Valtieri's Bride & A Bride Worth Waiting For: Valtieri's BrideA Bride Worth Waiting For

by Caroline Anderson

  His voice was gruff and sleep-roughened, rasping like sandpaper across her senses. And, talking of sandpaper, she lifted her hand and rubbed her palm sensuously over his jaw, revelling in the coarse and very male drag of stubble on her skin.

  ‘Mmm,’ she groaned softly, and he rocked against her, tipping her on to her back and following her over, plundering her mouth as his hands explored her body lazily. He lifted his head and stared down at her, his face no longer expressionless, and she felt the surge of passion in his body. Heat coiled through her, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, drew his face down to hers again and took his mouth in a kiss full of promise.

  Later, when she’d recovered her breath and her heartbeat had slowed, she smiled up at him and stroked his jaw with her fingertips.

  ‘Wow,’ she murmured. ‘You can wake me up like that every morning for the rest of my life if you like.’

  A shadow seemed to flit through his eyes, leaving them troubled. ‘I hope you’ll give me that chance,’ he said quietly. He glanced at his watch, then sighed. ‘Annie, we have to make a move. The wind’s picking up—if it gets much worse they’ll close the Severn Bridge and we’ll have to go the long way round, and we’ve got far enough to go as it is.’

  He was pulling away from her, not just physically but emotionally. She could feel it, feel the chill of his withdrawal, and she felt curiously afraid.

  ‘Michael—you said you wanted to talk,’ she said, suddenly realising that she needed to know whatever it was. Needed to know it now—

  ‘Later. Not now. I want time alone with you. Tonight?’

  ‘I’ll have Stephen, but that’s not a problem. We can talk after he’s gone to bed. He won’t be late. If they’ve been up all night he’ll be out like a light by eight.’

  He nodded. ‘OK.’

  He stood up, pulling his gown back around him and tugging the belt tight. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour for breakfast.’

  And with that he went out on to the terrace, closed her door behind him and she heard his door click shut seconds later.

  A shiver went over her, and she frowned.

  Whatever he had to say to her, it couldn’t be that bad.

  Could it?

  * * *

  He dropped her off at her house at three and headed home. There were things he wanted to gather together before their talk—things he had to show her. And he needed time to get his head in order.

  First, though, was a nice long soak in the hot tub to ease out the kinks of the drive. The tension of these last few weeks was killing him, and he could feel a headache starting up, not helped by Stephen and Ed who’d been chattering non-stop in the car the entire way. Oh, well, at least they seemed to have had a good time.

  He put the kettle on, took a long, ice-cold drink of water from the fridge dispenser and downed some pills, then stared out over the valley towards her house.

  The wind was picking up, bending the trees, the gusts growing stronger by the minute.

  Gales had been forecast, and it seemed they weren’t wrong. He’d thought it was rough on the way back, the crosswind tugging at the car. The bridge had been open early in the morning, but he’d lay odds it was closed now.

  He felt a prickle in the back of his neck, and he frowned.

  It was his early-warning system, and he absolutely never ignored it. It had saved his life more times than he cared to remember. His eyes flicked to Annie’s house, and the prickling got worse.

  Damn.

  He was just reaching for the phone when it rang, and he grabbed it.

  ‘Harding.’

  Her voice was frantic. ‘Michael, it’s Annie—Stephen’s gone up the beech tree after the cat, and the tree’s creaking and now he’s stuck and I don’t know what to do and I’m so scared it’s going to fall—’

  His gut clenched with fear. The beech tree was huge—!

  ‘I’m coming. Tell him to stay still. Keep out of the way of the tree, do you understand?’ He said it again for emphasis. ‘Keep out of the way of the tree. Tell him to stay where he is. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

  It took him three, and he nearly put the Aston in the ditch on the S-bend, but then he was there and running into the back garden.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘There—’ She pointed up into the tree and then he saw him, clinging to a branch, his face white with terror. It was an old tree, and beeches weren’t known for their longevity. The roots were probably rotten, and it was creaking ominously with every gust.

  If he was lucky, he’d got minutes.

  ‘Michael, get him down, please—!’

  ‘Don’t worry. Get back out of the way, Annie. I’ll get him.’

  There was an old rope ladder at the bottom, attached to one of the lower branches, and he shinned up it in no time flat.

  ‘Don’t worry, Stephen, I’m coming,’ he yelled over the noise of the wind. ‘Hang on tight.’

  ‘The cat,’ he sobbed, and Michael glanced across to the end of the branch his son was clinging on to and saw the frightened ginger tom hanging on for dear life. He wasn’t alone. As Michael got to him, he could see Stephen’s knuckles were white and the boy was shaking.

  ‘It’s OK, son, I’ve got you,’ he said, grabbing hold of his jumper with an iron fist. ‘Right. I want you to turn and wrap your arms around my neck. Slowly, now. That’s it. Good boy. Now your legs round my waist, and hang on tight.’

  ‘What about Tigger?’

  ‘I can’t reach Tigger. Let me get you down first.’

  ‘But you must—’

  ‘In a minute. Hang on, we’re going down.’

  He glanced down and saw Annie standing, her fists pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with terror.

  The wind gusted again, nearly tearing him from the trunk, but he leant into it and hung on as the huge old tree shifted and groaned. He could feel it going, but then the wind eased and he reached out his foot, groping for a branch.

  ‘Left a bit,’ Annie called, and he found the branch, swung down to the ladder and slithered down it to the ground.

  ‘You have to get Tigger!’ Stephen was sobbing.

  ‘Michael, no!’

  ‘It’s OK. Go to your mum, Stephen. I’ll get him.’

  His son slid from his arms and ran towards Annie, and as Michael turned to go back up for the cat, cursing himself for a fool, the wind gusted again, there was an ominous crack and as if in slow motion the huge tree started to topple towards him.

  ‘Run!’ he bellowed and, turning on his heel, he sprinted towards them, throwing himself over them as the tree crashed down around them.

  He felt a stabbing pain in his leg, then there was another crack as the branches whiplashed in the aftermath, his head felt as if it had been split open and everything went black…

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘MRS HARDING?’

  She opened her mouth to explain that she wasn’t Michael’s wife, but then shut it and stood up, going towards the doctor.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Dazed, disorientated, nauseous—he’s had quite a blow to the head, but we’re rather concerned, in view of the extent of his previous surgery.’

  ‘Concerned?’ she echoed. ‘He’s not going to—?’

  She broke off, unable to say the words, but the doctor shook her head. ‘Not unless something changes radically, but we will need to keep him in overnight to be on the safe side. He keeps talking about Stephen, asking if he’s all right, and he’s asking for you—I take it you’re Annie?’

  ‘I am.’ She nodded. ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘Of course. Come with me.’

  She led Annie from the all too familiar relatives’ room through into another place
that was every bit as familiar. Resus. She’d been here several times with Roger over the years, and the place gave her the creeps.

  Michael was lying on a trolley-type bed, wired up to monitors that bleeped and squeaked and frightened the living daylights out of her.

  Oh, Lord. Not Michael, too, she prayed. Please, not Michael, too. I can’t lose another person that I love—

  ‘Annie?’

  His voice was rough and scratchy, but his eyes were wide open and locked on to hers like a laser, and she went straight to his side and took his hand, hanging on like grim death.

  ‘Michael! I was so worried. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said dismissively. ‘What about Stephen?’

  ‘He’s OK. He’s shaken up and scared, but he’s with Ed’s parents. They’re keeping him overnight. He’s got a few bumps and scratches, but he’s all right.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m fine. We both are.’

  ‘You sure?’

  His voice was slurred, but the urgency was all too clear and she hurried to reassure him.

  ‘I’m sure. I wouldn’t lie to you.’

  His eyes closed briefly. ‘Going to be sick,’ he said, and turning his head, he retched helplessly.

  She reached out a hand and smoothed back his hair, tears coursing unheeded down her cheeks. The nurse dealt with the bowl, wiped his mouth and settled him back on the blood-soaked pillow while she just stood there and tried not to fall apart.

  ‘Don’t worry about the blood,’ the doctor said, leading her to one side. ‘He’s got a head wound, they always bleed a lot. We’ve glued it already, and it’s the least of our concerns. I’ve asked the maxillo-facial surgeon to come down and take a look at his X-rays, because frankly I’m out of my depth. I just wondered if you could tell me where he had his facial reconstruction done, so we can speak to the surgeons there and get any information we might need to read the X-rays.’

  ‘Reconstruction?’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. We haven’t been together all that long.’ Try two weeks— ‘Ruth might know.’

  ‘Ruth?’

  ‘A friend—I’ve called her, she should be here soon.’

  ‘Got one for me?’ a man asked, and the doctor left her side and flicked a switch, bringing up the light behind a set of X-rays that even Annie could see weren’t normal.

  She frowned at them. Good grief. She’d realised he’d had an injury, obviously, but that extensive? There seemed to be bits of metal everywhere!

  The newcomer was pointing out things on the plates, and Annie could catch the odd word, but not all of them.

  ‘Replaced cheekbones—massive dental work—jaw—orbit must be altered—sight affected—contact lenses or glasses?’

  ‘Contact lenses.’

  She blinked at Michael. She’d never realised he wore contact lenses, and she’d certainly never seen him in glasses.

  ‘Amazing work,’ the man was saying, shaking his head and turning to look at Michael so she could hear him more clearly. ‘Fantastic result, you really wouldn’t know to look at him—must have been a hell of an injury. I would say he was lucky to survive, but he probably didn’t think so at the time. I doubt if his own mother would recognise him now. Let’s have a word.’

  He went over to Michael, bent over him and smiled. ‘Hi there. I’m Mr Hughes, the maxillo-facial surgeon. I’ve been called in to have a look at your X-rays. Can you tell me your name?’

  ‘Michael—Harding.’

  ‘OK. Can you tell me about your accident?’

  ‘Tree fell on me.’

  ‘OK, Mr Harding. What about before—when your face was damaged?’

  ‘Armstrong,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s Armstrong…’

  Annie blinked. Armstrong? Armstrong?

  The doctors exchanged significant glances.

  But he was slurring more and more, starting to ramble, and Mr Hughes fished out a penlight and flashed in it his eyes. That didn’t go down well and Michael turned away with a groan and retched again.

  ‘OK, I think you need to keep an eye on him but his pupils are equal and reactive. I can’t see any obvious fractures but I’d like a chat with him when he’s feeling better, to make sure there’s nothing unforeseen going on. And check the neck again. It might just be whiplash—it’s typical of severe facial injuries. Anything that hits the face that hard affects the neck, and the effects can be long-lasting and recurrent. Keep an eye out for a head injury; he’s obviously confused, but he’s very photophobic. He might be suffering from nothing more than migraine. Has he had pain relief?’

  The doctor shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I would give him morphine—’

  ‘Not morphine,’ Michael mumbled. ‘Not again. Not going cold turkey again, please. OK now. Just turn off the lights…’

  He trailed off, and they dimmed the lights around him slightly and he seemed to relax a little.

  ‘Mrs Harding?’ a nurse was saying. ‘I’ve got all his things here that were in his pockets. As we’re going to admit him I’ve got to list them and ask you to sign for them.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, thinking that she really must tell them that she wasn’t Mrs Harding—or Mrs Armstrong, come to that. What was that about? Funny thing to get confused about—

  ‘There’s just a few things—his phone, his keys, his wallet—that’s got £26.58 in it, and three cards, and this ring and chain and a photo—’

  ‘That’s my grandmother’s ring,’ she said, feeling a cold shiver run over her. She reached for it and picked it up, staring down at it in confusion. Why did Michael have it? She’d given it to Etienne—

  ‘Tell me where he had his facial reconstruction done—you really wouldn’t know to look at him—fantastic result—I doubt if his own mother would recognise him now…’

  Or his lover?

  She felt the blood drain from her face.

  Etienne. He was Etienne.

  Or Michael Harding.

  Or Michael Armstrong?

  She backed away. ‘I—I’m sorry, I need some air.’

  She turned and ran out, past the nurses, through the double doors and out into the car park, dragging in great lungfuls of air and gulping down the nausea.

  Who was he?

  ‘Annie?’

  She looked up into Ruth’s pale and worried face.

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked in a strange, hollow voice that she didn’t recognise. ‘I don’t know who he is, Ruth—what his name is, even. What’s going on?’

  Ruth swore softly under her breath. ‘I knew this would happen. Where is he?’

  She swallowed. ‘Resus. He’s OK. He’s got a head injury—they did X-rays—called a specialist down. He’d never seen anything like it—’

  She turned away, bile rising in her throat, and felt Ruth’s hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Idiot. I told him to tell you—’

  ‘Tell me what, Ruth? What is it he has to tell me? And how much do you know about it?’

  Ruth was silent, but her face said it all.

  Annie backed away, shaking her head. ‘You know, don’t you? You know all about it—you always have, right from the beginning. He said you go back years—how many years, Ruth? Nine? Is it nine?’

  Ruth’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t hate him, Annie. He loves you.’

  ‘Does he? Which one of him? Etienne Duprés? Michael Harding? Or Michael Armstrong, whoever the hell he might be? I haven’t been introduced to that one yet—’

  She turned, walking away from the hospital, her legs moving faster and faster until she was running, fighting against the wind that was tugging at her hair and streaking the tears as they fell down her cheek
s.

  Hands stopped her. Big, gentle hands that halted her progress and turned her, sobbing, against a firm, hard chest.

  ‘Do you want me to take you home?’

  She looked up, scanned an unfamiliar but kindly face with worried eyes.

  ‘I’m Tim Warren, by the way. Ruth’s fiancé.’

  The policeman. Surely he would be all right? She nodded. ‘If you don’t mind. I don’t think I can take any more—’

  ‘Let me tell Ruth what we’re doing. Hang on.’

  He ran back to her, spoke briefly, kissed her cheek and then was back by Annie’s side, his hand under her elbow, guiding her towards his car.

  Twenty minutes later she was home, and she held herself together just long enough to close the door on Tim before the dam burst.

  She lifted her hand to her mouth to hold back the sobs, and realised she was still holding the ring—the ring she’d given Etienne nine years ago on that fateful night to keep him safe.

  But what about her? What about keeping her safe, because nothing now seemed to make any sense.

  ‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘What do you want with me? What do you want with my son?’

  * * *

  ‘Idiot.’

  Michael winced. ‘Don’t. Head hurts.’

  ‘Good. It’s no more than you deserve,’ Ruth ranted at him, then turned away, talking to someone else. The doctor? ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘I believe so. Where’s Mrs Harding gone? I wanted to ask her something.’

  ‘Home,’ Ruth said, and he lay there puzzled and tried to work out who she was talking about. There was no Mrs Harding—and why was Ruth saying it was no more than he deserved? He’d been saving Stephen—

  ‘She wasn’t feeling well,’ Ruth was saying. ‘I think she’s gone to check on their son. Is it OK if I stay with him?’

  ‘Only if you don’t nag,’ he slurred, still trying to work it out.

  ‘You wish. I’m his sister,’ she lied, and glared down at him.

  He grunted, glaring back at her. ‘Where’s Annie gone?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Home. She knows, Michael.’

  It took a second to register, then his eyes slid shut and he swore, softly but fluently, in French.