A Bitter Feast(13)

In Grace she saw her own reckless streak, the same one that had sent her off to work in a London kitchen at seventeen, as green as any country girl straight off the hay wagon. A little distrust would have seen her in good stead.

And Fergus, dear God. Why had she even introduced him to Grace? After disappearing mysteriously for a few hours after he’d scared her out of her wits that morning, he’d come back in the afternoon, all Irish blarney, trying to coax Viv into some harebrained new scheme. She’d been standing in the yard arguing with him when Grace got home from school. Viv hadn’t wanted to make a scene in front of Grace, and she’d had to get back to prepping for the dinner service, so she’d left them together. What had she been thinking?

That Fergus O’Reilly would have undergone some magical transformation in the years since she’d walked out on him and his bloody restaurant? That he suddenly had her best interests at heart?

Bollocks.

When she’d come to her senses, Fergus had been gone and Grace had wandered into the kitchen looking suspiciously smitten. Viv had told her not to speak to him again and hoped that would be the end of it.

But Viv should have known she hadn’t seen the last of Fergus. At the start of dinner service, he’d walked into the pub—her pub!—and picked his way through her menu as if he were a Michelin judge, then left the food barely tasted on the plates he’d sent back to the kitchen. By the time he’d strolled into the back without so much as a by-your-leave, she’d been ready to take his head off. And then he’d caused a scene that she was going to have a hard time explaining to anyone.

Bastard.

Well, she wasn’t going to let him ruin this day. Fergus O’Reilly had caused enough damage in her life. She threw off the duvet, pulled on her whites, and headed for the pub.



Kincaid woke to the sound of running water. Gemma in the shower, he thought, fuzzily, then opened his eyes and squinted against light that seemed much too bright for their bedroom. Moving, he gasped as pain shot through his ribs, bringing recollection with it.

Not at home. He was in the guest room at the Talbots’. He’d wrecked his car. His head ached and his right hand throbbed. Gingerly, he lifted his swollen fingers and touched the knot on his forehead.

Gemma came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. She’d pulled up her coppery hair in a clip but escaping tendrils curled from the steam. “You’re awake,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed. “I was going to let you sleep. How are you feeling?”

Wincing, Kincaid pulled himself into a sitting position. “Sore.”

“And here I was thinking you looked a bit rakish.” Gemma raised an eyebrow and patted his arm, letting her towel slip a few inches.

“I’ll show you rakish,” he said, reaching out to touch the exposed curve of her breast. Both his ribs and his hand protested. “Ow.” He grimaced and sat back. “I’m bloody useless today.”

Gemma eyed him critically. “You should take it easy.”

He started to shake his head, then thought better of it. “I’ve got to make a statement. And I’ve got to see about the Astra.”

“I’ll drive you. I’m sure I can borrow Melody’s car. And you need to have that cut looked at.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kincaid said, without much conviction. “And what about Doug and the boys?” He’d meant to collect them in his car.

“I’m sure we can work out something. I suspect they have taxis even in the country.” Gemma leaned over and kissed him very gently on the unbruised side of his forehead. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You moaned and mumbled a good bit in your sleep last night.”

“Did I?” Some of the dreams came back to him now, a confusion of flashing lights and the smell of blood. He’d told Gemma, when they were alone in their room last night, about the medics saying the passenger in the other car was dead before the impact. But he had not told her about Nell Greene’s last few moments, and he found he still couldn’t quite bring himself to talk about it. “Where’s Char, then?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

“Downstairs. Helping.” Gemma rolled her eyes and stood up. “And I had better get down there and rescue Melody.”



“Nonsense,” said Ivan, when Gemma proposed at breakfast that she should borrow Melody’s little Renault to take Kincaid to the recovery yard and then to give his statement at the Cheltenham police station.

Startled, Kincaid looked at him as Melody said, “Dad—”

“I’ll take the lad myself,” Ivan went on before Melody could finish her protest. “Your mother needs all the help she can get this morning, and I am about as useful as the proverbial bull in the china shop.”

Given that Ivan had made them a proper fried breakfast with all the aplomb of an accomplished cook, Kincaid suspected Ivan could turn a deft hand to just about anything. He didn’t doubt, however, that Addie needed help. She’d greeted them when they came down, then gone out to oversee the setting up of the hired tables in the garden, taking a wide-eyed Charlotte with her. When he’d asked if she wasn’t joining them for breakfast, Ivan had growled, “Yogurt and berries, that’s all she’ll eat,” with a look of disgust. Addie’s answering smile told him that this was a familiar argument.