“Your da will hear about this,” the old man blustered, looking around as if for support.
Tourists were affronted by the altercation while locals looked away. I chose to believe it was because they disagreed with him and not because they just didn’t want Lucas to assault them. Finding no help, the old man spun on his heel and stumbled out of the dark pub.
I’d never seen him before, but he was obviously a local.
And now he’d do best to stay out of my way.
For a moment I stood stunned, speechless, and it was only as discomfort registered in my hands that I realized I’d clenched them into fists so tight, my fingernails were biting into my skin.
I looked from the doorway, where the racist asshole had departed, to Lucas, who was staring at me. He hadn’t moved either.
He’d defended Viola.
Vehemently.
“I thought you weren’t friends.”
Understanding me perfectly, Lucas narrowed his eyes. “Friend or not, no one talks about her like that around me.”
Hmm. Yes, the man was hateful, and anyone who didn’t know Viola would have been disgusted.
But people who cared about her would be enraged.
Lucas Elliot was still trembling with the strength of his emotion.
Quickly making a decision that dealing with the book price rumor was the last thing on anyone’s mind now, I gave the young man a nod of respect, which he returned, and I departed.
As soon as the door of the inn closed behind me, I stared across the road at The Anchor.
I could still picture Lucas straining as he held that old guy by the throat, his anger so fierce, I knew he wanted to throttle the man.
An image of Viola’s pained expression as she watched Lucas stride through the village with that mystery blonde came to mind.
Could it be . . . ?
Were Lucas and Viola Alnster’s very own Beatrice and Benedick?
As I returned to the bookstore, I considered the possibilities. Watching them interact last Saturday had been so entertaining because the air between them fairly crackled with electricity.
Chemistry.
Did they care for each other beneath the barbs and insults? Only they couldn’t do anything about it because of the feud West kept burning between him and Milly.
Like the Montagues and Capulets.
“Except these are real people and it is not a play,” I muttered, chastising myself.
These were people’s feelings and emotions and—
“I totally want to meddle.” I clenched my teeth together, expression sheepish, as I let myself back into the store.
I wanted to Much Ado About Nothing the crap out of Viola and Lucas’s situation.
But I shouldn’t interfere. I shook my head, slumping into the armchair by the unlit fire. West Elliot was clearly a giant man-child who couldn’t give a rat’s ass that he’d divided a village with something that happened decades before. A man like that wouldn’t sit back calmly while his youngest son fell in love with his ex’s only daughter.
Viola’s sad eyes flashed across my mind again.
She was such a great girl. She deserved happiness, in whatever form that came.
Moreover, Lucas Elliot had just gone up quite a bit in my estimation.
“I shouldn’t meddle,” I murmured. “I definitely shouldn’t meddle.”
Meddling was bad.
Oh crap.
“I’m totally going to meddle.”
Fifteen
A shade of angry purple had bled through the sky above Alnster, causing it to weep torrentially. Rain pounded off the road outside, and the sea rumbled its displeasure, foaming and discontent.
The damp brought such a chill, I’d lit the fire in the bookstore.
I’d woken up to the rain, and it hadn’t let up in its ferocity. Viola had braved it to join Caro and me at the store, but no one else had ventured near Much Ado About Books.
Somehow it was one of the most perfect days I’d spent in England. Caro was curled up on the armchair by the fire with a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale, while Viola lay sprawled on a faux fur blanket I’d brought down from upstairs. She lay on her side, elbow bent, head in her palm, flicking through the pages of Wuthering Heights.
I was on the other armchair, my feet tucked up under me. Still determined to make my way through every Shakespearean play during my stay in England, I was rereading Hamlet.
“I’m just going to say it.” Viola slammed Wuthering Heights closed. “Everyone in this book is unlikable. How am I supposed to care about this romance when I don’t like the main bloody characters?”
I grinned. “Maybe because you’re reading it as if it’s a romance when it’s not.”
She frowned. “I’ve seen the movie. It’s definitely a romance.”
Laughing, I lifted my legs off the counter and turned toward Viola. “Movies and TV adaptations always angle it like an epic romance, thus the misconception that the novel is a romance. If you try to read it like it’s a romance, you’ll hate it. Wuthering Heights is a book about not-very-nice people doing some not-very-nice things. It’s not about two people who are in love. It’s about two people who are obsessed with each other to the point of utter destruction. It’s gothic and surreal and addictive once you let go of the idea it’s a romance. It’s a love story. There’s a difference.”