of food poisoning so intense that her memories of the last few days were no more than vague wisps of uncertain flashes of reality mingled with long periods of cloudy uncertainty, the whole time sharply delineated by her memories of the agony of her illness.
She remembered arriving at the cottage, and that must be where she was now, surely? This bedroom with its sloping eaves and its view of the distant hills; this old-fashioned, iron-framed bed, so high off the ground that it was impossible for her feet to touch the floor.
She frowned. How did she know that? She had a vague memory of desperately wanting to be sick, of trying to clamber out of the high bed and find the bathroom, only to be stopped, and then firmly carried there…
Strange how, in recollecting the incident, she should feel consumed with the very natural embarrassment she could quite clearly remember she had not felt at the time. Almost as though somehow he, whoever he was, had been so clinical and detached, so assured and firm in his handling of the situation and of her that she had felt nothing other than an exhausted desire to simply give in and let him take control.
It shocked her to realise that she had shared an intimacy with this stranger that she had never shared with Giles. Not the intimacy of lovers of course, but an intimacy which in its way made her feel even more vulnerable. And yet she had not felt vulnerable at the time…had not felt anything other than a weak, shaky gratitude. She even remembered now trying to thank him at some stage, but he had brushed her thanks aside. Where was he now? Had he gone? Left her alone?
For some reason that thought panicked her. Without thinking what she was doing she pushed back the quilt and the heavy linen sheet, swinging her legs to the floor, and discovering as she did so that she had been quite correct in remembering that the bed was too high for her to reach the floor, and also that, instead of one of her own long, sensible nightdresses, she seemed to be wearing a man’s shirt.
A man’s shirt with just enough buttons fastened for decency, as though whoever had fastened her into it had known that when she woke up she would remember the intimacies they had shared, and who had taken pains to reassure her that, no matter what he might have done to help her in the extremity of her need, he both understood and respected her desire to recover her privacy. As though he was reassuring her that there had been nothing voyeuristic or lustful in his intimacy with her flesh. As though he had known how shocked she would be when she remembered how he had helped her, carried her, bathed her.
Her body suddenly grew hot, her face flushing. She didn’t want to remember anything like that. He had helped her and she was grateful to him, whoever he was, but now that she was herself again…
She slid her feet on to the floor and stood up, or rather she tried to stand up, her eyes widening in surprise and disbelief as her legs refused to support her.
As she crumpled to the floor, she only just had time to grab hold of the side of the bed.
The next thing she knew the bedroom door was being flung open and a man strode in, limping slightly as he made his way to the bed. He was frowning down at her, his dark hair damp and untidy as though he had just been towelling it dry, his jaw shadowed with an overnight growth of beard. The jeans he was wearing seemed a little loose on the waist and the hips, as though he had recently lost weight.
When he bent down to help her she caught the scent of his soap, clean and masculine, and realised that he must have been in the bathroom.
‘It’s all right. I can manage,’ she told him self-consciously, trying to pull away from him as he picked her up bodily, depositing her back on the bed.
The look he gave her spoke volumes and made her flush guiltily. She owed him far too large a debt of gratitude already without compounding that debt.
It seemed unfair that fate should have decreed that this should happen to her just when she had made up her mind that henceforth she would live her life as independently and free from emotional commitment as she could.
But all men weren’t like Giles. There was Tom, for instance, who had been such a good friend to her over the years. Tom, and Paul, her second-in-command at the factory, both of whom she trusted implicitly, both of whom had proved their friendship and affection for her.
But then that was the difference between her relationship with them and the disastrous relationship she had had with Giles. They were friends—not potential lovers.
Perhaps she was the kind of woman who was safer establishing non-sexual relationships with men. The sort of woman who aroused affection in the male breast rather than adoration.
She realised abruptly that the hard arms imprisoning her had been removed, and that the owner of those arms was now leaning over her still frowning down at her.
He had nice arms, she reflected absently, firm and well muscled without being in any way overdeveloped. His skin was weather-beaten rather than tanned, as though he worked outside.
For the first time she was curious about him…About how on earth he had materialised so fortuitously in her time of need. About what he was doing in the first place in such a remote spot. About where he ought to have been rather than here, taking care of her.
‘You still aren’t well enough to get up,’ he told her firmly.
He had a pleasant voice, deep and faintly husky, but with no marked Welsh accent.
‘I’m feeling much better,’ Angelica protested. ‘I really ought to get up. I’ve taken up far too much of your time as it is.’ Her skin went faintly pink as she added uncertainly, ‘You really were a Good Samaritan. If you hadn’t arrived when you did…’She gave a tiny shiver, not wanting to dwell on what might have happened to her. ‘I had no idea there were two cottages here,’she told him as he slowly straightened up. ‘When Tom described this place to me he omitted to mention the fact that it was one of a pair of semis.’
She watched as his eyebrows rose a little, and for some reason felt obliged to add defensively, ‘Not that I’m not thankful to you for all that you’ve done, but I can’t impose on you any longer. You must have things of your own to do—your own cottage to—’
‘This is my cottage,’ he told her blandly, and when her mouth dropped a little he added coolly, ‘When I found you virtually out cold on my doorstep, I’d no idea who you were or what you were doing here and it seemed better to take you inside with me rather than wait for you to come round to find out. When I got the doctor out from Aberystwyth it was touch and go for the first twenty-four hours whether or not he’d have to find you a bed in our one and only local hospital.
‘By the time we’d managed to find out who you were and what you were doing here, it seemed easier from my point of view to keep an eye on you here than to move you next door.’
He said it all so matter-of-factly that Angelica could do nothing other than smile uncomfortably at him and say weakly, ‘I’ve put you to a good deal of trouble. I’m so sorry.’
‘No need to be. Being ill is no picnic. I know—I’ve been there myself. There are times when we all need a little help.’
Angelica frowned. What did he mean, he’d been there himself? Now that she looked properly at him, she saw that there was a gauntness about his face, a sharpness around those high sculpted cheekbones, narrow grooves cut either side of his mouth that hinted at pain and suffering.
She remembered how he’d limped when he walked into the bedroom and was suddenly and totally unexpectedly curious about him. And then she realised what he had said about the cottage. This wasn’t Tom’s cottage—it was his.
‘Look, I feel dreadful about all of this,’ she told him truthfully. ‘I must have caused you a great deal of trouble, but I’m over it now, and perfectly well enough to move into Tom’s cottage. I feel I’ve trespassed on your privacy for long enough.’
‘You aren’t going anywhere until the doctor says you can,’ he told her flatly.
Angelica eyed him uncertainly. There was nothing threatening in his attitude, nothing aggressive or domineering, and yet she