CAROLE MORTIMER is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular and prolific authors. Since her first novel was published in 1979, this British writer has shown no signs of slowing her pace. In fact, she has now published more than 145 novels!

Her strong, traditional romances, with their distinct style, brilliantly developed characters and romantic plot twists, have earned her an enthusiastic audience worldwide.

Carole was born in a village in England that she claims was so small that “if you blinked as you drove through it you could miss seeing it completely!” She adds that her parents still live in the house where she first came into the world, and her two brothers live very close by.

Carole’s early ambition to become a nurse came to an abrupt end after only one year of training due to a weakness in her back suffered in the aftermath of a fall. Instead she went on to work in the computer department of a well-known stationery company.

During her time there, Carole made her first attempt at writing a novel for Mills & Boon. “The manuscript was far too short and the plotline not up to standard, so I naturally received a rejection slip,” she says. “Not taking rejection well, I went off in a sulk for two years before deciding to have another go.” Her second manuscript was accepted, beginning a long and fruitful career. She says she has “enjoyed every moment of it!”

Carole lives “in a most beautiful part of Britain” with her husband and children.

“I really do enjoy my writing, and have every intention of continuing to do so for another twenty years!”

His Bid for a Bride
Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

IT WAS sexual attraction.

Pure and simple.

Except there was nothing pure or simple about the way Skye felt right now.

She was hot and feverish, knew her eyes must be overbright, her cheeks flushed, each breath she took painful with the effort it took to complete even such an instinctive function. Her breasts were pert, nipples hard with arousal beneath the fitted pink sweater she wore, and as for the heated desire between her thighs—!

She could feel all that—and yet she wasn’t sure she even liked the man responsible for all these totally new, confusing feelings.

‘Connor, I have no intention of selling Storm to you just so that he can break your beautiful daughter’s neck for her the first time she tries to show off riding him in front of her friends,’ Falkner Harrington now told Skye’s father scathingly.

Falkner Harrington.

Arrogant. Condescending. Mocking. Handsome as the Vikings represented by that unusual first name!

Overlong blond hair, which should have looked ridiculous in this age of much shorter styles, merely added to this man’s already overt masculinity, the sharpness of his features; straight brows over hard blue eyes, his nose an arrogant slash, sensual mouth twisted with derision now, his chin square and determined—all these things merely emphasized the man’s untameable appearance.

Her more conservative father, in his business suit, shirt and tie, Skye acknowledged ruefully, looked more like a domesticated cat facing the fierceness of a jungle feline.

Her father shook his head smilingly. ‘Skye could ride before she could walk,’ he told the other man with dismissive affection. ‘Falkner, I promised to buy Skye an Arabian as an eighteenth birthday present,’ he added before the younger man could voice any more of the derision he made no effort to hide in that arrogantly handsome face. ‘More to the point, Falkner,’ her father added ruefully as he could obviously see the younger man’s disinterest in such a promise, ‘you and I both know that Storm’s unpredictable temperament just isn’t suited to the showjumping circuit.’

Falkner Harrington, at thirty-two years of age, was one of the top riders of the world showjumping circuit, and had been so for the last ten years.

But, as Skye also knew from numerous newspapers articles about the man, he was as much known for his prowess off the showjumping circuit as he was on it!

But, nevertheless, he had some nerve talking to her father in that condescending manner—because her father’s whiskey company had been this man’s sponsor for the last seven years.

She also didn’t like the fact that Falkner Harrington seemed to see her as some little rich girl who didn’t know one end of a horse from the other, merely wanted his precious Arabian as a fashion accessory to show off to her friends.

‘Skye?’ the younger man echoed mockingly, icy blue gaze flickering over her with scathing dismissal. ‘With a surname like O’Hara, wouldn’t Scarlett have been a more apt preface?’ he added derisively.

The taunt, Skye was sure, had more to do with her almost waist-length copper-red hair, confined in a ponytail at the moment, than it did with her surname!

Heated colour warmed her cheeks at this man’s deliberate rudeness; as if his own first name were so ordinary. Although, Skye had to admit, there was no denying how perfectly it suited his look of Viking fierceness…

‘My eyes are a sky-blue.’ She spoke for the first time, defensively, her voice husky, the slight Irish lilt making it more so.

Eyes of the same clear blue met her gaze with bold amusement. ‘So they are,’ Falkner Harrington acknowledged mockingly, that gaze raking over her with merciless assessment now, taking in the rounded beauty of her youthful face, the pink sweater over pert breasts, denims fitting tightly over the long length of her legs. ‘And you’re almost eighteen,’ he echoed sceptically, obviously finding that very hard to believe.

She was five feet six inches tall, not that short for a woman, her hair, when it wasn’t confined, a mixture of blonde, cinnamon and copper, her skin, now that she had at last passed through puberty, pale and flawless, her figure perhaps a little on the slender side rather than voluptuous, but there was time for that.

There was certainly nothing about her, Skye decided indignantly, that warranted this man looking at her as if she were no more than a precocious child!

‘Come on, Falkner,’ her father cajoled. ‘Just letting Skye take a look at the stallion isn’t going to do any harm, surely?’

‘No harm, no…’ the younger man agreed slowly, still looking assessingly at Skye.

A look she deeply resented. If he would just once let her near the stallion then she would show him—

She drew in a deeply controlling breath, forcing herself to smile naturally—which wasn’t easy when she considered this man had insulted both her father and herself in the last few minutes! ‘I really would like to see Storm, Mr Harrington; my father has done nothing but sing his praises since he saw him last week,’ she added encouragingly.

That deep blue gaze flickered briefly in the older man’s direction. ‘I wasn’t aware you had been to see Storm, Connor,’ he murmured softly—dangerously so.

Skye glanced at her father too, knowing by the slightly reproachful look he shot at her that she had just said something indiscreet.

‘I happened to be in this area on business last week,’ her father told the younger man with a dismissive shrug. ‘You were away at a competition at the time, but your groom kindly let me take a look at the stallion you’ve told me so much about.’

‘Really?’ The younger man’s relaxed demeanour hadn’t changed by so much as a flicker of the eyelids, and yet his displeasure at this revelation was nonetheless tangible.

Skye didn’t hold out much hope of the groom escaping verbally unscathed from this disclosure. ‘Surely it’s only reasonable for my father to want to take a look at something he intends offering to buy?’ she dismissed lightly.

Falkner Harrington looked at her coldly. ‘Reasonable, yes—if I had had any idea your father intended offering to buy one of my horses at all,’ he rasped. ‘Least of all Storm.’

‘But why would you want to keep him if he’s unsuitable for jumping?’ Skye continued recklessly; goodness knew her father, as this man’s sponsor, knew what it cost to stable, train, and compete horses who were suitable for the circuit, let alone ones that weren’t in that class.

Falkner Harrington looked down his arrogant nose at her impertinence. ‘Could it just be that perhaps it’s because he’s unsuitable for that purpose that I have my doubts about selling him to a young girl barely out of braces?’ he rasped harshly.

The twin spots of angry colour in her cheeks clashed wildly with the redness of her hair; how could this man possibly know that until a few months ago she had worn braces on her teeth?

Skye could see from the corner of her eye as her father shifted in his chair at this visible display of her rising temper, but she was too indignantly furious now to heed that subtle warning.

‘So you’re unwilling to even let me see Storm?’ she snapped between clenched teeth.

Falkner Harrington shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I have no problem at all with your seeing him.’

‘Then—’

‘Merely with your ever owning him,’ he concluded scathingly.

Skye opened her mouth, closing it again with a snap as her father sat forward slightly and lightly touched her arm. She glanced up at him, knowing her frustration must be evident from her expression.

He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head before turning back to the younger man. ‘As you know, Falkner, I have a pretty impressive stable myself in Ireland. I taught Skye to ride there,’ he added lightly. ‘She really is a very capable horsewoman,’ he assured the other man. ‘Professional standard, in fact,’ he added firmly.

That cold blue gaze flickered over her briefly before Falkner gave another shake of his head. ‘We’ve already agreed Storm’s temperament isn’t suited to that way of life.’

‘We’ll settle for just seeing him,’ Connor cajoled.

‘If you insist!’ Falkner Harrington accepted impatiently after a brief glance at his wrist-watch, obviously aware that he owed at least this much politeness to the man whose company was his professional sponsor. ‘Storm should be back from his gallop by now.’ He rose abruptly to his feet, at once revealing why he had looked down his arrogant nose at Skye’s own height minutes ago; at least six feet four inches tall himself, he must tower over almost everyone he met!

Her father, a man Skye had looked up to and admired her whole life, looked positively short beside the younger man, even the breadth and power of the older man’s shoulders doing nothing to allay that impression; Falkner Harrington had wide, powerful shoulders himself beneath the black jumper he wore, his waist and thighs muscular in cream riding trousers and boots.

The Falkner stable, as Skye had discovered for herself when she and her father had driven into the yard in their hire car a few minutes ago, was a large concern, and although the house itself was slightly run-down, both inside and out, the stables and training grounds were of the very highest standard.

Well, they would be, Skye thought disgruntledly; O’Hara Whiskey, her father’s company, paid for most of that!

But as Skye accompanied the two men outside, for all the resentment she now felt towards Falkner Harrington, both on her own and her father’s behalf, she realized that the sexual attraction she felt towards him was increasing to an almost overpowering degree.

The man was obviously lean and fit, his arrogant good looks beyond question, but it was the animal magnetism he exuded that made her tremble with longing, that made her aware of every aching inch of her own body in a way she never had been before.

But even those feelings faded to insignificance as they entered the cobbled stableyard and Skye fell in love for the first time in her life…

He was wonderful. Tall, dark, and so handsome he took her breath away, his face aristocratically beautiful as he looked down his long nose at her in arrogant query.

Storm.

Her father had told her the stallion was magnificent, pure black, with the fine delicacy Arabians were so known for, but he hadn’t told her how absolutely breathtakingly beautiful Storm was.

‘Thanks, Jim.’ Falkner Harrington took the reins from the groom who had just returned from exercising the magnificent stallion, patting the horse’s neck even as he spoke gently into one of the sensitively flicking ears.

‘What did I tell you, Skye?’ her father enthused happily beside her. ‘Isn’t he the most darlin’—?’

‘Sorry to interrupt.’ A softly spoken middle-aged woman crossed the yard towards them. ‘There’s a telephone call for you at the house, Mr O’Hara,’ she informed him lightly.

‘Ah.’ He nodded knowingly. ‘Can I leave Skye with you for a few minutes, Falkner? I really need to take this call.’

‘Go ahead.’ The younger man gave an abrupt inclination of his head. ‘Skye will be perfectly safe with me,’ he added tauntingly.

She gave him a sharp look before turning to give her father a reassuring smile, knowing he had been expecting this call from his older brother, Skye’s uncle Seamus, in Ireland.

‘You see what I mean.’ Falkner Harrington barely waited long enough for her father to follow the other woman out of the yard before turning scathingly to Skye, Storm moving skittishly on the reins, the beautiful brown eyes glaring his displeasure at this change in his morning routine. ‘Storm just isn’t suitable for a lightweight amateur,’ he added disgustedly.

‘Lightweight—!’

Her father really wasn’t exaggerating when he said she had been riding horses before she could walk. Her mother had died when Skye was less than a year old, and immediately after the funeral in England her father had sold up there and returned to his native Ireland to take over the running of the family business from his father, Old Seamus, taking baby Skye with him.

Instead of engaging a nanny to look after her, as most men would have done in the same circumstances, her father had simply taken her with him, either when working in his office, or in the stables that were really his first love.

Skye had been crawling under horses’ legs, and put up on their backs before she could even stand on her own two legs, leading the huge animals about by their reins by the time she was two years old, riding out with the grooms on their daily exercise by the time she was eight.

How dared this man call her an amateur?

She could never afterwards have even begun to explain what prompted her into her next action, even to herself; she seemed to see her own actions as if in slow motion.

She grabbed the reins from Falkner Harrington’s unsuspecting grasp, foot in the stirrup as she swung herself agilely up into the saddle, before galloping out of the stableyard up onto the downs she could see behind the house.

It was exhilarating, Storm responding to the lightest touch as he was allowed to do what he obviously loved best: running like the wind, his black mane flowing free, body stretched fully as hooves pounded easily across the grassy ground, almost seeming to fly as he jumped a hedge with effortless ease.

Riding Storm was the most thrilling experience of Skye’s young life, and she knew herself completely lost in the sheer ecstasy of the moment.

So much so that she had no idea she was no longer alone until a hand reached out to tightly clasp the reins, pulling sharply back on them, Skye almost tumbling over Storm’s head as he came to a shuddering, quivering stop.

‘Are you insane?’ Skye turned angrily on Falkner Harrington as he sat astride the showjumping horse Skye easily recognized as O’Hara’s Lad. ‘You could have knocked me off,’ she accused indignantly.

He was breathing deeply between pinched nostrils, his face white with anger as he swung down out of his saddle, his fingers tightly gripping Skye’s arm as he pulled her roughly from Storm’s back.

‘You little idiot!’ He shook her roughly, glaring down at her furiously. ‘You could have been killed!’

Skye smiled confidently. ‘No, I—’

‘Yes!’ Falkner ground out harshly. ‘Or Storm could!’ he added furiously.

Which was probably more to the point as far as he was concerned!

But before Skye could make any further protest Falkner’s mouth came roughly down on hers, the kiss he subjected her to owing nothing to gentleness and more to the anger that so obviously consumed him.

Nothing in Skye’s previously youthful experiences with the couple of boys she had so far dated had prepared her for this thoroughly adult kiss, Falkner giving no quarter as his mouth ruthlessly savaged hers, his arms like steel bands as he moulded her body so close to his she could hardly breathe.

Just when Skye thought she couldn’t stand it any more, that she was going to faint from sheer lack of breath in her lungs, Falkner thrust her roughly away from him, glaring down at her with eyes so pale a blue they were almost silver, breathing hard in his anger, every muscle and sinew of his body tensed with the fury that emanated from him.

‘You’re everything I thought you were earlier—and more!’ he told her coldly. ‘You’re also completely irresponsible. Spoilt. Reckless. But most of all—stupid!’ With one last disgusted look in her direction he swung himself up onto the stallion’s back, grabbed O’Hara’s Lad’s reins, and rode off.

Leaving Skye high and dry, in the middle of the Berkshire Downs, with only her legs to carry her back to the stable.

Where she knew, not only would Falkner Harrington’s anger be waiting there for her, but her father’s as well…

But worse than any of that, she knew that Falkner would never let her father buy Storm for her now.

CHAPTER ONE

‘JUST how much longer do you intend lying in this hospital bed feeling sorry for yourself?’

Skye stiffened at the first sound of that arrogant voice, quickly closing her eyes as if to shut out the man himself. It was over six years since she had last heard or seen Falkner Harrington, but she would nevertheless know that drawlingly confident voice anywhere!

‘I said—’

‘I heard what you said!’ Skye turned on him glaringly, recoiling slightly as she realized he had moved from the doorway to stand beside her bed, having to arch her neck in order to be able to look up at him, so tall and confident in casual denims and a black tee shirt.

Sexual attraction.

In spite of everything she had gone through—was still going through—the frisson of awareness that coursed through her body just from looking at Falkner told her that nothing had changed as regards her total physical awareness of him.

Although the man himself had subtly changed, she noted distractedly. Gone was the long hair, flecks of grey visible in the much shorter style, his face still as aristocratically handsome, those blue eyes coldly assessing as his gaze raked over her own changed appearance. But there were lines now beside his eyes and sculptured mouth that hadn’t been there six years ago, lines of pain as well as determination.

A week ago Skye would have known exactly what he would see as he looked at her, her hair cropped short now, the roundness of her face having thinned to leave hollow cheeks beneath blue eyes, her chin pointedly determined, and as for those voluptuous curves she had once coveted—if anything she was thinner now than she had been at eighteen, long hours of work having honed her body to perfect fitness.

Yes, a week ago she would have known exactly what Falkner would see as he looked at her, but she hadn’t looked in a mirror for a week, hadn’t brushed her hair or applied make-up during that time, either, even the gown she wore of the practical hospital variety.

‘Well?’ Falkner barked impatiently at her continued silence.

She gave a weary sigh, resenting him for making her exert herself enough even to answer him. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone?

‘What are you doing here?’ she prompted heavily.

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Visiting you.’ As if to prove the point he pulled back the chair beside her bed and eased himself down onto it, the stiffness of his right leg obvious as he did so.

Three years ago, Skye knew from reading the newspapers, this man had sustained dreadful injuries when his horse had gone down over one of the jumps, crushing Falkner beneath it, breaking both his legs, one of them so badly he had remained in hospital for almost six months. It was obvious from the pained way he still moved that the right leg, although healed, was no longer as straight as the other one.

Skye frowned her irritation at his familiarity. ‘I don’t remember asking you to sit down,’ she snapped. ‘In fact, I don’t remember inviting you here at all,’ she added rudely.

Falkner looked completely unperturbed by this rudeness, blond brows rising over mocking blue eyes. ‘You have such a surfeit of visitors already, is that it?’ he drawled mockingly.

She could feel the angry colour in her cheeks now. Damn him. How dared he come here and mock her?

‘I’m sorry, Skye.’ Falkner gave a self-disgusted sigh. ‘That was unforgivable.’ He grimaced.

She blinked back her sudden tears, angry with herself for showing even this much of an emotional weakness. ‘A reporter, claiming to be my brother, got in here the day after—a few days ago,’ she amended. ‘He even got a photograph of me before they realized their mistake and managed to throw him out—’

‘Skye, I know all about that. And the photograph appeared in the newspapers several days ago,’ Falkner acknowledged heavily.

She shrugged dismissively. She hadn’t seen the photograph herself, hadn’t looked at a newspaper in days, but she knew it couldn’t have been in the least flattering. She also knew she didn’t care.

‘Since then I’ve refused all visitors,’ she told him woodenly. ‘Which begs the question—’ she suddenly realized sharply ‘—how did you manage to get in?’ She frowned suspiciously.

Falkner grinned. ‘By using my natural charm and diplomacy?’

Skye gave a disbelieving snort; she wasn’t aware this man had any natural charm, let alone diplomacy.

‘I asked you a question when I arrived, Skye,’ Falkner reminded briskly. ‘You’re over the concussion, and your broken ribs are mending nicely, so isn’t it time you checked out of here?’

She glared at him resentfully. ‘I wasn’t aware a medical degree was one of your many accomplishments!’

Skye was totally aware that since the accident that had excluded him from the showjumping circuit three years ago this man had turned his hand to playing the stock market, that everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. Maybe he should have been named Midas rather than the unusual Falkner!

‘You might be surprised at some of my “accomplishments”,’ he bit back tersely, before instantly making a visible effort to relax. ‘Although a medical degree isn’t amongst them,’ he conceded dryly. ‘The truth is, I had a lengthy conversation with your doctor before I came in here—’

‘You had no right—’

‘I have every right, Skye,’ Falkner harshly cut in on her indignation, sitting forward slightly on the chair. ‘Skye, I realize that I’m probably the last person you expected to see today, that you wanted to see,’ he accepted heavily. ‘But the fact of the matter is—’ He broke off, running an agitated hand through the blond thickness of his hair.

‘The fact of the matter is…?’ Skye prompted warily, suddenly extremely suspicious of Falkner’s motive for being here.

She personally hadn’t seen this man since that day over six years ago, but she knew that her father had continued to have a working relationship with the younger man until the time of the accident three years ago, that her father’s liking and respect for Falkner had deepened as he’d first fought his way back from his horrendous injuries, to move on to make a success of himself in another field.

Her father…

Pain shot through her like a knife just at the thought of him, once again closing her eyes, although she couldn’t manage to shut out the memories that had brought her to this point in time.

When had everything begun to go wrong for them? She had lain here this last week trying to make sense of it all.

There was no denying it had been a bad year for all the O’Hara family. Uncle Seamus’s wife had walked out on him after five years of marriage. Uncle Seamus had always been a little too fond of the family product, and his drinking bouts had become more frequent, usually ending in blazing rows, if not actually fisticuffs, with his younger brother, Connor. But with Skye’s help that situation had eventually calmed down, Uncle Seamus apologetic and shame-faced, the two men, to Skye’s relief, once again friends.

Only for something even more disastrous to follow.

Six months ago O’Hara Whiskey had been in serious financial difficulty, rumours quickly following of her father’s possible misconduct.

And then had come the worst blow of all. That fatal night a week ago…

It had been late at night as Skye and her father had driven back to their London hotel after yet another unsuccessful business meeting in the south of England, the rain beating blindingly against the windscreen, visibility almost nil. So much so that her father hadn’t seen the truck coming the other way, hadn’t realized it was driving on the wrong side of the road, either. Until it had been too late…

Her face was now as white as the pillow she lay back on, her eyes still haunted by those last terrible moments as she once again looked at Falkner. ‘Would you please just go away and leave me alone?’ she pleaded brokenly.

He reached out a hand to her, that hand dropping ineffectually onto the bed as she flinched away from him. ‘Skye, I know how it feels to be in pain. Who should know better than me?’ he rasped harshly. ‘But I—hell, I wish there was an easy way to say this, but ultimately I know that there isn’t.’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘You know they held the inquest three days ago?’

Skye nodded her head without turning. She had given her statement to the police several days ago—she couldn’t remember how many days, they all seemed to have merged into one big, painful blur—knew that a verdict of ‘accidental death’ had been decided upon.

‘Skye, your father’s funeral is arranged for the end of this week,’ Falkner told her gently.

No!

All the memories, those terrible final moments, fell in on top of her, her father’s warning cry as he’d swerved to avoid the oncoming truck, the terrible sound as the two vehicles had collided, the eerie silence that had followed.

Skye had regained consciousness as someone, a stranger, had pulled her from the car, the pain in her head and side so extreme that she’d thought she might faint again. Except…

‘My father,’ she had cried as she’d sat up. ‘You have to help my father.’

But even as she’d called out she had known it was already too late for her father, his side of the car completely crushed where he had swerved to avoid the collision, making it impossible to believe that anyone could have survived in such a tangled mess.

And no one had…

At the hospital there had been even more strangers to reassure her that her father’s death would have been instantaneous. That he wouldn’t have known anything about it. Finally, when it had become apparent that Skye’s grief was inconsolable, that his injuries had been such that it was a blessing he hadn’t survived.

A blessing.

How could it possibly be ‘a blessing’ that her father, the person she loved most in the whole world, had died so suddenly, so tragically?

And now Falkner Harrington, yet another stranger, had come to tell her that her father was to be buried in four days’ time…

Skye didn’t even glance at Falkner now. ‘Go away,’ she told him.

‘I can’t do that,’ he told her regretfully. ‘And one day you’ll thank me for not doing so—’

‘I doubt that very much,’ she snapped.

‘Skye, in four days’ time, at his own request, your father is being laid to rest beside your mother, and I’m here to take you home—’

‘I’m not going to any funeral, in four days, or any other time!’ She turned on him fiercely, eyes blazing deeply blue as she attempted to sit up, the pain in her head and side instantly pulling her back down again. ‘I’m not going, Falkner,’ she repeated flatly as she turned away.

‘Oh, yes, you are,’ he told her firmly as he stood up to tower over her. ‘You know, as well as I do, that it was always your father’s wish to be buried beside your mother in Windsor. Skye,’ he groaned as she looked even more stricken as he once again mentioned the childhood loss of her mother, ‘I admit, I can’t even begin to take in the enormity of how you feel at the moment—my own parents are, thankfully, still both very much alive and living in Florida. But I have lost a very dear friend, a friend that I’m going to miss very much,’ he murmured huskily. ‘I also know that dear friend would have wanted me to look after his daughter,’ he added softly.

Skye’s expression was scathing as she turned to him. ‘If you’re such a “friend”, then where were you this last six months, when my father so obviously needed all the friends he had?’

Falkner straightened, his expression enigmatically unreadable. ‘I was there, Skye—’

‘I didn’t see you,’ she scorned.

‘But I saw you,’ he assured her quietly.

Her eyes widened incredulously. ‘When? Where?’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he dismissed. ‘What matters right now is that I get you out of here with the minimum amount of fuss. There are still reporters hanging around at the front of the hospital, so I suggest—’

‘Falkner, I believe I’ve made my feelings more than clear on this subject, but just in case I haven’t—’

‘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.

CHAPTER TWO

‘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 thrown against the car door—also the reason for her concussion—her black eye had turned to all the colours of the rainbow but predominantly a sickly yellow, her face otherwise deathly pale. She had also lost weight, she discovered when she pulled on denims and a black tee shirt, the clothes much looser on her than they had been a week ago.

One thing she was sure of: Falkner wasn’t being kind to her because he was overwhelmed by her beauty.

He glanced at her only briefly as she sat beside him in the green Range Rover, Skye having tactfully turned away minutes ago as he’d levered himself awkwardly behind the wheel. ‘Would you have preferred it if I had left you to face those reporters on your own?’ he rasped grimly.

Despite his precaution of taking her out of the hospital through a staff entrance, a couple of enterprising reporters had pre-empted them, Falkner’s hand tightly gripping Skye’s arm as he’d pushed his way forcefully by them to see her safely seated in his car before, his mouth a grimly set line, he’d moved round the vehicle to get in beside her, answering none of the questions fired at them.

‘No,’ she sighed, exhausted by the events of the morning, her ribs aching painfully from this unaccustomed activity. ‘But—’

‘I told you, Connor was my friend,’ Falkner bit out abruptly. ‘He would want me to take care of you.’

Before the suspicion and gossip of the last six months, her father had appeared to have many friends, but most of them had quietly faded away the last few months, almost as if they believed the rumour and speculation that now surrounded Connor’s professional reputation might be catching.

Although Falkner didn’t seem to be bothered by the same possibility.

Of course she had known of her father’s continuing friendship with the younger man; he occasionally talked of having seen or spoken to Falkner. Conversations that Skye had listened to avidly while at the same time maintaining an outward indifference, desperate that no one, least of all her father, should realize how deeply and irrevocably she had fallen in love with Falkner six years ago.

But even so, she wouldn’t have thought, based on the things her father had said about the other man, that their friendship had been such that Falkner would now feel a responsibility to come to the aid of Connor’s daughter.

But what other reason could he possibly have for being here…?

‘Skye, Connor was there for me after the accident three years ago,’ Falkner rasped. ‘And again two years ago,’ he added reluctantly.

Two years ago? What had happened two years…Ah.

She had read in the newspapers of Falkner’s marriage five years ago, followed by his even more publicized separation after the accident, and the messy divorce that had followed a year later.

‘Connor spent a lot of his valuable time two years ago talking to me, helping me come to terms with—things,’ Falkner continued harshly.

And this was obviously Falkner’s way of returning the older man’s generosity.

Well, at least he was honest, Skye accepted ruefully. Even if it might have been more comforting, if unlikely, if his concern had been a little more personally directed.

She sighed, turning to look uninterestedly out at the passing countryside, recognizing some of it, aware that they would shortly be arriving at Falkner’s home.

There was one positive thing to look forward to, at least: his wife wouldn’t be there waiting to welcome her—or otherwise.

She had wondered, five years ago, what the woman was like when Falkner had married, the photograph of the two of them that had appeared in the newspapers at the time of their marriage not only grainy, making their features indistinct, but also in black and white.

Whatever Selina Harrington’s personality and looks, the marriage had only lasted a rocky two years, Selina leaving Falkner shortly after his accident, divorcing him a year later amid claims of his involvement with another woman.

There was a thought. Maybe the ‘other woman’ would be at the Falkner home waiting to welcome her, instead.

Skye shifted uncomfortably in the cream leather seat. ‘Er—I really don’t want to put you or—or anyone else—’ she chewed worriedly on her bottom lip ‘—to any inconvenience, by turning up at your house in this way.’

‘You won’t be,’ Falkner told her with assured dismissal.

Not exactly a helpful reply; she already knew Falkner well enough to realize he was arrogant enough to expect that other people’s reactions to his unexpected guest would be reflective of his own.

Whereas Skye had learnt only too well the last few months just how hurtful a cold rebuff could be. Goodness knew, there had been enough of them recently.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘Falkner, what—?’

‘Let’s just get through the rest of this week, hmm?’ he prompted abruptly. ‘There will be plenty of time to—talk, later, okay?’

The rest of this week…

Her father’s funeral.

Incredible.

Unbelievable.

When she still had the feeling he was going to walk through the door demanding a mug of the strong coffee that had kept him going through their long working day, or that she was going to turn a corner and he would be there waiting for her, as big and protective as he had always been, giving that big booming laugh that told her everything was right with the world.

What was she going to do without him?

The two of them had always been so close, more so since there had really only ever been the two of them. Skye couldn’t imagine her life without him in it. Didn’t want to imagine a life without him!

She was suddenly overwhelmed by such a feeling of despair that she wasn’t even aware of Falkner’s sharp glance in her direction, or the fact that he pulled the car over into a lay-by, turning off the engine before releasing his seat belt and turning to take her into his arms.

It was the warmth of those arms, being cradled against the solid hardness of a human chest, that was Skye’s complete undoing. The sob caught at the back of her throat, choking her, her body racked by those sobs as she gave into her feelings of complete desolation.

‘It’s all right, Skye,’ Falkner murmured, his hands moving comfortingly up and down her spine as he held her close against him. ‘I’m here. I’ll be here for as long as you need me. Skye, don’t…’he groaned with aching concern as his words only made her cry all the harder.

Seconds ago she had been overwhelmed by feelings of loneliness, emptiness, but as Falkner’s words penetrated the pain that consumed her, the warmth of his arms protecting her, she knew she wasn’t completely alone, that he meant what he said: he would be there for her for as long as she needed him.

But with that realization came the knowledge of the danger that awaited her there, a danger she had no idea, at this moment when she needed him so much, how to cope with; it would be all too easy to just let Falkner take over, to stay with him and never leave. And, loving him as she did, she knew she couldn’t do that.

She pulled back slightly, brushing the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘I’m all right now,’ she dismissed, not quite able to meet the penetration of his searching blue gaze. ‘It was just—for a moment—I’m all right now,’ she repeated determinedly, pulling fully out of his arms to sit back against the door. As far away from Falkner as was possible in the close confines of the car.

‘Sure?’ he prompted gently.

She swallowed hard. If he was going to carry on being kind to her like this she knew she wouldn’t be able to cope. ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she told him tartly. ‘Let’s go, Falkner,’ she snapped as she sensed his continued gaze on her, her jaw clenched determinedly as she refused to return that gaze.

‘Okay,’ he finally accepted tersely, turning on the ignition to manoeuvre the car back into the flow of traffic. ‘Skye, we’re going to arrive in a few minutes, and—’

So there would be someone else there.

‘Don’t worry, Falkner,’ she cut in coldly. ‘I’ll promise I’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible for the next couple of days. In fact, if you just show me to a bedroom, I can stay there until—until after Friday,’ she continued determinedly. ‘No one need even know I’m staying with you. You—’

‘Skye—shut up,’ he cut in harshly, his hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. ‘I don’t care who knows you’re there. I don’t care if you choose to walk around the house stark naked!’ he added grimly. ‘Am I making myself clear?’

‘Very.’ Her mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile at his obvious anger at her suggestion it might be better for him if he just hid her away somewhere. ‘But I think I’ll forgo the “walking around the house stark naked” bit, if you don’t mind!’

‘Pity.’ He shrugged. ‘It might have been—diverting,’ he drawled. ‘Although perhaps impractical with my housekeeper living in the house,’ he dismissed briskly, turning the car down the long gravel driveway that led to his house.

His housekeeper…

Skye gave him a searching glance, her confusion such that she didn’t know how to reply to his first statement. No doubt Falkner was just trying to divert her attention onto something less traumatic than the next couple of days—and no doubt he had succeeded.

The thought of her ever feeling confident enough around Falkner to stroll around his home naked was enough to confuse anyone!

‘You were saying something about when we arrive?’ she reminded him stiltedly.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he dismissed tersely as he parked the car outside the house. ‘We can talk about that later too.’

There seemed to be an awful lot of things they were going to talk about later…?

But Skye put all that from her mind as Falkner got out of the car to come round and open her door for her, supporting her arm as she stepped down, nevertheless the movement causing pain to her ribs.

Falkner looked at her ruefully as she finally stood on the gravel driveway beside him. ‘You look as if you’ve gone ten rounds with Lennox Lewis,’ he drawled in answer to her questioning look.

She grimaced. ‘Believe me, parts of me feel as if I’ve gone ten rounds with Lennox Lewis!’

Falkner laughed softly, his hand on her elbow as they walked up the stone steps to the front door.

Skye had noticed that the driveway and grounds looked cared for as they drove up, and the house no longer had that run-down look of six years ago, either; obviously stocks and shares had proved more lucrative for Falkner than showjumping!

She drew in a deep breath now as she prepared to face what lay in store for her behind the huge oak door, friend or foe, she had no idea.

‘It will be all right, Skye,’ Falkner told her firmly as he seemed to read her uncertainty. ‘I’m here, remember,’ he added determinedly.

Yes, he was. And she still had no real idea why he should be. But he had promised to be ‘here’ for as long as she needed him.

As long as it took her to get through this nightmare?

If she ever did!

‘Feel like going for a walk outside?’ Falkner prompted once they had finished with the delicious afternoon tea brought in by his bustlingly friendly Scottish housekeeper.

Within seconds of meeting the middle-aged woman Skye had known she had nothing to fear where the other woman was concerned; Annie Graham treated Falkner like a rather naughty child, and within minutes of their meeting had treated Skye in the same affectionately friendly way, urging her to eat some of the sandwiches and scones with the words ‘you need some skin on those bones’.

No doubt the older woman would have something to say when she realized that neither of them had done justice to the delicious tea, Skye acknowledged ruefully.

Maybe that was the reason for Falkner’s suggestion the two of them go for a walk? A walk that would cause him more than a little discomfort.

‘Or perhaps you would rather go upstairs and rest for a while?’ Falkner realized lightly. ‘You’ve had a busy afternoon so far.’

Skye shook her head. ‘I think I’ve rested enough this last week. But if you have something else you should be doing…?’ After all, he had already spent enough of his day with her.

He stood up. ‘Take a walk with me.’ He held out his hand to help her stand up.

Skye shied away, from that hand, and the idea of going outside. Annie Graham had proved warm and welcoming, but that didn’t mean she would get the same reception from other members of Falkner’s household staff.

Falkner frowned darkly, still holding out his hand to her. ‘Skye, no matter how much you might feel like doing so just now, you really can’t just sit in here and hide from the world,’ he rasped.

She glared up at him. ‘Who says I can’t?’ she challenged resentfully.

‘I do,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘You know as well as I do, Skye, that when you’ve been thrown from a horse, you have to get straight back up into the saddle.’

‘Is that what you did—?’ She broke off with a gasp as she realized how insensitive she was being; of course that wasn’t what he had done, his injuries had been such that he probably couldn’t ride at all any more. ‘This isn’t the same,’ she muttered awkwardly.

‘It is.’ Falkner nodded abruptly. ‘And your father would tell you exactly the same—’

‘Don’t presume to tell me what my father would or wouldn’t say!’ Her eyes glittered furiously.

He gave an impatient sigh. ‘Skye, you’re only angry because you know I’m right,’ he rasped.

Yes, she was; her father had always been a pragmatic man. His philosophy had always been, if you fell or received a knock of some kind, then you picked yourself up and carried on. It was what he had done after Skye’s mother died. During the last difficult six months, too. It was what he would want Skye to do now…

She knew that as well as Falkner obviously did.

But none of that changed the fact that just the thought of going with Falkner, of walking outside with him, where someone might recognize her, made Skye squirm with discomfort.

‘I’m feeling rather tired, Falkner—’

‘Coward,’ he murmured softly.

But not so softly that Skye couldn’t hear him. Or resent him for being right.

She was behaving like a coward, and her father would have been disappointed in her, would have launched into some lengthy Irish parable that made a mockery of her fear.

But, she realized impatiently, Falkner’s method of making her angry had exactly the same effect.

‘Okay!’ she agreed forcefully, ignoring the hand he held out to her, ignoring the pain in her ribs as she struggled to her feet without help. ‘Satisfied?’ she added challengingly, blue eyes sparkling with resentment.

‘Perfectly,’ Falkner answered lightly, opening the door for her to precede him.

Skye did so stiffly. And not just because of her painful ribs; she really didn’t want to do this.

‘Okay?’ Falkner prompted softly a few minutes later as they approached the stables. It was curiously quiet, none of the bustle of activity here today that there had been six years ago.

‘Okay,’ she echoed tensely.

‘This way.’ He turned to the left, leading her down the long row of closed individual stables, his limp more noticeable now.

‘I don’t understand, Falkner; where are we going?’ Skye frowned her puzzlement as she followed reluctantly.

Why on earth was he taking her round his deserted stables? Perhaps this was Falkner’s version of that ‘Irish parable’ her father would have subjected her to, something along the lines of ‘he had succeeded despite no longer being involved in his love of showjumping’, as she would have to survive without her beloved father. If that was what this was about, then Falkner was wasting his time, because she—

‘Almost there,’ he dismissed lightly—that lightness belied by the heavy frown between his brows.

‘I—’ Skye broke off as she heard a familiar sound, her whole body tensing as she turned in the direction of that sound, and she realized not all of the stables were empty after all, eyes widening in shocked surprise as that whinny of recognition was loudly repeated. ‘Storm…?’ she questioned dazedly, hurrying to the open stable door several stalls down, staring in total disbelief as the massive head stretched across the top of the open door to nuzzle ecstatically against her face. ‘Storm!’ she acknowledged chokingly, burying her own face into his glistening black neck, tears falling hotly down her cheeks as her arms clung to him weakly.

It had been the shock of her young life six years ago when, three months after her initial meeting with Falkner, a horsebox had arrived late one evening at her father’s stable, the door opening to reveal a very disgruntled Storm.

Skye had turned to her father dazedly as she’d easily recognized the horse.

‘Falkner changed his mind,’ her father told her with satisfaction. ‘He telephoned me one day last week and offered to let me buy Storm, after all.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a total surprise for you,’ he added happily.

A total surprise had to be an understatement. Falkner Harrington hadn’t looked like a man who ever changed his mind about anything, and after the blistering rebuke he had given her three months earlier, once she had walked back to his house, Skye had been sure he would never allow her so much as near one of his horses again, let alone allow her to own one.

But there Storm was, as big and beautiful as ever. And—miraculously—he was hers.

‘This is literally a case of “never look a gift horse in the mouth”, me darlin’,’ her father teased as he slipped his arm about her shoulders, giving her a hug as they both looked admiringly at the prancing stallion.

That was how Skye had come to own Storm, after all—but it certainly didn’t explain what Storm was doing back in England now.

He should still be in Ireland, at her father’s stable, had certainly been there a week ago when they’d last spoken to Uncle Seamus on the telephone.

She turned to look at Falkner, her arms still wrapped around Storm’s neck, the paleness of her face showing the tracks of her tears. ‘Why—how—when—?’ She gave a helpless shrug, totally overwhelmed by this latest development.

‘I brought him back from Ireland with me last night,’ Falkner told her evenly. ‘Although he certainly wasn’t as sweet-tempered as this on the journey,’ he added ruefully.

No, she could imagine he hadn’t been. Storm hated travel of any sort, part of that ‘temperament’ Falkner had once referred to, and crossing the Irish Sea in a horsebox must have seemed like the ultimate in discomfort to him.

Falkner’s explanation told Skye ‘how’ and ‘when’, but it still didn’t explain ‘why’…

Storm hadn’t left Ireland since the day he’d been delivered to her six years ago, had made his feelings clear from the beginning concerning even the possibility of being put into a horsebox again, let alone being taken anywhere in one.

Yet Falkner had somehow managed to bring the horse back from Ireland with him yesterday, something that must have been as uncomfortable for him, with his injured leg, as it must have been to the horse…

Skye shook her head. She didn’t understand any of this. Friday, the day of her father’s funeral, was going to be the second worst day in her life—the day her father died would always be the worst—but surely after that there would be no further need for her to remain in England.

And yet Falkner said he had brought the horse back from Ireland with him only yesterday—

‘What were you doing in Ireland?’ she questioned sharply.

Falkner grimaced admiringly. ‘That bump on the head hasn’t slowed you down any, has it?’

‘I was suffering from concussion, Falkner, not brain damage,’ she returned dismissively.

He shrugged. ‘I had no idea what had happened to—didn’t know about the accident,’ he bit out flatly, ‘until I saw that awful photograph of you in the newspaper—’

‘I’m surprised you recognized me,’ Skye derided.

Falkner gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. ‘It wasn’t easy,’ he conceded dryly. ‘You’re looking a lot better now,’ he added encouragingly.

‘Really?’ she speculated. ‘Then I must have looked pretty awful earlier in the week.’ She had looked a complete wreck when she’d glanced at herself in the mirror at the hospital earlier.

‘You did,’ Falkner confirmed bluntly. ‘You were also, according to the officious ward receptionist when I telephoned, refusing all visitors. I was given the distinct impression that wasn’t negotiable, so, rather than kick my heels waiting for you to be well enough to be discharged, I flew over to Ireland to see if there was anything I could do there instead.’ He sighed. ‘Your uncle Seamus is a self-pitying drunk,’ he stated flatly.

‘Yes,’ she confirmed heavily; there was no doubting that he had become so since his wife had left him a year ago.

Falkner shrugged. ‘The housekeeper is quite happy to stay on, and I talked to your father’s groom, and he’s quite prepared to take care of the horses, but I thought you might rather have Storm here with you.’

Which explanation still left the question mark—why bring Storm here at all when the likelihood was that she would be returning to Ireland herself in another week or so?

Wouldn’t she…?

CHAPTER THREE

‘I WOULD suggest you have an early night, Skye,’ Falkner murmured after dinner. ‘You’ve had a very busy day,’ he added gently as she looked up at him dazedly.

Yes, she accepted it had been busy after her recent days of inertia, she just wasn’t sure going to bed early was such a good idea. It would give her longer to lay awake. Thinking.

Besides, she wasn’t in the least tired, still had far too many questions left unanswered to possibly be able to sleep. But Falkner had been more than usually uncommunicative as the two of them had eaten dinner together—a dinner neither of them had done justice to—and Skye could appreciate that Falkner probably had things of his own he wanted to deal with now. Maybe friends—or a particular friend—he would like to call…?

‘I’m sure you must have lots of things to do, Falkner. Please don’t let me keep you from them,’ Skye assured him. ‘I’m just not tired yet.’ After all, it was only nine-thirty. ‘Please don’t worry about me,’ she dismissed lightly as he continued to frown.

‘But I do worry about you, Skye,’ he drawled.

She shook her head. ‘There really is no need, and it’s far too early for me to go to bed yet.’ And actually stand any chance of sleeping.

‘In that case…do you play chess?’ He raised dark brows.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Badly.’

‘Hmm.’ He grimaced. ‘Then how about—?’

‘Falkner, I am not a child in need of entertainment,’ she assured him impatiently as she stood up, ignoring the painful twinges in her side as she did so; whatever the pain, she had really had enough of Falkner towering over her in this way.

His expression darkened. ‘Maybe all this would be easier if you were still a child!’ he snapped harshly.

Skye frowned her puzzlement at his harshness. ‘I don’t know what you mean…?’

‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I don’t suppose you do.’ He shook his head. ‘Skye, I’m doing my best, in very unusual circumstances, so maybe you could just cut me a little slack, okay?’ His eyes glittered challengingly.

Considering the man she had briefly known six years ago, Skye knew that he was more than doing his best where she was concerned. And she accepted they were unusual circumstances. It was just—Skye felt so angry. With herself. With Falkner. With Uncle Seamus. With—of all people—her father. How could she possibly feel angry with her beloved father? It wasn’t his fault that he—that he—

She pushed that thought very firmly from her mind, her face pale with the effort. ‘Falkner, why did you bother going to the trouble of bringing Storm over here?’ He had neatly avoided answering that question when they had left the stables earlier, lingering to have a lengthy conversation with one of the gardeners, and there had been little chance to introduce the subject again since that time. Well, blow politeness. She wanted an answer. And she wanted it now.

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, having changed before they had dinner. ‘I thought you would like him to be here when you came out of hospital. A friendly face, so to speak,’ he added ruefully.

Skye’s mouth quirked humourlessly. ‘You didn’t think yours would be enough on its own?’

Falkner looked a little less grim as he grimaced derisively. ‘I haven’t had that impression so far in our acquaintance, no!’ he returned dryly.

Skye’s eyes widened incredulously. Did he really not know—? Could he not see—?

Obviously not, she realized with relief; everything was awful enough already, without having Falkner feeling sorry for her because she’d had the misfortune to fall in love with him six years ago—and remained that way.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve given the impression I’m less than grateful for what you’re doing.’

Falkner laughed softly. ‘Skye, I can assure you I never expected you to run joyfully into my arms.’

He would never know the temptation she had had to do exactly that when he’d arrived in her hospital room earlier today. If her painful ribs hadn’t prevented it. If her own pride hadn’t forbidden it. If she hadn’t lain in that bed willing herself not to show him exactly how pleased she was to see him.

Falkner was both the first—and last—person she needed to be kind to her just now.

She shook her head. ‘I doubt I could run anywhere at this moment,’ she avoided. ‘Falkner, I—I’m very appreciative of all you’ve done for me—’

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