Chapter Thirty-Three
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
My heart trips, stumbles and falls off a cliff.
‘I … I …’
I actually can’t speak.
‘How did you find me?’ he growls.
‘With difficulty,’ I reply.
‘Because I’ve done my damnedest to ensure people don’t.’
His muscled torso is glistening with sweat and damp hair falls down across his forehead and cheekbones.
This Ash is feral . But still sexy as hell.
‘I’ve been determined.’
‘Why?’ For just a flicker of a second his mask slips, but then he puts it back on again. ‘You know what? Fuck it. I don’t care. You can go back the way you came.’
He stalks towards his cabin, goes inside and slams the door shut.
I don’t move an inch. I’m too stunned.
I’m also flushed to the point of needing fireproofing. I didn’t know I could be attracted to rude men.
But, of course, I’m only attracted to Ash.
Despite the not-so-warm welcome, I’m suddenly giddy that he’s here. I definitely saw his hard exterior crack a little. He can give up on the idea of me leaving; I’m going nowhere.
Did he sound different? I don’t think his accent was as broadly Welsh, but nor was it posh English – it was some sort of amalgamation of the two. Ash 3.0.
My insides are buzzing as I turn around to study his cabin. It’s small and single-storey with a pitched roof and clad with wood painted black. On the left are four large picture windows that have been fitted so closely together that they read as one big window, and on the right is a matt-black door.
Turning slightly, I spy what appears to be a shed, also black, and looking a bit further, I see solar panels in the clearing.
Suddenly the door to the cabin opens and Ash storms out, carrying a towel and fresh clothes.
‘You’re trespassing on private property,’ he warns.
‘Got any handcuffs?’ I ask, holding my wrists out to him.
My adrenaline has spiked again.
His eyes narrow momentarily and then he shakes his head and stalks off, muttering under his breath.
The sound of running water grows louder as I follow him out of the woods onto a circular patch of long grass hugged on one side by a medium-sized river.
He dumps his clothes by the shore on a handmade bench formed from three logs, then bends down and unlaces his boots, peeling off his socks before unbuttoning his shorts.
I glance up at the ominous-looking clouds in the sky – it is definitely not the right weather for a swim – and then the sound of splashing water yanks my attention back to the river.
Ash is in up to his waist, his hair wet and slicked back from his head.
I watch as he starts to scrub at his hair with soap, lathering it up into a foam.
‘Coconut wax from the Body Shop will really have its work cut out if you shampoo your hair with soap,’ I point out, trying to get a reaction, preferably an amused one. ‘It’s very dehydrating,’ I add, a little delirious.
He turns his back on me, soaping up his body.
The buzz I feel at finding him after the enormous high of discovering that he not only didn’t marry Beca, but sold Berkeley Hall to the National Trust, outshines every other emotion. The wild goose chase I’ve been on has also been full of highs and lows, but, just for the briefest of moments, a sickening apprehension kills off my dizzying light-headedness and I suddenly feel dark.
Does the Ash I knew exist any more? What if I’ve lost him for good?
The thought is so unfathomable that with the greatest will I quash it, steeling myself to break through his shell.
I drop my tote bag to the ground and start to take off my shoes. They were white earlier; now they’re a filthy, muddy, sodden mess.
I almost lose my balance as I’m tugging the damp fabric away from my swollen feet, and then I’m carefully treading over the slippery rounded stones on the shore until I’m standing several inches deep in the water. My body has a delayed reaction to the temperature.
‘How can you swim in this?’ I force myself to stay put, hoping the cold will soothe my mushrooming blisters, but Ash ignores me as he sinks fully beneath the water, a trail of wispy foam floating away from the place where I last saw his head.
He re-emerges and flicks his hair back, then swims to the bank and climbs out, inch by inch, foot by foot, until – okay, so he’s naked.
I look the other way, my cheeks burning. As he dresses, the dark feeling swallows me whole. He’s acting as though I don’t even exist.
He’s on his way again before I remember that I’m barefoot.
‘Wait, hang on.’ I quickly turn around to climb out of the water, but my head begins to spin.
Whoa.
I put my hands out, but there’s nothing to hang on to and I suddenly feel queasy, my vision turning red and then blackening. I’ve fainted once before and I know what it feels like – there’s nothing I can do to stop it from happening again.
The shock of the cold jolts me back to full consciousness, but I’ve fallen to my side into deeper water and it’s so disorientating, I panic. I can’t keep my head fully out of the flow. I’m gasping, spluttering up liquid ice, trying to find my footing on the rocky riverbed, and then there’s a loud splash and two strong hands are lifting me up from behind and dragging me out of the river.
Ash lays me down on the grass.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asks urgently as he checks me over.
I’m soaking wet from head to toe and shivering uncontrollably. That was so fucking scary, I felt like I was drowning.
‘Are you okay?’ he demands, placing one hand on my cheek.
Still shaking, I weakly cover his hand with mine as I nod.
He jerks his hand away and stands, backing up two paces before turning and dropping into a crouching position, holding his head in his hands.
I’m still too shocked to speak and my teeth are chattering violently.
‘Fuck!’ I hear Ash shout at the ground. He bolts upright and turns around to face me again. ‘Can you stand?’ His tone has grown sharp again.
I try to sit. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me – exhaustion, shock, the stress of trying to find him, his unwelcoming reception – whatever it is, I feel weak, as though I have no control over my body.
He bends down and helps me to my feet, but the second he tries to let me go, I wobble and he steadies me again.
Maybe he thinks I’m putting it on to get attention – I’m not.
‘I just need to sit awhile,’ I tell him feebly, but before I can sink back down again, he swings me up into his arms and carries me like a baby back into the woods.
I can’t even find the strength to loop my arms around his neck, but he’s warm and it helps subdue my shivering.
He takes me straight to his cabin, kicking the door back as he manoeuvres us through the narrow opening. It smells of log fires and coffee in here – that’s all I’m capable of noticing until I find myself in a small wood-panelled bathroom that still carries the scent of the pine it was crafted from. There’s a white enamel toilet and a matching hand basin, plus a towel rail with a dove-grey towel hanging on it, and in one corner an unenclosed shower. Ash places me down just outside it and turns on the tap. Water comes spilling out of the large round showerhead onto his hand.
‘It’s not that warm, but it’s warmer than the river,’ he mutters after a moment. ‘Can you manage to get undressed?’ He meets my gaze briefly before looking away again.
All the light has gone from his eyes.
Where are you, Ash?
I nod and step forward into the shower, fully clothed. I’m wet anyway.
He’s still standing behind me, I can sense him. I place my hand against the wall so I don’t faint again.
‘I’ll get you a towel and some dry clothes,’ he says roughly.
A moment later, I hear the sound of the door clicking shut.
The water is a lot warmer than the river. If it was any warmer, it would probably feel too hot after the cold I’ve just endured.
With difficulty I take off my wet clothes. Noticing some soap on a shelf, I use it to get myself clean before shutting off the water and cracking open the door to find a towel and a pile of clothes on the floor outside the bathroom.
If it weren’t for the Y-front design, I’d think that Ash owned a pair of grey yoga pants, but they’re surprisingly not too baggy. I pull the oversized long-sleeved black T-shirt over my head, forgoing my wet bra and knickers. He’s given me a pair of thick green socks, so I pull those on too and, leaving my hair wrapped up in the towel, exit the bathroom.
There’s another room opposite and through the open door I can see an almost wall-to-wall double bed covered with a dusky-green bedspread. The top of the mattress lines up with the bottom of a big picture window facing the woods, and the whole space is flooded with natural light.
I carry on and come out into a small open-plan kitchen and living space. On my left is a stainless-steel sink sunk into a chunky wooden L-shaped counter, charcoal-grey cupboards and an electric oven with four hobs, upon one of which sits a kettle. Another, smaller, window looks out onto the same aspect as the bedroom.
On my immediate right is a square table with two bench seats built into the walls perpendicular to each other, then there’s a log burner, already lit with a roaring fire, and further along, two creamy-yellow leather butterfly chairs. They’re designer – Bonet, Kurchan and Ferrari – and they sit on a thick grey rug facing a wooden coffee table and the four large windows that I saw from the outside.
The walls are filled with bookshelves and many of the spines are familiar to me from two years ago.
The place is simple, clean and uncluttered and so much more stylish than the ranger’s cabin.
There are no other rooms and I’m at a bit of a loss as to where Ash is.
I’m still feeling cold and shaky, so I go and kneel on the rug in front of the fire. Over on the hob, the kettle begins to boil. I’m about to get up to turn it off when Ash comes in through the door and kicks off his unlaced boots. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he goes to the hob, but he looks harassed. His hair is still damp, as is his green T-shirt, which he was wearing when he dragged me out of the river.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
I’ve sobered up after my earlier high.
He acts as though he hasn’t heard.
I watch miserably as he gets two dark blue mugs down from a shelf and opens a small fridge under the counter, bringing out some milk. He throws teabags into the mugs, pours in water and then slices some bread.
‘Toast?’ he asks, still facing away from me.
He can’t even bring himself to look at me. I think of his small, steady smile, his warm, fixed eye contact, and an overwhelming sadness bears down on me.
‘Yes, please,’ I reply.
I suspect it won’t help if I cry. He wanted me gone the second he saw me.
I haven’t had time to process any of this – I’ve been on autopilot since I heard about the acquisition – but suddenly it all feels surreal. Why did I think I could just waltz back into Ash’s life after two years of radio silence?
He brings over two blue metal camping mugs with silver rims and drags the coffee table towards me before putting them down. He doesn’t want to risk touching me again.
He returns to the kitchen and comes back with buttered toast on two aluminium plates, placing one next to my mug. Then he goes and sits on one of the chairs, facing the windows.
I stare at his broad shoulders as he hunches over, eating his food, drinking his tea, and feel sick to my stomach.
It’s an effort to force down the first few mouthfuls of toast, but pretty soon my stomach realises how famished it is and sends a message to my brain that it does want food. The last time I ate was yesterday lunchtime and I ran out of water on my way to Knighton, so it’s no wonder I fainted.
Ash and I drink our tea and polish off both pieces of toast without saying a single word to each other. My earlier bravado has well and truly disappeared, along with my giddiness.
Placing my mug next to the plate, I take my hair out of the towel and run my fingers through it, trying to detangle it without a comb, then I change position and sit with my arms looped around my knees, staring at the fire.
‘How did you find me here?’ Ash breaks the silence so suddenly I jolt.
I look over at him, but he’s still sitting on his chair, hunched over, and from this angle I can see that he’s staring down at the mug in his hands.
‘I walked from the Spaceguard Centre. Saw your footprints by the fence,’ I reply.
‘How did you know they were my footprints?’
There’s an edge to his questions, but he no longer sounds as though he hates me.
‘There was a man leaving when I arrived last night. He told me you lived this way, said you usually walked. When I saw the footprints this morning, I figured they might lead me to you.’ My vision blurs.
‘What time did you arrive?’ He sounds confused.
‘It was getting on for midnight. It was late by the time I left Berkeley Hall.’
He looks over his shoulder at me, his brow furrowing as he sees me drag my fingers beneath my eyes. ‘Why were you there?’
‘I was looking for you.’
He stares at me, his jaw clenched. ‘Why now?’ he asks after a few seconds.
‘I heard about the acquisition yesterday afternoon.’
He stares at me for a moment longer. ‘You didn’t hear before?’
I shake my head. ‘My boss read about a head gardener position on a work email. She mentioned it. I still work at Hidcote.’
He’s staring at me, not warmly, not the way he used to, but at least he’s not treating me as though I don’t exist.
And then, suddenly, the eye contact is gone. His body position hasn’t changed – he’s still hunched over, forearms resting on his knees – but the upright position of his head implies that he’s staring out of the windows. What is he thinking?
‘So you discovered it yesterday afternoon and drove to Berkeley Hall last night.’
‘Yes. I spoke to Sian, Bethan, Jac, Dylan, Celyn, Catrin …’ It’s hard to find the energy to say all those names. ‘And finally, your mother.’
He gets up abruptly and turns his chair around, his face a picture of disbelief as he sits down again.
‘You went to see my mother ?’
I nod. ‘She told me there was an observatory near where you lived in Knighton.’
‘What else did my mother say?’
‘That you were still angry at her.’ The shadows beneath his cheekbones flicker. ‘She also said that she was sorry.’
‘What for?’
I shrug. ‘I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. All I cared about was what she had to tell me about you. I was terrified that you might have gone back to Europe.’
His mouth is still set in a straight line, but I can’t help noticing that his eyes are slightly less vacant.
‘Is your car still parked up at Spaceguard?’ he asks as he puts his empty mug on the coffee table.
I nod. ‘It’s low on battery.’
He frowns. ‘Not sure where around here you’ll be able to charge it.’
‘Do you have electricity?’ I glance over at his hob.
‘Not enough for a car. Only solar power.’
‘Is that what heats the shower?’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s wood-fired. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have thrown more logs on.’
Hope ignites in my stomach. That sounded friendlier.
‘Why did you come?’ he asks harshly, his expression hardening.
I shake my head at him, my eyes brightening with tears that I can no longer control. ‘I only found out yesterday that you didn’t marry Beca.’
He recoils, shocked.
‘I saw the story your father planted. I thought it was real.’
‘But I told you that I wouldn’t marry her,’ he states irately.
‘I thought you might to save the workshop, the cottages, the cabin. And it’s not as though you didn’t love her. You did.’
‘As a friend !’ He rises angrily to his feet. ‘I took you at your word, why didn’t you take me at mine?’ He’s pacing and looking agitated.
‘What word?’ I ask with confusion as he rakes his hand through his hair with frustration.
‘That you never wanted to see me again!’ he practically yells.
‘I’m hot-headed, Ash! I was a wreck when I said that!’
‘No. You meant it,’ he says menacingly. And then, slowly and deliberately, he spits out the question: ‘ Why are you here? ’
I should have told him two years ago.
‘Because I love you.’
And then he stills, his eyes on mine as fresh tears roll down my cheeks.
‘No, you don’t,’ he replies quietly, distrustfully.
I nod. ‘I do.’
He sinks slowly back into his chair, his eyes fixed on mine. And then he drops his head into his hands.
‘I can’t do this again. I can’t do it,’ he murmurs in a low, tormented voice.
‘Ash,’ I plead.
He lifts his head. ‘You broke my heart,’ he says seriously. ‘Again. Except this time it was intentional.’
‘Do you think I wanted to?’ I’m getting heated myself now. ‘Do you think I wasn’t broken too? I was shattered when I left you!’
‘Exactly! YOU left ME!’ he yells, springing to his feet and pacing again. ‘I wanted to come with you!’
‘How could you? You had responsibilities … Ties to the house—’
‘I sold the fucking house!’ he all but shouts over me. ‘Revoked my title, spat on five hundred years of history and I just—’ He stops speaking abruptly and looks so tired all of a sudden, so lost. ‘I just … I needed you and you weren’t there. And I’m not sure I can get over it.’
I want to go to him, but he turns and walks out the door without another word.