Now the children were asleep, and Maddy made one last check on the stranger. He’d barely moved. She changed into her nightgown in front of the fire, then hurried upstairs.
Cold draughts lifted goose bumps on her skin as she stood beside the bed where her little sisters slept. Earlier, she’d thought it would be a squeeze, but possible. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Children didn’t sleep in straight lines. They sprawled—Jane and Susan on the outside, little Lucy in the middle. There was very little room.
But with a strange man in her bed, there wasn’t any choice. Maddy slipped in beside Susan, where there was the most space. She wriggled and pushed and the little girls grumbled in their sleep. She had one leg in when Jane woke, with a half scream.
“Jane, what is it?”
Jane, grasping the bedclothes in fright, said in sleepy confusion, “I don’t know. I think I was about to fall out of bed. But I never fall out . . .”
“It’s all right,” Maddy assured her, getting out of the bed. “Go back to sleep.” She tucked them back in, kissed Jane good night again, and tiptoed downstairs. The boys’ bed was even smaller, there was no chance of her fitting in there. She’d have to sleep on the floor by the fire.
Two hours later, Maddy was still wide awake and getting crosser by the minute. She was freezing.
All that was left of the fire were a few pale coals. Fuel was so hard to come by she couldn’t afford to keep it burning all night. Besides, the woodpile was outside, and she’d freeze if she went out there. Flurries of sleet beat against the windows.
She’d made a bed of hessian sacks then wrapped herself in a patchwork quilt and two blankets. But the stone floor was icy and every draught in every crack in the old cottage seemed to find a way directly to her skin.
And all the time the steady, rhythmic breathing of the man in her bed taunted her. She could hear it in the lulls between the rain and wind. He was warm. She was half frozen. He was sleeping—it didn’t matter why. Broken head or not, he wasn’t lying awake, cold and tired and miserable and cross. She was.
He was unconscious, for goodness sake. Insensible. Oblivious. What harm could he do? She sat up, seized the patchwork quilt, rolled it into a thick snake, then stuffed it lengthways under the bedclothes of the bed, against the body of the sleeping stranger.
Her own little Hadrian’s Wall, to keep her safe from the barbarian. The unconscious barbarian with his beautiful mouth and dark bristles and his clean, well-kept hands.
He didn’t move or make a sound, just kept on breathing steadily. She smiled. Some barbarian.
She slid into the bed. Heaven. It was warm from his body. Nobody would ever know . . .
Maddy slept.
In the bleakest hour of the night, the man in the bed woke. He lay in the unfamiliar surroundings, trying to make sense of his situation. He had no idea where he was, no ideawhenhe was, for that matter, except that it was nighttime. But what day, and what place—it was a mystery. His mind was a blank.
Not a blank, he corrected himself, more like a swirling fog, with people and events half glimpsed and then vanishing. Taunting him.
His whole body ached. His head felt as though it had been split open. He lifted a hand to it and frowned as his questing fingers discovered the bandage. He’d been injured then. How? And by whom? And been bandaged by . . .
A woman. At the heart of all the swirling thoughts and fleeting images, he knew there was a woman. With gentle hands and a soft voice. And the smell of . . .
He turned on his side and breathed in. He could scent her. Like a hound, he could scent that she was close.
He wasn’t alone.
Who was she that she shared his bed? He closed his eyes. So many questions. So few answers.
He didn’t care. She was there and that was enough. He moved closer and found something else in the bed. A long lump of cloth. Why?
He pulled it out and tossed it aside, then returned to the woman. She lay curled on her side, facing away from him, warm and soft. He slipped his arms around her and drew her close against him, curling his body to fit the curve of hers.
Her foot brushed against his leg. It was cold. He tucked her feet between his calves and felt them slowly warm.
The nape of her neck lay exposed on the pillow. He lowered his face to the soft skin and breathed in her fragrance.
It felt right. His hold on her tightened. She was his anchor, the one solid thing in a shifting sea of taunting ghosts. The questions hammering at the inside of his skull slowly faded.
He lay with his aching body curved against hers, his mouth just touching the fragile skin at the nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her. Gradually the rhythm of his breathing slowed until it matched hers, and he slept.
Morning dreams were the nicest. In morning dreams, Maddy woke slowly, letting her deepest wishes run riot, spinning fantasies . . .
