Whatever had happened in the woods, he'd be a fool if he didn't realise that she would just as soon forget it. Just because he'd broken down the barriers once was no reason to believe he could break them down again. In fact, because of what had happened, she'd be that much more on her guard against him. He may have been proved victorious in a skirmish, but the real battle was still to be won.

Her mother had seated her daughter diagonally across from him at the table, and so far she'd barely glanced his way. When she wasn't eating, or talking to Marshall or her father, she was hiding behind her wineglass. And for all she appeared to be at ease, he sensed she wasn't enjoying it at all.

His lips twisted at the memory of waking and finding her already dressed for supper. When they got back from the walk, he'd needed no persuasion to take a rest, and he'd been unconscious for a couple of hours. Evidently, he'd used up what small amount of stamina he'd accumulated. But whether it was the walk-or his tortured emotions-that had exhausted him, he didn't know.

Anyway, by the time he lifted his head from the pillow, she'd been dressed in the ivory silk jersey tunic she was wearing this evening. He guessed she'd arranged it that way, making sure she didn't disturb him until she was safely ready to go downstairs. Her excuse, that he had needed the rest, was one with which he couldn't argue. Though he'd promised himself he wouldn't be quite such a pushover again.

And there was no doubt that in one way Follett's intervention that afternoon had proved beneficial. He had been frozen, and his legs had felt like jelly by the time he got back to the house. It would have been embarrassing if he hadn't been able to finish what his raging hormones had started. It was easy to be confident after the event.

And, after all, the doctor had told him it would take him some time to recover completely. Apparently, shock could do that to you. Shock, and the blow he'd taken to his head. Just because there was nothing to see, the damage was no less debilitating. He was still considered convalescent, but if he was patient, he'd eventually recover his strength.

And his memory...

But he didn't want to think about that, and there was no doubt his weakness had proved beneficial to his wife. He'd given her the perfect chance to regain her composure and that annoying air of vulnerability that she wore around her like a shield.

He wondered what she'd been doing while he was sleeping. Socialising with Marshall? He found he didn't like that idea at all. And she certainly seemed to be getting on well with him this evening. He'd noticed her mother kept giving them a thoughtful look.

As for Matthew Webster, he guessed the events of the day had tired him, too. What had Caitlin said? That he wasn't supposed to suffer any stress? Well, that was a joke, if this morning's interview was anything to go by. Despite the fact that O'Brien had asked most of the questions, the older man was still the guiding force.

"Mrs Goddard is a marvellous cook, isn't she?"

Beside him, the young schoolteacher had evidently decided he'd been silent long enough. And although he wasn't really in the mood to indulge in pleasantries, it would have been rude not to acknowledge her words.

"Are you an expert, Miss Kendall?" he inquired, and was gratified to see his smile had found its mark. It was a relief to find that she welcomed his attention. After the way Caitlin behaved, he was getting quite a complex where his amnesia was concerned.

"Who, me?" she exclaimed now, her eyes full of humour. "Heavens, no. I've been known to burn water. But I do appreciate good food. Particularly Mrs Goddard's. I've tasted the cakes she sometimes makes for the church's coffee mornings. They're sold out in no time, believe me. And they're delicious."

"Oh, I see." He pulled a wry face. "So I suppose you couldn't resist an invitation to Fairings. Even if you've been stuck with the oddball of the bunch."

Nancy Kendall looked surprised. "The oddball?" she echoed, a trace of embarrassment staining her cheeks. "I don't think I understand what you mean."

"Oh, I'm sure you do," he replied feelingly, and then realised he was using her to expunge the frustration he felt towards Caitlin. "At least, you should. You must have heard what's been going on."

Nancy frowned. "What has been going on?"

He gave her a bleak look. "Don't tell me you don't know about my condition."

"Well, I know you were on that plane that crashed on take-off in New York." Nancy shrugged. "I heard that you weren't seriously injured. But that you've had some temporary loss of memory since it happened."

His smile was ironic now. "Some temporary loss of memory." He repeated her words. "You make it sound almost normal."

"Well, it's not uncommon, is it?" she exclaimed. "And the accident must have been a terrible shock to your system. I once went over the handlebars of my bike, and I couldn't even remember where I lived for about an hour. I know that isn't really comparable, but it shows that sort of thing can happen. You just have to be patient."

His smile widened. "Is that so?" he said mockingly. "All I have to do is get on with my life, and my memory will come back?"

"Well, it's better than feeling sorry for yourself, isn't it?" she countered. "At least you're not paralysed, or anything like that."

"No." He nodded. "You know, you've made me feel a whole lot better. The amnesia is only temporary. I've got to remember that." He grimaced. "It's just going to take a little time. I guess I'm not a freak after all."

"Who said you were?" Nancy was horrified, but he found he couldn't blame anyone else for that. It was his own hypersensitivity to any criticism that was really the problem. And Caitlin's unwillingness to share her fears with him.

"I guess I did," he said now, as the maid Mrs Goddard had hired for the evening came to clear their soup plates away, and Nancy relaxed as she realised he had made a joke.

"So long as I haven't upset you," she murmured. "I'm not always the most tactful person around."

"On the contrary." He was finding it was easy to talk to her. It was a relief to speak to someone who didn't have a stake in him getting well. "As a matter of fact, I'm very glad you came."

Nancy smiled, and aware that they were attracting his wife's attention now, he deliberately sought a way to prolong the conversation. "Tell me," he said, "how long have you known the Websters?"

"Not long." Nancy pulled a face. "And I don't know them that well, really. But I run the junior Scout pack in the village, and Mrs Webster is a patron of the church."

"Ah." He nodded. "Is-Mrs Webster involved with the Scouts, too?"

"Oh, no." Nancy shook her head. "She just lets us hold our jamborees in the grounds here at Fairings. And fetes, too-to raise money for the church."

"I see." He paused. "So I suppose you're quite a regular visitor here."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." She was appealingly candid. "I've never been invited to supper before."

Which meant his earlier supposition was probably correct. She had been invited to even the numbers. It seemed Matthew Webster would go to great lengths to make his "assistant" feel at home.

But why?

The solution when it came was so obvious, he was amazed he hadn't thought of it before. And he knew in some distant corner of his mind that he wasn't yet privy to, he had encountered such a situation in the past. He didn't know what the situation was, or how it might connect with himself. But he was firmly convinced he'd hit the jackpot. Marshall wasn't just Matthew Webster's assistant. He was his son!

But not his legitimate son, he guessed, or surely Caitlin would have mentioned it. Which begged the obvious question: did she know about it? His guess was that she didn't. But Mrs Webster-she was a different matter. Judging by the way she'd treated Marshall earlier, he was fairly sure she wasn't in the dark.

He shook his head a little ruefully. No wonder he'd felt so tense when they'd been giving him the third degree that morning. He'd been convinced then that there was more to their relationship, but he'd been following a different train of thought. Now, however, he was stunned by the resemblances between them. If Marshall hadn't always worn his glasses, surely Caitlin would have noticed, as well.

"Does your doctor have any idea how long the amnesia is likely to last?" Nancy asked suddenly, diverting him, and he forced himself to offer a reply.

"Not as far as I know," he said. "It's one of those imponderables. As a matter of fact, Caitlin's father has made arrangements for me to see another specialist next week."

Nancy nodded, and then the maid's reappearance with the main course prevented her from going on. A delicious rack of lamb was on offer, along with a selection of vegetables, but because he was more used to hospital fare, he took very little.

Caitlin was still watching them, he noticed. It was a surreptitious appraisal, interspersed with the conversation she was having with Marshall, but vaguely hostile just the same. He guessed she was wondering what he was saying to Nancy. If it wasn't so absurd, he'd have said she was jealous.

"It must be frustrating," his companion added, after the maid had passed along the table, and he acknowledged that that emotion was his constant tribulation.

"It would be nice if I could remember my own family," he conceded. "Until then, I'll just blunder on, I suppose."

"Well, if you ever need someone to talk to, I hope you won't hesitate to call on me," she averred firmly, and to his astonishment, she placed her hand on top of his as it rested beside his plate. She squeezed his knuckles as he looked at her disbelievingly. "I mean it, Nathan. I'd be happy to be of help."

He sucked in his breath. "Thanks," he said, but as soon as he was able, he drew his hand away from that intimate clasp. It appeared that Nancy Kendall was not as shy-or as innocent-as he'd imagined. And, although there was nothing in her eyes to alter his original opinion of her, he sensed she felt some justification for her behaviour.

But what? For God's sake, he thought impatiently, he'd thought she was talking as his friend. But now it appeared she'd received entirely different signals. And she wasn't averse to taking advantage of her chance.

As well as angering him, it also resurrected all his earlier fears about himself and the kind of man he really was. Was this why Caitlin refused to let him near her? Was he the kind of guy who came on to every available female in sight?

He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. He had never been that interested in the opposite sex. Oh, he liked women, and there was no doubt about his sexuality. But he wasn't the kind of man who'd cheat on his wife.

Or would he...?

Although he made an effort to enjoy the meal, he hardly tasted the meat or the mouth-watering fruit compote that followed. His efforts to avoid any further embarrassing incidents were giving him a headache, and he couldn't wait for supper to be over so he could leave the table. If Nancy thought he was being rude, he didn't care.

Coffee was served in the drawing room. It was another area of the house he wasn't yet acquainted with-or was it reacquainted? he wondered broodingly. At any rate, it was new to him. In an effort to distract his thoughts, he tried to find some point of recognition. But nothing would stimulate his absent brain.

It was a beautiful room. He didn't need any spurt of memory to acknowledge that reality. With delicately striped walls, a veined marble mantel, and an enormous Chinese carpet covering the polished floor, it couldn't help but elicit some response. The appointments had obviously been chosen with care and elegant simplicity, but it was no more familiar than anything else had been.

Still, at least since leaving the table, he'd been able to avoid any further involvement with Nancy Kendall. Declining her invitation to join her on one of a pair of matching Regency sofas, he had taken up a position by the hearth, where a real log fire crackled in the grate. The warmth was welcome, too, helping to thaw the anxious core of nerves inside him. And, as he stared into the leaping flames, he felt a faint glimmer of perception stir his mood.

The phone rang at that moment, shattering any trace of recognition he had nurtured. And Caitlin, who had just entered the room behind her father, said, "I'll get it," and disappeared along the hall.

"If it's for me, tell whoever it is I'll get back to them later," called Matthew Webster diplomatically, taking note of his wife's expression. He offered an apologetic grimace. "People always ring at the most inconvenient times."

"Your friends do, certainly," agreed his wife crisply, seating herself beside the low table where Mrs Goddard had set the coffee tray. She looked across at the young schoolteacher. "Cream and sugar for you, Nancy?"

Mrs Webster was serving Marshall when Caitlin returned, but although she arched a quizzical brow at her daughter, the younger woman barely spared her mother a glance. "It's for you," she said, directing her attention to her husband. "You can take it in the study," she added coldly. Then, without waiting for his response, she went to collect her cup from the tray.

"For me?"

He knew his voice shook a little, and he could feel the sudden wave of curiosity that swept the room. Christ, he thought sickly, who could be calling him here? And what had he done to deserve those hostile looks?

Caitlin nodded, looking at him over the rim of her cup with narrowed eyes. "For you," she repeated, without enlarging on the statement. And because they were all waiting for him to go and answer the call, he set his own coffee cup down.

He wanted to ask who it was that was calling him, but his pride forbade an inquiry of that sort. In any case, as soon as he left the room, Caitlin would probably tell them. And it wasn't as if he wasn't eager to hear a friendly voice.

With a murmur of apology to Mrs Webster, he walked somewhat stiffly across the room. He wouldn't give Caitlin the satisfaction of asking why she looked so scornful. And at least he knew where the study was.

The room looked slightly less intimidating in the lamplight. That morning, it had had a decidedly businesslike air. Or perhaps it was just the questions Matthew Webster and his cohort had levelled at him that had made him feel so uncomfortable. Although he'd answered them as honestly as he could, it was obvious he hadn't been of any help.

His hand shook as he reached for the phone. Despite the fact that he kept telling himself that he must have friends in England, he pulled his hand back once, feeling his fingers curling into a fist. But he couldn't hang up, not without finding out who was calling. Drying his damp palm against his thigh, he finally forced himself to lift the receiver off the desk.

"Hello?"

His throat was dry, and the word came out barely audibly. But whoever it was seemed to recognise his voice. "Nathan?" someone said. "Is that you, Nathan?"

Ridiculously, his first reaction was to deny it. The name sounded more unfamiliar than ever. Nathan? he thought. Was that really his name? Nathan. Dear God, it should mean something-but it didn't.

But he had to answer, and acknowledging the fact that it was a woman's voice, he said carefully, "Who is this? Do I know you?"

"Do you know me?" Her shrill response warned him she knew nothing of his loss of memory. "Quit shitting me, Nathan. I don't know what game you think you're playing. I've been waiting for you to call me. Where have you been?"

"Where have I been?"

He was stunned by the accusation, and as if realising she had been a little unfeeling, she moderated her tone. "I know, I know," she said. "You've been in the hospital. But, dammit, you must have known how I'd be feeling when I heard about the crash."

"Well, I-"

His uncertainty was evident, and before he could even begin to explain what had happened and ask her her name, she drew a breath. "Oh, I get it," she said. "There's someone there with you. Is it your wife?" She paused, but not long enough for him to make a denial, before continuing, "I didn't mean to make things difficult for you. But I was getting desperate. Ring me. Ring me tomorrow. You know where I'll be."

16.

He hadn't expected to find Caitlin in the bedroom when he finally found his way upstairs.

Since the embarrassing incident of the phone call, she hadn't even spoken to him, and he was well aware she hadn't believed him when he'd told the others he didn't know who the caller was. Of course, no one had actually asked him. It had been left to him to explain. And he'd done so to the best of his ability, hoping the Websters might know the woman's identity.

But no one had professed to have any knowledge of her at all. Although, judging from his wife's expression, he suspected she was not deceived. It was obvious she thought the woman was his mistress. Who else would have the nerve to ask for him after his wife had answered the phone?

Which could explain Caitlin's attitude towards him. If- however unlikely it seemed at the moment-he did have a mistress, then their marriage was probably on the rocks. Yet her parents had invited him here, so they apparently knew nothing about it. And Caitlin was still living with him, whatever he had done.

Nevertheless, the call had ruined the remains of a fairly unsatisfactory evening, and he couldn't help feeling slightly resentful at the thought. His feelings towards the woman, whoever she was, were decidedly unfriendly, however, and he wondered if all amnesiacs suffered such a lack of self-respect.

Caitlin was standing by the window.

She had said she was going up to bed earlier, straight after Nancy Kendall had left, and he had not anticipated that he would find her here. On the contrary, after what had happened, he'd been quite prepared to find that her belongings had been removed. Even before that call this evening, she hadn't trusted him.

He had shared a rather strained glass of brandy with her father and Marshall after both the women had gone to bed. They'd apparently suspended hostilities-at least until the morning-but he'd been glad when he could plead tiredness and escape.

It had been an exhausting day-in more ways than one- and finding his wife waiting for him wasn't exactly to his taste. In other circumstances, of course, that would not have been his reaction, but he doubted her intentions were charitable.

However, if she was expecting an explanation, she was going to be disappointed. He simply didn't have one to give. Somehow the woman had known this number. For some reason, she'd expected him to ring her. But whatever Caitlin believed, she meant nothing to him.

Caitlin turned when she heard the door open, and he saw she was still dressed in the slim-fitting tunic she'd worn for supper. It was short-its hem ended a good two inches above her shapely knees-with a modestly scooped neckline and long sleeves. The ivory silk jersey hugged her upper body before flaring into a wealth of pleats from the hip. It was simple, yet effective; unpretentious, yet stylishly elegant, and was not designed to keep his blood pressure at rest. But her expression wasn't sexy; it was downright disapproving, and he wished she'd saved her resentment for the morning.

Still, there was no reason why their conversation should be overheard by the rest of the household, and closing the door, he leant back against the panels. He felt incredibly weary, and his head was swimming slightly, due no doubt to all the alcohol he'd consumed.

"Are you all right?"

Her first words disconcerted him. He'd been expecting an accusation from her, or worse. To discover she was apparently concerned about him didn't fit the image. He didn't want her pity, whatever she might think.

"I'm tired," he replied at last, relieved to hear he sounded less muddled than he felt. He flexed his spine experimentally, wondering if it would continue to support him. Then, evenly, "I thought you'd gone to bed."

"Not yet."

Her response was unnecessary in the circumstances, but he guessed it gave her time to think. He wished he knew why she'd chosen to wait up for him. To inform him she was sleeping someplace else?

"You don't look very steady," she observed, and he wondered if she was enjoying his confusion. "You shouldn't have drunk so much wine at supper. I'm not sure you should be drinking alcohol at all."

He expelled his breath on a sigh. "Is this what you've waited up to tell me?" he asked. "Your concern is duly noted, if not appreciated at this time." His lips twisted. "You know, I was expecting a verbal lashing. Or perhaps a continuation of the icy silence you treated me to downstairs."