Carmichael's Return. Lilian Peake

doing a fine Samaritan act too—more than I’d do for a total stranger skulking in the shadows. Good luck. I’ve a feeling you’ll need it. We’re all going home.’

      She ran downstairs and the door slammed behind her.

      

      Lauren was thankful that the house possessed so many bedrooms—two or three of which, she had noticed during her inspection of the place, were already made up for possible guests. Friends, no doubt, of Marie’s.

      At Lauren’s request Casey and Johnny had taken the man to the room next to hers. They’d removed his outer clothing, leaving his jeans in place, his shirt unbuttoned.

      Lauren lifted the cover over him, noticing that the strong, lean body appeared to be deeply tanned.

      ‘He couldn’t have got that toasted from the sun in this country,’ Johnny commented quietly. ‘Must have been in the tropics for some while, I’d guess.’

      ‘So what brought him here?’ Casey said, voice low. ‘Homing instinct?’

      ‘Homing?’ Lauren exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t live here. No connection with the place—otherwise Marie would have told me.’ Then she remembered the man’s muttered half-sentence—‘I belong…’

      He must have meant this country, she decided, recalling that the few words he had spoken had told her that his accent seemed to be British in origin. If he had indeed been roaming the world for a while, he would refer to his connection with his native country as ‘belonging’ to it, wouldn’t he?

      ‘Johnny!’ yelled a girl’s voice from below. ‘Come and drive us home like you promised.’

      Complying with the good-humoured command, Johnny paused at the door. ‘He’s a good-looking guy, Lauren. Don’t you go falling for him.’ Lifting his hand in acknowledgement of Lauren’s thanks, he went on his way.

      ‘He won’t be here that long,’ Lauren declared.

      ‘Anyway, he’s probably married with half a dozen kids,’ commented Casey. ‘With looks like that some female must have snapped him up years ago.’

      ‘How old do you think he is?’ whispered Lauren. ‘I’d say—thirty-five?’

      ‘Could be,’ said Casey uninterestedly. He gestured her outside to the corridor.

      ‘Look, Lauren, I know we only met this evening, but I have to say sorry about my infantile behaviour at the party. I’d had more to drink than I’m used to. I do like you, honest.’ His smile, head on one side, melted away her irritation with him, then his face straightened. ‘And it worries me, you being alone with this guy from nowhere. I could stay a few hours, if you like, until he’s come round and been able to establish his identity?’

      Lauren hesitated. The thought had been worrying her too. She’d told Marie that she might not enjoy being alone in the house, but she hadn’t bargained for such a mysterious companion.

      Wouldn’t ‘intruder’ be a better word? her subconscious prompted. Had the dramatic collapse under the tree been one big act, a way of getting a bed for the night? After all, his surface appearance seemed dishevelled, and his backpack showed distinct signs of wear.

      Lauren lifted her shoulders, returning to gaze down at the stranger. The half-light illuminated the planes and angles of his face, the lines from nose to mouth, the frown marks between his eyes. The jaw, around which was a considerable growth of stubble, was resolute, the forehead wide, only the hair still damp from perspiration, resisting the downward droop of his demeanour and curling into itself.

      There was something in those features that was vaguely familiar, although for the life of her Lauren couldn’t recall ever having met him, or even having seen his photograph anywhere. She didn’t know why, but instinctively she felt it was a face she could trust.

      ‘I’ll be OK,’ she said softly to Casey. ‘It’ll only be for one night, after all. Tomorrow he’ll probably go on his way. Wherever that might be.’

      ‘We—ell…’ Casey was only partly reassured. ‘Could be he’s suffering from a mega-sized hangover.’

      Lauren half agreed, although there had been no hint of alcohol on his breath.

      In the dim light she gazed at the stranger. He appeared to be asleep. As she stared there arose inside her not even a trace of fear of him. If there had been any reason to be afraid of this man, surely her instinct would have told her, not letting her rest until at the very least she’d called the police?

      ‘I’ll be OK,’ she assured Casey again. ‘But thanks a lot for your offer.’

      ‘I’ll write down my phone number.’ He scribbed on a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘If you have any doubts about him at all, you can reach me here, at my digs. Only twenty minutes’ drive. Any time, remember, Lauren.’

      On impulse, she did something that half an hour ago she would never have dreamt of doing where Casey was concerned. She reached up and kissed his cheek.

      ‘Thanks a lot,’ she said, and watched him colour with pleasure.

      He wasn’t slow. He put his arms around her and placed a hard kiss against her lips, then lifted his hand as he left, whistling as he pounded down the stairs.

      In the bedroom, Lauren wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared down at the backpack. If she looked inside, it would be a way, wouldn’t it, of discovering something about the man?

      There was no discernible movement from him, so she found her flashlight and crouched down, unfastening straps, opening flaps and peering into the interior. There was a pocket tape-recorder, notebooks and pencils, lightweight clothes, plastic containers which rattled, envelopes containing letters. Eagerly she turned the beam of light onto the name of the addressee.

      ‘Brett Carmichael’, it read, ‘c/o PO Box No…’

      The destination appeared to be somewhere m Africa. At least she had discovered his name, if not his mission.

      It seemed that Johnny had been right in his guess that to acquire such a tan the man must have been in the tropics. So what were the events that had caused him to show up out of the blue—or, more correctly, she thought, out of the darkness—on the doorstep of Old Cedar Grange?

      The bedclothes rustled and Lauren hurried to the stranger’s side. His eyes fluttered open, moving around as if he was trying to work out where he was. What was he thinking? Lauren wondered. Which room am I in—which dwelling—which country? Or even, for a man as good-looking as he was, Whose bedroom this time? Then she reproached herself for prejudging him His morals might be beyond suspicion. Perhaps he was wondering where his wife was, his family?

      Lauren’s heart did the strangest dive at the thought, then surfaced with speed at her silent reprimand He meant nothing to her, this man from the shadows. How could he, when she knew nothing about him, when he’d only come into her life about thirty minutes ago?

      She leaned over him and he stared up at her, fixing his brown eyes on hers, holding them as if he was truly disorientated, and clinging to their reality like a drowning person to a rock.

      Summoning a smile, she smoothed back his hair. It felt damp, and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

      ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she whispered. ‘Where have you come from and why are you here?’

      He did not answer, but lifted his head, and then his powerful shoulders from the bed. Was he trying to get up?

      ‘No, no,’ Lauren urged, pushing him back. ‘You’re ill, aren’t you? You’ve got a fever…’

      A fever? At least she could sponge him, couldn’t she?

      ‘Stay there,’ she ordered, hoping he was receiving her. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

      Her words must have registered as he sank back weakly,