That Tender Feeling (5 page)

‘The locks have been changed. It would be interesting to know how you did get in.'

‘A bit of expertise, on a back window. Not too difficult when you know how.'

‘Remind me to put the family jewels in the vault at the bank when you are in the vicinity,' she joked. ‘I'm happy to know that your grandmother is still alive, and well, I hope?'

‘Considering her age, she is in remarkably good health. And just as salty as she always was.'

Ros chuckled. ‘I'm delighted to hear it. Couldn't imagine her any other way.'

‘Spare a thought for my poor Aunt Alice, who has to bear the brunt of her querulous tongue.'

‘Sorry, Aunt Alice,' Ros said, still smiling. ‘I didn't mean it exactly that way. So your grandmother is living with her daughter. I had wondered if she might be.'

‘She packed up and left here when your aunt died. She said it was too lonely without her. I'm sorry about that, Rusty. I know how close you were. You had a unique aunt-niece relationship.'

Ros's lower lip trembled. She still hadn't got over the loss of her Aunt Miranda, and neither was she as immune as she would have wished to his unexpected kindness and understanding. ‘I just wish I'd appreciated her more. I took her for granted.'

Her mug was removed from her fingers and returned to the table. He took both her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. Her view of him was just a bit blurred because of the shimmer in her eyes.

‘Love is taking someone for granted. It's knowing without being told. The words are just the frosting on the cake. Tell me, Rusty, since you heard about your aunt's death, have you, let your hair down and cried?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't mean a few polite, stiff-upper-lip tears. Have you let it all come out and had a real good howl? M'mmm? You should, you know. It would do you a world of good.'

He let go of one of her hands, and his fingers stroked her cheek before moving round to where her hair nestled in its confined knot at the nape of her neck. ‘Letting your hair down is good for you—in every way.' She hadn't realized what his intention was, so deftly did he remove the pins holding it securely in place, until the richness of her hair was flowing over his hands. ‘There, that's better. The schoolmarmish look isn't you at all.'

She couldn't explain it, but it was as if in taking the pins out he had released not only her hair but also the flood of emotions that had been contained in a hard shell of coldness inside her. He was right. When something as soul shattering as death hit you, why did you have to trap your feelings behind a brave smile? Because of her mother's early death and the fact that her father traveled extensively in the course of his work, she and her aunt had been close. Aunt Miranda had been everything to her.

‘She did everything for me,' she sobbed. ‘She bandaged my knees, clothed and cared for me and encouraged me to take up a career.'

She realized that she hadn't wanted to hang on to Hawthorn Cottage for its own sake. Jarvis had been right about the impracticality of keeping it. It was isolated, frequently cut off by huge snowdrifts for months in winter that all too often lasted for eight months of the year. The beauty of it in summer could not counteract the fact that it was too far away from the pulse point of their livelihoods. It didn't make any difference; she still wanted to keep it, if only for a while. Somehow that would make it less of a betrayal when she did eventually part with it. When it hadn't sold, something in her had rejoiced. The idea of coming up there to work in glorious hibernation for the winter had appealed enormously. But everything had gone wrong. Because of someone's incompetence, the repairs had been carried out on the wrong cottage. She'd been cheated, because no way could she live at Hawthorn Cottage—work there and let time take away her grief at losing Aunt Miranda—in its present state.

‘Come on, Rusty. Let go!' he commanded.

And suddenly she was in his arms and weeping wildly. Even when the shudders ceased, he still held her face pressed tightly to the solid bulk of his chest. It made her feel very safe, protected.

The hand that had been stroking her hair came round to tilt her chin.

‘Better?'

‘Mm,' she said, gazing up at him mistily. ‘I needed that. I would never have suspected you of having such tender insight.'

One black eyebrow arched in cynicism. ‘Nor have I, so don't go crediting me with finer feelings. The pigtailed child knew best. She recognized me for the deep-dyed villain that I am. Hold on to that impression, Rusty. It will save you a lot of disillusionment. Now, off to bed with you.'

‘But I haven't explained why I'm here.'

‘You don't need to. It doesn't require much brain searching to figure out what's happened. Somebody's bungled. The repair work has been carried out on the wrong cottage. I'm here by right of the fact that Holly Cottage belongs to my family. But the new chimney stack, the electrical wiring, a new damp course, the refitted kitchen—oh, and don't let's forget the decorations—are all yours. We'll work something out in the morning.'

‘Right, then. I'll go to bed.'

‘Yours is the big bedroom.'

‘But I'm quite happy with the small room at the end of the passage.'

‘That's up to you. I should point out, though, that I made the bed up for myself, and I don't intend to give it up, but—'

Without warning, he drew her forward again. His hands splayed themselves low across her back, bringing her hips up close to the muscled hardness of his thighs. Satan himself lurked in his smoldering eyes.

‘You'll move out of that room for me?' She completed the sentence for him on a husky note of inquiry.

She should pull away. His hold was containing her lightly enough to make that possible, but she didn't seem able to instruct her legs to take the first positive step. A dark enchantment was enfolding her that she couldn't—or wouldn't, because she didn't want to—flee from.

‘No, Rusty.'

‘No?'

‘I was going to say, if you're so minded, you're at liberty to share it with me. Of course, it's a comparatively small bed for a man of my build, so you may have to face the consequences. If I kick out, you won't have much room to squirm away.'

Even as she looked at him in horror, both repelled and fascinated by this unbelievable conversation, his jaw thrust out aggressively. ‘I was only joking.' His frown deepened. ‘There's something about you, always was even when you were a scrap of a child with huge condemning eyes, that provokes me to torment you.'

His hands dropped away, and he took the stride back that she should have taken, and this gave her free passage. The door, her escape route, was but a few shaky steps away. She looked back over her shoulder at him, but he was busying himself with rinsing out the mugs at the sink, and so his expression was denied her. Damn! She should have done that menial task. To be employed at something so everyday made him seem too human, and it suited her purpose to regard him as a monster.

‘Good night, Rusty,' he said, not turning around but keeping his back to her, his voice a deep and commanding dismissal.

‘Good night,' she said, and took the giddy swirl of her emotions up the stairs.

No way was she going to risk any more challenging involvement this night, and so she made her way to the master bedroom. The bed there wasn't made up, but she knew where the necessaries were kept and soon rectified that.

Surprisingly, in view of all that had happened, she fell almost instantly into a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

If she thought she was going to spend the remainder of the night undisturbed, she was in for a rude awakening. And that was exactly what she got.

A voice, or voices, roused her. She struggled up through the blanketing mists of sleep to the bemused awareness of an argument in progress. Sliding cautiously out of her bed, she tiptoed stealthily to the door, opening it a crack. No one was in the hallway at the top of the stairs, or the passage, for that matter. The talking had now stopped, and there was an uncanny quiet. She wondered if the voices had been in her own head. Had she been having one of those terribly realistic dreams that seem too true not to have happened?

Shrugging her shoulders, she was gently easing the door shut when the hysterical mumblings started up again. This time there was absolutely no doubt in her mind. This terrible discord of sound was coming from the small room at the end of the passage where Heathcliff was sleeping. Even though he had corrected her that his name was Cliff—he'd always hated being called Heathcliff—she thought that he would always be Heathcliff to her. She was racing down the passage in a flash; her hand was actually on the doorknob before a thought struck her that hastily jerked it back. What if her first assumption that he was ill was incorrect?

Just for supposition, what if he'd had someone with him when he had returned this evening, a lady friend who had waited in the car and had been let in when she went to bed? No. He wouldn't have resorted to secrecy. He would have brought his woman in openly. He was his own master and could bring home whom he liked. In any case, these weren't lovemaking moans. He wasn't groaning in pleasure but in distress.

This time her hand did not draw back from the doorknob, and within seconds her flying feet had taken her to his bed. He had drawn back the curtains before getting in, and the moon washed across the greenish-gray pallor of his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, which seemed to stretch his skin to an unbelievable tautness in an expression of acute agony. He was writhing and mumbling; perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead. She didn't know what to do. A dreadful inadequacy held her captive that she had to struggle free of, and then she was racing all the way back down the passage to the bathroom, which was situated next to the master bedroom, for cloths and towels to sponge him down.

She realized how limited her knowledge of first-aid was and acted solely on impulse. His brow was on fire; his body was a burning furnace, yet his teeth were chattering, and he was shivering as though he were in the grip of freezing ice. As she sponged his face, she had to dodge his thrashing arms and legs. She wasn't too adept at getting out of the way, and he scored one rather nasty blow on the side of her face. She persevered regardless, murmuring words meant to soothe and comfort throughout her ministrations. Finally, he seemed to sink into an uneasy sleep.

All this time she hadn't had much opportunity to think what she should do next; she had been too busy doing it. But now indecision held her again. He really ought to be gotten out of those wet pajamas, and the sheets, which were also damp and clammy from his perspiration, should be changed. She had never seen a naked man before, but it wasn't squeamishness that prevented her from stripping him but lack of strength. She had a go at moving one arm, but it was a dead-weight, and she was defeated before she began.

She wondered if she ought to take her car and go into Gillybeck to rouse the doctor but decided against it. She hadn't been able to leave him before, and now that he seemed to be over the worst of whatever it was, she decided that it was pointless as well as cruelly inconsiderate to drag a busy, overworked practitioner from his much-needed sleep.

She still didn't feel that she could abandon him and go to her own room. He might wake up and wonder what had happened. She didn't want him to be confused or unduly worried. She found a pair of clean pajamas in one of the drawers in the chest of drawers and sorted out clean sheets from the linen cupboard in case he did wake up and she could manage to swap his pajamas and change the bed. Then she returned briefly to her own room for the quilt on her bed, and this she wrapped round herself. Then she curled up in the padded armchair to rest as best she could. Sleep was out of the question; she was much too agitated and concerned.

It was an uneasy vigil. Time crawled. It seemed like an hour, although it could only have been ten or so minutes before he opened his eyes.

‘Rusty . . .what the blazes! Oh . . . obviously I woke you. I'm sorry. I . . . er . . . hope you weren't too alarmed.'

‘If it's something you know about, you might have warned me. You scared the life out of me,' she said, incensed by his apparently nonchalant attitude.

‘Cool it, spitfire. I didn't think it was necessary. Just in case you had to go to the bathroom during the night, I made sure you had a room at that side of the house.'

‘Oh! Was that why you acted like you did?'

‘I thought I was far enough away from you for you not to hear anything in case I did have an attack. Perhaps I make more noise than I realized.'

‘I'll vouch for that. Attack of what? I cursed not having a phone. I didn't know whether I should have gone for the doctor.'

‘I'd have skinned you alive if you had. It's nothing.'

‘Humph! It didn't look like that to me.'

‘Nothing to get into a panic about. Touch of malaria. Got it in Saudi Arabia. That's why I'm home.'

‘Saudi Arabia? I thought it was Australia.'

So he was the man her father had phoned about, the one who had come home because of illness and said that he might look her up. Fancy it being Heathcliff. Yet why not? They were in the same line of business. She seemed to recall a letter some years ago from her father saying that he'd rubbed shoulders with Heathcliff—except that he called him Cliff—in his travels.

‘Sorry, you've just lost me.'

‘It's not important. It was a bad line. I thought Miles said Australia. Obviously I was mistaken.'

‘I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'

‘No, of course not.' He still looked dreadful. His color was bad, and he seemed somewhat dazed. He was, of course, still suffering the effects of his malaria attack, and this would naturally account for his confusion. She was disturbing him needlessly over a mere triviality. ‘What is important is to get you comfortable,' she stated with determination.