‘You have,’ he assured her dryly. ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that you are well enough to be discharged—more than well enough, if the specialist is to be believed,’ he added derisively. ‘Skye, they need the bed—you don’t,’ he added impatiently as she would have argued with him once again. ‘So let’s get you dressed—’
‘I don’t have any clothes,’ she cut in flatly. ‘What I was wearing—’ She swallowed hard. ‘What I was wearing was in such a mess once they had cut if off me that I told them to incinerate it.’
‘It doesn’t matter; I have the things with me that you left at the hotel,’ Falkner dismissed easily, turning to pick up the suitcase Skye hadn’t noticed him place just inside the door when he’d come in, swinging it up awkwardly onto the bottom of the bed to open up the lid.
Skye gasped as she easily recognized her own clothes neatly folded inside. And just as easily guessed who must have taken them out of the drawers and wardrobe at the hotel before folding them so neatly and putting them inside the suitcase.
She shook her head dazedly. ‘Falkner, don’t you think you’ve taken rather a lot on yourself by getting involved in this way? I take it it was you who—who organized the funeral, too?’ she accused.
His head snapped up challengingly. ‘Who else was going to do it?’ he rasped. ‘You? Somehow I don’t think so. Your uncle Seamus?’
He shook his head grimly. ‘Skye, last weekend, after your uncle Seamus was informed of the accident, he went on the bender to end all benders. Your father’s housekeeper found him at the bottom of the stairs the next morning, still blind drunk. Which was perhaps as well, because it turned out he had broken his leg when he fell down the stairs!’ he concluded disgustedly.
Skye stared at him. She had been expecting her uncle Seamus to arrive all week. Although part of her was relieved when he hadn’t, knowing she would have found it hard to cope with his grief as well as her own. But listening to Falkner’s explanation of exactly why her uncle hadn’t come to England following the accident…
‘I know.’ Falkner sighed ruefully at her slightly dazed expression. ‘If it wasn’t so damned tragic, it would be laughable!’
He was right, it would. In fact, Skye was having trouble not laughing, hysterically, anyway.
Falkner shook his head before turning his attention back to the contents of her suitcase. ‘They should be letting him out of hospital too by the end of the week,’ he informed her distractedly.
But not time enough for him to attend her father’s funeral in England, Skye realized…
‘Here, let me do that.’ She dismissed Falkner’s attempts to choose something for her to wear from the contents of the suitcase; he might, through necessity, have packed these things for her at the hotel, but there was something not quite right about watching him handle her silky underwear. ‘Perhaps if you would like to wait outside…?’ she suggested huskily as she moved gingerly to sit up on the side of the bed, not quite able to look at Falkner as she was struck by a sudden—unaccustomed—shyness.
She was twenty-four years old, had spent all of her childhood and most of her adult life, too, surrounded by men; her father, her grandfather, Uncle Seamus, the grooms at the stable, the majority of workers at O’Hara Whiskey having been men too. But because she had accompanied her father since she was a very young child, she had always been treated by them all as ‘one of the boys’; certainly none of them had ever made her completely aware of her own femininity. In the way that Falkner had six years ago. And, amazingly, still did…
Falkner gave the ghost of a smile. ‘If you think you can manage…?’
No doubt it would take her some time; she knew she must look a mess, wanted to shower and wash her hair in the adjoining bathroom before putting on clean clothes. Which wouldn’t be easy when her head still felt as if it didn’t quite belong on her shoulders, her broken ribs making any movement painful. But slow was certainly preferable to having Falkner offer to help dress her.
Besides, despite what Falkner might have implied on his arrival, she hadn’t spent all of the last week lying around in bed feeling sorry for herself, had been walking about the room, and into the adjoining bathroom, for several days now.
It was what awaited her outside this room that Skye was having trouble facing up to…
Somehow, cocooned inside the clinical atmosphere of the hospital, with no responsibilities except to take her medicine when instructed, and eat the food that was placed in front of her, she had made this her reality, what had happened the previous week becoming artificial, the previous six months before that dreamlike. But she knew only too well that once she stepped outside this room…!
‘I can manage,’ she assured Falkner abruptly. ‘Thank you,’ she added belatedly.
He nodded in brief acknowledgement of this slight softening on her part. ‘Take your time. I’ll go and get myself a coffee in the waiting-room down the hallway.’ He turned away, the permanent damage to his right leg becoming more apparent as he moved awkwardly across the room.
He had moved so gracefully six years ago, Skye recalled frowningly, each movement fluid and purposeful. She wondered if the leg still pained him. Although she knew just from their brief meeting six years ago that he wouldn’t welcome her curiosity. Or her pity.
‘Falkner,’ she called after him, her voice quivering with uncertainty now.
He glanced back at her, his hand already on the door handle. ‘Yes?’ His own tone was almost wary.
Skye moistened dry lips before answering. ‘You mentioned earlier that you were—you were taking me home,’ she reminded him frowningly.
‘I did.’ He nodded abruptly. ‘To my home, Skye. I’m taking you to my home,’ he repeated firmly, his gaze challenging, as if he were already prepared for her to argue with him.
He was taking her to that run-down house of mellow stone, set in its acres of beautiful countryside, with its stables now empty of the most beautiful horses Skye had ever seen…
‘Fine.’ Skye nodded slowly. ‘That’s absolutely fine,’ she repeated evenly.
Falkner looked at her for several long, searching seconds, before giving an abrupt nod of his head. ‘I’ll be waiting down the corridor when you’re ready to leave,’ he repeated softly. ‘And don’t worry about the reporters outside; I’ve already arranged for us to leave by a staff entrance.’
‘Thank you.’ Her smile was tremulous, although she already accepted that Falkner seemed able to ‘arrange’ most things he set his mind to.
She could imagine nothing worse than a repeat of the incident when, by subterfuge, a reporter had managed to gain entrance to her room earlier in the week, the man’s camera clicking in her face even as he fired questions at her. Questions that Skye still remembered with horror.
‘You’re more than welcome,’ Falkner assured her quietly before closing the door softly behind him as he left the room.
Skye didn’t move for several seconds, couldn’t move, totally overwhelmed at this kindness from a man she hadn’t believed, six years ago, was capable of the emotion.
A man she had been totally in love with for those six years.
‘FALKNER, exactly why are you doing this?’ Skye asked wearily.
She had taken one look in the mirror when she’d entered the bathroom earlier, and groaned with dismay at her appearance; it was worse than she had thought.
Her hair stuck up in greasy spikes, there was a huge bruise down the left side of her face where she had been