and then crouched down beside her, saying in a much kinder tone, ‘It’s all right. No, don’t try to move. What happened? Food poisoning?’
The cramping pains were increasing again. Angelica only had time to nod before they became so violent that she stopped fighting to stay conscious and let herself slide down into the waiting darkness, vaguely conscious of someone lifting her, carrying her, speaking to her before the darkness completely closed over her.
CHAPTER TWO
RELUCTANTLY Angelica opened her eyes, wincing as the light hit them, and closing them again, the mere effort of turning her head in the direction of the light so exhausting that it drained her.
She felt oddly light-headed…empty and fragile. She had a collection of hazy memories and impressions, the sharpest of them being a pain so intense that even to remember it made her stomach muscles tense defensively.
She had been sick, more violently sick than she could ever remember being in her life. So sick and in so much pain that she had honestly thought she was going to die—had even at times wished that she might…
She remembered saying as much, and she remembered another unfamiliar voice cautioning her against such folly, calming and soothing her, just as unfamiliar hands had dealt with the physical agony of her illness.
Who had they belonged to, those hands and that voice? A doctor? Her forehead crinkled in a frown as she tried to analyse why she should reject that thought so rigorously. Not a doctor, then who?
A stranger almost certainly, and yet oddly she had found the fact that he was a stranger comforting rather than intimidating, as though had she known him in some way she would have been obliged to put up a pretence of not needing the assistance he was giving her, instead of sinking weakly and gratefully into his care, allowing him all manner of intimacies with her pain-racked flesh that would have been intolerable had she actually known the owner of those capable, clinical hands and that calming, knowing voice that somehow assured her that he knew exactly what she was enduring, how much it frightened her, how vulnerable and weak it made her…How little she wanted to be beholden to him or anyone else.
Her mind felt cloudy and confused; the more she tried to focus it, the more woolly her thoughts became. She didn’t even know where she was…
But, yes, she did—she was in Wales—Pembrokeshire. She had come here to rest…Her mouth twisted slightly. Surely only she could start off what was supposed to be a period of complete rest and recuperation with a bout of food poisoning so intense that her memories of the last few days were no more than vague wisps of uncertain flashes of reality mingled with long periods of cloudy uncertainty, the whole time sharply delineated by her memories of the agony of her illness.
She remembered arriving at the cottage, and that must be where she was now, surely? This bedroom with its sloping eaves and its view of the distant hills; this old-fashioned, iron-framed bed, so high off the ground that it was impossible for her feet to touch the floor.
She frowned. How did she know that? She had a vague memory of desperately wanting to be sick, of trying to clamber out of the high bed and find the bathroom, only to be stopped, and then firmly carried there…
Strange how, in recollecting the incident, she should feel consumed with the very natural embarrassment she could quite clearly remember she had not felt at the time. Almost as though somehow he, whoever he was, had been so clinical and detached, so assured and firm in his handling of the situation and of her that she had felt nothing other than an exhausted desire to simply give in and let him take control.
It shocked her to realise that she had shared an intimacy with this stranger that she had never shared with Giles. Not the intimacy of lovers of course, but an intimacy which in its way made her feel even more vulnerable. And yet she had not felt vulnerable at the time…had not felt anything other than a weak, shaky gratitude. She even remembered now trying to thank him at some stage, but he had brushed her thanks aside. Where was he now? Had he gone? Left her alone?
For some reason that thought panicked her. Without thinking what she was doing she pushed back the quilt and the heavy linen sheet, swinging her legs to the floor, and discovering as she did so that she had been quite correct in remembering that the bed was too high for her to reach the floor, and also that, instead of one of her own long, sensible nightdresses, she seemed to be wearing a man’s shirt.
A man’s shirt with just enough buttons fastened for decency, as though whoever had fastened her into it had known that when she woke up she would remember the intimacies they had shared, and who had taken pains to reassure her that, no matter what he might have done to help her in the extremity of her need, he both understood and respected her desire to recover her privacy. As though he was reassuring her that there had been nothing voyeuristic or lustful in his intimacy with her flesh. As though he had known how shocked she would be when she remembered how he had helped her, carried her, bathed her.
Her body suddenly grew hot, her face flushing. She didn’t want to remember anything like that. He had helped her and she was grateful to him, whoever he was, but now that she was herself again…
She slid her feet on to the floor and stood up, or rather she tried to stand up, her eyes widening in surprise and disbelief as her legs refused to support her.
As she crumpled to the floor, she only just had time to grab hold of the side of the bed.
The next thing she knew the bedroom door was being flung open and a man strode in, limping slightly as he made his way to the bed. He was frowning down at her, his dark hair damp and untidy as though he had just been towelling it dry, his jaw shadowed with an overnight growth of beard. The jeans he was wearing seemed a little loose on the waist and the hips, as though he had recently lost weight.
When he bent down to help her she caught the scent of his soap, clean and masculine, and realised that he must have been in the bathroom.
‘It’s all right. I can manage,’ she told him self-consciously, trying to pull away from him as he picked her up bodily, depositing her back on the bed.
The look he gave her spoke volumes and made her flush guiltily. She owed him far too large a debt of gratitude already without compounding that debt.
It seemed unfair that fate should have decreed that this should happen to her just when she had made up her mind that henceforth she would live her life as independently and free from emotional commitment as she could.
But all men weren’t like Giles. There was Tom, for instance, who had been such a good friend to her over the years. Tom, and Paul, her second-in-command at the factory, both of whom she trusted implicitly, both of whom had proved their friendship and affection for her.
But then that was the difference between her relationship with them and the disastrous relationship she had had with Giles. They were friends—not potential lovers.
Perhaps she was the kind of woman who was safer establishing non-sexual relationships with men. The sort of woman who aroused affection in the male breast rather than adoration.
She realised abruptly that the hard arms imprisoning her had been removed, and that the owner of those arms was now leaning over her still frowning down at her.
He had nice arms, she reflected absently, firm and well muscled without being in any way overdeveloped. His skin was weather-beaten rather than tanned, as though he worked outside.
For the first time she was curious about him…About how on earth he
