by Liz Fielding
She dug around the back and sides of a chair warmed by his body, totally aware that the taut backside and thighs just inches from her face were the source of that heat.
‘It’s not here,’ she said, backing off.
‘Maybe it fell on the floor.’
She’d already dropped to her knees before she realised that instead of standing aside and leaving her to it, he’d done the same. Looking up, expecting to be confronted by nothing more dangerous than his knees, she found herself looking straight into his eyes.
The cool thing would have been to smile, and carry on looking. She didn’t feel cool. This close, his tawny eyes generated enough heat to sear her entire body and she reared back, crashing against the edge of the desk and falling back to her knees with a whimper of pain.
The next thing she knew she was sitting in his chair and he was crouched in front of her, looking into her eyes. ‘Jacqui?’
‘It’s OK…’ she said, making a move to rise. ‘I’m OK.’
His hand on her shoulder kept her in the chair. ‘Don’t move for a minute. You took quite a knock.’
‘No, really.’ But her head felt as if it had just exploded and her legs were kitten-weak. Despite her protest, she stayed where she was. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment.’
‘Look at me.’ Oh, right. That was what had caused the trouble in the first place… ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
Having satisfied himself that she wasn’t seeing double, he stood up and began to gently part her hair, just above her forehead, taking a closer look at the damage.
‘Excuse me?’ she said, but nowhere near as in-your-face what-the-heck-do-you-think-you’re-doing as she’d intended. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Yes, and I can tell you that the prognosis is a headache and a lump the size of an egg.’
‘I could have told you that…’ Wince. Oooch. Too much talking… ‘Are you really a doctor?’
‘I’m somewhat out of practice,’ he admitted, ‘but I think I can handle a minor bump on the head.’
‘Minor!’ she exclaimed.
‘See? You’re almost back to normal. I’ll go and get an ice-pack.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘You’re disputing my diagnosis? Are you a doctor, too?’
‘Sarcasm is so unattractive.’ Then, ‘Besides, you’ve read my CV. You know exactly what I am.’
‘I’ve got a fair idea, although I’d still like to know why you dropped out of your nursing course at university.’ She took a breath to speak but he raised a warning finger that didn’t quite touch her lips. ‘Save it. Keep quiet and don’t move. I’ll be right back.’
‘I was just going to tell you to mind your own business,’ she muttered rebelliously, but only after he’d left the room.
Obviously he knew what he was talking about when he’d advised her to keep quiet, because she wished she’d obeyed him.
‘Susan is making you a cup of tea,’ he said, returning a minute or two later with crushed ice wrapped in a cloth. He laid it gently against her forehead and said, ‘How’s that?’
‘Cold?’ she offered. Then, because that sounded ungrateful, ‘Wonderfully cold.’ It was certainly a lot better than the thought of tea, the very idea of which made her feel sick. She didn’t tell him that; Dr Harry Talbot would be diagnosing concussion and whisking her off to hospital before she could say Jack Robinson and wouldn’t that make him a happy bunny…? ‘Thank you,’ she added, reaching up to take over the job of holding the ice-pack in place, her fingers getting entangled in his as they changed over.
‘What’s Maisie doing?’ she asked, more as a distraction than out of any deep concern.
‘Being Maisie.’
Weirdly, she understood exactly what he meant, but, feeling guilty as well as stupid, she said, ‘Damn it! What have I done with my phone? I was sure I’d put it in my pocket.’
‘Maybe it’s fallen out somewhere. You’ll find it when it rings.’
‘But I want it now!’ Then, blushing—that sounded sooo like Maisie at her very worst— ‘Sorry… I just need to know what’s happening. Maisie shouldn’t be left out on a limb like this.’
‘I thought you said she wanted to stay.’
‘That’s not the point.’ Then, leaning her elbows on the desk, both hands clutching the ice-pack as she rested her head against it and trying to think through the pain… ‘But you’re right. She seems happy enough.’
‘But of course you want to get on with your own life.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ She looked up at him from under her hands. ‘Did I say that?’
‘No.’ He looked as if he was going to say something but clearly changed his mind. Then, after a moment, ‘Did you find her anything more practical to wear in the meantime?’
‘Yes. And then again no.’
‘Well, that’s clear.’ He doubled up opposite her as if to check that her eyes weren’t glazing over.
‘I found her some stuff,’ she said, rousing herself, ‘but she really doesn’t see herself as a sweatshirt and jeans girl.’
‘She can’t spend her entire life in party dresses,’ he objected, not moving. ‘She must have some ordinary clothes.’
‘Your confidence does you credit. But yes, I suppose you’re right. There’s obviously been some kind of a slip-up on the packing front. Fortunately I found this.’ She dug around in her shirt pocket and fished out the photograph she’d found. Her fingers were wet and she wiped it on her sleeve before handing it to him. ‘It’s her mother wearing the same stuff.’
He stared at it for a moment, then returned it to her, without comment. ‘Did it do the trick?’
‘Would you exchange pink taffeta frills for denim bib overalls without a fuss?’
‘Fortunately, I’ve never had to make that choice.’
Was that a smile? Just the tiniest hint of one?
Encouraged, she said, ‘Actually, I had a bit of a brainwave and suggested I take a photograph of her exactly like this one. That seemed to do the trick.’
‘So what’s the problem? You need a camera? There’s got to be one around here somewhere.’
‘Thanks, but I have a camera. I was going on holiday,’ she reminded him.
‘Then why is she still in the pink frilly thing? I mean, there’s no shortage of puppies.’
‘No. But it’s not just the puppy.’ She wasn’t likely to have his undivided attention again any time soon. Best not waste it. ‘You were in the original photograph and she wants one exactly like it.’ Then, because she didn’t want him to say no without giving it some thought, she quickly added, ‘There’s no rush. The clothes are in the wash and it’s not exactly fit to take photographs out there this morning.’ Even if she could see straight. ‘In the meantime I’d better go and have another look for my phone.’
‘Jacqui…’
She made an effort to stand, but her knees didn’t feel quite up to it. It was nothing to do with the way he’d said her name. Very softly, not as if he wanted to make sure she was listening, but just because he wanted to say it…
‘I’m sorry.’
Her mistake.
‘What for?’ There were so many things to choose from… ‘It wasn’t your fault I banged my head.’
‘About your holiday.’
Oh, that…
‘I promise I won’t say another word about it if you’ll let Maisie have her photograph.’
‘You provide the sun—’ he didn’t exactly growl, the embryo smile had gone but he didn’t seem bothered by her blatant attempt at a little emotional blackmail ‘—and I’ll turn up for the photo call.’
Which implied that he knew something about the prevailing weather conditions at Hill Tops that she didn’t.
It didn’t matter. He’d promised. And the sun had to shine eventually, if she stuck around for long enough—it had been shining in that old photograph she’d found, hadn’t it?—which was why, instead of responding with something snippy like ‘you’ve got a de
al’, she smiled—a real smile this time—and said, ‘Thank you.’ Then, rather more weakly, ‘Now we’ve sorted that out, is there any chance of a couple of aspirin?’
‘Only if you’ll lie down for an hour and give them a chance to do their job.’
‘Are you sending me to bed?’
No, no, stupid thing to say. The way she felt at that moment, he’d have to carry her and she didn’t think that lying against his chest listening to his heart being put through its paces—she wasn’t stick-thin like his glamorous cousin—would do her condition any good at all.
‘What about Maisie?’ she demanded, in an attempt to shift that image from her brain.
‘Susan will take care of her.’
‘She’s got other things to do. Chickens, housework…’
‘That isn’t your problem.’
OK, so she’d been hoping he might have a complete change of heart and volunteer to take care of Maisie himself, but her head hurt too much to worry about it.
‘All right. But there’s no way I’m going to bed. You’ll have to ask those dogs to budge up and let me share their sofa.’
‘I could, of course, insist that you go to the local A&E for an X-ray, since you’re obviously not in your right mind.’ Then, taking pity on her, ‘Come on. You can put your feet up in the library.’
‘The library? You mean you’re letting me back into the posh bit of the house? After this morning?’
She blinked. Had she really said that? The crack to her skull must have been harder than she’d thought.
He clamped his jaw down hard, presumably because it was against medical ethics to yell at someone in pain. Demand that they shut up.
She actually saw the slow breath he took, although if he counted to ten he did it mentally, before he said, ‘I think “posh” might be stretching it a bit, but at least you won’t get covered in dog hairs.’
She thought she should probably say something, but couldn’t think of anything sensible, so left it and he put a hand beneath her elbow, eased her to her feet.
‘Can you walk?’
‘Of course I can walk,’ she said, doing her best to ignore the fact that the room was spinning and clutching the ice-pack to her head. ‘I’m not an invalid.’
‘No, just a pain in the backside. Don’t you ever give your mouth a rest?’
‘Of course I…’ She stopped. ‘That was a trick question, wasn’t it?’
He didn’t answer, possibly to demonstrate that one of them had some control over their mouth, although if she had been a betting woman she might have had a mild flutter on the chance that it was because he was trying not to laugh. Definitely trying not to laugh. Almost definitely.
And, OK, doing a pretty good job of it.
She had a quick glimpse of panelled hall, the bottom of the substantial oak staircase that led to his bedroom and then she was in a room that had the perfect air of shabby comfort only attained through generations of occupation by the same family.
Velvet curtains that had once been green, but which now, except in the deepest folds, had faded to a silvery grey. A richly patterned Persian rug, worn practically threadbare. A huge Knole sofa standing four-square to a handsome fireplace which was laid with logs and only needed a match to send the reflection of flames flickering off the bookshelves that lined the walls.
Not a bit like the bare stone interior of the horrible giant’s house in her childhood story book.
First impressions could be so wrong…
Harry crossed to the hearth and hunkered down to put a match to the fire, although the room wasn’t cold. She perched on the edge of the sofa as he coaxed the fire to life, watching his deft movements, quick reaction as a log fell into the hearth, his broad back. And forgot her own pain as her stomach wrenched in empathy for pain she could not even imagine. And she closed her eyes.
‘Jacqui?’ She jerked them open. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said, but without conviction.
‘You look a bit pale. Do you feel sick?’
She did, but not as a result of the bang on the head. ‘I’m fine, really.’
He continued to look at her for a moment, before turning back to the fire. When he was sure it had caught, he placed a guard in front of it.
‘Shall I take that?’
She looked down at the ice-pack, which was beginning to melt into her lap. ‘None of this is necessary,’ she protested. ‘I should be—’
‘What?’
Looking for her phone. Chasing Vickie to find out what was happening. But then, as Harry had pointed out, Maisie was happy enough. This was what she’d wanted. So why was she getting her knickers in a twist, instead of doing as she was told, lying back and letting everything work itself out?
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Right answer.’
And this time the crease at the corner of his mouth was deep enough to qualify as a smile. Lopsided maybe. A trifle wry, even. But a heart-stopping improvement on the alternative.
She could live with ‘wry’.
‘Now all you have to do is put your feet up and I’ll go and get some aspirin.’
And to prevent any further argument, he bent, picked her feet up in one hand, pulled off her shoes and placed them on the sofa.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN Harry returned a couple of minutes later with aspirin and a blanket, Jacqui was asleep. He watched her for a while. Her colour had returned and her breathing was good, but there were dark smudges beneath her eyes that had nothing to do with the crack on the head.
He’d noticed them last night when she’d come down—minus the make-up she’d used to conceal them—to make herself a drink. Jacqui Moore, he suspected, hadn’t been sleeping properly for some time. Something he knew all about.
No doubt there was a man at the bottom of it. Why else would she be going on holiday on her own?
He left the painkillers on the sofa table and, as gently as he could, covered her with the blanket.
‘How is she?’
He turned as Susan came in with tea.
‘She’s dropped off. Best thing for her.’
‘She shouldn’t be left. My sister’s boy fell out of a tree—’
‘Yes, thank you, Susan. I’ll stay and keep an eye on her. Just leave the tray.’
‘Right. Well, I’m off upstairs to do the bedrooms if you want me.’
‘Take Maisie with you. I don’t want her coming in here disturbing Jacqui.’
Susan made a sound that only women beyond a certain age could manage. She ‘humphed’. It said more clearly than words that she knew exactly what he didn’t want. Maisie disturbing him. Then she said, ‘She should be at school, playing with children her own age.’
‘Save the lecture for Sally when she turns up.’
‘I won’t hold my breath.’ Then, ‘I’m sure Mrs Jackson, the head teacher, would be happy to take her until the end of term.’
‘No doubt, but she’s not staying.’ He gave the final three words equal weight, hoping that someone would finally get the message.
‘If you say so.’ She put down the tray. ‘Well, I can’t stand about here gossiping. If you need anything you know where I am.’
‘Will you keep an eye out for Jacqui’s cellphone? It wasn’t in the office so she must have dropped it upstairs somewhere.’
‘I’ll do that.’
As she turned to leave they both saw Maisie, half-hidden by the open door, apparently afraid to venture closer.
‘Is she dead?’ she whispered. ‘Did I kill her?’
‘You?’ Susan exclaimed. ‘Why on earth would you think something—?’
He crossed swiftly to the door, bundling them both out. ‘She bumped her head on the desk, Maisie. It had nothing to do with you,’ he said, putting a stop to the discussion.
‘But she was looking—’
‘She’ll be fine. She just needs peace and quiet for an hour, that’s all. Go along with Susan, now.’
‘I’d rather go
to school.’
Thank you, Susan…
‘Can I? In the village? Now? Pleeease…’
She was unusually twittery. He might even have said anxious…
‘I don’t think so. Maybe,’ he added, cruelly, ‘if your mother had packed something sensible for you to wear—’
‘Don’t blame her! It wasn’t her fault! I did it. I just wanted to look pretty so you’d like me!’
Then, as if horrified by what she had said, she turned and ran off.
Susan just looked at him. ‘You know, Mr Harry, it’s not my place to say so, but in my opinion that child needs a little order in her life.’
‘You’re right, Susan,’ he said. ‘It isn’t your place to say so.’
She sniffed, leaving him in no doubt what she was thinking, and went after Maisie.
The hound had taken advantage of Susan’s arrival to slip into the library and was lying as flat as possible in front of the fire, hoping not to be noticed.
He added another log and then turned to make sure Jacqui hadn’t been disturbed. She was curled up on her side, her cheek resting on her hands, a strand of silky hair slipping across her forehead.
He eased a finger beneath it, lifting it carefully out of her face. And that was when he noticed the silver chain about her wrist. Really noticed it.
He’d been aware of a bracelet sliding down her arm when she was holding the ice-pack.
What he saw now was the single charm, a silver heart. It was engraved with a message, tiny words that he knew were none of his business, but as he moved back the angle of the light changed and the words seemed to leap out at him—‘…forget and smile…’
He knew it from somewhere and he searched the shelves for a dictionary of quotations, finally found the couplet.
And he felt…something.
He’d shut out every emotion, every feeling for so long that he couldn’t say what it was. Only that it hurt. That if he didn’t blot it out the pain would become unbearable.
But then he’d recognised the danger the moment she’d jammed her foot in his door and refused to be shut out. He’d tried, but unlike most people, she seemed immune to his rudeness. It was almost, he thought, as if she understood what he was doing.