Matter of Trust

‘But if I’d gone back to the house while he was still there...’

She felt his arms tighten around her and her body trembled harder.

‘Thank God that didn’t happen,’ she heard him saying harshly, and then he gave her a small shake, his voice relaxed and easy, even though she could still feel the tension in his body, as he told her, ‘Come on. You need to get some sleep. I’ve put some brandy in your hot chocolate. That should help.’

As she responded to his words and started to pull back from him he held on to her and said softly, ‘Think you can make it, or do you want me to carry you?’

To carry her. Suddenly the tremor that ran so sharply through her had nothing at all to do with her trauma, and everything to do with the way she was imagining being held in Marsh’s arms and being carried by him to bed. Not a single solitary bed, but to a large shared one, where he might slowly unfasten the buttons of her borrowed shirt, laying bare her body to his gaze and to his mouth.

Shocked that she could have such thoughts after everything that had happened, she denied quickly, ‘No. No...I can manage,’ turning quickly towards her bedroom and hurrying into it, while he followed her with her drink.

‘I’ll leave the bedroom door open and the landing light on,’ he told her. ‘And, if you need to, don’t be afraid to call out. I’m only a light sleeper. You are safe here, Debra,’ he added firmly. ‘If I thought you were in the least danger it wouldn’t be in this bed you’d be sleeping, but in mine.’

The look he gave her made her heart turn over. He meant it, she recognised dizzily, her whole body shaking with an unfamiliar excitement. She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

What if she were to tell him that she was so frightened that she didn’t think she could sleep alone?

Instantly she was appalled and ashamed of her thoughts. Keeping her back to him, she waited for him to put down the drink and leave her.

Super-sensitive to his movements, she heard him pause as he reached the door. The tiny hairs along her spine quivered when he spoke to her.

‘Remember,’ he told her, ‘if there’s anything you want or need...’

The only thing she wanted was to somehow blot out her visual memories of what had been done to her home, she told herself as she climbed into the bed. But was it? Didn’t she want him, Marsh, here in bed with her, holding her, protecting her, loving her?

No, no, of course she didn’t, she told herself shakily. That was exactly what she didn’t want. What she could not allow herself to want.

She sat up in bed, holding the mug of chocolate, sipping it and pulling a face as she felt the raw sting of the spirit it contained on the back of her throat.

Exactly how much had Marsh put in it? she wondered dizzily ten minutes later. It felt like enough to knock out a horse, never mind her.

She could feel herself succumbing to the strength of the alcohol, her thoughts slowing, easing, her body unable to hold on to its tension as she slid unstoppably into sleep.

She woke up slowly and muzzily, a sour taste in her mouth, her head aching slightly. She turned her head towards the window, blinking in the light coming through her curtains. What time was it? She was still wearing her watch. She glanced at it and then tensed. Ten to ten. It couldn’t be. She ought to be at work.

She was halfway out of bed before she realised that all she had to wear were yesterday’s already worn clothes. She grimaced with distaste at the thought of putting them on again, especially her underwear.

Marsh should not have let her sleep. He should have woken her. She frowned as her gaze suddenly focused on the green carrier-bag on the bedroom chair. There was a note pinned to it. She frowned as she read it.

Hope these will be the right size.

She got out of bed and walked over to the chair, opening the bag. Inside it was a pack of plain white briefs and a box containing a pretty cotton bra edged with pale pink ribbon, and yes, they were the right size. There was also a pair of tights, and another bag, which she opened to reveal a toothbrush and comb.

Her eyes smarted with tears. There had been no need for Marsh to do that for her, and it made her ache slightly inside that he had.

He must, she realised, have been out and bought these things for her, and brought them into the room while she was still asleep. She felt a slight frisson of apprehension touch her at the thought of him seeing her as she slept. Had he seen the way she had curled herself into his shirt, breathing in the scent of it like a child with a comforter? She flushed at the thought that he had, and then told herself firmly that he had probably never even given her a second glance.

She wondered what he had told them at work.

Work! She must get washed and dressed and into the office. Quickly she got out of bed and picked up her new underwear, heading for the bathroom, opening the door without even a second thought and then coming to an abrupt standstill as she heard Marsh say warningly, ‘Hang on.’

But it was too late—the door was wide open, and she was standing inside the bathroom, her eyes widening in an instinctive female response to the sight of his naked body.

He was, as she’d imagined, lean and tautly muscled, his skin smooth, adhering sleekly to his bones.

His body hair, though, was softer than she had imagined, fine and dark, almost fluffy where it was beginning to dry, so that she wanted to reach out to see if it felt as tantalisingly soft as it looked.

It startled her how erotic the thought of its softness against the muscled hardness of his body was to her, how much the contrast in textures lured her to explore them with her fingertips.