The Angels' Share (13 page)

Remembering every thrilling moment of that morning with Connor, our sheer delight as we surfaced among rakes and pitchforks and strings of crispy onions in the gardener’s hut, my mind was made up. I flicked off the house lights and picked my way cautiously through the kitchen garden to Dominic’s shed. As long as he wasn’t present, I would enter the coal chute inside the lean-to shed and make my way into the library that way. Then I would find out exactly what it was that Kinrade was trying to hide.

I clamped my arms around my body. It was cold and I’d left my jacket in the house. Even at this hour, only a few minutes before two o’clock, the light fell on the island as if a heavy shawl had been draped over the low winter sun. I approached the shed, half expecting Dominic to slap a hand on my shoulder and arrest me as he had done several days before. But there was no sign of him or the dogs, who would have certainly noticed me skulking. I turned the handle of the old door and sighed with relief as it gave and allowed me entry to the gardener’s domain. Knowing I would have to be quick – Dominic would most likely return for a forgotten implement or his flask of whisky-stoked coffee – the urgency made my heart jump and skip with the sheer thrill of getting one up on Ethan Kinrade.

I moved sacks of apples and onions and shifted aside an old chair, finally revealing the secret entrance to the tunnel, and pulled back the wooden doors of the coal chute. Fortunately, it was empty although I remember returning to the house as a child looking like a coal miner from crawling across the heap of fuel that was used in the ancient boiler rumbling beneath our feet every winter.

Finally, I was in and walking by torchlight towards the library. I had to stoop to avoid the floor joists above, reminding me just how much time had elapsed since Connor and I made the same passage as children without the need to duck. Brushing cobwebs from my face, I located the wooden steps easily. Strange, how the magical network of tunnels now seemed nothing more than a dull basement.

I gripped the torch against my shoulder like a telephone and pushed up on the trap door. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the low sun that spilled across the floor but when I was able to see clearly, when the shimmering dust motes had settled and I had taken a sweeping glance around the library, I wasn’t entirely sure if my scream was prompted by what I saw or by the hand that clamped around my arm.

I ran across the courtyard, following my nose, following my senses. I held back the tears – mostly from frustration – as I burst through the door of Connor’s office, praying that he would be somewhere within the Glen Broath distillery. I breathed in deeply, trying to settle my racing heart as the sweet aroma of maturing whisky, malt and peat fires caught in my throat. It took me a moment to realise that Connor wasn’t in his office so I began to search the distillery, desperate for his comfort and understanding.

Several workers eyed me suspiciously as I walked briskly past but none challenged my presence. I was just about to approach a female worker, the lines of whose rough brown boiler suit flared gently over her curvy buttocks and hips, when I saw Connor striding along a metal walkway about fifteen feet above.

‘Connor, down here.’ I stuck up my arm and sighed with relief when his face widened into a grin.

‘This is a nice surprise,’ he said as we sat in his office. ‘But you look anxious.’ Connor wiped his hands down his thighs, pulling the canvas of his work trousers taut around his groin for a moment. As I watched him pour two shots of Glen Broath’s finest, it struck me again just how much time had been lost between us. It would be easy for me to succumb and catch up – and I knew that Connor was willing for that exploration to occur, both mentally and physically – but I wasn’t sure if I was. To me, maintaining a steady course and securing my inheritance were paramount and if I analysed it truthfully, any involvement with Connor would throw me off-track. It was easy to justify my out-of-character actions with Dominic and Lewis and Liz. They were casual flings and a source of experimentation and release, although my involvement with Dominic smacked of something more sinister. It was true to say, too, that I believed Connor was right: by giving life to my sexual desires in my journal and subsequently losing it, I had effectively made my dreams come true. A kind of sexual magic spell.

Why, then, was I sitting in Connor’s office, sipping his whisky and wanting nothing more than to bury my face in the warm crook between his neck and shoulder until he felt compelled to stroke my back and neck, push his fingers through my hair and tilt my face to his for a lasting kiss?

‘Thanks.’ I raised my glass. ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted your work.’

‘I don’t count a visit from you as an interruption.’ Connor perched on the corner of his desk, tapping his foot and eyeing me thoughtfully. ‘Gut instinct tells me there’s something you want to get off your chest.’

I nodded, then wished I hadn’t. I didn’t know where to begin or even where to end. My eyes were still smarting from what I had just seen in the library and my arm was still burning from Dominic’s tight grip. And, if I got past all that successfully, would I be able to continue with tales of how I’d left pink stripes on the estate gardener’s buttocks or tied him to Ethan Kinrade’s bed and ridden him in return for what proved to be useless information? And then there was the tale of Lewis and Liz, jangling in my mind like the promise of delicious candy.

‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, Connor.’ I closed my eyes, partly punctuating the beginning of my confession and partly to prevent him noticing my welling tears. ‘Since I came back to the island, well, it’s like I’ve been…’ I paused. There wasn’t a word for how I felt.

‘Transformed?’ Connor suggested. ‘Released?’

‘Kind of.’ He was close but hadn’t quite caught the essence of my emotions. ‘I thought that I’d only ever loved one man.’ I couldn’t look at him while I spoke. I wasn’t sure where this was leading or what at all it had to do with the shocking goings-on in the library.

‘Marco?’

‘Yes, although I somehow always knew it wouldn’t be forever. It’s like I’ve been in transit.’ I messed with my hair, hoping that chunks of it would fall over my face, allowing me some relief from the pain of speaking so honestly.

‘But you’ve been with Marco for years. It’s been a long transit, don’t you think?’

‘Exactly. And that’s why all
this
is happening.’ I was even confusing myself and was unable to prevent several tears spilling onto my cheek. Connor approached me and I honestly thought he was going to wrap my head and shoulders in his arms and rock me gently. All he did was remove the empty whisky glass from my hand.

‘Don’t say another word. Just get in the Land Rover.’

And, better than cradling my confused head, Connor drove us the short distance back to his home.

*   *   *

Being within the thick stone walls of a traditional Manx cottage soon soothed my befuddled head and I immediately felt comfortable as Connor invited – no, instructed – me to sit in the oversized sofa that virtually filled the snug sitting room.

‘We’ll have complete privacy here.’ He didn’t attempt to conceal what this statement implied and I couldn’t imagine what else, apart from something very intimate, would require so much solitude. ‘You can cry all you like.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to break down like a helpless female and sob the afternoon away.’ I looked up at him as he stood in front of the wood-burning stove, holding his hands behind his back to soak up the heat. ‘You must think I’m pathetic.’

‘I never have and I never will.’ There was something timeless about his remark. I believed him.

‘I had a bit of a shock earlier, at Creg-ny-Varn, and it stirred up some other feelings that I’ve been trying to make sense of.’

‘What kind of a shock?’

I paused. Did I really want to string Dominic up in the feelings that spun like spider silk between Connor and me? The fragile cobweb of trust, respect and something way deeper that could so easily be swiped away? I didn’t entirely trust myself not to lash out with a denying hand and dust down our emotions. I took a deep breath.

‘I wanted to clean the library, you know, where my father used to work. Well, it was locked and I was so intrigued by what Ethan Kinrade might be hiding that I decided to get in from the basement. Do you remember the tunnels under the house?’

Connor loosened at the memory, grinning and nodding, his silence urging me to continue. I faltered for a moment though enchanted by the fire that lit up his powerful features, making him appear god-like, with an orange corona burning behind him.

‘I never even got as far as going into the library. All I did was poke my head up through the trap door.’ My heart began to skip and jump as I recalled what I’d seen.

‘And?’ said Connor impatiently.

‘It was indescribable. Like a scene from one of those kinky movies.’ I felt tiny prickles of perspiration on my back. It was so warm in the cottage, quite unlike my temporary beach home, and the recollection of the transformed library made me even hotter.

‘People were having sex in there?’

‘Not exactly. I’ve never seen so much leather and metal and other quite incomprehensible bondage equipment. The library looked nothing like it did when we were kids. I couldn’t even see any books as all the walls had been draped with red and black fabric.’

‘Are you sure it’s just not Mr Kinrade’s attempt at unusual interior design? Perhaps a project that went wrong.’ Connor’s defence surprised me but then I noticed the slight smile, the quiver in his voice.

‘There was even…’ I paused, secretly thrilled by what it meant. ‘There was even a cage suspended from the ceiling.’

‘Perhaps he has a bird.’

‘It was big enough for a human and that’s what worries me. Who is he planning to lock up?’

Connor sighed and sat down beside me. ‘Is this what’s caused you to be in such a state?’

‘Oh, no. My biggest shock came when the gardener caught me red-handed. Again.’

Surprisingly, Connor said nothing but instead retreated to the kitchen, shaking his head, and I soon heard pots and pans clattering. It wasn’t clear whether he had left the room ashamed of my behaviour – for taking the demeaning job in the first place and then getting caught snooping around – or if he retreated in quiet thought to help me form a plan. Connor had always been secretive about his feelings and even now, with the pair of us grown up and mature and worldly-wise with the freedom to say what we believed, that was still the case.

‘What are you doing?’ I joined him in the small kitchen, just in time to see him sliding a terracotta dish into the oven.

‘You look like you haven’t eaten properly for weeks. I’m making you a meal.’ Connor wiped his hands on a tea-towel and, when he locked me against a wooden bench with his arms pinned either side of me, I truly believed he was going to kiss me. An involuntary gasp caused my chest to rise and I briefly closed my eyes, waiting for the initial contact.

‘And I’m not keen on you staying down at the beach cottage by yourself. It’s so remote and you don’t even have running water.’

My eyes burst open and I was thankful that he couldn’t see the tingling in my expectant lips. I blushed, having no choice but to stare directly into his face. I saw day-old stubble littering his jaw as I noticed the single swallow he made when he realised my thoughts. But the moment was gone.

‘I like being down there. There’s something about the seclusion, the nearness of the sea.’

Connor shrugged and stepped away. ‘You always contested everything I said. Why did I think you’d have changed?’ He offered a glimmer of a smile, indicating that he wasn’t angry with me for being so stubborn. ‘I was going to suggest that you could stay here. At least you’d have a bathroom and a proper bed.’

The tingling began again at the thought of being so close to Connor when I was bathing or he was undressing at night. We would perhaps meet on the landing, each requiring the bathroom, our toothbrushes together on the basin, our discarded towels mingled together on the floor. A tight feeling knotted my stomach and I wasn’t sure if it was from hunger or fear or a signal of how much I wanted Connor.

‘I’ll be OK where I am. But…’ – perhaps I was being cheeky, perhaps it was a hidden invitation – ‘but I wouldn’t mind taking a hot bath now. If you don’t mind.’

Connor held up his hands. ‘Be my guest. There are fresh towels in the cupboard on the landing and help yourself to anything else you need.’

We were both silent, trying to guess what the other was thinking. I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, even brush my fingers down his stubbly cheek.

‘Maybe then you’ll be able to tell me exactly what’s on your mind and why Ethan Kinrade has got to you so much.’

‘Deal,’ I said, knowing that it would take more than a soak in a bath to purge my mind.

*   *   *

I allowed my hands to drift from my breasts, across my half-submerged stomach, down my thighs and back up again, each slow stroke of my bubble-covered body a sheer delight. It had been nearly two weeks since I had taken a bath, although I’d been able to keep myself clean by taking showers and by makeshift washing in the beach cottage.

Submerged up to my neck with my long hair pinned up loosely, I was reminded of the first time I’d met Marco. I’d been in the bath then and splashed about like a cat thrown into water as he burst into the bathroom in search of soap. He’d been fixing my mother’s ancient car and needed to wash his hands. His expression, when he saw me in the bath, was tattooed irrevocably on my mind just as his needy love-making was later stitched into my body. For many years, Marco was integral to my life, the selfish link that held us together as much a part of me as him.

As I fished for the soap in Connor’s bath, I smiled and I remembered how I’d naughtily told Marco that if he wanted the soap he’d have to find it. He never did locate the bar but he did find his way from my ankles to the top of my legs and beyond, his dark and grimy hands a contrast to my much paler skin. It didn’t take him long either, to strip and join me in the tub, the already high water level sloshing onto the tiled floor as he lay on top of me, grinding himself into me and bringing the tepid water back to near boiling point.

It was like that with Marco. We rarely had sex in bed at night. If he could hitch up my dress in the alley behind the tapas bar or bend me over the misshapen trunk of an ancient olive tree in the heat of the summer, then he would. Once, on the walk back to my house from the town, we overtook a bus-load of German tourists who were hiking in the sweltering valley. Marco virtually dragged me up the hill to get five minutes ahead of the crowd. Without a word about his intentions, he tore my flimsy panties from beneath my wrap skirt and leaned me over the rough stone of a baking-hot wall, the thrill of the approaching foreigners fuelling his need for risky games. The softness of his mouth on my pussy and the late afternoon breeze cooling my flustered skin brought me to a helpless climax just as the first tourist came into sight.

Marco wiped his mouth, hauled me upright and clamped an arm around my waist as if we were sweethearts admiring the view. Men and women, panting from the incline, nodded and smiled at us, while Marco’s huge erection strained beneath his clothes. When they had passed, he put me back into position and satisfied himself by pumping me greedily from behind. I’m surprised that he even bothered to conceal his lust or my exposed body from the tourists.

I decided I might as well take the opportunity to wash my hair and so unleashed my tresses into the sudsy water. I pressed my fingers against my ears – I’d never liked the feeling of water gurgling in my head – and slipped further down the bath and tipped back my head so that my hair got a good wetting.

I know I heard something because the sound reverberated underwater but registered only as a dull noise. I paused, still submerged, and then continued to soak my hair until I heard it again. It was Connor calling up to me, most likely to tell me that food was ready and, not wanting to cut short the chance to get really clean, I yelled out from beneath the water.

‘Yes, OK.’ Without full hearing, it was difficult to know how loud I had shouted but it was obviously loud enough, although undeniably the wrong reply, as I felt a sudden draught of cold air across my exposed breasts.

I pulled myself out of the water into a semi-sitting position in time to see Connor standing in the doorway, unsure if he was delighted or shocked at what he saw.