“I’m an excellent driver,” Oliver said, cradling his keys to his chest and giving up on not purring. “I’m going to go ask my wife if she needs something from the village.”
“You won’t get it out of first gear.”
“Probably not,” he said, stopping just short of chortling with glee. He smiled at Derrick. “We’ll return.”
“I’ll believe that when you do,” Derrick said, but he was smiling as he turned and went back inside the hall.
Oliver promised himself a hearty round of thanks to all and sundry, no doubt accompanied by a gentlemanly hug or two and perhaps even a discreet tear for the appropriate ladies of his acquaintance, but he thought he might be first permitted a wee trip to the village with his wife.
“Text me if you need something from McCreedy’s!” he called.
“Jaffa cakes,” came the response from a youngling inside.
“And crisps!”
Mission accepted, of course. Oliver collected his bride, tucked her into his reward for being good in school, then slid under the wheel. He took a deep breath, started the beast up, then looked at his wife.
“Well?”
“How many horses?” she asked breathlessly.
“1200.”
“I believe it.”
He laughed and put his matched ponies in reverse, praying he would manage to get down the drive without an embarrassing popping of the clutch. At least he wasn’t going to get the damned thing out of first gear, so there would be no equally embarrassing grinding of those. He glanced at his wife.
“You’re still the best thing that’s happened to me,” he reminded her.
“This has to be a close second,” she said, smiling at him sweetly.
He considered. “There might be a few other things ahead of it.”
“Fashion me a list,” she said cheerfully, “and I’ll put it in your book.”
He suspected that bloody book itself might have to go in the vicinity of the top of that particular list, though he would never admit it to the lads. He glanced at his bride.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Besides the village?”
He nodded.
“With you?”
He nodded again.
She smiled. “I’ve started a list.”
He could hardly wait to see it. He shot her a quick smile, then concentrated on not running his new car into a tree.
Twenty-eight
Mairead MacLeod Phillips walked downthe steps of a very exclusive hall on the outskirts of London, holding onto the hand of an extremely braw and handsome man, and maintained a pleasant mien. They were, after all, at work and decorum needed to be maintained.
“What did you think?” Oliver murmured
She tried not to snort, but ‘twas difficult. She suspected they were being monitored, though, so she put on one of her most tasteful smiles and looked at him.
