Hawk's Way: Rebels. Joan Johnston

I was so rude.’

      She shook her head. ‘Forget it. We’ve dealt with it. It wasn’t easy for me seeing you again, so I can’t imagine you found it any easier. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re under pressure.’

      He didn’t reply, just nodded slightly in acknowledgement and returned his attention to his coffee.

      The sun rose higher, filtering through the tree overhead and bathing them in gentle, dappled light. It was calm and restful, and she couldn’t imagine why on earth he would want to sell it and return to London full-time—

      ‘Why are you selling it?’ she asked, the words just coming out without her permission. Oh, Lord, did that sound as desperate as she thought it did?

      He shrugged, his lovely blue eyes unreadable. ‘What is there here for me?’

      Me! she wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. He didn’t want her; he’d made that perfectly obvious. ‘Mel said you’d been spending more time in London.’

      ‘Business has been quite busy recently,’ he agreed, and pushed his chair back, his breakfast hardly touched. ‘Come and see the rest of the house.’

      And then she could go, she thought, and get out of his way. He was clearly in a hurry to get rid of her—probably regretted the invitation, but his natural good manners would have prevented him from withdrawing it.

      She followed him back to the hall and through the rest of the house, and as she looked around she thought it seemed soulless. Only the kitchen seemed to have any real heart—the kitchen and the conservatory, which they’d planned together and researched in the run-up to the wedding.

      They went upstairs and looked in the bedrooms, and they were all beautifully presented and co-ordinated. She wondered who had done it, and if he’d slept with her, and felt a surge of jealous rage.

      ‘This is my room,’ he said finally, pushing open a door, and a huge lump wedged in her throat, because this was what she’d said she wanted—the walls, carpet, curtains, all soft creamy white, with a huge four-poster in the middle, its massive barley-twist posts and heavily carved head and foot boards gleaming with the patina of age.

      There was a richly embroidered cream bedspread smoothed over the quilt, piled high with cushions and pillows, and behind the headboard more of the same fabric hung in deep folds.

      ‘Did you do the bathroom?’ she asked in a choked voice, and he nodded.

      ‘Take a look.’

      It was lovely—antique fittings with brass taps, the bath a monster with huge ball and claw feet, and in the corner a real Victorian shower with heads all down the sides as well as a massive rose overhead. It must use gallons of water, but it looked wonderful.

      ‘I got all the stuff from that reclamation yard you told me about.’

      ‘Well done,’ she said, flashing him a smile without really looking at him, because it all hurt too much and she was too close to the bed where she would have lain with him at night for the last year, and loved him.

      She looked at her watch without seeing it. ‘I must fly,’ she said. ‘I haven’t really asked anything about the wedding or made myself useful at all yet, and they’ll be wondering where I am.’

      She headed for the door, all but running down the stairs, and at the kitchen door she turned and looked back at him, and wondered if she’d gone crazy or if that really was regret in his eyes.

      ‘Thanks for the breakfast,’ she said, and then she fled, just before her tears spilled over and gave her away…

      He was mad. Certifiably, stark raving mad. Why on earth had he taken her into his bedroom? Now she’d know he’d hung on her every word and built her dream for her, in the vain hope that she’d come back and share it with him.

      He snorted. Not a chance. She hadn’t been able to get out of there fast enough. Maybe she didn’t even remember all their plans.

      Not a hope. She’d realise what a fool he was, and even now she was probably laughing at him.

      Well, damn her. He threw the remains of the breakfast in the bin, tossed the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher with scant regard for their safety and went out, slamming the door behind him. The coach house door slid open at the touch of a button, and he got into the car, gunned the engine and shot out of the garage, up the drive and off down the lane.

      He tried to outrun his demons, but all he got for his pains was a speeding ticket and a lecture from the policeman that pulled him over. He drove to London, rang up a friend and thrashed him comprehensively at squash, then drowned his sorrows in the bar and went back to the flat to sleep it off.

      Ridiculous. He never drank to excess, and yet Lydia only had to set foot in the country and two nights running he had too much to drink.

      He woke up early on Monday morning, all his muscles screaming protest after the hammering he’d given them the day before, and drove back to Suffolk, arriving at his house as the sun came up over the trees and flooded the valley with gold.

      He should have stayed in London. He had plenty to do in the office, but they could manage without him so long as he was accessible by phone, and the masochist in him wanted to be near Lydia for the few short days that were left.

      He parked the car, went inside and made coffee, then banged on Tom’s door at eight with a mug of coffee to find Mel there, too, snuggled up against his friend’s side, a blissful smile on her face.

      ‘Morning,’ she said chirpily, and he dredged up a smile.

      ‘Hi. What’s on the menu today?’ he asked, wondering if he could make himself indispensable and coincidentally be in Lydia’s way.

      ‘Goodness knows. I’m keeping out of it,’ Mel said, winking mischievously at Tom. ‘We’ve got better things to do.’

      They were clearly going to be no help at all. He went downstairs, drained the coffee pot and checked his watch.

      Eight-thirty. He loaded the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen and strolled next door. The craftsmen were already coming and going in the kitchen workshops over the road, and as he looked down the drive his heart kicked. Lydia was sitting with her mother outside the back door on a bench, their faces tipped up to the sun, and as his feet scrunched on the gravel they looked up and Mrs Benton waved.

      ‘Jake! Come and have some coffee,’ she called, and his heart sank. He’d had enough coffee already this morning to launch a fleet of submarines, and the last thing he wanted was any more.

      ‘I’ve just had one—’

      ‘Some orange juice, then, or a croissant? We’ve just put some in the Aga. Have you eaten?’

      He looked at Lydia, busy looking non-committal, and wished for the thousandth time that he could read her mind and know what she was thinking.

      ‘No, I haven’t. That would be lovely, thank you, Maggie.’

      Lydia got to her feet and went into the kitchen, and he followed her. ‘Am I in the way?’ he asked quietly, and she stiffened and then laughed softly.

      ‘Of course not. Go on out and find a table and chairs from round the corner and drag them into the sun, could you? We’ll eat outside, it’s so nice.’

      He went, as commanded, and then sat with Maggie Benton and offered his assistance.

      ‘Oh, Jake, you are a darling,’ she said. ‘I think Raymond’s supervising the scaffolding team this morning, building the bridge ready for them to bring the marquee across on Wednesday, and we’ve got to deliver a huge butcher’s block to a woman in Mendlesham Green—you couldn’t go with Lydia and give her a hand, could you? It’s much too heavy for her to lift on her own, and the woman’s pregnant.’

      Oh, Lord. She was playing into his hands with a vengeance—maybe too much of a vengeance. It was one thing being around, quite