She could of course return to the farmhouse, but she didn’t want to do that—not yet; and alternatively she could have a cup of coffee in one of the tempting cafés she had seen in the town and then spend a couple of hours exploring its shady medieval streets.
But if she did so, would she run the risk of bumping into Richard Field again?
Why should she let the thought of seeing him dictate to her what she could and could not do? If he wanted to think the worst of her, to condemn her and the whole female sex just because his own marriage hadn’t worked out, then that was his problem, not hers.
It was not surprising that his marriage hadn’t worked out, she decided, after storing her purchases in her car and retracing her steps to one of the cafés she had seen earlier.
What had she been like, Richard Field’s wife? Livvy wondered as she sipped her coffee. Had she been the naïve, unawakened bride she had accused him of wanting earlier, or had it been a very different kind of woman who had brought him to view her sex with contempt and bitterness?
She put down her coffee-cup, frowning slightly. What did it matter what kind of woman she had been? It was of no interest to her.
Except that… Except that the man who had kissed her so angrily and punishingly yesterday, and who throughout their short acquaintance had treated her with aggression and contempt, had also unexpectedly, inexplicably and totally unwantedly physically aroused her so that, just for a heartbeat of time, while he held her, it had been as though he had been as shocked and confused by the passion which had exploded between them as she had been herself.
All nonsense, of course. She doubted that Richard Field would ever allow himself to admit that anything could shock or confuse him, and most especially not a woman.
She ordered another cup of coffee and drank it slowly, savouring its rich flavour, content simply to sit and enjoy her surroundings. A tiny smile twitched the corners of her mouth as she remembered the theatrical gallantry she had been treated to earlier. The French tradesman’s equivalent of a British building site worker’s wolf-whistle? Richard Field obviously hadn’t seen it in that light.
Richard Field—there she went again, thinking about him.
Drat the man, she had come to Beaulieu to get away from him, not to waste time thinking about him.
It was mid-afternoon when Livvy eventually arrived back at the farmhouse. The BMW was parked in the yard but there was no sign of its owner anywhere, she discovered with relief.
She found the jug she had recalled seeing standing next to the dresser.
She had noticed a pretty French Proven;alal-style dinner service in one of the shop windows in Beaulieu, the central motif of the design a variety of farmyard animals, the border a soft mingling of pink and yellow checks. It would look good on the dresser’s empty shelves.
She smiled ruefully to herself, half deriding her feminine homemaking instincts.
One day she hoped she would marry and have a family, but for now she was perfectly content as she was, enjoying her independence and her career.
As she stored her purchases away in the fridge, she frowned, noticing that Richard Field had bought exactly the same local cheese as she had chosen for herself. Wryly she acknowledged that he would be even less pleased to discover that they shared a taste in common than she was herself.
It wasn’t as hot as it had been, and the view of the river from her bedroom window tempted her to explore. She set off through the farmyard, following a footpath which seemed to go in the general direction of the river, obscured from view now by the trees.
The path led quite steeply downwards through the trees and when Livvy first broke through their cover and saw the river she couldn’t help giving a small gasp of pleasure.
It was wider and deeper than she had expected and beautifully clear, so clear that she could see the speckled skins of the trout beneath the surface. Watching them, she was instantly reminded of sitting on a very similar riverbank with her grandfather, solemnly watching him cast his line, listening as he explained to her the skills required to lure his prey.
Smiling to herself, she walked upriver, pausing every now and again to study and admire her surroundings.
It was so peaceful here. Too peaceful for two almost teenage children? She frowned to herself, and then shook the thought off. Gale knew her children and their tastes far better than she did—and yet somehow or other she could not shake off the awareness that city-bred, sophisticated youngsters might not find the same pleasure in wading thigh-deep in crystal-clear water, tickling trout as she had once done.
As she had once done?
A wide grin curved her mouth as she looked at the river. Impulsively, before she could change her mind, she quickly stripped off her trainers and jeans, firmly knotting the ends of the cotton shirt she was wearing above her midriff. The water was probably deeper than it looked.
As she stepped down into it, she suppressed the gasp of shock that rose in her throat. She had forgotten how cold river water could be, but as she gritted her teeth and carefully waded deeper into the river the icy cold became a warm glow.
There was nothing, nothing quite like the pleasure and attraction of running water, she decided, nor the feel of water-smoothed stones beneath one’s feet. It took her back almost instinctively to her childhood, to all the happy hours spent gathering very similar stones and using them to construct a series of complicated dams.
She and her cousins had whiled away many happy hours in such pursuits, vying with one another as to who could build the strongest dam.
Still smiling to
herself, Livvy waded into the middle of the river and then stopped, surveying the water.
Ah, there was a likely spot. A nice, still, natural basin with a couple of good-sized rocks overhanging it. With any luck…