‘Fire needs stoking. Upstairs as well,’ Sorrel told him as she tried to stand up for a second time.
‘Leave everything to me. Hey, it has gone to your head, hasn’t it?’ she heard Val saying in a voice that seemed to hold more of a suspicion of laughter than concern, and then she was swept up into his arms and deposited in front of the range in one of the two easy chairs, her head spinning so badly that she closed her eyes and moaned faintly. It was the wine, of course, and nothing to do with the wholly unexpected sensation of being picked up and carried in Val’s arms, her head resting against his shoulder, her face turned into his skin so that her lips were almost touching the warm brown column of his throat. His skin fascinated her. She wondered woozily if he was tanned all over, and then blushed guiltily at the wantonness of her thoughts.
‘Fire too hot?’ she heard him asking her solicitously, and she opened her eyes reluctantly to find he was leaning over her, arms braced either side of her on the arms of the chair.
His shirt was open at the throat and she was sure she could see dark hair growing there. She had an odd squirmy feeling in her stomach—a sensation hitherto unknown to her. Andrew’s torso was almost hairless, his skin very pale. He hated sunbathing and she remembered had only reluctantly removed his shirt when they had spent a day in Pembrokeshire, walking along the cliffs with Simon and Fiona during the summer. Her brother had laughed at him, Sorrel remembered, and although she knew she hadn’t been meant to see it she had not missed the look of pity Fiona had given her.
Perhaps it was true that Andrew wasn’t a very male man, certainly nothing like as male as Val. She gave a tiny shiver and, to her consternation, felt the hard, calloused weight of Val’s palm against her forehead.
‘Just checking to see if you had a fever,’ he told her when her eyes opened wide.
‘If anyone should have a fever, it would be you,’ she told him crossly. ‘Walking through that snow …’
‘What would you have preferred me to do? Stayed in my car and frozen to death?’
The sensation of pain that struck her astounded her. She looked at him with confused, anguish-glazed eyes and suddenly his face came properly into focus and in his eyes she saw a predatory male look that made her body tense; then she blinked and it was gone, and she knew that she must have imagined it.
‘Bed for you, I think,’ she heard him saying wryly, ‘before you pass out on me down here.’
‘Won’t pass out,’ Sorrel told him indignantly. ‘Can’t—can’t go to bed … not with you …’
She thought she heard him chuckle as he bent to pick her up, but her head was whirling round so much that she had to concentrate all her attention on that.
‘If it bothers you that much, I can always doss down on the floor. It won’t be the first time. I slept rough often enough when I was prospecting.’
‘Prospecting?’ Sorrel questioned him drowsily as he headed for the stairs. She could get quite used to being held in his arms, she decided woozily. There was something very pleasant about the sensation of him all around her. She liked the scent of his body, the maleness of him. It made her want to nestle and cuddle up against him.
‘I’m a geologist, remember?’ he told her.
The stairs were steep, but he reached the top barely out of breath, Sorrel recognised admiringly. She tried to imagine Andrew picking her up and carrying her to bed once they were married, but the image refused to form, and the wine-induced elation spinning through her body suddenly turned to dejection.
She wanted to marry Andrew, she reminded herself. And there was more to marriage than having a husband strong enough to pick her up in his arms. Andrew had different strengths … far more important strengths. But, dredge her brain though she did, she couldn’t for some reason recall just what they were.
‘This looks cosy,’ she heard Val say appreciatively as he carried her into the bedroom.
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