well, at least it didn’t hurt any more—or not nearly as much. If only it had all been worth it, if there’d been any point in him having got himself into this mess, but his heroics hadn’t been enough, in the end, and tragedy had had its way. It had all been a complete and total waste.
And he wasn’t going to think about that now or he’d go stark, staring mad. Instead he’d think about Molly, and how she’d looked at him with those hurt, reproachful eyes when he’d bluntly dismissed her and all but told her to leave him alone.
Damn. He’d apologise tomorrow.
He got into bed and lay down in the bed with a sigh. He felt disappointed, as if he’d let himself down somehow, and his heart ached with—what? Regret?
Or just plain loneliness.
He rolled onto his front, jamming the pillow under the side of his head and stretching out his leg for the first time in what seemed like hours. Not that he’d been uncomfortable in the plane. Travelling business class was hardly roughing it, but it couldn’t prevent the turbulence and he was exhausted, his body clock disrupted by the time difference. But that didn’t mean he could sleep.
He shifted a little, and realised that the bed was, as Molly had said, very comfortable.
But not so comfortable that he could forget the look in her eyes as she’d backed away.
He thumped the pillow and turned his head the other way, and finally gave up and rolled on to his back, staring at the window. There was a chink in the curtains, and he could see the kitchen light on. She must be cooking their fish for supper, he thought, and felt a pang of regret that he’d bottled out. He stopped looking at it, turned his head away, tried not to think about what she and Charlie were doing and the fact that he could have been sitting with them and eating Bob’s sea bass instead of lying there alone.
Then he wondered what time she’d go to bed, and where she slept and, exhausted though he was, he thought again of that revealing peep of cleavage he’d seen when she’d first come round the corner and introduced herself, and felt the heat coil in his gut.
Stupid. Crazy. He was jealous of a leaf, for goodness’ sake!
Anyway, she wouldn’t want him. Not now she knew. He’d seen the pity in her eyes, seen the look she’d given his legs when he’d told her, the cringing embarrassment, the recoil.
He’d seen it before. Celia had looked at him like that, the first time she’d seen his leg after the accident.
At least Molly hadn’t been sick.
No. He wasn’t going to surrender to self-pity. It was a stupid, useless, destructive emotion and he had better things to do with his life than wallow in misery because the first woman in years to pique his interest was turned off by his disability.
God, he hated that word.
Hated all of it.
Suddenly he didn’t feel any older than Charlie, just a kid again, who should have been running around with skinny legs sticking out of his shorts, crabbing off the jetty without a care in the world.
Where had it all gone?
And with a flash of insight, he wondered how his father had felt, losing his son for the last eleven years. He’d never intended to emigrate, but that was how it had ended up. It hadn’t been intentional, and he’d missed everyone, but back home his father had missed him far more. He knew that. Georgie had left him in no doubt about it.
And now he had to go and tell him that the son he’d loved and missed for so long had come home disabled.
And he had to be his best man.
Hell.
He rolled on to his side, and saw an upstairs light on now. Molly’s?
Yes. He saw her reach up and close her curtains, and the silhouette of her firm, lush curves made him ache for something he would never have. Molly Blythe was strictly off limits, a beautiful young woman who was getting on with her life and who had better things to do than tangle with a man so physically and emotionally scarred he couldn’t even tell his own father about the mess his life was in.
And, just to underline the stupid, crazy nature of this thing that had happened to him, his toes—the toes he didn’t have any more—curled up in agonising cramp that made him whimper with the pain. Phantom limb pain? Nothing phantom about it.
He sat up and rubbed the stump, massaging it vigorously, trying to chase away the sensation, but it wouldn’t go. He rummaged in his bag for the metallic mesh sock that seemed to help, and pulled it on, lying back to wait for the relief that usually came.
There was no pattern to the pain. Nothing he could tackle in one straightforward way, nothing that made any sense. Acupuncture helped, but he was a long way from his acupuncturist, so he lay there, retreated into himself and, by slowing his breathing and focusing on the sound of the sea in his head, he went to a place where nothing could hurt him, nothing could reach him.
Not even his phantoms.
It was a cry that woke her.
No. Not a cry. More of a shout, mumbled and indistinct. She got up and went to the window and looked out, listening, and there it was again.
And it was coming from the cabin.
Her heart thumping, she grabbed her dressing gown and ran downstairs, flicking the button on the kettle on her way, and went down to the garden, the grass wet against her feet as she crossed to the cabin and tapped on the door.
‘David? Are you OK?’
He was mumbling something and, because she didn’t know if he was ill or if it was just a nightmare, she opened the door and tiptoed in. ‘David?’
Nothing, but she could see by the light through the gap in the curtains that he’d kicked the covers down to his knees and was twisting restlessly on the bed. He was naked except for a pair of snug jersey boxers, and there was a sheen on his skin, as if he was sweating. He was rambling, but as she stood there he said clearly, ‘No! Don’t let him die!’
He was dreaming—dreaming about something horrible and frightening, and without hesitating she crossed over to him and laid a hand firmly but gently against his shoulder. ‘David!’
He stiffened, and then after a second his eyes opened, he stared at her, and then with a ragged groan, he dragged the quilt back up over his chest and covered his face with his hands, drawing them slowly down over the skin and hauling in a great deep breath.
He let it out, then sat up and propped himself up against the headboard.
‘Sorry. Did I disturb you?’
‘You were dreaming.’
He gave a harsh sigh and stabbed his fingers through his hair. ‘Yeah. I sometimes yell a bit. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK. I did—for a while, after Robert died. The days were fine, but at night it would creep up on me. The dreams. Nightmares, really.’
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
‘It’s
