Boot Camp Bride (33 page)

‘Shall we, Mrs Fonseca-Ffinch?’ Rafa asked.

Realising she was still holding her bouquet, Charlee turned her back on her friends and family and tossed it in the air. To everyone’s bemusement it was caught by the ancient aunt wearing the lopsided turban. Tutting, Miranda snatched it from her and handed it back to Charlee for a second attempt (which was probably unlucky) but no one seemed to mind. There was a great whoop as it was caught by Poppy Walker this time. Was it Charlee’s imagination or did her brother Tom sidle closer to Poppy’s side?

Amid tears, kisses and ribald comments in Portuguese, Charlee and Rafa climbed into the VW and drove down the lane and towards the M25.

‘Where are we going?’ Charlee asked, but Rafa wouldn’t be moved.

‘Wait and see,’ he said. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’

Charlee put her hand on his right thigh and gave it an affectionate squeeze before moving it higher. Rafa put his hand over hers and held it there so he could concentrate on his driving. Charlee suddenly burst out laughing.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘I was just thinking of the old joke. You know - the one where a woman hitches a lift off a complete stranger and then reveals that she’s a witch. The man doesn’t believe her until …’

‘She puts her hand on his knee and turns him into a lay-by?’ Rafa stole the punchline. ‘That joke might be truer than you imagine, Carlotta,’ he added with a cryptic smile.

‘What does that mean?’ Charlee asked, settling down for the magical mystery tour to where they would be spending their wedding night.

It was almost ten o’clock when they drove into Thornham but, on the longest day of the year, it was still light. Ffinch made his way past The Ship Inn, so clearly they weren’t staying there, and towards Thornham Staithe and the Coal Shed. He pulled up on the hard standing, where other camper vans were parked for the night, watching the sun setting over the pine plantation and waiting for the highest tide of the year to maroon them, temporarily.

Charlee got out stiff-legged. ‘Rafa Ffinch, are you telling me that we’re spending our first night as man and wife in a camper van on the Norfolk marshes?’ she demanded, hands on hips.

‘I am,’ he said unrepentantly, ‘and you only have yourself to blame.’

‘I do?’

‘Remember the afternoon when you came along the edge of the marshes from the boot camp?’ He climbed out of the van and joined her over by the sluice gates, looking towards Thornham Beach.

‘I do. You had the curtains closed and were having a brew up, as I remember. I was doing all the hard work; all the dangerous stuff while you were dunking a tea bag and reading the paper, at your ease.’

‘Hardly at my ease.’ He turned her round so she was leaning against the fence, wrapped his arms around her and gave her a passionate kiss. ‘I watched you coming along the path and I knew then that I would never willingly let you out of sight - or my life.’

‘You were so grumpy that afternoon,’ she said, pulling away from him slightly. ‘I felt like walking out of the van and leaving you to stew. It didn’t occur to me until later that you might not turn up, might leave me in the lurch.’

‘I was grumpy,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ll never let you down, Carlotta. I give you my word.’ Oblivious of the other campers who were sitting outside their vans enjoying the longest day of the year, he kissed her again, and then grinned. ‘Sexual frustration.’

‘What about it?’

‘A bad case of it. I kept cursing myself for being noble and returning you to your room two nights previously. That afternoon, I wanted nothing more than to convert the back of the van into a bedroom, draw the curtains and -’

‘I felt exactly the same,’ Charlee laughed at the memory. ‘But I thought you were mad at me because I hadn’t managed to get any photographs of Anastasia.’

‘At that point, Carlotta, I would have exchanged the mission’s success for half an hour in the Vee Dubbya with you.’ He sent her a passionate look, his eyes appearing almost wolf-grey in the long twilight.

‘Half an hour? Hardly worth taking one’s clothes orf in the middle of January for a quickie,’ she joked. ‘Mind you, it was so cold that day we would probably have had to put clothes on to make love.’ As they remembered the moment when their partnership had almost been severed and the number of times when they’d subsequently made love, Rafa kissed her again.

‘Just as my resistance was reaching its lowest ebb you stormed out and those two schoolboys shouted ‘dogger’ at you, and -’

‘I glared at them - wild-eyed - and put a hex on them. They were so scared they dropped their ciggies and ran off towards The Ship Inn and Thornham.’

‘They must have been mind readers, although I really don’t regard lovemaking as a spectator sport. Might scare the horses.’

‘Me neither, so why …’ Charlee nodded towards the other camper van owners. By now they’d seen the ribbon bedecked VW, the remaining balloons and streamers tied to the roof rack and an old pair of gardening boots fastened to the back bumper. They sent Charlee and Rafa knowing smiles and then looked at each other, remembering their own wedding nights.

‘I tried to book the marshes just for us, so we could relive the moment and bring it to a more … satisfactory conclusion,’ he teased. ‘But The Ship Inn said no one had tried to prebook the car park before and that such matters were out of their control. In fact, overnight camping here is strictly
verboten
.’ Charlee looked worried for a moment and Rafa grinned at her. ‘Carlotta, you’ve smashed a Russian drugs cartel, I’ve been kidnapped by the Aguilas Negra and left for dead, do you really think a traffic warden with a ticket machine holds any terrors for me. For us?’ He made his way back to the camper van.

‘You’re right,’ she agreed, following him round to the side of the van and waiting patiently while he opened the double doors.

‘Okay, first things first,’ Rafa said, suddenly practical. ‘We make the bed. Then we break out a couple of camping chairs and watch the sun setting behind the pine trees and the tide coming in. Evening,’ he greeted a couple who were parked close by in a massive RV.

‘Evening,’ they returned the greeting. ‘We come here every year for the solstice. It’s an annual pilgrimage for us.’

‘Cool,’ Charlee said in a friendly but firm voice, that made it plain they wanted to be left alone. She helped unload two chairs and a table, then they made the bed and Rafa pulled the champagne out of a cool bag. She lit a large citronella candle to keep the vicious midges at bay and took her place at the table. Although she’d eaten and drunk her fill at the wedding breakfast she wasn’t about to turn down a glass of fizz on her wedding night.

‘Tomorrow night we are staying at The Ship, in the very room where you tried to seduce me and very nearly succeeded. I thought you might appreciate a return match. Then we travel south for our proper honeymoon. Why are you smiling?’

‘Does that mean tonight is our improper honeymoon? I quite like the idea of that!’

‘I thought you might,’ Rafa said. ‘Now what’s amused you?’ he asked as Charlee downed her champagne, took one last look at the perfect sunset and held her hand out to Rafa.

‘Something mother said this morning when she tried to deliver a sort of garbled Sex Ed lecture and a warning about wedding nights. ’

‘Bit late for that I would have thought,’ Rafa observed, and received a punch on the arm for his pains.

‘She said I should give in gracefully.’ Charlee blushed as she repeated her mother’s outmoded advice. ‘I thought I’d give in disgracefully instead.’

‘Amen to that,’ he said, leading her into the camper van and drawing the curtains around them. ‘It’s the longest day of the year and, therefore, the shortest night. I don’t think we should waste a single moment of it, do you, Carlotta? I want you naked - in my bed - and wearing nothing but the Fonseca pearls.’

And for the first time in her life, Charlee was happy to do as she was told.

Also by Lizzie Lamb
Tall, Dark and Kilted

Fliss Bagshawe longs for a passport out of Pimlico where she works as a holistic therapist. After attending a party in Notting Hill she loses her job and with it the dream of being her own boss. She’s offered the chance to take over a failing therapy centre, but there’s a catch. The centre lies five hundred miles north in Wester Ross, Scotland. Fliss’s romantic view of the highlands populated by Men in Kilts is shattered when she has an upclose and personal encounter with the Laird of Kinloch Mara, Ruairi Urquhart. He’s determined to pull the plug on the business, bring his eccentric family to heel and eject undesirables from his estate - starting with Fliss. Facing the dole queue once more Fliss resolves to make sexy, infuriating Ruairi revise his unflattering opinion of her, turn the therapy centre around and sort out his dysfunctional family. Can Fliss tame the Monarch of the Glen and find the happiness she deserves?

Read the first three chapters of Tall, Dark and Kilted on Amazon Kindle http://t.co/jKpB4WMM4F

Some reviews for Tall, Dark and Kilted:

“If you fancy a bout of total escapism with some serious sexiness thrown in, this book ticks all the boxes.”

“Lizzie Lamb has written a great debut novel with wonderful characters, a great location (mainly the atmospheric Scottish Highlands) and some very witty dialogue.”

“The heroine, Fliss, is feisty yet vulnerable and the hero, Ruairi, is...well...he’s just gorgeous! The tension that sizzles between them is written to perfection, leaving you guessing right up to the end.”

“If you like your men raw, sexy and Scottish, get acquainted with the Laird of Kinloch Mara.”

A note from the author

If you have a dream - go for it.
Life is not a rehearsal

With Scottish, Irish, and Brazilian blood in her veins, it’s hardly surprising that Lizzie Lamb is a writer. She even wrote extra scenes for the films she watched as a child and acted out in the playground with her friends. She is ashamed to admit that she kept all the good lines for herself. Luckily, she saves them for her readers these days. Lizzie’s love of writing went on hold while she pursued a successful teaching career, finishing up as a Deputy Head teacher of a large primary school. Since deciding to leave the profession to realise her dream of becoming a published novelist, Lizzie hasn’t looked back. She wrote Tall, Dark and Kilted – which echoes her love of her homeland in every page, not to mention heroes in kilts - and published it. Lizzie loves the quick fire interchange between the hero and heroine - like in old black and white Hollywood movies - and hope this comes over in her writing.

For her second novel:
Boot Camp Bride
she’s had enormous fun researching VW camper vans, the Norfolk Marshes and the world of journalism. Not to mention falling in love with delicious hero - Rafael Ffinch.

Acknowledgements

Thank you for purchasing Boot Camp Bride. It has been a pleasure to write and I hope you enjoy reading it. I have quite a few people to thank, so I hope you’ll bear with me.

First -Mrs Hood of Lenzie who has spread word of my writing to the Antipodes and never once complained about the postage (much). Sorry, Maggee, not even a ‘wee murder’ in this one. Better luck with number three.

I won’t be able to open this book without thinking of Joan and Roger Bushby who put their caravan at Thornham at our disposal and where the idea of this novel was originally conceived. A return visit on a high tide weekend with as many friends as we can muster is called for now the book is finally published. Also, Susan Greet (1951 - 2003), who  was much in my mind as I wrote Boot Camp Bride because it was lovely Sue who first introduced us to North West Norfolk.

I must also mention all the readers/writers/friends and followers on Facebook and Twitter who spurred me on to finish Boot Camp Bride by demanding - in the nicest way possible - a date when they could download it off Amazon. See - I’ve done it!

Next, I need to come clean and admit that I don’t speak Russian, Spanish or Portuguese - but I know people who do. So many thanks to RNA member Maureen Stenning who put me in touch with her Russian daughter-in-law Vera Stenning who double-checked everything. And to Penny Brindle (RNA/NWS) who helped with the Russian translation, too. Another RNA member, Sarah Callejo corrected all the Spanish and Suzy Turner verified my Portuguese. You are the best - thank you!

In order to produce the best manuscript possible, I have employed two proof readers. I owe my dear friend and RNA member Jan Brigden a special big thank you for help with editing The paperback and kindle version of Boot Camp Bride were formatted by the excellent Jane Dixon-Smith (http://www.jdsmith-design.com) Thanks also to beta readers Miss Davies of Edge Grange and The Beekeeper who gave excellent advice, removed extraneous plot strands and reined in my wilder flights of fancy.

I wouldn’t have reached this far without the support, expertise and knowledge of the Romantic Novelists’ Association - in particular: Katie Fforde, Margaret James, Freda Lightfoot and Amanda Grange. Not to mention the talented writers in the Leicester Chapter, which continues to go from strength to strength, with many new titles, published each year.

And I can hardly leave out my co-conspirators and best mates: Adrienne Vaughan, June Kearns and Mags Cullingford (aka The New Romantics 4) who have taken this journey with me. Check out their new novels at back of Boot Camp Bride.

And finally, I cannot sign off with mentioning Alison Parr - the inspiration for Anastasia Markova. The similarities between them are quite remarkable - if not downright spooky.

But I owe the biggest debt of thanks to Bongo Man - who, quite simply, is all my heroes rolled into one and better than all of them. I couldn’t have done any of this without his help, support and practical advice. As for the parrot - if he’s good, he could have a starring role in the next one. Maybe.