Storm Damage

by Lorna McKenzie

  There it was again: her uninvited guest groaning in his sleep. What should she do? She’d better investigate.

  She set down her candle on a chest opposite his bed, so that its light shone through the brass rails at the foot to reveal the bed’s occupant, threshing about wildly. His brow was beaded with sweat. She felt her way downstairs and returned with a glass of water.

  “Here, drink this,” she urged him, putting an arm under his shoulders to help him sit up.

  He looked at her with bleary eyes, but did as she asked. She put the glass down.

  “You were having a nightmare. Should I get you a couple of aspirins?”

  “No.” His hand fell over hers where it lay on the coverlet. “Sorry I’m such a nuisance…” he lifted his eyes to look straight into hers, “…Poppy,” he finished.

  At least he remembered her name. His hand felt good over hers but she thought it wise to extricate herself. His deeply tanned shoulders against the stark white pillows were doing something to her pulse rate. A shudder shook his body.

  “Jeez, it’s cold,” he said, his teeth chattering.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have central heating and the power’s still off.”

  He released her hand and slid under the covers. A huge shudder shook his body. And another. Keep him warm, the doctor had said. He started groaning again and threshing about. When he turned her way again his eyes were unseeing, delirious. He shot an arm out and, before she could resist, scooped her into bed beside him, holding her tightly against his shaking body. What was she to do? Perhaps if she were to stay for just a moment…just till he warmed up.

  Easing her robe carefully about her to form a barrier between them, she lay rigidly against him. They could sleep back to back, she decided, but when she turned, he merely drew her into the curve of his body. Gradually his shivers subsided and she was sure he was asleep. Should she leave? She had never before slept in a man’s arms—it was heaven. She thought of her own cold, unwelcoming bed and snuggled closer, and soon she too was asleep.

  It was still dark when she drifted into a half-dreaming state. Her robe had become disentangled from her body. She felt warm and wonderful, without that painful loneliness that haunted the long, dark nights. She snuggled closer to the source of warmth.

  She sighed softly as a melting heat suffused her, gasping at sweet, unfamiliar sensations. What a heavenly dream!

  At some point pain intruded, but it quickly subsided, to be replaced by such sweet warmth and satisfaction she never wanted to awake.

  But she did, to discover that it had been no dream—the handsome stranger was slumped by her side, his gentle, regular breathing telling her he was asleep. Carefully she slid out of bed and took herself off to her own room, where she lay for a long time asking herself over and over again: “What have I done? What have I done?”

  Dawn was peering over the eastern horizon when Poppy next awoke. She ached in every muscle, and in muscles of which she had hitherto been unaware. What on earth…then it all came back with a rush, and she flushed hotly with shame, yet mingled with an aching need to be back in the stranger’s arms.

  Well, she couldn’t just lie here all day. She had to face him some time. Nevertheless, she delayed the moment as long as possible, creeping about the place as she showered and went down to tidy up, clear out the ashes and re-lay the fire. That done, she made a pot of coffee.

  What if he preferred tea? Oh, what was wrong with her? He was lucky to get anything! He’d already had a bed for the night, her tender, loving care—and the precious gift she had sworn to save for the man she married, until now a vague, shadowy creature without substance. Now, a total stranger had become her first lover.

  She was halfway up the stairs when the landing light sprang on—she must have switched it on automatically last night. Now the power had been restored. Marvellous! At least some things were getting back to normal! The phone was still dead, though, when she checked for dialling tone.

  Outside the door of the guest room she stood for a long moment and then knocked timidly. No response. She knocked again, then pushed the door wide and walked in. The light from the landing fell on the man in bed, who immediately put up a hand to shield his eyes.

  “What the…who…where am I? What the devil am I doing here? And who the blazes are you?”

  With a sinking feeling, Poppy set the cup down and went round the bed to draw back the curtains. She felt deep hurt and rejection, but at least there was no need to feel embarrassed—he hadn’t a clue who she was!

  She took a deep breath. “What shall I answer first?” she enquired. “You’re in Briar Cottage, which stands in the lane leading to a place called Cranford Hall…”

  He raised himself in bed to pick up his coffee; his eyes now swivelled to her. “I’m near Cranford Hall? Good God! I must have had a skinfull last night! I don’t remember getting here. D-did we meet in a pub?”

  “Secondly,” she went on, ignoring his assumption—only too correct!—of what had passed between them, “you had a slight contretemps with a tree, and cut your head.”

  He lifted a hand, tentatively seeking his injury, and settling almost at once on the gash on his temple.

  “I hit a tree? In my new Range Rover? Christ!”

  “No, it was the other way round, actually!”

  He gave her a narrowed stare. “Okay, cut the sarcasm and corny jokes!”

  “It happens to be true,” she persisted. “There was quite a storm last night—trees falling like ninepins all over the place, apparently.” Well, Dr. Wilson had said all the roads were blocked! “One chose to topple on your car, you stumbled in here, and the doctor, when I rang him, suggested…suggested that you stay here till he could get through this morning.”

  “Oh Lord, I suppose I owe you an apology—that bit about the pub.”

  Which was as near as he got to giving one.

  “Lastly—in case you’ve forgotten—I’m Poppy Winters.”

  “Poppy? What sort of a name is that? Poppy.” He said the name as if he were savouring it—he obviously had no recollection of her at all. “The red hair, I suppose.”

  “I was practically bald till my first birthday! No, my parents just liked the name.”

  “Winters—now that rings a bell.” Golden eyes narrowed suspiciously. “My agents were anticipating some trouble with a Miss Winters…”

  “Your agents? Just who are you?” she demanded, now more than a little suspicious herself.

  “Guy Devereau—nice to meet you, Poppy.”

  Chapter Two

  He sat up straight and offered his hand—which she declined. Things fell rapidly into place: the reason he had been in the lane to the Hall at that time of night; his deep, practically all-over tan—from living in Australia; his arrogance this morning on waking up.

  “I’ll leave you to get dressed,” she said coldly, turning away and making for the door.

  “Poppy! Come back here! Why the devil are you acting like that?”

  “I’d rather talk downstairs when you’re dressed.”

  “What makes you think I’m fit to get up? Poppy, I said come back here!”

  She looked back. He was half out of bed, the covers somewhere round his hips.

  “I’d rather talk later, if you don’t mind,” she said quietly.

  “Does the sight of my body offend you?” He paused. “How did I get undressed—didn’t you help me?”

  “Only with your jacket and boots! Would you like some breakfast?”

  “In bed?”

  A corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile.

  “No! You used the blue toothbrush last night, and there are disposable razors in the cabinet. I’ll put out a clean towel.”

  “What an efficient little soul!”

  “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Devereau,” she snapped, closing the door a little too
firmly as she left.

  She set a plate of bacon, eggs and mushrooms in front of him when he appeared, washed and dressed, in the kitchen.

  “The phone’s back on and the doctor’s on his way,” she informed him. “The farmer’s men have cleared all the local roads of fallen trees, and they’re towing your Range Rover to the Hall—as it’s new, they thought you’d want to make arrangements other than the local garage.”

  “Thanks. Sorry the bed’s so mussed up—I must have been pretty restless in the night…”

  Poppy turned away quickly. He had no recollection whatever of what had passed between them, and now she could never tell him. She had allowed her worst enemy—the man who wanted to deprive her of her lifelong home, her base, her place of work—to make love to her. And he couldn’t even remember!

  “You were feverish,” she told him, putting her own plate on the table. “More coffee?”

  If his appetite was any guide, he had certainly recovered. He emptied his plate and filled up with several slices of toast and marmalade, after which he poured them some more coffee from the pot standing on the Aga, and sat down again.

  “Now then, Poppy, what’s the score?”

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “You changed from a ministering angel to a tight-lipped virago at the mention of my name.”

  “And you really don’t know why, Mr. Devereau?”

  “And what’s with the Mr. Devereau? After your generous hospitality, can’t you call me Guy?”

  “It was, as you say, just a night’s hospitality—would you have accepted, if you knew your agents had served me notice to quit?”

  “So that’s the way the land lies! I’ll look into it—I’ve had to leave everything to agents so far. Is there any special reason you’re attached to this cottage?”

  “Every reason!” she stormed. “I was born here, I’ve lived here all my life, my friends are here, my work is here…”

  “Work? What kind of work?”

  “I suppose you could call it a cottage industry,” she said wryly. “I design and sell sweaters.”

  “Is that one of your designs?”

  He indicated the one she was wearing—her autumn leaves again.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Very nice, too.” His gaze wandered somewhat personally over the sweater, bringing a flush to her cheeks. Damn the man! “But you could do that anywhere, couldn’t you?”

  “No, I couldn’t!” she said heatedly. “I make my own dyes from plants gathered locally, and others grown specially. So no, I couldn’t do it anywhere.”

  “Well, it surely doesn’t have to be this particular cottage!”

  “It does! It’s got all the facilities I need. And I don’t intend to move!”

  “Well, I’ve bloody well moved halfway round the world to live in this cold, windy, godforsaken place. I’m only asking you to move from this particular cottage. You needn’t even leave the village.”

  It had never occurred to her that he might be a reluctant heir. Nevertheless…

  “Have you any idea how much little rustic dwellings cost these days? Young people can’t afford to live in the villages they were born in! Labourers’ cottages are being tarted up and sold as bijou residences to yuppies, or the wealthy retired. Is that what…?”

  “That’s not what I’m proposing. I’ll have to consult my agents. Look, I’ve got a stinking headache—could we postpone this discussion to another time?”

  “All right,” she agreed grudgingly. “Would you like an aspirin? Oh, here’s Dr. Wilson.”

  She saw Robin pass the window with some relief. He had only been in practice with his father for two years. Like Poppy, he had been born in the village. He was, at thirty, six years older than Poppy, but she had known him, man and boy, all her life, played tennis with him at the local tennis club, danced with him at church socials, acted with him in the drama group…

  “Hello, Poppy, how’s my prettiest patient?”

  “Your patient is not particularly pretty,” she informed him acidly, indicating the scowling figure of Guy Devereau. “This is Mr. Devereau, who didn’t quite make it to the Hall last night…”

  “Lucky man—I’ve been trying for years to be invited here for breakfast!”

  It wasn’t true. Robin, despite his casual, boyish charm, was an excellent doctor, and had never been more than a friend—one of a group of friends. More like a brother, in fact.

  “It certainly gives a new meaning to bedside manner,” Guy commented drily. “Good morning, Dr. Wilson.”

  “Call me Robin. Everyone thinks of my father as Dr. Wilson. He’s Poppy’s doctor, actually—she and I are just good friends.”

  Guy gave her another narrow-eyed look as Robin busied himself setting his bag down on a counter.

  “Perhaps you’d like to use the sitting room,” Poppy suggested. “I have one or two things to do.”

  By the time she returned from upstairs her laundry basket was full and there wasn’t a trace to remind her of the previous night. Her parents’ room was restored to its neat and tidy state, cleaned and dusted, with the bed made up anew.

  “He’ll live,” Robin declared when she reappeared.

  “Good,” she said absently. “Coffee, Robin?”

  “No, thanks all the same, Poppy. Must dash—I’m taking surgery this morning. Nice to have met you, Guy. I’ll look in at the Hall in a couple of days. By then you’ll probably have perfect recall of what happened in those lost hours. Unless it’s something your subconscious would prefer to forget! Just think,” he gave them both a broad grin: “Anything might have happened!”

  Thanks for nothing, Robin, Poppy seethed inwardly. I’ll just die if he ever remembers. Let sleeping dogs lie, likewise forgotten love—or whatever it might more appropriately be called.

  “He’s a nice bloke, Robin,” Guy conceded, when they were alone. “I’m joining him in a round of golf on Sunday morning, before church. Meanwhile, I’d better go and inspect my new home before I talk to lawyers and accountants.”

  He put a hand to his brow, closing his eyes briefly.

  “Your head still hurts, doesn’t it?” she guessed. He nodded stiffly. “You’d do better to take yourself off to bed for a day or so till you feel better.”

  He turned to look at her across the metre separating them.

  “Will you come and tuck me in?” he enquired indolently.

  She tossed her red hair angrily and turned away. “No, I damn well won’t! You’d probably arrange for the bailiffs to call while I was away!”

  He chuckled and she glanced up, arrested despite herself by the gleaming white teeth cutting a white slash through his handsome features. The smile lit up his whole face and turned his amber eyes to gold. To her alarm, he reached out, twisted a skein of her hair round his fingers, and tugged her gently towards him. He inspected the coiled strand closely.

  “Amazing colour!” he breathed. “Seems it’s true, too—it really does go with a sparky temperament.”

  “Let me go,” she said, twisting her neck to reclaim her hair.

  Instead of obliging, he stepped towards her, his other hand tilting her chin till her eyes met his. “Did anyone ever tell you your eyes are like emeralds?” he murmured. “Especially when the tears aren’t far away—like now. Why, Poppy?”

  “You’re wrong—I just got a grain or two of dust in my eyes while I was cleaning.”

  “Thanks for being so neighbourly last night,” he said softly, and bent to touch his lips to hers.

  She should have pulled away, but instead she returned the pressure of his lips. His gentle touch was all it took to spark off pulsing sensations along nerves which had been newly awakened a few short hours ago, and set her blood pounding thickly through her veins. Her arms were soon clinging round his neck. He drew away, his expression almost shocked.
>
  “Hey, cool it, Poppy—I’m the one doing the thanking.”

  “Automatic reaction,” she muttered. “I guess you’re pretty experienced.”

  “Seems that makes two of us,” he returned grimly.

  “You’re wrong!” she declared hotly. “Now get out!”

  “Ma’am,” he replied, doffing an imaginary cap.

  She supposed she should have offered to run him up the lane in her ancient 2CV, but perhaps the walk would cool him down. No, she was the one who needed cooling down. Oh, God!

  Until lunchtime, she threw herself into a frenzy of cleaning, then after a light salad she set to work on her knitting machine, concentrating hard on the intricate pattern she was weaving. The sweater was almost finished, so she carried on till the light began to fade, just managing to complete the last section of ribbing before she had to give up.

  She was drawing the curtains in her sitting room when she paused and glanced up the lane towards the Hall. It was ablaze with light, and she wondered how Guy was coping up there all alone. In Percy Hugh’s day, her father would have been in the grounds most of the day, organizing the small team of gardeners who had kept lawns and flower beds well tended and the kitchen garden productive all year round. Her mother would have been inside, keeping the food stores well stocked and the place immaculate, when she wasn’t engaged in repairing rare tapestries or precious embroideries. There had been a team of cleaners to look after the domestic side of things.

  No wonder Percy Hugh had never felt the need of a wife! There had been rumours of a well-kept lady in some chic London apartment, but the Hall had been his private domain. A pity he hadn’t married and produced an heir; then Poppy wouldn’t have met the arrogant new owner, nor be facing the prospect of homelessness.

  This wasn’t the only cottage on the estate, after all. There were at least three empty ones on the other side of the Hall. Let the new gardener live in one of those! They had stood empty for several years: a positive disgrace, many locals declared, to allow perfectly sound cottages to fall into disrepair, in these days of housing shortages. Let Guy Devereau repair those!