A Surprise Thing, 1/2
Pete had effectively ordered her to take a day or two of leave following a rather intense four-day investigation into the sudden proliferation of aardvarks in the streets of London, and for once Rose wasn’t of a mind to disagree. It had been a far more exhausting investigation than any reasonable person would have expected, requiring crawling through sewers, herding aardvarks, and-perhaps most exhausting-negotiating with a visitor from Texas (the planet, not the state) who thought he’d won Earth in an interstellar poker game. She’d been lucky in that Jack had taught her the variation of the game the Texan had been playing, and so she had been able to explain that not only had he not won Earth, as it was owned by her own people-but that his opponent had cheated.
Which didn’t sound difficult, until you factored in that this was all done while she was bound, hanging upside-down over a vat of bubbling barbeque sauce. It was all terribly cliché, and she wondered how it was that aliens from a planet thirty light years away had managed to find so much footage of Lyndon Baines Johnson.
So, at the end of that particular adventure-and after Pete had told her to take two days to clean up, rest, and just generally get over her fits of giggles-she had called Peter and mentioned she had a four-day weekend.
Peter met her, as he always did, at the train station. She loved stepping off of the train, turning to find him standing on the platform; it reminded her of old movies, right down to the trench coat he would always wear. Her heart accelerated, as it always did when she saw him, and she slowly walked across to him; he straightened, his face sombre right up until the point where she came to a stop in front of him.
“Carlisle.”
“Tyler.”
At which point he leaned down for a soft kiss, as he always did.
“Are you all done, then?” she asked, breathless, as he took her carryall and they started walking towards his car.
“I am. And I’ve got a treat in store.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Peter’s ‘treats’ usually involved her kissing him desperately as he drove her to completion, or begging him to keep doing whatever magical thing he was doing with his fingers or tongue. “Have you?”
He heard the breathiness in her voice, and glanced at her with a sly smile. “Well…not what you’re thinking.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Ok, perhaps a bit. But that’s not what I’m referring to. We’ve a bit of a drive-did you need anything before we set out?”
They had a light lunch in town, and were soon on the motorway, driving north from Kendal.
He refused to tell her where they were going, smiling enigmatically as he sped them towards whatever treat he had in store; she was able to work out they were going to Scotland only when they reached the border. She thought perhaps he was taking her to Glasgow, but he instead exited at Gretna; she looked at him as they slowed and paused at the first red light they’d encountered since leaving Kendal. He gave her a slight smile, before answering the question in her gaze. “We’re about halfway there.”
He accelerated, taking the A road northwest into the countryside. She watched as small towns and pastureland flew by, and wondered just what he had up his sleeve. An hour later he slowed again, taking a turn off the main road onto little more than a single-lane gravel track.
Peter Carlisle had surprised her several times in the months since she’d met him. Most surprising, at least initially, had been that he was nothing like his public, sarcastic persona; he was perhaps the most romantic man she’d ever met, the most sincere, the most passionate. He was amongst the most intelligent men-well, human men-she’d had the pleasure of working with. He was unfazed by her past, and seemed equally unfazed by her status as Vitex Heiress.
He surprised her once again when, three hours outside of Kendal, he revealed to her that he owned a small stone cottage along the Scottish coast.
She was reminded of the night he first took her to his house in Kendal, the same vulnerability showing as he parked the car, as he turned the engine off. The tide was in, and the muffled sound of the sea filled the car.
“This is…was…my gran’s cottage. It’s…mine, now. It’s where I come to really hide.” His voice was soft, his eyes flitting over the cottage before shifting to stare out at the sea.
“You, Mr. Carlisle, are a man of many secrets,” Rose said, looking at Peter. He met her gaze, his eyes unsure, and she smiled softly at him. The smile put him at ease, as she’d hoped.
“You don’t know the half of it, Miss Tyler.” He smiled in return, before leaning over to place a quick kiss on her lips.
The air outside was fresh, a cool breeze blowing off the sea, and she took an appreciative breath after she eventually exited the car. She turned, taking in the complete vista--the sea, grey-green flecked with white; the warm tones of the sand; the faded green of the shrubbery surrounding the cottage-before turning to look at the cottage itself. The structure was small, the grey stone looking as though it had seen more years than she could possibly imagine. The weather-beaten front door was set in the middle of the ground floor, two windows to each side of it; the upper storey had a window above the door with two windows to each side of it, as well. The shingle roof rose sharply, and was flecked with spots of bright green where moss had managed to take root. Chimneys rose from either end of the house, and she wondered just how old the cottage was as she stood with the wind whipping her hair round her face.
“’s lovely, Peter,” she offered as he walked around the car to stand next to her.
“Aye. You should see it when there’s a storm blowing, with the wind howling round the windows and the chimneys. There’s been many a day where I’ve not been able to stir from here.”
“I’m sure that didn’t upset you too much.” Rose leaned into him, bumping her shoulder against his as she poked her tongue out of the corner of her mouth.
“It was a bit of a bother when it interfered with Uni, or work.”
Rose turned to face him, her hand sliding down to grasp his. “You…you lived here? With your gran?”
“No, not with Gran. After-once Martin inherited the house, I moved here for a few years; free room and board, after all, and I needed to be someplace with no distractions.” He squeezed her hand. “Let’s go in before the weather changes on us, shall we?”
She was still learning the bits and pieces of Peter’s past-about the things that made him, him, that had led to the creation of the man before her. After their discussion over dinner a few months prior-the night before the case ended-he’d only rarely mentioned his immediate family at all, and then only to say that he’d spoken to Martin, or been to Glasgow.
It was only as he pulled his keys out to unlock the door that she remembered: He’d mentioned this place, once before. It had been the morning after they’d wrapped up the McGreevy case, when he’d pointed out each of the keys on his keychain. She’d assumed he’d kept the key as a memento, at the time.
Peter pushed the heavy door open, and Rose was introduced to yet another facet of the very complicated man she’d fallen in love with.
The cottage smelled old-not musty, just…old. As though decades of wood smoke from the fireplace had permeated every crevice; as though years and years of wind and weather off the Airlann Sea had sunk into the stone and taken up residence in the structure. Peter hung his coat on the hook by the door before he led her into the small sitting room to the right, the ancient wooden planks under her feet creaking as she crossed their warped and worn surface. As he opened the shutters covering the windows, a relic from another era was revealed to her: The furniture and decoration reminded her a bit of her visit to Victorian Cardiff, and she wondered if Peter had moved a thing since he’d taken ownership. The one wall without windows was lined with bookcases, and she had the notion that if Peter had done anything at all, it was to add books to the already impressive collection.
There was a chill to the room, the sunlight now flooding the space wholly unequal to the challenge of warming it, and Peter hurried over to the fireplace to start a fire. She could hear the whine of the wind as he opened the flue, and she wondered at how miserably cold the cottage must grow in the heart of winter.
The wood had already been set in the grate, and it took Peter only a few moments to get a small blaze going. She had remained standing just inside the room, unsure of where to go or what to do, and Peter slowly walked back to her.
She licked her lips, the intensity of his gaze making her twinge in all of the right places; he came to a stop just in front of her, reaching down to take her hands. “Welcome,” he said, softly.
She leaned in, brushing a light kiss over his lips, a hand drifting up to cup his jaw. “Thank you,” Rose replied as she pulled back. She gave his hand a quick squeeze, before adding, “Show me around?”
“With pleasure.”
The cottage was comprised of four rooms, with a single bath upstairs and a kitchen added on to the back of the ground floor. It had been in his family for as long as he could remember, his gran inheriting it from her father, who had inherited it from his father, and so on. As he walked her through the rooms, opening the shutters on the many windows as he passed through, Peter warned her that there was no heat other than that provided by the fireplaces (or that they made, she thought); the owners of the farm they’d passed would be dropping several cords of wood off later that afternoon, and they’d no doubt burn right through it over the four days. Although it relied on wood for heat, the cottage did have electricity; the kitchen was actually quite modern, and Rose allowed herself to imagine a younger version of Peter learning how to cook at the solid cast-iron range.
He warned her of the low ceilings as they climbed the narrow, steep stairs to the first storey; she laughed and reminded him that she was nowhere near as tall as he and should have no troubles. She saw what he meant, though, as he walked her around the two bedrooms, his head nearly brushing the low beams as their steps reverberated through the oak floor. The rooms were the same size: small, with plenty of windows and a fireplace each. The master bedroom held a single double bed, the headboard sitting between the front windows while the footboard sat just even with the edge of the fireplace, with a large wardrobe opposite; the second bedroom held two small twin beds wedged in on either side of the fireplace, a dresser, and a small wardrobe. All of the beds were covered with thick blankets and quilts, and the sheets looked to be flannel-surely they were perfectly cosy even without someone to share them with, but she was already looking forward to snuggling against Peter under them that night. The bathroom was tiny, comprised of an ancient loo and an even older-looking bath; she wondered how long ago it had been carved out of space between the two bedrooms, and just how cold the tile floor would be against her feet after a bath or in the middle of the night.
It was small, cold, and drafty-it would no doubt be called quaint in some of the magazines on her mum’s coffee table-and yet, somehow, it was so very Peter. He looked more at home in the small cottage than at any other place she’d seen him.
The tour complete, they unloaded the boot of the car. Peter had brought some basic provisions, although she suspected they’d still need to visit the market, and it took no time at all to unpack and settle in to their home for the next four days.
The sofa, although ornate, was surprisingly comfortable and she and Peter were soon snuggled against each other in its confines, watching the fire crackle and dance in the stone hearth. “So…what did you have planned for us, Mr. Carlisle?” she finally asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Not much, to be honest. I come up here to relax; if the weather’s fine, I’ll go for a walk, if it’s not I’ll read. Napping might make an appearance, if I feel the need to change things up.”
She heard the smile in his voice, and laughed. “I don’t know how you stand the excitement.”
The silence returned, punctuated by the pop and crackle of the logs burning, or a high-pitched howl as the wind gusted.
She was just starting to doze, Peter’s arms wrapped around her, when the sound of a phone ringing startled her. Peter carefully slid from holding her, hurrying through the doorway at the back of the room to answer it. There was a proper phone in the house? She stood, moving to her purse to find her mobile; as she suspected, there was no signal at all.
No mobile, no telly; the perfect spot for a retreat.
She moved to the wall of books as she listened to the low rise and fall of Peter’s voice in the kitchen. The books contained on the bookshelves were eclectic, to say the least. Tomes on science were intermingled with the novels of Jane Austen; several dusty volumes on history were bookended by the complete works of the Brothers Grimm. She had no doubt Peter had spent hours and hours, uninterrupted, on the sofa reading any or all of the books in front of her.
She was just reaching for one of the books when Peter returned. “My fine neighbour will be delivering the wood in about an hour; they’ll be bringing along the milk and eggs, as well.”
Rose couldn’t keep the surprise from her expression, and Peter smiled. “Rose-it’s a farm. They have things like that.”
She laughed. “I know. ‘s just…’s like out of a book, all of this.”
“This is no novel,” he replied, stepping towards her. Her heart skipped along, her breath catching as he leaned forwards to kiss her. Rose responded eagerly, pressing herself against his body, her arms wrapping around and holding him close.
He broke the kiss long enough to lead her up the stairs to the master bedroom; he had just kicked his shoes off when she turned, kissing him fiercely, pinning him against the wall. He was surprised-it was perhaps the first time she’d been the aggressor in their lovemaking-and he hardly put up a fight as she pinned his hands against the wall. She rubbed against him, eliciting a groan, before moving to ghost her lips across the skin of his jaw.
He moaned as her tongue began to dance across the skin of his throat, and she smiled. “Like that, do you?” she whispered, blowing across the glistening lines her tongue had left.
“Yes,” he whispered, his head tilted against the wall, his eyes closed.
“Good,” she replied , before continuing to tease him. Rose released his hands, trusting him to let her stay in charge, and moved her fingers to the hem of his jumper. “Take these off, Peter.”
He shifted, stripping the jumper off with alacrity, hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt and removing it, yanking his vest over his head as Rose kissed his skin.
As his hands returned to his side, Rose moved her hands to his hips; it was the work of only a few seconds to free the belt, to unbutton his trousers and unzip his fly. She slid her hand under the fabric, cupping him lightly; he groaned, his fists tightening as he fought not to take control of the situation. “Take them off, Peter,” she whispered, squeezing lightly.
As she slid her hand out of his pants he raised his head, opening his eyes. His dark gaze held hers as he reached down and removed his trousers and pants, the fabric pooling at his feet before he stepped out of them.
Her breath caught; even after several months of shagging, his naked form still had the ability to make her forget everything else.
His lips quirked briefly, her only warning that he was done being passive. Before she could take a breath he’d grabbed her, spinning her around so her back was to the wall; he pressed against her, his hips pinning her as his hands slid under her jumper and shirt, sliding the garments up her skin. She reached down, helping him to remove them, and gasped as the cold air of the room hit her skin. Peter’s hands were blazing hot in comparison, his fingers leaving trails of fire over her skin as they skated down to her trousers. “I want these off of you, Rose,” he growled as he shifted back, flicking the button open, yanking the fly down. His hands moved to her hips, shoving both her trousers and knickers down roughly; she hastily toed her shoes off before moving to help him.
She was freezing, clad only in her bra in the unheated room; Peter soon set to solving that, pulling her to him for a scorching kiss. His body was warm against hers, his hardness pressing into her; her hands slowly slid up his spine, her fingers finally coming to rest in his hair.
He walked them to the bed, his lips never leaving hers, his hands holding her close. He eased her onto the bed, his body moving to cover hers as she lay down, and as they moved to shift into the centre of the bed she broke the kiss to gasp for air. Peter looked at her, brushing a light kiss over her nose before shifting, moving to the small nightstand next to the bed. It took only a few short moments for him to find the condom he’d secreted away (when had he begun to plan this little rendezvous?, she wondered), to open the packet and put it on.
Peter returned, bracing himself above her as the fingers of one hand slid through her hair. He shifted his gaze, his eyes meeting hers; she felt her chest tighten at what she saw there.
“Peter…please…make love to me.” Her body was screaming for him to be in her, for him to make her feel like the most adored creature in existence. She couldn’t get enough of how he made her feel, of how he looked as he came.
He leaned down, placing a sweet kiss on her lips even as he slid into her. Her body was more than ready and he slid out of her with ease. As she pressed up into him, deepening the kiss, he began to set a steady rhythm, driving into her before slowly pulling out.
She was already so close; all he had to do was shift, to reach down in between them and lightly press against her centre, and she felt her orgasm wash through her. She braced her feet on the bed, arching her hips up into him; it was only a few thrusts later that he joined her, pulsing inside her as his own orgasm crashed through his body.
It was as they lay together afterwards, each catching their breath, that Rose remembered how bloody cold the room was. Peter rolled off of her; with a bit of shifting about he was able to manoeuvre them under the sheets and he was soon pulling her into his embrace. He brushed a light kiss over her forehead as she rested against his shoulder.
She raised her head, looking at him; his gaze was serious, and she felt her heart jump. She had no idea what to say to him, to let him know how much she appreciated him bringing her to the cottage, allowing her to see this part of his life. She leaned upwards, brushing a kiss over his lips before saying, simply, “Thank you.”
He quirked an eyebrow as she pulled back, replying, “For what? Being willingly seduced? Believe you me, it was my pleasure.”
She smiled, settling back into the crook of his arm as she rested her hand over his heart.
“I’ve dreamt of this…of bringing you here,” he said softly, his hand stroking her arm soothingly.
“I’m glad you did.”
His hand continued to stroke along her arm, and she wondered what he was thinking about; he had a habit of absentmindedly stroking her arm as they lay together whenever he was thinking about some thorny issue or another.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she asked, tilting her head to look at him.
He leaned down, brushing a kiss over her lips. “They’re not worth nearly that much, as well you know. I was just thinking that not even Loreen had…”
He seemed to catch himself, his body tensing.
Rose felt an icy heat run through her body. They’d just made love, and he was thinking about…Who was he thinking about?
“What?” she finally asked, her voice dull. “No, wait, scratch that. Who?”
“I…”
Peter’s voice had a tone to it she’d never heard before; tension and uncertainty and a hint of fear. It did little to comfort her.
“Peter…” She raised herself onto her elbow, looking at him. Her heart raced, cold washing through her as she saw his stricken expression.
“I…I was married. Once. Before. Loreen was my wife.” He rushed the words out, his eyes not quite meeting hers.
Rose shifted, sitting next to Peter in stunned silence. He’d been lying in bed with her, holding her after making love, and he’d thought of...this other woman; his former wife. Was his wife dead? Had they divorced? Why? Where was she now? Had they had children? Suddenly, in the darkness of Peter’s past, anything and everything seemed possible.
“Your ex-wife?” She finally managed to say.
“My ex-wife.”
She verbalised what she had been thinking. “We were lying in bed, naked together, after making love. And you thought of your ex-wife.”
“No! Well, I mean, yes, but-” He sat up, reaching for her; she shifted away from him, taking care to keep space between the two of them. “Rose…”
“Bad enough to find out you’ve got an ex-wife in the first place-but this…” She felt anger flood through her, tears pricking at her eyes.
He’d been married. Once. Before. Before Blackpool? How had none of this turned up when Torchwood had checked his background? How was it he'd not told her this sooner? Before their relationship had hit this smooth, unhurried rhythm that had made her feel like she could finally relax? He could have told her at any moment: the night they'd had ice cream cones, stretched out in his back garden; or the day he'd first presented her flowers; before he'd shagged her in the shower, developed the habit of handing her his shirts to lounge around his house in?
A million other questions flooded her mind as she laid there, Peter staring at her, his gaze steadily growing more concerned.
He’d been married. And he…what? He didn’t trust her enough to tell her? Didn’t think it was important?
What was it with Peter and wives? He’d told her about Natalie-but he’d clearly not told her everything about his past. And if he could keep from telling her about something as major as an ex-wife, what else was he keeping from her?
She couldn’t stay in bed with him, couldn’t bear to be so close to him and certainly not without any barriers between their bodies. She scurried out from under the covers, hurrying across the room to where her clothes lay on the floor. Peter remained in the bed, watching her, and she turned away from him; she couldn’t bear the thought of being naked in front of him, of him seeing all of her. Not right now.
“Rose.” She heard Peter move, had a sudden irrational fear that he was getting out of bed, that he would come over to her and trap her in the room. She didn’t bother buttoning her trousers, instead reaching down to grab at her jumper before fleeing the room.
She heard him curse even as she raced down the stairs. She didn’t have anywhere to go, couldn’t call anyone to come pick her up-had no idea where she was, other than along the Scottish coast. Her shoes were upstairs, and Peter’s keys were heaven only knew where.
She was stuck with him. With a man she wasn’t quite sure she knew anymore. Peter Carlisle was a man of many surprises, but until five minutes ago all of them had been pleasant.
End note: the cottage is based off of a real place-well, certainly off of a real location, although the cottage described here doesn’t quite match the real place.