His Runaway Bride. Liz Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ minute Willow steps foot in this church you’re committed.’

      ‘I’m already committed. I can’t—’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, if you’ve got real doubts you must get out of here. Now.’

      ‘Tell her…’ What? What could he possibly say? That he loved her but that this life was not the one he’d ever wanted to live? ‘Tell her father that I’ll pay for all this…’

      ‘Sure. Now go. I’ve got things to do.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      WHAT had he done? What on earth had he done?

      Mike drove, not caring where, just as long he got away from Melchester, responding to the heavy traffic on automatic, not really seeing the cars, or the trucks, not seeing anything but Willow arriving at the church in her beribboned car expecting him to be waiting for her, ready to pledge his life to her. She’d been prepared to give up the job of her dreams for him. And he wasn’t there.

      He dragged his hand over his face feeling sick and heartsore, stunned at the unhappiness he’d caused because he wouldn’t, couldn’t live the life expected of him from the moment of his birth.

      At least that was no longer an issue. His father had probably denounced him from the pulpit. Publicly disowned him. If he returned to Melchester any time within the next ten years he’d probably be lynched.

      He’d have to write her. Try to explain. What? That he wasn’t the man she thought he was? That his father had seized on their marriage and used it as an opportunity to pin him down, turn him into a mirror image of himself?

      How could he expect Willow to understand how the thought of that sucked the very life out of him? He should have told her, right at the start. But he hadn’t intended a flirtatious game of kiss-chase to turn into a lifetime commitment. Hadn’t expected to be sandbagged by love.

      And now it was too late for explanations. Far better to walk away. Have her loathe him rather than try to understand him. To risk her feeling even the faintest touch of guilt when what had happened was entirely his fault.

      It was over. Finished. Now all he had to do was disappear while the dust settled. But first he needed coffee, needed to eat something, or he’d pass out at the wheel.

      The motorway was packed with cars, roof-racks piled high with suitcases, as holiday-makers returned to London. Willow tried not to think about her honeymoon suitcase, packed and waiting at the hotel where she and Mike were to have had their reception, then spend their wedding night. A suitcase packed with swimwear, the lovely evening dresses and sexy underwear she and Crysse had chosen during a giggly, girly visit to London right after Mike had slipped a diamond ring on her finger. Right after the formal portrait of the pair of them appeared in the Country Chronicle, with the announcement of their forthcoming marriage.

      She glanced at her left hand resting on the steering wheel. It looked naked.

      A sign flashed by with those little life-saving icons, a cup and a knife and fork. With relief, she indicated and pulled off. She was on the point of a brilliant career. Not the time to have an accident because visibility was compromised by a totally irrational desire to weep.

      The car park was packed with more holiday-makers. She didn’t want to push her way into the restaurant, fight to be served. But she needed to eat. She hadn’t been able to face more than a mouthful of cereal and, as for lunch…well, lunch was to have been one of those once-in-a-lifetime affairs with witty speeches and many toasts to happy-ever-after while the staff photographer took pictures for the colour spread that would appear in the Chronicle’s magazine. She gulped and reached for the box of mansized tissues she kept in her car.

      She’d thrown jeans, T-shirts, underwear of the plain, serviceable variety into a zip-up bag for her flight from Melchester. Not what she’d planned to be wearing today.

      The handful of extra-strength tissues to mop up the deluge of tears weren’t part of her trousseau, either. Today all she’d anticipated needing was a small lacy thing, bridal-issue, perfect for dabbing away tears of happiness.

      She groaned and laid her head on the back of hands as they grasped the steering wheel and thought about what she’d done. Seeing Mike, in her mind’s eye, standing at the altar, waiting for her. Turning as her father appeared in the church doorway.

      Alone.

      How on earth could she have done that to a man she loved? Put him through the ultimate in public humiliation?

      What would he say? Do? Cal would get him out of the church…

      The church. All those people. The buzz of excited gossip. Willow groaned again. Her father hadn’t uttered a word of reproach but her mother wouldn’t be that restrained.

      And what on earth would happen to the three tiers of confection that she and Mike should have been cutting with a silver-handled knife engraved with their names and the date?

      ‘Are you all right, miss?’

      She looked up. It was a uniformed man from one of the motoring organisations. Unfortunately it would take more than a spanner to put this mess right. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I just need a cup of coffee.’

      ‘Have something to eat, too. And take a nap if you’re tired. You don’t need to get anywhere so quickly that it’s worth taking risks.’

      ‘It’s all right. Really. I’m in no hurry.’ She had nowhere to hurry to, nobody waiting. Then, because he didn’t look convinced, she said, ‘I’ll get a sandwich, I promise.’

      Reassured he returned to his stand and she crossed the crowded car park, joined the anonymity of the jostling mass in the ladies’ room, cleaned up her face, removing the elaborate make-up that looked horribly inappropriate with jeans, dragging her fingers through her hair determined to ruffle up the perfection of her early morning styling. Trying to distance herself from the bride she was supposed to be.

      How on earth was she going to get through the next four weeks until she joined the Globe? What was she going to do? She couldn’t face her mother. Or Crysse, who could never be expected to understand what she’d done in a million years.

      There was a stand for the Chronicle by the shop door. A weekend features’ box listed her piece about the holiday cottages for the disadvantaged children and she remembered Emily Wootton’s wry invitation to join the volunteers who were going to decorate them.

      She stopped. Why not? Why not volunteer, spend a couple of weeks out of sight of everyone she knew while the fuss died down, doing something worthwhile? Something to wear her out so that she didn’t lie awake at night wondering where Mike was, what he was thinking.

      She’d really rather not know that.

      She paid for the paper and the largest, most comforting bar of chocolate to nibble in the event that hard work wasn’t enough, and folded the paper back at the feature to look for the number to ring. Holding her purse between her teeth, and with the newspaper and chocolate tucked under her arm, she dug around in the depths of her bag for her phone as she headed in the direction of the restaurant.

      Mike saw the queue at the self-service and abruptly changed his mind. He’d buy a can of something cold, and a sandwich from the chill cabinet СКАЧАТЬ