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Making her way out of bed and quietly down the aged oak staircase, Robin paused in the deep quiet of the dark winter’s night, a rueful smile playing at her lips… all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
It had, quite improbably, become that time of year again and the prospect of an Ellacott family Christmas loomed reluctantly before her.
Just not quite yet.
Another ten days still stretched out between now and the sometimes suffocating embrace of the traditional celebrations, and she was mildly irked that this unscheduled visit to Masham was eating into them.
It wasn’t as if she didn't want to spend Christmas here, she did. This was her family and she loved them very much, but concentrated time together continued to highlight how different she had become to them all.
For most of her life she’d believed her brother Martin to be the proverbial black sheep of the family. Although the closest in age they were also the least alike and Martin's total lack of focus and ambition in life lay in stark contrast to Robin’s. At times a shared parentage appeared to be their only commonality.
She’d love to be able to say that turning thirty, alongside the binds and vestiges of fatherhood had done something for her younger brother, that it had perhaps brought about an earnest sense of responsibility and even conformity to a regular paying job.
It hadn’t.
Yet despite this, Robin was aware that it was she, living in London, unmarried, with her unconventional career choice who was in fact considered the odd one out. It was a fact, however, that felt much more readily accepted than it did just twelve months earlier.
The year had been a long one and the journey travelled across those months was not insignificant. She felt as if mountains had been climbed and valleys forged, but the subsequent peace and calm in which she now largely existed was not something she would allow herself to be easily parted from.
There had been those who through wanton manipulation or plain ignorance had attempted to rob her of it, to convince her that what she lay claim to was little more than fallacy or falsehood. But Robin had worked hard to come to terms with her situation, to embrace who her experiences had made her, and consequently she now trusted herself more than at any other time in her life.
She recognised that peace came to her in a form different to other people. She had learned that it had to. Life had treated her differently, thus she had, with help, come to accept that she must treat herself differently.
Was it fair? No.
Was it necessary? Absolutely.
Was it worth it? Without question.
She could no longer be who she once was. Continuing to put everyone else first had become detrimental, not only to her own happiness, but also her well-being, and she could not keep burying her feelings because she feared the opinions of others.
Her relationship with Ryan Murphy had been the final proof of that. It had taken time for her to fully accept how much of her thought process had been taken up with trying to convince her own heart of what she should feel and what she should want.
Should.
But by whose definition? By whose standard?
In many ways she’d been ashamed of her true feelings, of the very real strength and force of them and for a while she had laid blame at the feet of others for her own mismanaged emotions.
Robin had never considered herself someone who cared to an excessive degree what others thought. Her career choices alone testified clearly to that.
The people she dealt with, the cases she investigated, the challenges she undertook - she could not be considered a coward. But when it had come to the person she was romantically involved with, all of that strength, all of that bravado seemed to shrivel and fade beneath the laden shadow of her own inexperience. She had sought trust and safety and a certain amount of predictability in a lover, and once again she had accepted it in a familiar and conventional shape without properly considering whether it could be found in any other.
Ever since that March day when she had first stepped onto Denmark Street, she’d been shedding layers. Slowly but surely, the staid and practised normalcy of her life had been stripped away until she had rediscovered a version of herself she had long thought lost. So why had she been so scared to do the same in her personal life?
Yes, there were reasons, demons even, lurking in the darkest recesses of her past, but there had also been opinions. Loud opinions; unwanted and unbidden they had been shared unrepentantly with care for neither truth nor feeling, and in many cases, long before her own could accurately be formed.
Handsome and kind, Murphy, had been an easy choice, a safe choice, and for a time he had managed to silence all of the thoughts and judgements she no longer wished to be privy to. He had never silenced her feelings though. Not the ones that coursed deep through her soul, the ones which cared not for should, only that which truly was. But instead of listening, instead of believing everything her heart was crying out for, Robin had embraced that same silence and continued with a relationship she’d convinced herself was what she really wanted.
Murphy’s ongoing battle for sobriety, alongside an investigation into his conduct at work had added to Robin’s reasons for staying at his side. But in disavowing her own right to honesty and free choice she only managed to inflict further damage to her already fragile mental health.
And then there was Cormoran Strike. Her business partner, her best friend; he had inadvertently become the source of almost every unanswered question she possessed.
What a goddamn mess that had been. His feelings inelegantly proclaimed, lobbed at her in desperation like a grenade with the pin removed.
Anger and fear had driven her in the aftermath of that conversation. At his words, at his timing, at herself; at no longer being able to deny that her best friend felt anything for her beyond friendship; at being forced to acknowledge that what she so rarely allowed herself to feel was mirrored in the person she felt it most strongly for.
It had taken seven years, but he had finally presented her with something she couldn't just simply dismiss or hide away.
A diamond solitaire had not been enough to deafen those words or mask those feelings. Nor was the man proffering it.
As for Strike: his own ill worded and wholly unexpected proposal had never been mentioned again.
Reaching the bottom of the old oak staircase, Robin immediately regretted not pulling on a pair of socks when her bare feet met the broad, slate flagstones which stretched through the hall and into the kitchen. How easily time and distance allowed you to forget the things that were once established norms.
Dancing in and out of shadow, a faint, orange glow seeped out through the living room door accompanied by the gentle spit and crackle of the log fire, but it was the unexpected low murmur of voices which piqued Robin’s curiosity.
Pushing open the door a few more inches, she took in the sight of the two men occupying one of the well-worn sofas and with a smile stepped further into the room.
With a turning of heads and a sharing of smiles, Micheal Ellacott offered his companion a brief but friendly pat on the knee before standing.
“I was just about to head up Timber Hill,” he said, his expression easy, assuring her that all was well. At least with him. “‘Night, sweetheart,” he added, pressing a kiss to his daughter’s cheek.
“‘Night, Dad.”
With a final nod to his drinking companion, he pulled the door closed behind him and made his way upstairs.
Reaching into the large wicker basket beside the hearth, Robin pulled out a large gnarly log and dropped it atop the low flickering flames before sinking down onto the well-worn sofa next to her partner.
“He asked if I’d share a ‘wee dram’,” he explained, holding up the cut glass tumbler, a small measure of amber liquid still evident at the bottom. “What’s a bloke to do?” He shrugged helplessly and took another sip.
“And here's me thinking I’m the only Ellacott you drink whisky with,” she teased and watched a slow, lazy smile stretch at his face.
“You'll always be my favourite,” he answered and held the glass out to her. Robin smiled back and took a small sip before quickly scrunching up her nose in distaste.
“Not quite as good once you've brushed your teeth,” she said, passing it back.
“How come you're still awake?” he asked, gazing fondly at her sitting there beside him in plaid green pyjama bottoms and an oversized navy jumper that he quickly recognised as his own.
“I was going through a couple of bits for the case—”
“You’re worse than me,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“Then I realised I hadn’t heard you come up,” she continued. “So I just wanted to check everything was OK.”
“Worried your mother might have evicted me in your absence?”
“Or perhaps cornered you for a little chat.”
Strike nodded in understanding and reached for her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and running a thumb over her knuckles. “Well thankfully your dad got to me first.”
“He certainly has his moments,” she murmured gratefully.
The old house was cosy and peaceful, the wind outside barely noticeable as it buffeted the stonework, and for a few minutes they sat watching the fire, nestled within the easy and undemanding silence that they so often shared.
“This is nice,” Strike said, breaking the quiet, his dark eyes sweeping about the low-lit room. “Everything you have here… this place, this house, your family… it's really something, you know.”
“Yeah, I do know,” she murmured back, acknowledging the wider truth of Strike’s observation, particularly when viewed through the uneven lens of his own family history.
“I don't want to mess with it, Robin.”
“I know that too. And you won't,” she added, reassuring him with a squeeze of her hand.
Throwing back the remaining few drops of whisky, Strike deposited the tumbler onto the coffee table in front of them. The logs hissed and popped softly in the background and for a few minutes more, Robin simply enjoyed the feel of this moment.
“So, what were you and Dad talking about?” she asked, no longer able to keep her curiosity in check.
“A bit of everything really.” “
Yeah? Like what?”
A frown pulled at Strike’s brow as he answered. “The case for a bit - what with it being the reason we're up this way. Life in London and Yorkshire, the army, your dad's work—”
“Oh, god!” she interrupted suddenly. “Please tell me you didn’t laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Seriously?” she asked incredulously, remembering clearly the startled and curious looks her best friend’s loud reaction had drawn from other patrons of the Rivoli Bar when first informed of Michael Ellacott’s profession.
Strike’s look was momentarily inscrutable as he offered a shrug of innocence to her accusation to which Robin narrowed her eyes. “Professor of sheep medicine, production and repro—” she challenged and as anticipated she didn’t manage to finish the sentence before her partner’s face stretched into a large grin and a low rumble of laughter escaped him.
“That’s why,” she told him, with a roll of her pale blue eyes before poking him in the ribs with an index finger. “You’re a nightmare.”
“I’m not that bad,” he protested, flinching away from the sharp prods to his ribs, his smile only growing wider as Robin’s expression became increasingly exasperated.
“Production and re—”
Strike laughed again. “OK, fair point,” he admitted, dropping his head back against the sofa with a sigh. “But I promise you, I held it together while he was telling me about it.”
“Good,” she muttered and relaxed against him fully, her head finding his shoulder.
“He told me one of his students needed seventeen stitches after he fainted in a sheep pen during lambing this year.”
A low chuckle escaped on a breath. “Yeah, I know. He was quite proud, I think. It was a new class record.”
Turning just a little, Strike pressed his nose to the top of Robin’s head and remained there at ease, simply breathing in the scent of her. It had quickly become an addiction in recent months.
“By the way,” he continued conversationally, his lips against her hair. “You did not exaggerate. That is one seriously impressive stack of Sheep Management magazines in the downstairs toilet.”
“I did tell you.”
“I had a flick through a couple earlier.”
“Yeah?” she responded cautiously, her tone suspicious as she leaned back to look at him.
“Hmm,” he confirmed. “Bit over my head for the most part, but I think it would definitely benefit from that idea you had.”
“And what idea was that?” she asked, feeling confused, quite certain she had never suggested one.
“A photo feature called ‘Readers’ Sheep’.”
Her expression only widened his grin.
“I reckon people could send in selfies with their favourite sheep, tell everyone what makes it so special—”
Robin’s burst of laughter cut him off and as she turned to wrap her arms around him, he enveloped her in his and tugged her onto his lap. She released a small gasp of surprise and then laughed again louder when his lips found a ticklish spot on the underside of her jaw.
Manoeuvring in place, she straddled his thighs and wrapped an arm around his neck. A sleeve enshrouded hand cradled his cheek, the tips of her fingers flexing in his short beard as she kissed him softly before resting her forehead to his.
“God, I love you,” she breathed.
Immediately she felt him still as if startled by her words. Leaning back, she found him gazing back at her in wonder.
“What?” she asked, suddenly uncertain. It wasn’t as if she'd never told him that before, yet she saw the small crease in his brow and clench of his jaw, clear signs that particular emotions had made themselves unexpectedly present.
“Nothing,” he muttered with the slightest shake of his head.
“Don’t give me that. What?” she pressed gently.
He paused for a moment. “You've just never said it like that before.”
“Like what?”
Once again he searched for words to aid description of something he knew he'd never felt before.
“Like it's forever.”
Pulling in a sharp breath, Robin was floored once again by his sheer strength of feeling. Little was ever straightforward with this man, little was ever easy, but rarely was it not worthwhile.
She knew, without hesitation or doubt, how she felt about him. It had been a dam burst of emotion in the days and weeks following his stairwell confession; a perspective, a viewpoint she had determinedly refused to acknowledge or accept. But once she’d allowed herself to do so, once she’d cracked open the lid of the box, she had found herself returned to the floor of the bathroom now only a few feet away above them.
Almost exactly one year ago, fuelled by an excess of whisky, she had stared her feelings for Strike directly in the eye. Alcohol had loosened every lock and fastening, his gift had felled every barrier, and the very real depth of everything she felt had escaped raw and unchecked from inside her. She had in those moments experienced what it was to be truly overwhelmed by your emotions. Then, through chest-wracking sobs, she had gathered them back up and returned them to their solitary confinement, before sliding into bed next to a man whom she knew could never evoke or unleash such intense and unfettered love inside her.
“I want it to be,” she told Strike, tears prickling at the corners of her grey blue eyes.
“Me too,” he whispered.
Marry me… the words echoed in his mind and for the briefest moment he thought of another time and another staircase and words that were no less impactful but never uttered. He’d say these ones again. He had no doubt. Perhaps on a Cornish beach, or high on a Yorkshire dale, but not here. Not now.
Instead he leaned in, pushed his fingers into her hair, and poured every ounce of emotion into the kiss that followed.
Softly, sensually, he pressed his mouth to hers over and again, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a gentle groan as he kissed her longer and deeper until he was lost. Lost to this moment. Lost to this woman. Lost to a love he remained unable to find words for at times.
Robin mirrored him completely and unashamedly, a hand at his face, the other tracing the loose neckline of his jumper. His lips were soft and pliant, eager but not demanding, and as she sunk further against him, she felt a strong arm encircle her waist encouraging her even closer. This moment here with this man was everything. Finally she was home in every sense and meaning.
It was a smile of sudden realisation and a burst of laughter that eventually broke the moment.
“And where did that brilliant mind of yours just wander off to?” he asked, an amused smile teasing at his lips as he traced the length of her jaw with his nose. “Clearly I wasn’t doing a good enough job of keeping it occupied.”
His warm breath accompanied by the short scruff of his beard tickled her neck and made her laugh again.
“Oh, you were doing a very good job,” she assured him. “It’s just being here. It suddenly occurred to me how long it's been since I snogged a boy on my parents' sofa,” she admitted, causing her partner to chuckle as well. “This is nice,” she added and pressed another lingering kiss to his waiting lips. “It feels good to be here with you.”
“It does,” he agreed, adjusting his arms around her body. “I wasn’t sure how it would be. I know your mum’s not exactly going to be thrilled when she finds out—”
“I told her.”
“Pardon?”
“I told her,” she repeated and watched something akin to whiplash play out upon his features, his brown eyes widening in surprise.
“Really? When?”
“Before dinner. When you were in the shower.”
He sighed and rubbed a large hand along his jaw. “How did she take it?”
“Better than I thought she would.”
“That’s not exactly saying much. Can I read anything into the extra helping of chilli she gave me?” he added hopefully, an eyebrow raised causing Robin to smile.
“I wouldn’t necessarily dismiss it,” she allowed. ”Though her grumbling about having made up the bed in Martin’s room, when it clearly wasn’t needed, might actually be more telling.”
Strike’s dark eyes widened once again, his lips parting in surprise. “Fuck me!”
“I know, “ she agreed. “Part of the reason I was waiting for you to come upstairs was because I wanted to make sure you made it into the right room.”
He nodded silently for a brief moment, taking in this new and unexpected information.
“Well that explains some of the conversation I had with your father.”
“Why? What happened?”
“He uh… he had a few questions.”
“What sort of questions?” Robin asked, manoeuvring to sit beside him again. Strike shuffled and angled himself towards her, rested an elbow on the back of the sofa and dropped his head into his hand.
“Stuff about me, stuff about us,” he watched as apprehension grew in her expression and reached for her hand, tangling their fingers together firmly. “It was alright. Not quite what I was expecting to be honest.”
“What were you expecting? The Spanish Inquisition?”
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” he told her with a lopsided grin. Robin laughed. “I’ll admit though, I was certainly readying myself for a few awkward questions, largely relating to your involvement with cults and murders, plus the long list of injuries you’ve accumulated over the years.”
“It’s not that many,” she dismissed with the wave of her hand.
“Last week, Pat made a point of telling me that she’s just ordered another accident book.”
“It’s not all me!” Robin argued, ignoring the growing disbelief on her partner’s face. “And to be fair, Pat does have a tendency to get that accident book out for every little thing these days. Sam put a staple through his thumb last week and she was reaching for it.”
Strike grinned. “Can hardly blame her for being a bit cautious. Out of the six of us, four of us have been punched in the face, three of us have been stabbed, Midge had a concussion, Barclay fell off that fucking roof—”
“And a partridge in a pear tree…” Robin sang gently, cutting him off. His expression was mildly exasperated and she reached up a hand to his face and brushed a thumb across his cheek. He sighed and shook his head at the look she was returning, the quiet confidence that belied any trace of uncertainty in them both. He covered her hand with his own, turned his head and pressed a lingering kiss to the heel of her hand.
“Promise me you won’t tell your parents that we might actually be able to manage the Twelve Days of Agency Accidents?”
Robin’s look was, once again, incredulous. “Do I look like a stupid woman to you?”
He gazed at her appraisingly with pursed lips. “No, you look like a very intelligent woman, to me,” he said, pressing another kiss to her hand then tugging lightly to pull her closer. “A kind woman,” he added, leaning in and brushing his lips to her cheek. “A stunningly beautiful woman” he murmured against her pulse point causing Robin to shiver. She closed her eyes and gasped as his tongue grazed her skin. “An exceptionally strong woman,” he continued while his mouth blazed a heated trail down the side of her neck until he reached her collar bone. “An incredibly sexy woman.”
Robin moved back across onto his lap, arching a little as she did so, allowing him more access to her neck while her fingers were lost in his dark hair.
Reverent and patient, assured yet reassuring: Strike had never made her flinch or recoil, never made her fearful, never once put her in a position to demand he stop. The sexual experiences of his past, which she had always felt so intimidated by, had in fact allowed him to become the kind of lover she hadn’t known she needed. How quickly had he become attuned to her in ways neither Matthew or Ryan had ever been willingly to discover? How confidently had she mined new depths of intimacy knowing she was completely safe in her best friend’s embrace?
“I wish,” she began as a large hand slid beneath her jumper and slowly ascended her spine, “that we had the whole house to ourselves.”
“Hmm, and why would that be?” he asked playfully innocent, his mouth seeking hers, her teeth nipping at his lower lip.
“Because,” she murmured between kisses, tugging lightly at his jumper until it rose, exposing several inches of his stomach. Her finger tips delved tantalisingly through the dense hair before sliding just below the waistband of his jeans, a thumb flicking at his beltbuckle.
“Because?” he prompted, dragging his nails lightly across her shoulders. He smiled as she shivered and let out a low moan of appreciation.
“Because,” she repeated definitively and rolled her hips against him in answer.
A sharp pull of breath followed by a brief growl escaped his throat. “Good… fucking… answer.”
Grasping her hips with both hands, holding her in place, they were both aware of the path this could so easily follow. Warm and (mostly) relaxed, in the quiet and calm of a winters night, with the log fire dancing, it felt almost perfect to Strike. Then the ceiling above them creaked ominously in stark reminder of their current location and they stilled, foreheads touching.
“I wish,” Robin whispered.
“Me too,” he murmured back. They were where they were and they could go no further but still he kissed her again, slower and more languid this time, while his mind made a mental note to book them a cottage for a long weekend somewhere when they got back to London. Preferably with a large fireplace.
“Do you fancy going out for a drink when we get back?” she asked a short while later as they made their way to bed.
“With you? Always. Got somewhere particular in mind?” he asked as he followed her upstairs.
“Well, Piotr over the road promised to make me traditional Polish negroni if I stopped in before Christmas.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup.”
“Sounds, to me, like Piotr over-the-road might be after a nice cosy Christmas drink with one of London’s best detectives,” he observed evenly.
Robin nodded in agreement of this fact. “That is entirely possible.”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll be getting free negroni if I walk in there with you.”
Robin smiled to herself. He trusted her. Without pause or proviso. This was a new experience. She briefly imagined how Matthew or even Ryan would have reacted to the same conversation and knew, in truth, she’d never have even broached it with either of them.
“Actually,” she cleared her throat and turned to look at him as they reached her bedroom door, “I think he’ll be just fine with you being there. More than fine, in fact.”
Strike frowned and watched as Robin pressed her lips together, fighting to back a smirk. “What am I missing, Ellacott?”
“Nothing,” she answered, her expression one of forced innocence. “It’s just like you said: he’s after a cosy Christmas drink with one of London’s best detectives.” Robin saw the moment the penny dropped and Strike’s eyes widened, a grin stretching his mouth in shock and amusement.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he exclaimed as he followed her into the room and flicked on the light. Her smirk was telling, her laughter joyful. “Seriously? You’re trying to pimp me out for free booze?”
Hands making vague gestures, her mouth open, Robin tilted her head from side to side while she negotiated an answer in her head. “Uhhh… yes,” she concluded brazenly. “Yes, I am.”
He laughed and closed the distance between them, sliding his arms around her waist. “I’m not sure whether I should feel appalled or impressed.”
“Is that a yes, then?”
“No, it’s bloody well not!”
Wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek, she said, “Well, quite honestly, I feel like you owe me.”
“Really?” he asked, intrigued by the sudden suggestive shift to the proceedings. “And for what, exactly, do I owe you, fair Robin of Masham?”
“A missed opportunity,” she said, her lips grazing the shell of his ear, “I think we could have got away with it.”
Strike frowned for a second then leaned back to meet his partner’s mischievous blue eyes. He grinned again. “If you are alluding to what might potentially have happened downstairs, but didn’t, then I’m fairly confident the right decision was made."
Pressing a quick kiss to her lips, he stepped away and reached into his bag for toothpaste and brush.
“You sure?”
Paused in the doorway a pained argument played out silently on Strike’s face, a war between two clear and concise facts. “You, Robin Ellacott, are the love of my fucking life,” he told her with a tender smile. “But I am too old to get caught shagging my girlfriend on her parents’ couch.”
Robin’s laughter echoed behind him as he turned to cross the landing space, then promptly startled and froze in abject horror.
“Shit,” he breathed, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest.
“Quite,” Linda Ellacott replied primly, her expression inscrutable.
Shit. Shit. And fuck! How much had she just heard?
“I’m just…” he motioned in the direction of the bathroom. Linda nodded, then walked past him. She was halfway down the stairs when Strike heard his name.
“Cormoran?”
“Yes?” he answered warily.
“'Love of your life'?”
“Yes,” he confirmed.
There was a pause, a silent consideration. “Come back up with her for Christmas.”
He smiled. “Okay.”
Fin