by Penny Jordan
'I…I think I'll go up now,' she told him huskily. 'There's plenty of hot water for a bath if you want one, the range heats the water.'
She got up unsteadily and headed for the stairs, wishing she had more composure, wishing she did not feel as uncomfortable and clumsy as a teenager, wishing he did not have this awful ability to make her feel so… so vulnerable.
Upstairs, the bedroom fire burned brightly. Val had stocked the basket with plenty of logs and the room was comfortably warm. Unlike the bathroom, which was freezing, and Sorrel didn't linger in it for very long, despite the hot water.
Tonight she wasn't sleeping in her underwear, but in the nightshirt she had brought with her.
The bed felt surprisingly cold, and she wished she had had the forethought to bring a hot-water bottle with her. Her body slid into the soft dip in the middle and her skin burned suddenly. She couldn't hear a sound from downstairs. She had left the quilt neatly folded outside the bathroom door with one of the pillows. It was true that the bed wasn't anything like as warm without it, but needs must, she told herself.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to go to sleep, but it was impossible. Consequently she was wide awake and tense when the bedroom door opened half an hour later and Val walked in, wearing his towelling robe and carrying both quilt and pillow.
She sat up in bed as he spread the quilt on the bed, and demanded freezingly 'Just what do you think you're doing?'
'Getting into bed,' he told her affectionately, putting down his pillow and starting to unfasten his robe. 'Move over, otherwise I might be tempted to think you want to spend another night in my arms.'
'We agreed that you were going to sleep downstairs,' Sorrel reminded him, fast losing her temper.
'No, we didn't, he told her cheerfully. 'You assumed my agreement. I never gave it.' He looked thoughtfully at her. 'This is the nineteen eighties, Sorrel, and personally I can't see a damn thing wrong in a man and a woman sharing the same bed, particularly when not doing so means that one of them is going to have to sleep on a hard stone floor, particularly when that one of them is me.'
'All right, then,' Sorrel told him dangerously, 'if you won't sleep downstairs, then I will.' She got out of bed, shaking with anger and something else she didn't want to name. Her nightshirt only came midway down her thighs, and she was shivering with cold and emotion as she yanked the quilt off the bed.
'Now, hold on a minute—' Val's hand covered hers.
He'd been wrong about the Victorian nightdress, he reflected, eyeing the slim length of her legs appreciatively. She looked about eighteen, standing there glowering at him, her temper not quite hiding her fear. He felt a momentary pang of remorse and then quelled it. What he was doing was for her own good. Besides, if he let her marry this Andrew…
'Let go of the quilt,' Sorrel gritted at him.
'It's mine,' he told her innocently. 'You gave it to me.'
'That was when I thought you were sleeping downstairs. Now I'm sleeping there, I want the quilt.'
'There's no need,' he told her, adding outrageously, 'Look, if you think I'm worried that you might try to take advantage of me…'
Sorrel stared at him, forgetting to hold on to the quilt in her fury.
'Me take advantage of you?'
'Well, you're the one who's in a committed relationship,' he told her virtuously. 'You might mistake me for Andrew.'
It was too much. Mistake him for Andrew? Never in a thousand years.
'I've already told you,' she stormed at him, 'Andrew and I are not… do not sleep together.'
'Mm… he doesn't know what he's missing,' he told her.
It was several seconds before Sorrel could recover from her rage, but when she did she gave the quilt a vicious tug and then somehow found that, since Val was refusing to let go of it, she was inexorably being pulled on to the bed.
So he thought he could use his superior strength to dominate her, did he? She gritted her teeth and heaved, and then had the extraordinary sensation of hurtling through the air, before landing in a heap on top of the quilt.
'Are you all right?' Val asked her solicitously, but there was amusement in his eyes, and no wonder, Sorrel thought wretchedly, looking down at the tangle of legs and arms on the quilt and realising with mortification that her nightshirt had ridden up almost to the top of her thighs.
'No, I'm not,' she told him furiously. 'You think this is all a game, don't you? Well, it might be to you but…' To her horror, she could feel the tears filling her eyes. Before Val could see them too, she snatched up the quilt and made a bolt for the door, expecting with every step to hear him coming after her.
But he didn't, and although she told herself that she was glad, later, lying chilled and uncomfortable on the kitchen floor, her body all too aware of every ridge in the floor and the hardness of the stone, she couldn't help remembering how deliciously comfortable she had been last night. How beautifully warm… how sensuously relaxed. Sensuously? Her nerve-endings quivered and she closed her eyes determinedly, blotting out her traitorous thoughts.
CHAPTER SIX
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Sorrel gave a tiny yelp of pain as she turned over and bruised her hip on the hard floor. She felt as though every single bone in her body ached, and she was sure she was going to be covered in a multitude of bruises. If Val had been a gentleman, there was no way he would have let her sleep downstairs. Andrew wouldn't have done so. Her bruises were forgotten as she tried to envisage just exactly what her fiancé would have done. Certainly not suggested that they share the bed. No, Andrew would never have suggested that in a hundred years. Nor would Andrew have teased and tormented her, made her laugh and driven her close to the edge of fury, thrown snowballs at her and made her feel…
Feel what? she questioned sharply, sitting abruptly and groaning as she felt her muscles protest. What on earth was the matter with her, sitting here on the verge of stupidity, mooning about a man who by rights she ought to thoroughly detest? He had walked into her life and was virtually trying to turn it upside-down, telling her that she was mad to even think of marrying Andrew. Telling her that she was hiding away from reality, telling her that she would regret it if she did go ahead and marry Andrew.
All nonsense, of course—and yet, was it? She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, lowering her head to her knees and staring musingly into space.
Be honest with yourself, she thought firmly. Haven't you felt envious of Simon and Fiona? Haven't you felt as though there's something very important missing from your relationship with Andrew?
She moved restlessly, uneasy with the direction her thoughts were taking, blaming Val for the sudden doubts which seemed to have sprung up in her mind like a planting of dragon's teeth, even while she knew that the doubts had already been there before Val's arrival.
She got up and walked over to the window, looking out. No sign of a thaw. The sky looked dull and heavy, laden with the promise of more snow. She shivered, cold in her nightshirt, trying not to think of how she had woken up yesterday morning, deliciously warm, her body languorously relaxed, almost as though…
As though what? As though she and Val had made love? An odd sensation vibrated through her body, an awareness of a need she didn't want to acknowledge. She was missing Andrew. Once she was back at home and life had returned to normal, she would forget all these foolish sensations and longings.
But first she would have to share another night alone here at the cottage with Val. Well, this time it would be his turn to sleep on the floor.
There was little point in trying to go back to sleep, so she filled the kettle instead, and went upstairs to get washed and dressed while she waited for it to boil.
There was no sound from the bedroom. Presumably Val was still fast asleep. Well, he would be, wouldn't he? she thought bitterly. He had the bed.
By the time she had made the tea, the faint ache in her skull had turned into a full-blown headache. Tension, she acknowledged tiredly, massaging her s
calp. And of course she had not thought to bring any pain-killers with her.
She was sitting in front of the fire, nursing a mug of tea and her grievances, when Val walked into the kitchen.
'Any chance of a second cup of that in the pot?' he asked her cheerfully.
'No,' she told him shortly. 'I just made enough for myself.'
He looked at her for a moment—a thoughtful, concerned look, very different from the way he normally looked at her—and Sorrel had the distinct impression that he was looking right into her heart and seeing all the panic and fear that was festering there. She held her breath tensely, waiting for him to make some comment, to taunt her with his knowledge of the doubts she was sure must be written plain there for him to read, but instead he said wryly, 'My goodness, you are in a bad mood, aren't you?'
'So would you be if you'd spent the night sleeping on this floor,' Sorrel snapped, relieved and yet at the same time somehow disappointed that he hadn't confirmed her fears. Surely she didn't want him to accuse her of having doubts about the wisdom of her marriage? And yet, if not, why was she feeling so… almost let down because he had not said anything?
'Serves you right for being such an idiot,' he told her unfeelingly. 'Far too stubborn for your own good, that's what you are.'
Was she? She put her mug down and rubbed her temple tiredly, trying to ease the pounding ache that throbbed there.
'Something wrong?'
He was so quick, too quick.
'Headache,' she told him curtly, and looked up to see that he was frowning with concern. 'It's nothing,' she assured him, not really knowing why she wanted to. 'It's just a tension headache. I get them from time to time. '
'You know what causes those, don't you?' he warned her mockingly.
It was too much. She lost her temper and snapped, 'Yes—tension.'
He was laughing at her, damn him. And she wanted to lash out at him and hurt him the way he was hurting her. Hurting her? She took a deep breath, her eyes betraying her bewilderment.
'Tension is just a word to describe the effect of the suppressing of emotional reactions,' he informed her. 'Reactions such as anger, pain, need…'
Sorrel stiffened weakly. What was he trying to say? She searched his face, looking for some sign that he was baiting her, teasing her, but there was none.
He was telling her that her headache was caused by her own feelings, feelings which she had deliberately repressed, but that wasn't true. It couldn't be true, and she was going to tell him as much.
'If I am suppressing anything, it's the anger that you're making me feel,' she told him bitterly.
He looked at her for a long time, and it was impossible to drag her gaze away. She felt herself go hot under it, her eyes wide and her emotions all too visible.
'Is it only anger, Sorrel?' he asked her quietly.
The kitchen went oddly silent. Sorrel had a momentary feeling of quiet calm and strength, a feeling of some tremendous long-awaited happiness, just within the reach of her fingertips, if only she could stretch out and grasp it. And then the feeling went and in its place came a surge of panic. Of course it was only panic, what else could it be? Was he trying to imply…?
She tilted her chin and looked squarely at him. 'Of course it's only anger.'
'You say it so resolutely. Almost as though you're afraid.'
'Afraid? What is there to be afraid of?'
'This, perhaps,' Val told her almost musingly, almost as though it wasn't serious at all, but just a game—which, of course, it was to him, but not to her. Never to her, she acknowledged achingly as he reached for her and took her in his arms, her body quiescent and waiting, almost as though obeying some alien command which her mind could not hear. The sensation of his arms closing round her was so familiar, so right. She closed her eyes, swaying towards him, and heard him smother a rough sound of pleasure in his throat. It made her tingle all over and open her eyes again. His were so dark, they looked black. They mesmerised her, held her.
'Sorrel.' He said it so quietly, his voice little more than a whisper, tasting her name, tasting her in some indefinable way, and then his arms tightened around her and one hand lifted, his fingers sliding through her hair.
'Such a beautiful colour… it feels like silk.' He drew his fingers through it, and then lifted some of the silky strands to his mouth.
His eyes glittered wildly, and she had a momentary vision of herself lying naked in his arms while his mouth caressed her skin through the veil of her hair. It was so erotic that it made her tremble.
'Yes,' she heard him whisper, and then more fiercely, 'Yes. Admit it, Sorrel. You…'
Admit what? Her head spun, the enormity of what she was doing crashing down on her. She tore out of his grasp and, without thinking properly about what she was doing, raced for the back door, opening it and running out into the snow. She heard Val calling her name behind her. Not in a whisper this time, but in a shout that echoed against the snow-covered hills.
She ran from him without knowing why, following an instinct that urged her to flee, even though she had no known goal. He caught up with her as she plunged into the first drift, gasping with shock at the sudden sensation of falling.
As he tried to grab hold of her, Sorrel cried out, terrified by the sudden sensation of plunging down into the deep drift.
Snow engulfed her, drowning her, entombing her, and she did the one thing that all her knowledge and experience should have prepared her against. She panicked.
She tried to draw deep gulps of air into her lungs, and then choked as her mouth filled with snow. It was everywhere, pressing on her, menacing her, obliterating her ability to see and hear. She struggled to free herself of its smothering weight.
Where was Val? Was he going to punish her by letting her suffocate and die?
She tried to cry out, but she couldn't breathe. To even try to do so hurt her lungs. She felt curiously dizzy and warm, which was silly when she was buried in freezing snow, and perhaps if she didn't try to breathe that awful pain would go away.
'Sorrel.'
She heard the frantic voice and its urgency, but it was too much of an effort to respond to it—and then she was brutally wrenched from her cocooning prison, and someone was holding her. She tried to open her eyes, but the light was too bright; the cold air stung her skin. She felt hands on her chest, moving in a businesslike fashion, and then a warm, vital mouth breathing life into her.
Val was giving her the kiss of life, she realised, suddenly snapping back to life, and squirming away from him.
'Sorrel, are you all right?'
She opened her eyes and looked at him, shocked by the colour of his skin. Beneath his tan he looked haggard—and no wonder… She tried to imagine how he would have broken the news to her parents, and then realised with a horribly weakening surge of shock how easily a tragedy could have happened. And it would have been her own fault. She knew how deeply the snow drifted here on these hills. And yet she could have died here, within yards of safety and the farmhouse, through an act of almost criminal stupidity. She wouldn't have blamed Val if he had taken hold of her and shaken her, but instead he was touching her almost tenderly as he helped her to her feet, gently encouraging her to walk, and then abruptly changing his mind and swinging her up into his arms.
As he carried her towards the farmhouse, she discovered that she was shaking, or was it Val? She must have frightened the life out of him. He must have lightning-quick reactions to have realised her danger, and dug through the snow to find her.
She expected him to put her down in the kitchen, but he didn't. He carried her upstairs to the bedroom, where the fire still glowed and the air was so warm that her body was attacked by pins and needles driving out the freezing chill of the snow.
He put her down in front of the fire as carefully as though she was made of spun glass.
'Don't you dare move,' he warned her rawly. And then he was gone, leaving her to shiver and wonder weakly if she was ever going to be able to move
again. Now that the danger had passed, reaction was beginning to set in. She started to shiver and tremble, her teeth chattering audibly.
She plucked at her snow-caked clothes with half-numb fingers that trembled far too much to allow her to deal with the necessary zips and buttons, and suddenly Val was back, oddly grim-faced, and looking dizzyingly male, despite the fact that he was carrying a couple of large pink bathsheets.
He kneeled down beside her, putting them down. Then, holding her gently, he proceeded to undress her, far more deftly and capably than she could have done, all the time keeping up a calming flow of conversation, talking to her in the same kind of gentle voice he might have used to a terrified child, she recognised inwardly, while she protested and complained crossly that he was not to touch her and that she could manage for herself, even though she knew that she could not.
And then it was too late. He had stripped her down to her bra and briefs, and when he discovered that they too were wet he removed those as well; but there was no time for her to feel embarrassed or vulnerable, because his attention wasn't on her nude body, with its fine Celtic skin and soft womanly curves, but on the bathsheet in which he was engulfing her, rubbing the fabric hard against her skin.
She yelped sharply in protest, trying to wriggle away as the blood flooded back into her numbed extremities and sent piercing attacks of pins and needles burning through them.
Within seconds she was glowing with warmth, her shivers ceasing and her body coming vigorously back to life.
'How do you feel?' Val asked her tersely, sitting back on his heels and studying her flushed face with its halo of hair.
'Foolish,' she told him frankly. 'That was an idiotic thing to do… running out like that. If you hadn't been there…'
'If I hadn't been there, it wouldn't have happened in the first place,' he told her grimly. 'Don't take all the blame on your own shoulders. I'm sorry if what I said about your engagement upset you.'
'It wasn't that.' He looked so tired and drawn. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to stroke the soft hair that lay at the nape of his neck, to cradle his head against her breast and reassure him that she was all right.