The Captain's Cornish Christmas Read online

  “Then go out, you silly cat.”

  Peregrine looked back at him with an expression of disdain, refusing to move.

  “Pilchards for you later—if you behave!”

  Jago opened a present from one of the lads on the lifeboat crew. He knew it was a book, and he hoped it wouldn’t be, but of course it was—Sam Coryton’s newest novel. Without bothering to read the blurb or pay much attention to the front cover, Jago flicked to the author photo inside. That handsome man, kiss boring old Jago, the man who was permanently covered with a crust of sea salt?

  Just as Jago threw the book aside, someone knocked at the door.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Either Santa was very plummy this year or Sam Coryton was at Jago’s door. “Anyone home—I left Rudolph up on the roof!”

  Peregrine pressed his paws to the front door, mewing like a kitten. Jago scooped him up as he opened the door.

  “Sam? Gosh—I wasn’t expecting visitors! Certainly not Father Christmas, at any rate.” And would Father Christmas wear red boxer shorts? That was a question Jago didn’t want to answer.

  “Last night was lovely but it ended a little bit awkwardly and—” Sam held out a tin of pilchards, around which was wrapped a very festive silver ribbon finished in a flamboyant bow. He grinned, the now very black eye twinkling just as brightly as the other. “This is a little something for Peregrine, to say sorry for embarrassing his pa.”

  “Pilchards? They just so happen to be young Peregrine’s favorite thing in all the world.” Jago took the tin and showed it to the cat, who sniffed it. “How—honestly, how can his sense of smell be that acute? Anyway—erm…would you like a cuppa?”

  “I’d love one, if that’s all right.” He nodded keenly. “And Ma and Pa wanted to let you know that you’re welcome to pop over for supper later if you like, you shouldn’t be on your own at Christmas.”

  “On my own? But I’ve got Peregrine!” Jago joked as he closed the door behind Sam. “That’s really kind of them, but I’d feel bad if I was called out and had to dash. It’d be very rude of me.”

  Dinner with Sam’s parents? Jago had run away from kissing him under the mistletoe. He couldn’t invade the Coryton Christmas dinner after that. Why was this all so embarrassing? Friends. They could try to be friends. Even though Jago had walked in on Sam mid—

  “Sam—just milk, is it?”

  “Milk, yep.” Sam nodded and looked around the cottage, which Jago knew would have fit into the Big House six times over. This must be like a hutch to a man used to living in the manner of Sam Coryton. “God, I wanted a little cottage on the harbor so badly, you know. Nobody moves around here, not one person ever leaves. I ended up buying that bloody great big place on the hill because it was either that or a tent on the beach.”

  Jago put on an over-the-top Cornish brogue and ended up sounding like the world’s worst incarnation of Long John Silver. “This ‘ere cottage ‘as been in the Treherne fam’ly for ‘undreds of years, it ‘as!” He led Sam into the lounge. The novel lay on the sofa where Jago had dropped it, and Sam must have noticed it. “Someone gave it to me as a present.”

  “I can scribble in it if you like?” Sam raised an eyebrow, then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I even promise not to tell you whodunnit.”

  “I should hope not! Go on, then, sign it for me.” Jago held out a pen. It had a lifeboat inside the barrel that sailed back and forth as the pen moved. “I’ve got your other books upstairs—you might be signing for a while!”

  “Keep the tea coming and I’ll sign the lot!”

  Sam took the pen and dropped to sit on the sofa next to the Christmas tree with its riot of aging and colorful decorations. He looked at home there, with the book in his lap and the tree lights sparkling beside him. Humming softly, Sam opened the book and wrote in his large, looping handwriting, ‘To Cap’n Jago, A friend through black eyes and mince pies! Love and togas, Sam x’.

  Friend. Yes, they would be friends, and they would laugh about the mistletoe one day. Remember that time we nearly kissed each other? Ho-ho-ho.

  “Thanks! Look, I’ll just go and sort out the tea.” Jago went into the kitchen and banged about, getting the tea ready and tipping pilchards onto a saucer for Peregrine. And where was his faithful little friend? Not even pilchards were enough to lure the cat away from Sam.

  Jago returned with a tray. “Comfy, you two?”

  “Bosom pals!” Sam certainly looked at home, one leg tucked beneath him on the sofa, the other extended across the rug. Peregrine was a curled cushion in his new friend’s lap, purring softly as he allowed the man who dared to coin the phrase Cornish Noir to scratch behind his perky ears.

  Jago put the tray down on the table, then was left with the difficult decision—where would he sit? He couldn’t sit beside Sam. The sofa was too small and he’d feel like a man-eater. But he couldn’t sit in the wicker chair by the fireplace, because that would look like he was purposefully avoiding him. Which Jago was. So he decided to crouch on the hearthrug, on the other side of the table from Sam. Just…a casual sort of crouch. As if he were always crouching about on hearthrugs.

  “Shall I pour?”

  Sam’s face took on a very odd expression. He bowed his head and swallowed, but his shoulders began to rise and fall until a peal of laughter escaped and he said, “I’m sorry, cap’n, but—” The laughter seized him again. “You just look—I’m not going to jump on you, come and sit down!”

  “I didn’t want you to think I was—but that said, it’s not exactly comfortable down here!” Jago held his hand out. “Can you give me a yank?” But as soon as he said it, he started to laugh. “Not the best choice of word, there!”

  Sam curled his fingers around Jago’s and hauled him to his feet, still laughing. From his perch Peregrine watched with shrewd interest, a swish of his tail making it clear that he approved. Jago slumped down onto the sofa beside Sam and brushed his hands off on his trousers. He started to pour the tea.

  “Look, about the mistletoe incident yesterday…” Jago glanced at Sam. That black eye really was bad, and guilt gripped at him.

  “Oh God, don’t!” Sam laughed again and touched his fingertips to the bruise on his face. “Just forget you ever saw it, please! The Daily Mail’d probably chuck you five hundred quid for that little bit of scandal!”

  He held one hand up and gestured from right to left as though blocking out the headline. “Naked author in black eye wank yacht horror! I’ll never recover, says traumatized lifeboat hunk!”

  Hunk? Jago missed the cup as he poured and tea ran into the saucer. “Honestly, I won’t say a word to anyone. Our secret.” Did that make him sound creepy? “I didn’t know you were busy—I’m not a peeping Tom.” Although Jago had enjoyed rerunning the episode in his mind as he drifted off to sleep that night. “Do you want some more ice for your eye?”

  “I’m good, mate,” Sam assured him. “And it’d be a very dedicated peeping Tom who sailed out to a yacht on the off-chance of getting an eyeful! Look, are you sure you won’t come for food? Nobody’s going to call on Christmas Day, surely, and you can bring Peregrine!”

  Jago ran his hand through his hair. “I’d really, really love to, but I’d just feel…I’d feel as if I was imposing. And I’ve done quite enough of that already in the past few days!”

  “Tomorrow then? Boxing Day pint?”

  He wanted to. Jago wanted to more than anything. He regretted running off from the mistletoe and he regretted not being able to say yes to dinner. A drink, tomorrow, he could do that. “I won’t be on call, then, so—”

  Jago’s pager went off. “Oh god, sorry Sam! I can’t—I’ll have to—I’ve got to go.”

  He automatically went into lifeboat captain mode. Just before he grabbed his coat, he paused and took a spare set of house keys from a jar on the mantelpiece and dropped them beside Sam. “Don’t rush your tea. Lock up and pop the keys back through the letterbox when you can.”

  Jago didn’t curse the page
r. Someone out there needed them. There would be other pots of tea to share with Sam.

  Hopefully.

  As he hurried over the cobbles to the lifeboat station, other members of Polneath’s crew appeared, their Christmas morning disturbed.

  A Christmas present. It was always a Christmas present. Someone who lived by the harbor had bought their child a dinghy, and had told the boy in no uncertain terms not to go out in it alone. So what had the little boy done? He was now caught in the current and as the tide was running, he was being swept farther and farther out. The oars had slipped from the rowlocks, but Jago knew the child would never have been able to row against the current anyway.

  The wind was picking up again, the waves choppy as the lifeboat sped over the sea. The dinghy had gone quite far out, but the lifeboat reached it soon enough. The boy was in tears, terrified of being reprimanded by his parents. ‘Don’t tell Mummy and Daddy!’ It was a bit late for that, as a worried crowd had gathered on the harbor’s edge even before the lifeboat had been launched. The entire population of Polneath knew what had happened.

  The most miserable, and luckiest, child in Cornwall was heaved into the lifeboat and wrapped in a blanket, and the dinghy was tied up behind. Jago radioed the Coastguard to let them know that the boy was safe. The helicopter didn’t need to risk the worsening weather, and the pilot could enjoy his turkey undisturbed.

  They made their way back to shore, the wind even colder and blowing strongly from the north, ice biting at the lifeboat crew’s faces as they made for home.

  When they sailed into the harbor, a cheer went up from the spectators and the child’s parents rushed forward. Instead of a telling-off, their son received hugs and kisses.

  “You lot go back to your families,” Jago told the crew. “I’ll put the boat away.”

  Suddenly tired, Jago sighed to himself as he closed the doors of the lifeboat station behind him. It could have been a lot worse, but all was well. Apart from the damn cold wind.

  He made for home, thinking of the pot of tea he hadn’t had a chance to finish with Sam. Tea—how welcome that would be right now. In fact, something stronger would have been welcome. But he’d leave that until later. Midnight, and he’d be no longer on call.

  He put his key in the front door, but it was already unlocked.

  “Sam? You’re not still here, are you?”

  The cottage was warm and an aroma of cooking wafted from the kitchen, along with the sound of Christmas carols and Sam’s voice singing along. It was tuneful enough, but it was probably a good thing that he’d gone on to a literary career rather than one in the music business. Jago hung his coat up on the hook behind the front door and paused. He closed the door then trod lightly along the hallway toward the kitchen.

  Peregrine strolled out of the kitchen to greet him with a cheery miaow, walking in circles around his legs until Jago stooped to pick him up. Cradling the cat in his arms, he finally stepped over the threshold and found a scene of festive bliss awaiting, a far cry from the microwave chicken dinner for one.

  The table was set for a feast, a centerpiece of candles standing precariously in wine bottles, flickering a bright welcome. Two places were set with cutlery and napkins, wineglasses and crackers, while sprigs of holly had been nestled into the bottles beside the candles to create a rather shabby-chic look that suited the cottage perfectly. The fairy lights that encircled the makeshift candelabra had to have come from the Morveren, where they had twinkled just yesterday.

  And there at the stove, his sleeves rolled to the elbow and his voice raised in a chorus of Little Donkey was Cornish Noir’s greatest—possibly only—champion, the skipper of the Morveren, that pert bottom of his raised once more as he stooped to peer into the oven. He was clothed this time, of course, which was probably fortunate given the number of steaming pans that were on the hob.

  “Bloody hell, Sam—this is the best welcome home I’ve ever had! I honestly don’t know how to thank you.”

  Just as he had on the yacht twenty-four hours earlier, Sam jumped out of his skin. He spun round to face Jago and smiled the most perfect smile the lifeboat captain could ever remember seeing.

  “Cap’n, you’re just in time for dinner! Hope you’ve got an appetite because you and I have got a mountain of gorgeous grub to get through!” He opened the fridge and took out a bottle. “Can a captain on call at least toast Christmas with a little glass of bubbly?”

  “Oh, go on then, you’ve twisted my arm—a little splash won’t matter.”

  Peregrine hopped onto Jago’s shoulder. His velvet cheek was warm against Jago’s wind-chilled face.

  Jago still stared in disbelief around his kitchen. “I can’t get over it—this is the kindest thing anyone I’ve given a black eye to has ever done for me. Thanks so much, Sam.”

  “You were out saving a little boy’s life, Jago, the least the village could do was rally! Ma provided all the veg and easy bits and I went door to door knocking and asking for the other bits and bobs so you could have a feast fit for a hero.” Sam laughed, a bashful blush creeping over his face. “Turkey, champers, even the pud and brandy butter…all donated by the very appreciative people of Polneath. Turns out shops in little Cornish villages aren’t open on Christmas Day, but we didn’t need them to be in the end. All yours truly had to do was cook it all up for the returning hero!”

  Jago blinked. Tears were gathering in his eyes. “I’m not a hero, really, I just do my job.” But the village had given up parts of their Christmas for him. And all thanks to Sam. Jago patted him on the arm.

  “I didn’t have time to get you a present but—” Sam beamed and took a few steps to the kitchen table. There over one of the chair backs was draped that red scarf of his. He picked it up and, as though bestowing an honor, slipped it around Jago’s neck, holding each end in his hands. “I hope this’ll do for now at least. Knitted by granny Coryton, who always thought you were a lovely boy.”

  The wool was delicate and soft, and Jago thought of granny Coryton, who had gifted Sam her sparkling eyes and the ability to spin a yarn. She told the tales and myths of Polneath to the village children.

  “Lovely boy? I adored her stories.” Jago blushed. Sam was standing so near to him, and at that moment Peregrine jumped down from Jago’s arms to wind himself about their legs again. Just as he had when they’d stood under the mistletoe last night.

  Sam’s hands were still holding the ends of the scarf, so close and so far from an embrace, the expression on his handsome face gentle. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling then let it settle on Jago again and murmured, “Ma asked if I needed any mistletoe, but…”

  “Your mum asked you if you needed mistletoe?” Jago let one hand rest lightly on Sam’s arm. He would let him interpret the gesture however he wished—whether friendly, or hinting at something more.

  “She’s a smart kind of gal.” Sam looked down at Jago’s hand. “If I kiss you, do I run the risk of a matching black eye on the other side?”

  “Not at all.” Jago slid his hand from Sam’s arm to cup his face. “I wanted to kiss you so much last night, and I—I’m not very brave. Not really.”

  “We—” Sam blinked, letting his gaze settle once more on Jago’s. “I’m not going anywhere, Jago. I’m home for good. Do you fancy giving us a go?”

  “You—you want me?” Jago gazed into Sam’s eyes and felt himself swept away on a tide of longing. He gently laid his other hand on Sam’s waist, moving just a little closer toward him. Jago could not doubt Sam a moment longer. “Me? Are you—gosh, you are sure, aren’t you? Then yes. Let’s give it a go. Us.”

  Sam finally released the scarf and put his arms around Jago’s neck. Then he touched the tips of their noses together before, with careful tenderness, his lips met Jago’s. Sam’s lips were as warm and as soft as Jago had hoped, and the men explored with gentleness, tasting and finally knowing each other. Jago forgot about the cat around their legs and the pager in his pocket, existing only in the moment of their kiss
.

  Only when they had to breathe did they finally part, yet still they were in each other’s arms. There was another kiss then, a little less tentative, the heat between them building despite the bitter air outside.

  How far would this go? As they kissed more deeply and with increasing passion, Jago stroked his hand over Sam’s behind. It was impossible to forget the vision of the pert bottom that he had seen for the first time yesterday in such awkward circumstances. Fiery need took light in Jago’s veins, and he knew more than anything that he wanted the man in his arms, had done for far too long. But he had never, ever thought that a man like Sam Coryton could possibly want him back.

  The sound of Christmas carols was interrupted by an insistent bleep—not of the pager calling Jago back out into the night, but a phone. Sam reached into his pocket and it was silenced as he explained bashfully, “That means dinner’s ready. You hungry?”

  “I’m starving! In fact, I’m so hungry, I nearly ate you!” Jago laughed and gave Sam a tight hug. “You’re fantastic, by the way.”

  “Get those boots off, get warmed up—though you’re pretty hot already—and let me spoil you rotten?” Sam kissed his cheek. “Go on, to the table!”

  Jago sat down at the table and pulled off his wellingtons. They had a scurf of brine on them, and Jago touched his face, realizing he had a crusty layer of salt there. He headed to the kitchen sink and splashed water across his cheeks. “Sorry, Sam, for kissing you with a rough face!”

  “If I were writing about you, I’d say it was rugged.” Sam began carrying laden dishes to the table. The aromas were unmistakably those of Christmas, of roasted potatoes and melted butter, of herbs and heat and the magnificent roasted turkey, its crisp skin browned just so, just like the Christmases of childhood. “I’d say you were a rugged hero who was too shy and gentle to realize how handsome and lovely you were. I almost asked you out when I came back last summer but you were with your man-bun-wearing surfer and I thought, yeah, lucky hipster bastard.”