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A contemporary adult romance novel. WARNING! BRITISH ENGLISH! |
| This train journey was proper dragging. The sun set hours ago. Sara frequently used this service, and it didn’t usually take so long. She'd even been forced to pay a visit to the onboard bog, which she wouldn't usually do, but pregnant girls had needs. Outside, the countryside lay under a heavy blanket of snow, and ice crept along the window like an infestation. The public address system spouted excuses why the train was three hours behind schedule. At this rate, she doubted she'd reach Thornthorpe before midnight. The elderly bloke sitting beside her had given her the cold shoulder since King's Cross. Whenever she attempted to engage him in conversation, he tapped his hearing aid and shook his head. He was faking it. Her novel lay unopened on the table. She skimmed the dust cover for the umpteenth time. It was a Stephenie Meyer book her best friend Chard recommended, insisting it was better than Twilight. She'd meant to read it for ages, but the plot would inevitably involve romance, and she couldn't deal with that after her run-in with the ginger guy. Recalling what she'd said and how rude she’d been, her cheeks flushed. At least lots of passengers got off in Stevenage so he must have a seat now. He might even have got off himself anywhere between there and here, wherever here was. Try as she might, she couldn't get his face out of her head. He looked familiar, though she couldn't figure out from where. But neither her acute embarrassment nor his inexplicable familiarity was the reason she couldn't stop visualising him. He was quite simply the hottest guy she'd ever met. Sara needed to get this guy out of her system, so she dug out her sketchpad and a pencil. She flipped through the pad past a portrait of Mum, a daffodil from last spring, a swan on the Thames, a raven from the Tower, and a sketch of Chard. The following page was deliciously blank. Had she really drawn nothing since her friend visited in May? She began with an oval, outlining a square jaw at its base. The guy's straight Roman nose came next. From there, his remaining symmetrical features slotted easily into place. He looked around thirty, but the faint lines she shaded across his forehead aged him beyond that. Under his hairy chin, she sketched a thicker than average neck and attached that to broad shoulders. Honestly, who would expect a man with shoulders like that to be disabled? His torso belonged on an all-action hero. He wasn't Hollywood A-List handsome. Just distinctive. Unique. And, dodgy leg aside, the whole package was mouthwatering. Ugh! This wasn’t helping. She sighed and touched her bump. Even before she got pregnant and put on weight, Sara was short and dumpy. Hot guys like this never went for geeks like her except in fantasies. If only she'd been svelte like Chard, who resembled a young Kate Moss. She returned her attention to the sketch. With only graphite to form her palette, she couldn't capture the red that highlighted his hair like glowing coals, the slightly darker shade of his beard, or the steel blue of his eyes. Perhaps once she got to Mum’s she could dig out her old watercolours. She chewed the end of her pencil. Thinking about it, the guy looked a bit like Prince Harry. Was that why he seemed familiar? He had that kind of accent, too. Posh like the royal family. But he spoke with such a rich, deep voice that the accent sounded appealing from his perfect, full lips. Yeah, there was something indefinably masculine about his mouth. His beard looked ticklish, but the thought of pressing her lips against his caused her stomach to tingle. She pictured him nibbling her lower lip, then trailing a row of gentle kisses across her chin and down her neck. Her imagination drifted lower. ‘That’s really good.’ Her hand flew to her chest and she glanced around. What? Was the old bloke talking to her now? ‘Er … sorry?’ He jabbed a gnarled finger at her sketch. ‘I said that's impressive. It really looks like him.’ ‘Er … yeah. He has a distinctive face, which helps.’ ‘You could make good money doing those for tourists, you know.’ ‘Thanks.’ Sara had considered that during her undergraduate years, but not all her portraits came out as well as this one. Actually, at university she had produced better artwork carving wood, but sketchpads were easier to carry around. Up until now, her only proper good sketches were of Mum and close friends. Strange how she’d captured this guy's likeness at first sight. Why was she so obsessed with a stranger? It was probably her hormones. Ever since her pregnancy began, her emotions had bounced up and down like a bungee jumper. Ironically, she'd never experienced a huge sex drive around Tom. Since he abandoned her, she’d become as horny as a teenage girl at a boy band concert. She glanced through the window to gauge how far they'd progressed, but snow fell so thick she couldn't see farther than a few feet outside. ‘Has it been like that for long?’ she asked. ‘Since Newark, though it grew worse after Retford.’ Retford? She'd been so engrossed in her sketch. she hadn't realised they’d crossed into Nottinghamshire. If it was this bad here, she dreaded to think what the weather would be like in Yorkshire. Brakes screeched. The carriage jolted. People cursed and screamed. The momentum threw Sara forward. She flung her arms out to protect her bump. Her sketchpad and novel slid off the table. The carriage swayed violently from side to side. Then the swings subsided, and the train shuddered to a halt. A child burst into tears. As a schoolteacher, Sara had received regular first aid training and had considerable experience treating small playground accidents. She turned to check the elderly bloke. He glanced around in confusion but didn't look hurt. In the aisle, a man lay where he'd fallen. She made to stand, but he groaned and began rising by himself. The child was still crying, but it sounded like shock rather than pain. She surveyed the surrounding chaos. Thankfully, it didn’t look as though anybody nearby had been injured. A nasal voice on the public address system apologised for the sudden stop and advised passengers to stay calm and remain seated. Sara swallowed. Yeah, that was sensible. Eight month's pregnant, overexertion should probably be avoided. Then a thought flashed through her mind. What if the guy with the manky leg was standing when all that shaking began? He could be hurt and it was her fault. More to the point, she might be the only person nearby trained in first aid. She gripped the table and stood. Stepping into the aisle, she stumbled a few feet, feeling woozy. She pressed on regardless. She must check he was all right. *** Rupert gripped the table so tight his knuckles turned white. He trembled in his seat. For a minute there, he'd been transported back to Helmand Province, his convoy under fire. As the reality of the current situation came into focus, he glanced around at the chaotic scene — the frightened voices and crying children comforted by concerned parents. No smoke and fire. No blood and gore. No severed limbs. No Jerry screaming for his mother. He took a calming breath and relaxed his grip. Thankfully, he was the only person sat around this table, so nobody saw him freak out. He grabbed his stick and struggled to his feet. Ignoring the pain flaring in his leg, he scanned the rest of the compartment to see if anybody required assistance. Shame he didn't have a first aid kit, but he still might be able to render some assistance. He'd received training in field medicine and had dressed bullet wounds for men awaiting extraction. Once he'd even assisted a doctor in Sangin to deliver a baby in the back of an armoured transport vehicle. That memory reminded Rupert about the pregnant woman. How close was she to term? An incident like this could prove traumatic for someone in her condition, the kind of stress that might induce premature labour. Outside, snowflakes whizzed past the windows, blowing horizontally. Imagine her fear if her contractions began, stuck in a train during a blizzard. She might need help. He stepped out into the aisle and hobbled towards his original seat, passing confused and dazed people but none injured. Entering the next compartment, he bumped into somebody hurrying the other way. His bad leg gave way. He collapsed with an undignified yelp, and his buttocks smacked the floor. ‘Oh, I'm so sorry,’ said a familiar, shrill voice. He glanced up and groaned. That pretty woman stood over him. Now she must think him a fool. She crouched and offered her hand, but he didn't take it. He was heavy, so she might hurt herself trying to pull him up. She stood and wrung her hands. ‘I was coming to check you're okay.’ She was? That was a surprise. ‘I thought you might be standing in the aisle.’ Ah, she was driven by guilt. That made sense. Two burly men appeared from nearby seats, and he allowed them to assist him to his feet. One handed him back his walking stick. The woman thanked the men as if they'd helped her, then threaded her arm through his. He found her proximity most distracting. ‘Let me help you to your seat.’ Oh. Of course. The cripple can't take two steps without assistance. He pulled his arm away and stepped back. ‘No thank you. You've helped quite enough for one day.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘S-sorry.’ Rupert experienced a pang of guilt at her hurt expression, but she only offered assistance because she thought him feeble. Turning his back on her, he limped back to his lonely seat. He wanted to be alone. |
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