‘I’m happy to pay for lunch,’ she said, stepping outside and locking the door behind her. ‘After all, you did show me the bestviews of the beach today. And the easiest access to it, rather than walking up and down all those steps at Lookout Point.’
‘Lookout Steps. Lookout Point is where the wooden bench is situated.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘And now I’m correcting you. I apologise most sincerely. I think my brain is having a malfunction. And there is no way you’re paying for lunch. I asked you, remember? That means this is on me.’ He grinned at her as they walked towards the pub. ‘I’ll send you a bill for this morning’s guided tour.’
She giggled, as did he. Now they were both behaving a bit like teenagers. But he found he rather liked it.
‘Do I get a discount if I book another tour?’ she trilled.
‘We can probably come to an arrangement. What did you have in mind?’
‘You’re the tour guide. You tell me.’
He didn’t dare tell her what he had in mind right now. It was far too soon for that.
He coughed to clear his throat … and to expel the images in his mind’s eye. ‘Well. I could put together an itinerary.’
‘That sounds good to me. Ooh.’ She stopped so suddenly he had to turn around to face her. ‘There is one thing I can think of that I would absolutely love to do.’
‘And that is?’ So could he, and he waited with baited breath.
Sadly, they weren’t the same thing.
‘I would love to have a tour of Betancourt. The ancestral home of the Betancourts, not the village. Although that would be good too.’ She pointed towards the ornate iron gates of the stately home just a short distance away. ‘Do you know the family?’
He smiled at her excitement. ‘Everyone in the village knows the family. I think I can arrange that. Leave it with me.’
They had reached the door to The Royal Oak and he pulled it open for her to go in first, and then he laughed, as she held out her hand indicating he should go before her.
‘Equality for women, remember?’ she said.
‘Ah. But I should inform you that I adhere to the rules of chivalry. We could be here all day.’
‘Then we should be thankful we didn’t meet yesterday. We’d be drenched by now.’
‘Oh how kind of you, young man,’ an elderly woman said as she hobbled past both of them into the pub, her walking stick narrowly missing Greg’s right foot.
Greg and Jemma burst out laughing.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold it on the way in. You hold it on the way out. Wait. That didn’t sound right.’
But Jemma was laughing loudly, and she shook her head and went inside before him.
The pub was popular, and not just with the residents of the village, and despite the fact it had been open for less than five minutes today, there was already a bit of a crowd at the bar. People came from far and wide because despite Greg’s earlier misgivings, lunch at The Royal Oak was a delicious treat, particularly on a Sunday.
Luckily, he had phoned ahead and booked a table by the window that overlooked the ancient oak tree, and because Jemma had just told him that she’d love a tour of Betancourt, he suggested she sit in the seat that also gave a view of the stately home.
‘That oak tree is why this pub is called The Royal Oak,’ he informed her, as she looked through the leaded glass panes. ‘Legend has it that King Richard The Lionheart once sat beneath the ancient oak, on his way to join the Crusades.’
She looked doubtful but she smiled. ‘Really? That would make it eight hundred years old.’
‘It would need to be a bit older than that if King Richard sat beneath it. He became king in 1189 and left for the Crusades in 1190, eight hundred and thirty-four years ago, so if he satbeneath its branches, it has to be another five to ten years on top of that. Which would make it one of the most ancient oaks in the UK. Oaks can live for more than one thousand years, but there aren’t many that do, as far as I’m aware. Not that I know that much about oak trees. Or any trees for that matter. Sorry. That sounded rather like I was giving you a history lesson, didn’t it?’
‘It was interesting. I like history. I write historical romance novels for a living, remember?’
He smiled. ‘Historical romance is a bit like my love-life.’
‘And mine.’
Their eyes met across the table, and locked.
