Seacliff

Chapter seven: The frightened patient

1919

For the first time since the war, the day's exertion made sleep come easy to Saoirse. So easy, and so deep, that she didn't feel the arm encircling her waist until its heat had seeped through her nightgown into her skin.

Her eyes flew open. Panic froze her reflexes. She swallowed a scream and strained to stay as still as possible, listening to the intruder blow hot breaths on her nape. It could only be Sorley, couldn't it? That would explain the warmth. Gently, she lifted the arm off her hip and slipped out of bed.

A single glimpse at the bare torso and bandaged head confirmed her earlier guess and Saoirse heaved a sigh of relief. Smiling, she pulled the duvet up to his shoulders, before she tiptoed out of the room and into the guest chamber she had prepared for him. Saoirse wondered, as she slid under the covers and inhaled the fresh scent of clean linen, why Sorley had snuck into her bed. This one was only slightly smaller.

A shallow slumber overtook her now, in which her dreams consisted of crudely disjointed reality – low tide with a full moon, a kettle on the stove that didn't scorch her fingers, her aunt writing in the study... Aware she was dreaming, Saoirse sensed the weight of the arm sooner the second time round. She couldn't help a groan. Her one chance at a good night's rest, irremediably ruined.

Frustrated, she shuffled out of bed and stomped downstairs into the front room. She slept ensconced on the settee, tense and cold despite the woollen kilt she'd draped over herself. She woke up disgruntled that morning, more tired than when she'd gone to bed. Her head hurt and her spine ached and when she swung her legs off the sofa, her feet did not touch carpet.

They touched hot flesh.

"Bloody hell!" she exclaimed, pulling her knees up to her chest.

So, Sorley had followed her here, as well, choosing to curl up on the floor beside her, rather than be alone in bed.

She felt sorry for him and horrible that she'd hated him, however briefly, for not letting her rest. He must have been terrified, living in such a darkness like he did. Saoirse spread the kilt over him – he only wore an old pair of Eachann's breeches she'd dug out from the attic – and climbed over the arm of the settee so as not to disturb him.

Yawning, she trundled upstairs and threw on a robe over her nightgown, and knitted socks on her feet. She had to go feed the dogs ahead of making her own breakfast.

Sorley had sat up on the settee by the time she came back inside.

"Good morning!" she greeted with more cheer than even she expected.

Sorley mustered an apologetic smile. "I scared you last night, didn't I?" He wrung his hands together. "Forgive me, I... I couldn't sleep. It felt like..." He gulped. "Like the walls would cave in and there were... there were fingers, grabbing at me – "

His voice cracked and his hands trembled as he covered his face. Saoirse rushed to sit beside him and put her arm around his shoulders, squeezing him in a half-hug.

"Oh, sweetheart, you're all right. I don't mind sharing the bed, if you feel safer that way. I can't even begin to imagine how frightened you must feel."

"Thank you," he sniffled. "Thank you... I do not even know what it is that frightens me, yet – "

His glassy eyes bore into hers and she brushed her thumb over his tear-stained cheek. He took her rough, wind-chilled hand in both of his warm ones and kissed it. It stunned Saoirse into not pulling away when he kissed her knuckles again.

"Anyone else would have done the same," she replied mechanically and stood up. "Tea?"

Sorley said yes, but he was, in fact, not too keen on tea. Or shirts, for that matter. After breakfast, she tried coaxing him into one of Eachann's, but he couldn't stand it. The breeches made him uncomfortable, too, and he often squirmed, adjusting them.

"Those you'll have to bear, I'm afraid," Saoirse told him as she instructed him how to stand in order to take his measurements. She had a mind to sew him a pair or two of short, loose-fitting trousers from some leftover pieces of linen. "At least until I manage to put something else together for you."

"I..." He hesitated, tugging on his waistband. "I will try."

Consciously, he did try. However much he pulled and pinched at the fabric, he kept them on throughout the day. But at night, in his sleep, he somehow succeeded in kicking them off and Saoirse woke up with him pressed against her back. Her eyes doubled in size as realisation slowly dawned.

She bolted out of bed then, her face flushed crimson, and ran away downstairs, into the kitchen. Timid sunrise glow crept in through the window above the sink as she splashed cold water on her burning cheeks. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her fingers shivered, rubbing down her forehead over her nose. Looking after a naked, nameless patient was one thing.

Having a naked man glued to her body in her bed was quite another.

To take her mind off it, Saoirse put her coat and boots on and went outside to see to the dogs. She found Sorley in the kitchen afterwards, with his breeches on. The rest of the morning she spent dutifully tailoring two pairs of shorts for him.