Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Charlotte

Where is he?

My Master is not in the lounge or the dining room. I don’t find him in his office or any of the usual places.

Outside?

In this weather?

I finally find him in the stables, currying mud from Oliver. He doesn’t see me as I come in behind him and I halt at the doorway…

Does he want to talk to me?

Oliver blows through his nostrils as the comb circles over neck and flank. Charlie leans across, nuzzling at my Master, then nickers softly, ears flicking forward as I enter.

My Master turns, but as he sees me, displays no pleasure. “Charlotte.” And he returns to grooming Oliver, this time using a brush on the heavy winter coat, clearing dirt and dust from the thick hair.

“Master, I’m sorry. I came to apologise...”

He pauses his movement, then restarts. “Thank you for that, at least…”

“… and to ask if you might like to invite Georgie to dinner this evening?”

He ceases his brushing, sets the brush to one side then turns to face me. Legs astride, arms folded, he’s still not smiling. “And what brought about this change of heart?”

“Michael spoke to me. So did Mom. They said… They said I’m being selfish. And that there’s nothing you could want more than…” I can’t look at him… “Even Richard said…”

I stir a flake of hay across the floor with my foot.

“I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I want to try to put it right.”

And he’s there, his arms around me, pushing me hard back against the plaster, his mouth on my own. His grip on me grows tighter. Setting his face by mine, cheek on cheek, his breath rasps loud. His chest heaves. One hand pins the side of my head, holding me still.

After a long minute, he relaxes, kisses me. “Thank you, Charlotte.” He stands back, palming my cheek, looking me in the face, and my Master is smiling at me again.

a staccato tumble. “I’m sorry.

a finger to my lips. “It’s done. It’s over.” Then he replaces the finger with his lips, brushing over

at the shoulders, “What shall we have for this meal? You

single thing I want to eat. “I… I don’t know… I can’t think of

“A likely

Georgie like? You could cook

I‘ve no idea. When she was a little girl, she always liked beans

about grown-up beans and

fingers, laughing again, real joy there now. “You’re right.

“I’ve no idea,

fabada… That’s the Spanish version. Come on…” He grabs my hand, towing me towards the

he’s muttering to himself… “Do I have any chorizo

if he has any chorizo. But it doesn’t matter.

*****

James

are we having?” It’s Richard, with the air of having followed

say, brandishing my chorizo, “with some traditional Spanish

leans over my casserole pot, examining the contents, sniffing

answer

An excellent dish. I had it in the south of France on holiday some years ago. Quite a rich dish. Heavy on the beans and pork as I

can get away with black pudding instead of morcillas. I don’t have

Richard’s face is glazing…

I talking too

Probably…

His

tomato dip with fresh crusty bread, a

wanders the kitchen. “Sounds like

is. So it is. Perfect for miserable January winter

pockets, looking a

Or a bit lost…