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‘What would you prefer to be called? Ma’am?’
‘Carla. I’d prefer to be called Carla.’ She hung on to her temper with difficulty.
‘Then we’ll seal the intimacy. You call me Daniel,’ he said irrepressibly, finishing his meal with a nod of approval. ‘And you’re a great cook, Carla. One of these days you’ll make a husband a very happy man.’
‘My husband is dead.’ She said it without inflexion, embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. ‘He was thrown from his horse in a riding accident, a year ago. And, to be quite truthful, he wasn’t a very happy man when he was alive…’
What had prompted her to say such a thing? The confession seemed to hang in the air between them, out of place and unwarranted.
Daniel leaned back in the wing-chair, watching her intently. To cover her confusion, she stood up and took the tray from his knees, carried it to the sideboard. Pausing there, she pressed her hands to her hot cheeks for a few seconds, and drew a deep breath before she came back to sit down opposite him again.
‘You reverted to your maiden name?’ His curiosity was clearly aroused.
‘I…yes.’
He was searching her face, a dissecting light in his eyes.
‘Do I detect that your marriage was an unhappy one, Carla?’ There was a gentler note in his voice.
‘What makes you say that?’ She knew she sounded idiotic. She’d virtually told him it was unhappy, hadn’t she?
‘Dropped your married name only a year after being widowed? And what you said just now? About your husband?’ he suggested, quietly ironic.
‘Sorry—ignore what I said, would you?’ She managed to smile at him, sipping some wine while she grappled with her composure. ‘Rufus died just over a year ago. I guess I’m…I’m not really over it all yet…’
‘I’d say it takes a lot longer than a year to mourn the loss of someone you love.’ Daniel’s face was shadowed. The flicker of the fire lit one side only.
To evade further discussion, she nodded quickly.
‘That’s assuming, of course, that you did love your husband?’
‘I…’ She stopped, staring at him, mauve-blue eyes wide with indignation. ‘What a strange question!’ she finished up coldly. ‘I appreciate you’ve got time on your hands, but if you’re going to spend it making rude speculations about me I might regret offering to have you here…!’
There was a brief silence.
‘Would you like me to leave?’
‘No, of course not!’ she amended irritably, cross with herself for losing her cool.
‘Thanks.’ The edge in the deep voice was difficult to fathom. There was certainly more to it than gratitude, or remorse.
She forced a laugh. ‘I offered you company this evening. All we seem to have done is bicker!’
‘We don’t seem destined to hit it off,’ he confirmed evenly.
For some reason, this analysis made her feel even angrier.
‘The trouble is, we seem to have got round to talking about me, when the idea is to talk about you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’m convinced that if we adopt a logical approach to your memory-loss, something will trigger its return.’
‘You mean, like tracking back over your movements when you lose your wallet?’
‘Something like that. Why not?’
‘Why not indeed?’ His smile was far from reassuring. ‘You’re not a policewoman, by any chance?’
‘No. I write detective stories…’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘Are you published?’
‘Yes. I write under the pseudonym of Carl Julyan.’
He looked unflatteringly blank for a few moments, then his eyes betrayed a flicker of recognition.
‘Carl Julyan? You’re Carl Julyan? Creator of Inspector Jack Tresawna?’
‘Yes. Have you read any of my books?’
‘I must have done.’
‘And did you enjoy them?’ she felt forced to enquire, goaded by his lack of comment.
‘I did. Sorry, I wasn’t intending any insult,’ he added evenly; ‘I was waiting to see if this revelation brought anything else filtering back to mind.’
‘Has it?’
He shook his head slowly.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But you can remember reading Carl Julyan books. That’s a breakthrough, of a kind!’ she said, excitement making her eyes glow. ‘Maybe if you reread one or two your memory might be jolted by something?’
‘Possibly. Although I’d hazard a guess that fiction is unlikely to.’ Lifting his uninjured hand to his forehead, he massaged his temples with a sudden, jerky motion.
‘Are you all right?’ She found herself quelling an instinctive urge to jump up and fuss like a mother hen.
‘Yes…I’m all right.’ He dropped his hand quickly.
‘Have you got a headache?’
He smiled bleakly. ‘Since I woke up in a hospital bed three weeks ago, I can’t remember not having a headache. I gather from the doctors that headaches and head injuries tend to go together.’
The put-down seemed deliberate.
‘I’m sorry, I’m probably tiring you out with all this talking. Would you like anything else to eat? Or coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Nothing else.’
‘Not even home-made apple pie and clotted cream?’ she tempted lightly.
‘Another time, perhaps.’
Carla stood up decisively. ‘Let me get you a painkiller, then I’ll leave you to go to bed…’
‘I’ve got pain-killers. I can manage to open the bottle and swallow a couple all by myself.’
Again, the sarcasm was unprovoked. She was evidently getting badly on his nerves. Wincing inwardly, she turned away.
‘Wait…’ Was there the faintest tinge of vulnerability in his curt voice? ‘Tell me something, before you go…’
She turned back to look at him. There was the shadow of physical pain in his eyes. In spite of her annoyance, a wave of sympathy and helplessness washed over her. This man was suffering, physically and mentally. And one thing was certain—he wasn’t a natural patient. He loathed being ill, loathed being at a disadvantage, hated being virtually dependent on others for his recovery. And she could think of few worse mental tortures than being unable to remember who you were…
The insight made his prickly behaviour more understandable. She felt faintly guilty for allowing his defensive taunting to provoke her. She definitely hadn’t missed her vocation in nursing, she reflected ruefully.
‘Yes?’
‘What made you offer to help me?’
Taken aback, she stared at him blankly. ‘I’m not sure what you mean…’
‘I mean you virtually saved my life,’ he persisted quietly, his expression obscure. ‘That would have been enough. Why did you offer to let me stay here?’
‘I didn’t save your life…!’ She met the penetrating stare with a fresh warmth in her cheeks. ‘I just happened to be looking out of my study window at the right moment, that’s all…’
‘Same thing. If you hadn’t been, I’d probably have lain halfway down the cliff all night. If I hadn’t been found promptly, the chances of surgery succeeding would have been diminished. I have it on reliable medical authority. So I was already in your debt, Carla. Why all this as well?’
She gazed at him in mounting confusion.
‘That’s a silly question,’ she protested, shaking her head. ‘It’s obvious why. You needed somewhere to recover. You had no obvious place to go. No access to money or anything…it seemed the only thing I could do!’
‘Not necessarily. The police, the hospital, Social Services, any of them could have offered a solution. So why you?’
The narrowed gaze searched her flushed face.
‘Well, I suppose having seen the accident, having found you…’ she caught her breath, feeling herself getting angry again and this time not at all sure why ‘…I felt a kind of responsibility to help. And staying so close to where you were walking…I thought it could bring your memory back quicker…’
What was he getting at? Did he suspect her of some ulterior motive? Was he implying that she must be the typical ‘lonely widow’? Or, worse still, the typical ‘merry widow’? Her heart seemed to contract in her chest. What was it about this man which seemed doomed to rub her up the wrong way? Did there have to be some hidden motive for offering simple kindness?
‘I think you should get an early night,’ she advised, adopting her most formal manner. ‘Can you manage by yourself…?’
‘You’re not offering a full nursing service, by any chance?’ he teased lightly. ‘Because I think I can still remember how to wash my face and clean my teeth.’
‘Good.’ Hateful, sardonic, ungrateful man. Why was she wasting any sympathy on him at all? ‘In that case, I’ll say goodnight.’
‘Good night, Carla.’
She risked one parting glance at him, and wished she hadn’t. The cool green eyes seemed to be far too dissecting, as he observed her suppressed resentment.
Loading everything on to one tray, she made a bolt for the relative safety of the main house, and her own kitchen.
She felt as if she’d just been put through some psychological mangle. Daniel Whoever-he-was was the most disruptive man she’d ever met.
With angry precision she unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, stacked fluted white porcelain in dark oak cupboards, wiped green-tiled worktops, then finally collapsed on to the ancient oak settle by the Aga. She glared distractedly at Moppy, a fluffy, apricot Persian, stretched as close to the warmth as he could get. Moppy stared back, and blinked lazily, golden eyes forgiving. With an apologetic smile she reached down to stroke him. He might be hopeless as a country mousing cat, but he was a comforting presence, and she loved him dearly…
She thought about phoning someone, anything to calm this strange agitation inside her. But it was gone ten, too late to ring her friend Becky at Carperrow Farm—she’d have tucked her small, well-behaved daughter into her cot and leapt eagerly into bed with her husband Tom by now. And ringing her mother, probably still engrossed in a bridge four in her genteel Regency flat in Bath, was equally out of the question. She’d immediately think some dreadful disaster had occurred.
Carla shook herself out of her reverie and stood up. She could ring Becky in the morning, console herself with a light-hearted natter with a friend, before buckling down to work on chapter fifteen. She had a deadline on this book. Getting sidetracked and thrown off-centre by Daniel’s overpowering personality was the very last thing she needed…
But upstairs in bed, showered, hair vigorously brushed, teeth energetically scrubbed, clad in demure pale blue silk pyjamas, she lay wide awake and tense beneath her cream duvet.
It was his parting probe which had unnerved her. He wasn’t a mind-reader. That was too far-fetched. But even so…his questions had made her examine a disturbing truth. In some way, some unexplained way, she’d been aware of an underlying emotion behind her practical offers of help…
Frowning into the darkness, she tried to make sense of it. She couldn’t. All she knew was, ever since that moonlit night, when she’d kept her lonely vigil on the cliff-top, she’d felt this invisible pull…
It was scary, she decided angrily. And it was ridiculous. Was she behaving like Inspector Tresawna’s rather fey female sidekick, in her novels? Imagining psychic auras?
The best thing she could do, she decided, squeezing her eyes shut and willing herself to sleep, was help her mysterious visitor to get his memory back, and get him out of her life, in that order, as fast as she could.
But, even though he was across the yard, in the cottage, she was aware of Daniel’s presence. Mentally, and, to her continuing shame, physically. A feathering of goose-bumps broke out all over her skin, simply at the memory of those cool green eyes…The sensation was so strong, he could be standing here, in the same room…
With a burst of anger, she sat up and clicked on her light, glaring round the bedroom to allay her ridiculous imaginings. Then she subsided back against the pillows, and tossed feverishly on to her side.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f4472903-77e5-5f88-8519-e4125d9b9f61)
‘YOU’RE taking a risk,’ Becky said, across the table.
As if by telepathy, her friend had appeared this morning, bearing a basket of eggs and a big bunch of late chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies from her sheltered, south-facing walled garden.
‘Don’t you start…!’
‘It’s true. Tom and I are worried about you.’
‘It’s only for a maximum of three weeks,’ Carla pointed out. ‘I’ve got some visitors booked in for a pre-Christmas break then…’
‘Still, I thought I’d pop in and offer moral support,’ Becky said stubbornly.
‘Thanks. I must confess, I feel in need of it.’ Carla made a wry face as she glanced over her shoulder, busily putting the glorious flowers in water. Their sharp, spicy fragrance filled the air. ‘These are wonderful, Becky. Especially so late in November. My favourite flowers, and my favourite colours.’ She thrust the last sprig of mauve daisies between autumn-gold and russet, and stood back to admire her handiwork.
‘Clever you. My flower arrangements always look…basic.’ Becky laughed, sipping her coffee. ‘Why Rufus never cherished your talents I’ll never know!’
There was an awkward pause, and Becky groaned to herself.
‘Sorry—my big mouth…’
‘No, it’s OK.’ Carla turned quickly, and came to sit down, her eyes clouded. ‘Just because Rufus is dead it doesn’t make it taboo to mention his name, you know!’
‘No, I know…’
‘And do you know something?’ Carla rested her chin on her hand, and met her friend’s eyes thoughtfully. ‘I don’t feel bitter about him any more. It occurred to me recently that poor old Rufus got a raw deal when he married me. I was so engrossed in trying to establish my writing career, I never had time for fancy flower arrangements or elaborate meals—it was a minor miracle if I ran a duster over the furniture or made it to the supermarket! It’s only since he died that I’ve become better at domesticity! Ironic, isn’t it? Looking back, maybe it’s hard to blame him for being unfaithful…’
