Читать книгу Carmichael's Return - Lilian Peake - Страница 7

‘NO!’ LAUREN heard her own voice cry out. She dropped to his side and felt the dampness of his forehead beneath her trembling palm.

So it had been illness, not fear which had made him dab at his brow. With features such as his, how could she have thought this man lacked courage? But then, in the darkness she had not seen the strong lines in his face, hinting at an inbuilt resolve; the full, sensual mouth that suggested powerful feelings; the jaw telling of an ability to curb those feelings, keep them under control.

A lock of damp hair hung over his forehead and Lauren watched her quivering fingers push it aside. I’ve seen this man before…The words hit her like a lightning-strike, flashing in then out of her mind. It was a stupid thought. She had never seen him in her life before.

Hand to his cheek, she realised how shallow his breathing had become, which meant that positive action had become imperative. He needed medical attention. But most of all—and never mind that he was a complete stranger and had been concealing himself in the shadows—at that moment he needed a bed.

‘Johnny, Marty…’ She dredged up the names of some of the guests, but the music drowned her words. ‘Help me—I need help…’

Desperately she turned her head, seeing one figure lingering outside. She might as well, she thought, make use of the dog-like devotion the young man had been displaying towards her all evening.

‘Casey!’ she yelled. ‘Casey! Help me.’ To her relief he moved towards her. ‘Help me lift this man—get him inside.’

Casey, nearer now, took one look then dashed back, shouting, ‘Johnny!’ and gesturing wildly. Johnny came, following Casey across the patio, thudding over the lawn and pulling up smartly at the sight of the recumbent figure.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Johnny panted, hands on hips. ‘Is he dead?’

‘He fainted—can’t you see?’ Casey rebuked him, his slightly cloying manner vanished. ‘Now, how can we do this?’

Casey Talbert sober, Lauren decided, was a great improvement on Casey Talbert intoxicated.

‘You take his feet, Johnny,’ Casey directed, ‘while I carry him like this.’ He fitted his hands beneath the stranger’s armpits and prepared to lift him, but found himself holding a twisting torso.

‘For God’s sake—’ the words came hoarsely from the man ‘—I can walk.’

Shaking his head, as if to get his brain working again, and with a massive effort, the stranger got himself to his feet, swaying as he struggled to stay upright. Impulsively Lauren flung her arms around his waist, taking his weight with her own body. She staggered back, and felt him try to help her by easing himself away, but she managed to hold him more firmly.

‘Come on, Lauren,’ Casey urged. ‘Let me walk him into the house. If that’s—?’

Lauren nodded vigorously. ‘Where else? In this state he’ll not make it to his car. If he’s got a car.’ All the same, her arms still clung, seemingly strangely reluctant to let him go.

‘OK, Lauren,’ said Johnny, ‘let us take over.’

Slowly Lauren detached herself from the stranger, feeling a curious emptiness inside her as her body lost contact with his. She tried lifting his backpack, but found it so heavy she had to drag it over the lawn.

The man did his best to co-operate as they walked him, his legs lifting heavily with each step, but his head stayed determinedly upright, although Lauren guessed its natural inclination must be to hang.

‘Through the kitchen,’ Lauren directed, but the two men were making for the easiest way in, which was through the open doorway into the living room.

Someone turned down the music, and guests pulled aside to make a passage through. Eyes stared, hands holding glasses stilled on their way to open mouths.

Casey and Johnny made for the stairs, Casey calling over his shoulder, ‘OK, folks. Party’s over. No one to see off. Marie and Reggie have gone. Thanks on their behalf for coming.’

As the three men slowly mounted the stairs, the stranger’s feet dragging just a little, the music was switched off, shouts of farewell rang out and car doors slammed.

‘Thanks, Lauren.’ A girl reached Lauren’s side on the wide stairs, helping her bump the backpack upwards. ‘You did a great stand-in job on our absent hostess’s behalf.’ She added after a pause, ‘You’re doing a fine Samaritan act too—more than I’d do for a total stranger skulking in the shadows. Good luck. I’ve a feeling you’ll need it. We’re all going home.’

She ran downstairs and the door slammed behind her.

Lauren was thankful that the house possessed so many bedrooms—two or three of which, she had noticed during her inspection of the place, were already made up for possible guests. Friends, no doubt, of Marie’s.

At Lauren’s request Casey and Johnny had taken the man to the room next to hers. They’d removed his outer clothing, leaving his jeans in place, his shirt unbuttoned.

Lauren lifted the cover over him, noticing that the strong, lean body appeared to be deeply tanned.

‘He couldn’t have got that toasted from the sun in this country,’ Johnny commented quietly. ‘Must have been in the tropics for some while, I’d guess.’

‘So what brought him here?’ Casey said, voice low. ‘Homing instinct?’

‘Homing?’ Lauren exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t live here. No connection with the place—otherwise Marie would have told me.’ Then she remembered the man’s muttered half-sentence—‘I belong…’

He must have meant this country, she decided, recalling that the few words he had spoken had told her that his accent seemed to be British in origin. If he had indeed been roaming the world for a while, he would refer to his connection with his native country as ‘belonging’ to it, wouldn’t he?

‘Johnny!’ yelled a girl’s voice from below. ‘Come and drive us home like you promised.’

Complying with the good-humoured command, Johnny paused at the door. ‘He’s a good-looking guy, Lauren. Don’t you go falling for him.’ Lifting his hand in acknowledgement of Lauren’s thanks, he went on his way.

‘He won’t be here that long,’ Lauren declared.

‘Anyway, he’s probably married with half a dozen kids,’ commented Casey. ‘With looks like that some female must have snapped him up years ago.’

‘How old do you think he is?’ whispered Lauren. ‘I’d say—thirty-five?’

‘Could be,’ said Casey uninterestedly. He gestured her outside to the corridor.

‘Look, Lauren, I know we only met this evening, but I have to say sorry about my infantile behaviour at the party. I’d had more to drink than I’m used to. I do like you, honest.’ His smile, head on one side, melted away her irritation with him, then his face straightened. ‘And it worries me, you being alone with this guy from nowhere. I could stay a few hours, if you like, until he’s come round and been able to establish his identity?’

Lauren hesitated. The thought had been worrying her too. She’d told Marie that she might not enjoy being alone in the house, but she hadn’t bargained for such a mysterious companion.

Wouldn’t ‘intruder’ be a better word? her subconscious prompted. Had the dramatic collapse under the tree been one big act, a way of getting a bed for the night? After all, his surface appearance seemed dishevelled, and his backpack showed distinct signs of wear.

Lauren lifted her shoulders, returning to gaze down at the stranger. The half-light illuminated the planes and angles of his face, the lines from nose to mouth, the frown marks between his eyes. The jaw, around which was a considerable growth of stubble, was resolute, the forehead wide, only the hair still damp from perspiration, resisting the downward droop of his demeanour and curling into itself.

There was something in those features that was vaguely familiar, although for the life of her Lauren couldn’t recall ever having met him, or even having seen his photograph anywhere. She didn’t know why, but instinctively she felt it was a face she could trust.

‘I’ll be OK,’ she said softly to Casey. ‘It’ll only be for one night, after all. Tomorrow he’ll probably go on his way. Wherever that might be.’

‘We—ell…’ Casey was only partly reassured. ‘Could be he’s suffering from a mega-sized hangover.’

Lauren half agreed, although there had been no hint of alcohol on his breath.

In the dim light she gazed at the stranger. He appeared to be asleep. As she stared there arose inside her not even a trace of fear of him. If there had been any reason to be afraid of this man, surely her instinct would have told her, not letting her rest until at the very least she’d called the police?

‘I’ll be OK,’ she assured Casey again. ‘But thanks a lot for your offer.’

‘I’ll write down my phone number.’ He scribbed on a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘If you have any doubts about him at all, you can reach me here, at my digs. Only twenty minutes’ drive. Any time, remember, Lauren.’

On impulse, she did something that half an hour ago she would never have dreamt of doing where Casey was concerned. She reached up and kissed his cheek.

‘Thanks a lot,’ she said, and watched him colour with pleasure.

He wasn’t slow. He put his arms around her and placed a hard kiss against her lips, then lifted his hand as he left, whistling as he pounded down the stairs.

In the bedroom, Lauren wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared down at the backpack. If she looked inside, it would be a way, wouldn’t it, of discovering something about the man?

There was no discernible movement from him, so she found her flashlight and crouched down, unfastening straps, opening flaps and peering into the interior. There was a pocket tape-recorder, notebooks and pencils, lightweight clothes, plastic containers which rattled, envelopes containing letters. Eagerly she turned the beam of light onto the name of the addressee.

‘Brett Carmichael’, it read, ‘c/o PO Box No…’

The destination appeared to be somewhere m Africa. At least she had discovered his name, if not his mission.

It seemed that Johnny had been right in his guess that to acquire such a tan the man must have been in the tropics. So what were the events that had caused him to show up out of the blue—or, more correctly, she thought, out of the darkness—on the doorstep of Old Cedar Grange?

The bedclothes rustled and Lauren hurried to the stranger’s side. His eyes fluttered open, moving around as if he was trying to work out where he was. What was he thinking? Lauren wondered. Which room am I in—which dwelling—which country? Or even, for a man as good-looking as he was, Whose bedroom this time? Then she reproached herself for prejudging him His morals might be beyond suspicion. Perhaps he was wondering where his wife was, his family?

Lauren’s heart did the strangest dive at the thought, then surfaced with speed at her silent reprimand He meant nothing to her, this man from the shadows. How could he, when she knew nothing about him, when he’d only come into her life about thirty minutes ago?

She leaned over him and he stared up at her, fixing his brown eyes on hers, holding them as if he was truly disorientated, and clinging to their reality like a drowning person to a rock.

Summoning a smile, she smoothed back his hair. It felt damp, and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she whispered. ‘Where have you come from and why are you here?’

He did not answer, but lifted his head, and then his powerful shoulders from the bed. Was he trying to get up?

‘No, no,’ Lauren urged, pushing him back. ‘You’re ill, aren’t you? You’ve got a fever…’

A fever? At least she could sponge him, couldn’t she?

‘Stay there,’ she ordered, hoping he was receiving her. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

Her words must have registered as he sank back weakly, his eyes closing again. When she returned with a bowl of tepid water, facecloth and towel, his eyes were still closed. He opened them again as she wrung the cloth and mopped his brow. He appeared to be watching her every action, as if trying to comprehend the reason for her ministrations.

She pulled back the bedcover, exposing his chest and seeing the dampness there. Without hesitation she sponged the whorls of hair, a curious excitement coursing through her as she felt the muscle and the latent strength of him hard beneath her touch.

Easing back his shirt and wiping his shoulders, her wayward fingers trembled to stroke his skin, and she had to rebuke their impudence fiercely before they condescended to return to their caring mode. She used the towel to dry him.

‘Name of Florence?’ came the hoarse question through faintly curving lips.

‘No, its L—’ Then she laughed. ‘No, and my surname’s not Nightingale. I’m Lauren—Lauren Halstead.’

An eyebrow lifted. ‘Folk in the village told me a girl called Mane lived here. Looking after the place for the absent owner.’

‘That was correct until approximately an hour ago. Now I’m in charge.’

He seemed to need time to assimilate the information.

‘Owner’s living abroad, they said?’

‘Right.’

The towel went on rubbing, moving still lower to push against his waistband. His arm swung down from his head, his hand clamping over hers ‘Oh, no, lady.’

Warmth swamped her cheeks—embarrassment mixed with anger. ‘What do you take me for, Mr Carmichael?’ The words burst from her as she tried to free her hand.

Beneath it, the hardness of his stomach muscles against the backs of her fingers was arousing all kinds of feelings which she had no intention of allowing to surface. They were letting her down, she fretted, fighting against her efforts to convey to him, stranger and unknown quantity that he was, that she was merely acting as an impersonal nurse and good Samaritan.

‘OK, I’m sorry.’ More alert now, he searched her face. ‘How the hell do you know my name?’

Lauren hesitated, annoyed with herself for her giveaway slip.

‘OK. Stupid me. You’ve searched my backpack.’ His shoulder lifted. ‘Natural enough, in all the circumstances, for you to want to know my identity.’

Not that she did know it, she reflected. A mere name told her nothing. He released her hand and she threw the towel aside, moving to the foot of the bed and looking down at him. His head sank back onto the pillows and his eyes closed.

‘Are you in pain?’ she asked sympathetically.

‘Yes and no. What happened to the rabble?’

‘The party guests? They’ve gone.’

‘That guy you kissed. Is he still here?’

‘I was only thanking him for his help with you. And I have every right to kiss who I like.’ Why was she suddenly so much on the defensive? This man, this passing stranger, merited no explanation from her. All the same, his comment implied that at the time he hadn’t been totally unaware of the events going on around him.

‘What kind of bug have you got?’ Lauren asked. ‘You collapsed outside. Did you know?’

‘I knew,’ he answered, so tiredly, so softly that she had to listen hard. ‘It’s a fever—name unpronounceable. Picked it up in my wanderings.’

She still did not know where he had ‘wandered’ from, or why he had chosen to ‘wander’ to Old Cedar Grange. But such questions, she felt, could wait until a more appropriate time. ‘Should I send for a doctor?’

‘No need.’ He gestured towards his bag. ‘I consulted a medic—of sorts. He gave me a potion. In my bag there are some tablets to deal with it. White ones. If you’d be so kind…’ His voice tailed off.

Lauren rummaged and found them, using the flashlight to read the label. ‘Take two with liquid, as required’, the instructions dictated.

‘I’ll get some water,’ she told him, and was soon back with a glass. She put it down and shook two tablets onto her palm, then went to the bedside and held them out with the water. He managed to support himself on an elbow and dispatched the medication, swallowing and sinking back muttering, ‘Thanks.’

He seemed cooler now, but plainly the fever still lingered, apparent in the flush of his cheeks, the faint layer of perspiration on his dark-shaded upper lip. His head fell to one side on the pillow, revealing the dark shadow all around his jaw. She wondered how long it was since he had shaved.

As she stared, wondering what next, he looked at her again. ‘Please forgive my lack of manners. Put it down to how I feel. Nor have I thanked you for taking me in and helping to make me comfortable.’ He lifted his arm, frowning at his watch. ‘It’s hellish late. You must be tired.’

She smiled. T am, but—well, that’s OK.’

He nodded, lowering his lids again. For a while she stood there, studying his features anew—the wide mouth, the cleft chin, the sweeping strength of his jaw. His forehead was lined—a frown, even in sleep, creasing the skin between his eyes. There was character there, and resolution, and defiance, and surely a deep integrity?

Tiptoeing to the door, she glanced back. He had not stirred. Remembering Casey’s anxiety about her being alone and defenceless with a stranger present, she withdrew the key from the inside of the door and inserted it in the lock outside, turning it and pocketing it.

She could not deny that she was just a little concerned about her situation, however much her intuition might be telling her she would be safe with this man.

A small, relieved sigh escaped her as she made for her own room, settling down at last into a deep sleep.

* * *

She was wakened by the ringing of the telephone and swung from the bed. The morning sun was lighting the room. Was it Casey, concerned for her?

Quickly cutting off the shrill ring before it woke the stranger, she answered, ‘Yes?’

‘May I ask who that is?’ a man’s voice said. ‘I know it’s not Marie.’

‘No, I’m not Marie. And you are—?’

‘My name is Redmund Gard. You are…Lauren— Lauren Halstead?’

‘Oh, Mr Gard! Yes, I’m Lauren.’ She frowned. ‘How did you know?’

‘Ah, now. Marie, the young minx, contacted me here in my villa in the South of France. She and her fiancé had just upped and left, it seemed, leaving a young lady bearing your name in charge of my property over there. Hoped I didn’t mind, she said. To which I replied it was too bad if I did, wasn’t it?’

Oh, dear, Mr Gard. I honestly thought she’d consulted you about her intentions—although I must admit that she didn’t mention that she had. If you’d rather there was someone else here instead of me, I’ll advertise and—’

‘No, no, my dear. She gave me a sob story of how you would soon have been made homeless.’

‘That’s true, but—’

‘She also gave you a glowing reference—but then she would, wouldn’t she?’ He laughed and Lauren joined in. ‘However, if you are as pleasant and intelligent as you sound, stay by all means and take care of my house. You will take over the salary I’ve been paying her. I hope she told you that’

‘She did, but-’

‘I expect she has told you everything you need to know—about the security I had installed, the locks and bolts, not to mention the alarms?’

‘Yes, she did, Mr Gard.’

‘You’re aware that I’m not Marie’s true uncle, but that is how she addresses me? I would like to ask you to call me Uncle Redmund too. Would you mind?’

Lauren smiled. ‘Not at all—Uncle Redmund.’

‘Good. By the way, today I leave on my travels again. I never stay long in one place. I suppose you could say I’m a born wanderer. The older I get, the more I want to see of this wonderful world we live in. Oh, and in an emergency—a real emergency only—you can contact this number.’ It was a London telephone number. ‘Well, goodbye for now, Lauren. And take care—of yourself, as well as my house.’

‘Mr—Uncle Redmund,’ she began, ‘there’s a man—’ He had gone.

No sooner had she replaced the receiver than there came a great hammering, followed by a series of shouts.

The stranger! Oh, heavens, she had locked him in and he had just discovered it. She raced along to his room, then remembered she had put the key in her trouser pocket.

‘I’m on my way,’ she yelled, and skidded back to her room, quickly returning to free him.

‘For God’s sake, Miss Halstead,’ came a frantic voice, ‘a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

She burst in, quite forgetful of the fact that she hadn’t had time to pull on a dressing gown and that her night attire was skimpy to say the least.

He confronted her, anger in every muscle-tough line of him, his short-sleeved shirt hanging loosely, his jeans replaced by briefs. He was pale and heavy-eyed, but it was the latent strength in his powerful maleness which triggered Lauren’s femininity into responding both agitatedly and excitedly.

She had to tear her eyes away. ‘I—I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you there’s an en suite—’

‘It’s locked, lady. It’s bloody locked.’

‘It can’t be. It—’ As in the rest of the house, the bathroom lock was old-fashioned and needed a key. She tried it. He was right.

‘You’re not telling me you don’t know where the key is?’

‘Just a minute.’ She dived back into her room, withdrew the key from her own bathroom lock and hopefully tried it in his. It fitted.

‘Thank God for that.’ He made his somewhat swaying way through the doorway.

‘I’m sorry—I really didn’t know.’

There was a heavy sigh, then, ‘That’s OK. But, Miss Halstead…’ He eyed her minutely, assessingly, from the top of her head to her thighs, then down over her shapeliness, outlined plainly beneath the stretch fabric of her nightdress, to her tightly curling toes. ‘Nevernever do that to me again…’

Lauren fled.

Lauren stared through the kitchen window, listening to the kettle coming to the boil. The flowers glowed, the lawn radiated light. In the brilliant morning sun the cedar tree looked less intimidating, throwing its shadow away from the house.

The kitchen, as Marie had declared, possessed all the ‘mod cons’ a girl could want, but their modernity was in stark contrast to the roughly plastered stone walls, the oak dresser displaying blue and white crockery and the old-fashioned iron stove which had been left in place.

Should she, or shouldn’t she, Lauren wondered, consult her guest about breakfast? Guest? she asked herself. Well, she could hardly think of him as ‘the stranger’, could she, now that she knew his name, not to mention other—well, things about him? The colour in her cheeks came and went at the thought.

She climbed the stairs again, but outside his room she hesitated, then her knuckles knocked tentatively on the solid wood door. She opened it on hearing a weary, ‘Please enter.’

He lay back in a low chair, dressed, she noted to her relief, in jeans and an open-necked shirt. He looked washed out.

‘How are you feeling now, Mr Carmichael?’

Broad shoulders lifted and fell. ‘I think the fever’s passed, but I feel lousy.’

‘Would you—would you like some breakfast?’

‘Thanks, no.’ Then his head lifted and his gaze skated with male appreciation over her casual clothes—wellwashed jeans and a cotton top which, to her annoyance, no matter how baggy it became with wear, could not hide her shapeliness.

So he was OK in that specific area of his life, she thought with some amusement.

‘Tea—cup of? Any chance?’ he asked, letting his head fall back again.

‘Of course.’ She swung to the door. ‘I’ll go and make it’

‘Call and I’ll come.’

The faintly mocking note made her turn. Fever or no fever, there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes, and her inner self cautioned, Oh, no, you don’t, Mr Carmichael. Then, more insistently, Oh, no, you don’t, Lauren Halstead.