Bride Required

by Alison Fraser

  They skirted the tower until they reached a stout oak door. He rang the bell rather than open it.

  Dee frowned. ‘You don’t live on your own, then?’

  ‘Usually I do,’ he stated. ‘At the moment someone is caretaking it for me.’

  Someone? She gave him a quizzical look, but it was ignored. Her heart sank a little as she wondered whether it would be a female someone.

  ‘Haven’t you a key?’ she asked, when he kept ringing the bell and getting no response.

  ‘Naturally,’ he responded. ‘But as it’s two in the morning I don’t want to creep in unannounced. Joseph might take us for burglars.’

  ‘It’s a man!’ Dee concluded in relief, and drew an odd look for it.

  ‘More a boy. Joseph’s only eighteen,’ he explained. Then, in case she might still be harbouring any wrong ideas, went on ‘He’s the son of a friend, nothing more. You understand?’

  Dee nodded. He hadn’t needed to say anything. She no longer doubted his sexuality.

  ‘Is he expecting us?’

  ‘He knows I’m due home this week.’

  But not her, Dee concluded.

  ‘He doesn’t appear to be home.’ His expression reflected mild surprise. ‘Stay here.’

  He left her to do a quick tour round the outside of the tower. Dee wasn’t sure what he was looking for. She just wished he would come back soon. The floodlights had gone off and they were back to being in pitch dark. Henry was growling low in his throat, even though he couldn’t hear the rustlings and snufflings and night noises that were making her decidedly jumpy.

  ‘Baxter?’ she eventually called out, losing her nerve.

  He didn’t call back, and she shouted louder. Still there was no response, but the floodlights came on once more. Then another minute or two ticked by before she heard approaching footsteps.

  Common sense said it had to be Baxter, but she ducked out of sight behind a thick wooden beam shoring up part of the wall.

  ‘Dee, where are you?’ he demanded, finding her gone.

  She emerged from her hiding place, and demanded in return, ‘Where have you been?’

  He raised a quizzical brow at her tone, but answered all the same. ‘Checking the generator shed to see if Joseph’s moped was there. It isn’t, so I think we’ll let ourselves in.’

  He used his key and she followed him inside, finding herself at the base of a spiral stone staircase.

  ‘You go first,’ he suggested. ‘It’s two flights up, so take your time.’

  Dee gave him no argument. With her injured knee, she could do little else.

  She caught her breath on the first landing, while he indicated the two doors leading off it.

  ‘That’s the main hall. I use it as a living area. The other door is the kitchen.’

  He didn’t open either, but Dee imagined the kitchen would be something out of another century.

  They continued up the spiral staircase, and he explained that the second and third floors housed bedrooms and a study. On the second landing there were again two doors leading off.

  ‘You have this one.’ He pushed open the heavy door on his right and switched on a light, before backing out again. ‘I’m going to check whether Joseph’s home or not.’

  He crossed the landing to knock quietly on the other door, and left Dee to go into her room by herself. She’d expected fairly basic accommodation, and stood stock-still in the doorway as she discovered a bedroom literally fit for a king, albeit one from a different age.

  The walls were stone, hung with landscape canvases, and the ceilings were high. A polished oak floor was scattered with rich woollen rugs, and a recess contained an open fireplace. The furniture was mostly dark, heavy pieces, dominated by an immense four-poster bed at the far wall.

  She limped towards it and sat on the brocade counterpane, picking up a piece of paper from the pillow. She read it before she wondered whether she should.

  Greetings, little brother,

  The heating is on, the fridge is full and the cleaning firm has been. Joseph is staying with friends in Edinburgh. The question is—where are you? You’d better call the moment you arrive or suffer the consequences!

  From the devoted sister you definitely don’t deserve,

  Cat.

  Having read it once, Dee had no compunction about reading it a second time. It was such an unfamiliar perspective—Baxter Ross as someone’s little brother. In fact, it took a leap of imagination to even believe he’d been a child.

  She dropped the letter sharpish as he knocked on her door and called, ‘Dee?’

  ‘Yes?’ she replied and, when he didn’t appear, called back, ‘Come in.’

  He did so, but no further than the doorway. ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘No…well, a toothbrush would be nice.’

  ‘Through that door—’ he nodded to the back wall ‘—you’ll find a bathroom. There’s probably one there you could use.’

  ‘Thanks…. and, um, I don’t suppose you have an oldshirt?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘A nightdress,’ she explained. ‘I haven’t got one.’

  He walked across to a wardrobe and took out the first shirt he came to. ‘This do?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ Dee took it from his hand. It was crisp white and blue striped cotton. ‘Are you sure? It looks fairly new.’

  He gave an indifferent shrug. ‘It’s not the sort of thing I wear.’

  She supposed it wasn’t. He seemed to favour cream or khaki trousers and button-down denim shirts. This was more businessman-style.

  ‘My sister bought it for me,’ he explained. ‘So, as long as she doesn’t see you in it, you’re welcome to it.’

  ‘Your sister buys your clothes?’ she asked.

  ‘Some of them,’ he admitted. ‘I usually don’t have the time… Why, is that significant of something?’ A smile said he really didn’t care if it was.

  ‘Probably,’ Dee quipped back. ‘But I’m not sure what.’

  ‘Well, when you work it out, let my sister know,’ he added dryly.

  Dee understood from this that his sister did things for him whether he liked it or not. She remembered the letter.

  ‘Actually, she’s left you a note.’ She handed it to him.

  He scanned it quickly, smiling slightly, before folding it and putting it in his pocket.

  ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘Unless you wish me to rebandage your leg?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Dee trusted him well enough. She just wasn’t comfortable with their doctor-patient relationship.

  He shrugged, before walking towards the door. ‘I’ll be one floor up if you should need me.’

  She nodded. ‘This is your room, isn’t it?’

  ‘Normally, yes,’ he confirmed.

  Dee’s face reflected a degree of guilt.

  He misread her expression. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t try to reclaim it—or anything else—in the dead of night.’

  ‘That wasn’t…I didn’t think…’ She trailed off, for once inarticulate.

  He had no such problem. ‘No, well, I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Kissing you earlier—that was a mistake.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, hoping he would leave it at that.

  But he continued in rational tones, ‘You were obviously at a low point and vulnerable, and I should have respected the fact… I can only say it’s a while since I’ve held a woman, and I guess baser instincts took over.’

  Dee’s heart lifted briefly at the idea of him seeing her as a woman, before she analysed the rest. It pretty much added up to the fact that she’d been there and seemingly available.

  ‘That wasn’t intended as an insult,’ he added, observing her darkening scowl. ‘I’m just trying to—’

  ‘Forget it,’ Dee cut in, before he could embarrass them both further. And, motivated by pride, she claimed, ‘It’s hardly a big deal. I’ve kissed lots of men… Fortunately most of them don’t agonise about it afterwards.’<
br />
  She’d meant to sound blasé, but overachieved slightly. Still, the sudden rigidity in his jaw muscles had to be better than the look of pity it replaced.

  ‘Okay, I’ll try and remember that—assuming I ever want to join the crowd.’ Contempt laced his voice as he delivered this parting shot.

  By the time Dee could think of a suitable reply, he had already gone.

  He left the door ajar, and she listened to his ascending footsteps on the stone staircase, cursing him and her own stupidity. She hadn’t wanted him to think her pathetic, so now he considered her free-and-easy. Great!

  She sank her weight onto the bed and, refusing to worry about it, sent a critical eye round his room instead. It was as austere as the man himself. Furnished in traditional woods, it had few feminine touches apart from a large spray of flowers and fern arranged in the fireplace. Was that his sister’s doing?

  They were obviously close—perhaps bonded tighter by the early death of their parents. It was a relationship Dee could only imagine. At one time she had longed for a brother or sister, but it appeared her mother had found Dee’s birth too traumatic to repeat. Now she was all alone in the world.

  She dashed at a tear, refusing to cry. She had to be strong. After all, where had being weak and dependent got her? Holed up in a ruined tower with Dr ‘Superior’ Ross.

  Well, perhaps ruined was an exaggeration, she conceded as she wandered through to the adjoining bathroom and found it to be strictly late-twentieth-century modern, including bidet and power shower.

  She found the toothbrush he’d mentioned, and brushed her teeth hard. As she did so she caught sight of herself in the mirror above the washhand basin and was shocked by the image. She knew what she’d used to look like; she’d been reminded that afternoon by a photograph of a smiling girl with long blonde hair, beautiful skin and a face that had flesh as well as cheekbones.

  A stranger stared back at her now. The cropped hair had grown a little, but was dull and boy-short, the multiple earrings were merely disfiguring, while her face was so pale and hollowed that she could have been suffering some terminal illness. She wanted to cry again, this time for the loss of her looks.

  She pulled out the earrings one by one, then looked again. She still didn’t like herself. She realised it had been possibly weeks since she’d properly taken care of her hair. She reached up into a cabinet and found bottles of shampoo and conditioner. They smelt outdoorsy and masculine, but that hardly mattered.

  She turned on the power shower, and a cascade of hot water drummed on the base of it. She stripped off and climbed in. She did her hair first, then simply leaned against the shower stall, letting the water wash over her. When her leg began to ache, she slid to a sitting position and drew her knees up to rest her head on them.

  She lost all sense of time, or place, or anything but her unhappiness, as she sat and let the water drum over her in a vain attempt to wash her sorrow away.

  Stripped down to boxer shorts, Baxter climbed into the spare bed, ready to sleep for a week. He didn’t want to think of the girl and her blasted problems, or his sister’s reaction to this new complication in his life. Tomorrow would be too soon for that.

  He switched off the light and waited for sleep to overtake him. It almost did. He was just drifting off when a banging noise made him start awake.

  For a split second he thought himself back in Africa, and tensed, ready for the next shot, then laughed at his panic as water gurgled through a pipe. It was only the girl running a tap.

  He was waiting for the next bang, and groaned aloud when it came. He had renovated the electrics and the fittings, but the plumbing had had to wait. There was miles of it yet to be mapped, thick, ancient pipes from another era that were prone to air locks and percussion effects.

  He expected it to stop, but it didn’t. She must be showering rather than washing. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. Perhaps he might have if the banging had had a rhythm, but it was intermittent, and sometimes explosively loud.

  In the ten years since his grandfather had ceded this tower to him, he had yet to find a permanent solution for the musical pipework. Normally it didn’t matter. Normally he lived alone, and if anyone was running water in the dead of night it was himself.

  He waited in the dark for the banging to cease, consulting the luminous dials of his watch from time to time. The minutes gradually mounted. It was now past three a.m. He cursed her again. Who took showers at such a time? Even if she needed to wash, couldn’t she wait until it was light?

  Seemingly, no, she couldn’t; the water kept rushing through the pipes, banging each time it encountered an air lock. Baxter supposed it might be a reaction to living rough, a feeling that one might never get clean again. He glanced at his watch again and did a quick calculation. She’d now been showering for a total of thirty-four minutes.

  He gave it another ten minutes before he got up and slipped back into his trousers. He didn’t bother with a shirt or socks but, temper rising, went back down the spiral staircase. He knocked at her door loud enough to wake her if she’d somehow fallen asleep with the shower left on. When he drew no reply, he walked into the room and, seeing the bed empty, strode towards the bathroom door. He knocked hard on it, and kept knocking, not anxious to walk in on her. He didn’t fancy a hysterical female on his hands.

  ‘Dee! Dee!’ He shouted her name several times, but still elicited no response. ‘Answer if you can hear me, dammit!’

  Nothing. He felt his patience snapping. The bathroom door was a modern panel one, and even with the shower on she must surely have heard him.

  He tried the handle, not really expecting it to give, and found himself in the bathroom, having not considered his next move.

  Dee was oblivious. Her hearing had gone under the pressure of the water. She was still sitting down, head on her knees, when the shower stall was suddenly opened.

  She lifted unfocused eyes to Baxter Ross and tried to get her brain round what he was doing there. Later, she wondered why she hadn’t screamed. After all, she was naked and he only partly clothed. But at the time she just stared at him, and he at her, at the water streaming down her upturned face, and her stick-thin body, huddled and shivering despite the heat of the electric shower.

  He was the first to move, reaching in to switch off the water and at the same time handing her an enormous bath towel to cover her nakedness.

  ‘Here. Wrap this round you,’ he instructed quietly, and when she made no move to do so did it for her.

  He lost her in the folds of the towel, then half lifted her cramped body from the stall. He closed the toilet seat and perched her there, and, when he was sure she wasn’t going to fall off, took a step back from her.

  Dee’s ears popped and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but lost interest in his description of the technicalities of air locks. She secured the towel sarong-style round her upper body, leaving her arms bare but the rest covered. Not that he showed the remotest interest in her state of undress.

  ‘Do you know how long you’ve been in that shower?’ he demanded.

  Dee shook her head, and a shrug said she didn’t care either.

  ‘The skin on your feet is shrivelled,’ he pointed out, ‘and God only knows what harm you might have done your leg.’

  Dee’s mouth went into a conscious pout. She found she wasn’t nervous of him, or particularly embarrassed. She just wished he would go away or stop giving her a hard time.

  He did neither, crouching beside her instead and pushing the towel past her knee to reveal a soaked, unravelling bandage. He unwound the rest.

  ‘Just look at it!’ he said, on exposing the knee. ‘Come on, look!’

  Dee refused, tilting her head upwards as she retorted, ‘No one’s asking you to do anything about it… In fact, I want you to leave—this minute!’

  He stretched to his full height again. Dee thought he was about to go, and suddenly the desperation returned.

  She felt relief when he rea
ched up to unlock a medicine cabinet and take down a fresh crêpe bandage. He wasn’t leaving, but she didn’t flatter herself over his motives for staying. It was just that he was a doctor, first and foremost.

  She watched as he worked in tight-lipped silence, winding the bandage round and round her swollen knee, close but careful not to touch, as if touching her would be distasteful to him. It was hard now to believe how tenderly he had held her when she had cried that afternoon.

  ‘If you don’t start looking after this knee,’ he told her gruffly, ‘you could end up with a permanent injury.’

  ‘Would you care?’ Dee threw back.

  He glanced up at her and raised a brow before commenting dryly, ‘We are feeling sorry for ourselves.’

  Dee glared back. ‘If this is your bedside manner, I’d definitely stick to dead people.’

  He understood the insult, but laughed all the same. ‘Why do you think I’m going into research?’

  He didn’t like people. Was that what he meant?

  ‘There.’ He finished the bandage with a safety pin and, standing, put an arm to her waist. ‘Right, hold on.’

  He lifted her and she was left to grab onto his shoulders.

  ‘I can walk!’ She tried to wriggle out of his arms.

  He held her fast, warning, ‘You’re dislodging your towel.’

  She followed his gaze to find one breast exposed. She tried to cover it but only succeeded in losing more of her towel as he carried her through.

  She told herself it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be interested.

  But she was wrong. His eyes remained on her body as he laid her down on his four-poster bed. She rapidly covered herself.

  Caught staring, he didn’t pretend he’d been doing otherwise.

  ‘Sorry, it was the surprise.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have breasts.’ He stated the obvious.

  Dee was stung into stating the obvious back. ‘I am a girl!’

  ‘Well-developed breasts,’ he qualified, with a slight smile.

  This time Dee didn’t know how to react. It was a surprise to her as well—while her arms and legs grew thinner, her breasts had remained full. But somehow she didn’t think they were just discussing biology here.