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Carmichael's Return
Lilian Peake


Family secrets? Brett Carmichael walked out of nowhere into Lauren's life. All she knew about him was that he had gorgeous brown eyes and a long, lean body. He didn't seem to have a heart… or a past. Brett had come home after fifteen years of self-imposed exile.The last thing he had expected was to find Lauren living in his house. She was the unknown woman who had haunted his dreams for years. Lauren obviously had no idea who he was, and he certainly wasn't going to tell her!









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u9ab99a13-a2dc-5e9d-8301-da0100d61c56)

Excerpt (#u67beaca4-05b3-56a5-a7ee-8ab7b7bb839d)

About the Author (#udf1ed706-245e-5c33-8e58-ede60f175582)

Title Page (#ucba64442-df14-5f51-bfde-0bff473bcc6f)

Chapter One (#ufb977081-48a6-514f-9f91-b20d16d6a042)

Chapter Two (#ub42d8ce5-0f23-5099-acd2-f914cd3f44db)

Chapter Three (#u7561aba3-a2df-55b1-ba75-434ceeabdd97)

Chapter Four (#u521c8571-1951-55b7-a31e-043dd9e7c99c)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




“Love?“


Brett cut in mercilessly. “You, a modern woman, want love with the sexual act?”

He released Lauren so suddenly that the room spun. This was a side to him she had never seen, never guessed at.



“I—I hate you like this. What happened while you were away that you’ve lost your human warmth? I wouldn’t make love with you if—if—”

“If I paid you?” Brett added insultingly.

“The man who arrived on the doorstep that night wouldn’t have said that. You’ve changed from the man I knew, the man I liked.”



“Oh, no, Lauren. You never knew me.”


LILIAN PEAKE grew up in Essex. Her first job was working for a writer of mystery stories. Subsequently, she became a journalist on a provincial newspaper, then moved to a trade magazine and reported on fashion. Later, she took on an advice column on a women’s magazine. She began writing romances because she loves happy endings! She lives near Oxford, England, with her husband, a retired college principal. They have two sons and a daughter. Her hobbies are walking, reading and listening to classical music.




Carmichael’s Return

Lilian Peake











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2c5db75e-0be9-5a47-a6d2-f1b6336764ae)


LAUREN made herself more comfortable in the chair next to the telephone. Her friend Marie’s calls were always long—especially this one as they hadn’t met since Marie had moved house.

‘Please,’ Marie coaxed into Lauren’s ear, ‘think about it. For Reggie’s sake as well as mine. If you loved your boyfriend as much as I love Reggie…OK,’ she added hurriedly, ‘so yours ditched you—’

‘Other way round,’ Lauren supplied without rancour.

‘Oops, sorry. You ditched Mitch. I’d ditch Reggie too if he played around with other girls. Anyway, I can’t let Reggie go and work in France without me just because I took on the job my uncle offered me before Reggie knew about being transferred to the Continent. He’s starting his job next week,’ she added on a note of anguish.

‘But Marie, you haven’t been there long. How can you move out so soon after agreeing to live there? Anyway, I’ve never house-sat, or whatever you call it.’

‘Lauren—’ Marie’s voice came pleadingly ‘—Uncle Redmund doesn’t want the place left empty, that’s all. He doesn’t want to sell it, he wants someone occupying it. By the way, he’s not my real uncle. He’s a very old friend of my parents. I’ve called him Uncle since I was a kid. Oh, and I did mention, didn’t I, that he’s currently living in the South of France? And as for moving away from here so quickly—well, it’s how things happen, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe, but—’

‘There’s a salary attached to it—a substantial one. You’ll agree to house-sit, then?’ Marie pleaded.

‘I didn’t say so.’

‘But you’ll need to look for another place to live; you told me so,’ Marie countered. ‘Your landlord’s decided to sell the house and—’

‘OK, that’s true, but I’ll still need to think about what you’ve suggested. I’m on an art agency’s books for work—’

‘So withdraw your name,’ Mane urged. ‘A job’s being offered you right now. Look,’ she went on, as her friend still seemed to be hesitating, ‘I’m giving a party Saturday evening at Uncle Redmund’s house to celebrate Reggie’s promotion—because that’s what it is. Come to it, Lauren.’

‘Well, I—’

‘You could come Friday and stay overnight,’ Marie suggested. ‘That way you could really get the feel of the place. I’ll show you round and you can give me your answer then. Oh—and this is not blackmail or anything—but there’s a job vacancy for me over there in Reggie’s office. Won’t that be just great? That is, if I’m able to join him.’

‘If that’s not blackmail then my name’s not Lauren Halstead,’ Lauren protested, making a face at her friend’s laughter.

‘Maybe kind of, then,’ Marie conceded. ‘See you Friday, yes? And don’t worry about help in bringing your things here. Reggie can hire a van to bring any heavy furniture over.’

‘There’s only lightweight stuff,’ Lauren answered. Then she realised she was already m the process of committing herself. ‘But, Marie,’ she added hastily, ‘I haven’t said yes, have I?’

‘Do you think I’d let a little thing like that stand in my way?’ was her friend’s laughing riposte.



Marie called for Lauren m the small car her ‘uncle’ Redmund had provided for her while she looked after his property.

‘This car will be yours to use while you’re staying here,’ Marie declared, silencing any protest Lauren might have made about not yet having come to a decision by swinging across the road and pulling up in the drive.

The outside of the house had an unmistakable charm. It was stone-built, with bay windows below and sash windows to the bedrooms on the upper floor. It had more length than height, and something in it reached out to the artist in Lauren.

‘It’s been added to over the centuries,’ Marie explained as she joined Lauren on the gravelled driveway. ‘It’s nearly three hundred years old. Come on in.’

The living area was so large it almost took Lauren’s breath away. Oak beams had been left in place, inset into the ceiling, while the stone fireplace, which had been cleverly restored, occupied a large area of wall, with alcoves left for ornaments and even books.

‘Three rooms were knocked into one,’ Marie explained, arms swinging wide. ‘And this is the kitchen—’ she led the way ‘—all mod cons. Everything a girl could ever want. Yes?’ She looked coaxingly into Lauren’s face.

Lauren could only nod, but quickly qualified the action with a noncommittal, ‘Maybe.’

‘And upstairs,’ Marie went on, and the staircase creaked as they went up, ‘there are so many bedrooms you could almost sleep in a different one every night. All with en suite facilities, as they say in hotel brochures. How’s that for modernity? And here—’ she flung a door wide ‘—you could paint and draw to your heart’s content. It used to be Uncle Redmund’s study. Yes?’ she repeated, smiling winningly.

‘Mmm,’ was all Lauren was prepared to say at that moment, but the sound prolonged itself into an appreciative affirmative.

Inside, she could feel all opposition to the whole idea melting. In that room, in which there was virtually no furniture, the light from the huge floor-to-ceiling windows—plus the two skylights that had been inserted into the sloping roof—was so good that she knew at once how easily she could work there.

On their way down Lauren commented on the oil paintings which adorned the staircase walls and hallway.

‘Paintings acquired by Uncle Redmund. They’re quite valuable, by the way.’ She paused, pointing to three empty picture hooks. ‘Here hung Mrs Redmund Gard the first, and here Mrs Redmund Gard the second.’

‘This one?’ Lauren asked.

‘And on this one, Uncle Redmund’s son The bad boy of the family, or so the story goes.’

They had reached the hallway. ‘So what happened?’ Lauren prompted.

‘Well.. ’ Counting on her fingers, Marie told her. ‘Mrs Gard the first left him. Mrs Gard the second likewise, and—’

‘Don’t tell me, the bad son left him too?’

‘He did. Uncle Redmund—or so my parents told me—accused his son of having an affair with his stepmother and driving her away from him. Said son had a furious row with his father, denying the accusation, but his father didn’t believe him.’

‘Threw him out?’

‘Either that or the probably guilty son fled the nest. In other words, he upped and left, never to be heard of or from again’

‘What a strange story,’ Lauren commented sadly.

Marie nodded. ‘The Press got hold of it, so paternal parent took full advantage of the publicity and told the world of his son’s many other amorous exploits. Thus clearing himself of the suggestion of having falsely accused his son of stealing his second wife’s affections, as Uncle Redmund so dramatically put it.’

‘Hence the three empty picture hooks,’ Lauren supplied.

‘Yep. Did I tell you,’ Marie asked as they entered the living room, ‘that tomorrow night’s get-together is going to be a kind of farewell party? Reggie and I are leaving the next morning.’

‘Which means I’d be in charge from then on?’

Mane nodded, frowning. ‘Do you mind, Lauren? I mean, if you do…’

‘You’d have to stay here,’ Lauren took her up with a wry smile, ‘losing your chance of that job in Reggie’s firm and crying your heart out while he gets on with his life across the Channel without you?’

‘I was going to say I’d have to find someone else to live here,’ Marie responded pleadingly, but with the light of hope in her eyes. ‘Although there’s nobody around I could possibly trust like I trust you.’

Lauren smiled. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. Oh, Marie—’ she hugged her friend ‘—you know I’ll do it, don’t you?’

At which, Marie laughed, gave her friend a hug in return, then dashed off to call the caterers.

Glancing through the living room window, Lauren felt the pull of the gardens, and, pushing open the glass-paned doors, she took a deep breath of country air and went to explore.

There were paved paths winding round, bordered by beds planted with sweet-smelling flowers and varied shrubs. In the centre of the main lawn stood a cedar tree, its branches wide-spreading, throwing shadows over the stone-walled residence.

In various places throughout the extensive gardens there were terracotta heads poised on short columns. Lauren ran her hand over them, appreciating the skill of the artist. Studying them more closely, she began to wonder who the people were that they represented.

Her artist’s eye picked up details that were common to them all—the delicacy of the features, the strong nose, the jaw-line, the well-shaped lips. In all of them, however, the eyes were blank, telling her nothing.

Back inside, Lauren paused in the doorway to the living area, admiring the view once more. The sun had moved round and the flowers’ colours glowed just as brilliantly but from a different angle.

The great cedar tree placed centrally in the lawn now flung its huge shadow right across her body. She had the strangest feeling of being both pushed away by its far-reaching branches and yet drawn in, as if they were great arms pulling her towards them.

Although there was no hint of a breeze in the still air, a shiver coursed through her.



Late on the day before, after explaining the whereabouts of the various keys to the property, and all the other details a house-sitter needed to know, Marie had shown Lauren to the guest room.

It was a low-ceilinged, chintz-curtained hideaway, with dark wooden furniture and a worn carpet half hidden by rugs.

And now, minutes before joining the party, Lauren studied her reflection in the long mirror as she combed her deep brown hair, draping it to curl each side of her oval-shaped face. A curiously excited, pre-party mood enveloped her, even though her only friend amongst the partygoers would be Marie—plus, of course, Reggie, Marie’s fiancé. She placed a light layer of lipstick on her full lips, but her eyes, grey and winsome, she did not touch.

‘They’re so dreamy,’ Mitch had told her after a few dates. ‘A guy could lose himself in those eyes of yours. Plus they make a guy wonder just where he stands with you.’

‘“Stand” is the right word,’ Lauren had smilingly retorted.

‘Is that a challenge?’ Mitch had asked, and had not believed her when she had nodded.

He had grown angry and told her that if she didn’t let her barriers down soon he’d make her…At which she had told him coolly that rape was a criminal offence and that as she wasn’t victim material she didn’t want to date him any more At that point he had stormed from her digs and she had never heard from him again.

What can I do, she asked her reflection now, to give those eyes a down-to-earth look? Making a few faces at herself, she laughed and gave up trying. Fixing a choker of hand-turned polished wooden beads to follow the neckline of her black and white striped cotton top, she smoothed the well-fitting fabric into the waistband of her black velvet trousers, then ran the comb once more through her long hair.

That morning Reggie, Marie’s fiancé, had called for Lauren, and helped load her belongings into the hired van.

‘My promotion’s going to put some extra cash into my bank account,’ he had confided as he drove. ‘Which means a better car when I take up my job. Better everything, in fact.’ His head had turned towards Lauren, then quickly back again. ‘I can’t say how pleased I am, Lauren, that you’ve agreed to take over from Marie. I—’ He had laughed, a little embarrassed. ‘It would have broken my heart to leave her behind.’

Lauren sighed inwardly. Lucky them, she thought, to have fallen equally hard for each other, to be so sure of each other’s love.

Leaning out of the wondow, Lauren watched Marie welcoming her guests, who were now arriving in droves.

Descending the stairs a little later, she noted that Marie and Reggie were busy mingling. Marie turned and saw her friend. ‘Feel free,’ she mouthed, ‘to wander and inspect again.’

The increasing volume of sound faded as Lauren took Marie at her word. At the end of her journey of discovery Lauren came to the conclusion that it would be a delightful place to live. But alone? She wasn’t so sure.

‘This place just goes on and on,’ she commented to Marie as she inspected the buffet-type meal which the caterers had set out in the farmhouse-style kitchen.

‘Once it was three separate cottages,’ Marie explained. ‘Through the years they’ve been joined together, and Old Cedar Grange is the result.’

Lauren frowned. ‘I don’t know how I’ll feel, Marie, living here alone.’

‘But, Lauren,’ Marie responded, ‘I’ve been on my own in this place for nearly two months now. That is—’ she coloured just a little ‘—when Reggie hasn’t been with me.’

‘There you are, then,’ Lauren took her up. ‘You weren’t alone, were you?’

‘So get yourself a boyfriend,’ Reggie joined in the discussion from the kitchen door, ‘and invite him to stay here too.’

‘She ditched Mitch,’ Marie pointed out, at which they all laughed.

By now the volume of sound had risen considerably, with the arrival of the friends with the hi-fi equipment.

It was a good thing, Lauren thought a few hours later, her ears tiring of the music, her muscles weary from the dancing, that Marie’s uncle’s house stood surrounded by its own grounds, well away from its neighbours. Otherwise, she reflected, complaints would have arrived by the dozen via the telephone, and maybe even in the form of remonstrating policemen on the doorstep.

The living room windows had been flung wide, the doors to the garden likewise. The long, undrawn brown velvet curtains billowed in the breeze, while the spotlights on the patio illuminated the surrounding shrubbery.

‘Want to share?’ A young man who had introduced himself as Casey Talbert offered his overflowing plate to Lauren.

She shook her head and wondered how soon she could slip upstairs to her room. She wondered also how she could put a distance between herself and this persistent guest called Casey. For most of the evening he had followed her about.

The music had grown louder, the beat more insistent. Casey, seemingly unable to resist its call, put aside his plate and pulled Lauren into the midst of the twisting, whirling crowd.

She looked around for Marie, hoping to be able to break free of Casey and explain to her that she was tired and was going to bed, but there was no sign of her. Nor could she see Reggie anywhere.

‘If you’re looking for our host and hostess,’ Casey shouted over the din, inventing his own arms-and-legs mode of dancing, ‘I saw them get into Reggie’s car.’

‘Gone for more supplies, probably,’ a girl beside him hazarded.

The telephone shrilled demandingly over the music and the laughter.

‘Hi, Lauren.’ Marie’s voice came brightly through the receiver. ‘Find a chair. This might come as a shock. We’re on our way to the coast.’

‘Wh-why?’ Lauren stuttered. ‘I mean…supplies—you were going to get more s-supplies, or so I heard.’

‘Just a red herring, Lauren.’ Marie sounded apologetic now. ‘We thought we’d make our getaway while the party was in full swing, without waiting for the morning. Say goodbye to everyone, will you? And barrowloads of thanks for their prezzies.’

‘But all your things—’ was all Lauren could get out.

‘Packed them secretly this afternoon in the hired van, after Reggie unloaded yours. Sorry it was so sudden, Lauren, but, as I said, we thought we’d make a dash before—’

‘Before I changed my mind?’ Lauren retorted, but with a smile in her voice.

‘We—ell, maybe. We’re crossing in the morning to house-hunt. Giving ourselves a day or two free before Reggie’s job starts.’

‘So this is it,’ Lauren said. ‘From now on I take responsibility for your Uncle Redmund’s house?’

‘Until we get back, yep,’ Marie replied brightly.

‘Which is-?’

‘Can’t really say—’ Marie began, then Reggie took over.

‘Sorry, Lauren, to drop you m it like this, but I— we—were desperate. If you’d decided in the end to say no—’

Lauren sighed loudly. ‘OK, so I was set up. But as it was by my best friend, and my best friend’s fiancé, I guess I’ll have to count my blessings. I’ve got a job. I’ve got a roof—and what a roof!—over my head. I can’t really grumble, can I?’

She smiled at the prolonged sigh of relief from the other end.

‘By the way, before I go,’ Marie added, ‘a word of warning about Casey Talbert. He might have been playing the complete idiot this evening, but he’s no fool. He can’t be, otherwise he couldn’t hold down his job as a reporter on the local paper. He graduated from his journalists’ course a few months ago, and as you can probably imagine he’s panting to make his mark as an ace reporter His nose is very firmly to the ground, Lauren, whether it’s clean down there, or not—if you get my meaning?’

‘I get it,’ Lauren answered.

‘Good. Thought I’d better warn you. Cheers. We’ll be in touch,’ Marie declared, just before the phone went dead.

A high-pitched scream came from the direction of one of the windows. Hand shaking a little, Lauren went to pick up the phone again, then realised she had no number on which to call Marie back.

‘There’s a man in the garden,’ a young woman shrieked. ‘No, he’s not one of us,’ she shouted, contradicting someone’s suggestion. ‘He’s acting strange. Oh, no, he’s coming this way.’ She screamed again. ‘He might have a gun!’

‘She’s been watching too many films,’ Casey said, then joined the general lurch towards the patio doors, pulling Lauren with him. ‘Can’t miss this.’

They were pushed by the crush through the doors, white garden table and chairs being overturned on the way, and Lauren emerged dishevelled and breathless to see the dark shape of a man standing, hands on hips, at the edge of the paving stones.

‘Everyone take cover!’ someone shouted, screams following his command. ‘For Pete’s sake, where’s Marie? Where’s Reggie? Can’t they get rid of the guy?’

‘They’ve gone!’ Lauren cried. ‘To France.’

‘You must be joking,’ was the strangled answer from the depths of the crowd.

Lauren had been pulled into a crouching position beside Casey, who in turn was crouching behind the toppled table, but, like a soldier in a war zone, he kept his eager eyes just above the parapet

It came to her with some force that as she had now become the official house-sitter it was for her to take the lead and remonstrate with the interloper, persuade him to go on his way.

She tugged her hand from Casey’s.

‘Where are you going?’ he croaked.

‘To get rid of the gatecrasher.’ She stood up and picked her way through cowering bodies. A gasp went up at her audacity, her foolhardy bravery.

‘He might have a gun!’ Casey repeated the warning, having plainly cast aside his mockery of the girl who had first uttered it.

‘So what?’ Lauren threw over her shoulder, sounding far more confident than she really felt. Because of the darkness no one could see how her hands were shaking. Nor could they hear her racing heartbeats, nor know how dry her mouth had become.

The others made a gangway, gazing up at her with admiration mixed with fear for her safety. She needed to walk some distance—to her inflamed imagination it seemed a safari trek—to confront the interloper.

He stood beneath the tree—that tree which the day before had stretched out its arms towards her. She knew now that it had not been repelling her, but drawing her nearer and nearer. And nearer still to the darkly threatening figure of the stranger who lurked in its shadows. Then she was in front of him, wishing she could stop her heartbeats from shaking her whole being.

He was so tall she had to tilt her head to search his face, but his features were in shadow, the lights from the house only illuminating his body from the chest down.

His arms were folded, his shoulder supported by the trunk of the tree. His long legs were crossed indolently at the ankles and a heavy backpack, which had plainly just been shrugged off, was lying beside him.

Lauren’s eyes dropped involuntarily to his hips, looking at his pockets.

‘I have no gun.’

So he’d heard the warning shouts. His statement had come tonelessly and Lauren found herself believing him, although why, she did not know.

His hands came out and her heart nearly jumped into her throat. ‘I have these.’ The words came softly from the semi-darkness. ‘But I use them to caress a woman, not to harm her.’

‘Will you please go?’ Her voice sounded hoarse, and she clasped her hands in front of her to hide their trembling. ‘This is a private party on private property.’

Eyes staring, she watched as his hand went again to a pocket, but she relaxed as he drew out a handkerchief. Her gaze followed its path to his forehead from which, to her puzzlement and surprise, he seemed to mop perspiration. The night-time air was cool, so his action could surely only mean that he, too, was afraid. Of her?

As he replaced the handkerchief his hand seemed to shake, yet to Lauren, staring at him in the semidarkness, his whole demeanour seemed to be one of self-assurance verging on arrogance.

There was a long silence while he sized her up, taking in her striped, close-fitting top, the velvet trousers over her shapeliness, up and up, to take in her face, her hair, her lips. Cheeks burning, she almost felt his piercing regard.

She wished she could see him, read his expression, judge his character by the look in his eyes, but the shadows still swallowed him from his shoulders upwards.

‘I belong…’

It was almost as though he couldn’t finish the sentence. His tone had changed. The words had come in a hoarse whisper.

There was a shuffling sound from behind her, and she wondered whether the others were moving nearer to protect her or withdrawing into the interior. Music from the living room told her that the guests had decided the stranger was either an acquaintance or harmless. She had half turned to see how many were left outside when another sound had her turning back.

The stranger was bending with obvious difficulty to retrieve his backpack, swinging it into position. The effort must have cost him dear, since he dropped it, following it down and crumpling to the ground. As he fell his head thumped against the tree trunk, and he lay motionless, scarcely breathing, at Lauren’s feet




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_319e7361-1bef-5304-b409-55c84c444b77)


‘NO!’ LAUREN heard her own voice cry out. She dropped to his side and felt the dampness of his forehead beneath her trembling palm.

So it had been illness, not fear which had made him dab at his brow. With features such as his, how could she have thought this man lacked courage? But then, in the darkness she had not seen the strong lines in his face, hinting at an inbuilt resolve; the full, sensual mouth that suggested powerful feelings; the jaw telling of an ability to curb those feelings, keep them under control.

A lock of damp hair hung over his forehead and Lauren watched her quivering fingers push it aside. I’ve seen this man before…The words hit her like a lightning-strike, flashing in then out of her mind. It was a stupid thought. She had never seen him in her life before.

Hand to his cheek, she realised how shallow his breathing had become, which meant that positive action had become imperative. He needed medical attention. But most of all—and never mind that he was a complete stranger and had been concealing himself in the shadows—at that moment he needed a bed.

‘Johnny, Marty…’ She dredged up the names of some of the guests, but the music drowned her words. ‘Help me—I need help…’

Desperately she turned her head, seeing one figure lingering outside. She might as well, she thought, make use of the dog-like devotion the young man had been displaying towards her all evening.

‘Casey!’ she yelled. ‘Casey! Help me.’ To her relief he moved towards her. ‘Help me lift this man—get him inside.’

Casey, nearer now, took one look then dashed back, shouting, ‘Johnny!’ and gesturing wildly. Johnny came, following Casey across the patio, thudding over the lawn and pulling up smartly at the sight of the recumbent figure.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Johnny panted, hands on hips. ‘Is he dead?’

‘He fainted—can’t you see?’ Casey rebuked him, his slightly cloying manner vanished. ‘Now, how can we do this?’

Casey Talbert sober, Lauren decided, was a great improvement on Casey Talbert intoxicated.

‘You take his feet, Johnny,’ Casey directed, ‘while I carry him like this.’ He fitted his hands beneath the stranger’s armpits and prepared to lift him, but found himself holding a twisting torso.

‘For God’s sake—’ the words came hoarsely from the man ‘—I can walk.’

Shaking his head, as if to get his brain working again, and with a massive effort, the stranger got himself to his feet, swaying as he struggled to stay upright. Impulsively Lauren flung her arms around his waist, taking his weight with her own body. She staggered back, and felt him try to help her by easing himself away, but she managed to hold him more firmly.

‘Come on, Lauren,’ Casey urged. ‘Let me walk him into the house. If that’s—?’

Lauren nodded vigorously. ‘Where else? In this state he’ll not make it to his car. If he’s got a car.’ All the same, her arms still clung, seemingly strangely reluctant to let him go.

‘OK, Lauren,’ said Johnny, ‘let us take over.’

Slowly Lauren detached herself from the stranger, feeling a curious emptiness inside her as her body lost contact with his. She tried lifting his backpack, but found it so heavy she had to drag it over the lawn.

The man did his best to co-operate as they walked him, his legs lifting heavily with each step, but his head stayed determinedly upright, although Lauren guessed its natural inclination must be to hang.

‘Through the kitchen,’ Lauren directed, but the two men were making for the easiest way in, which was through the open doorway into the living room.

Someone turned down the music, and guests pulled aside to make a passage through. Eyes stared, hands holding glasses stilled on their way to open mouths.

Casey and Johnny made for the stairs, Casey calling over his shoulder, ‘OK, folks. Party’s over. No one to see off. Marie and Reggie have gone. Thanks on their behalf for coming.’

As the three men slowly mounted the stairs, the stranger’s feet dragging just a little, the music was switched off, shouts of farewell rang out and car doors slammed.

‘Thanks, Lauren.’ A girl reached Lauren’s side on the wide stairs, helping her bump the backpack upwards. ‘You did a great stand-in job on our absent hostess’s behalf.’ She added after a pause, ‘You’re doing a fine Samaritan act too—more than I’d do for a total stranger skulking in the shadows. Good luck. I’ve a feeling you’ll need it. We’re all going home.’

She ran downstairs and the door slammed behind her.



Lauren was thankful that the house possessed so many bedrooms—two or three of which, she had noticed during her inspection of the place, were already made up for possible guests. Friends, no doubt, of Marie’s.

At Lauren’s request Casey and Johnny had taken the man to the room next to hers. They’d removed his outer clothing, leaving his jeans in place, his shirt unbuttoned.

Lauren lifted the cover over him, noticing that the strong, lean body appeared to be deeply tanned.

‘He couldn’t have got that toasted from the sun in this country,’ Johnny commented quietly. ‘Must have been in the tropics for some while, I’d guess.’

‘So what brought him here?’ Casey said, voice low. ‘Homing instinct?’

‘Homing?’ Lauren exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t live here. No connection with the place—otherwise Marie would have told me.’ Then she remembered the man’s muttered half-sentence—‘I belong…’

He must have meant this country, she decided, recalling that the few words he had spoken had told her that his accent seemed to be British in origin. If he had indeed been roaming the world for a while, he would refer to his connection with his native country as ‘belonging’ to it, wouldn’t he?

‘Johnny!’ yelled a girl’s voice from below. ‘Come and drive us home like you promised.’

Complying with the good-humoured command, Johnny paused at the door. ‘He’s a good-looking guy, Lauren. Don’t you go falling for him.’ Lifting his hand in acknowledgement of Lauren’s thanks, he went on his way.

‘He won’t be here that long,’ Lauren declared.

‘Anyway, he’s probably married with half a dozen kids,’ commented Casey. ‘With looks like that some female must have snapped him up years ago.’

‘How old do you think he is?’ whispered Lauren. ‘I’d say—thirty-five?’

‘Could be,’ said Casey uninterestedly. He gestured her outside to the corridor.

‘Look, Lauren, I know we only met this evening, but I have to say sorry about my infantile behaviour at the party. I’d had more to drink than I’m used to. I do like you, honest.’ His smile, head on one side, melted away her irritation with him, then his face straightened. ‘And it worries me, you being alone with this guy from nowhere. I could stay a few hours, if you like, until he’s come round and been able to establish his identity?’

Lauren hesitated. The thought had been worrying her too. She’d told Marie that she might not enjoy being alone in the house, but she hadn’t bargained for such a mysterious companion.

Wouldn’t ‘intruder’ be a better word? her subconscious prompted. Had the dramatic collapse under the tree been one big act, a way of getting a bed for the night? After all, his surface appearance seemed dishevelled, and his backpack showed distinct signs of wear.

Lauren lifted her shoulders, returning to gaze down at the stranger. The half-light illuminated the planes and angles of his face, the lines from nose to mouth, the frown marks between his eyes. The jaw, around which was a considerable growth of stubble, was resolute, the forehead wide, only the hair still damp from perspiration, resisting the downward droop of his demeanour and curling into itself.

There was something in those features that was vaguely familiar, although for the life of her Lauren couldn’t recall ever having met him, or even having seen his photograph anywhere. She didn’t know why, but instinctively she felt it was a face she could trust.

‘I’ll be OK,’ she said softly to Casey. ‘It’ll only be for one night, after all. Tomorrow he’ll probably go on his way. Wherever that might be.’

‘We—ell…’ Casey was only partly reassured. ‘Could be he’s suffering from a mega-sized hangover.’

Lauren half agreed, although there had been no hint of alcohol on his breath.

In the dim light she gazed at the stranger. He appeared to be asleep. As she stared there arose inside her not even a trace of fear of him. If there had been any reason to be afraid of this man, surely her instinct would have told her, not letting her rest until at the very least she’d called the police?

‘I’ll be OK,’ she assured Casey again. ‘But thanks a lot for your offer.’

‘I’ll write down my phone number.’ He scribbed on a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘If you have any doubts about him at all, you can reach me here, at my digs. Only twenty minutes’ drive. Any time, remember, Lauren.’

On impulse, she did something that half an hour ago she would never have dreamt of doing where Casey was concerned. She reached up and kissed his cheek.

‘Thanks a lot,’ she said, and watched him colour with pleasure.

He wasn’t slow. He put his arms around her and placed a hard kiss against her lips, then lifted his hand as he left, whistling as he pounded down the stairs.

In the bedroom, Lauren wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared down at the backpack. If she looked inside, it would be a way, wouldn’t it, of discovering something about the man?

There was no discernible movement from him, so she found her flashlight and crouched down, unfastening straps, opening flaps and peering into the interior. There was a pocket tape-recorder, notebooks and pencils, lightweight clothes, plastic containers which rattled, envelopes containing letters. Eagerly she turned the beam of light onto the name of the addressee.

‘Brett Carmichael’, it read, ‘c/o PO Box No…’

The destination appeared to be somewhere m Africa. At least she had discovered his name, if not his mission.

It seemed that Johnny had been right in his guess that to acquire such a tan the man must have been in the tropics. So what were the events that had caused him to show up out of the blue—or, more correctly, she thought, out of the darkness—on the doorstep of Old Cedar Grange?

The bedclothes rustled and Lauren hurried to the stranger’s side. His eyes fluttered open, moving around as if he was trying to work out where he was. What was he thinking? Lauren wondered. Which room am I in—which dwelling—which country? Or even, for a man as good-looking as he was, Whose bedroom this time? Then she reproached herself for prejudging him His morals might be beyond suspicion. Perhaps he was wondering where his wife was, his family?

Lauren’s heart did the strangest dive at the thought, then surfaced with speed at her silent reprimand He meant nothing to her, this man from the shadows. How could he, when she knew nothing about him, when he’d only come into her life about thirty minutes ago?

She leaned over him and he stared up at her, fixing his brown eyes on hers, holding them as if he was truly disorientated, and clinging to their reality like a drowning person to a rock.

Summoning a smile, she smoothed back his hair. It felt damp, and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she whispered. ‘Where have you come from and why are you here?’

He did not answer, but lifted his head, and then his powerful shoulders from the bed. Was he trying to get up?

‘No, no,’ Lauren urged, pushing him back. ‘You’re ill, aren’t you? You’ve got a fever…’

A fever? At least she could sponge him, couldn’t she?

‘Stay there,’ she ordered, hoping he was receiving her. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

Her words must have registered as he sank back weakly, his eyes closing again. When she returned with a bowl of tepid water, facecloth and towel, his eyes were still closed. He opened them again as she wrung the cloth and mopped his brow. He appeared to be watching her every action, as if trying to comprehend the reason for her ministrations.

She pulled back the bedcover, exposing his chest and seeing the dampness there. Without hesitation she sponged the whorls of hair, a curious excitement coursing through her as she felt the muscle and the latent strength of him hard beneath her touch.

Easing back his shirt and wiping his shoulders, her wayward fingers trembled to stroke his skin, and she had to rebuke their impudence fiercely before they condescended to return to their caring mode. She used the towel to dry him.

‘Name of Florence?’ came the hoarse question through faintly curving lips.

‘No, its L—’ Then she laughed. ‘No, and my surname’s not Nightingale. I’m Lauren—Lauren Halstead.’

An eyebrow lifted. ‘Folk in the village told me a girl called Mane lived here. Looking after the place for the absent owner.’

‘That was correct until approximately an hour ago. Now I’m in charge.’

He seemed to need time to assimilate the information.

‘Owner’s living abroad, they said?’

‘Right.’

The towel went on rubbing, moving still lower to push against his waistband. His arm swung down from his head, his hand clamping over hers ‘Oh, no, lady.’

Warmth swamped her cheeks—embarrassment mixed with anger. ‘What do you take me for, Mr Carmichael?’ The words burst from her as she tried to free her hand.

Beneath it, the hardness of his stomach muscles against the backs of her fingers was arousing all kinds of feelings which she had no intention of allowing to surface. They were letting her down, she fretted, fighting against her efforts to convey to him, stranger and unknown quantity that he was, that she was merely acting as an impersonal nurse and good Samaritan.

‘OK, I’m sorry.’ More alert now, he searched her face. ‘How the hell do you know my name?’

Lauren hesitated, annoyed with herself for her giveaway slip.

‘OK. Stupid me. You’ve searched my backpack.’ His shoulder lifted. ‘Natural enough, in all the circumstances, for you to want to know my identity.’

Not that she did know it, she reflected. A mere name told her nothing. He released her hand and she threw the towel aside, moving to the foot of the bed and looking down at him. His head sank back onto the pillows and his eyes closed.

‘Are you in pain?’ she asked sympathetically.

‘Yes and no. What happened to the rabble?’

‘The party guests? They’ve gone.’

‘That guy you kissed. Is he still here?’

‘I was only thanking him for his help with you. And I have every right to kiss who I like.’ Why was she suddenly so much on the defensive? This man, this passing stranger, merited no explanation from her. All the same, his comment implied that at the time he hadn’t been totally unaware of the events going on around him.

‘What kind of bug have you got?’ Lauren asked. ‘You collapsed outside. Did you know?’

‘I knew,’ he answered, so tiredly, so softly that she had to listen hard. ‘It’s a fever—name unpronounceable. Picked it up in my wanderings.’

She still did not know where he had ‘wandered’ from, or why he had chosen to ‘wander’ to Old Cedar Grange. But such questions, she felt, could wait until a more appropriate time. ‘Should I send for a doctor?’

‘No need.’ He gestured towards his bag. ‘I consulted a medic—of sorts. He gave me a potion. In my bag there are some tablets to deal with it. White ones. If you’d be so kind…’ His voice tailed off.

Lauren rummaged and found them, using the flashlight to read the label. ‘Take two with liquid, as required’, the instructions dictated.

‘I’ll get some water,’ she told him, and was soon back with a glass. She put it down and shook two tablets onto her palm, then went to the bedside and held them out with the water. He managed to support himself on an elbow and dispatched the medication, swallowing and sinking back muttering, ‘Thanks.’

He seemed cooler now, but plainly the fever still lingered, apparent in the flush of his cheeks, the faint layer of perspiration on his dark-shaded upper lip. His head fell to one side on the pillow, revealing the dark shadow all around his jaw. She wondered how long it was since he had shaved.

As she stared, wondering what next, he looked at her again. ‘Please forgive my lack of manners. Put it down to how I feel. Nor have I thanked you for taking me in and helping to make me comfortable.’ He lifted his arm, frowning at his watch. ‘It’s hellish late. You must be tired.’

She smiled. T am, but—well, that’s OK.’

He nodded, lowering his lids again. For a while she stood there, studying his features anew—the wide mouth, the cleft chin, the sweeping strength of his jaw. His forehead was lined—a frown, even in sleep, creasing the skin between his eyes. There was character there, and resolution, and defiance, and surely a deep integrity?

Tiptoeing to the door, she glanced back. He had not stirred. Remembering Casey’s anxiety about her being alone and defenceless with a stranger present, she withdrew the key from the inside of the door and inserted it in the lock outside, turning it and pocketing it.

She could not deny that she was just a little concerned about her situation, however much her intuition might be telling her she would be safe with this man.

A small, relieved sigh escaped her as she made for her own room, settling down at last into a deep sleep.

* * *

She was wakened by the ringing of the telephone and swung from the bed. The morning sun was lighting the room. Was it Casey, concerned for her?

Quickly cutting off the shrill ring before it woke the stranger, she answered, ‘Yes?’

‘May I ask who that is?’ a man’s voice said. ‘I know it’s not Marie.’

‘No, I’m not Marie. And you are—?’

‘My name is Redmund Gard. You are…Lauren— Lauren Halstead?’

‘Oh, Mr Gard! Yes, I’m Lauren.’ She frowned. ‘How did you know?’

‘Ah, now. Marie, the young minx, contacted me here in my villa in the South of France. She and her fiancé had just upped and left, it seemed, leaving a young lady bearing your name in charge of my property over there. Hoped I didn’t mind, she said. To which I replied it was too bad if I did, wasn’t it?’

Oh, dear, Mr Gard. I honestly thought she’d consulted you about her intentions—although I must admit that she didn’t mention that she had. If you’d rather there was someone else here instead of me, I’ll advertise and—’

‘No, no, my dear. She gave me a sob story of how you would soon have been made homeless.’

‘That’s true, but—’

‘She also gave you a glowing reference—but then she would, wouldn’t she?’ He laughed and Lauren joined in. ‘However, if you are as pleasant and intelligent as you sound, stay by all means and take care of my house. You will take over the salary I’ve been paying her. I hope she told you that’

‘She did, but-’

‘I expect she has told you everything you need to know—about the security I had installed, the locks and bolts, not to mention the alarms?’

‘Yes, she did, Mr Gard.’

‘You’re aware that I’m not Marie’s true uncle, but that is how she addresses me? I would like to ask you to call me Uncle Redmund too. Would you mind?’

Lauren smiled. ‘Not at all—Uncle Redmund.’

‘Good. By the way, today I leave on my travels again. I never stay long in one place. I suppose you could say I’m a born wanderer. The older I get, the more I want to see of this wonderful world we live in. Oh, and in an emergency—a real emergency only—you can contact this number.’ It was a London telephone number. ‘Well, goodbye for now, Lauren. And take care—of yourself, as well as my house.’

‘Mr—Uncle Redmund,’ she began, ‘there’s a man—’ He had gone.

No sooner had she replaced the receiver than there came a great hammering, followed by a series of shouts.

The stranger! Oh, heavens, she had locked him in and he had just discovered it. She raced along to his room, then remembered she had put the key in her trouser pocket.

‘I’m on my way,’ she yelled, and skidded back to her room, quickly returning to free him.

‘For God’s sake, Miss Halstead,’ came a frantic voice, ‘a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

She burst in, quite forgetful of the fact that she hadn’t had time to pull on a dressing gown and that her night attire was skimpy to say the least.

He confronted her, anger in every muscle-tough line of him, his short-sleeved shirt hanging loosely, his jeans replaced by briefs. He was pale and heavy-eyed, but it was the latent strength in his powerful maleness which triggered Lauren’s femininity into responding both agitatedly and excitedly.

She had to tear her eyes away. ‘I—I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you there’s an en suite—’

‘It’s locked, lady. It’s bloody locked.’

‘It can’t be. It—’ As in the rest of the house, the bathroom lock was old-fashioned and needed a key. She tried it. He was right.

‘You’re not telling me you don’t know where the key is?’

‘Just a minute.’ She dived back into her room, withdrew the key from her own bathroom lock and hopefully tried it in his. It fitted.

‘Thank God for that.’ He made his somewhat swaying way through the doorway.

‘I’m sorry—I really didn’t know.’

There was a heavy sigh, then, ‘That’s OK. But, Miss Halstead…’ He eyed her minutely, assessingly, from the top of her head to her thighs, then down over her shapeliness, outlined plainly beneath the stretch fabric of her nightdress, to her tightly curling toes. ‘Nevernever do that to me again…’

Lauren fled.



Lauren stared through the kitchen window, listening to the kettle coming to the boil. The flowers glowed, the lawn radiated light. In the brilliant morning sun the cedar tree looked less intimidating, throwing its shadow away from the house.

The kitchen, as Marie had declared, possessed all the ‘mod cons’ a girl could want, but their modernity was in stark contrast to the roughly plastered stone walls, the oak dresser displaying blue and white crockery and the old-fashioned iron stove which had been left in place.

Should she, or shouldn’t she, Lauren wondered, consult her guest about breakfast? Guest? she asked herself. Well, she could hardly think of him as ‘the stranger’, could she, now that she knew his name, not to mention other—well, things about him? The colour in her cheeks came and went at the thought.

She climbed the stairs again, but outside his room she hesitated, then her knuckles knocked tentatively on the solid wood door. She opened it on hearing a weary, ‘Please enter.’

He lay back in a low chair, dressed, she noted to her relief, in jeans and an open-necked shirt. He looked washed out.

‘How are you feeling now, Mr Carmichael?’

Broad shoulders lifted and fell. ‘I think the fever’s passed, but I feel lousy.’

‘Would you—would you like some breakfast?’

‘Thanks, no.’ Then his head lifted and his gaze skated with male appreciation over her casual clothes—wellwashed jeans and a cotton top which, to her annoyance, no matter how baggy it became with wear, could not hide her shapeliness.

So he was OK in that specific area of his life, she thought with some amusement.

‘Tea—cup of? Any chance?’ he asked, letting his head fall back again.

‘Of course.’ She swung to the door. ‘I’ll go and make it’

‘Call and I’ll come.’

The faintly mocking note made her turn. Fever or no fever, there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes, and her inner self cautioned, Oh, no, you don’t, Mr Carmichael. Then, more insistently, Oh, no, you don’t, Lauren Halstead.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_d52f3472-3f8e-5d7a-8885-2f4f66fae80c)


HE DID come at her call, one slow step after the other. He dropped into an upright chair at the scrupulously scrubbed wooden table then looked around m a lacklustre way, wrapping his hands around the mug of tea which Lauren had put in front of him.

How long, she wondered, did he intend to stay? It was a question she could not yet ask of this man who, even now, was far from well.

Catching the browned bread as it jumped from the toaster, she spread it with butter and sat on the other wooden chair.

‘How was it,’ she asked, as much out of curiosity as to fill the taut silence, ‘that you turned up in the garden of Old Cedar Grange?’

Carefully, precisely, he lowered the mug to the table, as if the movement gave him time to process his thoughts.

At last he said, ‘I knocked at the front doorhammered would be a better description—but over the racket no one heard, so I did the only sensible thing and found my way to the rear.’

She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. ‘But why?’ She had to ask. ‘Why here?’

There was another long pause. Had the fever, she wondered, slowed his mental processes? But there was no lack of brightness in his eyes, no absence of spontaneity in his reactions.

‘I had a drink at the local pub,’ he answered at last, ‘and asked if they had any accommodation available. No room at the inn—but there was a house on the edge of the village, they told me, with plenty of empty rooms. A girl by the name of Marie Brownley lived there with her fiancé. She was looking after it in the owner’s absence. They said she might put me up.’

He took a frowning mouthful of tea. He was choosing his words again. Lauren sensed it. ‘Hence my appearance unannounced in the rear grounds of the property.’ His mouth curved in his first real smile, and Lauren’s heart lurched drunkenly at the transformation of his features.

‘Totally unarmed,’ he added. ‘As you’ve no doubt discovered after going through my belongings.’

Lauren smiled too. ‘Sorry about the invasion into your backpack privacy. And the “might have a gun” nonsense.’

His shoulders lifted. ‘My apologies, too, for collapsing in the garden. I only flew in from South America yesterday morning. The fever, plus jet lag, caught up with me.’ He straightened in the chair. It had plainly been an effort for him even to do that. ‘I should leave here.’ He glanced at her. ‘Any chance of public transport?’

‘In which direction?’

His shoulders lifted heavily. ‘Any which way.’

Lauren was swept by a curious disappointment. She didn’t want the man to leave, which worried her, but then she rationalised her feelings. He was company; his presence was stopping her from feeling lonely in this big house, that was all.

She was puzzled, too, by his apparent inability to make up his mind as to his eventual destination. ‘I could take you to the nearest town. Where would you want to go?’

His answer was a shake of the head, a lift of the shoulders—all with his eyes closed.

‘Mr Carmichael…’ She had intended to sound firm, in order to penetrate the mists which appeared to be clouding his mind, but her voice held a strange tremor. ‘You’re not in a fit state to go anywhere.’

His glance at her was direct, almost speculative. He must have heard that vocal tremor and be trying to analyse its cause. He’d be clever if he found it, she thought ruefully, because she didn’t know that herself.

‘You’d allow me to stay another night?’

‘However long it takes for you to get well again.’

Her words surprised even herself. The statement had almost been an open invitation to stay as long as he liked. Also, her own reaction was puzzling her. It had nothing to do with the man, she told herself, with the charisma he undoubtedly possessed even m an unfit state, the magnetism in his deeply intelligent eyes, the deep-down reflex action of her feminine responses to his masculinity every time he was near.

No! It was because she was sorry for him—plainly brought low, as he was, by circumstances and illness. It was compassion, wasn’t it…? Wasn’t it? her brain persisted.

An eyebrow arched. ‘You have it in your power to play hostess to an uninvited guest? Moreover, to someone who, twenty-four hours ago, you didn’t know even existed?’

But she had known, hadn’t she? Although how, she could not explain at all.

‘If you mean would the owner mind if I took you in, I very much doubt it.’

‘As a paying guest?’

Paying? The thought of payment hadn’t occurred to her. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Payment to the owner, not to me. I spoke to him earlier this morning and he seemed a very nice man.’

‘He did? Have you ever met him?’

‘How could I have? I only took over from Mane last night. Anyway, he’s her uncle—or quasi-uncle.’

‘Quasi.’ He rolled the word around his tongue. ‘I like that. Seemingly, almost, but not really.’

Lauren smiled, glad that he appeared to be reviving a little. ‘You’re talking like a dictionary.’

His own smile was faint. ‘Dictionaries and I are on very familiar terms.’

So what was he? A teacher needing accurate interpretations? A lawyer requiring precise definitions? She didn’t like to ask, and anyway it was no business of hers. Even if he stayed a while, he would leave some time in the near future. After all, he had to earn a living somehow.

Holding onto the chair, he rose carefully. ‘You could be right. Maybe I’m not in a fit condition to go anywhere.’ He had lost the hint of colour he’d seemed to gain from drinking the hot liquid.

‘Except—’ she pushed away her empty mug and stood too ‘—to bed.’

His lips quirked. ‘My hostess is ordering me to bed? In other circumstances that might have been a promising start.’

She could not help smiling into the silence that was left as he made his way upstairs, at the same time shaking her head.

Now that he had gone, Lauren went up to the room she now regarded as her studio and attempted to bring some order to the various pieces of artists’ equipment that she used m her work.

Pausing for a while, she leaned on the windowsill and gazed down into the gardens, admiring the colourful scene, her eyes drawn again to the terracotta heads that were placed at random across the wide-spreading grounds.

The ring of the telephone interrupted her reverie, and she hurned downstairs to answer it before it disturbed the sleeping stranger.

‘Hi,’ said Casey, ‘everything OK? I wanted to call earlier, but I was sent out on an assignment.’ He really loves that word, Lauren reflected with a smile. ‘Has the man from nowhere been behaving himself?’

‘He couldn’t do otherwise,’ Lauren pointed out. ‘He’s still weak from the illness he’s had. Anyway—’ she frowned as her conscience pricked her ‘—last night I locked him in his room.’

There was a burst of laughter from the other end. ‘Full marks to you, Lauren. What happened?’

‘You mean, when he discovered it?’ She could not tell him the whole truth. ‘He roared like a caged lion. Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, he’s in bed again.’

‘How long’s he staying?’

‘I—’ She hesitated, then decided to continue. ‘I more or less told him to stay for as long as it takes him to recover.’

‘You did?’ Casey seemed a little shocked. ‘How do you know you can trust him?’

I trust him, she thought, but did not know why. ‘I just know I can,’ was her deliberately evasive answer.

‘Mmm, don’t always trust your womanly intuition. What’s his job, by the way?’

‘I haven’t discovered that much about him.’

‘We—ell, I guess he could be unemployed. What’s his name? Surely you know that.’

‘It’s Brett—Brett Carmichael.’

There was a sharp intake of breath, then, ‘Hey, I’ve a hunch I’ve heard that name. Now…’ He seemed to be finger-drumming, and she guessed he was at his office desk. ‘This is going to be a tough one. First I’ll ask around, then I’ll look through back issues of newspapers—see if I can get a lead. Got to go, Lauren. I’ll call you if I get any info on that name. Right?’ He disconnected the call.



The sky was a clear blue, drawing Lauren into the garden with her sketchpad. She wandered round the flowerbeds, deciding which blooms to draw. A brilliantly red fuchsia caught her eye, and she squatted on her folding stool and assembled her crayons alongside the pad on the large drawing board she used for support.

Some time later a dragging sound caught her attention, and she turned to investigate. Brett was bumping a reclining garden chair and its extension across the lawn.

‘Please carry on,’ he said, unfolding it and arranging the sprung cushions, then attaching the footrest. ‘I helped myself—’ he indicated the chair ‘—hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘Feel free,’ Lauren commented airily. ‘Maybe the fresh air will help you throw off your trouble. Better than lying in a stuffy room.’

‘That’s what I figured.’

He draped his length over the chair, arms folded, his legs stretching over the footrest. Lauren returned to her work, but the presence of the man seemed to have taken away her ability to concentrate. Nevertheless, she returned to her sketching, but, to her annoyance, the picture started to go wrong.

Something in her subconscious mind was troubling her, and it had something to do with the man beside her.

‘That chair—where did you find it?’

‘In the shed.’

The shed? She hadn’t even noticed yet that there was a garden shed. And surely it was locked? Marie’s uncle Redmund seemed to have a fixation about locking everything that could be opened.

‘Where did you find the key?’ she queried.

A shoulder lifted. ‘In the kitchen, tucked away between the dresser and that ancient stove.’

‘Truly? You went searching?’ She smiled, but wondered if she should be worried instead. ‘You must be good at tracking things down. Maybe you’ve got a sort of magnet in your head, and the metal key gave out a magnetic field?’

He gave a brief laugh, which made Lauren surmise that he was on the way to recovery. A small, irritating voice whispered, You don’t want him to get better too soon, do you? She told it to be quiet.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ he answered. There was a pause, then he said, ‘Much of my life is spent in getting to the core of things.’

What do you do for a living? The thought formed in her mind but didn’t make it to her lips. He was plainly a ‘here today and gone tomorrow’ kind of man, a wanderer. He had as good as told her that last night, and as a result he picked up things like fevers. So what he did for a living was none of her business, was it?

Strange, she pondered, remembering her conversation with Uncle Redmund that morning—he had been the second person she’d heard describe himself as a wanderer. But thousands of people wandered the world these days—young women, unattached men, as this man seemed to be.

‘You make your living as an artist?’ he queried, watching the movements of her hand but, low down as he was, unable to see what they were reproducing.

She nodded. ‘Waiting for the next commission, wherever it might come from. Getting this job looking after Mr Gard’s house was a great help in plugging the hole I would have made otherwise in my bank balance.’ There was another pause, then, as her heartbeats revved to overdrive, she added as casually as she could, ‘Did I give you a definite answer to your question about whether you can stay here? Anyway, the answer’s yes.’

She glanced at him. Would he turn her down flat?

‘Indefinitely?’ An eyebrow lifted.

‘If you like.’

‘Thanks.’

It wasn’t until she heard his answer, delivered in an equally casual tone, that her heart returned to its normal beat. Then a small, annoyingly sane voice asked, Have you done the right thing? How long will he stay? Can you honestly trust him? For heaven’s sake, who is he?

For a while he seemed to be sleeping. As she worked Lauren tuned in to the sounds around her—the birdsong, a humming bee, a dog’s distant bark, leaves moving in the breeze.

He stirred and stretched his long body, and Lauren’s awareness of him immediately came to life. Why should her senses start reeling at the nearness of the man? OK, he was good-looking and clearly of high intelligence, with a magnetism about him that any woman would find difficult to resist.

So what? she tried telling herself. He was just another human being, wasn’t he? No, he wasn’t. She had to acknowledge that no other man had ever affected her in the way this stranger did.

She looked at him, and her pulses raced at the discovery that he had been watching her. He switched his attention to their surroundings.

‘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.




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