Not a flattering comparison.
They went inside, dumped the bags with their wash things and fed the dogs, then went over to the barn to start the evening milking and water fetching.
She thought about his world—the world she’d left, the world of money and success and divorce and bitterness and acrimony—and wondered what he really thought of her and her little farm.
Unbelievably provincial.
Oh, well. She cranked the handle on the little Lister engine, topped up the water in the reservoir and went to milk her cows. Once the milk cooler was back on the tanker would come to her again, but in the meantime she was pouring the milk that the calves didn’t need onto the muck heap, and every day that passed left her poorer.
She tried not to think of her overdraft, of the state of her car and the stupidly damaged tractor, but in between cows there was nothing else to do. Sam was striding back and forth with buckets, and she watched him and wished their worlds weren’t so hopelessly far apart, not only in terms of distance but also in lifestyle.
She could always go back to his world, of course. There was nothing but stubborn loyalty tying her to Uncle Tom’s farm, and he’d never have expected her to do what she was doing. Still, the very thought—
The little engine coughed, and the revs dropped a touch before picking up. She put the cluster on the last cow, emptied the milk out and went to see what Sam was up to.
‘Nearly done?’ he asked her, still able to find a smile despite the sheen of sweat on his brow and the endless load he’d shifted.
‘On the last cow now. The Lister engine’s sounding a bit funny—do you think you could have a look at it?’
He grinned. ‘Sure—if you finish off the water to the calves.’
‘Oh, I suppose I could—you drive a hard bargain,’ she said with a smile, and he tapped her nose with the tip of his finger in a silly, tender gesture that left her knees weak and made her wish she could keep him here for ever.
It was dusk, and the snow was melting fast now. She walked down to the stream with the buckets, listening to the trickling of water under the snow all around her. The stream was up, full of melt-water, and she knew it would be days before she could turn the cattle out.
Oh, well.
She dipped the first bucket and set it down, then turned for the second.
As she did she caught sight of a fox, slinking along on the other bank, heading for her hen house.
‘Hey, you, go away! Leave my hens alone!’ she shouted.
Startled, it lifted its head and met her eyes, then vanished into the dusk. She shook her head. It was hungry, poor thing. It might have young to feed, but that was no excuse to steal her chickens.
She turned for the second bucket, not concentrating, and stepped off the cinder path onto the slush. It disappeared beneath her, and to her horror she felt herself slide down the bank and into the water.
‘Sam!’ she yelled, just as she hit the water and felt the icy cold shock of it on her legs. She screamed, flailing to keep her balance, but the current was too strong and her legs were tugged out from under her.
She reached out as she toppled and grabbed the edge of the step, her fingers fastening on the rough stone like limpets.
She tried to scream again, but the cold had robbed her lungs of air and all she could feel was terror and the greedy fingers of the water, dragging her down...
‘Jem?’
Sam cut the engine and listened, but there was nothing. He was sure he’d heard her—
‘Jem?’ He straightened and went out to the yard, calling her, but there was no reply. Had she gone inside?
It seemed unlikely. There was no light in the kitchen, and he could hear the dogs barking.
Odd.
He went into the other barn, to the youngsters, but there was no sign of her, so he went down to the stream. There was no sign of her there, either, but the buckets were there. Whatever was she up to? He called again. and tipped his head on one side.
Had that been her? A tiny sound, more of a wail than a shout, coming from—
‘Oh, lord,’ he murmured, and broke into a run, skidding to a halt by the side of the stream.
Her fingers were clamped on the step, blue with cold, locked onto it so tight he could hardly free them, and her body was lying horizontally in the water, waving in the current like a reed.
Fear gripped him, and, kneeling down, he reached in for her.
‘I’ve got you,’ he yelled, grabbing her by the back of the neck and hoisting her out of the rushing stream.
She sagged against his chest, icy water streaming off her and soaking him, making him gasp with the shock of the cold. ‘Sam?’ she whispered soundlessly.
His hands tightened convulsively. ‘Oh, Jemima, what the hell were you doing? You could have been killed!’
‘Fell,’ she mouthed.
She shuddered feebly, shocked and frozen, and he hauled her up into his arms and staggered to his feet. ‘I’ve got to get you warm,’ he told her grimly. ‘Just hang on.’
He carried her into the kitchen, dumped her on a chair by the Rayburn and shut the dogs in the parlour out of the way. Then he ripped off his coat, pushed up his sleeves and set about stripping her out of her sodden clothes.
She was blue with cold—literally blue, all over. He grabbed a towel off the front of the Rayburn and wrapped it round her, tugging her to her feet so he could pull down her clinging jeans and let the warmth to her legs.
‘C-c-c-o-old,’ she juddered, shaking convulsively, and he ran upstairs, grabbed the quilt off her bed and some towels from the bathroom and ran down again.
He didn’t know the first thing about hypothermia, but he knew one thing. She had to get warm, slowly and thoroughly, and the best way to do that was to get dry. So he rubbed her arms and legs with the towels, chafing the blue skin and scrubbing at the goosebumps while she sat huddled in the quilt.
Her lips were blue, her face was chalk white and he felt sick. ‘I’m going to call an ambulance.’
‘No-I’m all right,’ she said shakily. ‘Just—hold me.’
He hesitated for a moment, then ripped his sweater over his head, shucked off his jeans and picked her up, spreading the quilt on the floor in front of the fire. Then he lay down, pulled her into the curve of his body and threw the quilt over them both.
She was like ice. Her flesh was stiff with cold, her back freezing against his naked chest, and he sucked his breath in and held her firmly back against his warmth. She moaned softly, wriggling harder against him, and he wrapped her feet in his and laid his hands over the soft curve of her abdomen and waited for the shaking to stop.
Finally, after an age, she seemed to relax, just the odd shudder racking her slender frame from time to time, and he reached out and grabbed a cushion off the chair, tucking it under her head to make her more comfortable.
‘Don’t go,’ she whispered.
‘I’m not going.’
She slumped against him again, sighing with relief, and he let his hands relax. The arm underneath her was going to sleep, so he shifted it slightly, bending his elbow so he could stroke her hair. The other hand wrapped around hers, the fingers meshing, holding her safe.
He might have lost her. If he hadn’t heard her, if he’d been just a few more moments—
It was a sickening thought, and his fingers tightened convulsively.
‘Sam?’
‘It’s OK. Are you all right?’
‘Mmm. Sleepy.’
‘Go to sleep, then. I’ll look after you.’
She did, almost immediately, her breathing steadying and becoming shallow and even, her limbs soft and warm now, relaxed against his. He closed his eyes, let the tension drain away and rested his head against hers. Just a few minutes, he promised himself. Just a little longer...
She woke up feeling hot. There was something scorching all the way down her back, from her neck to her ankles, and something else hot and heavy curled around her breast.
&nb
sp; Sam’s hand, and Sam behind her, warming her.
She would have died without him, she realised, and a shudder ran through her at the thought. She shifted slightly and his hand tightened, the fingers curving reflexively to cup her breast. She eased his hand away, regretting the loss of contact, and tried to wriggle away, but he pulled his hand free and wrapped it round her, pulling her back.
‘Where are you going?’ he mumbled.
‘Nowhere. It’s dark. Where are the dogs?’
‘Next door. They’re OK.’
‘They need to go out. I can hear them.’
‘I’ll do it. Are you OK?’
She laid a hand against his, curled possessively around her ribs this time. ‘I’m fine. Thanks, Sam. You saved my life—’
‘Don’t.’ His arm tightened convulsively. ‘If I’d finished off first before I went to look at the engine it would never have happened.’
‘Don’t be silly. You were on your way to London. It’s just lucky you were here.’
They were silent for a moment, both dwelling on what might have happened if he’d gone back as he’d intended.
‘I’m all right,’ she said softly, and turned towards him. ‘Don’t torture yourself.’
He pulled her into his arms, burying his head in the hollow of her shoulder, and she hugged him briefly, then eased away. ‘Sam, the dogs—’
‘OK.’ He crawled out of their makeshift bed and tucked the quilt back round her, then after lighting the lantern he tugged on his damp jeans and sweater, put the dogs out, made a cup of tea and put the Rayburn to bed for the night.
The dogs came in, wet-pawed and enthusiastic, greeting Jemima lovingly. She hugged them, sitting up against the wall, the quilt anchored firmly under her arms, and Sam handed her a cup of tea and perched on the edge of a chair, watching her grimly over the rim of his mug.
‘I’m fine, Sam. Stop worrying.’
‘You were blue. Blue all over—blue and orange. Just another few moments in that water—’
‘Sam, stop it!’
He shut his eyes, his head bowed, and he took a long, deep breath. Poor Sam. She could hardly remember anything about it—just seeing the fox and slipping, and then the terrible, numbing cold until she woke naked in his arms. It must have been far worse for him.
She pushed the dogs off and put her tea down, then wriggled over to him, still wrapped in the quilt. ‘Sam?’ she murmured.
He lifted his head and his eyes opened, vague and unfocused, still seeing her in the river, she imagined. She laid a hand on his. ‘Sam, come to bed with me.’
They focused then, spearing her like blue lasers. For an age he was silent, and she thought she’d misunderstood all that he’d said, all the subtle looks and signals, the laughter they’d shared.
And then he stood and drew her to her feet, and scooped her into his arms. ‘Bring the lantern,’ he said tersely, and she hooked it up with her fingers and dangled it out to the side while he manoeuvred them through the doorway and up the stairs to her room.
He set her down carefully on the edge of the bed, then took the lantern from her hand and put it on the chest of drawers. The cat followed them in, and he turned and scooped it up and put it firmly back on the landing, then closed the door.
Jemima sat on the bed, snuggled in the quilt, and watched breathlessly as he reached over his head and grasped the neck of his sweater, tugging it off. His skin gleamed in the lamplight, gliding smoothly over the underlying muscles, making her fingers ache to touch him.
He dropped the sweater on the floor, then reached for his jeans. The rasp of his zip made her breath catch in her throat, and she waited, mesmerised, as he hooked his thumbs in the waistband and peeled off jeans and briefs in one swift, economical movement.
He came to her then, a vulnerable uncertainty touching the depths of his eyes. There was no uncertainty in hers, in any part of her. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
She stood up, leaving the quilt behind, and reached out for him. His lips met hers as their bodies closed the gap, and she laid her hands against the strong column of his spine and wished she could stroke him, touch him as she wanted to, but her hands were so harsh, so rough and coarse with work that she was ashamed.
‘Jem?’
He must have sensed her hesitation. She looked up into his eyes and ached with longing and misery. ‘I want to touch you.’
‘So touch me.’
‘You said it was like being touched up by a builder—’
He made a soft growl in the back of his throat. ‘Touch me, Jem,’ he whispered, and his voice was ragged with need. ‘Please, sweetheart, touch me...’
So she did, letting her fingers explore the contours of his back, his shoulders, his ribs, and all the while his hands echoed hers, like a dance.
She realised he was following her, so she let her hands slide up his ribs, so that her palms covered the taut, pebbled coins of his nipples, and felt his hands close possessively over her breasts.
It robbed her of air, driving the last of her breath out in a shaken sigh. ‘Sam?’
‘I need you, Jem,’ he muttered, and she could feel the tension in him, in the rigid cords of muscle under her hands, in the jerky movement of his chest as he breathed, in the savage pounding of his heart against her palm.
She drew back and turned, picking the quilt up and throwing it across the bed, then flicking it aside before turning back to him.
‘Coming?’ she asked.
He laughed softly. ‘I hope not—not yet.’
Their eyes locked, and she held out her hand. ‘Come to me, Sam,’ she murmured. ‘I need you, too.’
The sheets were freezing against her bare skin, and she shivered slightly as she lay back and waited for him. She didn’t have long to wait He was there, his arms circling her, lifting her against him, his mouth locking on hers with desperation.
Good heavens, she thought, no one’s ever really kissed me before, and then she stopped thinking and gave herself up to sensation...
Sam lay listening to the soft, even sound of her breathing, his arms cradling her against his body. She was draped across him bonelessly, her hair tangling in his mouth, her slender limbs sprawled in utter relaxation.
He was stunned by how he felt. It was as if there’d never been anyone else, as if the handful of carefully chosen and cherished women who’d gone before were no longer there. He couldn’t imagine touching anyone else the way he’d touched Jemima—couldn’t imagine anyone else touching him with the tentative, hesitant strokes she’d used to drive him wild.
Emotion rose to choke him, filling his chest until there wasn’t room for air. He let his breath out in what sounded suspiciously like a sob, and squeezed his eyes tight against the hot sting of tears.
She could have died tonight, he thought. If her fingers had slipped and she’d been carried downstream—if he hadn’t heard her call, or heard the dogs bark—she could be lying on a slab now, waiting for a pathologist to come and—
He dragged in a huge breath and hugged her closer. She made a warm, sleepy noise and snuggled against him, and he tipped her head and kissed her awake.
‘Sam?’ she murmured sleepily, and her arms slid up and circled his neck, drawing him down to her.
He went willingly, his body claiming hers again, rising to new heights in her arms as he lost himself in the tenderness of her embrace.
Jemima woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains, and the sound of running water in the loft. She lay, replete and contented, trying to analyse the sound and what was strange about it, but she was too busy letting her hands walk over Sam, stroking the heavy length of thigh that had fastened over her legs, pinning them down.
She ran a finger behind his knee and he twitched, ticklish there even in his sleep. She smiled lazily and laid her hand against the corded muscle of his thigh, just enjoying the feel. of him for the few precious minutes that were left to them.
They would have to get up soon and see to the stock. The
calves hadn’t finished getting their water last night, thanks to her unscheduled dip, and they would have to do that first—
‘Of course!’ she said, sitting bolt upright. Sam’s arm fell off her chest and slid down to her thighs, and he woke and blinked at her.
‘Jemima? What’s going on?’
“The power’s back on!‘ she said excitedly, turning to him and grabbing him by the hand. ’The pump’s working, filling the tank! Sam, it’s all right now! We won’t have to carry water any more.’
And there would be no need for him to stay. Her face must have fallen, because he reached up and drew her down, shifting so that he lay over her. His lips met hers, seeking tenderly, and with the knowledge of him leaving she gave him everything she was, everything she could be.
He was more demanding than before, his hands a little rougher, touched with desperation as he took her over the edge with him one last glorious time.
There was no sleepy aftermath. He rolled away from her in silence, tugged on his clothes and went down to the kitchen. She heard him putting the dogs out and going out into the yard, checking the water, presumably.
She felt—not used, but abandoned, a little hurt by his abrupt departure. She dressed quickly, promising herself a long, lazy soak in the bath later, once the tank was full and the cows were milked, and ran downstairs just as he came back in.
‘Everything seems all right. I’ve turned the lights off in the yard.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Tea?’
‘I’ve put the kettle on.’
How ridiculous.
They’d been closer than she’d ever felt with anyone in her life, not just physically but emotionally, and now they were talking like polite acquaintances.
Hardly even that.
‘Sam—’
‘Jemima—’
They laughed awkwardly. ‘You first,’ he said.
She found a smile from somewhere. ‘Thanks for last night,’ she said gruffly. ‘All of it—fishing me out of the river, warming me up—and afterwards. Staying with me. Holding me.’ She hesitated, wondering if it was true. ‘Loving me.’
A Funny Thing Happened... Page 9
