Joe dragged him up and Paul stood laughing with his friend while his cheeks flushed to a bright red.
“It’s actually comforting to know that you can be brought down sometimes, you great idiot.” Joe dusted him off, took the white cane from Amy and handed it to the embarrassed man in front of him. “Don’t be so bloody stupid another time and use your cane. The uneven ground around here is like a death trap to you. If you had been carrying the knife you could have embedded it in your own flipping heart.”
Paul laughed again in response and replied quickly.
“I might do if I had one. I think it was cut out a long time ago, so no worries on that count.” He had rubbed his chest slowly as the tension caught him under his ribs once again.
Later, as he sat next to a delicious smelling Amy, he could barely eat his dinner for feeling as though he was going to sick it back up again and he had pushed the succulent roast meat around his plate. He had pressed his fingers against his forehead and was surprised to find that it was slick with sweat.
For the second evening in a row he had excused himself and gone to bed early but sleep hadn’t claimed him. He had lain awake listening to the château creak and groan as the old stone and wood settled down for the night. A branch of a tree brushed against his window making a soft sweeping sound that caught his attention constantly. An owl hooted somewhere deep in the forest and an answering yip of a fox echoed through the trees as he rolled over in his bed for the umpteenth time.
He gave up and sat up in the bed. It was at times like this he really missed reading a good book. Audio books were great but sometimes the voices were not as he expected and that put him off the tale. Braille was fine and he had found it easy to learn but it was cumbersome. There just wasn’t the variety of books readily available. Ordering was easy if you didn’t mind the week long wait but they tended to be thick and heavy when they did eventually arrive.
He reached out and slid his hand across the bedside cabinet, his fingers groping for his iPod and headphones. He shoved the earpieces in his ears and flipped through his selection of music. Nothing sounded right. He pulled the earpieces out again, rolled to the edge of the bed and stood up. He walked to the end of the bed and turned left to the bathroom.
He ran his fingertips along the edge of the bath and suddenly had a vivid image in his head of Amy lying naked and smiling in the tub as she welcomed him into mountains of frothy white bubbles.
“Shit!” He bit out the word as his mind and body went into immediate overdrive.
He remembered vividly the last time he had slept with a woman. It had been months previously and even then it had been a completely nauseating affair. The woman had picked him up at a bar and had been so attentive, laughing not appearing to mind his blind clumsiness at all when he knocked over a drink and then tipped the next over her skirt when the bar tender served him another.
It was only hours later when they were lying in her bed after a hurried and unsatisfactory coupling, that he had heard her slide her hands into his trouser pockets, feeling for his wallet. He had waited silently until she had his money in her hands before he spoke up and commented that if she was a prostitute then she’d only had to say and he would have paid her. If his memory served him correctly, his evening had gone even further downhill from there on in, ending up with him nursing a sore, slapped cheek as he was shoved out into the street, half naked and still without his money.
The thoughts of Amy’s warm and silky body shimmering temptingly beneath a billion buoyant bubbles were far more alluring.
He marched into the shower area and turned the faucet to an icy cold. He stripped off his boxers and stepped beneath the spray.
He gasped as the needles of frigid water hit his body and he forced himself to remain facing the chilly cascade. He bore it for several minutes before his imagination and body were back under tight control as his toes began to hurt in the freezing water swirling around his feet. He turned up the temperature and gave himself a shot of warm water all over before he turned the shower off again and felt around for the towel.
He cursed as he realized far too late that it had slipped off the shower rail and was now sitting in a soaked pile on the floor of the wet room. He grabbed the hand towel and rubbed himself down quickly before he picked up the sodden mass at his feet and dumped it in the bath.
He lugged open the bathroom door and stomped into his bedroom then he dragged his dressing gown over his still damp body and sat down again.
His stomach growled noisily and he realized how hungry he actually was. The indigestion had left him and he needed food.
“Shit!” He muttered again. His feet found his slippers and he shoved his still cold toes into them. Then he stood up again, made his way to the door and then padded along the hallway.
It didn’t take him long to find the kitchen. He walked in and stopped dead as he sniffed the air. Amy’s scent! Two dinners in the kitchen and the whole damned château smelled of the blasted woman.
“Bloody woman!” He muttered under his breath as he paced past the big table and moved slowly along the units, his fingers outstretched as he familiarized himself with the general layout of the counter. He knew that Patrick had an industrial sized fridge somewhere in here and it was only a matter of feeling his way along before he found it.
He came across chopping boards and the knife block before he discovered the sink and then the kettle. He was a little surprised to find it still hot. He could have sworn that the rest of the household had gone to bed hours previously. He lifted it and gauged that there was enough water in it to make a cup of tea. He flipped the switch and noted that the element began heating quickly then he carried on his search for the fridge.
His hands soon reached the smooth door of the appliance and he felt for the handle. His nose told him that there was a selection of cold meats on the top shelf. He reached in and touched the edge of a plate, pulling it forwards gently just in case it was caught on any other dishes. It wasn’t, so he lifted the tin foil covering and poked an experimental finger at its contents.
His finger told him that Patrick had guessed that he would be peckish. There were several cut slices on top of the joint of meat and he leaned into the fridge to sniff at it. His nose told him that he had found delicious honey roasted ham. He put the plate of meat on the work surface and turned back to the now boiled water.
He reached up to the cupboard above the kettle and as expected he discovered mugs and a box of teabags. He dropped a teabag into a mug and then hooked his thumb over the rim of the mug and began pouring the boiled water. The hot water hit the nail of his thumb and he stopped pouring. While his tea brewed, he moved along again until he found a cloth covered basket. A quick investigation under the cloth had him retrieving a crusty roll that he placed it on the breadboard in front of him and tore open with his fingers.
Pleased that he hadn’t needed to use any of the lethally sharp knives from the knife block, he folded a slice of the ham into the bread and then frowned. He moved back to the fridge, taking the plate of remaining ham with him and depositing it back on the shelf. Then he felt along the bottles and jars inside the door. A moment later, after some quick sniffs at the terracotta pots, he was spreading deliciously thick, homemade mustard mayonnaise into his sandwich with a knife that he had unerringly found in the drawer at the end of the huge farmhouse table. He kept his finger on his sandwich as he opened the cupboard next to the mugs and picked out a small plate.
He moved his roll to the plate and then frowned again. He had forgotten the milk for his tea. Placing the plate with the roll and the mug next to each other on the counter he went to the fridge again and this time he squeezed one or two of the plastic bottles in the door before he selected one. He opened the lid and sniffed at the neck of the bottle. Orange juice. He put it back and went to the shelf below. His next attempt had him discovering thick chocolate milkshake but his third try was correct and he moved back to his mug with the bottle. He checked the depth of his t
ea with his thumb and then removed the teabag. He squeezed it carefully and walked to the sink. He opened the cupboard beneath and dropped the teabag in the bin then he paced back to his mug and poured the correct amount of milk into the tea without spilling a drop.
When the milk was back in the fridge he moved along to the sink and felt for the dishwasher beside it. He dropped his knife in the rack then picked up the dishcloth from where it hung over the tap. He swept the kitchen surfaces where he had prepared his food and then, after sniffing the air suspiciously once more and muttering ‘Bloody woman’ under his breath again, he picked up his snack and his drink and strode out of the kitchen.
Amy sat in the half light at the end of the kitchen table hardly daring to breathe. Her tea sat cooling rapidly in front of her and she couldn’t even look at the sandwich she had made for herself only five minutes previously.
She had been about to say hello when he had walked into the kitchen with his nose stuck in the air but then he stopped and sniffed suspiciously, muttering something about a ‘bloody woman’ and she knew that the insult was aimed at her. She narrowed her eyes at his rudeness and remained silent, waiting to see if he had any more comments to add but he just began sorting out a snack for himself.
If she hadn’t seen him skim his fingers across the kitchen surfaces and put his thumb over the rim of his mug she would have sworn that the man could see. His movements were confident and sure, certainly not the hesitant or clumsy motions that she had assumed a blind man would use.
It was obvious that he had no idea that she was there and after he had started making his food she thought that she was more likely to make him jump if she spoke up. Instead she sat there watching him, fascinated by the careful movements of his big hands.
She glanced down at his bare calves beneath the hem of the dressing gown and noted the fine, dark hair that covered the backs of his legs. It looked soft and silky and his skin was tanned beneath. She could see where the towelling robe clung to his tight backside and where the belt hung low on his waist. His back and shoulders spread wide above the belt and she felt a sudden rush of heat to her face.
It was only as he opened the fridge door that she noticed the lattice work of white lines around his wrist. She narrowed her eyes and peered as the light from inside the fridge illuminated the skin of his forearm. His arm was again covered with a layer of fine dark hair but it stopped abruptly at the inch wide band of scars. For a stupid second she wondered if in a fit of despair, he had tried to slash his own wrists but then she suddenly felt the bile rise in her throat as she remembered reading in his files that he had been tied down with razor wire and tortured. Her glance swept down to his feet and in the shallow light she could make out similar but deeper marks surrounding his ankles.
A wave of nausea swept over her and it took everything she had not to cry out in anger at what he had suffered. It was no wonder he had reacted as he did when he thought he had recognized the voice of his torturer.
She bit back useless tears of outrage and sat with her heart in her mouth. With a final wipe of the surfaces and his chores finished he picked up his snack and moved back towards the kitchen door. She was about to slump over the table in relief that he hadn’t discovered her sitting there watching him when he suddenly stopped on the threshold of the door. He sniffed suspiciously at the air again and she heard him mutter ‘bloody woman’ before he stomped out of the door and back towards his bedroom.
Amy sat there fuming. She picked up her tepid tea and drank it down in one swallow. She had been about to feel sorry for him when she had seen the scars but the muttered words had brought her back to her senses. Even having been tortured, this was no man to pity. He was strong, determined and driven and quite capable of looking after himself. She should have realized that when he had thrown the knives with such precision earlier in the day. He had hit the golden circle unerringly on every one of his turns. David, Patrick and Joe could only look on with envy at his consistency even when they moved the target further away and put an even smaller marker for him to find.
She stared down at the plate sitting in front of her. Her sandwich looked nowhere near as appetizing as the one Paul had prepared. She hadn’t known which terracotta pot to choose when searching for mayonnaise or mustard and when she had sniffed she had been unsure of the ingredients. There had been several varieties and they all looked so different to what she normally ate at home. She had given up as her growling stomach demanded to be fed immediately.
She stared at her dry bread sandwich a moment longer, then shoved her chair back and moved determinedly to the fridge, knocking her hip on the corner of the table as she went. She said a very unladylike word under her breath as she rubbed the new bruise, then she opened the fridge and selected the condiment jar Paul had chosen. She turned back to the table and rattled around in the drawer for a knife. She dropped the first on the floor and bent to pick up the fallen knife but swore again as she bumped her head on the still open drawer. Then she let out a small yelp as she stabbed down the back of her fingernail with the tine of a fork as she drew a clean knife from its compartment. She closed the drawer with a resolute shove of her bottom and winced as her newly bruised hip protested at its misuse.
She sucked her sore finger while she opened her sandwich and spread the thick yellow condiment onto her bread. She dripped one or two blobs onto the counter in her haste but wiped them up with a finger and licked it clean before she squashed the two halves of the roll back together. She rolled her eyes as yet another blob of the mayonnaise oozed from the sandwich to the counter.
She boiled more water in the kettle to make a fresh cup of tea, ignoring the pools of hot water and the splosh of milk she left on the worktop until she had moved everything back onto the table. She wiped the surfaces over with the dishcloth and cursed again at how Paul had cleaned up after himself even though he hadn’t made a single speck of mess as he worked.
She sat back at the table to eat her snack all the while thanking her lucky stars that Paul hadn’t done the same. He was obviously suffering from insomnia too.
She had lain in her bed only half an hour earlier with her heart thumping erratically while she stared up at the canopy above her for what felt like hours. Even with the windows wide open and a cool breeze wafting around the room, the luxurious drapes had felt hot and heavy and she had eventually sat up and pushed them as far back against the bedposts as she could manage.
A cool shower had helped bring her heart rate back to normal but there was this odd pain under her ribs that she couldn’t seem to shift. It was almost as if she had indigestion. She had sighed as she had thrown her dressing gown over her shoulders and made her way quietly back down to the kitchen.
She had only been going to make a cup of tea but the sight of the plate of delicious looking ham, sitting already sliced on a plate on the top shelf, had tempted her into making a sandwich. She hadn’t eaten much of her dinner that evening. She had lost her appetite as soon as Paul had left the table and her stomach had been grumbling ever since.
The day at the old château had confused her and elements of Paul’s behaviour kept rolling around in her head. That she had only imagined that he was going to kiss her just before Robbie had come running in, disturbed her more than she liked to admit. She had been waiting for his lips to touch hers, longing for it, her heart thumping so wildly she had worried that he could hear it as his warm thumb had touched her mouth and his hand swept through her hair. He had breathed out that he thought she was beautiful but then nothing had happened.
And then he had left her standing feeling hopelessly confused on the steps of the château. Had he really just been touching her face to find out what she looked like? She didn’t know if this was usual behaviour for a normal man let alone a blind one. She hadn’t had enough experience to tell.
The erratic hours of her nursing degree had put paid to any lasting relationships and since retraining as a social worker her time had been taken up with a never-ending rou
nd of split families, abused children and finding homes for misplaced teenage mothers.
Dealing with a beyond attractive and very stubborn ex-army Captain had never come up in her files before and she wouldn’t even be in this situation if her superior hadn’t gone off on maternity leave.
She felt like a fish out of water here in this beautiful château, as though she had only just started her job again instead of being nearly three years into her new career. She knew that she was floundering but there was little she could do about it at the moment.
She was already certain that there was no way that she could ever send Paul back to England if he didn’t want to go. What would be the point anyway? He was obviously more than capable of looking after himself and observing him throwing around lethal weapons and making his supper had just proved it.
She had discovered during dinner that he was far more intelligent than any of them in her office had ever known. He spoke several different languages fluently and had degrees in engineering and applied mathematics. She felt ashamed that the system he had found himself caught in had treated him so badly. She had pushed her dinner around her plate and excused herself as early as she could without appearing to be rude.
She bit into her sandwich and closed her eyes, as she tasted the succulent meat complimented by the flavour of the mustard mayonnaise. It was more delicious than anything she had ever tasted at home and she wondered how Patrick had learned his cooking skills. As far as she knew he was a war hero, a highly decorated Major in the British army. How he had ever learned to make such delicious bread and mouth-watering mustard mayonnaise she could hardly imagine.
When they had arrived back at the château that afternoon she had wandered into the kitchen with the others. Patrick had already been preparing the food and everyone else had just gathered while he worked.
Scarred Horizon (Scarred Series Book 4) Page 6
