by Lynda Renham
‘There is going to be a storm,’ I say worriedly, acutely aware we are in the middle of the loch and surrounded by nothing but water.
‘You’re too honest for a start,’ he says, ignoring me, ‘and you’re kind. It’s something in you that you can’t control. So, I am asking myself, what would someone like you see in Hamilton and you know what?’
A clap of thunder crashes above us.
‘You’re either madly in love with him, which I find hard to believe or …’
A flash of lightning and another rumble of thunder stop him. He looks at the sky. I feel the first drops of rain and pull the scarf over my head.
‘We’d better head for the boathouse,’ he says, calmly picking up the oars while I feel my knees tremble and my heart race as a strong gust of wind rocks the boat. I grasp the sides. How can he not have life jackets? The light raindrops turn into a heavy shower and the wind and rain slap at my face. I feel sure the boat will tip over any second. I squeeze my bag between my knees and watch anxiously as he rows effortlessly through the storm. My shoulders ache from hunching and my fingers are numb from gripping the sides of the boat.
‘How much further?’ I ask in a shaky voice.
I am too afraid to look in case I send the whole thing tits up.
‘Not far. Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you while you’re with me,’ he says, casually throwing a waterproof over his head. He shakes wet hair out of his eyes and smiles at me in such a way that my heart flutters. Coming from anybody else I would have thought them an arrogant pig, but not so from Brice. In fact, he is probably quite right. Still, I’d be much happier if this bastard wind, as Margarita calls it, would drop. I focus on his rowing to keep my mind from the rocking boat, the bastard wind, and the hellish hailstones.
‘Here,’ he shouts over the wind and throws a waterproof mac my way. I cautiously pull it over my head. I’m too afraid to move in case I rock the boat and tip it over. He would then find out I can’t swim. I don’t know which is worse, Brice knowing I can’t swim or me drowning in the loch. It’s a no-brainer isn’t it? I don’t want Brice to know I can’t swim. He manoeuvres the boat to the mooring under the boathouse and without a word, leaps out. I look around but it is impossible to see anything through the mist of heavy rain. Brice struggles to tie the boat and I stand unsteadily in an attempt to step off it. A strong gust of wind knocks me sideways. I feel myself lurch backwards as I lose my footing. A tiny scream escapes my lips as my foot twists under me and a searing pain shoots through it. Brice jumps back into the boat in a flash and steady’s me with his strong arms.
‘I’ve got you,’ he says gently.
Oh yes, don’t I know it. His firm body presses against mine and I feel dizzy with longing. The wind whistles and the rain pounds our bodies but I am only aware of his body touching mine and the heat that emanates from us both. It’s like the cold wind can’t reach us. His eyes meet mine and something flashes in them, but before I have time to recognise it he has pulled me from the boat. He points to the steps ahead.
‘We’ll shelter in there,’ he says.
He takes my hand and guides me as I limp across to the steps of the boathouse. He pushes open the door, lays the basket down and walks towards the large open fireplace.
‘I’ll get the fire going and then have a look at that foot. The bathroom is through there if you want to get your clothes off.’
Blimey he doesn’t waste time does he? I should be so lucky. The living area is sparse with two opposing couches draped in colourful throws, and an old oak coffee table between them. A sink and a tiny work surface with kettle and microwave constitute a kitchen area, and a large fireplace takes pride of place along one wall. The fireplace dominates the room and a large basket of logs sits to one side of it. The mantelpiece is covered in an assortment of candles. I follow his direction to the bathroom, passing a window that has a spectacular view of the loch. I can’t believe Brice didn’t check the weather before we left. He doesn’t strike me as the irresponsible type. It then occurs to me he deliberately brought me here knowing full well we would get stuck. Oh my God, he probably plans to tie me to the rafters and whip me until I confess the truth. Ooh, I would have brought my Bound To Tease Suede Flogger if I’d known. I’m hopeful if nothing else. I peer through the rain at something in the water and blink several times to make sure my imagination isn’t playing tricks on me, but no, our little rowing boat is now drifting aimlessly towards the middle of the loch.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I hobble back into the living room where Brice is stoking a blazing fire.
‘The boat …’ I stutter pointing to the window.
He follows my finger and groans.
‘Damn it,’ he says and throws another log on the fire.
‘Aren’t you going to get it?’ I demand.
He shrugs.
‘Have you seen the weather?’
‘But …’
‘We have food and drink, a warm place, cosy couches, a lovely fire. What more could you want?’
What more could I want? A bleeding boat to take me back from whence I came is what I want.
‘But how do we get back?’
‘Ah, haven’t you heard of Brice Luck. We’ll be fine.’
What is Brice Luck when it’s at home?
‘But Hamilton,’ I begin.
He gives a mischievous grin.
‘Ah yes Hamilton. Don’t worry, you won’t have to miss him too long. They’ll most likely come back early from the shoot although, I think, the weather will break in an hour. They’ll realise we’ve sheltered from the rain and won’t worry about us until about five. Then they’ll send someone to look for us.’
I gape at him. There was me thinking he was intelligent when he is obviously as moronic as his cousin.
‘Haven’t you heard of telephones?’ I say sarcastically.
He raises his eyebrows.
‘Are you using the bathroom? If you’re not then I will. Although I think you would be more comfortable out of those clothes.’
His eyes travel over my body and I beg myself not to blush.
‘There’s a couple of towelling robes in the bathroom. The brown one is mine. You can have the other one.’
I snatch my bag from the couch and pull out Fiona’s mobile. I don’t believe it, no bleeding signal.
‘Bleeding Scotland. It will be the buggery death of me,’ I mumble as I limp to the bathroom. I hear him laugh as I slam the door. Hanging on the back are the towelling robes and I lift his off the hook and smell it. The familiar scent of him sends an electric shock through my body. I replace it and take the other one. I pull off my poncho and peel off my wet shirt and jeans. My foot is turning a shade of purple and blowing up like a balloon. Bloody wonderful. Still, on the bright side it will be the perfect excuse to get me out of the next round of stalks, shoots and tennis matches. The bathroom is very masculine. There is no bath, just a shower, a sink, a small bathroom cabinet and a toilet. There are towels piled up on a stool. I check the door is locked and plop myself on the loo. Taking my compact mirror from my handbag I check my reflection to see my hair is one straggly mess. I pull it out of the hair band and rub it with a towel until it is dry. I imagine a hairdryer would be too much to ask? After tying the towel robe around me I limp back to the living room where two steaming mugs of tea sit on the coffee table. He takes my wet clothes and lays them over a chair in front of the fire. The sight of the blazing fire doesn’t stop me from shivering and I’m grateful for the blanket he offers. He has a change of clothes for himself on the couch. That’s a relief. I rather felt the sight of him in a dressing gown might have tipped me over the edge.
‘Here,’ he says abruptly handing me a mug of tea. ‘I won’t be long.’
He stops to get a wash bag and another blanket from a tiny cupboard. I wonder if there is also a hairdryer in that little Tardis. My clothes steam in front of the fire and after a couple of sips of tea I feel much warmer. This is ridiculous and I ne
ed to tell him so. We can’t just wait for his so-called Brice Luck can we? I don’t know what he expects his Brice Luck to do, unless it is going to magically turn the boat around and send it cruising back to us. Maybe the Brice Luck may even tie it securely to the mooring. Mind you, if the real Brice can’t do that how can you expect the Brice Luck to do any better? I glance down reluctantly at my foot to see it is swollen. Damn it. I’ve obviously sprained the bleeding thing. I’m seriously buggered if I have to sprint away from the Jacks. My stomach churns when I think they may be trying to phone me. They’ll be well pissed at getting Fiona’s voicemail. I imagine Alistair will be rather pissed too if he is calling it. I lift my throbbing ankle onto a footstool and curse. I’m just considering a peek into the Tardis when he steps out of the bathroom wearing a grey sweatshirt over jeans. He throws another log onto the fire and flops onto the couch opposite me. I sigh.
‘Look, I don’t want you to think I’m dissing the Brice Luck or anything, but I can’t help wondering how we’re going to get back. Aren’t you even slightly anxious?’
He shakes his head.
‘What’s the point of getting anxious?’
‘But we need to get back …’
‘Not at this exact moment we don’t. It’s eleven-thirty, it’s pouring with rain, so why are you worrying about getting back now? That’s a problem for later. The important thing right now is to look at that foot and check you haven’t broken anything.’
For someone who thinks I may have broken something he’s taking his time looking at it. If he was any more laid back he’ll fall over. He finishes his tea, God forbid I should come before that, and then crouches down on the floor. I feel my stomach wobble and my heart skip a bit as his hand touches my foot. He strokes it carefully, making it seem more like a caress, and I have to control the shiver that runs through me. This is ridiculous. I’m not the type of woman who falls at the feet of a good-looking man. I don’t go all soppy in front of a man, no matter how attractive he is. Mind you, most attractive men are arrogant so-and-sos aren’t they? But heavens, I can’t deny the slightest touch from this man has me aroused, in fact, just the promise of a touch has me aroused. I’m worried that if he begins to bandage my foot I’m likely to have an earth-shattering orgasm. That would be dead embarrassing wouldn’t it? Fortunately he turns it slightly and an earth-shattering pain shoots through my foot and up my leg, quickly dispelling any thoughts of orgasms. I recoil immediately.
‘That bloody hurt,’ I say without thinking.
‘I’m sure it did,’ he says, frowning and lifting my foot into his lap. I’m acutely conscious that it sits on his thigh and can’t get his joke about his rope and tackle out of my mind. I make a determined effort to look everywhere but at my swollen foot that sits just inches from his rope and tackle, and I find myself wondering if that is swollen too by any chance. God, this man is turning me into a nympho.
‘Does that hurt?’ he asks, pushing at my ankle. I nod and bite my lip.
He places my foot gently onto the footstool.
‘Fortunately you haven’t broken anything, but you’ve sprained it quite badly. It will get better in a few days. It will throb less once the bruise is out but presumably you know all that. I’ll put something on to encourage the bruising.’
Oh no, that means he will have to massage it and I really don’t know how much more of his hands my loins can take. He disappears into the bathroom and I take the opportunity to fan my hot face. He returns with a tube of cream. I take a deep breath to prepare myself. His hands are gentle and they caress my foot in the most sensual way.
‘I realise I have been a bit rude to you,’ he says softly.
A bit rude, crikey, that’s an understatement.
‘The truth is, I don’t have the best opinion of Hamilton,’ his eyes meet mine and I feel uncomfortable. ‘I don’t expect you to understand. It’s just I worry about my grandmother. I know you most probably think she is a tough old bird, but she’s vulnerable and not as tough as she seems. And she’s getting older. I’m not here as much as I’d like but I feel when I am the least I can do is look out for her.’
‘What is wrong with her exactly?’ I ask softly.
‘Aside from her blood pressure? To be honest I don’t really know. She’s sworn the doctors to secrecy. She’s a mischievous madam but for all that I love her and I care about her welfare. I don’t want her to be hurt or deceived.’
One hand rests on my foot and the other on his knee. I feel tears sting my eyes and curse him for making me feel guiltier than ever. What the hell am I supposed to do now? He’s a fine one to talk. Like he just said, he’s barely here so what would he do with the shares if they were left to him? My brain spins. This is the worst dilemma of my life. It was one thing for Julian to let me down but to make me compromise all my principles is unforgiveable. I’ve never been dishonest in my life. This whole business is agony for me, and I can see no way out. If I tell Hamilton I want ‘out’ he’ll want his money returned and I’ll be back where I started. I could declare myself bankrupt but then I’ll never be able to rent a flat again, and the thought of living with my parents drives me to distraction. Just the thought of bankruptcy makes my heart sink. Would I still get a nursing job? Jesus, if Julian thinks the Jacks are scary just wait till he sees me. I’ll bleeding kill the little git.
‘Harriet?’ asks Brice.
I pull my mind from Julian and back to the most gorgeous man I have ever met, and raise my eyebrows.
‘I said, do you think some wine, French bread and brie would help the pain?’
It will certainly dull my thought that’s for sure. I nod.
‘Is it hurting? Would a couple of painkillers help?’
Do you have morphine? That and the wine should knock me out until this is all over. I’ll talk to Hamilton, explain my predicament. That’s the best thing. I’ll tell him I feel awful about his grandmother. Maybe we can both talk to her and explain Hamilton’s fears about being cut off without a penny. God forbid he would have to get a job and earn a living like the rest of us.
‘Yes, that would be great. Thank you,’ I say.
‘The wine will help,’ he says and strokes a hand down my cheek affectionately.
The wind whistles under the door. A loud crack of thunder makes me jump and I pull the blanket closer. If only wine was the answer to this hellish muddle I am in. I’m relieved when he moves his irresistible body away from me and I can tell you, it isn’t only my foot that is throbbing. A voice inside my head whispers tell him, tell him now, he will help you, while another argues oh yes, go on tell him and then see if you enjoy wine, brie and French bread. He’s just told you how protective he is of his grandmother. Oh God, it’s all I can do not to drop my head in my hands and tell him my story. I watch as he silently cuts the bread and uncorks the wine. I make a feeble effort to stand up and hobble towards him.
‘What are you doing?’ he says abruptly.
‘Coming to help. I feel useless sitting there, and it’s all my fault the boat has drifted and I, I …’
And then damn it, I start crying. Me, Harriet bleeding Lawson who hasn’t cried since my pet rabbit, Bernard, died, and even then just a few hiccups. Before I can turn away he has wrapped his arms around me and that just sets me off even more. Before I know it, I am sobbing in his arms and clinging to his muscular body. I feel his hand stroking my back and his breath on my neck.
‘It’s okay, it’s not that bad,’ he says quietly.
His voice is raspy. He doesn’t know the half of it. This is terrible, I swear I can feel things I shouldn’t be feeling and I push myself away gently.
‘I never cry,’ I hiccup.
His hand continues to clasp mine. I look into his eyes and feel him lean towards me. He smells wonderful and I feel drunk on the essence of him. A gust of wind flings the door open and he releases me to close it. I take the opportunity to calm my beating heart.
‘You rest that foot. You should know better as a nurse than to ke
ep putting weight on it like that,’ he says, but I hear a shake in his voice.
I nod, sensing that he wishes to put a distance between us. I hobble back to the couch and flop down. I so wish Fiona was here so I could ask her what I should do. Don’t drink too much would be her advice no doubt. Yes, that’s good advice. I must not drink too much I say to myself as I accept a large glass of Chardonnay. It couldn’t be a more romantic setting if it tried. A storm outside and a roaring log fire, a glass of wine and a gorgeous hunk; it all makes for the best kissing scenario doesn’t it? It is bloody typical of my life that there also has to be an arse of an ex-boyfriend, three wanking gangsters and a corrupt aristocrat with a filthy-rich grandmother. I’d best not drink too much Chardonnay. Julian said wine makes me randy. Mind you, I don’t need much encouragement to feel randy with Brice Edmunds just a few inches away. He places a piece of bread onto my plate and pops open a jar of olives.
‘So why did you give up nursing?’ he asks casually.
I take a sip of wine and say honestly,
‘My then boyfriend was starting up a French restaurant, and he, well we both felt we wouldn’t see that much of each other if I continued working shifts.’
Not that we bloody saw much of each other when I stopped. Ooh that little bugger. Just thinking of Julian makes my blood boil. He nods, but I can see his brain whirring. The room is hot and I unwrap myself from the blanket and drop it to the floor. He stares at me and I look down to see the towelling robe is gaping slightly. I pull it together and hide behind my glass.
‘So you met Hamilton after that presumably?’ he asks, but there is no hostility in his voice.
‘Brice, I really don’t feel comfortable talking about my relationship with Hamilton.’
He cuts through the bread roughly.
‘I can understand that,’ he says sarcastically, placing another piece of bread onto my plate. His gaze is hypnotic and I can’t take my eyes off him.