For Death Comes Softly Read Free Page B

pretty damn stupid to be bowled over by a smile when you’ve just come back from the dead. But then, I’ve never been very bright when it comes to matters of the heart – let alone the more basic urges.
    â€˜I’m Robin Davey, by the way,’ he said.
    Even in my state of weakness I recognised the name. The Davey family had owned Abri for generations and Robin Davey was about the nearest thing to a feudal lord this side of the remains of Hadrian’s Wall. I judged him to be somewhere in his mid-forties, and his face was of the sort that is inclined to improve with age. He had wispy reddish blond hair, thinning a bit, which in no way lessened his attractiveness, and the brightest of blue eyes. They held an obvious warmth and humour in the way they crinkled at the edges and he positively oozed charm.
    â€˜I’m so sorry, Miss Piper, that I was not here to welcome you to my island and I am even sorrier I was not here to stop what happened yesterday afternoon.’
    I struggled to remember exactly what had happened.
    â€˜Was it you who rescued me from that rock?’ I asked hesitantly.
    He nodded imperceptibly.
    I could remember being taken out there by the boy, Jason. But what had happened then? Why had he left me there? I began to ask more questions.
    Robin Davey shook his head. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘For now you must rest. I just hope you feel able to accept my apologies and my hospitality.’
    He stood up then. He was a big man, definitely well over six feet tall, and I could not help noticing the breadth of his shoulders and the slenderness of his hips as he left the room.
    It was just as I was beginning to realise that the one question I might have insisted upon asking was exactly where I was, that the door opened again and in bustled a thin rather severe-looking woman, balancing a tray on which sat a bowl of something steaming.
    â€˜I’m Mrs Cotley, Mr Robin’s housekeeper,’ she said in a soft voice which completely belied her somewhat forbidding appearance. ‘Mr Robin says that his home is your home, and that I’m to look after you,’ she went on, at least half-answering my as yet unspoken question.
    She brought the tray to the bedside, with one hand flicked something underneath it so that it grew neat little legs, then manoeuvred it across my lap. I looked down at myself with interest as I lay caged within the tray’s wooden frame. I appeared to be clad in a man’s nightshirt. It was striped in blue and made of the kind of cosy flannelette I vaguely remembered from my childhood.
    â€˜Mr Robin’s,’ said Mrs Cotley, who obviously didn’t miss much. ‘Hope you don’t mind, most comfortable nightwear you can get, they be.’
    I shook my head, and barely even had the strength to wonder if Mr Robin had helped me into the nightshirt. Not likely with Mrs Cotley around. Meanwhile my nostrils were being invaded by the smell of something wonderfully good.
    â€˜This is my special home-made chicken broth, my dear,’ said Mrs Cotley soothingly. ‘And I want you to eat it all up. ‘Twill bring your strength back in no time.’
    Obediently I picked up my spoon and overcame – just – a slightly hysterical desire to giggle. The whole thing was like living out a cliché. I had been rescued by a quite gorgeous man and now I was sitting up in bed in his house eating chicken broth and being mothered by his housekeeper.
    Mrs Cotley’s chicken broth turned out to be nothing to giggle about, and tasted every bit as good as it smelt. Even that, however, could not quite bring about a miracle. My ordeal had taken its toll. It was, I learned, mid-afternoon. I had been more or less asleep since being put to bed shortly before midnight, and I still felt exhausted.
    Mrs Cotley insisted that I stay in bed, but in fact I wasn’t arguing. It was late the following morning before I woke properly and reckoned I was at