A Perfect Hero (11 page)

‘Good morning, Mr Barrington!’

Michael looked up at his boss and his mouth quirked into a grin. ‘Arr, Tim lad!’ he said, brandishing his crutches, and swung himself down the ward after his despairing boss, leaving the young lads howling with laughter.

‘He’s a great bloke, isn’t he?’ Danny said with a touch of hero worship in his eyes.

‘Yes, he is,’ Clare agreed, her heart aching.

Mary O’Brien and Tim Mayhew echoed the sentiment a few minutes later.

‘Doing really well,’ Mr Mayhew said with satisfaction. ‘His morale seems high, too.’

Privately Clare disagreed. Are they all blind, she thought miserably, or is it just because I love him that I can see he’s dying inside?

‘Mr Mayhew, is there any chance I could take him home for the weekend? I think he could do with anchoring himself in reality a bit. He doesn’t really need nursing any more now, and I can do his stump dressing at home.’

Tim Mayhew gave her a keen look. ‘You don’t agree with me, do you?’

She shook her head. ‘I think he’s dreadfully depressed. I also think he’s doing his best to hide it from everyone, because under the bonhomie he’s such an intensely private person. I really think he needs to be at home for a while to come to terms with what’s happened in privacy.’

He nodded slowly. ‘You could be right. Well, so long as you watch him. When did you have in mind?’

‘I’m off at twelve-thirty tomorrow until twelve-thirty on Sunday—that would give him twenty-four hours.’

Mr Mayhew nodded again. ‘Sounds fine. OK, do that. I’ll pop in and have a look at him tomorrow morning before you go, but I can’t see any problems.’

There were none. At twelve-forty the following day Clare wheeled him down the corridor to the main entrance and over to her car. With a combination of stubborn pride, ingenuity and sheer brute strength he levered himself across the gap to the passenger seat and leant back, sweat beading his brow.

‘OK?’ she asked anxiously.

He shot her a weary grin. Tine. Take me home, Clare.’

They arrived at the cottage to find Andrew was nowhere to be seen. Clare climbed out of the car.

‘Hang on,’ she told Michael, ‘I’ll get Andrew to help.’

She walked into the kitchen and found him grinding coffee. She touched him on the arm to attract his attention.

Startled, he turned to her and covered his chest with his hand, laughing. ‘God, woman, you scared me to death!’ He turned off the coffee grinder. ‘How is he?’

‘OK, I think. Andrew, there’s something I hadn’t thought of—accommodation. Obviously I can’t sleep with him in view of what’s happened, but I must be here this weekend, I promised.’

‘You could always sleep with me——’

‘I don’t think Michael would understand,’ she said with a light laugh.

‘No problem,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll get my stuff out of your room now.’

‘You do that,’ Michael said from the doorway behind them.

Clare spun round and gasped at the white-lipped anger on his face.

‘Michael, what’s the matter?’

‘I thought you’d grown out of that,’ he continued coldly, looking over her head at Andrew with eyes like twin chips of ice, ‘I was obviously wrong. You can do whatever you like in private—Clare and I are finished. Just have the decency not to do it in my home.’ And with that he turned on his heel and stumbled out into the garden, slamming the door behind him.

A
FTER
a few seconds of stunned silence, Andrew strode out of the kitchen after his brother. Clare, shocked and appalled and totally confused, slumped against the table and listened in mounting horror to their raised voices.

‘What kind of a bastard do you take me for?’

‘If the cap fits—you’ve done it before, after all. Why not now?’

‘Just thank your lucky stars you’re in the state you’re in, or I’d be tempted to knock some sense into you——’

‘Yes,’ Michael sneered, ‘not even you’d hit a cripple, would you, you chicken-livered bloody hypocrite?’

‘Don’t push your luck!’

‘Look, Andrew, just go away, would you? Even the sound of your voice makes me sick. And take Clare—I don’t want to see her either.’

‘Clare’s done nothing—I’ve done nothing. Why the hell are you so steamed up? You’re so bloody jealous you’ve lost your reason!’

‘Get out of here.’

‘Look, Michael, for God’s sake——’

‘I said
get out
!’

There was an endless stretch of silence, and then a car door slammed, the engine roared to life and with a great splutter of gravel Andrew tore off down the lane. Through the window Clare saw Michael’s shoulders slump.

Taking a deep breath, she went out into the garden. ‘Come and lie down and rest,’ she said gently. He shook his head.

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Michael, you need to lie down—you look awful.’

He turned towards her then, staring at her with eyes that blazed with hatred.

‘Whose fault is that?’

She ignored him, unable to answer because of the dreadful pain inside.

‘I’ll find you a sun lounger—I think there’s one in the shed.’

She found it, and after a few seconds managed to open it. She reached for his arm. ‘Here, let me help you.’

‘I can manage.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Desperately hurt and confused, Clare turned away.

‘I’ll get your room ready,’ she threw over her shoulder, and went up into the bedroom she had shared with him before the accident, sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

When the tears finally slowed to a halt, she gathered her things together and moved them into the spare room, repacking Andrew’s clothes and possessions that were strewn carelessly across the room. She changed both beds, turned Michael’s down ready for him and unpacked his wash-things in the bathroom.

Finally there was nothing left to do, so she went back downstairs and out into the garden. Michael was asleep in the dappled shade of a willow tree, O’Malley sprawled possessively across his chest. He mumbled something in his sleep and shifted restlessly. O’Malley stood up, stretched, kneaded his claws in Michael’s
shoulder and with a lithe leap faded into the undergrowth.

Michael rubbed his shoulder and sat up. ‘Damn cat,’ he muttered, and then he noticed Clare.

‘You’re still here,’ he said flatly. ‘I thought you would have gone.’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I’m not going anywhere until we’ve talked—or at least, until you’ve talked.’ With a superhuman effort, she met his eyes. ‘What did you mean when you told Andrew that we were finished?’

He looked away, his jaw working.

After a long time, he said, ‘I think we were hasty. We thought we were in love, but we were in love with love—with a dream. It’s just as well this happened when it did, Clare—it’s given me time to think.’

‘And you think I don’t love you?’

‘No,’ he returned unevenly, ‘I know that I don’t love you. I’m ready to settle down, but—I misread the signals. Let’s face it, Clare, you’re a beautiful woman, and when a beautiful woman throws herself at your feet, it takes a hell of a man to walk away.’

She swallowed the hurt, aware of the truth behind his barbed comment, and hung her head.

‘Even so,’ he continued, ‘it hurt to think you’d replaced me so fast—and so cruelly. I can’t blame him—God knows I found you irresistible——’ His voice cracked, but he went on regardless. ‘Tell me, Clare, what was my brother like—was he good in bed?’

Her pain coalesced into a boiling rage that wouldn’t be contained. How
could
he? How could he even
think
it?

‘Fantastic,’ she lied, ‘better than you, anyway.’

She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath and realised
she’d gone too far. Raising her head, she saw the pain in his eyes as he turned away from her.

‘It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, and I doubt it’ll be the last,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’d like a drink.’

‘Perrier?’

‘Gin and tonic.’

‘No.’

‘Yes, damn it!’

‘A weak one,’ she compromised, and fled to the kitchen.

It was an endless day. Michael was unapproachable, and, in truth, Clare didn’t know how to begin to talk to him. She knew she shouldn’t have taunted him about Andrew, especially as there wasn’t a grain of truth in it, but it was too late now. The words were out, and, like feathers from a pillow, were almost impossible to get back.

She helped him to prepare for bed in a fulminating silence, and lay awake for hours listening to the small sounds from his room. Surely he couldn’t mean it? He must love her—they had been so close, so happy. Surely he didn’t? Perhaps it was just depression, or misunderstanding what he had overheard, but surely—oh, God, she thought, please let it not be true!

When she fell asleep, finally, it was with Lottie’s ring clutched in her hand, and tears still wet on her cheeks.

In the early hours she awoke suddenly, her heart pounding in the silence. Throwing back the bedclothes, she crept out of bed and stood listening on the landing.

Michael groaned, then with a sobbing scream he yelled, ‘Clare, get out! Get out!’

She ran into his room and shook him gently awake.

‘Michael? Michael, it’s all right—you’re dreaming. It’s OK. It’s OK, darling, hush—hush …’

Carefully, avoiding his left leg, she eased herself into bed beside him and put her arms round him.

‘Clare?’ he whispered hoarsely.

‘Shh. It’s all right now. It’s all over.’

He groaned and sagged against her. ‘I had a nightmare,’ he mumbled. ‘We were in a railway carriage, and—oh, God. It was true!’ he muttered raggedly. ‘Oh, no, Clare, I——’

She held him close as his body shook with silent grief, and she rested her cheek against his face, her own tears mingling with his as they fell.

Finally he slept, waking only as the sun slanted over the bed and bathed the room in golden light.

He shifted on to one elbow and looked down at Clare almost in disbelief.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked gruffly.

‘You had a nightmare—I didn’t want to leave you.’

His hand came up and touched her cheek. ‘You’ve been crying.’ His eyes wandered over her body, her nightdress pulled taut over her breasts. ‘God, you’re lovely—I want you.’

‘Michael, don’t you think——?’

‘I don’t want to think. I don’t care if it isn’t good for me—I want you. I’d have to be dead not to want you. Come here …’

And because she was starved of his touch, because she longed for the tenderness and passion, the gentleness and the closeness, she went to him, meeting him touch for touch, kiss for kiss, shattered by the sudden explosion of sensation as he took her roughly, his mouth ravaging, his body almost cruel in its demands.

She cried out beneath him, and felt his body shudder violently under her hands as he collapsed against her in a devastating climax.

For a few seconds he fought for breath, then he levered himself away from her and fell back against the pillows, gasping for breath. His face was white, his forehead beaded with sweat.

‘Michael——?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, ‘I had no right to do that to you. It’s just—the thought of you with Andrew——’

He turned his head away, the muscles of his neck taut with strain.

She reached out to him, her heart aching. Surely he didn’t think——

‘Darling?’

‘Leave me alone, Clare, please.’

‘Michael, about Andrew——’

‘No! I don’t want to hear. Just leave me alone.’

‘But, Michael——’

‘Clare, for pity’s sake, can’t you understand? I want to be alone!’ he cried savagely. ‘What do you want from me? Dear God, leave me the shreds of my dignity—don’t make me crawl away from you on my hands and knees! I want to be
alone
!’

‘I’m sorry—oh, God, I’m sorry—Michael …’

The sight of his rigidly averted face shattered the last fragments of her control, and she ran back to her room, slamming the doors behind her.

Even so, the sound of his racking sobs filtered through the old timbers and penetrated her misery. She stood numbly in her room, her hand pressed over her mouth, listening to the man she loved more than anything else in the world, coming to terms with the tragedy that had overtaken him.

Forbidden to help, and yet unable to stand by and listen to it without going to him, she dressed hurriedly and went out into the garden, tugging furiously at the
weeds with her bare hands until she had made them bleed.

Astonished, she stared blankly at them. They didn’t seem to hurt—and yet, now she was conscious of them, perhaps they did hurt. It was just a much smaller hurt than the iron band around her heart that tightened with every passing second.

She wandered into the kitchen, and stumbled to a halt. Michael was propped against the worktop, dressed in his shorts and shirt, his hair gleaming wetly from the shower. He looked—superficially, at least—calm and in control.

‘You should have called me—I would have helped you.’

‘I didn’t need you,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I put a bag on my dressing, but it’s a bit damp. Could you change it for me? It’s rather awkward to reach, or I’d do it.’

‘No, I—that’s fine, of course I’ll do it. Sit down.’

‘There’s no hurry—I made you a coffee. It’s by the—hell, Clare, what did you do to your hands?’

She stared at them, and rubbed them against her jeans, trying hard not to wince. ‘I—nothing. I was weeding. Must have pulled up some bracken or something. I’ll put some antiseptic on them.’

She busied herself at the sink, washing the cuts, and Michael stood beside her, watching. Finally he lifted her hands and turned them firmly but gently palm-up.

‘They’re cut to shreds—oh, Clare. Let me dress them.’

‘No, you’re …’

‘I’m what?’ He met her eyes. ‘Crippled?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t say that!’

‘Why not? It’s true. Not my hands, though. I’m still a doctor—nothing’s happened to change that. And
frankly, the sooner I get back to work, the better. Now get the first-aid kit out of the cupboard there and come and sit down.’

In fact only one or two of the cuts were deep, and Clare wallowed in the agony of Michael’s touch. He was so gentle—so different from the wild, crazy man he had been just a few hours before. When he had finished he picked up her hands and turned them over, inspecting the backs, then without releasing her he looked up and met her eyes.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve brought you so much pain. Once, I thought we could have had so much together. Forgive me.’

She held his brilliant blue gaze until it blurred, and her tears welled over and splashed on to their hands, then she closed her eyes and pulled her hands away.

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said quietly. ‘It isn’t your fault.’

‘I used you this morning. That was despicable.’

She laughed, a short, high, rather frantic little laugh. ‘I used you too—or didn’t you notice? You were the pits, Michael, but I was with you every step of the way. Let me do your leg.’

He sat in grim, tight-lipped silence while she changed the dressing on his stump. It was healing well, she noticed absently, relieved to see that there were no obvious adverse effects of their lovemaking. ‘I expect Tim Mayhew will take some of the stitches out tomorrow,’ she said as steadily as she could manage. ‘It’ll feel better then.’

‘It feels fine,’ he said curtly. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she whispered. Standing up, she moved away from him, away from the heat of his skin and the faint scent of him that clung to her senses, out
of reach so she no longer had to touch his body or be touched by it.

‘I’ll go and get ready,’ she said quickly, and turned and ran for the stairs.

When she came down he was still sitting there, O’Malley draped round his neck, his hair dry now. She held out her injured hand, palm up. On the dressing lay Lottie’s ring in its box.

‘You’ll want this back,’ she said calmly. ‘I expect one day you or Andrew will get married. I hope she has better luck than we’ve had.’

He took it with fingers that were less than steady, and opened it, staring at the ring. ‘Of course, it could still be yours—if you married Andrew you could have it all—the perfect hero
and
the ring.’ He looked up at her, his eyes taunting. ‘Of course he’s not a doctor, but he’s filthy rich——’

She struck him with the full force of her hand. ‘How dare you?’ she whispered raggedly. ‘Andrew is nothing to me—nothing! I meant it—I still mean it! I love you——’

‘No. No, Clare, you don’t love me, and anyway, it’s academic, because I don’t love you. We’d better go if you don’t want to be late.’

‘I’m not going anywhere until we’ve sorted this out.’

He caught her wrist and pulled her hard up against him. ‘Listen to me—I don’t intend to say it again. What we had is over. Yes, I still want your body—who wouldn’t? You’re beautiful, and you make love like a cross between an angel and a houri, but that isn’t going to influence me again. I’ll be out of hospital in a few more days, and when I come back here I want you to be gone. Do you understand?’

‘But you can’t cope alone!’ she protested. ‘How will
you shop, and cook, and get to Physio, and all the other things you need to be able to do? You have to get the DVLC to grant you a licence before you can drive again—how will you cope out here in total isolation?’

Taxis,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Mobile shops, hospital car service, and so on. I still have the telephone, Clare. I can summon anything I need——’

‘And what if you fall? Who will pick you up?’

‘I will.’

‘You’re crazy.’