Chapter Twenty
‘I think it’s coming from the cellar.’
They were standing in the hall, staring at the shimmering Christmas tree, listening to the bangs that sounded like they were coming from behind and below it.
‘The door’s behind the tree?’ Artichoke had woken up and was sitting in the cradle of Imogen’s arms, her ears pricked.
‘Yup.’
‘We could legitimately say we couldn’t get to it, then.’
‘Except that I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on the place, and what if that’s the sound of the boiler breaking, and it’s going to explode?’
‘Then we should call a boiler expert.’
‘But I need to check it out first, because it could be something innocuous, something that’s fallen over and there’s some sort of momentum that explains the constant banging.’
‘Or it could be a ghost. This place must have ghosts.’ Artichoke whimpered and Imogen shivered, and Dexter put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his warm, solid body.
‘You’ll fit right in here if you keep going on about ghosts,’ he said softly.
‘Supposedly, everywhere in Mistingham is haunted. The old bookshop has the spookiest reputation, except that Fiona and Sophie went in there to track down a noise last November, and discovered it was Jazz, who’d broken in and was staying there. ’
‘She was homeless?’
‘Yeah. She’s found a permanent home here now, though. And Sophie spent years moving from place to place before she fell for Harry and decided to settle in the village.’
‘Oh.’ There was a long, heavy silence, broken only by the low banging that didn’t seem to want to give up. ‘So we could go down there and find someone using it as a shelter? It is getting really cold out, now.’
‘We could.’ Dexter sounded entirely unfazed. ‘But I don’t think there’s another way into the cellar, and the front doors are impenetrable when they’re locked.’
‘So we’re back to a ghost.’
‘Possibly. You don’t have to come with me.’
‘We’re in this together. We’re taking advantage of Sophie and Harry’s house, and I can’t enjoy the fire and the cosy lounge and then leave you to deal with the hauntings.’
‘Seems like you’ve picked an appropriate scene for us to act out, considering all this.’ He pulled her more firmly against him. ‘And about before, when—’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘We are not doing apologies. Let’s sort out the ghost, then we can … I don’t know, talk about your highly inappropriate nose kiss?’
‘OK.’ He smiled and dropped his arm. ‘Let’s leave Artichoke here.’ He took the dog from Imogen’s arms and put her on a chair, then tied her lead to one of the legs. He crouched down, whispering words to his puppy that Imogen couldn’t hear, then joined her. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready,’ Imogen said, then tried to hide her delight when he took her hand and they crept around the edge of the Christmas tree together.
She saw a low door nestled in the panelling beneath the stairs, half-hidden behind the baubles and branches.
She realized she had held hands with Dexter more in the last few weeks than she’d done with Edmund in two years.
Dexter tugged the wooden handle and, after a few tries, the door unstuck itself and lurched towards him. He glanced at Imogen, squeezed her hand, and stepped into the dark.
‘I think there’s a light switch somewhere,’ he murmured, as Imogen registered that the banging was a whole lot louder, and that it was close, coming from somewhere below them. A second later a sickly yellow light illuminated a rickety wooden staircase leading down into the gloom.
‘Oh my God,’ Imogen murmured. ‘These spider webs could be actual Halloween decorations. Seen from space.’
‘They are impressive.’ Dexter’s voice had lost some of its certainty. She squeezed his hand then let go, because if they tried to go into the cellar side by side they would fall.
She followed him down the creaky staircase, her heart climbing higher in her throat as they went lower, as the banging got louder, as piles of boxes, broken bits of furniture – a lamp without a shade, a table with a leg missing, a bookshelf split down the back – came into view.
The cobwebs were draped over everything like dust sheets.
‘Fucking hell,’ Dexter said. ‘Maybe it’s a giant fucking spider making all the noise.’
Imogen’s laugh was pathetically terrified.
‘Maybe we should leave them to it,’ he said. ‘It’s not the boiler.’
‘You’ve just decided that, without even finding the boiler?’
‘Yes. I have decided that—’
‘Cooooooooo!’
Imogen jumped as Dexter sprung back, knocking into her. ‘Sorry! Sorry.’ He reached a hand behind him, and Imogen thought he must have been aiming for her waist, but he squeezed her thigh and she felt dizzy. This was altogether too many sensations in one go.
‘What is that?’ she squeaked, then tried to modify her voice. ‘Is that what ghosts sound like?’
‘I think it’s what pigeons sound like.’ He sounded relieved, and that made Imogen feel relieved.
‘Oh. Phew.’
‘Now we just have to find it and get it out.’
Imogen looked at the sea of broken things, the impressive cobwebs and dust, and decided that she was prepared to help only because it was Dexter, and what did that say about how complicated things had got? ‘Let’s do it,’ she said, and followed him to the bottom of the steps.
They waded through the clutter, coughing when their movements sent clouds of dust into the air, Imogen shivering when she imagined eight-legged beasts crawling over her neck or down her arm.
They followed the bangs and coos and squawks, and Imogen realized Dexter was right; these were the sounds of a trapped bird, not a lost soul.
They reached the far corner of the cellar, where the dim light barely reached and the shadows were as thick as the dust, and the banging was loud. Dexter slowly took off his hoody, and held it out in front of him. ‘It’s just …’
The bird squawked and flew-jumped out from behind a box, and Dexter said, ‘Fuck’, and flailed his arms, his hoody acting as a net.
The pigeon flew straight into his waiting trap, and he let it hit his chest and then bundled his hoody around it, and Imogen grieved yet another piece of delectable clothing that he was prepared to sacrifice to the Mistingham Manor estate.
‘Got it,’ he huffed, while the bird struggled to get free.
‘What can I do?’
‘Lead the way, open the doors – we need to get it out of here before it escapes back into the cellar.’
‘Right.’ She retraced their steps, hurrying up the creaking staircase, ignoring the dust, the tickling sensations, and the muffled squawks behind her. She burst out into the hallway, raced to the double doors and flung them open, the bright blue cold like a slap in the face.
Dexter jogged past her, down the steps and onto the driveway, where he opened his arms wide and the pigeon flapped out of the hoody and thumped onto the ground.
It sat there, stunned, then took off with a screech, its flight haphazard to begin with, but soon it was soaring towards the nearest copse of trees.
Dexter was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, a triumphant smile on his face.
Imogen was finding it hard to breathe too, not so much from the race out of the cellar, but because of how Dexter looked, all dishevelled curls and high colour, the grey T-shirt clinging to his torso.
He examined his hoody, then rolled his eyes and dropped it to the ground.
‘Not a ghost.’ He strode towards her.
‘No.’ Imogen stepped back, her shoulder blades connecting with the solid stone wall of the porch. ‘Not a ghost.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, getting closer, his chest still heaving, ‘for coming with me.’
‘I couldn’t let you go alone.’ She licked her lips, trying to bring some moisture back to them.
‘Why not?’ He stopped in front of her, his eyes alight with exertion and triumph.
‘Because it wasn’t fair. And because you were worried.’
‘About the banging?’
‘About the nose kiss.’
He nodded as he looked at her, assessing her, maybe.
She hadn’t ever seen him so determined. ‘You thought I was worried about that?’ He rested his hand on the stone above her head, so he was leaning over her, and she wanted to reach out and touch his soft T-shirt, trace the lines of his torso through it.
‘I want you to know it was OK, that you’d done it.’ She gazed up at him, feeling the thrill of him leaning over her, how close he was, how commanding.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘And is this OK?’ He was quieter now, but no less sure.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I could have another one.’
‘Another nose kiss?’
‘Another kiss,’ she confirmed, and everything inside her tightened as he slipped his free hand around her waist, squeezing her just above the waistband of her jeans, and lowered his head.
‘Like this?’ he murmured, his warm breath whispering over her chilled skin.
‘This is good,’ she managed. ‘I like this a lot.’
‘Me, too.’ He gave her one of his warm, everything smiles and lowered his lips to hers, his touch gentle at first and then, when she kissed him back, sliding her hand up his T-shirt – so soft – to his neck, he got more demanding, and she tipped her head back, changing the angle.
His kiss was like nothing she could remember, hot and sure and giving, so whole, somehow, and soon she had both her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair so that he groaned, the sound vibrating from his throat into her.
‘Oh my God,’ she panted, pulling back half an inch so she could say it.
‘Oh my God,’ Dexter agreed, and kissed her again, lifting his hand from the wall behind her, pulling her against him so their chests were pressed together, and they were touching in other places too, and she could see the blue and silver Christmas wreath on the front door shivering out of the corner of her eye.
She wanted to lift her leg, to tighten it around his hip, to change angles and perhaps locations, because that living room had a lot of huge, comfortable sofas.
But there were so many things about this scenario that were complicated, and while Imogen’s entire body, and a large part of her mind, were keen to keep going, there was this other voice.
She pulled back and cupped Dexter’s deliciously stubbled jaw. ‘Should we stop?’ she asked between ragged breaths.
‘Do you want to stop?’ he huffed out.
‘No. No, but there’s …’
He nodded, his curls chaotic – had she done that? – his lips pink. ‘I know, it’s—’
‘Complicated,’ she finished.
He pressed his forehead against hers. ‘I hate complicated.’
‘Me too.’ She closed her eyes in a slow blink.
He stepped back a fraction, his hand loosening on her hip. He caught her chin again, waited for her to look at him. ‘But I didn’t overstep, or—’
‘Not at all,’ she rushed out. ‘I have just had the best kiss of my life, pressed up against the doorway of a gothic manor house, after a whole lot of pigeon drama, and …’
‘And?’
‘I would like to do it again. But I wonder if we should …’
‘Have a bit of breathing space?’
Imogen nodded. ‘Just a bit. Because we need to think about it. Because there’s Lucy, and my whole London thing.’
‘Exactly.’ He nodded, and she could see he was trying to be serious, but he looked like a man who had been thoroughly kissed, and she couldn’t help feeling a bit proud about that.
‘Exactly,’ she repeated, and hoped she looked equally dishevelled. You couldn’t have a kiss like that and not be affected in all sorts of ways.
‘I need to go and check on the bakery,’ he said.
‘I need to go and … brush up on my voices.’ She grinned.
Dexter returned it. ‘We did good rehearsing.’
She laughed. ‘We did awful rehearsing.’
‘I know. And I don’t regret a second of it.
’ He leaned in, planted a swift, hard, achingly sexy kiss on her lips, then went back inside, presumably to put out the fire and collect Artichoke.
After a moment, when she felt like her legs would carry her, she followed him and helped him put everything back exactly how they’d found it, pigeon intruders notwithstanding.