Free Fugitive Wife by Sara Craven Page B

down at them as if he was having difficulty in focussing, or even recognising what they were.

    ‘You brought them? You?’

    ‘Yes. I work at U.P.G. now―in the cuttings library. No one else was free to bring these, so I was sent.’ She could hear herself stammering a little, aware that her colour had heightened.

    ‘God in heaven!’ Logan leaned against the door jamb and shook his head as if he was trying to clear it.

    ‘You’re not wel,’ she said, al her concern aroused. ‘Let me come in.’

    ‘I’m perfectly wel.’ He pushed the hair back from his forehead with an irritated gesture. ‘And I’m in no mood for a social cal.’

    ‘It isn’t a social cal.’ she protested, her anxious eyes searching his face, taking in his haggard expression, the shadows beneath his eyes, the lines which had deepened beside his mouth. ‘You’re il. You need a doctor. Let me . .’

    He gave a jeering laugh. ‘I need to finish this piece I’m writing on Cambodia, my dear MissNightingale, and for that I need another drink-several drinks, in fact, not medical attention.’

    He turned away abruptly and left her standing on the doorstep. She watched him move away, his steps betraying only the slightest
    unsteadiness as he walked down the passage, and after a brief hesitation she folowed, closing the front door behind her.

    He was standing by the desk in the sitting room when she went in. The desktop was littered with paper, and the typewriter stood open, a half-completed piece of copy in its rolers. Beside it stood a half-empty bottle of whisky and a used glass. The air was stale and reeked of cigarette smoke. Briony grimaced, and walking to the window pushed the lower sash up a few inches, permitting some welcome fresh air to enter the room.

    ‘Make yourself at home.’ Logan suggested grittily.

    ‘You need some black coffee.’ She set the cuttings files down on the desk and went towards the kitchen.

    ‘I’ve told you what I bloody need,’ he said savagely.

    ‘And it isn’t your ministrations for a kick-off. Now for God’s sake, get out and leave me in peace!’

    She glanced round the disordered room. ‘I like your idea of peace,’ she said cooly. ‘It isn’t mine.’

    ‘But then so few of our ideas coincide,’ he mocked. ‘Go home, Briony. I don’t want you here.’ He grabbed the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and screwed it into a bal, hurling it to the ground with a muttered obscenity.

    ‘You need someone,’ she retorted. ‘How long is it since you last ate?’

    ‘I don’t remember. Does it matter?’

    ‘Of course it does! No wonder you’re awash with whisky on an empty stomach. I’l make you some scrambled egg.’

    ‘God,’ he muttered under his breath. Then, ‘If I eat your bloody eggs wil you go?’

    We’l see.’ She slipped off her jacket and tossed it on to the sofa. She found eggs and butter in the kitchen, and washed the pan she proposed to use. The eggs were as near perfection as she had ever managed, fluffy and creamy, and she felt a flicker of pride as she spooned them on to the waiting rounds of crisp toast.

    Logan was typing when she re-entered the sitting room, his entire concentration fixed on the words forming on the paper in front of him. He hardly seemed aware of her presence as she stood beside him holding the tray.

    At last she ventured, ‘Logan―you must eat.’

    He said curtly, ‘Leave it somewhere. I’l eat it later.’

    ‘It wil spoil,’ she began to protest, then, reading the anger in his face, she capitulated, setting the tray down on table by the sofa. She sat down, watching him, sensing that at that moment he was being driven by something she did not and never would understand.

    It was a relief when he ripped the sheet out of the machine and laid it down. Almost abstractedly, he reached out for a fork and she put the food within his reach as he read over what he had written. Briony realised suddenly she was holding her breath, and