His Suitable Bride(60)

She was in no rush to get back to the cottage. It was gloriously warm and she could have remained outdoors for ever. The wide open space was a soothing balm for her fretful mind. Frankly, she would have spent the night outdoors if she wasn’t slightly spooked by a comment Amelia had made about being glad to have someone around who could ‘keep their eyes on things’. Cristina knew she had been joking, but still had visions of gangs of teenagers joy riding along the narrow country lanes, high on drink and drugs, and chancing upon her sleeping under a tree outside because she had fancied being at one with nature. She was pretty sure that she had seen a movie along those lines, and it had been scary enough on celluloid. She wasn’t going to risk the real thing for the sake of a night under the stars.

But by the time she had eaten her lunch and had a nap, something she never did in London, and then had busied herself sitting out in the open fields with her A4 pads, her graph paper, her pencils and her gardening books, it was nearly eight and the light was beginning to fade.

It had been a busy, enjoyable and productive day, and she was hopeful that she would literally fall into bed and be asleep within minutes. In her mind, indications warranting a very large tick in the ‘recovery and forgetting Rafael’ box included getting into bed and falling asleep within minutes.

There was no warning at all by the time she finally made it back that anyone was in the cottage aside from herself. The door was unlocked, but then she remembered leaving it that way because she hadn’t planned on being out for as long as she had, nor had she planned on straying as far from the cottage as she had ended up doing.

She went into the kitchen, switched on the light, dumped her stuff on the pine kitchen-table and was only aware of another presence by the shadow from behind her. A very big shadow. A shadow announcing a prowler who had made no noise whatsoever as he had entered the kitchen behind her.

Cristina didn’t stop to think. She swung round with her gardening book, and there was a satisfying thud as it made swift and violent contact with the intruder.

Rafael buckled under the vigour of the attack and the element of surprise. He had been forced to park outside the estate because the imposing front gates were locked, had braved the brick wall, clambering foliage and hedges, keenly aware that small country lanes were frequented by do-good ramblers who’d have thought nothing of setting their mutts onto him should they get the slightest whiff that he’d been planning to sneak into the grounds of the local gentry.

But he had made it in two hours previously and had found the cottage open but empty. He had contemplated walking the grounds in search of her but, first things first, he had had to have a shower because he’d been scratched, bleeding in places and filthy. And, with his trousers and shirt no longer of any use to man nor beast, he had been reduced to his boxers and the pink dressing-gown which she had brought with her and which had been hanging on a hook behind the bedroom door. It was too short, too small to be belted in any way, too pink, and made him resemble a cartoon character, but it would be less scary than the sight of him, unannounced, in nothing but his underwear.

Rafael, a man who could inspire fear without saying a word, was floundering in unknown territory, and he was a hell of a lot less fazed by the ridiculous figure he cut than he was by the knowledge that he was capable of being scared—that he was scared—scared that she might turn her back on him and walk away.

Cristina’s first reaction as Rafael doubled over was why is this large, strange man wearing my bathrobe? Then she registered the identity of the intruder and stepped back in shock, but her shock, lasting only a few seconds, was replaced by hot, acid bitterness that filled her throat and made her feel literally sick.

She watched him coldly, her arms folded, as he slowly regained his breath and gradually stood up. ‘How did you find out where I was?’

Rafael rubbed his ribs where she had smashed him with the gardening manual. It must weigh a ton, and she had spared no effort. On a better day he might have joked that the Territorial Army could find her a real asset.

‘I managed to persuade your friend at the flower shop that it was in your best interests that I find out where you were staying. How much does that book weigh anyway? I think you may have broken a couple of my ribs.’ It was a weak attempt at a joke, and it fell as flat as a lead balloon. He looked at her icy expression and felt another knot of sickening fear in the pit of his stomach.

‘Good, because you shouldn’t be here, and I want you to leave. I want you to take off my bathrobe and just get out of my life.’

‘Don’t say that, Cristina. Please.’