The Lady and the Locksmith (9 page)

At last came the words, ‘You may kiss the bride.’

Carl leant forward and kissed her cheek, not daring to do a lot more with Fortescue and the warden and the chaplain looking on. Oh, she was soft and sweet and smelt like heaven.

‘Who’s paying the bail?’ he whispered.

‘My father,’ she replied.

‘No! Has he seen reason at last?’

She nodded.

Carl gazed down into his wife’s warm hazel eyes. Admiration and awe in his soul. ‘How did you do it?’

‘I could not do it alone, Carl. It was only because we two are one.’

Distantly, he could hear Mr Fortescue, complaining that things had come to this. ‘A locksmith! A prison! It’s outrageous,’ the man said, though he had nobody to blame but himself. ‘My daughter’s marriage certificate will bear the name of
that
man, and a dreadful place like this!’

Susannah didn’t seem to hear her father’s ugly words. She smiled a radiant, bridal smile. Carl touched her face and wondered if he dared have another go at that kiss.

A little while later, Carl boarded the train with his pretty young wife. He had never travelled first class in his whole life, but this was their honeymoon and he wanted to do things right. The Brodericks had given him some money and Mr Fortescue had trebled it, of course. He could hardly believe his luck.

They took their seats, side by side, and Carl accepted a copy of the newspaper from a boy in railway uniform. He turned the pages until he found the article he was looking for. ‘Missing woman found alive’.

Susannah tapped his arm, playfully. ‘Why are you reading that nonsense?’

‘Because this column is about us and I am curious to see what it says. I’m certain they won’t have printed the truth.’

Susannah smiled as if she didn’t care one way or the other. ‘When we get to Brighton, Carl, will you have your way with me, again?’

He put down the newspaper and flashed her a smile. ‘Of course.’

He was getting used to her forthright way of asking about things now.

She glanced at him, coyly. ‘Will you wait until tonight, or will you do it straight away, when we get to the hotel?’

He took hold of her hand. Her gloved hand seemed so small, when it was enclosed in his. ‘I will do whatever you want.’

She only hesitated for an moment, eyes all round with innocence and charm. Then, adopting the manner of a girl choosing a ribbon for her hair, she announced: ‘I should like you to do it to me now, without any further delay!’

He laughed. ‘I’d gladly oblige, but do you think we might upset those people over there?’

They had already attracted some disapproving scowls from a pair of stern old women seated not far away, but Susannah didn’t even pretend to care. She glanced around, saw the two old biddies with the iron grey curls, and let out a disappointed sigh.

‘Is it very far to Brighton, do you know?’

He nuzzled closer. ‘Only another half an hour,’ he promised, ‘and when we get there I shall pleasure you again and again and again.’

Susannah pouted. ‘But the waiting is so very, very hard.’

He gave her thigh a surreptitious squeeze. ‘Not just the waiting, either.’

Susannah giggled and reached out to see if he spoke true, but Carl was quicker and snatched her hand away. He brought it up to his lips and kissed it instead.

 
‘Look here,’ he said, picking up the paper again. ‘Let’s read all about what we’re up to. It will help take our minds off the other little matter.’

‘Oh, it’s not little, Carl, it’s not little at all.’

‘Susannah. I’ll not last til Brighton if you don’t stop saying things like that, my love.’

Susannah suddenly wore a straight face. She composed herself and folded her hands. ‘Now I understand why it is so very important - to have something absorbing to read on the train!’

Carl smiled and read out the carefully worded statement that had been released for the morning papers. ‘Susannah Fortescue is safe and sound honeymooning in Brighton with her new husband.’

Susannah laughed. ‘A blatant lie - we have not yet set foot in the town!’

Carl gave her a playful kiss on the cheek, and continued to read aloud. ‘We are reliably informed, by a source very close to the family, that the girl’s ‘abduction’ was no more than a malicious rumour propagated by one of Fortescue’s opponents …’

‘That’s true enough,’ Susannah whispered to Carl, ‘Father always was his own worst enemy.’

‘Ah, politics!’ Carl laid the paper aside and pulled his sweet young bride into his arms. ‘Who gives a penny for politics, when all I really want is an hour behind a locked door with a lovely little girl like you!’

He spoke of an hour, but he pulled her into a deep kiss that promised her a lifetime of pleasure.

Read an excerpt from Cody Young's latest novel

I
T’S ALWAYS BEEN MY DREAM to go to London, and now, at last, I’m here.

Well - almost. I’m at Heathrow airport and it’s packed with all kinds of people. I’m standing near the baggage claim waiting for the giant tartan wheelie bag my grandma insisted on lending me for the trip. Seriously uncool, I know. I look down at my feet, standing for the first time on English soil. Or English carpet tiles, at least. My sneakers are new and chafing a little – that ten hour flight from Chicago was a killer.

It’s late – nearly midnight. I look around for the rest of my group. Twenty-eight teenagers on a high school trip to London, all from the same small town in the Midwest. Can’t be too hard to spot. I was last off the plane because I left my coat under the seat and had to go back. I gaze across a sea of unfamiliar faces, and I wonder if any of them made the journey for the same reason I did. I see tourists, backpackers, and airline pilots. Young women in headscarves and old men with walking sticks; moms with screaming babies, and guys with big ice-hockey bags. Tall skinny girls who look like runway models and men in bright colored robes, jabbering away in languages I’ve never heard before. But then, the noise seems to fade away – as if someone has turned the volume right down. A chill goes through me. I turn, as if I know he’s there, though I swear I have no idea why.

That’s when I see him.

In one endless moment that lasts less than a fraction of a second, he is imprinted on my mind. He could have stepped out of the pages of a magazine. My memory takes a dozen photographs, yearning to remember the heart-searing beauty of his face. An entirely masculine beauty that only now I understand. Yes, perfection exists - because he exists. His jacket is dark and austere - perfectly cut. The word ‘Armani’ comes to my lips like the words of a whispered incantation. Silently, I form the syllables, but I’m unable to make a sound. He moves through the crowd, heading my way. I can’t quit staring. No man alive deserves to be blessed – or cursed – with looks like his.

He moves as if cameras flashed around him, lighting up the perfect angles of his face. His hair is dark, longer than average, swept into a sleek side part. In my mind, I caress it. I run my fingers through the strands, and yes - it is as smooth as silk. I shiver. I shake my head to dispel the decadent images that cloud my mind. I long for him to look my way – and yet I fear it too. For if he looked into my eyes, I feel sure I would see disinterest or disappointment in his. A blue jeans girl with a soap-and-water beauty routine; I wouldn’t get more than a glance. My faded shirt with butterflies on the front isn’t likely to impress a man who wears Armani.

But as I stand there, he turns his head, and his eyes meet mine. My heart cries out in agony of the sweetest kind. He has fiercely intelligent eyes, darker than my own - much darker. The eyes of a French nobleman, or an Italian movie star, glittering as they turn to meet my helpless, hopeless stare. His face is more youthful than I first thought. He could not be more than twenty, or twenty-one. But I’m a schoolgirl, and I have no business eyeing up strangers in unfamiliar airports in the middle of the night.

I know I will die if he smiles at me. He looks like a man who smiles often. For the paparazzi. And yet tonight, he is alone.

He is so close. I fight a wild impulse to reach out and touch his sleeve. I long to feel the texture of the charcoal wool beneath my trembling fingers. I clench my hands into fists and fight with all the mental strength I possess, and I do not move from the spot. I realize I’m in his way, but my feet won’t move. They will not obey my desperate command to step out of his way and let him pass.

His brows arch in enquiry as if to ask why I stand - shock still - in front of him. A hint of a smile plays upon his lips. He knows. He knows the reason for my stunned, involuntary stare. I swallow in mortified embarrassment. But still I let my eyes feast on him.

My face flames and my tongue tries to remember how to speak. “Forgive me,” I murmur and step aside.

The smile dies on his face, and a look of surprise replaces it - if I am not mistaken. There is another emotion too, there in the depths of his glittering dark eyes, and it scares me.

Anger? No. Surely not. My helpless adoration wouldn’t make him angry.

Fear? It could not be. Guys who look like that don’t feel fear.

Recognition? Yes. Recognition. But that’s not possible. I would definitely remember if I’d met him before.

To my undying surprise, he reaches out. He reaches out and touches me! He grips my arm and his grip is tight and unrelenting. I gaze down and see his strong male hand, gripping hold of my arm. I can feel his strength through the soft cotton fabric of my shirt.

“What did you say?” he demands. His accent isn’t French, or Italian. It’s English.

I gulp. “I think I said ‘forgive me’. I was in your way and I …”

“Say it again!” His eyes glint with that dangerous emotion I saw just a moment ago.

I am shaking now. He is a stranger. He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful young man I have ever set eyes on. Yes. But at this moment, he is behaving like a crazy person. Even in my dazed and delusional state I can see that. I glance around wildly, and I wonder how I came to be separated from my group. I must shake free of him and find the others. Brody and Lydia and everyone else. Mrs. Bertorelli. I’d even be glad to see her, just now.

“You know, I gotta go.” I look down at his fingers on my arm.

His grip doesn’t falter. “Say it again!”

It seems best to humor him, so I smile a weak, idiotic smile. “Forgive me.”

“It’s you! Madeleine!” He speaks with real astonishment in his voice and he expects me to know him.

“No. No. I’m Madison. I’m sorry!” The words are out of my mouth before I realize how dumb it was to tell the guy my real name.

“Madeleine! I should have known!” He sounds quite angry now.

It bothers me that he picked a name so similar to my own, but surely this must be a coincidence?

I shake my head. “I’m not Madeleine.”

He frowns. He studies my face, searching for signs of recognition.

“You’re not Madeleine?” His dark eyes seem almost soulful for a moment.

“No. Sorry.”

He lets go my arm, and the confident, movie star manner evaporates. I stare into his troubled dark eyes and glimpse something I did not expect to see. Tenderness. Confusion. Sadness. Somewhere inside this know-it-all, seen-it-all, super-cool guy, there is a boy, not much older than myself. But then, he narrows his eyes.

“My mistake,” he says, in a voice laced with anger and suspicion. Then he inclines his head, giving me a curt, old-fashioned bow. “I apologize.”

I try to smile, but the whole conversation has been rather unsettling. He seems to expect more, so I give it my best shot. “No problem. Could have happened to anybody!”

“Jet lag,” he says, tersely.

I realize that I have succeeded in putting him off balance. Quite a turnaround from just a moment ago. I nod in hearty agreement, though one surreptitious glance at his Calvin Klein face reveals no sign of exhaustion. No lines, no shadows under the eyes, nothing. Just smooth, perfect skin, and glittering dark eyes. He’s as crisp and fresh as that starchy white shirt he’s wearing. Probably travels First Class all the time.