Carmichael's Return

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‘The quietness,’ he commented, ‘is so loud it almost deafens.’

‘Do you prefer noise and bustle?’

‘It’s what I’ve had for months—years now.’

Every time he referred to his normal way of life— which just had to involve some occupation—it made her want to say, Tell me more about yourself. But once again she suppressed the urge.

It wasn’t that she preferred him to be mysterious, she told herself, just that if—when—she did discover what he did for a living, it would—well, kind of break the spell.

Knowing so little about him—wasn’t that part of the charm?—and liking him as she did, she felt it in her bones that if reality intruded it would bring an unwelcome end to the magic of the situation.

‘You—you’ve left that behind, Mr Carmichael?’ she ventured, then reproached herself for tempting that reality she dreaded into coming a little nearer. So she added quickly, ‘What are you immediate aims?’ That, she scolded herself, was also the wrong thing to say. Did she really want him to get up and go?

‘The name’s Brett,’ he put in, adding with a quick smile, ‘Lauren.’

She echoed that smile, nodding.

It took him a few moments to answer her question, then, rolling his head towards her and holding her gaze, he answered, ‘I guess all I want at present is a bit of peace. Tranquillity of the soul.’ He looked away, appearing to consider the words, as though they pleased him. His eyes sought hers again. ‘I have this deep-down yearning for it. You know a place I could get that?’

His penetrating gaze seemed to be looking into her soul, and she caught her breath. Who was this stranger who had come into her life—disturbing her, agitating her more than any other man had ever done?

‘Maybe…here?’

The words had slipped out, and once again she grew angry with herself for allowing them to do so.

His expression altered so subtly she thought she had imagined it, until his eyes, with a look that was entirely male, flickered over her. Then it was gone.

She shivered slightly, knowing that her suspicion that his normal masculine reflexes had merely been overlaid by his indisposition and not obliterated had been correct When he transferred his gaze to their surroundings again, relief flooded through her.

‘Thanks for the offer,’ he responded casually, then stopped.

Was he going to turn it down? Her hand trembled just a little as she endeavoured unsuccessfully to continue with her sketching. Her heart began to sink, and angrily she told it that it was a fool to have got so involved. No, it answered back. It wasn’t involvement, only sympathy and compassion. How could it be anything else?

He spoke again, startling her from her thoughts.

‘You could be nght, Lauren. Here I’ll stay, until… You agree?’

Until…? her mind echoed, and she wished he had not left the sentence unfinished.

‘I agree, Brett.’ That small voice added mischievously, And you never want him to go, do you? Never, she answered it. Never. Not even if he turns out to be the devil himself.

A few days later Lauren discovered Brett browsing in the library. It was a long room—probably formed, she estimated, when the cottages had been joined.

From ceiling to floor, its walls were lined with books. An ancient open fireplace, its stone hearth decorated with long grasses and artificial blooms, filled one end of the narrow room, while a writing desk and two upright chairs occupied the other.

It was in front of some shelves stacked with leatherbound, gold-embossed volumes that Brett stood, a book opened between his palms. He held it as if it were itself made of gold, almost as if it had some special meaning for him. But how could it? she argued. He was as new to this house as she was, and as unfamiliar with its contents.

She had entered quietly, and he only became aware of her presence when she turned to close the heavy wooden door. By the time she turned back he had replaced the volume and was inspecting the other shelves, his hands having found his pockets. Had he something to hide? The thought darted in and out of her mind.

A frisson of fear ran through her. Who was he? He might have been around the place for a few days now—though it seemed to her that it was more like two or three weeks, so accustomed had she grown to his being there—but she hadn’t got to know him any better in that time.

He seemed to have taken on an air of remoteness, of holding himself apart. Was he, perhaps, going through a time of readjustment from whatever had plunged him into the low state in which he had picked up that fever?

She recalled his words: ‘Tranquillity of the soul. I have this deep-down yearning for it.’ The words still moved her deeply, and an overwhelming sense of empathy, of longing to comfort him, swept over her once again.

He had been friendly enough, she granted him that, and he had praised her cooking, joking about his own poor showing in that respect, but there was still this gulf between them, with not a bridge in sight to cross to the other side—to his side.

Now and then she had caught him watching her, but his expression had been so inscrutable she had been unable to decipher it. There had been more than a touch of male interest in it, which had caused her skin to prickle. There had been something else too, and it maddened her that yet again she was unable to read it.

‘How high a star-rating would you give this library?’ she asked, crossing the room. If she could join him before he moved, she calculated, she might just be able to pinpoint the book he had been reading with such concentration. It might give her a clue as to his occupation, that unknown side of him. ‘Two stars? Three?’

It was too late. He had side-stepped some half a dozen paces before she could reach him.

‘Five—no doubt about it,’ he declared unequivocally.

‘As good as that?’ She continued with her smiling interrogation. ‘What would you say was the owner’s particular interest? Mr Gard’s, I mean.’

‘History.’

Lauren was a little taken aback by his lack of hesitation. ‘How do you know?’ she asked, and felt a little foolish when he glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

Had the lingering doubts—doubts more than suspicion—that she still had of him shown?

‘By deduction—how else?’ was his faintly crushing reply, the sweep of his arm indicating the crowded bookshelves.

She nodded, crossing to read the titles opposite. ‘Mr Gard must have wide interests. Plus a love of books, of course. But,’ she wondered aloud, ‘if he’s the wanderer he claims to be, I don’t know when he’d have the time to read them.’

‘Agreed.’ The word came succinctly from behind her. ‘Lauien?’

A tingling shot up and down her spine at the sound of her name on his tongue. ‘Mmm?’

She turned to find him at her shoulder, and the shock moved to sting that part of her anatomy. It worried her, this feeling she experienced whenever he was near. Hadn’t Johnny, Casey’s friend, warned her not to fall for him? A good-looking guy, he’d called Brett Carmichael that night, full of fever though the stranger had been. Johnny’s warning had been so right, she realised now. But when had heart ever listened to intellect?

Her eyes sought his in question, and when his met hers there was a jolt inside her that almost knocked her off balance. It was his question, mundane as it was, that brought that balance back.

‘I need some means of transport. Is there a car showroom in the village?’

He needed transport? He was leaving? She couldn’t bear the thought. Nor could she ask him without giving herself away.

‘There’s the local garage. They sell secondhand vehicles. I have to go to the store this morning. I could give you a lift.’

He had moved, hands thrust into the pockets of his well-cut white casual trousers. His short-sleeved cotton shirt fitted well too, his tanned arms contrasting with its lemon colour. If he’d been living in the tropics, Lauren reflected, he would have needed light-coloured clothes for coolness, wouldn’t he?

‘OK, thanks.’ He answered casually, almost dismissively, like a man who had vowed never again to allow emotion to govern his thoughts, his life.

He must have been badly hurt at some time, Lauren decided. And what else except by a woman? The idea of his ever having been so in love with a woman that she’d forced him to such a painful decision sent her heart into a dive, even as she tried to break its fall by berating it soundly.

The phone rang distantly and she excused herself, dashing out of the library and picking up the extension in the kitchen just in case it was Casey with news.

It was Casey. ‘First, how are things?’ he asked.

‘OK. Fine. He needs a car.’

‘Who doesn’t? Did you tell him about the village garage?’

‘I’m taking him there any minute. So what have you discovered?’ She had lowered her voice, hooking the door closed with her foot.

‘Not much. Nothing, in fact. I’ve asked around the local papers, and the not so local. One or two guys thought they’d heard the name, but couldn’t remember in what connection.’

‘He’s coming, Casey. Must go. Keep trying, won’t you?’

‘Will do. Keep smiling. Keep your distance—or rather, make him keep his.’

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ was her laughing rejoinder. ‘We might as well be on opposite sides of the globe.’

‘Good. Keep it that way. I’ll be in London for a couple of days,’ he added hurriedly, before ending the call.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_996db423-6068-5578-a53f-cda8f2ee9d9f)

LAUREN drove Brett to the car showroom, then, with a wave, drove off towards the village centre to visit the grocery store. Glancing back through her driving mirror, she saw him nosing round one of the cars as the salesman approached.

When she was paying for the goods at the checkout, the assistant, a local lady to whom she had introduced herself before, asked, ‘How do you like living in Mr Gard’s house?’

‘Just fine, thanks.’

‘We heard you had company.’

Oh, dear, village gossip, Lauren thought, collecting her change and loading the goods into her shopping bag.

‘He’s a paying guest,’ she said, in what she hoped was a prim and proper tone as befitted a totally uninvolved landlady—which she was, wasn’t she? ‘He’s very quiet.’ You can say that again, she thought. ‘And is recovering very well from an illness he had when he arrived.’

‘Oh, good,’ the assistant returned with a smile. No suspicion there of any moral wrong-doing on anyone’s part, Lauren decided. Thank goodness. And nor was there any, she thought, leaving the store and stacking the shopping in her car.

As she drove back past the garage she looked for Brett, but there was no sign. Her heart nearly stopped when she did see him. He was lounging, hands in pockets, against the bus stop sign. A bus was due, she knew that, but what was he doing going into the town?

* * *

Three hours later, a long, low, brand-new car drew up in the drive. Mouth open on a gasp, Lauren, from her workroom upstairs, watched her paying guest emerge from the driving seat and slam the door, turning to admire his purchase.

She was overcome by an acute fear that this was the outside world putting its harsh foot in the door just before bursting in to destroy the fragile togetherness that had been forming between them.

Withdrawing from her position at the window, she returned to the task of arranging her watercolours, hanging on convenient picture hooks those already framed.

As swift footsteps took the stairs she stood back, heartbeats racing, pretending to admire her own handiwork. The door swung open and Brett stood there, a light in his eyes.

‘You’ve seen my new possession?’

She nodded. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said, her voice coming out low-key in spite of her doing her best to sound as excited as he was. ‘It’s great. But—? Oh, of course— you’ve got it on hire.’

‘Nope. It’s mine. It’s OK—’ he smiled at her bewilderment ‘—I didn’t have to rob a bank to buy it.’

Which surely meant that he might be a stranger come in from the cold—or rather, the heat, judging by his tan—but he certainly wasn’t poverty-stricken.