Chapter 12
Flora lay wantonly, sated with utter pleasure in the haystack. The combined sensations of Dylan’s stubble rubbing against her pale, soft cheek, the smell of his aftershave and the excitement of his hands caressing her bare breasts made her cry out his name with desire.
He slowly made his way down her long, shapely legs, till he reached a sleek, blond triangle of pubic hair. He nuzzled his face down to taste her, making her hips bolt upwards, so he steadied them with his two hands, whilst letting his tongue gently glide into her. ‘Dylan!’ she cried again, making him intensify his rhythm. Then his mouth gradually traced his way back up her body, his lips kissing her flat stomach, her firm breasts, until he covered her mouth to stop her from any more screaming. He didn’t want the whole of Treweham Hall knowing what he was up to with their stable girl.
His hand was on her thigh, pushing her legs further apart. She felt him at the very core of her and then he was deep inside her with a single thrust. Flora gasped, but he didn’t stop, grinding deeper and deeper. Her body ached with lust. It had been a full week since she had seen him last. She heard him grunt and felt him pulse as he released himself. Taking a few steady breaths, he rolled off her and lay by her side.
Since he had introduced himself at the stables a few weeks ago they had met quite regularly. Despite the ten-year age gap, they had plenty in common: horses. Together they had ridden the Treweham Hall estate, through its forests, over the wild-flower meadows and alongside the crystal-clear rivers, always to return to the stables where Dylan had coaxed Flora into loosening her inhibitions.
‘I can’t stay long. I’m supposed to be meeting Seamus and Tobias at The Templar.’
‘Oh, right…’ Flora’s voice held disappointment, which tugged at Dylan’s guilty conscience.
‘But I’ll be back soon, promise.’ He kissed her hard on the lips.
‘When?’ she persisted, her voice hopeful.
‘Soon, don’t worry.’ He got up and dressed himself, as Flora did the same. Turning, he kissed her again. ‘Until next time.’ He winked and left the stables, whistling. Flora admired his perfect muscular body and dark, curly mane of hair. The famous Dylan Delany – he was so gorgeous and he was all hers.
*
‘No way, that doesn’t sound at all like Tobias.’ Finula was busy sprinkling freshly baked custard tarts with nutmeg.
‘But it was his number plate – who else could it have been?’ insisted Megan, her mouth watering at the scent of Finula’s latest creations.
‘I don’t know, but there’s got to be some explanation, honestly. Tobias is a top bloke. He wouldn’t nearly run someone over and not stop. Especially with his history—’
‘Any chance of some service here?’ Dermot called through to the kitchen. It had been a hectic afternoon with many locals and tourists making the most of the beautiful spring weather. Relaxed couples sat outside sunning themselves, sipping cool lager, children ran and squealed in the beer garden, and Zac lay panting by the back door of the pub kitchen with a bowl of water.
‘Coming!’ called Megan, and scooped up two plates of prawn salad. Scurrying through to deliver the meals, she noticed how full the place was getting.
‘Over here, please, Meg!’ shouted a red-faced and harassed Dermot. Megan hurried behind the bar.
‘Next, please.’ She scanned the small crowd at the bar waiting to be served. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nick sitting at one of the tables in the corner with a friend. He looked comfortable, laughing with a guy with blond hair, arms animated in conversation. He noticed her looking and waved. She waved back smiling.
‘When you’re ready,’ said a voice tinged with humour. Quickly turning, Megan stared slap bang into two green eyes, flecked with amber. They belonged to a face with a strong jaw line and full lips, which were smirking ever so slightly at her.
‘Sorry,’ Megan mumbled, blushing as she reached for a pint glass, ‘what can I get you?’
‘A large malt, please.’ He grinned as she looked at the pint glass and swiftly swapped it for a smaller spirit glass.
‘There you go.’ She placed it in front of him. ‘Anything else?’
‘One for yourself.’ He smiled, nodding his head slightly. The light caught his hair, all black and glossy. He reminded her of a young Oliver Tobias, whom she recalled from her mum’s old videos, all swarthy and with a distinct presence. He frowned slightly; obviously she was staring again. Flushed, she thanked him and quickly started serving another customer. Whilst doing so, Megan noticed the man acknowledge the blond-haired friend of Nick’s, then go outside to join two men sitting at the tables on the grass verge. One of the men looked familiar to Megan, but she couldn’t place him.
At the table, shaking, Tobias put down his glass. My God, he thought, for a moment back there he’d seen a ghost. Carrie’s ghost. That girl behind the bar bore a startling resemblance to Carrie and it completely jolted him as he had entered the pub. The fact she’d been distracted had given him time to study her face. She had the same cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes and her hair was dark, albeit slightly shorter in a bob, rather than long like Carrie’s had been. It was uncanny and it unnerved him.
‘You all right, Tobias?’ Dylan asked, noticing his hand quiver when he knocked back his drink. Tobias didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the girl that had come out to collect glasses. Dylan’s eyes followed Tobias’ stare. As did Seamus.
‘Holy shit,’ muttered Seamus, seeing for himself the double of his best friend’s dead fiancée. Megan couldn’t help but notice how all three men were staring at her. She looked down to see if something was wrong. Had she spilt something? Had her top come down? No, everything was in place. One of the men, the one with ginger hair, spoke to the other two then got up and made his way back into the pub. She now recalled the other man. She’d seen him on the TV; he was a jockey. Megan wondered if they lived round here or if they were visitors.
Finally, by late afternoon, when everyone had finished eating, drinking and basking in the sun and trickled home to sleep off their lazy afternoons, Megan and Finula sat by the bar drinking well-deserved pints of cider.
‘Ah, that tastes good,’ Finula gasped. Her cheeks were rosy from working in the steamy kitchen. She wiped the auburn curls plastered to her forehead.
Megan didn’t know how she did it, producing so many delicious meals with such ease and efficiency. When she said as much Finula just shrugged. ‘It’s what I love doing. I’ve always got a buzz from creating dishes that people appreciate. I enjoy watching their reaction when it first hits the taste buds. A bit like your paintings, I suppose.’
Megan had never really thought of it like that.
