A shiver cut through her body and she had to fight hard against the urge to cry in front of a stranger who did not feel like a stranger.
The cottage was cast in darkness, the thin light in the centre of the front room doing little to dispel the early morning shadows, and she stood, blankly staring ahead until she realised that she was looking straight at Roman who, once again, seemed greatly concerned about her.
He nodded to himself once, as if coming to a decision, and turned towards the fireplace and set about building a fire from the logs and kindling beside it. All the while she stood there as if capable of no more. She certainly felt that way.
Once the fire was crackling and snapping, beautiful flames dancing and reaching towards the open damper, he came towards her and stood so close that she had to lift her head up to see his face. Some wicked sense within her wanted to lean into him. Wanted him to take her in his arms. As if sensing her thoughts, he lifted his hands.
‘May I?’
She wasn’t sure what he was asking for but nodded her permission anyway. She feared for a moment that she would give this stranger anything. A numbness had settled about her and she felt detached from the world about her but deeply present for the man in front of her.
His hands came together to release the clasp holding the cloak about her shoulders, and gently pushed it back and placed it aside. She shivered at the brief contact of his hands against her skin, the low neckline of her dress leaving her vulnerable to his touch. Her pulse kicked up and goose bumps prickled her skin as he guided her to the sofa opposite the fire and placed a warm cashmere blanket around her shoulders.
‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’
‘No.’
He seemed displeased by this answer, as if outraged by the thought of her being alone. Leaving her in the living area, he disappeared from sight and she heard the sounds of a kettle being boiled, cups and spoons being rattled and the fridge opening and closing.
When he returned to her, she marvelled at the lack of fear she felt as he loomed over her. No, most definitely not fear, but a strange yearning even she could recognise was outrageously inappropriate. Inexplicably, she wanted to reach for him, to steal some of the strength she could almost feel emanating from him.
In spite of the darkness of the cottage, Ella saw the molten heat in his eyes, felt it warm her more than any fire or flame. Heard the sharp intake of his breath, and watched with a sense of shame as he stepped back from her. Her cheeks burnt and she turned her head aside, hoping that she hadn’t betrayed herself, as a curl of confused humiliation swept through her.
‘I should go.’
This drew her gaze back to his, now completely shadowed by the shafts of shade in the cottage.
‘How can I thank you?’
‘We can figure that out next time.’
‘Next time?’ Ella repeated, hating that she sounded so hopeful.
‘The next time we meet in the woods.’
It was two days before she saw any sign of Roman again. Two days in which her grandmother regained consciousness and underwent operations and procedures to heal her hip and the shoulder fracture resulting from the fall.
When her grandmother had first woken, she had mistaken Ella for her mother, Adeline. It had only been for a few moments, but the bittersweet cut to her heart had been deep. Her grandmother was Ella’s only connection to her French mother and she hoarded any fragments Claudette had ever told her. Ella’s childhood summers had been spent wandering the woods and delving deeper into the stories that her grandmother would tell of the handsome American tycoon Nathaniel Riding and the sweet innocent Adeline Ardoin who had met, fallen in love and married within months. She knew her grandmother had been heartbroken when they had relocated to Russia for Nathaniel’s business and even more lost when Adeline had passed away, and Ella had been reluctant to break the spell that had returned Claudette’s daughter to her, almost sixteen years after her death.
But her grandmother’s sharp mind had quickly orientated itself and, with a single tear slowly tumbling down her softly lined features, Claudette Ardoin had shaken her head and apologised for being an old fool. After several meetings with doctors and medical personnel, it was clear that Claudette would be staying in hospital for at least two weeks and was highly unlikely to be able to return to the cottage and her independence that she valued so much.
It was the awful practicalities, the decisions to be made, the almost upsetting specifics of moving her grandmother into a care home that left Ella feeling a little shaken and unsettled. And with startling clarity she realised the magnitude of what her guardian had done for her as a child.
When her parents had been killed in a helicopter accident, Ella had been only five. Even all those years ago, Claudette had not been able to take her in and care for her, due to her age and minimal income, and Ella had been given over to Vladimir Kolikov, her father’s business partner and closest friend. So the daughter of an American father—an only son whose parents had both died far too young—and a French mother went to live in Russia with a man who might have been a bit isolated and cold, but was more than ready and willing to give her a home, to care for her and make decisions for her. Vladimir was not the easiest of men, but Ella felt an affection there and as a child had
