Sara Craven - Witch's Harvest

And that, she thought ruefully, is as far as I go.

She pushed and heaved him into a more comfortable position, and arranged the bedspread over him, then switched off the bedside lamp and went back into the living area. She found a couple of spare blankets and spread them on the couch, before removing her own coat, dress and shoes and wriggling into their shelter.

The couch felt hard, and she was cramped, but if she’d been occupying a feather bed, she knew she would still not have slept. She lay staring into the darkness, thinking what a mess everything was. Della in Paris with a man she didn’t really love, Vasco drinking himself into a stupor, and herself involved up to her neck once again, and no happier for it.

She didn’t know how Vasco would react when he woke in the morning and discovered where he was, but she could guess. She had given him more than sufficient reason already to resent her interference.

She sighed, burying her face in an unfriendly cushion. It would be hard if she were to find herself the target for his anger and bitterness at their very last encounter, but she supposed it was inevitable.

And there was a curious, bitter-sweet pleasure in knowing that he was lying only a few yards away from her, sharing a roof with her for the first and last time, even if the circumstances were in no way what she had envisaged in her dreams.

She was glad too to know that she had been of service to him, although he was unlikely to welcome the fact.

Abigail Westmore, she thought painfully. The eternal handmaiden. And on that prosaic reflection, she fell asleep.

THE CRASH SEEMED to shake the room.

Abby sat up gasping, totally disorientated for a moment. It was early, she realised, probably not long past dawn, to judge by the pale grey light stealing in between the curtains. She struggled free of the morass of blankets and ran towards the flimsy partition which separated her sleeping area from the rest of the accommodation, her hand frantically searching for the switch of the overhead light.

As the light came on, she saw Vasco sitting up in bed, raking a hand through his dishevelled hair, his eyes blank with astonishment as they met hers. Clearly, he had woken before, because the rest of his clothes were now scattered across the floor. The bedside lamp was with them, she noticed, which explained the crash.

She said, ‘Are you all right? Were you having a bad dream?’

He said ‘Deus!’ and touched his forehead, wincing. ‘If I am, I think it is still going on.’

‘You’ll have a headache—shall I get you something for it? Some soluble aspirin, perhaps?’ Abby was anxious to escape suddenly.

Headache or not, Vasco’s eyes were travelling slowly over her, and she’d just realised the kind of spectacle she was presenting, barefoot, and clad in fragile bra and waist slip. She didn’t wait for his answer, but grabbed her robe from the chair where it was lying and fled to the bathroom on the other side of the landing which she shared with the two other girls on the same floor.

When she returned with the aspirin, he was very much in charge of the situation, sitting up fully now against the pillows.

He looked out of place, almost alien in the narrow bed with its charming frilled covers, like a tiger in a rose garden, and the breath caught in Abby’s throat as she made her way across the littered carpet.

She said huskily, ‘Here you are,’ and held out the glass, which he accepted. She bent and retrieved her lamp, noting thankfully that it didn’t seem to be broken after all.

He said softly, ‘Now, Abigail, where am I, and what am I doing here?’

Abby began to pick up his clothes and put them on the chair.

‘You’d had too much to drink,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I didn’t fancy trying to get you back into your apartment in that state, so I brought you here instead. End of story,’ she added with an insouciance she was far from feeling.

‘And do you expect me to be grateful for your attentions?’

‘No,’ she admitted wearily. ‘I think that would be unrealistic.’

‘I think that could describe the entire situation,’ drawled Vasco, looking at her through half-closed eyes. ‘Was it you who put me to bed?’

She nodded. ‘As best I could.’

‘I am not complaining, you understand,’ he said. ‘It is merely a new experience for me.’

‘It’s not exactly run of the mill for me either,’ Abby retorted tartly. ‘Now perhaps we could try and get some more sleep. It’s very early.’

‘Presently,’ he said, almost idly. ‘For the moment, all desire for sleep seems to have left me.’

‘But not me.’ She faked a yawn. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to the couch.’

Vasco leaned across and switched on the mistreated lamp. ‘Perhaps you would switch off the main light as you go,’ he suggested.

‘Yes, of course.’ Her hand flew to the switch. ‘Well—goodnight.’

‘Boa noite.’ His voice held thinly veiled amusement, as if he recognised her unease, and the reasons for it. ‘And perhaps you would also take the glass away. I find my surroundings a little cramped, and wish to avoid any more noisy accidents which might disturb you again. I seem to have caused enough inconvenience already tonight.’

Abby trailed reluctantly back to the side of the bed and reached for the glass, but as she did so his fingers fastened like iron round her slender wrist, jerking her forward so that she fell in a tangle of robe on to the bed, and across his body.

Winded and gasping, she stared up at him. ‘Are you mad? Let me go at once!’

‘Oh, spare me the conventional protests, little cousin,’ he drawled derisively. ‘Why else did you bring me here?’