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‘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 shiver 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, snatching 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 passed 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 goosebumps 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, shivering 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.
