Lilian Peake - Carmichael's Return

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?’