The Bejewelled Bride

The Bejewelled Bride

Lee Wilkinson

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

BETHANY glanced around her. The scenery on the high mountain pass was awesomely bleak and beautiful in the pearly grey light of an early February afternoon. For the first few miles, while the pass had run fairly straight and level between rock-strewn fells, she had seen a black Range Rover in the rear-view mirror. But over the last half mile or so it must have turned off into a side valley, because now she had the road to herself.

When she had set off to Bosthwaite earlier in the day to visit Mrs Deramack and look at some antiques, she had taken the main road but had taken this lonely route back especially to see more of the wild and rugged grandeur she remembered well from her one previous visit to the Lake District.

As she drove however, she thought back to that wonderful visit and remembered a lean, good-looking face with brilliant eyes and a mouth with the kind of male beauty that tied her insides in knots.

A face that had stayed fresh in her mind for the past six years.

Quiet and shy, she had been just seventeen at the time and on a family holiday with her parents. Returning from the west coast of Scotland, they had decided to spend one night in Cumbria on their way back to London.

They had been staying in Dundale End, and after dinner that evening, encouraged by their landlady, ‘You must go, my dears, everyone will be there…’ they had gone to a concert at the small village hall. In front of a makeshift stage, rows of chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle, and it had been there, sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in the centre of the second row, that she had fallen in love for the first time. Love at first sight. The hot, crazy kind of love that had turned her chest into a bell and her heart into a clapper.

She had watched him walk in, tall and broad across the shoulders, casually dressed, he had an air of quiet confidence. Somewhere in his early twenties, he was a man not a boy, with a strong-boned face, thick corn-coloured hair and light, brilliant eyes.

With him had been an elderly couple and a girl about his own age, who addressed him as Joel.

Joel…Bethany had hugged the name to her as though it was some precious gift.

He exchanged greetings with many of the people there, which suggested he was a local. Bethany had wished fervently that she and her parents were staying here instead of going back to London the next day.

Try as she would, her eyes had been drawn to him more often than to the stage. On one occasion she had found him staring back at her with a quiet intensity that made heat spread through her entire body. Feeling her cheeks flame, she had looked hastily away, her curtain of long dark hair swinging forward, hiding her embarrassment.

As the show came to an end, finishing with prolonged and hearty applause, she had kept her attention fixed firmly on the stage.

Perhaps when everyone was on their way out they might meet, might exchange a word. Lovely evening…Are you on holiday…? But when she’d glanced back, the little group had gone. She’d felt bitterly disappointed.

Although she had told herself it was ridiculous to long for something that only might have happened, she had thought and dreamt about him for months.

The memory of that past innocent adoration warmed her and for a few precious seconds took her mind off this which was turning out to be a disaster.

In more ways than one.

That morning, after a poor night’s sleep and an uncomfortable half hour spent sitting opposite her silent, still-angry boss, Tony, while they ate breakfast at the Dundale Inn, she had taken the main road to the valley of Bosthwaite to see Mrs Deramack.

It was, she had discovered, a dead-end valley, and the tiny, isolated hamlet of Bosthwaite was made up of a few widely scattered houses and a farm.

Finding the road—which was little more than a track—ran through the farmyard, she had stopped to ask directions.

After warning her, ‘Old Mrs Deramack’s a bit…you know…’ Apparently at a loss for words, the farmer had tapped his forehead with a gnarled finger, before pointing out Bosthwaite House.

Bethany soon realized what he’d meant when the old lady informed her that though Joseph, her husband, had passed away some five years ago, he was still with her and would need to agree on the price of anything she parted with.

The antiques she wanted to sell were stored in the freezing cold, badly lit attic, and while she hovered at the bottom of the attic stairs talking to her husband as though he was still alive and with them, Bethany had gone through what seemed endless boxes and cartons.

When, chilled to the bone and cramped from so much squatting, her throat dry, clogged with the dust of ages, she had finished the last box, she pushed back a loose strand of dark hair and admitted defeat.

In an attempt to soften the blow, she had told the old lady that though there was nothing amongst her treasures that Feldon Antiques would be prepared to buy, there were other local dealers who might be interested. She had written down the names of two of them before getting into her car and driving away.

When she reached an old white-walled pub called The Drunken Pig, she had stopped to wash her face and hands and re-coil her long dark hair before ordering a refreshing pot of tea and an omelette.

While she ate she had studied her map and decided to take the mountain pass back to Dundale, rather than the main road.

From the start the landscape had been dramatic, but now it had become even more spectacular. On the left was a towering rock face and on the right, an abyss, as the ground dropped away precipitously.

A lot sooner than she had expected, the clear air had become hazy and twilight had started to creep in, while grey swirling mist began to hide the tops of the highest peaks.

She switched on the car’s headlights and on a road way down in the valley below saw an answering gleam. Just that distant light, a reminder that she wasn’t totally alone, was reassuring.

Even so, she found herself wondering a shade uneasily if she had been wise to take this deserted switchback route—though the Lakeland scenery was truly magnificent, and she loved it.

A love of the country that Tony Feldon, her boss, and owner of Feldon Antiques since the death of his father the previous year, had signally failed to share.

He had made no secret of the fact that he was a dedicated city man and couldn’t wait to get back to London and ‘civilization’.

When they had drawn up outside the Dundale Inn the previous night, he had glanced around at the dark fells and shuddered. ‘It looks like the back of beyond! When I booked I should have made sure it was in town…’

She wondered why he’d booked it himself rather than leaving it to Alison, his general dogsbody.

‘If we’re forced to stay in this God-forsaken spot for two nights, it had better be worth it,’ he muttered half under his breath.

‘I’m sure it will be.’ Hoping to keep him in a reasonably good mood, she added, ‘There are some very fine lots listed in Greendales’ preview catalogue.’

Taking their overnight bags from the car boot, he handed Bethany hers and agreed, ‘That’s true.’

As she followed him into the hotel and across the deserted lobby to the empty reception desk, he muttered, ‘God, what a dump! It looks as if we’re the only people staying here.’

‘Well it is the middle of the week and out of season,’ she pointed out.

He dropped his case on the carpet and brought his hand down hard on the brass bell that squatted on the desk like a metal toad. ‘It might be the middle of the week and out of season,’ he said irritably, ‘but the blasted place is supposed to be open.’

Ignoring his bad temper and the scowl that marred his darkly handsome features, Bethany went on, ‘And from what Mrs Deramack said when I spoke to her on the phone, it sounds as if she has some very good pieces of silver and porcelain.’

‘Well, if she has, let’s hope the old biddy doesn’t realize how good, or she’ll no doubt want the earth for them.’

‘Do you intend to go and see her yourself?’

‘No. I had a quick glance at the map. It’s quite a way to Bosthwaite Valley, and I’ll have more than enough on. I’ll get a taxi to Greendales and you can take the car.

‘If you think any of the items Mrs Deramack wants to sell are in our line, don’t say too much and don’t put a price on them. I’ll do the negotiating myself, even if it means staying up here an extra day…’

Bethany frowned. His failure to give her a free hand rankled. She had worked for James Feldon, Tony’s father, since she had left school at eighteen, and after his sudden and fatal heart attack, she had missed him a great deal.

She had liked and trusted the old man as much as she disliked and distrusted his son. His conviction that women were fair game made her hackles rise, as did his frequent suggestions—since Devlin had been wiped from the picture—that if she loosened up they could ‘have a little fun together’.

So far she had managed to keep him at arm’s length without too much bad blood, but if he didn’t soon get the message and back off she would have to leave.

It was a depressing thought.

She still liked her job and when she wasn’t actually travelling the shop was within easy walking distance of the flat in Belgravia that she shared with a friend.

Added to that, while she was working she was not only saving hard but buying up small items with a view to one day starting her own business.

Glancing round the still deserted lobby, Tony banged the bell a second time with unnecessary violence. ‘Where the devil is everyone?’

A moment later an elderly woman appeared. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, but the desk clerk has gone home ill and there’s no one to take his place…You have booked?’

‘Yes, for two nights. The name’s Feldon.’

Opening the register at what appeared to be an almost empty page, she confirmed, ‘Ah, yes, here we are…Mr and Mrs Feldon. A double room on the ground floor. Number five.’

As she handed over the key, Bethany came to life. ‘There’s been some mistake,’ she announced distinctly. ‘I’m not Mrs Feldon, and I need a separate room.’

Catching a glimpse of Tony’s furious face, she knew there had been no mistake. That was why he had made the booking himself, and that was what he had meant when he’d said, ‘It had better be worth it’.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the woman apologized. ‘Well there’s a single just down the corridor. Number nine, if that’ll do.’

‘That will do fine, thanks,’ Bethany assured her crisply and, taking the key, marched in the direction the woman had indicated.

‘Damn it all, Bethany,’ Tony complained, following her to her door. ‘Why did you have to insist on another room?’

She turned to face him, her clear grey eyes sparkling with anger. ‘Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that I don’t want to go to bed with you?’

He was quite taken back. ‘Why not? Plenty of other women do.’

Bethany raised her chin and replied, ‘Then you should have brought one of them.’

‘I wish I had, rather than bringing a prim and proper little Miss like you,’ he snarled angrily.

As she turned away he said more moderately, ‘Look, I’m sorry. Change your mind. God knows we could use some fun in a hole like this.’

Bethany was furious. ‘For the last time, I don’t sleep around, and if you don’t stop pestering me I’ll be forced to hand in my notice.’

She was invaluable to him and, reluctant to lose her, he muttered, ‘There’s no need to go to those lengths.’ Then, petulantly, ‘I don’t know why you can’t loosen up a bit. You’re too old to act like some shrinking virgin. And it’s not as if you’re still engaged to that Devlin bloke…’

It had been some six weeks before their wedding when, returning early from a business trip to Paris, Bethany had dropped in to Devlin’s flat and discovered him in bed with another woman.

Unable to believe his pleas that it had been a spur of the moment thing and would never happen again, she had given him back his ring and walked out.

‘Just because you’re still angry and bitter at the way he treated you,’ Tony went on, ‘it doesn’t mean you have to take it out on all men.’

When she just looked at him coldly, he taunted, ‘If you hadn’t been so frigid he wouldn’t have needed another woman…’ When his cruel jokes elicited no response from her he swung on his heel, and a moment later she heard the slam of his bedroom door.

As she remembered Tony Feldon’s harsh comments her mind wandered back to her broken engagement to Devlin that he had callously mentioned. She had been both angry and bitter at first. But she had soon discovered, or rather realized, that while her pride had been trampled on, her heart was virtually intact. And in retrospect she could see that she had only imagined herself in love with Devlin. In fact she’d only really been drawn to him in the first place because he reminded her a little of the blond stranger she had adored at seventeen…

A sudden savage wrench at the steering wheel and a thumping judder brought her back to the present with a shock.

Her heart in her mouth, she dragged the wheel over and steered to the side of the road away from the steep drop into the valley below.

On shaking legs she climbed out to find—as she had feared—that her nearside front tyre had burst.

Well, she would have to do something about it, and fast. It was rapidly getting dark and the swirls of mist had changed to thick swathes that were now shrouding the peaks and threatening to roll down and engulf the pass.

Shivering in her fine wool suit, she pulled on her short jacket before going round to open the boot. Lifting the inner cover, she took out a jack, the spare wheel, the wheel brace and a foot-pump.

Though so far she had never been forced to change a wheel, when she had bought her first old banger, her father had insisted on her learning how to.

Now she was grateful. Only it didn’t seem to be as easy as she remembered.

She was still struggling to put the jack in place when, miraculously, headlights appeared over the crest of the previous rise. A moment later a big black Range Rover, like the one that had followed her earlier, drew to a halt a few yards away.

As she straightened, a tall well-built man with fair hair got out.

Though she was dazzled by the lights, and with his back to them his face was in shadow, there seemed to be something oddly familiar about him.

‘Need some help?’ he asked.

He had an attractive voice, she noted, low-pitched and cultured with no trace of a local accent.

‘Please,’ she said gratefully.

The air was damp and raw and, clenching her teeth to prevent them chattering, she watched his broad back while he proceeded to change the wheel with a deft efficiency she could only admire.

Then, having tested the tyre pressure he put some air in with the foot-pump, observing, ‘That ought to do it,’ before stowing everything back in the boot and closing it.

‘Thank you very much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

He wiped his hands on a handkerchief he’d taken from the pocket of his leather car-coat and, turning towards his own vehicle, said easily, ‘I’m glad to have been of help.’

As the headlights shone full on him, for the first time she saw his face clearly. It was the face that had haunted her for the past six years.

No, it couldn’t be! It was far too much of a coincidence. But even while she told herself it couldn’t be him, she knew it was. And once again he was going to walk out of her life.

‘I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along,’ she said desperately.

‘I’m quite sure you would have managed…’Then, briskly, ‘I suggest we get going while we can still see the road.’

In the short time it had taken him to change the wheel the mist had begun to close in with ominous speed, rolling down the mountainside and starting to obscure the drop into the valley below.

A combination of cold, desolation and fear made Bethany shiver.

As though sensing that fear and desolation, he paused and asked, ‘Do you know the pass at all?’

‘No,’ she answered in a small voice.

‘In that case I’m going to suggest we team up.’ He waited for her nod of assent before adding, ‘My name’s Joel McAlister.’

Her heart leapt in her chest, making her sound breathless, as she said, ‘Mine’s Bethany Seaton.’

‘Where are you heading for, Miss Seaton?’ His rich, smooth voice melted her heart.

Somewhat nervously, she replied. ‘I’m staying at the Dundale Inn.’

‘I’m heading for the Dundale Valley myself, though judging by how fast the mist’s closing in, it’s my bet we’re not going to get that far.’

‘Oh…’

Perhaps he mistook her little exclamation of excitement for panic, because he added quickly, ‘But don’t worry. If we can make it to the foot of Dunscar, which is about a mile away, there’s a small hotel there. It’s closed for the winter, but I understand the caretaker lives on the premises.’ He went on automatically, ‘Now, let’s get moving. As it’s too narrow here for me to get past, we’ll have to take your car.’

Turning off his own vehicle’s lights, he added, ‘I’d better drive, as I know the road.’

When she made no demur, he opened the passenger door for her, then slid behind the wheel.

Bethany was barely able to see anything except the mist reflecting back the dipped headlights, yet he drove with a careful confidence that was reassuring. Though, truth to tell, rather than worrying about their safety, her thoughts centred on the fact that fate had brought him back into her life.

She was being given a second chance.

The chance.

At seventeen, she would have been too young.

But now, at twenty-three to his twenty-seven—twenty-eight? the timing was perfect.

Unless he was already married?

No! She pushed the awful thought away.

She and this stranger, who was no stranger, were meant to be together. She had never been more sure of anything in her whole life.

While they made their way down to Dunscar, her heart beating fast, she studied his profile in the glow from the dashboard.

His nose was straight, his jaw strong, the curve of brow and sweep of long lashes, several shades darker than his hair. At the corner of his mouth was a small dent, too masculine to be called a dimple, but surely it would become one when he smiled…

‘Think I’m trustworthy?’ Both his words and his voice held a hint of amusement.

Looking hastily away, she said as lightly as possible, ‘I certainly hope so. Though it’s a bit late to worry about it.’

When he said nothing further, she observed, ‘You’re obviously very familiar with this area, yet you don’t have a local accent.’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘So you don’t live around here?’ Bethany toyed with the strap of her handbag, her nervous excitement getting the better of her.

‘No. I’m based in London.’

Bethany breathed a sigh of relief. That was good news. Though London was a big place, it meant he was closer at hand than if he’d lived in Cumbria.

‘Are you up here on business?’ she asked.

He smiled wryly. ‘You could say that…’

When he made no further attempt at conversation, afraid of spoiling his concentration, she relapsed into silence and, unwilling to be caught staring at him again, looked resolutely ahead.

After a while he remarked, ‘Here we are,’ and, turning left into grey nothingness, brought the car to a halt and doused the lights.

At first all Bethany could see was mist pressing damply against the windscreen, then ahead and to the right she saw a faint glimmer of light.

He came round to help her out and, an arm at her waist, steered her towards the dark bulk of the hotel and the glow of a lighted window.

Just that casual touch seemed to burn through her clothing, setting every nerve in her body tingling and robbing her of breath.

When they reached what seemed to be a small annex, the window lit, Bethany could see now, by an oil lamp standing on the windowsill, he stepped forward and knocked on the door.

It opened almost immediately, letting out a slanting beam of yellow light, and an elderly man in shirtsleeves and a pullover peered at them, his face startled.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need a couple of rooms for the night,’ Joel told him.

‘The hotel’s closed,’ the caretaker said shortly. ‘You’ll have to go somewhere else.’

‘Unfortunately that’s not possible. The mist is much too thick.’

‘The hotel’s closed,’ the man repeated doggedly, and made as if to slam the door.

Joel stepped forward and held it, saying something quietly but decidedly that Bethany didn’t catch.

‘All the rooms are shut up and there’s no heating on in the main part,’ was the surly reply.

‘Well, I’m quite sure you can find us something,’ Joel insisted pleasantly. ‘In an old place like this there must surely be a room with a fireplace?’

‘The manageress lives on the premises while the hotel’s open, so there’s her room. But the bed’s not made up and the generator’s not working, so there’s no electricity…’

‘Perhaps you’ll show us?’

Grumbling about the cold and damp, and being scarcely able to walk for his rheumatism, the caretaker turned away.

Bethany noticed that Joel kept his foot in the door until the man returned, wearing a jacket and with a bunch of keys and a torch.

He closed the door behind him and, limping a little, led the way through the mist to a side entrance which gave on to a small tiled lobby.

The dank air seemed even colder inside than out.

At the end of a short corridor he opened a door and flashed the torch around a good-sized room furnished as a bedsitter.

They glimpsed a divan bed, a basket piled with logs next to a stone fireplace, a wooden table and chairs, a couple of deep armchairs and, through a door that was standing a little ajar, a tiled bathroom.

‘This will do fine,’ Joel assured him briskly. ‘A couple of pillows, a few blankets and a candle or two are all we’ll need.’

‘There’s bedding and towels in the cupboard and an oil lamp and matches on the chest of drawers,’ the caretaker said grudgingly.

‘Thanks.’ Some notes changed hands before Joel suggested, ‘Perhaps you could manage a bite to eat and a hot drink for the lady?’

The man stuffed the notes in his trouser pocket and, sounding somewhat mollified, said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He went, leaving them in total darkness.

As Bethany hesitated uncertainly, Joel’s level voice ordered, ‘Stay where you are until I’ve located the matches.’

A moment later she heard the brush of a footfall as he moved unerringly through the blackness, then the scrape and flare of a match.

With an ease that seemed to speak of long practice, he lit the oil lamp, adjusted the flame and replaced the glass chimney. In a moment the room was filled with golden light.

His clothes—smart casuals—looked expensive, his shoes handmade, but, taking no heed of either, he squatted by the hearth and began to set the fire.

She watched as his long well-shaped hands placed first sticks and then split logs on a bed of flaming kindling.