The next morning Finula woke to the sound of church bells ringing. Rubbing her eyes, she turned to see an empty space next to her. Frowning, she listened carefully, to see if she could hear Marcus in the house but all was silent. Then she noticed a note on the bedside table.
I’ll be back by 10 a.m. Help yourself to breakfast, or enjoy a lie-in and I’ll make it when I return. x
Where had he gone? Deciding to shower and get dressed, Finula got up from the crumpled bed. No wonder it was so creased, the action it’d seen last night, she giggled to herself. Then, curiosity got the better of her and she decided to take a peep inside Marcus’ bedside table. Opening the drawer reminded her of when she had opened Nick Fletcher’s glove compartment and found that rather incriminating evidence of his bisexuality. The drawer was empty, apart from one envelope and Finula couldn’t resist taking it out and looking. Inside was the same photograph he’d sent her two months ago. The one he’d taken of her as a bridesmaid. A warm glow tingled inside her. He’d kept a copy for himself. How flattering, she thought with glee, carefully placing it back inside.
*
The church was fairly busy as Marcus slid quietly into the back pew. He had just lit a candle and offered up a prayer. Marcus felt closest to his mammy in church, she having been a devout Christian. Marcus did have a faith deep down, but he also had some burning questions that needed answering. Like why did his mammy have to die? She was all he had. No other family except an aunt, a scattering of cousins and a father he’d never known. His eyes misted over at the injustice of it all. Stark, vivid images of her fading away from him in pain swamped his mind. Her sallow, sunken skin and dark, bruised eyes haunted him. Then, as always, his memories inevitably cast back to her last words, telling him in breathless gasps, but with utter determination to finish, who his father really was. Marcus often wondered how it would have unfolded if Richard Cavendish-Blake hadn’t died and he had been given the opportunity to actually meet him. What would he have said? Would his father have believed him? He turned to watch the candle he’d just lit flicker. How fragile life was; how easily it could be snuffed out, just like that flame.
A little later, driving back, Marcus’ mood began to lift at the thought of being with Finula again. It felt warmly comforting returning to a home that wasn’t empty for once. Entering through the back door into the kitchen, he was greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs cooking. Finula was there, hovering over the hob, bright eyed and smiling.
‘Ah, good of you to make it, Marcus.’
Marcus laughed and kissed her lips. ‘Hello, you. I’ve been to Mass,’ he explained.
Finula’s eyebrows raised, ‘Really?’ She didn’t have him down as a churchgoer.
‘Hmm, I do occasionally. It feels good for the soul,’ he smiled.
Finula couldn’t work out if he was serious or not.
‘I’d have gone with you, if you’d mentioned it.’
‘Would you?’
‘Sure. Now, sit down and enjoy.’ She’d laid the small table in the kitchen and placed two English breakfasts down.
‘This looks delicious, Finula. Thanks.’
They chatted over a leisurely breakfast and Marcus couldn’t remember when he’d ever felt this relaxed. Finula, too, seemed less stressed, just spending time at her own pace, instead of rushing round The Templar at top speed. It was times like this that made her reflect a little on her own lifestyle. Would she always want to live with her dad in a busy pub, permanently on call?
As if reading her mind, Marcus looked into her eyes and said, ‘Finula, let’s stay another night. We can head back tomorrow morning.’ He reached his hand out over the table and she held it.
‘Let’s,’ she replied.
They spent the day wandering around Deacon’s Castle again, only this time it was a lot quieter. The festival had finished and packed up, leaving the narrow cobbled streets bare. Only a few shops were open. One of them was a book and record shop, which also doubled up as a café. Marcus was obviously well known to the shopkeeper as they sat down and ordered coffee and cake.
‘Good to see you, Marcus,’ said an elderly lady with a twinkle in her eye. ‘And who’s this young lady?’ She turned to Finula.
‘Margo, meet Finula,’ he answered with a grin.
‘Oh, what a pretty name,’ said Margo.
‘For a pretty lady,’ replied Marcus, still smiling at Finula, who was by now blushing slightly.
‘Please to meet you, Margo.’
Finula loved Deacon’s Castle. It had a vibe all of its own, in a vintage, quirky kind of way. Again, thoughts of leaving The Templar crossed her mind, and she realised she wasn’t in any hurry to go home. She liked the idea of being hidden away here with Marcus. She looked at him as he chatted comfortably with Margo. Gone was the frown that so often etched his brow, and the tension that radiated from him frequently. Here, he was just Marcus, just one of the locals, not an award-winning documentary producer with the stress and worries that involved. What was that comment he’d made this morning about good for the soul? He did seem a tortured soul at times and it was starting to concern her.
Later that evening, after eating a stir-fry that Marcus had rustled up, they sat by the wood burner again, sipping red wine. She made him laugh with stories of her childhood.
‘How old were you when you lost your mammy, Finula?’ Marcus asked quietly.
‘Eleven.’
He hugged her into him, ‘Jeysus, that’s no age.’
‘I know, and I miss her every day. How about you, Marcus, do you have any contact with your dad?’
He stiffened suddenly and she could see he was trying to stay calm. ‘He’s dead,’ he replied flatly.
Finula was startled by the coldness in his voice, which was completely devoid of any filial emotion. ‘And I never met him,’ he finished with a firmness that closed the conversation.
Finula took the hint and remained silent. Marcus, realising how abrupt he must have sounded, put his wine glass down. He ran his hand through her silky hair and kissed her neck, then made his way to her mouth and kissed her deeply, running his tongue over hers. Finula responded by clutching him nearer, suddenly wanting to feel his skin against hers. Their kiss grew more urgent. They tugged and pulled at each other’s clothes impatiently until they were both naked, lying on the rag rug by the wood burner. Marcus closed his mouth over her creamy breast and flicked his tongue over the jutting nipple, whilst running his hand between her soft thighs. His finger slid into her warm parting and slowly circled her core, making Finula gasp in pleasure. ‘Have you any idea what you do to me?’ he asked huskily, looking into her face as his finger probed inside her.
‘Marcus,’ she gasped again, arching her back upwards towards him. He increased the pressure of his touch, intensifying her desire. Then, just when she thought she’d burst, he thrust himself firmly into her. His strokes were hard and rapid, he was pent up with emotion and passion and needed a release; it came within seconds, leaving them both dizzy. He sunk his head into her neck and took deep breaths.
Finula felt wetness on her shoulder. ‘Marcus,’ she whispered, ‘are you crying?’
He lifted his head up and tears were streaming down his face.
‘Marcus, what’s the matter?’ she asked, her face etched with concern. She wrapped her arms round him, like a mother would her child. Gently she rocked him, whilst his sobs finally came to a halt.
‘I’m sorry, Finula, you shouldn’t have seen that.’ He unwrapped himself from her embrace and wiped his face.
‘Don’t be silly, Marcus. It’s never wrong to show your feelings.’ He looked away, embarrassed. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
He turned and stared into her. Should he? Could he? No. ‘I can’t,’ he simply replied, leaving Finula at a complete loss.