by Marie Laval
He rubbed his hands together, and she felt guilty again. After all, a cup of tea was the least she could offer him when he’d driven all this way to bring her the bottle she had forgotten.
‘Sure.’ She filled the kettle and reached out for cups on the dresser’s top shelf.
‘Wait. I’ll get them for you,’ he said from behind her.
His body brushed against her, and she swirled round with a gasp. There was nothing threatening on his face, and his eyes were just as impassive as always, yet her instinctive reaction was to step back.
She bumped against the dresser, making the plates, cups and saucers rattle. At the same time the kitchen door crashed open and banged against the wall. Darren swung round, dropped his hand, and Cassie swiftly stepped aside.
Stefan Lambert, his face red from the cold, his hair and coat covered with snow, strode in. Forget lions or bears. Today, he looked like the abominable snowman. His eyes glowed, hot and hard, and even from where she was standing she felt the threat that radiated from him.
He looked straight at her. ‘Are you all right?’ His voice sounded even rougher than she remembered.
She nodded and opened her mouth to reply, but Darren was quicker.
‘You must be the French guest. Your accent gave you away.’
He smiled but Stefan only gave him a cold, appraising look.
‘I’m a friend of Cassie’s,’ Darren carried on. ‘We were just about to have a cup of tea before Cassie showed me around.’
Cassie opened her mouth in protest, but how could she object that it wasn’t at all what had happened, and that she had never agreed to show Darren the house without calling him a liar?
Stefan frowned as he looked at her, and suddenly her face was burning. Now he must think that Darren was her boyfriend, and she was taking advantage of her job to sneak him into Belthorn.
She picked up Darren’s anorak from the back of the chair and held it out. ‘Thanks again for bringing the bottle, Darren.’
‘No problem. I’ll call round at the cottage tomorrow morning as agreed. We can always have that cup of tea another day.’ He slipped his coat on, nodded to Lambert and walked out.
Chapter Seven
The adrenaline rush had vanished, leaving his heart pounding and his body aching all over. Taking his coat off would require a superhuman effort so he dragged the zip down and collapsed into a chair. That served him right for running down a mountain path to rescue a damsel in distress.
He would do well to remember that he was no knight in shining armour, and it transpired that Cassie Bell was no damsel in distress after all, but had been entertaining a friend – or boyfriend. So much for his infallible instinct… He should have saved himself the bother, and the aches and pain.
‘It’s not what you think.’
Cassie Bell stood in front of him, two pink spots on her cheeks and her fingers toying with a strand of blonde hair that had slipped down from her messy chignon. She had pulled up the sleeves of her grey top, uncovering slender forearms. Her dungarees swamped her slight frame, and the front pockets filled with tissues, pink rubber gloves, a packet of wipes, pens and scissors and heaven knows what else, made her look a little like a mummy kangaroo.
He cast a weary look in her direction. ‘And what do I think?’
She bit her lip and her face took on a deeper shade of red. ‘That I asked Darren to come here… that he is my boyfriend. I know what it must have looked like, but the truth is I hardly know him. He’s not even local. He’s only lived in Red Moss for the past six months or so.’
The corners of his lips twitched, and he couldn’t help but smile. ‘Is Red Moss one of these places where people have to live for two generations before they are considered locals?’
‘Three generations actually, according to my granddad, although there are exceptions,’ she replied with a lopsided smile.
The fist in his chest loosened and he breathed more easily, although there was absolutely no reason why he should feel relieved that the tall, lanky man wasn’t Cassie Bell’s boyfriend. She was only his housekeeper – babysitter, more like – and who she went out with was none of his business, but he hadn’t liked the look of the man and the cold, calculating expression in his eyes. Most of all he hadn’t liked the way he had stood so close to the young woman, crowding her.
‘I met Darren when I was shopping and he was kind enough to bring me a bottle I had left in my trolley.’ She frowned, and whispered, ‘Although, now I think about it, I am sure I unpacked all four of them.’ Still frowning, she opened a cupboard, and counted up to four. ‘Yes, I did have them all! How odd… Darren must have made a mistake.’
Or he had been looking for an excuse to come to Belthorn, Stefan finished silently.
Cassie turned round, and buried her hands in her dungarees’ enormous side pockets. ‘By the way, I did a big shop. The cupboards were bare and Charles Ashville transferred money to cover your grocery expenses. You said yesterday that you weren’t fussy with food, and I do hope you’ll like what I bought.’
Worry flickered in her grey eyes, and he cursed himself for his short-temper the day before. She was only doing what Charlie had instructed after all. It wasn’t her fault that his friend was being overprotective and didn’t trust him to take care of himself.
‘Thank you. I’m sure it’ll be great, but I will pay the shopping bills from now on. Don’t worry,’ he added quickly when he saw she was about to object, ‘I’ll sort everything out with Charlie when I get in touch with him.’
Remembering his resolve to be more approachable, he glanced at the oven and breathed in heart-warming scents of cooking meat and vegetables. ‘It smells nice.’
Her face lit up. ‘It’s a steak pie, with potatoes and vegetables. I made some gravy too.’
‘Sounds good. Leave the oven on. I’ll eat later, after you’ve left.’ He stood up and immediately repressed a groan as a spasm seized his spine, knocking his breath out. The run down the hill hadn’t done his back any favours. Now the pain had returned with a vengeance and it was taking more strength than he possessed to hide it.
Gripping the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white, he squeezed his eyes shut, forced a few deep breaths down and focussed on remaining on his feet. There was no way he was making a spectacle of himself by rolling about on the floor, crying like a baby in front of the young woman, even if it was what he felt like doing right now. With luck the spasms would ease before she noticed he was in agony.
Luck wasn’t on his side.
‘What’s wrong?’ Cassie Bell asked. ‘You look dreadful. Are you hurt?’
Still holding on to the back of the chair, he flicked his eyes open and met Cassie’s soft grey gaze, filled with something he had seen too many times these past few months to not recognise it. Compassion. Concern. But most of all, pity.
‘I’m fine. You can go home now.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not leaving until you’ve eaten and I’m sure you’re all right.’
‘I’m giving you the evening off,’ he growled. ‘Take it.’
She crossed her arms. ‘The only person who can give me time off is Charles Ashville. Until I hear from him, I have to do the job he appointed me for.’
Another spasm clenched his back in a tight grip, robbing him of the strength to argue. ‘Suit yourself,’ he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘I’m going to lie down for a while.’
Mustering what little strength he had left, he walked woodenly to the door, pausing to rest his hand against the wall in the hall and catch his breath, once he was sure she couldn’t see him. He made it up the stairs after much cursing, and once in his room popped a couple of his strongest painkillers into his mouth.
When he no longer felt that he was in danger of passing out, he lowered himself like an old man onto the bed to take his boots off, his breath short and sweat pearling on his forehead from the sheer effort of it. Closing his eyes, he reclined onto the bedcovers and prayed for the pills to take e
ffect. Fast.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ Cassie called from the bottom of the stairs.
It was her second attempt at waking Lambert up, but, like the first half an hour before, it appeared unsuccessful. She couldn’t leave dinner much later. The pie would be dry, the vegetables mushy. She was getting hungry, having only eaten a banana and Salomé’s iced bun for lunch, and her granddad would be waiting for her – and worrying.
She climbed to the top of the stairs, called again and held her breath to listen, but there was no reply. She tiptoed along the corridor, careful not to trip on the folds of the dark red carpet, which was pinned to the uneven floorboards. What if he had fainted, or was too weak to reply or to get up? Of course, the man could also have decided to ignore her completely in the hope that she would go away.
Having done some cleaning upstairs that afternoon, she knew that he had chosen one of the rooms overlooking the hillside at the back of the house. For some reason, it hadn’t surprised her. He didn’t seem the kind of man who would enjoy the master bedroom’s four-poster bed, flowery silk wallpaper and Persian rugs… unless it was the view of the ruined abbey emerging from the mist like a ghost ship that had put him off.
She walked to Stefan’s room, listening to the sounds of his breathing, and called from the threshold. He still didn’t wake up.
Perhaps she should leave him to rest and go home, but he had looked in pain earlier, and it might be dangerous to abandon him alone at Belthorn. On the other hand, she couldn’t stay there all evening.
Feeling shy and awkward, she walked into the room and around the bed. He had left his bedside light on, and the glow made his features softer, smoother, and his skin golden. She watched his powerful chest rise and fall with every breath, and something stirred insider her. He said he’d been in Mali with Charles Ashville. Piers had told her that Charles had almost died in an ambush a few months before… perhaps it was where he had been injured too, why he sought solace at Belthorn, and why he wanted to spend Christmas alone?
Suddenly he moved in his sleep, his breathing quickened, and his face contracted, as if in pain. She’d better wake him instead of staring at him whilst he slept.
She walked to his side of the bed and put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a tap. ‘Stefan. Wake up. Dinner’s read—’ she started.
She didn’t have time to finish. His fingers encircled her wrist like a steel manacle and pulled her down. Her knees buckled and she fell forward on top of him. ‘Hey, what…?’ Her face rubbing against his shirt, she felt the pounding of his heart, breathed in his clean, soapy scent mixed with the smells of snow and wind, and wriggled to break free from his grasp.
He was still holding her wrist, but her other hand was free, so she pressed it, palm down on his chest, to push her body up until she was level with his face. ‘Stefan!’ she shouted.
He opened his eyes. The irises were a warm, shimmering gold. ‘Cassie?’
Immediately, his fingers loosened their grip on her wrist. She jumped to her feet and stepped well back, her heart pounding and her body burning. The whole thing has taken two, three seconds, but she could still feel the imprint of his hard, muscular body and the thudding of his heart resonated inside her.
‘I only wanted to wake you up to tell you that dinner’s ready,’ she said weakly.
He sat on the side of the bed, and raked his fingers in his brown hair. ‘I hope you don’t think I was trying to…’ He blew a long, shaky breath, and looked at her, his eyes filled with anguish. ‘I wasn’t trying to assault you or anything… I was just… dreaming.’
He gestured to the box of medicine on the bedside table. ‘These are pretty strong painkillers. I am sorry… It happens, sometimes. I dream I’m still over there. In Mali. It was pretty tough, and…’
His voice faltered, and her heart filled with sadness and compassion. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said quickly. ‘I suppose it’s my fault for sneaking up on you while you were sleeping, but I have been calling for ages and you didn’t wake up. So much for my loud voice scaring all the wildlife away…’
She smiled.
He didn’t smile back. ‘Give me a few minutes and I’ll come down.’
Chapter Eight
He walked to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face. Gripping the sides of the sink, he looked at the grim reflection in the mirror. Droplets of water slid down the hair he hadn’t had cut for months, got caught in the stubble he didn’t bother to shave any more.
Never mind his scarred face, his backache, and the broken voice caused by the damage to his vocal chords. He was a mess. He was losing it. Again. The doctor at the military Val-de-Grâce Hospital had warned that the dreams would reoccur. Pushing the memories away and refusing to talk about what had happened wouldn’t help, he had said. Stefan knew he was right. He knew he needed to talk. But he couldn’t. Every time he started, his throat closed up, and the words wouldn’t come… So he told the doctor all he needed to get better was to be left alone for a few weeks.
It looked like he was wrong.
He grabbed a towel, dried his face, and combed his damp hair back with his fingers. He had scared Cassie, and no wonder. She must have thought he was going to hurt her, and God knows what else.
His back was still stiff but the painkillers had dulled the throbbing to a bearable ache, and he made his way downstairs.
‘How are you feeling?’ Cassie asked as he walked into the kitchen.
‘Better, thanks.’ He was well enough to notice that she made a charming picture, her face pink and dewy from the heat of the stove and framed by curly tendrils of blonde hair. Heat flashed through him as he remembered the sensations her soft body pressed against him had aroused, and how small and delicate her wrist had felt in his hand.
He cleared his throat. ‘Listen, Cassie… You don’t mind if I call you Cassie?’
She shook her head. ‘Not at all.’
‘You should call me Stefan, since it appears we are going to see a lot of each other,’ he suggested.
‘All right… Stefan.’
‘I am really sorry about earlier.’
She raised her hand to stop him, and looked at him, her grey eyes serious and kind. ‘You already apologised. It wasn’t your fault. Let’s talk no more about it.’
She gestured to the table where she had already set a plate, some cutlery and a wine glass. ‘Please sit down. It won’t be long.’
A napkin was folded on the plate and on top were two blue Post-it notes. He picked them up and looked at her. ‘What are these?’
She smiled. ‘Jokes I give my customers to cheer them up, courtesy of my granddad. Since you didn’t get one yesterday, you’re having a double helping today.’
‘You give your clients jokes?’
She winked. ‘Don’t forget that I’m the good mood fairy. I offer an all-round rescue service – rescue from dirt, dust and gloom too!’
He nodded, even though rescuing him from his gloom would take more than a few jokes, and read the first Post-it. ‘What did Father Christmas say to the elves when they visited the honey factory? Be Hive yourself.’
He put it down and read the other one. ‘What did the Zombie get when he bit the snowman? Brain Freeze.’
He looked up and she gave him a sheepish smile. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I know they’re a bit corny.’
He smiled back. ‘I like them.’
Her face lit up. ‘Really?’
‘I don’t usually say things I don’t mean.’ Glancing at the table, he asked, ‘Why is there only one plate? Are you not eating with me?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m here to make your meals and clean the house, not to eat. What’s more, my granddad is waiting for me at home. Please sit down.’
If the nap and the painkillers had done him good, he felt even better after a slice of Cassie’s steak pie and a small glass of red wine, even if the woman’s non-stop chattering made him a little dizzy. She was a whirlwind of activity, dashing around the kitc
hen to wipe the worktops, tidy up and put utensils away, and talking all the time.
He lost count of the questions she asked, her first being why was his English so good? He told her about his uncle marrying an Englishwoman and the holidays he had spent with them and his cousins in their house in Kent. Cassie then wanted to know if it was his first visit to the Lakes, and how long he intended to stay. More questions followed. Did he enjoy hiking? Sailing? Rock climbing? Eating out? What was his favourite dish, and his least favourite dish?
‘I need to make sure I cook what you like,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to worry. I’m not fussy.’
She laughed. ‘Please don’t say that… You don’t know what horrors I am capable of!’
She asked him about Christmas in Paris. Did the Eiffel Tower really sparkle at night? And what about the fireworks, were they as spectacular as on television?
She didn’t seem to notice that his replies had become monosyllabic, then barely civil grunts. Suddenly, he’d had enough. He put his knife and fork down and glanced out of the window. Night had fallen and it was still snowing.
‘You should go home before the weather gets worse,’ he said, interrupting her flow of words.
She turned to look at him, shook her head and carried on scraping the pie dish, sending washing-up foam everywhere. ‘I have to finish this first.’
‘Leave it. I’ll do it later.’
She scrubbed harder. ‘No you won’t. It’s my job.’
There was a steely edge to her voice that told him there was no point arguing. The woman was as stubborn as she was chatty.
He could be stubborn too. He stood up and put his plate, glass and his cutlery into the sink. ‘Then I’ll follow you to the village as soon as you’ve finished. I don’t want you risking an accident in that old van of yours.’
This time a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. ‘My Bluebell van may be old but it’s perfectly safe.’
‘The road is slippery and dangerous. I’d rather be with you, just in case…’
She arched her eyebrows. ‘I’m used to driving in the snow and had special tyres fitted. Beside, I’m not the one who drove my car into a ditch.’
