And now they were driving to—she had no idea, nor did she care. She took with her the small consolation of knowing that somehow Rafe had managed to convince her uncle and aunt that everything had been done for the best. That, far from being broken in two by Piers’ desertion, Shaan was actually relieved that she had not gone ahead and married him.
She had left their house knowing that they would be taking their world cruise as planned, in the knowledge that their niece, whom she suspected they were disappointed in, was in safe and loving hands.
But, although Rafe might have saved her from being labelled a jilted bride, he was mistaken if he believed his solution had done anything to assuage her pride, because it hadn’t. For now she knew she looked like the jilter rather than the jilted, and really that was just as bad, just as unacceptable to those people who mattered.
On top of that she still felt used, defiled and rejected. And no lies, no matter how convincingly presented, could ease the terrible sense of loss and inadequacy she was suffering right now.
The car drew to a halt, and she opened her eyes to find herself staring at the Danvers family’s elegant home, set in its own grounds in this prestigious part of London. Without a word to her, he climbed out of the car, looking faintly ridiculous in his formal clothes as he came around to open her door and help her out, leading her in equal silence into a house she had never felt even the slightest bit welcome in.
As they stepped into the hall, a short, dumpy woman with frizzled hair and a harassed face came bustling towards them. ‘Oh, Mr Danvers,’ she gasped out in agitated breathlessness. ‘I’m so glad you’re home. The telephone refuses to stop ringing—’ Sure enough, as if on cue, the phone began pealing out even as the woman spoke. ‘Everyone wants to speak to you, and I just didn’t know what to say to them. They say Mr Piers has jilted his…’
She noticed Shaan then, half-hidden behind Rafe’s frame, and went as red as a beetroot, then as white as a sheet. ‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I…’
Rafe made a gesture of impatience. ‘Pull the bloody plug on that phone, Mrs Clough!’ he commanded gruffly, and turned to stretch an arm around Shaan’s shoulders. He began guiding her up the stairs and along the upper landing into a room which could only be his own private suite judging by the sheer masculine power of the place.
‘Sit down,’ he told her, moving away from her and indicating a brown leather armchair placed beside a huge old oak fireplace. ‘I won’t be long. I just want to change out of these clothes.’
He went, disappearing through another door, leaving her staring numbly at the chair. Her mind had gone blank, reaction setting in to take her off somewhere deep inside herself where no one else could go.
She tried to move and found she couldn’t—couldn’t remember how to make her limbs work. Her face felt stiff and drawn downwards, her shoulders aching from the rod of tension braced across them. Her head was throbbing, her stomach was queasy, and her eyes were burning in their sockets—not tearful, but hot and dry.
She heard the faint sound of gushing water, recognised it as a shower, but that was about all. Time ticked by, the quietness of the room having no effect on her whatsoever. Her hands hung limply at her sides, the fingers feeling oddly heavy. Her mouth drooped downwards too, as though a weight was tugging on each corner.
She continued to stare blankly at the chair.
Rafe came back, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw her. The smell of clean, male soap permeated the air around them while he studied her through narrowed, faintly worried eyes.
‘Shaan.’ he said her name carefully.
She didn’t turn—couldn’t. She heard him, but couldn’t seem to respond. The heaviness had transported itself to her limbs now, dragging down on them, holding her like a huge block of wood pinned securely to the ground. And her head felt heavy, the very top of it feeling as though someone was pressing forever harder down on it, trying to push her into the carpet beneath her feet.
Rafe came over to her, the clean smell of soap strengthening as it came with him. It was a very strange feeling, this paralysing weightiness which was disabling everything but her senses. They still seemed to be working fine: her sense of smell, of hearing, even her sense of touch seemed intact, as he reached out to grasp her chin, lifting her face so he could study it.
She saw him frown, saw the grey eyes darken in concern. She saw that he had showered, his dark hair was lying slick against his head now. She saw he had changed into a pale blue shirt and casual linen trousers that fitted cleanly on his trim waist.
‘Are you going to faint, by any chance?’ he murmured enquiringly.
Yes, she thought, I think perhaps I am. And she closed her eyes at the exact same moment that she swayed towards him. He caught her, muttering and cursing as he lifted her into his arms, and once again she found herself being carried by this man who had ruined her life, through to the next room and over to a huge emperor sized bed, where he laid her before disappearing into what could only be the bathroom, judging by the sound of water running again.
He came back with a glass of water and a facecloth. He put the glass down on the bedside table, then sat down on the bed beside her to apply the cloth to her clammy brow.
His touch was gentle, the cloth deliciously cool and refreshing; his thigh where it rested lightly against her own was strangely comforting.
‘You remind me of a doll,’ he informed her drily. ‘A rather fragile, very temperamental clockwork doll who’s had her key removed.’
Dragging open her eyes, she managed a weak smile for him.
He smiled too. It was a rare sight, something she had never seen him do before, and it changed the whole structure of his face, softening its aggressively male lines and adding an extra dimension to his persona that she found rather perturbing.
Why, she didn’t know, and she frowned as she closed her eyes again.
‘Here, I want you to take these…’
Her lashes flickered upwards to find that Rafe was now holding the glass of water in one hand and two small white pills in the palm of the other.
Shaan stared at them for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No,’ she refused. ‘I don’t want sleeping tablets.’
‘These are not sleeping tablets as such,’ he assured her. ‘They’re simply some very mild relaxants you can buy over the chemist’s counter without a prescription. I use them to get me through long plane journeys,’ he explained at her dubious expression. ‘You won’t sleep unless you want to, but they will help you to relax. You’re as strung up as piano wire, Shaan,’ he added gently, and touched the back of her hand.