Even in her hazy state, Angel could see that the cottage looked old, possibly eighteenth century. Her observant eye noted the whinstone rubble around the fireplace, the low ceilings with wooden beams, and the twelve-pane sash windows. It was probably Grade II listed, she thought. It also had a real fire, flames leaping up from the logs burning in the grate behind the safety guard. Ohhh, the heat was heavenly.
A Christmas tree stood in the corner that had obviously been decorated by his kids, with lopsided tinsel and handmade ornaments that had been colored in with felt pen. Bits of cotton attached to tiny pieces of foil paper told her that the tree had once held Christmas chocolates, but they obviously hadn’t lasted long. A large Rudolph pulling a sleigh sat on the mantelpiece above the fire. It reminded her of the pen she’d used to guide her way to the refuge hut. The battery had eventually run out, but it had almost certainly saved her life.
Thanks, Santa. She sent the prayer up to whomever might be listening.
In less than a minute, Hal was back, carrying a couple of large towels and a pile of clothes. “They’re mine,” he said. “I don’t have any female clothing apart from Brenna’s, and she’s only four so I doubt it would fit you.”
So, there wasn’t a Mrs. Carlson on the scene. Divorced or died? She watched him place the clothes on the sofa and then turn to her hesitantly. “You’re welcome to get changed in the bathroom,” he said, “but I thought you’d rather dry off in front of the fire.”
“Okay.”
He had a thermometer in his hand. “Here.” He held it up. “As I said, if it’s lower than thirty-five degrees, you’ve got hypothermia and I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“Rectal is more accurate,” she said absently. She was sure she’d read that somewhere.
He raised his eyebrows. “Let’s start with the mouth. I don’t know you well enough yet to try anything else.”
She blinked and would have blushed if she wasn’t frozen. Taking the thermometer, she placed it in her mouth. They watched each other while they waited for it to beep. His lips curved up a little at the corners, and she dropped her gaze to her feet. She could barely feel them.
Please, Santa, don’t let me have hypothermia. I want to stay here.
It beeped, and Hal took it out of her mouth. “Thirty-five-point-one,” he said wryly. “Wow, you escaped that by a whisker. All right, I’ll go in the kitchen and make you some soup. Is tomato okay?”
“That would be lovely,” she said, still shivering.
He met her gaze for a moment, his blue eyes bright in the firelight. A warm tingle ran down her back, although that could just have been her spine defrosting. Then he gave a brief nod. “Shout when you’re done,” he said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She stared after him for a moment, then looked down at the pile of clothes. He’d left her a pair of cotton boxer-briefs, a T-shirt, some track pants, a sweater, a couple of pairs of socks, and three blankets.
Well, she had no option, and the sooner she was out of her wet clothing, the sooner she’d stop shivering. Moving quickly, she stripped off her sweatshirt, then struggled out of her jeans, exhausting herself in the process. Finally, she took off her bra and panties, dropping them all in a sodden heap onto the stone hearth.
She wrapped herself in one of the thick towels and stood in front of the fire, unable to stop shivering. She had to get the clothing on soon or Hal was right—she’d end up in hospital. Her fingers bent stiffly, and she couldn’t even feel her feet. Forcing herself to move, she dried her skin briskly, then pulled on the boxer-briefs, track pants, T-shirt, sweater, and the pair of thin socks followed by the thick pair. Everything was way too big, but by that stage she didn’t care.
Walking to the door, she opened it and then called out, “All done.” She placed her boots by the fire to dry. Then, folding herself in one of the blankets, she curled up on the sofa.
Chapter Six
The door opened, and Hal came in carrying a tray with a small glass of amber liquid, a mug, and a plate of cookies. He placed them on the table next to her. “I’ve rung a friend who runs the local twenty-four-hour towing service and he’ll rescue your car once the tide has gone right out.”
“Oh God, I can’t expect them to do it tonight,” she said, embarrassed. “I was going to wait until the morning.”
“The next high tide is at 8:30 a.m. Your car could end up down in Hartlepool by the time it goes out again.”
She stared at him, the reality of how bad her situation had been just starting to sink in. If he hadn’t come along, it was entirely possible she might not have been discovered until after the next high tide. By then, she would almost certainly have been in a coma, or even... dead.
So much for being a shield maiden. She’d needed rescuing after all.
Hal took one look at her face and brought over the other two blankets. He wrapped one around her top half and tucked the other around her feet, then, to her surprise, sat beside her and pulled her against his chest. Without further ado, he started to rub her back and arms.
“Sorry about this, but you’re white as a sheet,” he stated. “Tell me to get lost if you want, but body heat is the best way to warm someone up when they have hypothermia.”
She couldn’t have replied even if she’d wanted to. She felt exhausted, so tired she could barely lift her head, and she curled up against him, welcoming the heat from his body, as well as the comforting feeling of being touched by another human being who cared.
“Here.” He passed her the shot of amber liquid. “It’s brandy. That should help bring you back to life.”
She sipped it, winced, and knocked it back in one go. “Argh. Jesus!” It seared down through her, melting all the icicles she felt had started to form inside.
“Now the soup,” he said, passing her the mug before returning to rubbing her arms.
Tempted to tell him she was too tired to eat, she sipped it, and her mouth flooded with the rich taste of tomatoes and cream, bringing her back to life in a way even the fire hadn’t been able to. The warm liquid followed the brandy down into her stomach, and she almost gasped at the beautiful sensation of it thawing her all the way through. “Oh my God, that’s the best soup I’ve ever had in my life.”
He gave a short laugh, reaching for the dry towel, and proceeded to rub her hair. “You were very lucky. I think another thirty minutes and you would’ve needed an ambulance.”
She cupped her hands around the mug. He’d changed out of his wet sweater into a dark blue one that was so soft it must be lambswool. It made her want to smooth her fingers over his biceps and see if they were as firm as they looked.
Angel! She scolded herself. Jeez. She was sure he was younger than her. Anyway, she’d come here to get away from people.
“I still can’t believe I got caught by the tide.” She rested her head on the back of the sofa. “It was so dumb. I’d read about the people who got stranded and laughed at their idiocy. But I was tired, and I just wanted to get to the island.”
“It’s easily done. I’m just glad I came along when I did.”
“That’s very nice of you, but, as usual, I’ve screwed everything up.” She bit her lip.
“I don’t see it that way.” Hal raised an eyebrow. “You managed to get out of your car, find your way to the hut, and survive in icy conditions for five hours. If that’s not the act of a shield maiden, I don’t know what is.”
She looked up into his eyes. “What a lovely thing to say.” His eyes were the deepest blue with a hint of gray, like she imagined the North Sea was in summer. “Thank you so much for rescuing me,” she whispered. “I really appreciate it.”
He smiled then, and it completely lit up his face, creasing the corners of his eyes until they nearly disappeared. He had a slight gap in his front teeth, she noticed.
“You’re very welcome,” he said. He reached out and touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. “You have a bit more color now, anyway.”
Sh
e was blushing—she could feel the heat in her cold cheeks. She blew on the soup and sipped it. “I’ve stopped shivering, and I can just feel my toes again. Hopefully, I don’t have frostbite! I like my toes.”
He shook his head. “I still can’t believe you’re Angel Matthews. I’ve read your research project so many times.”
The notion still made her head ring. “What do you do again?”
“I work for English Heritage. I’m an architectural illustrator. I majored in archaeology, but I minored in architecture. I survey old buildings, take photos, and design guidebooks and graphic panels, that kind of thing.”
“What an amazing job. God, you’re lucky. I’d kill for a job like that.”
“What do you do?”
She lowered her gaze to her mug and shook her head. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why?”
“It’s embarrassing,” she said, with some exasperation at herself. When he just tipped his head to the side, she blew out a frustrated breath. “I went to uni late, as a mature student. I had such big plans. I got a First in my Archaeology degree and I have a Masters, but my last job was working as a secretary in a lubrication firm. And it’s not even fun lubrication,” she added as his eyebrows rose. “It’s engine grease.”
He fought against a smile. “Nothing wrong with that. I worked in a bar all through my degree to help pay for my fees.”
“It’s not the same,” she said quietly. “I should be doing what you’re doing, working for English Heritage or the National Trust or a field unit. I’m good enough—I know I am. But I met someone and I moved away to be with him...”
Her voice trailed off. It would take her forever to explain all the reasons why she’d ended up where she was. She didn’t want to talk about it, and she doubted he wanted to hear it anyway.
“Anyway,” she finished lamely, “I never got around to getting a job in archaeology. And they’re so hard to get anyway, with forty graduates or something ridiculous going for every position. It was easier to carry on temping. I suppose life took over my passion.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Hey.” He leaned over to the coffee table, extracted a tissue from the box there, and passed it to her. “Most of us are like that.”
“You’re not,” she said, sniffing.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he replied vehemently. “My job’s great, but I’m going to have to get another position somewhere else.”
“Why?”
He looked into the fire for a moment. “My life’s complicated.” His gaze was far away, the firelight dancing in his eyes. His expression was hard, unforgiving. Maybe even a little sad.
“Did your wife die?” she asked softly.
He glanced at her. “No.”
“So she lives on the mainland?”
He shifted on the sofa, moving away from her a little. “Yes.”
“Is it because of her that you need to get another job?”
“In a roundabout way.”
Angel screwed up her nose. “You’re not exactly forthcoming.”
“No,” he said, “I’m not.” He gave her a sudden, mischievous smile that made her heart miss a beat.
Their eyes met, and he held her gaze for a little longer than felt necessary.
“How old are you?” she said eventually.
“Thirty in a few months.”
“Jeez,” she said. “I’m five years older than you. That makes me feel old.”
He grinned. “How are you feeling? Would you like a bath? That might help you warm up now you’ve thawed out a little.”
“I’d love one. If... it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” He got to his feet. “Follow me.” He gestured to her wet clothes. “I’ll put those in the dryer in a minute, and they’ll be ready for the morning then.”
She rose, her legs still feeling a little wobbly, and follow him along the corridor and into a tiny bathroom that was just wide enough for the bath.
“Sit there,” he said, gesturing to the toilet seat, “and I’ll run it for you.”
She sat, still clutching the blanket around her, and watched him as he moved around, turning on the taps, adding bath salts, and readying the towels. He was the strong silent type, old fashioned, in a masculine, I’ll-go-out-to-wrestle-a-bear-and-then-bring-it-home-for-dinner kind of way. She knew instinctively that his family had been on Holy Island since the time of the Viking invasion. No doubt there had been a man who looked exactly like him, beard and all, who’d been one of the first to step off the longboat, swinging his axe and looking for a Saxon maiden he could carry off home.
He glanced at her then, catching her watching him, and raised an eyebrow. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”
“It’s okay. I was just thinking that I bet your family goes right back to the eighth century.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Probably. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. You look ready to drop, but I really think you should warm up properly before you go to bed. The bath’s not too hot. It should just warm you through.”
She rubbed her nose. “Shall I sleep on the sofa?”
“It’s entirely up to you. You are very welcome to have my bed and I’ll take the sofa. Just be prepared to have a four-year-old girl jumping up and down on you at six in the morning.”
“I’ll take the sofa,” she said softly. “I’d like to be in front of the fire anyway.”
“Okay.” He walked to the door, then paused and turned back. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine, thanks.”
He nodded, and left the room.
Angel sat there for a moment, looking at the bath. Hal was right—she was so tired she knew she’d fall asleep as soon as she lay down, but the bath looked inviting with its bubbles and steam, and she was still cold inside, like a partly cooked piece of chicken.
Forcing herself to move, she stripped off the clothes and lowered herself into the water.
“Oooh!” At first, everything stung, and she screwed up her eyes tightly, waiting for the pain to go away. But soon, the stinging stopped, and then it was just blissful warmth, right through to her bones.
She lay there for a long time, descending into that hazy world between being awake and asleep, trying not to think about anything. Instead, she let images drift through her mind, of Hal and his blue eyes, and the way he’d lifted her into his arms.
When the water started to cool, she got out, dried herself, dressed again in Hal’s clothes, emptied the bath, and went back into the living room.
He was sitting in one of the armchairs, his legs propped on the coffee table, his head resting on the back of the chair, a whisky glass in his hand. An empty plastic dish sat on the table with the remnants of a microwave meal. He was staring up at the ceiling, and he looked sad. He sat up as she came in, though, and smiled.
“You look better.” He finished off the whisky and put the glass on the table.
“I feel better,” she said. “Although I nearly fell asleep in the bath.”
“Would you like something to eat?” he offered.
“No, I’d rather just get to sleep.”
He got up and gestured to the sofa. He’d tucked a sheet into the cushions, propped a couple of pillows at the end, and added a thick duvet. “Is this okay?”
“It’s perfect.”
He’d banked up the fire, too, and it glowed a glorious red, filling the room with warmth.
She stopped in front of him, and looked up into his gorgeous blue eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she said. “For rescuing me. For bringing me into your home. You’ve obviously had a bad day, and I’m sure the last thing you needed was a damsel in distress. But you’ve been a real knight in shining armor.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve only done what any decent person would do.”
“Maybe. But you saved my life.” She put a hand on his arm and reached up to press her lips to his cheek. “Thank you.”
Chapte
r Seven
Hal checked his kids, tried to wake a sleepy Jamie who roused enough to give him a hug before falling back asleep, and then went to bed.
As tired as he was, he lay awake a long time that night, thinking about things. The touch of Angel’s lips on his cheek lingered, as if they’d been hot enough to brand a lipstick mark into his skin.
It was pure chance that he’d been late tonight and had been the first person to drive by and see her car. His previous thoughts about fate having a hand in it had been frivolous—he didn’t believe in all that crap.
And yet, even though he’d been the one to rescue her, why did he feel as if she was an angel, sent to save him?
It had been a long time since he’d felt a sense of self-worth. His kids loved him, but his separation from their mother had only made life more difficult for them, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they would be better off living with Rebecca and Charles. He’d not been another person’s special someone for two years, and maybe more than that, considering things were already going wrong before Brenna was born. He did his job well and had earned himself a reputation, but with Charles pushing him to rush projects through, he knew his work had suffered lately.
He lay there in the darkness, looking out of the window at the sleet, and grimaced at his dishonesty. He couldn’t blame Charles for everything. The man might be a thorn in his side the size of a javelin, but Hal’s interest in his marriage had been waning before the man’s affair with his wife. He was ashamed that he hadn’t been able to make it work. He’d been too proud, too stubborn, too impatient. For better or worse—he’d made a promise, but when things had gotten hard, he’d walked away. He hadn’t loved her enough. As her husband, shouldn’t that have been his priority?
Rolling onto his back, he brushed his hand over his face, for the first time in a while missing his father. His dad would have put him straight about it all. He could almost hear the old man’s words. “You’re not Superman, Hal. You don’t have to save the world. It always takes two to tango. You did your best.”
If Kisses Were Snowflakes Page 4
