Carmichael's Return. Lilian Peake

pulled back the bedcover, exposing his chest and seeing the dampness there. Without hesitation she sponged the whorls of hair, a curious excitement coursing through her as she felt the muscle and the latent strength of him hard beneath her touch.

      Easing back his shirt and wiping his shoulders, her wayward fingers trembled to stroke his skin, and she had to rebuke their impudence fiercely before they condescended to return to their caring mode. She used the towel to dry him.

      ‘Name of Florence?’ came the hoarse question through faintly curving lips.

      ‘No, its L—’ Then she laughed. ‘No, and my surname’s not Nightingale. I’m Lauren—Lauren Halstead.’

      An eyebrow lifted. ‘Folk in the village told me a girl called Mane lived here. Looking after the place for the absent owner.’

      ‘That was correct until approximately an hour ago. Now I’m in charge.’

      He seemed to need time to assimilate the information.

      ‘Owner’s living abroad, they said?’

      ‘Right.’

      The towel went on rubbing, moving still lower to push against his waistband. His arm swung down from his head, his hand clamping over hers ‘Oh, no, lady.’

      Warmth swamped her cheeks—embarrassment mixed with anger. ‘What do you take me for, Mr Carmichael?’ The words burst from her as she tried to free her hand.

      Beneath it, the hardness of his stomach muscles against the backs of her fingers was arousing all kinds of feelings which she had no intention of allowing to surface. They were letting her down, she fretted, fighting against her efforts to convey to him, stranger and unknown quantity that he was, that she was merely acting as an impersonal nurse and good Samaritan.

      ‘OK, I’m sorry.’ More alert now, he searched her face. ‘How the hell do you know my name?’

      Lauren hesitated, annoyed with herself for her giveaway slip.

      ‘OK. Stupid me. You’ve searched my backpack.’ His shoulder lifted. ‘Natural enough, in all the circumstances, for you to want to know my identity.’

      Not that she did know it, she reflected. A mere name told her nothing. He released her hand and she threw the towel aside, moving to the foot of the bed and looking down at him. His head sank back onto the pillows and his eyes closed.

      ‘Are you in pain?’ she asked sympathetically.

      ‘Yes and no. What happened to the rabble?’

      ‘The party guests? They’ve gone.’

      ‘That guy you kissed. Is he still here?’

      ‘I was only thanking him for his help with you. And I have every right to kiss who I like.’ Why was she suddenly so much on the defensive? This man, this passing stranger, merited no explanation from her. All the same, his comment implied that at the time he hadn’t been totally unaware of the events going on around him.

      ‘What kind of bug have you got?’ Lauren asked. ‘You collapsed outside. Did you know?’

      ‘I knew,’ he answered, so tiredly, so softly that she had to listen hard. ‘It’s a fever—name unpronounceable. Picked it up in my wanderings.’

      She still did not know where he had ‘wandered’ from, or why he had chosen to ‘wander’ to Old Cedar Grange. But such questions, she felt, could wait until a more appropriate time. ‘Should I send for a doctor?’

      ‘No need.’ He gestured towards his bag. ‘I consulted a medic—of sorts. He gave me a potion. In my bag there are some tablets to deal with it. White ones. If you’d be so kind…’ His voice tailed off.

      Lauren rummaged and found them, using the flashlight to read the label. ‘Take two with liquid, as required’, the instructions dictated.

      ‘I’ll get some water,’ she told him, and was soon back with a glass. She put it down and shook two tablets onto her palm, then went to the bedside and held them out with the water. He managed to support himself on an elbow and dispatched the medication, swallowing and sinking back muttering, ‘Thanks.’

      He seemed cooler now, but plainly the fever still lingered, apparent in the flush of his cheeks, the faint layer of perspiration on his dark-shaded upper lip. His head fell to one side on the pillow, revealing the dark shadow all around his jaw. She wondered how long it was since he had shaved.

      As she stared, wondering what next, he looked at her again. ‘Please forgive my lack of manners. Put it down to how I feel. Nor have I thanked you for taking me in and helping to make me comfortable.’ He lifted his arm, frowning at his watch. ‘It’s hellish late. You must be tired.’

      She smiled. T am, but—well, that’s OK.’

      He nodded, lowering his lids again. For a while she stood there, studying his features anew—the wide mouth, the cleft chin, the sweeping strength of his jaw. His forehead was lined—a frown, even in sleep, creasing the skin between his eyes. There was character there, and resolution, and defiance, and surely a deep integrity?

      Tiptoeing to the door, she glanced back. He had not stirred. Remembering Casey’s anxiety about her being alone and defenceless with a stranger present, she withdrew the key from the inside of the door and inserted it in the lock outside, turning it and pocketing it.

      She could not deny that she was just a little concerned about her situation, however much her intuition might be telling her she would be safe with this man.

      A small, relieved sigh escaped her as she made for her own room, settling down at last into a deep sleep.

      * * *

      She was wakened by the ringing of the telephone and swung from the bed. The morning sun was lighting the room. Was it Casey, concerned for her?

      Quickly cutting off the shrill ring before it woke the stranger, she answered, ‘Yes?’

      ‘May I ask who that is?’ a man’s voice said. ‘I know it’s not Marie.’

      ‘No, I’m not Marie. And you are—?’

      ‘My name is Redmund Gard. You are…Lauren— Lauren Halstead?’

      ‘Oh, Mr Gard! Yes, I’m Lauren.’ She frowned. ‘How did you know?’

      ‘Ah, now. Marie, the young minx, contacted me here in my villa in the South of France. She and her fiancé had just upped and left, it seemed, leaving a young lady bearing your name in charge of my property over there. Hoped I didn’t mind, she said. To which I replied it was too bad if I did, wasn’t it?’

      Oh, dear, Mr Gard. I honestly thought she’d consulted you about her intentions—although I must admit that she didn’t mention that she had. If you’d rather there was someone else here instead of me, I’ll advertise and—’

      ‘No, no, my dear. She gave me a sob story of how you would soon have been made homeless.’

      ‘That’s true, but—’

      ‘She also gave you a glowing reference—but then she would, wouldn’t she?’ He laughed and Lauren joined in. ‘However, if you are as pleasant and intelligent as you sound, stay by all means and take care of my house. You will take over the salary I’ve been paying her. I hope she told you that’

      ‘She did, but-’

      ‘I expect she has told you everything you need to know—about the security I had installed, the locks and bolts, not to mention the alarms?’

      ‘Yes, she did, Mr Gard.’

      ‘You’re aware that I’m not Marie’s true uncle, but that is how she addresses me? I would like to ask you to call me Uncle Redmund too. Would you mind?’

      Lauren smiled. ‘Not at all—Uncle Redmund.’

      ‘Good.