Saving Nathaniel (19 page)

Megan released herself from his grip and cradled his face. 'Oh, sweetheart. You're not to blame for anything…it was an accident…you weren't to know. Nobody knew.'

Burning tears flooded into his eyes, dividing his vision, blurring and distorting her until he could only see her as through a kaleidoscope.

'It is my fault! It's all my fault! If I hadn't...hadn't forced her to have my baby, she would still be here now! I killed her…I killed my baby…I murdered them!!'

'NO!! None of it is your fault. It was an accident. You are not to blame. You must believe that. You must!'

'I CAN'T!!'

He began to tremble violently as control slipped inexorably out of his grasp. He snatched at it. A pointless act. It was too far gone. And then he felt it; the touch of Megan's fingertip, as she brushed it over his cheek to wipe away one of his spilled tears.

Like a spear head, it pierced the abscess of his years-old grief, swollen and ripened to a pulsating head, rupturing it and allowing its putrid, corruptive contents to gush forth. And with it went his remaining strength, and he collapsed into a heap of unendurable wretchedness.

Then he felt himself all together enveloped and lifted. Arms were about him; Megan's arms, enfolding him, bearing him, holding him with determined ferocity. He surrendered to their strength, their warmth, their safety, and wrapped his arms tightly around her slight frame, clinging to her with the desperation of a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. With his face buried in the crook of her neck, he lost himself. Chains of loud, racking sobs shook his entire body, and his unchecked tears flowed so profoundly, they soaked through the fabric of her dress.

She held the shattered man, enclosing him in her arms and rocking him as she would a distressed child, stroking his hair and kissing his head.

After a time his grip on her loosened. He sat up, blinking hard to clear his eyes. Emotion had tightened his voice into a hoarse, barely audible whisper. 'I'm sorry.'

She shushed him and brushed his hair from his face. 'It's alright. You have nothing to be sorry for.'

Her hands found his face again, now flushed and hot. Gently she pressed her lips to his cheek, the skin beneath still slightly salty. 'It's okay,' she whispered. 'Everything will be okay. You'll be okay. It's just going to take some time. And if you want, I'll help you.'

She looked into his eyes with their still damp lashes; heavy browed, grey-green and full of despair. She stroked his cheek, wiping away the last remnants of wetness and kissed it lightly. It was a meant as a gesture of reassurance; a light touch; no more than a brush of her lips.

And then his mouth was on hers. She couldn't breathe. His arms were around her, one hand clasping at the back of her head, his fingers entangled in her hair, the other grabbing a handful of the back of her dress. He held her in a crushing, vice-like grip and she couldn't move. She balled her hands into fists and pushed them against his chest. Without room for leverage her efforts to make him release her were ineffective. He pressed his lips hard against hers over and over again.

'Nat, stop it!'

He took her face in his hands and the kiss became deeper and more intense.

'Nat..! Nat! Stop it! Let go! I don't want this. Get OFF me!'

With all the strength she could muster, she struck out with both her fists and pushed against him. He fell away from her, and free of his constraint, she immediately leapt to her feet to take refuge behind the high backed office chair, using it as a shield. Panting for breath, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Nat stared up at her, wide-eyed as the realisation of what he had done hammered down on him.

'Oh God…oh Christ, Meg I'm so sorry! I…I shouldn't have done that; I'm so sorry. Please…forgive me…'

She clung onto the back of the chair, crying and shaking with shock, her fingernails digging into the leather. Sickened to the heart by what he had done, Nat's face crumpled with further agony and he dropped his head into his hands. 'I didn't mean it, Meg…I don't know what came over me. Please, forgive me…I'm sorry…'

Megan's emotions formed themselves into a tight tangled knot. Her heart was racing, primal instinct telling her to make her escape while she could, to get away and hide. Instead, she remained immobile as a statue, frozen in indecision. She should despise him for what he had done. He had just attacked her in the most appalling way, yet her one and only thought was to gather him into her arms again, to hold him to her and ease his distress.

Slowly she came out from behind the chair and made towards him. Before she reached him, he leapt to his feet and strode to the mantle where his dead wife's photograph stood. He didn't look at it, too ashamed to. Instead, he rested his forehead against the cold stone of the fireplace.

Megan moved silently to stand close behind him.

'Don't come any nearer,' he said, his voice taut with the anger and disgust he now felt for himself. 'It might be best if you went now, for your own sake.'

Ignoring his warning she stroked her hand over the back of his shoulders. 'Please, Nat, let me stay with you,' she said softly.

He shook his head. 'Go up to your room, Meg. Go upstairs and make sure you lock your door.' It was an order, not a request.

He felt her hand move over his back again, but before he could more firmly demand she leave him, the touch was gone, and so was she. The next sound he heard was the soft
click
of the study door closing. The room had never felt so empty.

He swallowed down Megan's abandoned nightcap and went in search of something else, anything else to drink.

Chapter 17

Nat slowly opened his eyes. They felt heavy, like glass marbles jammed too tightly into his skull. He lay still, spread-eagled on his stomach on the bed, staring into the far distance until full consciousness returned.

His head was pounding a rhythm in time with his heartbeat and he tried to wet his dried lips with a tongue that had both the taste and texture of a dog's blanket. He was surprised to find himself fully dressed

'What time is it?'

He lifted his head to look at the bedside clock; 10.45 a.m.

With a groaned, 'Urgh,' he collapsed back onto the bed, his cheek connecting with the cold, damp patch where he had drooled in his sleep.

He rolled onto his back and sunlight, streaming through a gap in the drapes, stabbed his eyes. He threw his arm over them, giving shade from the blinding abuse. Carefully, he sat up and tested his equilibrium. It seemed to be in working order. He noticed he was still wearing one shoe.

'Why the hell am I in my clothes?'

He had no idea. His headache certainly indicated he might have had quite a bit to drink. He could only imagine he had crawled upstairs in the early hours of the morning and passed out on the bed before he could undress. At least he had managed to make it onto the bed and not under it this time.

He swung his legs over the side, kicked off the odd shoe and rested his elbows on his knees, raking vigorously at his scalp with his fingers to get some circulation going. He hacked out a cough to clear his dry throat.

The memory of the previous night was fuzzy but clearing. He remembered the dinner party well enough; the food, the abundant wine, the dreadful guests. After that, it all became a bit of a blur. There was something else...something important, something about Megan. In a rush, everything came to him; talking, touching, holding, tears and…

'Oh God, I kissed her! I kissed Megan!'

He dropped his head into his hands and let out a long, agonised moan.

'Please, God, please tell me it it's not true…tell me I didn't do it…tell me it was all a bad dream...' That he received no response to his plea, confirmed his suspicions. 'Oh shit!'

Receiving a rather urgent message from another part of his body, he stripped down to his underwear and staggered into the bathroom to pee. He stood over the toilet and while he waited for the release to begin, he pondered,

'Maybe she didn't stay the night. Maybe she went home. Maybe she'll be so disgusted with me she won't come in today. Maybe…'

A series of knocks at his bedroom door interrupted the flow of both his urine and his thoughts, quickly dispelling his maybes.

'Oh shit…what the hell am I going to say to her? I don't want to face her. I can't…'

'Just a minute!' he called, and urged his reluctant bladder with a muttered, 'Come
on
!'

It seemed to take an eternity until he was finally relieved. He rinsed his hands, dried them and threw on his bathrobe. 'Come in!'

A smiling Megan entered the bedroom carrying a breakfast tray precariously balanced on her forearm. She had the morning's newspapers clutched in her hand. She deposited her cargo on the bed while he stayed in the bathroom doorway, fumbling with tying the belt of his robe.

She looks inordinately cheerful…considering, he thought. But this is Just Megan, remember. Looks can be deceiving. Still waters run deep and hide big, sharp rocks...

'Good morning,' she said. 'I thought you might like some breakfast. I'm sorry it's so late, I overslept.' She looked the dishevelled man over and sniffed. 'So did you by the look of you. You alright?'

'Hmm,' he nodded.

'Good.' She went to the window to draw the drapes fully open, fussing with them until they hung straight and neat. He blinked in the bright light.

Say something. Tell her, man…tell her now…do the right thing. He coughed nervously. 'Meg…?'

'…it's a lovely day outside. I might walk into the village today…'

'Yes, fine, whatever...'

'…there's some aspirins for you on the tray, I thought you might need them.'

'Aye…'

'I brought you the papers too...'

'Thanks.'

'…do you want something else for your breakfast besides toast and marmalade? It'll be no trouble…I can do you bacon and eggs if you like…'

He rubbed at his rough cheek in frustration. For Christ's sake, woman, let me get a word in! I'm dying here. 'MEG!'

'Yes.'

'Will you please shut UP!' The sound of his own voice reverberated through his head, eliciting a bolt of dull pain.

She stepped towards him and fixed him with her luminous blue orbs. She lowered her voice to be a barely audible breath of sarcastic air. 'I'm so sorry, is that better?'

'Much, thank you.'

'What's the matter? Do you have a bit of a hangover?'

If he imagined she would have an ounce of pity for his pathetic state of health, he was sorely mistaken. He slowly massaged his temples with his fingers. 'Not yet, but I'm getting there.'

'Shall I get you the aspirins?'

'No, they can wait.' He dragged the chair out from where it stood against the wall. 'I have something I want to say to you first, and I need you to sit down here, shut up and listen.'

He kept his words measured and carefully spoken leaving her in no doubt he had something important to say. That was when he noticed her eyeing up the distance between herself and the open doorway.

'Can't it wait for another time? I really am rather busy. I have a mountain of dishes to do…and my chores and...'

She took a single step towards the gap. He skipped in front of her, blocking her retreat.

'No.' He closed the door, barring her exit completely. 'Sit.'

Megan reluctantly lowered herself into the wicker Lloyd loom chair, sitting primly on the edge of the cushioned seat, her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands folded demurely in her lap.

'If it's about last night, Nat, I don't want to talk about it,' she said, looking at her hands.

'It is and we have to.' There was a small
pop
and a creak from his knee as he knelt down on the floor in front of her. He took one of her hands, interlinking her small fingers between his larger ones. He took a deep preparatory breath and began.

'First of all, Megan...Meg, I'm begging your forgiveness. What I did last night was terrible, awful in fact, and you have every right to be angry. But I am sorry…it was an accident…I didn't mean to do it. I got overawed and out of control, I couldn't help myself. I give you my word, my solemn oath on my liver, that I'll never, ever do it again.'

With the state your liver must be in, you might as well swear on a pile of cabbages. They won't be wasted. I'll be able to make Broken Promise soup, she thought.

She regarded him with a face so still it might have been cast in plaster. He searched it for the smallest sign of…anything. He tightened his grip on her hand and she flinched with pain as his ring dug into her skin.

'Please Meg, say something.'

'Get up, Nat, you look silly,' she said, flatly.

'Please, just say you forgive me, Meg…please.'

'Why should I?'

'Because I need you to. I'm really, really sorry.'

She held his pleading gaze for what seemed an age. 'Then I forgive you,' she said finally, and heard him breathe a relieved, 'Thank you'.

He released her hand and she rubbed her bloodless fingers, blotchy red and white from the pressure, the indent of his ring clearly visible. Using the chair arm for support, he got to his feet and moved to the window.