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'What has happened, precisely, Mrs Morgan? Where is Professor Rhys now?'
'In hos
pital, in Aber,' Mrs Morgan told him. 'He's in intensive care. And I don't know what to do for the best. What with you and Miss Ross due to arrive and my Bethan expecting her third any minute, and me having to get over to Llangurig because I promised to look after the other two and Davy—he's her husband—and them with no way of knowing what's held me up…' She shifted the sleepy child again as if he had become an intolerable burden, and Luke wordlessly held out his arms, taking the child, tucking the dark curly head comfortably against his shoulder.
Annie said weakly, concern for the Professor creasing her brow, 'Where are the child's parents?'
'In Canada,' came the doleful reply. 'And his name's Jamie, poor little scrap, and I can't think who will see to him, or what my Bethan will be thinking with me being already two hours late, and her not on the phone, and—'
'Mrs Morgan.' Luke's voice was deeply authoritative, despite its soothing tone, and Annie could only admire the way he went on to elicit the necessary facts: that Jamie's parents, on a short visit to his father's people in Toronto, had already been contacted by the local doctor, and that Jamie's mother, the Professor's daughter, was on standby, waiting for a flight to Birmingham International.
The trouble was, Annie realised, she didn't want to have to admire anything about him, and she was certainly deeply suspicious of a dangerous softening in her which had been brought about by the way he cradled the now sleeping child so protectively in his strong, comforting arms.
Suddenly, she felt achingly cold. The lofty hall was gloomy in the dull half-light, the pelting rain a violent onslaught against the high, rather lurid stained-glass windows.
The news that had greeted them couldn't have been much worse, and her heart went out to the lonely old man who, even now, was fighting for his life.
As if sensing the bleakness of her thoughts, Luke moved closer, his body heat warming her even as it warmed and comforted the sleeping child, the power of his vibrant personality calming her, enfolding her. Briefly, almost gratefully, Annie relinquished herself to his sheer male dominance, listening mutely as he spoke again to Mrs Morgan.
'You've handled everything wonderfully, but there's nothing more you can do here now. You have enough on your plate as it is, so why don't you get over to your daughter's home before they send out a search party? Miss Ross and I will look after Jamie until his mother gets here.'
Mrs Morgan was already pulling on a shabby green raincoat, needing no second telling. 'If you're sure you can manage?' She knotted a headscarf under her chin. 'I feel bad about leaving the little boy, he's bound to be upset when he finds himself with strangers, but what else can I do?'
'Nothing, nothing at all. You've done all you could,' Luke told her, handing Jamie over to Annie before ushering Mrs Morgan out as she began hurriedly trying to tell him where everything was kept, what Jamie was to have for his tea.
Annie, the child's chubby legs clasped around her slender body, the weight of his head pressed into her shoulder, felt her heart contract with an almost painful surge of protectiveness. She had never held a child before, and the depth of feeling that simple, natural act produced astounded her.
Above the lash of the rain she heard the Mini's engine splutter to life and Luke closed the door, leaning against it, his face wry.
'There goes one very relieved lady—even if she does have a conscience about leaving without showing us where every last cup and saucer can be found!'
Annie stared at him, her eyes wide. She wanted to say something innocuous, to defuse the situation but her throat felt thick, constricted. In closing the door on the departing Mrs Morgan, on the inclement weather, he had isolated them here together, making the house a prison, forcing them into a proximity she suddenly feared more than she had ever feared anything before.
He moved slowly away from the door, his expression unreadable as he walked over to a large, heavy table which carried a telephone, with a couple of directories.
'Why don't you scout around and find the kitchen, make a pot of tea? I'll contact the hospital. Then we'll decide where we are to sleep.'
The way he said that, the husky, intimate quality of his voice, brought a flush to her face and she turned quickly, hiding it, pattering away down a dim corridor, trying doors until she found the kitchen.
It was warmer in here but she was still shuddering with reaction. If he thought she was sleeping with him then he'd have to think again! She hadn't forgotten the way he'd stated, so matter-of-factly, 'I want to take you to bed', and she could still feel the strange inner trembling sensation those terrifying words had produced, still hear his lazily confident voice rattling around inside her head.
Her agitation must have transmitted itself to Jamie because she felt him stir and waken, beginning to wriggle in her arms. Feeling for the switch, she flicked the light on and, immediately, shadowy shapes became solid everyday objects, comfortable and reassuring. A large Aga range was the source of heat and there were pine dressers, a fridge, rocking-chairs with bright patchwork cushions.
Sitting the squirming child on the central scrubbed-pine table she said calmly, smiling, 'Hello, Jamie—I'm Annie and I'm here to look after you until your mother comes home.' She held her breath as he subjected her to a wary stare.
'Grandad,' he uttered, his voice surprisingly gruff, wriggling to get down from the table. But Annie held him firmly, a hand on either side of his solid body, clad in shorts and sweater.
'Grandad didn't feel too well, you remember? So the doctor sent him to hospital where they'll make him better. He'll soon be home, as good as new,' she told him simplistically, mentally touching wood. 'But Mummy will come for you very soon, and until she does you and I will have lots of fun. Now,' she lifted him down from the table, 'I'm going to make a pot of tea. Perhaps you could show me where the cups are kept? And would you like a drink of milk?'
'Juice,' he stated firmly. 'An' biskits. An' where's the man?'
He must have strong recall of the way Luke had taken him in his arms, holding him, comforting him, and Annie repressed a wry grimace. Was no one immune to the odious man's spurious charm? But his concern for the child hadn't been spurious, she reminded herself honestly, as she poured orange juice and rummaged through cupboards until she found the biscuit tin. It worried her, the way part of her wouldn't allow herself to dislike and distrust him as much as she knew she should. She didn't like the civil war that was going on inside her head.
And even before he spoke she knew he'd entered the room because the whole atmosphere altered subtly, enfolding her, wrapping her in a heated awareness. And that was something only Luke Derringer could do to her. A frisson of half-fearful excitement tingled its alarming way through her body and she stiffened, staring fixedly at the kettle she'd just slid on to the Aga hotplate.
'It seems he's "as well as can be expected",' Luke said drily. 'But I managed to get them to admit he's holding his own. And that's some consolation. Or don't you think so?' he added when she made no reply but continued to stare at the kettle as if she'd never seen such an interesting object before.
'Yes, I suppose so.' She forced herself to speak, then turned reluctantly to face him, to see his face lighten with the smile that had the power to melt bones as Jamie scampered towards him, holding out his chubby arms to be lifted, chortling as he was caught and tossed up against the big man's shoulder.
