The Englishman was standing by her chair, holding out a glass. She hadn't heard him come in pour out the drink. 'What is it?' 'Brandy.'
Slowly she reached out to take the glass, but her hand was shaking so much that he exclaimed and took her hand, holding it steady. His hand was firm, his fingers closing over hers and holding them as she drank. The brandy made her cough and choke a little, but she felt a bit better afterwards.
'You're obviously not used to strong drink,' he remarked, taking back the empty glass. 'Now what are you trying to do?' he demanded as she began to pull herself to her feet.
'My father—I must go to him.'
She was pushed gently but firmly down again. 'He's in very good hands and there's nothing you can do. The doctor should be here any minute to look at him.'
'Doctor?'
'Yes, there's a medical team visiting one of the local tea plantations today and I've telephoned for doctor. We were lucky that he happened to be the neighbourhood…' He broke off at the sound of a car outside. 'This must be him now. Sit tight while I talk to him.'
He went away and Cordelia heard him greeting someone, then the voices faded as a door closed behind them. Leaning back in her chair, she looked round the large, comfortable room, which had one wall completely open to the garden and the cool breeze that came off the hills. The other walls were painted white, providing a stark background for the rich colours of several pictures and batik wall hangings. The furniture was rather ornate to Western eyes but was obviously of good quality and very comfortable. There was electricity too; there were lamps on some of the tables and a music centre on a unit against one wall. She had just begun to wonder who the owner was and what he was doing living in a remote part of Sri Lanka, when he came back into the room. Immediately she sat forward in the chair, looking at him with worried, apprehensive eyes.
He gave a quick, negative movement of his dark head. 'Nothing yet. It will probably take the doctor some time to examine him. He has a nurse with him, so I've been sent out of the way.' Hooking up a chair, he sat in it, took out a pack of cigarettes and offered her one.
Cordelia shook her head. 'No, thanks.' She shouldn't have done that, it made her head start to ache and she frowned in pain.
'Is your leg hurting you? Would you like to lie down?'
'No, I'll wait.' She remembered that he had said he had felt her leg to see if it was broken. He must have seen her limping. Cordelia looked at him and her cheeks felt hot suddenly at the thought of this stranger's hands on her.
Possibly he read something of her thoughts, because he said, 'Perhaps you'd like to tell me who you are—and how the accident happened. My name's Stone, by the way—Marcus Stone.'
For a second the name seemed to strike an elusive chord in her memory, but he was waiting for her to speak and she had no, time to think about it. 'Ours is Allingham,' she supplied into the expectant silence. 'I'm Cordelia and my father is, James. We're over here on holiday. We only Arrived yesterday.' Her voice broke for a moment and Marcus Stone looked at her in quick concern, seemed about to speak, but she went on, 'My father used to work in Sri Lanka, on a tea plantation. He—he wanted to see it all again.' She hesitated, not even sure in her own mind that that was really why her father had come back. But what other reason could there be? Slowly she went on, 'We hired a car this morning to go to Nuwara Eliya. And then—and then on the way back he— he suddenly went all red in the face and collapsed over the wheel.' She shuddered, remembering.
'You say your father collapsed before the crash?'
His voice cut sharply through the horrific pictures in her mind, bringing her back to reality. She nodded dumbly.
'It may help the doctor to know that. I'll go and tell him.'
He was gone for longer this time and when he came back the doctor, a middle-aged Sri Lankan with thinning hair and a moustache, was with him.
'Miss—Allingham?' The doctor sat down on the chair Marcus Stone had vacated. 'Does your father have a heart condition?'
Cordelia shrugged helplessly. 'I'm afraid I don't know. You see, I haven't seen him for some time until quite recently. I know that he's been ill, but— well, he wouldn't tell me what had been wrong with him.'
Both men looked surprised at this statement. 'Could he have had a heart attack?'
'I'm sorry, I just don't know. I did ask him, but he just wouldn't tell me. He shrugged it off and said it hadn't been anything serious.'
'I see,' the doctor murmured, although he plainly didn't understand. Probably he thought it was just another example of foreign madness. 'Did you have a meal recently?'
'Why, yes,' Cordelia answered in surprise. 'At the Hill Club in Nuwara Eliya.'
'And I suppose you had curry?'
'My father did. I just had an omelette.'
'Did he ask for it very hot?'
'Yes, he insisted on it. He said they did the best curry on the island.'
The doctor snorted impatiently. 'A hot curry, the heat, driving along dangerous roads; it is no wonder he had a heart attack!'
'A heart attack?' Cordelia stared up at him in growing horror. 'Is he—is he…?'
'No, he's going to be all right,' Marcus Stone put in quickly before the doctor could answer. 'Evidently the attack was only a minor one, but he suffered some other injuries in the crash; he has severe concussion and has hurt his ankle.'
The doctor, rather put out at being forestalled, added in a severe voice, 'He will get well, slowly, if he keeps calm and does not get excited. But it will be several weeks before he will be well enough to travel back to England. And he is too ill to be moved to a hospital at the moment. He will have to stay here.'
Without hesitation, Marcus Stone said, 'That's no problem. We have plenty of room. Where are you staying?' he asked, turning to Cordelia.
'At the Ladyhill Hotel in Kandy, but,…’
'Then I'll send someone to explain to them and pick up your things.'
'Oh, but we…'
'No buts,' he interrupted. 'You're staying here.'
'Good,' the doctor approved. 'I will send a nurse to sit with him tonight and I will call again tomorrow.'
'Oh, that won't be necessary. I can sit with him,' Cordelia told him.
'You are a nurse?'
'Well, no, but
'It is better to have a nurse.'
'Can I see him now?'
'I have given him something to make him sleep. You can see him when he wakes up. Now,' the doctor got up, 'I will look at you. Mr Stone tells me you, too, were hurt.'
'It's nothing. Just a few bruises.'
'But better I make sure. You have another room?' he asked, looking at Marcus Stone.
'Yes, of course.'
Seeing that she was outnumbered, Cordelia got to her feet, but her leg had stiffened while she was sitting down and she stumbled and gave an involuntary cry of pain as she went to put her weight on it. In one quick stride Marcus Stone was by her side, his arm supporting her.
'Ouch!' she gasped, clinging to his arm. She had to take a couple of deep breaths and then looked up at him and gave a shaky laugh. 'I seem to be making rather a habit of collapsing on to you. I'm sorry—but I'm very glad you're here,' she told Mm with sincere gratitude.
Looking up at him, she managed a smile through the pain and expected her rescuer to smile back at her, but his dark, straight brows flickered into a slight frown and a closed look came into his eyes. But then she was being helped into a pleasantly furnished bedroom with double doors leading on to a verandah overlooking the gardens at the side of the bungalow. There were two single beds with woven bedspreads. Marcus Stone helped her to the nearest, then turned and left, holding the door open for the nurse to come in as he did so.
The doctor confirmed that there was nothing seriously wrong, told her not to overdo things for a few days and gave her some pills for her headache. He told her to lie still and rest for a while, but Cordelia couldn't; the first stunned shock of the accident had worn off and she began to realise just how muc
h trouble they were being to their rescuer. She could faintly hear the doctor talking to him now, the little doctor's voice high and foreign, Marcus Stone's deep and so reassuringly British. Marcus Stone—Cordelia was sure she'd heard that name before somewhere, but when she tried to think it made her headache worse. She was worried about her father and at the same time angry with him for not having told her he had a heart condition. If she'd known she could have been more forceful, have insisted that they hire a driver with the car. But it was too late now, the worst had already happened.
The voices in the corridor faded, she heard a car start up outside and drive away, and, five minutes later, it was followed by a second car. Cordelia moved restlessly on the pillow, worrying about what would happen to the car they'd hired, whether it was badly damaged. She sat up on the bed, realising that she should have made some arrangements for taking it to a garage, that she hadn't let the car hire firm know. Picking up her dress, she slipped it back on, then padded out on bare feet into the sitting-room.
Their host was standing by the window, looking out across the garden to the rising hills. He had a lighted cigarette between his fingers, but he wasn't smoking it, it had a long head of ash. He was very still, as if he was completely absorbed in something. Cordelia moved across to him, her bare feet quite silent on the tiled floor. She had thought that he had been intently watching some object outside, but when she came closer she saw that he was mentally absorbed, concentrating on something within himself.
For a while he didn't realise that she was there and she had the opportunity to really look at him, her mind unclouded now by fear for her father. His face in profile was strong and clean-cut with straight nose and high cheekbones. Perhaps a little too thin, the jaw a little too square to be called handsome, and, in repose, there were small lines at the corners of his mouth that gave it a bitter look. His hair was dark and thick, very clean and worn rather longer than was fashionable. His eyelashes, too, were thick and soft, but they were the only hint of softness about the face of Marcus Stone. But despite this, or perhaps because of it, Cordelia felt her senses quicken, his male magnetism attracting her and making her sharply conscious of her own femininity.
When, a few minutes later, he became aware of her presence, he didn't jump or anything, his eyes widened for a second and then he frowned and looked away, saw the ash on his cigarette and crushed it out in an ashtray with what looked to
Cordelia like unnecessary force. 'Can I get you something?' he asked abruptly.
'Well, no, but… I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Stone, but I haven't done anything about that car we hired. I ought to let the owners know what's happened. And it will have to be moved…'
'That's already been taken care of.' His eyes ran over her, apparently casual, but taking in every detail: her shoulder-length fair hair, her tall slimness, settled for a moment on her bare feet, then travelled up to her face to note her even features and the pallor from a long English winter spent inside an office, the hesitancy in her blue eyes. His own expression softened a little. 'I assure you there's nothing you have to see to or worry about. Everything's under control. I've sent a car to your hotel to explain what's happened and to collect your luggage. It should be back early this evening.'
'But the bill will need paying and…'
He moved closer to her, caught hold of her agitated hands. 'Cordelia,' he said firmly, 'I've already told you to stop worrying. Now please go and rest; I'll see that you're called an hour before dinner, or immediately if your father wakes and asks for you.' His hands tightened for a brief second. 'Relax. There really isn't anything for you to do or to worry about.'
And in that moment Cordelia did stop worrying; it was as if she recognised and acknowledged his ability to take control, to efficiently organise and take care of himself and those under his protection. Perhaps it was the strength she felt in his hands, perhaps only her own present vulnerability and weakness, but her anxiety disappeared and she just felt terribly tired. She nodded and he let go her hands.
'Thank you for taking us in. And—and for everything you've done.' Her voice trembled. 'If you hadn't come along…'
'Nonsense,' Marcus's tone was brisk. 'It's the least I could do for a couple of compatriots.'
He offered to help her back to her room, but when Cordelia said that she could manage he didn't press it, just stood and watched her as she hobbled along.
She must have slept for a long time, because the sun was setting when she was wakened by a knock on the door and a voice she didn't recognise telling her that dinner would be in one hour. Her two suitcases stood neatly just inside the door and she wondered who at the hotel had repacked them for her. There was a bathroom opening off her room—and the water was hot! Cordelia lowered her stiff, bruised body into it and groaned softly. But it was a blissful kind of agony. She soaked for a good half hour and carefully towelled herself dry, afterwards examining herself in the full-length mirror on the door. Lord, she was going to have one hell of a bruise! Her left side, from her hip right down her thigh, was discoloured. She prodded it gingerly and found that it was also very tender. There were a few marks, too, on her left arm, but those she could hardly feel. She pouted into the mirror; it would look terrible with a bikini and some of it would probably show even under a one-piece.
Cordelia dressed carefully, wishing that she had more clothes with her, but at least she had brought one or two new outfits. She chose a soft, full white top with long sleeves which would hide the marks on her arms, and which had a matching flared skirt. She added white high-heeled sandals which accentuated the slimness of her ankles, and spent some time brushing her hair and doing her makeup. By the time she had finished the hour was almost gone, and she quickly picked up her bag and hurried into the sitting-room with only the slightest limp.
Marcus was pouring himself a drink, but he turned when he heard her heels on the tiled floor. He saw her and seemed to do a double-take, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
'Good evening. I hope I haven't kept you waiting.' Cordelia smiled up at him.
'Not at all. What would you like to drink?' He didn't smile back, after the first look of surprise his face had become quite expressionless.
'Do you have Bacardi and Coke?'
'Of course.'
He turned to pour the drink from a well-stocked cabinet, and she asked, 'Is my father still asleep?'
'I believe so.' Marcus handed her her glass. 'He did wake for a while earlier on, enough to be told that he was all right, and then he went to sleep again.'
'He didn't ask for me?'
Marcus shook his head. 'I expect he was still feeling woozy from the drug the doctor gave him.'
'Yes, I expect so.' Cordelia looked down at her drink, accepting this sop to her pride, then she abruptly changed her mind. Lifting her chin, she said sharply, 'You don't really have to try to protect my feelings, you know. I'm quite old enough to face the fact that he didn't ask for me. I don't suppose he even bothered to ask if I'd been hurt in the crash.'
Marcus looked at her, his eyes for a moment fully alert, concentrating on her face. 'Just how old is old enough?'
Frowning slightly, Cordelia replied, 'I'm twenty.'
'That's young to be so cynical.'
'I'm not being cynical, just realistic.' But even so she couldn't keep a slight trace of bitterness out of her voice.
'When I first saw you I thought you were younger, but now you look so…'
'Yes?' Cordelia queried when he hesitated.
'So different,' he finished.
But somehow she had a strange feeling that that 'Wasn't what he'd been going to say at all.
A servant came with quiet feet and voice to say that dinner was ready, and Marcus led her into a smaller room opening off to the right of the sitting-room. This room, too, had its windows open to the cool of the night air so that the flame of the candles on the table flickered a little and cast shadows on the walls. Cordelia took her place opposite him at a round table that was just too larg
e to be intimate, too small to be impersonal.
He made a few small-talk remarks while they were eating their soup and Cordelia guessed that he was being tactful; most people would have followed up her remark about her father and wanted to know why she was so sure he hadn't asked after her. She was already regretting her outburst and so was grateful for his tact, and she tried to keep up her end of the conversation by asking him if he had always lived in Sri Lanka.
'No, but I've been here for nearly two years now.'
'And is this your house? Are you settled here?'
Shaking his head, Marcus answered, 'No, I rent the house from a friend. He had to go and work in America for a couple of years but didn't want to give up this place. I wanted somewhere quiet to work on my—on a project I've undertaken, so it was an ideal arrangement.'
'So your friend will be coming home soon?' Cordelia remarked, wondering what kind of project needed two years to finish but too unsure of herself to ask.
'Within the next few months, I expect, but there's no hard and fast date. We're neither of us tied by time.'
'How marvellous,' Cordelia said wistfully, 'not to be governed by the clock all the time. Not to have to work from nine till five all the year except for three weeks' holiday in the summer and a week at Christmas. Just to go away for a couple of years, give or take a few months.'
An amused glint came into Marcus's blue-grey eyes. 'It isn't quite as simple as that.'
'Isn't it?'
But he didn't follow up the invitation, merely said, 'I take it you work in an office?'
'Yes, for a solicitor.'
'As a secretary?'
'Yes.'
'And you hate it?'
'No, not really.' She tilted her head as she considered the matter, making her hair fall forward against her chin. Absently she put up a hand to lift it away, the gold tendrils curling around her fingers. 'Or at least I didn't while I was there, but now I'm beginning to hate the thought of having to go back.' She laughed slightly. 'My first taste of travel has gone to my head, I suppose.'
The Lion Rock Page 3