Caroline Anderson, Josie Metcalfe, Maggie Kingsley, Margaret McDonagh

by Brides of Penhally Bay Vol. 03 (li

  He came back to bed, and she heard the crackle of the pill packet, heard the swallow as he took his painkillers, felt the mattress dip slightly as he lay down with a muffled groan.

  She cracked an eye open. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with one arm flung up over his head.

  ‘Fran?’

  His voice was soft, little more than a breath, but she ignored it, afraid to answer, afraid to open that Pandora’s box.

  After an age, he sighed quietly, the arm settling over his eyes, and eventually a soft snore heralded his slide into sleep.

  She wasn’t so lucky. Every cell of her body was aware of him, every breath he took, every slight shift, every grunt. She daren’t relax, daren’t go to sleep in case she ended up curling into his side. So she lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to him breathe, until the sky lightened and she could creep away…

  Mike woke alone.

  Odd, that. He was always the first to wake, the first to get up, the last to come to bed. He was never alone in bed.

  He hated it.

  He had no idea where Fran was, what she was doing, and how she’d greet him when he finally caught up with her.

  He thought back to the night, to the way she’d recoiled from him, pretending to be asleep and rolling away from him—because she had pretended, she had been awake, and in the end he’d had to get up and move around or he’d have screamed with frustration.

  So he’d gone to the bathroom, and the pain in his leg had dealt with his untimely arousal, and he’d gone back to bed and stared at the ceiling for ages while Fran had lain rigid beside him and feigned sleep. Again.

  He swore, softly and comprehensively. Where on earth did they go from here?

  The kitchen would be a good start. He could hear voices, and he got up, slowly and carefully, and struggled into his boxers. He didn’t bother with his dressing-gown. It was hot today, and he needed a shower. Maybe Joe was about.

  He made his way slowly and carefully downstairs, shuffling down on his bottom because he’d been warned in no uncertain terms not to put any weight through his leg yet—not that he needed warning. Even resting it on the floor made it ache like hell.

  The kitchen, when he eventually got there, was rammed again. It had obviously become Party Central since his accident, he decided, and discovered that he was relieved, because otherwise he’d have to deal with Fran without anyone to run interference.

  Except she wasn’t there.

  ‘Morning.’

  They looked up, Joe and his father from breakfast, his mother from the sink, Sarah from sorting a pile of vegetables by the fridge. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Fran’s gone over to the shop to get some fruit. Joe, shove up, let him sit down. Want a cup of tea, Mike?’

  ‘Um—thanks,’ he said, sinking gratefully into the chair Joe had vacated and stretching his leg out cautiously. Brodie propped herself against the other one and gazed soulfully up at him as if she couldn’t understand why he’d deserted her. He rubbed her behind her ears, and she washed his hand, her eyes still on him anxiously. Sarah brought his tea over, set it down and stared at him open-mouthed.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, and his brother grunted.

  ‘That’s my brother you’re eyeing up,’ he reminded her, and she laughed.

  ‘Really? I thought he was a refugee from a film set. The last time I saw bruises like that was a post-mortem in a forensic science drama. Impressive. You ought to take photos.’

  ‘Don’t overdo the sympathy,’ Mike said, but he was smiling, knowing that in her way Sarah was telling him how sorry she was that he was hurt. ‘Any more of that bacon, Mum?’

  She dragged her eyes from his side and tried for a smile. ‘Coming up. Want it in a sandwich?’

  ‘Lovely. With an egg in it. You’re a star.’

  And then Fran was back, with a box full of fruit, and he stared at it in surprise. ‘Is that all close to its sell-by date?’ he asked. They often got a surplus of one kind of fruit or another, but not normally so much at once unless it had been over-ordered, and they tried not to do that. It dented profits.

  But to his surprise she coloured a little and put the box down on the side. ‘There was a lot and I just thought it looked nice,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘Fruit’s good for you, and I’ve got some cheese and yoghurt as well. You need all those vitamins and minerals to help you mend and build your strength up.’

  What for? he thought. What have you got in mind for me? Because it’s clearly not sex…

  He felt his body reacting at the thought, and regretted leaving his dressing-gown upstairs, but his mother put the sandwich down in front of him and he leant forwards, giving himself a bit of privacy until he got his crazed libido under control. Hell, he must be nuts, but all he could think about was her bottom, soft and warm and snuggled up to him…

  She bent over, putting the fruit in the fridge, and he was treated to the curve in question, her jeans, loose now since she’d lost weight, pulling taut as she bent and giving him a tempting view of the very part of her that was giving him so much trouble.

  He yanked his eyes off her and concentrated on not dribbling the softly fried egg down his chest.

  ‘You around for a while?’ he asked Joe around a mouthful of sandwich.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need a shower.’

  Joe arched a brow. ‘Long time since we shared a shower,’ he said dryly, and Mike felt himself colour.

  ‘I don’t want to share it with you, you jackass. I need someone to grab me when I fall over, and Fran’s too little. I’d squash her.’

  Joe looked disbelieving, but he shrugged and nodded. ‘I can give you a hand. Be more fun with Fran, though.’

  He felt himself colour again, his neck reddening, and his hands itched to strangle Joe. Not that his brother realised he was being tactless. How could he? Only they knew their marriage was in tatters.

  ‘Don’t tease him, Joe,’ their mother said gently, and Mike heard something else in her tone. A warning? A warning to tread softly?

  So maybe their problems weren’t as private as he’d thought.

  Damn.

  He pushed the plate away. ‘That was lovely, Mum. Thanks. Right, Joe, are you ready? I don’t want to hold you up, I know you’ve got loads to do.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Joe said, dropping his mug into the sink and handing his brother the crutches. ‘Come on, then, Hopalong, let’s get you scrubbed. Pity we haven’t still got the sheep-dip.’

  ‘Ha-ha. I need a bin bag and some elastic bands,’ he said, and while Joe found those, he headed upstairs the same way he’d come down.

  He turned the shower on, got the temperature right and then Joe trussed his leg up like a turkey and he swung round into the bath, getting awkwardly to his feet and pulling the shower curtain closed. ‘So how are we going to manage this, Joe?’ he asked.

  ‘Hell, you want me to wash you?’ Joe asked in disbelief.

  ‘Not the shower—the farm,’ Mike retorted, struggling with the soap and wondering if a little help wouldn’t go amiss.

  There was a heavy sigh from Joe, and the curtain twitched back a little. ‘We’ll cope, bro. You get yourself right. Don’t worry about the farm. Dad’s quite enjoying having a bit to do with it again, and at least the weather’s nice.’

  ‘Yeah—and Mum was probably planning all sorts of work on their house in the next few weeks and it won’t get done.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s always another day. Want a hand with your hair?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ he lied, struggling to scrub it with one elbow propped against the tiles so he didn’t lose his balance. He rinsed it quickly, swilled the water over his body one last time and turned off the taps. ‘Might need a hand getting out,’ he confessed, and Joe steadied him while he sat on the edge and swivelled round, grunting with the pain in his side.

  ‘Your ribs OK?’ Joe asked, giving him a searching look.

  ‘Not really, but what are you going to do a
bout it? What I could really do with is a good night’s sleep. I couldn’t get comfortable last night.’

  Except when I was snuggled up to Fran, he thought, but didn’t voice it. Too much information, and he didn’t want to think about it when he was stark naked. His body was all too keen to betray him at the moment.

  Joe towelled off his back and leg, took the bin bag off his cast and washed his toes carefully with a flannel, then looked round. ‘Got any clean boxers?’

  ‘In the bedroom. It doesn’t matter, I’ll go like this.’

  ‘What, and shock Mum rigid? You’ve grown up a bit since she changed your last nappy.’

  ‘Well, then, hopefully she won’t be foolish enough to be in my bedroom.’

  She wasn’t. Fran was, bending over the laundry basket, and he grabbed another pair of new boxers out of the drawer, struggled into them and then lay back under cover of the quilt to get his breath.

  ‘You OK now?’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks, Joe. You go and get on. I’m sorry to hold you up—and I’m sorry about all this…’ He waved in the general direction of his leg, and Joe shot him a wry grin.

  ‘Could have been a whole lot worse, big bro,’ he said softly, and left them.

  Alone.

  Fran stood up, washing in her arms, and eyed him warily. ‘Are you OK? You have to go to the fracture clinic in a bit.’

  He nodded. ‘Can you take me?’

  ‘Of course I can,’ she said, frowning slightly. ‘I need to put the washing on. Can you manage to dress yourself?’

  He nodded again, not wanting to make her do anything intimate for him—not if it was so repugnant to her—and her recoil in the night couldn’t have been clearer. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll come down in a little while,’ he said.

  ‘Take your painkillers first,’ she advised, and left the room as if it was on fire.

  The fracture clinic seemed happy with him.

  He told them he was having trouble getting comfortable, and they gave him some advice for propping up his leg in the night—advice which Fran was relieved to know would make it impossible for her to end up snuggled on his lap, thank goodness, because he’d have to lie on his back. At least it didn’t seem to be swelling, so long as he kept it propped up, and that seemed to be what worried them most.

  She drove him home, and when they were almost there, he asked her to drive down to the river. ‘I want to see it,’ he said.

  ‘What, the tree?’ she asked, a cold shiver of dread running over her. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To know how big an idiot I was?’

  She gave a strangled little laugh. ‘Oh, I can tell you that.’

  ‘I thought you had,’ he pointed out. ‘But I want to see for myself.’

  So she detoured, turning left instead of right and running down past Tregorran House to the gate at the bottom of the hill, opening it and driving along the river until they reached the fallen tree.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘The crime scene.’

  He opened the door, got out with difficulty and swung himself over to the tree on his crutches, standing there and staring down at it for an age.

  He could see the depression where Joe had dug away the ground under his leg. It was about five feet from where the tree had ended up—which would put it right across the back of his shoulders, maybe even his head. Whatever, he wouldn’t have survived it.

  He felt goose-bumps coming up all over him, and he gave a sudden shiver.

  Fran took his arm. ‘Come on, Mike. You’ve seen enough,’ she said softly, and he looked at her and realised she was as white as a sheet.

  Poor Fran. He wanted to hug her. Was it wise?

  ‘Ah, hell,’ he muttered, and turned back to the Land Rover. He couldn’t hug her, could he, with the crutches hanging on his arms? And anyway, she probably wouldn’t want it. He got back in, swung his legs in—he was getting good at it now, although his ribs still hurt like hell to do it—and Fran shut the door.

  She walked round the bonnet, giving the tree one last wary look, and slid behind the wheel, starting the engine and heading back towards the road.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shot him a startled look. ‘What for?’

  ‘Being so bloody stupid. Scaring the living daylights out of you. Making you come back here when you obviously didn’t want to. Take your pick.’

  She sighed softly and gave him a hesitant little smile. ‘Idiot. Put your seat belt on. I don’t want you flying through the windscreen if we meet a lunatic tourist. We’ve all got enough to worry about at the moment.’

  He fastened his seat belt obediently, tried to find a comfortable position against the backrest as they jolted down the track and then sighed with relief when they hit the flat, even surface of the road again. They were home in moments, and he slid down out of the Land Rover and swung himself towards the back door.

  ‘Gosh, it’s hot,’ Fran said, following him in. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Coffee would be good.’

  There was a second’s hesitation, then she said, ‘Oh. I was thinking more of something cold—a fruit smoothie? Use up some of that lovely fruit I sorted out this morning.’

  He would rather have had a coffee, but she was right, the fruit needed to be used up and with all the painkillers he was on, if he didn’t have fruit his system would grind to a halt. ‘Sounds good,’ he lied, and eased himself into a chair. Brodie wasn’t around—gone off with Joe and Sarah, probably, so it was just him and Fran and a rather awkward tension between them which he’d never felt before.

  She peeled and chopped the fruit—strawberries, a chunk of melon, two bananas and a handful of blueberries—threw in a good glug of locally sourced apple juice and turned on the liquidiser.

  At least it drowned out the silence, he thought, and then she handed him a glass of purplish mush, clinked hers against it and said, ‘Welcome home, Mike.’

  What could he do? He picked up the glass, took a breath and sipped, then frowned at it. ‘This is really nice,’ he said, surprised, and she smiled—in relief?

  ‘Good. Drink up, and you can go and have a lie-down. You look tired.’

  He was, and, curiously, what he wanted more than anything was to ask her to join him, but he didn’t think he could. Not easily. Not after last night.

  So he drank up, took some more painkillers and went to bed.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HE SLEPT most of that day, and the night was made easier by the stack of pillows under and around his leg, propping it up and protecting his toes from the pressure of the quilt. Not that he needed it, because it was hot, and in the end they abandoned it in favour of a sheet.

  But then it grew cooler, the wind picking up a little, and because their bedroom was on a corner and there was a cross-draught from the windows, Fran found herself snuggling closer to him for warmth.

  Only her head and shoulders, her body carefully kept out of reach, but he slid his arm round her and held her, and together they slept the rest of the night till the fingers of light crept over the horizon and woke them.

  Well, woke her. And when she looked up, Mike was watching her, his eyes curiously intent, and her heart thumped.

  ‘Want a drink?’ she asked him, easing away and stretching out the kinks in her neck.

  ‘Mmm. Tea would be nice.’

  She hesitated. ‘How about juice? It’s quicker and it won’t keep you awake.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Fran, I’ve slept for nearly eighteen hours straight, apart from waking up for supper. I don’t think sleep’s an issue.’

  ‘OK.’

  She slipped out of bed and went down to the kitchen, foraging in the back of the cupboard for the decaf tea bags she’d bought for them. ‘Oh, Brodie, it would be so much easier if I could tell him what I was doing and why, but I don’t know if I can. What do you think he’ll say?’

  And that was the trouble, of course. Mike was avoiding her, she was avoiding him, and they just weren’
t talking. Not that they ever had, really. Maybe that was the trouble, but once the lid was off that box…

  ‘I can’t talk to him, Brodie. Not about getting pregnant again. Not until I know how he feels about me.’ And, of course, without talking to him, she never would.

  ‘So—what are we going to do today?’

  Mike dragged his eyes from the window and looked at her. They were in the sitting room overlooking the garden and the sea in the distance, the church and lighthouse just visible on the horizon.

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me,’ he said, wondering if he sounded like a spoilt brat. He felt like one. If it wasn’t for the physical impossibility, he would have stamped his foot, but because he couldn’t he just ground his teeth and crossed his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers on the other arm.

  God, he hated the inactivity! Hated sitting still, being unable to do anything, just—sitting, for heaven’s sake! He never sat! Well, not unless he was in front of the computer, filling in endless farm returns and tweaking the farm-shop website. Maybe he should do that.

  ‘How about going for a drive?’

  He thought about it, but his ribs probably weren’t up to being jostled and he’d quickly discovered that if he didn’t have his foot up, the cast got uncomfortably tight. Although comfort wasn’t really a word he could have used truthfully and it was all a matter of degree.

  ‘We could play Scrabble.’

  Fran stared at him. ‘You hate Scrabble.’

  ‘Not as much as I hate lying here doing nothing. Got any better ideas?’

  She looked away, and he was stunned to see a warm sweep of colour brush over her cheeks. Fran, blushing? She got up hastily and crouched down, rummaging in the cupboard where the games were kept, and by the time she straightened up her colour had returned to normal.

  She still didn’t look at him, though, and he was fascinated. Fascinated, and very curious, and strangely a little edgy.