As they started back toward the village, he wondered if he would have the strength or clear judgment to walk the line between giving her the things she wanted and denying her those that would cause her more pain.
CHAPTER 5
Serenity Lake was a clear turquoise lake, with tall trees rising from its bank to shade the water from the eyes of curious creatures who lived on the land. Stardust loved the tree shadows as well as the sparkling sun-kissed water at the center of the lake. She loved the way water droplets showered the lake’s still surface when she dipped low and flipped her slender tail. Best of all, she loved the reeds and rushes at the water’s edge and the thick grasses along the lake’s bottom, because she could nibble on them all day and never grow hungry. But as Stardust nibbled, she grew and grew and grew. Until one day she realized that she would not be just like all the other creatures in Serenity Lake. She would be much larger. So much larger that someday she might frighten her friends the fish, who now so cheerfully kept her company.
“She’s asleep,” Pamela Brownleigh whispered. “You’ve put her straight to sleep, Fiona. It’s nothing short of a miracle.”
Fiona closed her book quietly. She wasn’t sure how miraculous it was to put a child to sleep with a book she’d written herself, but she was delighted for Sara’s sake. She remembered too well how blessed sleep had been when she had been a patient here.
She stood and moved away from the bed. Sara was a tiny shape under a clear plastic tent and a heartbreaking array of dressings, but until she had fallen asleep, her dark eyes had followed Fiona everywhere. There were other children in the room, children who had been critically injured, too. Fiona had steeled herself for this, steeled herself for horror and the return of terrible memories. But all she had felt upon walking into the room was compassion and a desire to help.
“Did her mother read to her?” she asked softly as she gave the book to Pamela, Sara’s grandmother, who was an attractive older woman with hair that was just beginning to gray. Fiona watched her tuck the book away in the drawer that held the few other toys the little girl was allowed to have.
“Yes, Penny was quite a reader. Sara could listen for hours.”
“I’ll come as often as I can.”
“It will help. She has so little to look forward to.” Pamela’s expression was matter-of-fact. Whatever tears she had cried were past. Now her mission was to get her grandchild well enough to resume as normal a life as possible.
“She’ll have a good life. You’ll see. She has a wonderful grandmother to help her.”
“And friends.” Pamela allowed herself a rare smile. “I’m grateful to both you and Andrew.” She looked up at the man who stood at the other side of Sara’s bed, watching the little girl sleep. “There’s little enough I can say to Andrew, isn’t there? If it weren’t for him…”
“He thinks that anybody would have done what he did.”
“He’s wrong, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I can only be grateful that it was Andrew who came along that day.”
Andrew came to join them. “I suppose we’d better go now, Pamela. But we’ll be back.”
“With more of your magic act?” Pamela asked.
“I’ll make sure he practices,” Fiona promised.
“It’s a ween of blethers when a three-year-old child can see straight through every trick I do.”
“A ween of what?” Fiona asked.
“A ween of blethers. It’s nonsense, ridiculous.” He shook his head. “You need educating, Fiona.”
“It’s nothing short of amazing I can understand you at all,” she said, winking at Pamela as she spoke. “When the r‘s are really rolling, I feel like I’m at the start-up of the Indy 500.”
“His accent is music to my ears,” Pamela said. “And will continue to be so forever.”
In the hall, Fiona and Andrew removed the hospital gowns and masks they had been required to wear inside the ward and left them in a bin beside the door. Then they started down the corridor. Fiona watched more than one nurse—and a lovely young doctor—follow Andrew with their eyes after he’d nodded and spoken to them. Andrew had a way of making everyone his friend immediately, as well as attracting more than his share of feminine attention.
And he was such a vital, healthy presence on a ward where robust good health was a cherished dream.
“I’m hungry,” he said when they’d reached the lobby. “How about you?”
It was well past lunchtime, but until that moment, Fiona hadn’t thought about eating. She had been so engrossed in the unfolding drama upstairs. “Starved.” And she was. She wondered how she had managed to suppress it for so long. “We could go back to Prestwick and see if the soup we ordered the afternoon that I flew in is ready by now.”
Andrew looked at his watch. “No, it’s still too soon. It’ll be another week yet, at least. We’ll have to take our chance on something here.”
“Here?” She grimaced. She had been fine on the ward, but now she wanted to put the hospital and everything it stood for behind her.
“Here in Glasgow. No’ here in hospital. I know a place close by. Shall we walk?”
She was already exhausted, and her hip and leg ached from standing for so long. But she didn’t want to call attention to that. She nodded. “Sure, let’s.”
Four blocks from the hospital, she was sorry that she had been so agreeable. Andrew had shortened his stride for her, but his pace was still faster than she could comfortably walk. But again, she didn’t want to admit that she had trouble keeping up.
“It’s just at the end of this street,” Andrew said, pointing to a stretch of several blocks. He hadn’t spoken since leaving the hospital. Fiona knew that he was thinking of Sara and the other children in the ward. He had visited every one of them, told ridiculous jokes and spoken words of encouragement. His output of energy had been tremendous. Now he needed to readjust.
She kept pace with him at great effort. The street was completely ordinary, with small businesses interspersed with brick residences sporting small, perfectly tended gardens and neatly painted trim. They passed a tailor, a shop selling greeting cards and cheap souvenirs, a butcher with strings of rubber sausages looped in the window. She concentrated on everything except the growing agony in her leg and hip.
At the end of the street Andrew gestured to a narrow doorway. The acrid odor of smoking oil wafted from available cracks and crevices. Through the window Fiona could see several unadorned laminated plastic tables and a counter running the width of the room.
“Best fish and chips in Glasgow.” Andrew opened the door and the smoke no longer wafted, it poured out to gleefully embrace the car exhaust that already perfumed the air.
Fiona preceded him. There was a menu of sorts posted above the counter. Fish and chips. Fish without chips. Chips without fish. “This is going to be a tough choice.”
He looked at her for what she thought was the first time since leaving the hospital. “I did no’ even think. Would you like to go somewhere with a bit more variety?”
“Are you kidding? My mouth is watering.” And it was. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever smelling anything more enticing. Eating had always been something she was required to do. For years she had been forced to consume calories as part of her rehabilitation. Everything she ate or drank had been carefully weighed and charted. By the time that regimen had been lifted, her interest in food had evaporated. She ate to survive.
Today she was going to eat for pleasure alone. The thought of that was almost pleasure enough.
“What kind of fish should I order?”
Andrew examined the menu. “I prefer the haddock.”
“Good, I’ll try it. And chips, too.”
“Find a table and I’ll wait for the food.”
She didn’t argue. She could hardly wait to get off her feet. Finding a table was a matter of choosing the best view out the grease-speckled windows. Only one table was occupied, and the couple sitt
ing there sipping soft drinks looked as if they were about to take their final slurps.
She chose a booth in the corner and slid along the bench. It had been molded with the human form in mind, but the curves did nothing to ease the pain in her hip. She turned at an angle and propped her thigh along the bench’s edge. The pain receded a little.
Andrew returned with drinks in tall paper cups. “I’ll bet there’s a country somewhere in the world without Coke on its menu,” she said, as he set her drink in front of her.
“No’ if Duncan and his kind have their way.”
“Poor Duncan. You’re never going to let up on him, are you?”
“Never.” He slid into the seat across from her.
Fiona thought Andrew looked particularly charming today. He was wearing a hand-knit sweater of heathery gold, but as the day warmed, he had pushed up the sleeves to reveal wide, muscular forearms brushed with auburn hair. Casual clothing suited his wide-shouldered frame, but she could imagine him in something as formal as a tux, too. Handsome was too cultivated a word to describe him. But rugged or appealing were not.
She took a sip of her drink and hoped that the sugar and caffeine would restore some of her energy. “You were terrific with Sara. And with the other kids, too. You never let on how frightening they look. From your reaction, no one would ever have known they were any different from normal children.”
“They are normal children.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t do any good to pretend. They aren’t normal. Not after what they’ve been through. They’ll always be different, even if a miracle occurs and their bodies are perfectly restored. Every one of those kids has been to hell and back.”
He didn’t argue, which surprised her, because most people liked to keep up a pretense, if only to themselves. “I tell myself they’re children, just like any others. I suppose that’s just what I do to get through it.”
“They have all the needs of other children. They need to be loved and accepted. You do a wonderful job of that.”
“Sara may be discharged as early as next month.”
“I know. Pamela told me. The sooner the better. As soon as she’s out of danger she’ll recover more quickly at home.”
“How soon did you go home, Fiona?”
“I was in one hospital or another for most of five months. Then, later, there were other stays, for one problem or another. I used to think if I ever had a place of my own I’d decorate it in antiseptic white or insipid green and install loudspeakers in the hallway so I’d feel at home.”
One side of his mouth turned up. “I was only in hospital once myself, just for a few days to have my appendix out. They swore I was the worst patient ever to darken their door.”
“Come on, I bet the nurses adored you.”
The other side of his mouth turned up, too. “Do you think so? Now that I ponder it, I received more back rubs than a pregnant mother of triplets.”
She laughed. “I’ll just bet.” She sobered a little and spoke before she thought. “You know, that’s the thing I missed most. I still remember just how terrible it was never to have anyone touch me. No one could give me a back rub, of course. They couldn’t do anything except hold my hand sometimes. But even after I was out of the hospital…” She stopped. “I’m sorry. This is getting maudlin, isn’t it?”
“No. What about after the hospital?”
“I guess people were still afraid they’d hurt me. And they were probably right. But I think it would have been worth it.”
His eyes blazed with emotion. His voice deepened. “No one touched you?”
“That sounds crazy, doesn’t it? They must have. I probably just don’t remember very well.” She said the lie with conviction and looked him straight in the eye as she did.
The clerk behind the counter gave a sharp whistle, and Andrew slid across his bench. “I’ll be back.”
She used his absence to stretch her leg out farther. It still throbbed, and she dreaded the onset of a serious cramp. She knew the signs, having experienced them for as long as she could remember. There was no real hope she would ever be without them. The last doctor she had complained to had simply said that she was lucky she had enough undamaged muscle to cramp at all.
Andrew returned with two gigantic bundles wrapped in white butcher’s paper. “The portions are smaller than some, but the cooking’s good enough to warrant eating here.” He set one bundle in front of her, and she unwrapped it to find enough golden brown fish and french fries to feed the multitudes—without a noticeable miracle.
“I can’t eat all this!” She leaned forward and inhaled, then closed her eyes in bliss. “But I’m sure going to try.”
He unwrapped his and doused the contents indiscriminately with the bottle of vinegar at the table’s edge. Then he sprinkled everything with salt and pepper. She was three delicate bites into hers before he started. He was done with his first piece before she’d finished half of hers.
She watched his strong, white teeth tearing into the second piece. “I can see why you were worried about the portions.”
His eyes sparkled. “Have you never seen a man eat before?”
“Not with such a shameful lack of enthusiasm.”
“Are you telling me that my manners need improving?”
“Your manners are perfect. It’s your appetite that’s exuberant.”
“Is a man no’ supposed to have an exuberant appetite?”
Unaccountably, she wondered about his appetite for other things. The night he kissed her came to mind. The kiss had been merely to comfort her. She knew that. He had not been moved to kiss her for any other reason. Yet now she wondered what it would be like to be kissed without reserve, to be stroked by his broad, rough hands, to be touched by the tips of his long, sturdy fingers. Would his lovemaking be as exuberant, as uninhibited? As soundly relished?
She looked down at her fish, hiding her thoughts. This was dangerous ground, forbidden to her. Her developing relationship with Andrew was a source of delight. She could destroy it by wishing it was more than friendship. She, of all people, knew how futile and destructive wishing could be.
A vicious pain stabbed through her leg and drove all other thoughts from her mind. She had been warned, but again, she had wished for the impossible. Her fish fell to the table, and she grabbed her thigh.
“Fiona?”
She couldn’t speak. She was too proud to writhe in agony, but not disciplined enough to prevent a tortured gasp. She turned to the side and stretched her leg along the seat. Then she leaned forward and began to massage her calf. Long years of experience had taught her that this was the only hope for relief.
Stronger hands pushed hers aside. “Let me.” Andrew slid into the seat and propped her foot on his lap. “I can reach it better.”
“No, it’s all right, I—” She gasped again. The pain was a vise, squeezing and squeezing….
Andrew put his palm against the thin sole of her shoe and pushed the ball of her foot gently toward her knee. “Is that better?”
She shook her head.
He continued to hold her leg in position with one hand, but the other probed her calf through the soft corduroy of her slacks. When he seemed satisfied he had found the right spot, he began to knead it with his thumb and fingertips.
As the pain eased, she realized what he was doing and exactly what he would learn from it. There was nothing shapely about her leg. It was thin and underdeveloped, and it was rigid with scar tissue.
Humiliation filled her. She wanted to order him to stop, but as his hand eased over her knee and up toward her thigh, she knew she had no prayer of uttering the words. It felt so wonderful, so miraculous, to have him soothe away the cramp. He moved so slowly and carefully, with single-minded determination to end her suffering. She had never gotten control of the agony this quickly on her own.
She leaned against the wall, and her eyes closed against her will. Now the warmth of Andrew’s hands, the gentle probing of his fingers,
was more notable than the pain.
“How far does it extend?” he asked.
“You’ve done enough. Thank you.”
“I asked you how far it goes.”
She opened her eyes. His were implacable. “To my hip,” she whispered.
“Ah, Fiona, why did you let it get this bad? It was all the walking, was it no’?”
She nodded.
“Why did you no’ tell me?”
“All my life people have been forced to make allowances for me. I’m tired of it.”
“People who care about each other make allowances. Every one of us can use a hand from time to time.” His hands moved higher, as if to prove the point.
Her legs were turning to liquid, but of more interest was the liquid heat building inside her. Through pain and embarrassment, she was still responding to his touch. She tensed, ashamed of her own reaction, and the tension reignited the cramp. As if he could feel the newest spasm, he pressed harder, and it quickly eased.
He lifted his hands, and she felt bereft. She was afraid to look at him. “Thanks. That helped a lot.”
He slid closer, stretching her thigh over his knees. Before she could stop him, one hand grasped the tender flesh at the inside of her leg and the other settled opposite it. He began to knead. “The muscle here’s like stone. It will take a bit of working to make it better.”
She was afraid to speak, sure that only a moan would escape her lips. She was swimming in waves of feeling, drowning in shame and resurfacing in desire. She had often yearned to be touched, but never had she guessed how powerful a thing it could be.
When he was satisfied, he pressed against the rounded curve of her hip with the heel of his hand. Once, then again. Miraculously, the pain there eased, then disappeared. At her involuntary sigh, he pressed harder. When he finally released her, her leg felt completely relaxed.
“Wiggle your toes,” he ordered.
Men of Midnight Complete Collection Page 57
