Love Letters (47 page)

She’d blocked a lot of this out of her mind since her meeting with Bridget. She’d made her brain reject the messages her heart might have given her if she’d let it. But now she allowed herself to remember the intimate details; how he’d used his skill and experience to give her pleasure. It made her sigh blissfully but it didn’t help her sleep.

Then she heard a noise at the door. It could have been her father, checking up, or her mother, come down for a motherly chat. But somehow she knew it was Dermot.

‘Hello?’ he whispered.

‘Yes?’ she whispered back.

‘May I come in?’ he asked, still whispering.

‘Yes, but don’t wake my parents. Not that they’re asleep, probably. They’ll be worrying.’

She heard him come in and bring the door to behind him. ‘Will they? Why?’

‘In case you’re doing what you’re doing now!’ She sat up, but she was still encased in the sausage skin.

‘I couldn’t sleep a night under the same roof as you without . . .’ He paused.

Torrid and frantic thoughts of what he might be about to say made her breathing become rapid.

‘What?’ They were already whispering but this was hardly audible. He either heard her or guessed.

‘I had to put my arms round you.’

He scooped her up and enveloped her, pinning her to him. She couldn’t breathe. His shirt collar was sticking into her cheek, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to breathe, really, she just wanted to go on being held by him for ever, even if his clothes dug into her.

And then she pulled back. However much she wanted to let her emotions take over, there were things she needed to know before she could give in to her feelings. She had to be able to trust him. She drew her knees up to her chest, still in the bag.

‘What is it?’ He frowned and then he smiled at her ruefully. ‘Oh, don’t tell me, I think I know. It must seem as if I’ve been a bit of a bastard.’ He sat back and sighed.

She so wanted to forgive him everything but she had to suppress her smile at this understatement. ‘Just a bit.’

He cleared his throat, got up and moved away from her. ‘Can I tell you how it was from my point of view?’ he said, as if asking for her permission to continue.

‘Please do. I need a change of viewpoint.’ Nerves were making her flippant. Whatever he had to say she needed to hear it.

He smiled slightly at this but then became serious. ‘I think I fell in love with you way back in January. You were so sweet, so different, so pretty, so—’

‘Enough with the flattery.’

‘It’s not flattery, it’s the truth. And after we met I suddenly found I was able to write. You were the key. You were the reason I offered to do that writing course.’

‘Oh, was I? If that was the case, why didn’t you – I don’t know – make any kind of move?’ Her voice cracked with remembered hurt.

‘There were a few reasons, really. One was that I didn’t think I could do more than kiss your cheek without wanting to take you to bed and I couldn’t take you to bed in those circumstances. It was too public and I needed to be really sure . . . I mean I was sure but I didn’t want to risk hurting you.’

He looked at her, holding her gaze until she turned away, a wave of longing washing over her. She didn’t say anything; it was important he told her everything, if she was ever to truly trust him. She nodded for him to go on.

‘And back in Ireland,’ he continued, ‘well, I was well into a book, a book that was pouring out of me. I felt I had to finish it, or as near as damn it, and then pursue you, so I could do it properly.’

He came and sat back down beside her, taking her hand and stroking it. She didn’t move any closer but she didn’t take her hand away.

‘Oh God, I thought I might never see you again, touch you, get the chance to tell you how much I love you, how much I need you.’

She shifted slightly in her sleeping bag, but let her hand continue to rest in his. She still had some questions she wanted answered.

‘Just a few other things, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I need to know about Bridget. Why didn’t you tell me you were together?’

He frowned. ‘What do you mean? Bridget and I were never anything but friends, drinking companions.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t think . . . Oh God. She means nothing to me, nothing.’ He tried to pull her closer but she remained slightly distant, even though every part of her was longing for him to take her in his arms again.

After a pause he went on. ‘I’m sorry I ravished you in Ireland. I was furious with the press, angry with everyone and I’d been working every hour there was, not eating properly, drinking, smoking, doing anything that would help me get a few more words down on the page. I was mad with writing – seven thousand words a day sometimes.’

‘I didn’t see any sign of it when I went there,’ Laura said

He chuckled. ‘No, I hid it all under the bed. But when I saw you, I knew I had to have you, had to put all the care and intensity I put into my work into making things all right for you.’

She blushed and smiled – he was so passionate. ‘Well, you did.’

‘I might have held back a bit longer if you hadn’t been in a temper. There’s something about a woman stamping her foot that is irresistible.’

‘Hmm. You mean in a “Come here, you little fool, don’t you know that I love you?” sort of way?’ She felt she could dare to tease him as things started to become clearer.

‘I don’t know! I just knew I had to have you.’

‘And you did.’ He’d explained about Bridget and she did believe him but somehow she still wasn’t quite satisfied; she still couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he’d used her, even if it had been unintentional.

As if he’d read her mind, he said, ‘Sweetheart, I didn’t just want you because I wanted sex and you were there. You didn’t think that, did you?’ He seemed horrified by this thought. All the while his fingers were caressing hers.

‘No, I didn’t feel that at the time,’ she replied honestly. ‘But when you didn’t get in touch with me afterwards—’

‘But you were so cold! Running away almost before we’d had breakfast.’ He paused, reluctant to reveal his gentle amusement. ‘You must have sat at the airport for ages.’

‘I did,’ she admitted. ‘It was because of Bridget.’

‘I told you there was nothing between us.’

‘I know, but she said—’

He interrupted her. ‘What did she say?’ he pressed.

‘She said something that made me feel you’d . . . used me.’ She couldn’t look at him; all the hurt and humiliation she’d felt at the time came flooding back.

He sighed and sat back again, his hands now in a fist on his lap. ‘That woman!’ he said in frustration. ‘But I wish to God you’d said something at the time.’

‘I couldn’t! I was too humiliated,’ she protested.

‘Well, I didn’t know what had happened. One minute everything was wonderful and the next you’d become an ice maiden. I felt a bit humiliated too. I got to feeling that you’d just used me to get rid of your virginity. I tried to put you out of my mind and got back into writing. Now I can understand why—’

‘Don’t.’ She took his hand again and held it tight. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly and they stayed like that for some time until he drew away once more.

‘I wanted to explain about the obsessive writing at the festival but you wouldn’t give me a chance,’ he said quietly.

‘I couldn’t bear the thought of you explaining that what we’d had was very precious but – I’ve read so many damn novels, I know all the expressions – but that you and Bridget were getting married or something.’ Even though she knew for certain this wasn’t going to happen now, the pain it would have caused her made her flinch inwardly. ‘And then there was the story.’

‘What about the story?’ He was confused.

‘I thought it was one of the most beautiful Dear John – or maybe that should be Dear Joan – letters ever written.’

‘Dear God, you’re a terrible one for getting the wrong end of the stick. The story was fiction! And if it was about anyone, it was about Bridget. I never knew how she felt about me until she came up to see me after you’d left.’

Laura sighed deeply, collapsing a little with the weight of her misunderstanding. ‘I just never thought you could really love me. As much as I—’

‘Well, I can,’ he cut in. ‘And if you’re not very careful I’ll prove it to you.’ He enveloped her again and then his mouth found hers and she heard him sigh before their lips connected. It was heavenly.

After a while, she said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t let you make love to me on the sofa in my parents’ house, when they’re probably not even asleep.’

He was breathing hard. ‘It’s OK, I knew you’d feel like that. It’s why I didn’t get undressed. We have the rest of our lives to make love to each other. I’ll go back upstairs to my room but first I need to thank you.’

‘Do you? Are you grateful to me for bringing you to England and to the attention of the literary world once more? You should be! It’ll make you rich and famous. Notorious maybe.’ She felt she could tease him now she definitely knew he loved her.

‘Well, of course I will give you a cut of my earnings – if not all my earnings – from now on in but that’s not what I meant.’

‘No?’

‘No. You did something very much more important.’

‘What? What could be more important than fame and fortune?’ She spoke lightly but she really didn’t know what he could be talking about.

‘As I said before, you cured me of writer’s block. When you came into my life I’d got jaded and cynical and you – well, you showed me that there were still sweet, pure things.’ He kissed the top of her head.

Tears clogged the back of Laura’s throat and she waited until they’d gone before saying, ‘That makes me sound like an organic pudding, if I may say so.’

He laughed, hugging her close. ‘Oh God, you’re so adorable. When I’m being soppy and sentimental, you’re sharp, like a drop of lemon juice.’

‘OK, now I’m an organic lemon pudding.’

He suddenly paused, gazing at her, an earnest look on his face. ‘Darling, have I made it clear to you how much I love you? That I want to spend the rest of my life with you?’

‘Not exactly, no.’ Her heart fluttered.

‘Well, what do you need me to say?’

She laughed, bolder now, her heart singing with joy. How could she have forgotten how much she loved being in his company, teasing him? ‘Dermot Flynn, I am not going to put words into your mouth. You have your own silver tongue to help you.’

‘Laura Horsley, I do solemnly declare—’

‘I think that’s plagiarism.’

‘Don’t care. I do solemnly declare that I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. And that I will love you until the Mountains of Mourne stop going down to the sea or some other very unlikely geological event takes place. And I want to take you home to Ireland and keep you safe by my side for ever. And the little ones, when they come along. I’ll keep them safe too. What do you say?’

Laura’s insides were melting. ‘Did you ask me a question?’

‘No. I just wanted your general opinion of what I just said.’

‘Apart from the plagiarism?’

‘Apart from that.’

‘I think they most be the most beautiful words you’ve ever invented.’

He seemed pleased. ‘And to think I just said them off the top of my head.’

Laura put her hand up to the top of his head and pushed her fingers into his curls. ‘I expect our children will have curly hair.’

‘That’s all right. Curly-haired children are my favourite kind.’

They had just snaked their bodies so there was as little space between them as possible when they heard movement overhead.

‘You’d better go back upstairs,’ said Laura. ‘Otherwise we’ll never be able to face my parents over the All-Bran.’

Epilogue

‘Are you sure you’re all right carrying that bag?’ asked Dermot as they prepared to set off.

‘Of course. It’s only got a few things in it. You seem to have equipment for an entire Boy Scout Jamboree in that rucksack. We’re only going to have tea.’

‘Not at all,’ he said dismissively.

They were at the farm, preparing to go for a repeat of the walk they had gone on together, back in January, when they had only just met. It was now October and the sort of autumn day that made Laura want to quote Keats: there was a hint of mist and veils of dew-spangled cobwebs on the fuchsia-filled hedgerows. Part of their picnic was apples from the tree in Dermot’s garden and there was the promise of hot sun later. She had moved into Dermot’s house ten days earlier, after he’d had the entire house repainted. Every morning when she woke up to hear him snoring beside her, she thought she’d die of happiness – that was if he didn’t wake her first, pulling her to him and holding her tight prior to making love to her so thoroughly she was sure everyone could tell how she’d started her day just by the glow that surrounded her.

‘Where are the dogs?’ she said now.