‘And you think I don’t love you?’
‘No,’ he returned unevenly, ‘I know that I don’t love you. I’m ready to settle down, but—I misread the signals. Let’s face it, Clare, you’re a beautiful woman, and when a beautiful woman throws herself at your feet, it takes a hell of a man to walk away.’
She swallowed the hurt, aware of the truth behind his barbed comment, and hung her head.
‘Even so,’ he continued, ‘it hurt to think you’d replaced me so fast—and so cruelly. I can’t blame him—God knows I found you irresistible——’ His voice cracked, but he went on regardless. ‘Tell me, Clare, what was my brother like—was he good in bed?’
Her pain coalesced into a boiling rage that wouldn’t be contained. How could he? How could he even think it?
‘Fantastic,’ she lied, ‘better than you, anyway.’
She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath and realised she’d gone too far. Raising her head, she saw the pain in his eyes as he turned away from her.
‘It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, and I doubt it’ll be the last,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’d like a drink.’
‘Perrier?’
‘Gin and tonic.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, damn it!’
‘A weak one,’ she compromised, and fled to the kitchen.
It was an endless day. Michael was unapproachable, and, in truth, Clare didn’t know how to begin to talk to him. She knew she shouldn’t have taunted him about Andrew, especially as there wasn’t a grain of truth in it, but it was too late now. The words were out, and, like feathers from a pillow, were almost impossible to get back.
She helped him to prepare for bed in a fulminating silence, and lay awake for hours listening to the small sounds from his room. Surely he couldn’t mean it? He must love her—they had been so close, so happy. Surely he didn’t? Perhaps it was just depression, or misunderstanding what he had overheard, but surely—oh, God, she thought, please let it not be true!
When she fell asleep, finally, it was with Lottie’s ring clutched in her hand, and tears still wet on her cheeks.
In the early hours she awoke suddenly, her heart pounding in the silence. Throwing back the bedclothes, she crept out of bed and stood listening on the landing.
Michael groaned, then with a sobbing scream he yelled, ‘Clare, get out! Get out!’
She ran into his room and shook him gently awake.
‘Michael? Michael, it’s all right—you’re dreaming. It’s OK. It’s OK, darling, hush—hush …’
Carefully, avoiding his left leg, she eased herself into bed beside him and put her arms round him.
‘Clare?’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Shh. It’s all right now. It’s all over.’
He groaned and sagged against her. ‘I had a nightmare,’ he mumbled. ‘We were in a railway carriage, and—oh, God. It was true!’ he muttered raggedly. ‘Oh, no, Clare, I——’
She held him close as his body shook with silent grief, and she rested her cheek against his face, her own tears mingling with his as they fell.
Finally he slept, waking only as the sun slanted over the bed and bathed the room in golden light.
He shifted on to one elbow and looked down at Clare almost in disbelief.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked gruffly.
‘You had a nightmare—I didn’t want to leave you.’
His hand came up and touched her cheek. ‘You’ve been crying.’ His eyes wandered over her body, her nightdress pulled taut over her breasts. ‘God, you’re lovely—I want you.’
‘Michael, don’t you think——?’
‘I don’t want to think. I don’t care if it isn’t good for me—I want you. I’d have to be dead not to want you. Come here …’
And because she was starved of his touch, because she longed for the tenderness and passion, the gentleness and the closeness, she went to him, meeting him touch for touch, kiss for kiss, shattered by the sudden explosion of sensation as he took her roughly, his mouth ravaging, his body almost cruel in its demands.
She cried out beneath him, and felt his body shudder violently under her hands as he collapsed against her in a devastating climax.
For a few seconds he fought for breath, then he levered himself away from her and fell back against the pillows, gasping for breath. His face was white, his forehead beaded with sweat.
‘Michael——?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, ‘I had no right to do that to you. It’s just—the thought of you with Andrew——’
He turned his head away, the muscles of his neck taut with strain.
She reached out to him, her heart aching. Surely he didn’t think——
‘Darling?’
‘Leave me alone, Clare, please.’
‘Michael, about Andrew——’
‘No! I don’t want to hear. Just leave me alone.’
‘But, Michael——’
‘Clare, for pity’s sake, can’t you understand? I want to be alone!’ he cried savagely. ‘What do you want from me? Dear God, leave me the shreds of my dignity—don’t make me crawl away from you on my hands and knees! I want to be alone!’
‘I’m sorry—oh, God, I’m sorry—Michael …’
The sight of his rigidly averted face shattered the last fragments of her control, and she ran back to her room, slamming the doors behind her.
Even so, the sound of his racking sobs filtered through the old timbers and penetrated her misery. She stood numbly in her room, her hand pressed over her mouth, listening to the man she loved more than anything else in the world, coming to terms with the tragedy that had overtaken him.
Forbidden to help, and yet unable to stand by and listen to it without going to him, she dressed hurriedly and went out into the garden, tugging furiously at the weeds with her bare hands until she had made them bleed.
Astonished, she stared blankly at them. They didn’t seem to hurt—and yet, now she was conscious of them, perhaps they did hurt. It was just a much smaller hurt than the iron band around her heart that tightened with every passing second.
She wandered into the kitchen, and stumbled to a halt. Michael was propped against the worktop, dressed in his shorts and shirt, his hair gleaming wetly from the shower. He looked—superficially, at least—calm and in control.
‘You should have called me—I would have helped you.’
‘I didn’t need you,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I put a bag on my dressing, but it’s a bit damp. Could you change it for me? It’s rather awkward to reach, or I’d do it.’
‘No, I—that’s fine, of course I’ll do it. Sit down.’
‘There’s no hurry—I made you a coffee. It’s by the—hell, Clare, what did you do to your hands?’
She stared at them, and rubbed them against her jeans, trying hard not to wince. ‘I—nothing. I was weeding. Must have pulled up some bracken or something. I’ll put some antiseptic on them.’
She busied herself at the sink, washing the cuts, and Michael stood beside her, watching. Finally he lifted her hands and turned them firmly but gently palm-up.
‘They’re cut to shreds—oh, Clare. Let me dress them.’
‘No, you’re …’
‘I’m what?’ He met her eyes. ‘Crippled?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t say that!’
‘Why not? It’s true. Not my hands, though. I’m still a doctor—nothing’s happened to change that. And frankly, the sooner I get back to work, the better. Now get the first-aid kit out of the cupboard there and come and sit down.’
In fact only one or two of the cuts were deep, and Clare wallowed in the agony of Michael’s touch. He was so gentle—so different from the wild, crazy man he had been just a few hours before. When he had finished he picked up her hands and turned them over, inspecting the backs, then without releasing her he looked up and met her eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve brought you so much pain. Once, I thought we could have had so much to
gether. Forgive me.’
She held his brilliant blue gaze until it blurred, and her tears welled over and splashed on to their hands, then she closed her eyes and pulled her hands away.
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said quietly. ‘It isn’t your fault.’
‘I used you this morning. That was despicable.’
She laughed, a short, high, rather frantic little laugh. ‘I used you too—or didn’t you notice? You were the pits, Michael, but I was with you every step of the way. Let me do your leg.’
He sat in grim, tight-lipped silence while she changed the dressing on his stump. It was healing well, she noticed absently, relieved to see that there were no obvious adverse effects of their lovemaking. ‘I expect Tim Mayhew will take some of the stitches out tomorrow,’ she said as steadily as she could manage. ‘It’ll feel better then.’
‘It feels fine,’ he said curtly. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she whispered. Standing up, she moved away from him, away from the heat of his skin and the faint scent of him that clung to her senses, out of reach so she no longer had to touch his body or be touched by it.
‘I’ll go and get ready,’ she said quickly, and turned and ran for the stairs.
When she came down he was still sitting there, O’Malley draped round his neck, his hair dry now. She held out her injured hand, palm up. On the dressing lay Lottie’s ring in its box.
‘You’ll want this back,’ she said calmly. ‘I expect one day you or Andrew will get married. I hope she has better luck than we’ve had.’
He took it with fingers that were less than steady, and opened it, staring at the ring. ‘Of course, it could still be yours—if you married Andrew you could have it all—the perfect hero and the ring.’ He looked up at her, his eyes taunting. ‘Of course he’s not a doctor, but he’s filthy rich——’
She struck him with the full force of her hand. ‘How dare you?’ she whispered raggedly. ‘Andrew is nothing to me—nothing! I meant it—I still mean it! I love you——’
‘No. No, Clare, you don’t love me, and anyway, it’s academic, because I don’t love you. We’d better go if you don’t want to be late.’
‘I’m not going anywhere until we’ve sorted this out.’
He caught her wrist and pulled her hard up against him. ‘Listen to me—I don’t intend to say it again. What we had is over. Yes, I still want your body—who wouldn’t? You’re beautiful, and you make love like a cross between an angel and a houri, but that isn’t going to influence me again. I’ll be out of hospital in a few more days, and when I come back here I want you to be gone. Do you understand?’
‘But you can’t cope alone!’ she protested. ‘How will you shop, and cook, and get to Physio, and all the other things you need to be able to do? You have to get the DVLC to grant you a licence before you can drive again—how will you cope out here in total isolation?’
Taxis,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Mobile shops, hospital car service, and so on. I still have the telephone, Clare. I can summon anything I need——’
‘And what if you fall? Who will pick you up?’
‘I will.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘No.’ His hand on her wrist gentled. ‘No, Clare, I’m not crazy, not yet. But I soon will be if I don’t get some privacy. I know I can’t really cope, but I have to try, or I’ll go round the bend.’
She sank down in front of him and rested her hand on his knee.
‘I accept that, and I’ll do everything I can to keep out of your way, but please let me help you at first—at least until you’ve got your artificial leg and you’re confident on it. They’ll do the cast on Tuesday, and take all the measurements, and then you should have it within a week. Let me stay till then—please? I’ll keep away from you, stay in my room, whatever—but let me help you find your feet—please, Michael? And then I’ll move out, I promise.’
He met her eyes with a look of such burning intensity she thought he was staring into her soul, and then his lids closed and he nodded in defeat.
‘OK. Thanks.’
She stood up abruptly. ‘Don’t thank me—I’m doing it entirely for selfish reasons. Are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ he sighed tiredly. ‘Yes, I’m ready.’
‘Then let’s go.’
The journey back to the hospital marked the first phase in their truce. They were both quiet, but it was an accepting kind of silence, a still period that they both needed in order to come to terms with the changes that had taken place in their relationship.
Clare still took an active part in Michael’s nursing, but as he healed and spent more and more time in Physiotherapy, so he needed less and less care. He began taking an interest in his patients again, and spent much of his free time with Barry Warner.
On Thursday Clare went into Sister’s office to find him in consultation with Tim Mayhew over Barry Warner’s X-rays. She noticed that Pete Sawyer’s notes were also out, and raised an eyebrow at the consultant.
He winked, and turned his attention back to Michael.
‘Yes, I think I can safely say that you did an excellent job on young Warner. There are definite signs of healing in that right tibia—look, see the callus beginning to form here, and here—excellent. And young Pete Sawyer’s radius and ulna are showing tremendous improvement. Congratulations. Now, what about you?’
‘Can I go home tomorrow?’
Clare gasped, and Michael turned round and looked questioningly at her.
‘I—I was going to arrange some time off, so I could be there——’
‘That isn’t necessary. I’ll be fine. You’re around enough—when are you off?’
She checked the rota on the wall. ‘Sunday lunchtime to Tuesday morning—then I’ve got next weekend off completely. Can’t you wait till the weekend?’ she pleaded.
He sighed. ‘Frankly—no, I can’t. Clare, really, I’ll be perfectly all right. If you could bring me in on Tuesday morning for my leg, then I can spend the day in Physio practising, and go home with you at four——’
‘And then you’ll be back at home all on your own until Friday night, and I know you, Michael—you’ll try all sorts of things you aren’t ready for, and fall over and hurt yourself——’
‘Clare,’ Tim Mayhew interrupted, laying his hand gently on her arm. ‘My dear, he’ll be quite all right. He’s a sensible man, and he knows his limitations. The last thing he’s going to do is end up back in here with a fractured femur, isn’t it?’
He swivelled round and glared at Michael, who gave a wry chuckle.
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Right. So tomorrow it is. How will you get home?’
‘I’m on a late—I’ll pick you up in the morning,’ Clare said heavily.
‘Right. I’ll sort out the discharge papers, Michael. Now, my dear, I wonder if you could come with me and we’ll have a look at Danny Drew. How do you think he’s doing?’
Clare allowed herself to be wheeled off to Danny’s bedside, and gave Mr Mayhew her assessment of Danny’s progress.
‘Good, good—well, Danny, the physiotherapist seems to think you’re ready for some partial weight-bearing exercise, and the X-rays we did yesterday back that up, so we’re going to get you down to Physio every day now to get you walking again. Mrs Matthews will explain all the exercises to you, and get you up and about again as soon as we can. All right?’
Danny grinned, relief all over his face. ‘Great, sir—thanks. I can’t tell you how good it’ll be to be up again. Oh, sir—how’s Mr Barrington?’
Tim Mayhew regarded him steadily for a second, and then squeezed his shoulder. ‘He’s going to be fine, Danny—just fine.’
‘Wicked thing to happen,’ Danny said quietly. ‘He’s a brave man. Will he be able to work again?’
‘Oh, yes. Give him a few weeks to recuperate, and he’ll be back, don’t worry. I can’t afford to lose him!’
Danny looked at Clare. ‘Been tough on you, Staff, seeing as h
ow you’re going with him and so on.’
She summoned a smile. ‘Oh, Danny, we’re just good friends.’
‘But you were very upset——’
‘Of course I was. I—care about him. We all do. He’s a valuable member of the team——’
Danny snorted, Tim raised an eyebrow and Clare sighed.
‘Butt out, Danny,’ Pete Sawyer called from the other side of the ward. ‘None of your damn business what any of them feel.’
Clare was getting more flustered by the second.
‘Really, we’re just——’
‘—good friends, I know. I’m sorry.’
Clare was astonished at the new maturity she saw in Danny’s eyes—maturity, and understanding.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and walked away, leaving Tim Mayhew to follow her.
‘He’s grown up,’ Tim said as he caught up with her.
‘Not before time,’ Clare responded, wishing they could all leave her alone to wonder how she would cope with Michael at home on his own all day.
‘He will be all right,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Michael. He’ll be all right.’
Clare met his eyes, hers twin pools of misery and confusion. ‘I hope so.’
‘Oh, my dear. I was so afraid this would happen.’
Clare looked away. ‘I’ll cope. Perhaps with time … I must get on. Is there anyone else you want to see?’
There wasn’t, so he left her to bury herself in ward routine to the exclusion of her troublesome thoughts.
That evening she went to the supermarket and stocked up on things he could graze on easily while she was out, and also made up a day-bed in the sitting-room near the french windows so he could rest if he needed to.
He was ready for her when she arrived at nine—more ready, at least, than she was, which wasn’t difficult. He spurned the wheelchair, preferring instead to walk with his crutches. He was very proficient, but glared at his suitcase with undisguised loathing.
‘I should be carrying that,’ he grumbled.
‘Oh, shut up. Why do you have to be Superman?’
He grinned at her. ‘Now there’s an idea. If I could fly everywhere——’
A Perfect Hero Page 10
