Mike, well she didn’t know what he was thinking any more. Suddenly he was more distant than the Khyber Pass.

Which was why the letter offering her the job of her dreams was still in her bag, still unanswered. A lifeline.

‘It’s, er, rather a big house, Mike. Not quite your usual style. A bit different from the hayloft,’ Cal pressed anxiously.

‘That depends on your view of big.’ Michael Armstrong was eager to cut off any discussion about what his usual style entailed. Cal was his oldest friend, his best man, and he knew him far too well to be easily fooled. ‘Willow was brought up in a ten-bedroom mansion.’