Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (15 page)

“Obviously, she rallied.”

“She did. In the meantime, I milked the ewe and carried the jug back inside and fed Em with a tube and a few syringes of milk until her belly was full.”

Marianne regarded him in undisguised admiration. “That’s incredible,” she said softly. “
You’re
incredible. I’m seriously impressed. No wonder you’re so attached to her.”

“She’s a wee little fighter.” He raised his glass. “To Emily.”

“To Emily,” she echoed, and smiled as she clinked her glass against his.

And as she met his eyes across the booth, Marianne was flooded with a new respect for Matthew Brandon. She’d been wrong about him. There was much more to the (sometimes) surly veterinarian than she’d imagined.

“Can we go and visit your farm one day?” she asked him as the waitress set down their sandwiches. “I’d love to see Emily, and your other livestock.”

“There’s not much to see at the moment,” he warned her. “Just a few sheep, which I keep for the fleece, and some chickens and goats. I sell the eggs at the farmers’ market.”

“Do you make your own cheese, too?”

“No. I haven’t the time for that now, I’m afraid. Maybe someday I will. Maybe someday –” He stopped. “Ah, listen to me. I sound like one of those tedious blokes who natters on endlessly about himself. What about you, Miss Holland? What are your plans for the future?”

She hesitated. “Well, I hope to get into veterinary college eventually, after I get a bit more work experience. I’d like to do what you do, one day.”

“There’s no reason you shouldn’t, if you put your mind to it. You have a good way with the animals.”

Marianne brightened. “Do you think so? Really? I’ve always loved them, ever since I was little –”

She broke off as she caught sight of two men who stood up from the bar and made their way through the crowded pub to the door.

It was Brian, the car thief, Marianne realised, and his sidekick, Danny.

When he saw her, Brian stopped, and his eyes narrowed.

“What is it?” Matthew asked, and turned to follow her gaze. He saw Brian then, and tensed. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Those two get around, don’t they? He stole your granny’s car, and yet he’s got the balls to come in here and give you a hard look –?”

Marianne reached out her hand and laid it on his arm. “She’s not my granny, and don’t say anything to them, please,” she implored him. “Let it go.”

“I should call the bloody police, is what I should do,” he vowed, and reached for his mobile. “And I think I will. It’s what I should’ve done in the first place. It’s time those two bastards spent some time where they belong – in a jail cell.”

There was a heavy footfall behind them.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, mate,” Brian said, his voice barely audible as he leaned down, but carrying a distinct menace. He glanced at Marianne. “Either of you. Or things might get very ugly, very fast.”

Chapter 23

Matthew thrust himself to his feet and stood facing Brian. “I won’t be threatened,” he said, his words even. “And I won’t have the lady threatened either.”

Brian smirked. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

“Do us all a favour and get out of here, before I call the police to come and haul your sorry arses away.”

Brian edged closer, and Marianne saw to her consternation that Danny had joined him. She could smell the beer on their breath from where she sat.

“And what if I don’t?” he jeered softly. “’Tis a free country.”

“Aye, it is,” Brandon agreed. “And you’re free to leave anytime.”

Brian shoved the veterinarian hard in the chest. “And who’s gonna make me, eh? You, you sheep-loving bastard?”

Marianne let out a cry as Matthew’s fist flew out and connected with the other man’s jaw, knocking his head back.

The fight was on.

With a grunt Brian lunged at Brandon and punched him in the stomach. Several people seated nearby gasped and stood up as the veterinarian doubled over, only to meet the older man’s fist once again.

“Help!” Marianne screamed out as Matthew staggered back, a trickle of blood seeping from his mouth, and drew his arm back and drove his fist into Brian’s nose.

By now Danny had joined the mêlée, and the three men fell back against first one nearby table, then another, rolling and punching and sending tankards and plates of food and tables and chairs crashing to the floor.

With trembling fingers Marianne retreated along with the other patrons to a corner, out of harm’s way, and withdrew her mobile to dial 999 and get help. But help proved unnecessary when the barkeep and his assistant, an ex-prizefighter from County Antrim, strode over and grappled the three men to their feet and pulled them apart.

“What the hell d’you mean, coming in here and throwin’ fists in my pub in the middle of the bloody day?” the barkeep growled as he took it in turns to glare at the three men. “You dafty savages.”

Brian spat. “He threw the first punch,” he said, and glowered at Matthew. He shook himself free of the bouncer’s grip. “Let go of me, you great hulking lummox.”

“That’s not true,” Marianne exclaimed. She pointed at Brian. “He started it. Brian. Him and his friend, Danny.”

“I can speak for myself, Miss Holland, thank you,” Matthew bit off.

“Doesn’t matter who started it,” the barkeep snapped. His eyes took in the broken glass and plates that crunched underfoot and he scowled at the overturned tables and chairs. “That’s damages you’ll be paying for, the lot of you,” he informed them angrily. “And it’s at least a couple of hundred quid worth, I’d say.”

“But it’s not Matthew’s fault,” Marianne objected. She turned once again to the barkeep. “It’s not fair.”

He ignored her. “Everyone, my sincere apologies for the interruption,” he added as his gaze swept over the faces of the patrons hovering uncertainly nearby. “The next round’s on the house. Please, go back to your seats. The fun’s over now.”

He rounded on Brian and Danny. But the two men, unwilling to face the possibility of police, had slipped out of the door and disappeared.

“Looks like that leaves you,” he said to Matthew, and jabbed a finger at the veterinarian’s chest. “I’ll just tot up the damages you and your friends racked up and add it to your bill.”

As he stormed off, Marianne returned to their table and bent over Brandon as he sank back down onto the bench. Her face was creased in concern.

“Are you all right?” When he didn’t answer, she reached for a napkin and dipped it in beer, and gently began to dab at his bloodied mouth. “I’m
so
sorry, I swear I had no idea those awful men would be here –”

He pushed her hand roughly away. “I’m fine,” he snapped. “Leave me be.”

“But you’re hurt,” she protested, and reached out again. “Your lip’s cut, and you’re bleeding –”

“Haven’t you done enough?” He thrust her hand aside. “Thanks to you and your car-thieving friends, I’ve as good as lost two hundred pounds from my badger culling funds. It took me months to collect that money. Months! After I pay the damages for this bloody fight, I’ll be lucky to have ten quid left.”

She stared at him, and the shock and hurt she’d felt at his words quickly gave way to anger. “It isn’t my fault! I didn’t know they’d be here in the pub, did I? And I sure as
hell
didn’t tell you to get into a fight with the two of them.”

“Go out to the truck.” His words were quiet and he didn’t spare her a glance. “I’ll be along shortly to take you back to the clinic, and you can go home from there. After I settle up.”

“But –”

His jaw tightened. “Go, Miss Holland. Please. Do as I ask, just this once, and leave.”

As she turned away, upset and seething at the unfairness of it all, she felt her throat thicken and brushed her tears away with an angry hand.

Matthew Brandon would
not
see her cry.

***

Sunday dawned bright and warm; it was perfect weather for Lady Valentine’s picnic at Barton Park.

And although her mother and her sister Elinor were excited and talked of nothing else all morning but the picnic, Marianne’s own expectations were muted. Damages to the Endwhistle pub had totalled one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Matthew’s badger culling protest fund was seriously depleted, and it was all her fault.

Or at least,
he
thought as much. He’d told her so.

When they’d left the pub, Matthew drove her back to the clinic in his truck. He didn’t speak. When she got out, she’d barely shut the passenger door when he shot away.

“Tosser!” she shouted after the beat-up Ford pickup.

She’d gone home, up to her room, where she’d fallen across her bed and wept into her pillow until the pillowcase was soggy and she had no tears left.

It was a shame, Marianne reflected now as she carried a stack of linens out to the front lawn on Sunday morning and dumped them on one of the refectory tables that Bertie and Jack had set up outdoors. She and Matthew had got on so well yesterday. She’d felt – if not exactly close to him, at least in accord with him.

And now, because of Brian and Danny, Brandon’s fund was depleted and so was his tolerance of her.

Why should I care if Matthew Brandon’s mad at me, anyway?
Marianne thought grimly as she stalked up the front steps of Barton Park to fetch the picnic blankets.
He’s a jerk. An impossible-to-please, patronising, sexist jerk –

At the sound of an approaching vehicle, she paused and flung a glance over her shoulder. Someone was coming up the drive. Driving fast, too. Who was it? It was far too early for the guests to start arriving.

It was a truck, Marianne realised with equal parts hope and wariness, a beat-up, blue truck. She stood rooted to the spot as it ground to a halt at the bottom of the steps and the driver’s door flew open.

Matthew Brandon got out and slammed the door behind him, and as he approached her, his gaze clashed with hers.

“Miss Holland,” he said evenly, “we need to talk.”

Chapter 24

“I wasn’t aware we had anything left to say.” She put her hand on the doorknob and turned away.

“I have plenty to say.”

Marianne levelled her eyes on him. “If you’ve come to hurl more accusations and insults at me, you can just stuff them right up your arse and be on your way.”

“Is that any way to talk to your employer, Miss Holland?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“It is when your
employer
blames you for something that wasn’t remotely your fault, yes.”

He let out a short, exasperated breath. “You’re right. And I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

She lifted her brow. “What was that? Could you say it again, please, Dr Brandon? I didn’t properly hear you the first time.”

He glared at her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Holland,” he gritted, “for holding you responsible for the incident in the pub yesterday. I was wrong. The blame was entirely mine; I let that arsehole Brian get to me.” He let out a sharp breath. “If I wasn’t already in a mood when we got there, I would’ve ignored him and let it go.”

“Why were you in a mood? Did it have anything to do with Lacey?” Marianne asked, even as she thought,
when are you ever not in a mood? And why do I even care?

“My sister? Why do you mention her?” he said sharply.

“No reason, only…we all noticed the tension between you two at Lady Violet’s dinner. We couldn’t help it. Lacey has a chip on her shoulder that’s bigger than your ego.” She glared at him. “And that’s saying a lot.”

He tensed, and looked as if he intended to turn and walk away. But Marianne stood her ground and refused to apologise.

It was the truth, after all.

“Never mind,” he said after a moment, and thrust his hands in his pockets. “It’s not important.” He glanced at Bertie and Jack, setting up folding chairs and unfolding a cloth on one of the tables under the oaks, and turned back to her. “Can I lend a hand while I’m here?”

“I’m sure we can find something for you to do.”

She opened the front door and indicated he follow her, leading the way through the baize door into the kitchen.

“Quite a place,” Brandon observed as he took in the oaken beams overhead, the fireplace that stretched the entire length of the far wall, the Rayburn and and the gleaming Sub-Zero fridge.

“Lady Violet said Barton Park used to filled to capacity in the fall and winter. Her husband, the baron, liked to host shoots and hunts.”

“I can imagine,” he agreed, his words dry. “After all, shouldn’t everyone have an estate tucked away in the country whenever the mood for stag hunting strikes?”

“Don’t start,” Marianne warned him in a low voice as she strode across the kitchen towards Mrs Fenwick. “And don’t judge.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Speaking of Lacey, where is she? Didn’t you bring her along?”

“No. She elected to stay home at Delaford.”

“I’m surprised you left her alone.”

“The staff’s keeping a close eye on her, believe me.” His words were grim. “If I could lock her up in a tower to keep her out of trouble and away from the boys, I would.”

“Maybe you could make her wear one of those ankle bracelet thingies,” she joked. “So you know where she is at all times.”

“Not a bad idea. But I’m sure she’d manage to saw it off.”

“There you are, Miss Marianne,” the housekeeper exclaimed as she spotted them. “I’ve nearly got the picnic baskets ready, except for the chilled foods. I’ll bring those out later, closer to the time.”

“Let me help,” Marianne offered, and reached for one of the prepared baskets. “Matthew and I can carry them outside. Easy-peasy.” She lifted the basket and nearly staggered under its weight. “What’ve you got in here, Mrs F?”

“A ham, some bottles of wine, crockery…they’re heavy,” Mrs Fenwick warned. “Let Dr Brandon and the rest of the men take care of it. Jack,” she called out, “where are you? Get your worthless self in here and help carry these baskets outside.”

As Marianne brushed past Jack, he cast her a quick, knowing glance and winked.
What is it with him?
she wondered as she turned away and carried a load of picnic blankets out of the door.
Always smirking and giving me amused glances, as if…as if he knows something I don’t.