Ian felt his insides turn to oatmeal despite his gallant fight to prevent it. What the hell was he supposed to do? He squirmed internally, uncomfortable beyond belief. Crying! A weeping woman sitting next to him for some seven hours! He felt gooseflesh travel up his arms and down his back.
At least she had the decency to turn her head away from him. But he could still hear her trying to control any sounds, making a tremendous effort to keep in any noise that would draw attention to herself. Too late. Ian found himself sucked into her emotional miasma.
He did what any proper English gentleman would do. Taking out a clean handkerchief, he placed it in her hand, being careful not to touch her in any possible way.
Six and a half hours left of the flight.
Six and a half hours of sheer hell.
Chapter 2
Two heavily armed policemen in thick flak jackets greeted passengers disembarking from the plane at Gatwick. There had been soldiers carrying weapons in New York, but they’d smiled at Abby after looking through her purse and “luggage.” And there had been the people at the luggage detector thingy, looking bored to death. These burly guys looked ready to chew her up and spit her out.
Welcome to England.
Still in a fog, her brain addled from lack of sleep, adrenaline, and jet lag, Abby thought at first that they meant to arrest her. “Flying in first class under false pretenses,” one murmured, as he fondled the automatic rifle held at the ready. Or did he? She saw his policeman’s cap, with the little checkered band, not a domed bobby hat. The black flak vest beefed up his rather ordinary chest. He looked everywhere and anywhere, but not directly at her. Which was strange, she figured, since he meant to arrest her.
The other eyed her plastic bag and purse warily.
“Look ’ere, we got enough o’ your lot in this country,” her brain registered, accent and all. Or did it?
“You’re holding up the other passengers, miss.”
The attendant at the open doorway urged her along. “Just follow the arrows to Immigration and Customs and present your entry card.”
Abby snapped out of her daydream. “Oh, yes. Sorry.”
Sorry about not being arrested? Sorry she looked like a bomb-carrying terrorist? Sorry about Lance…yes, she was sorry about that all right.
Abby shook her head to clear away the ugly thoughts. Still, armed guards instead of open arms were not what she’d expected. They were English and she loved their country! But things had changed since September 11. The mess in Iraq only made things worse. Guards everywhere, looking for terrorists. Looking askance at her?
Pushed along by the crowd of passengers, Abby felt as if she were trying to float with lead weights around her ankles. Lack of sleep always did that to her, she reasoned, and the fact that it was merely two in the morning back home registered vaguely in her brain. Here, England was up and bustling at seven. The day, her first day in England, had begun and she chided herself for feeling like crap.
Immigration. Customs. Present card. She had nothing to declare, unless there was some sort of market for plastic shopping bags and one tiny black dress and those little black sandals with the two straps that looked so elegant in the store.
Get a grip, she warned herself.
The clerk looked mean in a foreign sort of way as she faced him across the high, lectern-like desk. He had a tiny bit of lint hanging on his lip, stuck on what looked to be a new mustache. It bothered her. She wanted to reach out and pick it off. Was she completely nuts?
“What is your destination?” he bit out, sounding as tired as Abby felt.
She stopped herself from yawning in his face and turned slightly away so she wouldn’t see the lip thingy. “Someone is meeting me here to take me to Glastonbury. I’ll be staying there for two weeks.”
That was more than he really needed to know, unless they liked to keep track of tourists the way they did in Russia.
Abby tried to unscramble her memory. Had they always treated tourists like this? Her brain drifted off again. Maybe only the French ones.
“Very good, miss,” the official said. “You can claim your luggage now. There will be a slight wait.”
Abby felt a fresh wave of uneasiness wash over her. He’d noticed she had no luggage. What a dirtbag he must think she was! But she didn’t have that thing stuck on her lip. She couldn’t help herself. Her hand went up to her mouth, anyway. Crud!
Maybe he’d take a hint.
But then, she realized, she was only going to be in the country for a couple of weeks. She would never lay eyes on this guy again, so what difference did it make? For that matter, she’d never see any of these people again, so why should she care what they thought about her?
With that thought raising her spirits, Abby squared her shoulders and walked to the exit.
She stood alone. All the other passengers undoubtedly were still fighting over their bags at the luggage carousels. Glancing back, she saw them milling around, waiting, while dull metal plates like the scales of a gigantic reptile whirled past them, empty. The tall, good-looking man striding past the others, carrying a small case and several rolls of paper, caught her attention. He didn’t turn his head as he came within six feet of her.
After a few seconds’ thought, she recognized him as the guy from the plane. With a start, she put her hand in her jeans pocket and pulled out the handkerchief he had lent her.
“Wait!” she called out. “Sir, I have your…”
Heads turned in her direction. Too late, Abby remembered what she’d read in one of the guidebooks she’d pored over after going to the travel agency. She’d memorized a list of things one didn’t do in England:
1 Do not raise your voice:laugh loudlycall outswear
2 Do not brag—America is not the only country in the world that has great stuff.
3 Do not ask personal questions.
4 Do not talk about intimate subjects:operations or illnessessexspecific family problemsmoney
5 Do say “sorry” and not “pardon me.” That is reserved for burping or farting and no one really wants to hear that.
Here she was. She’d dreamt about coming to this country since she was a teenager. She’d studied art history. She knew all about architecture and the fine arts. And she wasn’t raised in a turnip patch, either. This was a place of culture and refinement. People were classy, especially where she was going. She’d watched tons of PBS shows and Merchant/Ivory movies.
She was going to behave properly, even if it killed her.
Back to her seatmate—he was already gone, his long legs carrying him toward a door marked “car park.” Abby made one step to follow, then thought better of it. She’d been kind of rude to him with the butt business and all. Evidently he’d written off the hankie, just as he’d written off her.
She let the white linen flutter in her hand. Then she noticed the small mark on the corner. Bringing it closer, she saw that it wasn’t a mark but a small crest, neatly done, bearing what looked like a red dragon or a really ugly dog in the center. There were words, perhaps a motto or something, but the thread was too thick and the letters were far too small for her to make out.
With a sigh, she stuffed the thing into her jacket pocket. People moved past her, tugging suitcases and travel bags. All of them looked tired and mussed, although her former seatmate hadn’t given her that impression. He’d looked cleaned and pressed. As if his clothes wouldn’t have dared wrinkle. Chuckling to herself, she moved on. With nothing to declare and no luggage, she quickly made it through customs, suffering only a deep frown from the clerk, into the arrivals area.
A few people carrying