Follow a Stranger

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,”