Part 8 (1/2)

'No, I'll leave it to you. Jet lag,' he added in explanation. He did look tired, she acknowledged, and oddly pale as well.

The main roads had been gritted, and they were lucky enough to be travelling during a lull in the traffic. Neither of them spoke; Heather was too busy concentrating on her driving to make polite small talk.

It seemed odd to be going home with Kyle, and yet it seemed right as well. Often during her teenage years he had picked her up from parties or dates. Then he had been the one driving, while she huddled resentfully in her head, keeping as much distance between them as possible. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him s.h.i.+ver and automatically she reached out to boost the car heater.

'Are you all right?' The anxious words came out automatically.

'I'm fine.' He sounded so terse that she frowned again, sensing that he was lying.

'Kyle...'

'Don't fuss.' he told her sharply. 'It's just a bug I picked up in New York. Some sort of forty-eight-hour virus. I'll be all right in a few moments.'

He looked dreadful, she admitted worriedly, s.n.a.t.c.hing another glance at him, but there was nothing she could do for him, other than get him home as quickly and as safely as possible.

Once off the main roads she had to slow down her speed and concentrate all her energies on manoeuvring the large car. Kyle had either gone to sleep or pa.s.sed out, and she could only hope that it was the former.

When she eventually saw the turn-off for the village she felt quite limp with relief.

She was just turning into the now familiar drive when Kyle stirred and opened his eyes. He seemed to be having a problem recognising where he was, Heather realised, but then like a swimmer emerging from the sea he shook his head and sat up.

'You managed to get us back in one piece, then.'

This was more like the Kyle she knew, that sharp edge of mockery taunting her inability to be his equal.

'I did offer to let you drive,' she reminded him, equally acidly.

She had been going to ask him if he needed any help, but in view of the sharpness of his comment she judged that he must be feeling fully recovered, and so she went on ahead to unlock the door, leaving him to follow.

The snow was inches deep on the drive, the wind colder than ever now, cutting sharply through her clothes and bringing icy goose-b.u.mps to her skin.

The warmth of the centrally heated house welcomed her inwards as she opened the outer door. Meg left her basket and came up to greet her. Heather looked back over her shoulder and saw that Kyle was still standing beside the car. She wavered on the threshold, uncertain as to whether to turn back to him or go in.

The abrupt dismissive wave he gave her made up her mind, and so she turned back to the house and left him to it. When he walked into the kitchen ten minutes later she was shocked by the exhaustion greying his face.

He sank heavily into one of the kitchen chairs, s.h.i.+vering convulsively, and this time she didn't bother to ask, but simply picked up the kettle and filled it with water.

She had no idea what sort of virus he had picked up, but a hot drink could only do him good.

He made no demur when she handed it to him, cradling his hands round the mug and drinking deeply.

Where he had been grey with exhaustion, now his face was flushed, drops of perspiration already beading his skin.

'It looks like 'flu,' Heather commented worriedly.

'Something similar,' he agreed briefly, and she sensed that he was trying to conserve what little energy he had left.

'You should have stayed in New York until you were over it.'

'I couldn't.' His eyes closed. 'I promised your father I'd be here in case you or your mother needed me.'

What could she say? How could she find the words to express the mingled feelings of guilt, pain and anger that filled her? How could she tell him that she didn't want his care of her to be commanded by her father, but to come from himself?

'I think you ought to go to bed,' she said flatly instead. 'I'll make you a hot water bottle and another drink, and bring them up.', A little to her surprise, he got to his feet. His body swayed, and she reached out towards him instinctively, suppressing her skin's instinctive recoil from its electric contact with his. His forearm felt hard with bone and sinew, the skin dry and hot, the crispness of his dark hair alien to her sensitive fingertips.

As though he, too, disliked the contact, he pulled away grimacing, straightening up to walk past her and through the door.

She gave him ten minutes to get himself into bed, and then boiled water for the hot-water bottle she'd found in a drawer next to the sink. She made him another cup of tea, and then on impulse opened the fridge. As luck would have it, there were some lemons there. Good, when she came down she'd make him some proper lemonade, the kind her mother used to make and which he had always loved.

He was using the house's main bedroom, which had obviously been furnished and designed for a couple. The curtains hadn't been closed and, as she pulled them across the window, she noticed that the sky was clearing. Outside she heard the terrified screech of some small creature, followed by the triumphant hoot of an owl, and she s.h.i.+vered as she shut out the bright light of the silvered moon.

'You always were too sensitive for your own good,' Kyle said drowsily from the bed. 'Hunter... hunted... there's something of both in all of us, Heather, and you can't shut it out forever.'

'I've brought you some more tea. Is there anything else you want? Aspirin? Ought I to ring your doctor?'

Immediately he shook his head. 'It looks worse than it is, and adding a ma.s.sive dose of jet lag to it doesn't help. I'll be all right in the morning.' He s.h.i.+vered again, and she moved instinctively towards the bed, to give him the hot-water bottle.

'You're going to make someone a wonderful mother,' he taunted drowsily as he took it from her. 'Why aren't you married already, Heather? Or have you been waiting for some wealthy young bucolic type like David Hartley to come along and sweep you off your feet? Be careful, he's no Prince Charming, and you'll have to get past his mother.'

Immediately, her sympathy for him vanished, and she glared furiously at him as she put his tea down.

'I'm not ready to get married yet, Kyle,' she told him acidly. 'I've still got far too many things I want to do. Besides, you're the one who should crave the cosiness of family life,' she gibed unkindly.

If he heard her he gave no sign of it, simply turning on his side and pulling the bedclothes up round his head.

Sighing faintly, Heather left. Why was it, whenever they seemed on the verge of actually making contact with one another, that something happened to drive them apart again? Did it just happen, she wondered soberly as she went downstairs to let Meg out for a final run, or was it manufactured? But if so, why, and by whom? Sometimes she knew that she was the one at fault, her defence system springing into action to protect her against the old remembered wounds Kyle had once inflicted, but sometimes he was the one at fault, and surely he had nothing to fear from her?

She opened the kitchen door, and Meg dashed out without waiting for her to pull her boots on.

It was freezing now, the cold turning the snow-shrouded trees into fantasy spectres straight out of a fairy-tale. While Meg investigated the magical white stuff that covered the ground, Heather watched a cautious squirrel. It froze the moment it saw them, tiny beady eyes holding Heather's, as though willing her not to attack.

Meg came bustling through the snow-covered undergrowth, crackling and panting, and the tiny creature disappeared. Meg's nose was covered in snow and she grinned happily up at Heather, her plumy tail waving.

'Come on, time to go in.'

She had loved the house when she had it to herself, but now, with Kyle sleeping upstairs, she felt somehow as though it was even more of a home. Perhaps because of what Kyle had said to her, perhaps not, she didn't know, but as she tidied up the kitchen and settled Meg and the cats for the night, she couldn't help peopling the room with small faces and excited little voices: children who would love this house, who would be privileged to grow up here in its freedom.

Sighing faintly, she banished the mental images, uncomfortably aware that she had furnished them with Kyle's dark hair and eyes.

She switched off the lights and went upstairs. Outside Kyle's room, she paused. Her hand touched the doorhandle and then fell away. If he needed her he would call, and yet it had been hard to suppress her instinctive urge to go in and check that he was all right.

Because that was the way she had been brought up, she told herself drily. That was all; there was nothing more personal in her desire to check up on him; it had no bearing at all on that odd frisson of sensation that had raced through her when she had accidentally touched his skin.

She slept heavily and late, and was woken by the ring of her alarm. She sat up, switching it off, swinging her feet to the floor and looking sleepily for her robe.

She was just about to walk into her bathroom when she heard the telephone ringing downstairs.

Immediately, the thought of her father and the possibility of a relapse sent her flying downstairs, but when she eventually picked up the receiver it was only to discover that it was a wrong number.

The day was clear and crisp, with a blue winter sky and a pale yellow sun. Letting Meg out, Heather set off back upstairs to shower and dress.