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softly.
Kate was too weary to respond. She shook her head, so
that her blonde hair fell loose from the band that had held
it in place all evening.
Marc knelt down beside her and took off her muddy
wellingtons, flung them behind him carelessly, and took off
her damp socks. He treated her, she thought, as if she were
a small child. Then he brought her a bowl of warm water
and some soap. “Wash your face—it will make you feel
better,” he said, “and then soak your feet. We don’t want
you catching a chill.”
He stood with his back to her, making the tea with slow,
deft movements. She carefully washed her hands and face,
feeling relief as the sticky grime and perspiration were
peeled off, leaving her skin cool and clean. Then she put the
bowl on the floor and let her feet soak gratefully. They were
sore and hot, and the water lapped round them deliciously.
She looked down at her clothes with a grimace. Her
white sweater was filthy. Blood stains, mud, green streaks
of grass, made it look as though she had been in a major
disaster. The jeans were in no better condition. One leg was
matted with dried blood and the bottoms of both were black
with mud from the wet roads.
“I look a sight,” she said, yawning.
Marc put a fragrant, steaming cup of tea in front of her.
A slice of lemon floated on the top. She yearned foolishly for
English tea, milky and sweet, but this was better than
nothing. As she lifted the cup to her lips Marc muttered
something, and she looked up, eyes enquiring.
“The veins are standing out on your wrist like whipcord,”
