Wife To A Stranger. Daphne Clair
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could get the words out the question was answered for her in a curt masculine voice. ‘She doesn’t. And I think she has a headache.’
The nurse’s eyes lifted to him, then returned to her patient. ‘You had a nasty whack on the head,’ she explained cheerfully. ‘Plus bruising and mild hypothermia. How bad is the headache?’
‘It only hurts when I move.’ She felt languid, every word an effort.
‘Can you tell me your name?’
‘My name?’ She blinked.
‘Her name’s Capri Helene Massey.’ He was definitely impatient this time. ‘If you people hadn’t known it, you wouldn’t have been able to get hold of me.’
The nurse glanced up. ‘It’s standard practice to check after a concussion, Mr Massey,’ she said calmly. ‘Just in case there’s been some damage.’
‘Sorry. I’m not familiar with medical procedure.’ After the curt apology he retreated again to the window.
‘When were you born?’ The nurse returned to her inquisition.
Automatically she recited her birth-date.
‘Good. And do you know what year this is?’
Again the answer was easy, requiring no thought.
‘Do you remember your present address?’
Panic gripped her, making her temples cold, her breathing irregular. ‘I…I’m not sure…’
The nurse looked across her, raising her brows at the silent man who now came back to the bed. He said, ‘She’s been moving about lately.’
The nurse patted her hand. ‘You might have a bit of a memory gap—it’s not unusual. Do you remember this gentleman here?’ Smiling up at him.
‘Well, Capri?’ he said when she didn’t answer immediately. His voice held irony. ‘Have you forgotten me?’
‘You’re Rolfe,’ she said clearly, positively. ‘Rolfe Massey.’
He nodded. ‘Your husband.’ He didn’t smile, although he was looking at her.
The nurse said encouragingly, ‘You recognise him. Well, that’s all right.’
He lifted his head. ‘Satisfied?’
The woman beamed at him. ‘You’ll be relieved. The doctor will check her over again, though, and tell you if we need to keep her for another day or two.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ He nodded dismissively, and after a moment’s hesitation the nurse left.
Rolfe seemed to be studying the pattern on the bedcover. When he raised his eyes again they appeared almost black. ‘I suppose it wasn’t for lack of trying,’ he said.
‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
His gaze narrowed, and his head jerked sharply as if he’d sensed something unexpected in the air, but the movement was quickly checked. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘You’re not well enough for this discussion.’ There was a short pause, and then he said on an oddly intense note, ‘Shall I take you home, Capri? Is that what you’d like?’
Home. The word conjured up warmth, comfort—love. ‘Of course,’ she said, and saw a startling flare of some potent, primitive emotion in his eyes. ‘As soon as the doctor says it’s all right.’ She had the feeling that if she’d said, Yes—now, he’d have picked her up and bundled her off with him then and there.
As it was, he took a breath that lifted the fabric of his shirt for seconds before he audibly released it. ‘Of course,’ he echoed her. ‘I meant…when they’ve cleared you.’
Her eyelids drooped, and he said, ‘You look tired… darling. Why don’t you go to sleep?’
She should be asking questions, like what had happened to her, and what her last address had been, and why…why…
Thinking was too difficult. She drifted, thought she felt her hand taken in a large, warm one, and another kind of warmth, bristly and underlaid with hard bone, briefly rubbed against the back of it. Then she slept.
When she woke Rolfe was gone. A different nurse took her pulse, read her blood pressure, poked a thermometer into her mouth, and later other people bustled about her with charts and stethoscopes, asked how she felt, and gently prodded and kneaded her body, which was tender with bruises.
They told her that New South Wales had been lashed by spring storms, and a landslip caused by heavy rain had derailed a train, sending several carriages sliding into the Hunter River. She’d been lucky. Some of the other passengers were on the critical list in this hospital, the nearest to the crash site, while a few needing specialist care had been flown to Sydney. She’d had a brain X-ray on admission, and later a CT scan because she had been taking her time to come round, but they had shown no cause for concern.
‘Anything worrying you?’ someone asked at last.
She looked at him gratefully. ‘The nurse said…I might have memory gaps.’
The doctor nodded. ‘That’s right. You don’t remember the accident?’
‘It’s not only the accident I don’t remember.’
‘Oh?’ He sounded almost casual. ‘How much have you lost?’
It was a relief to confide in someone. ‘I think…an awful lot.’
Another doctor came, shone lights in her eyes, and asked more questions, some of them general, others personal. At the end of it all he assured her again that there was no sign of physical damage, suggested she rest and try not to worry, and departed looking thoughtful.
She begged to be allowed to shower, and a nurse was detailed to monitor her.
‘Not much of an end to your holiday,’ the woman commented, ‘getting involved in that crash.’
‘No.’ She took the soap the nurse handed her and stepped into the blessed warmth of the shower.
Afterwards, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the bathroom basin and was reassured at the familiarity of jade-green eyes fringed by thick, dark lashes, and a slightly long but straight nose in an oval face. Her skin was too pale and her lips bloodless and cracked, but apart from that she looked herself.
Shivering despite the steamy fug of the bathroom, she wished she felt it.
Just showering had exhausted her, and she was too listless to read the magazines a nurse found for her, instead staring out the window at a view of low tawny hills and, nearer, the gum tree with its narrow leaves twisting in the yellow sunlight.
Rolfe returned bearing roses and carnations in sparkling florist’s wrap, and a parcel that he told her was toiletries he’d been advised by the nursing staff to buy for her. He had shaved and changed into jeans and a casual shirt.
The bouquet filled her arms, and perhaps that was why he didn’t kiss her. His glance was sharply enquiring. ‘How are you feeling?’
She inhaled the scent of the flowers. ‘The headache’s gone.’
‘Good.’ Walking round to take the tan chair between the bed and the window, he sat down and leaned forward, his clasped hands between spread knees, but then shifted back, coolly surveying her. ‘You still look… fragile.’
She gave him a cautious smile. ‘That’s how I feel. What about you?’
He arched a black brow at her. ‘Me?’
‘You weren’t with me in the train?’
‘No.’
His face looked hollowed about the freshly shaved