Men of Midnight Complete Collection

by Emilie Richards

  “You left her there?”

  Their gazes connected. Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “She gave me no choice. Weren’t you the one who pointed out that I have to let her live her own life?”

  Andrew pictured Fiona in the antiseptic waiting room at the end of the ward. He pictured tiny Sara, flushed with fever or shivering in the grip of chills. He shook his head. “Would you have told me, Duncan, if I had no’ asked?”

  “I called your house the moment I got home. When you didn’t answer, I came down here to see if anyone knew where you might be.”

  Andrew stood. “I’ll go. I’ll wait with her.” He paused, expecting Duncan to protest.

  Duncan just nodded. “I’d feel better if you did.”

  * * *

  For most of her life Fiona had cultivated the art of sitting still. She had learned to wait patiently, to accept what she was given and not to expect miracles. She had woven stories in her head to pass the long, lonely hours, and when she was old enough, she had transferred them to paper.

  Although she had studied art in college, Fiona had never thought herself much of an artist. No matter how hard she tried for precision, her drawings and paintings were softly focused impressions, moody visual collages that suggested a universe of emotion she had never actually been privy to. Her professors had been encouraging, but more aggressive students had garnered most of the awards and praise.

  A senior class on illustration had changed that. Fiona had thrown herself into the final class project—illustrating a child’s picture book—with a fervor she hadn’t even known she was capable of. Instead of the required folk or fairy tale, she had illustrated one of her own stories, the birth of the water dragon Stardust in far-off Serenity Lake. Instead of the required dummy made up of preliminary pencil sketches, she had submitted exacting pen and ink drawings washed with dreamy watercolors. Her instructor had been captivated, and so had the children’s book publisher who years before had been the instructor’s lover.

  The result had been a contract for Fiona. The patience she had spent a lifetime refining hadn’t even been required. Without stamping an envelope, her career had been established.

  Fiona knew how fortunate she was, and she guarded that fortune jealously. She had never expected another lucky break. She had worked tirelessly to bring that first book to fruition, and each subsequent book, too. She was a perfectionist who threw out one hundred drawings for each one that she kept. She haunted aquariums and zoos to capture the sleek, supple movements of aquatic creatures, and she sat for hours beside ponds just to understand the way that reeds rustled in the breeze and sunlight reflected off gentle waves.

  She seldom went anywhere without a sketchbook. She had one with her tonight because she had brought it to entertain the children in Sara’s ward. It was a trick she had discovered several weeks ago. When she had sensed that the children were tired of hearing her stories, she had asked them to write their own. She faithfully recorded their ideas; then, as they watched from their beds, she sketched their characters for them, listening attentively to their suggestions and incorporating them always.

  There were more pictures today. She had steeled herself to return to the ward, even when she had discovered that Sara had been moved to a room by herself. She had forced herself to ignore the empty bed where Sara should have been and to interact with the remaining children. She had tried to be cheerful, but the children themselves were more somber than usual. Sara was a favorite, the youngest child on the ward, and everyone knew how sick she was.

  Now Fiona flipped through today’s sketches, as she had a dozen times already that evening. One boy’s fantasy was a two-story fire-eating monster who, with one indrawn breath, could extinguish any blaze. She stared blindly at that drawing. Children were direct and uncomplicated. Had such a monster existed, the little boy wouldn’t be lying in the burn ward.

  Tears filled her eyes, and anger filled her heart. She closed the pad and clutched it to her chest. Long ago she had learned the futility of questioning fate. Now she simply railed against it.

  “Fiona?”

  For one wild instant she thought she had imagined Andrew’s voice. Then she looked up and saw him standing in the doorway. She dropped the sketchbook to the seat beside her and brushed away her tears with the back of one hand. “When did you get here?”

  Andrew ignored her question, walked straight over to her, lifted her from her chair and took her in his arms. She had spent days reliving the feel of his body against hers, but now she discovered that the reality was an alternate universe, so superior to fantasy that there was no resemblance.

  “Is she worse?” he asked.

  The words fell against her hair; his breath warmed her scalp. She clung to him, and the tears fell faster. “No, but she’s not any better, either,” she said on a sob.

  “If she’s no’ worse, then that’s good.”

  “I’m so tired of sorting through things and pretending that the bad ones are good because they could be worse.” She forced a humorless laugh that sounded more like a plea.

  “Shh….” He held her tighter. “I know.”

  “She was getting better!”

  “We both knew this could happen. We’d been warned. Pamela warned me herself.”

  “Why didn’t they protect her? They shouldn’t let any visitors on that ward. People bring germs with them. They shouldn’t have let us visit.”

  “The hospital does its best. I’ve never seen such attention to detail. And they allow us to visit because the children’s spirits need healing, too.”

  She was sobbing harder now. He stroked her hair with steady, soothing hands. The more she tried to control herself, the more she cried. Andrew continued to hold her, to stroke her hair, and sway gently back and forth. Finally, little by little, the tears began to dry.

  He pulled a huge white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and slipped it into her hand. “Now wipe your eyes.”

  She did. She could feel Andrew withdraw, not suddenly, but as if he were weaning her from his support. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, swallowing the last of her tears. Embarrassment wormed its way through her sorrow. She felt worse with each passing second.

  “Fiona.” He lifted her chin so that she was gazing at him with reddened eyes. “Dinna you dare apologize. I’d like nowt better than to cry myself.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “I suppose I’ve forgotten how. You’ll have to cry for us both.” He took her hand, then he sat on one of the sofas and pulled her down to sit beside him. “Tell me everything you know.”

  She had leaned against him enough. She held herself away from him, although he didn’t drop her hand. “She started running a fever this morning. That’s not unusual, but it spiraled higher and higher as the morning went on. By noon they’d isolated her and started her on some heavy-duty medications.”

  “Is Pamela with her?”

  “Yes. But she’s not allowed in the room. She can watch through a glass partition, but that’s all.” She glanced down at her watch. “Pamela came back about an hour ago to tell me that nothing had changed. They hope to see some improvement by midnight, but it’s touch and go.”

  “Did Pamela say that?”

  “No. She’s trying to be brave. But I know what I know.”

  He didn’t question that. “Have you had supper?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’ll go downstairs together. You’ll eat whatever you can, then we’ll come back up here and settle in until we’ve heard good news.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Did I ask if you were?” He didn’t smile. “You’ll eat anyway, and when we’ve gotten the news we came for, we’ll go back to the hotel—”

  “What?”

  “I’ll reserve rooms at a hotel while you eat. We’ll no’ be driving back to Druidheachd after this. It’s far too late.”

  She contemplated that. She’d had no plan at all, except to wait. Now she had a plan. She’d had no hope of com
fort. Now comfort sat beside her.

  She’d had no hope at all. But Andrew had enough hope for all of them. Until we’ve heard good news.

  “I don’t know what to say.” She searched his face.

  For a moment his resolve melted into vulnerability. Some unprotected emotion shone in his eyes. “That’s just as well.”

  “You didn’t have to come.”

  “Aye. I know.”

  She couldn’t leave it at that, although it was safer. “I’m glad you did.”

  “I know that, too.” He drew one finger along her cheekbone, as if collecting teardrops. “We’ll always be glad to see each other, Fiona. No matter how much we deny it. No matter how many mistakes we make with each other. It’s a blessing and a curse, and still it does no’ matter. We’ll always be glad to see each other, no matter what sorrow it brings.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Fiona was dozing on Andrew’s shoulder when Pamela arrived to tell them that Sara seemed to be responding to treatment. She had stabilized, which was the best anyone had expected so early in the crisis, and there was every hope that by tomorrow morning her fever would begin to inch back toward normal. In the meantime, the little girl was sleeping, and Pamela insisted that Fiona and Andrew do the same. She intended to use a hospital bed to get some sleep herself.

  Fiona and Andrew were already heading toward the closest hotel before they exchanged more than a few words. She noted the way his strong, wide hands tensely gripped the wheel, as if he were afraid he might fall asleep if he relaxed. “You don’t think they’re just telling us she’s better so that we’ll get some sleep, do you?” she asked. “Could they just be putting a positive spin on it?”

  “They could be, but I doubt it. What need have they to spare our feelings? They’re far too busy to be worried about us.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “There’s nowt we can do tonight, Fiona. We’ll ring first thing in the morning.”

  She fell silent again. Rain had fallen throughout the evening, and under the graduated glow of their headlights the street glistened like gushing oil. Just ahead a cat darted between shrubs lining the curb, but there was no other movement. Glasgow, Scotland’s jittery, glittery diamond in the rough, was sleeping soundly.

  Andrew pulled into a space in front of a solid and monumentally plain building. Fiona had to squint to find the sign that designated it as a hotel. “It looks like the kind of place that caters to long-term residents.”

  “It does, but there was room for us. I’ve a key to the side door.”

  “I imagine they’ll think it odd that we’re arriving without suitcases.”

  “I explained.”

  She followed him inside, up a set of stairs covered in an endearingly old-fashioned maroon carpet, past doors with cut glass knobs and walls adorned with framed lithographs of the river Clyde. He stopped in front of the last door at the end of the hall and used an ornate key in what was obviously a nineteenth century keyhole.

  He ushered her inside. The room was tiny, the carpet worn. A musty smell greeted them, as if the room had been closed up for months. She ran a finger idly along the wainscoting and found it dust free. “It doesn’t matter what it looks like. It has a bed.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased to see that.”

  The bed was large enough for two, visibly sagging and smothered by a chenille spread with a tartan blanket folded neatly at the foot. It gave her an odd sensation to stand there and look at it with Andrew beside her. “Where’s your room?”

  “At the opposite end of the hall. Will you be all right?”

  She had expected to be, but something about the room gave her pause. Her skin tingled, one step from unwelcome goose bumps. She couldn’t put her finger on the reason why, but she didn’t feel comfortable here. She met his eyes anyway. How could she complain when he’d worked so hard to set this up? “I’m probably going to be asleep before I pull down the covers.”

  He handed her a small paper bag. He’d already told her that after picking up the keys he’d stopped at the chemist to buy them each a few toiletries. They would be clean tomorrow even if their clothes weren’t. “Loo’s down the hall,” he said. “On the right. I think there’s a sign.”

  “Thank you. For everything, Andrew. I’d be spending the night at the hospital if it weren’t for you, and taking a bus home tomorrow.”

  As he handed her the key, he gave her a weary smile. “I’ll see you in the morning, then. Shall I come for you about eight?”

  “As soon as you get up.” She realized she sounded like someone who was already anxious to leave. “I don’t want to hold you up any longer than necessary.” Her smile was a paler version of his.

  He didn’t touch her or even smile again. He closed the door behind him and left her standing alone in the room.

  Fiona resigned herself to a long night and went down the hall to prepare for it as best she could.

  Back in the room she left the door ajar as she did another visual tour. There was absolutely nothing to be frightened of here. The room was shabby but scrupulously clean; in fact, it wasn’t too different from the smaller rooms at the Sinclair Hotel. The layout was nearly identical, and the double-hung window that faced the street rattled with a familiar buzz. She told herself she was being silly.

  At the window she gazed below. She could just see Andrew’s car and, surprisingly, Andrew. She guessed he was getting something he needed for the night. Despite a chill wind brought by the rain, she unlocked the window and tried to lift it. She preferred the wind to the musty smell, but she quickly discovered that the window wouldn’t budge. It had been varnished shut.

  Aware that if Andrew looked up, he would see her, she went to lock the door and turn off the light. When she returned to the window, he was nowhere in sight. She spread the draperies to let in the glow of the street lamps before she turned down the covers. She stripped off everything except her panties, then slipped back into the long-sleeved T-shirt she had been wearing. Under the covers she watched light play across the ceiling until her eyelids finally closed from their own weary weight.

  * * *

  There was an international conference in Glasgow that week, and not a hotel for miles around had possessed a vacant room. Andrew had snagged Fiona’s through sheer good fortune. The old hotel nearest the hospital seldom had rooms to rent for the night, and therefore wasn’t on lists for potential conference space. There had been just one room, rarely used and badly in need of refurbishing, that the proprietor had begrudgingly rented.

  “Dinna go expecting Gleddoch House or the Copthorne,” he’d said in his spiralling Glaswegian accent. “And if you decide to share it with her, tha’ll be five quid more.”

  “I will no’ be sharing it.” Andrew paid the modest price.

  “And where will you go?”

  “I’ll sleep in my car. It’s no’ a hardship. I’ve done it before.”

  “You’ll wish you’d driven home. Cold i’ll be tonight. The rain always brings it.”

  “I’ve blankets in the boot.” Andrew held out his hand for Fiona’s key. The proprietor shook his head, reached under the counter and came up with a key and a bottle.

  He handed over both. “You’ll be needing this more than me, I ken. And I’ve charged you enough for the room to make up for it.”

  Andrew grinned and took both.

  Now Andrew looked at the bottle. It was by no means full, but it held the promise of a warmer night. He had made himself as comfortable as possible in the back seat of his sedan. The bench seat tilted up, so no matter how hard he tried, he was wedged against the backrest. His legs were too long to stretch out, even at an angle, and he had to make do with pulling his knees to his chest.

  Propped in that position, he twisted off the bottle cap and took a swig. The whisky wasn’t Scotland’s finest, but it did the trick. Heat rushed through him, tingling through his limbs and warming his fingertips and toes. The prospect of the night ahead began to look less bleak.<
br />
  Leaving Fiona alone in the room had been absurdly difficult. She hadn’t wanted to be there by herself. She had attempted to be cheerful, but the truth had shone in her eyes. For the briefest moment he had considered telling her the truth, but in the end he had rejected it. He might have stayed if asked, and his intentions would have been the best. But he was fast learning that even the best of intentions had little effect where Fiona was concerned.

  He could see her window at the building’s corner. Her light had gone out some time ago, and he wondered if she was asleep yet. He wondered how she slept, on which side and how soundly. He doubted that she sprawled. She had too little confidence for that. She had spent so much time in hospital, immobilized and tortured. He doubted that she had ever learned to enjoy her body, to fling it about and claim the bed as her own.

  Yet inside that body was a woman yearning to be free. She was a sensuous woman, one who loved color and images, who drank them in, then spilled them across paper in tumultuous bursts of emotion. He had been entranced years before when Duncan had shown him Fiona’s first book. He had sensed the woman behind the illustrations, her loneliness, her dreams.

  He still sensed her loneliness, even when they were together. But Fiona’s dreams were even clearer to him, if not to anyone else. She had been imprisoned in a tormented body that longed now for solace. What had once known agony could know pleasure, as well. Yet pleasure sometimes brought greater pain, and she had endured enough of that for a lifetime.

  He could not be the one to cause her more.

  He unscrewed the cap from the bottle again and took another, longer drink. It wasn’t a night for arbitrary limits. He was alone, in a freezing car when he could be in a warm bed beside Fiona. He imagined what it would feel like to hold her in his arms under the tartan blanket. She had such doubts about herself as a woman. She was sure that her scars would kill a man’s desire. She had no idea how little they would matter to him. She had no idea how he dreamed of the swell of her breasts, the delicious narrowing of her tiny waist, the flair of her womanly hips.