Some of the repressed violence that had been implicit in his tense stance faded as he stared at her, to be re-placed by astonishment. Ethan Kemp wasn't a man easily astonished. His big hands unfurled from the fists they had instinctively formed.
'I don't suppose it was stationary at the time?'
She shook her head and gave him an exasperated look. Ethan wasn't usually so slow. 'I was lucky he hadn't thought to lock the door,' she reflected soberly.
'I can see why you might be thanking your lucky stars,' he agreed drily.
'I landed in brambles and my clothes got a bit ripped getting out,' she explained in a matter-of-fact way. 'I hid in a ditch for a while, just in case he'd followed me, then I walked home over the fields.'
'Where did all this happen?'
'The junction near the Tinkersdale Road.'
'That has to be six miles away.'
'It felt like more, but you're probably right. Her smile was limp at best. 'Don't worry, nobody saw me. Her wide, smooth brow creased as she sought to reassure him. Ethan Kemp's wife strolling through the market town where they lived in this state wouldn't create the sort of image he would approve of, and Ethan cared about the image they presented to the world. Didn't it occur to you to ring me—or the police for that matter?'
'I didn't think to grab my bag; I had no money— nothing. The police aren't interested in crimes that didn't happen. He didn't actually touch me.'
'You're sure he was going to?'
This was an insinuation too far! Anger enabled her to nudge aside the incipient exhaustion that made her eyelids heavy.
'It was one of those occasions when prevention seemed better than cure,' she snapped crisply. The snap seemed to surprise him. Tough, she thought with uncharacteristic venom. Under the circumstances she thought she was being quite restrained. What did he expect her to do? Sit back and wait to be a crime statistic? 'I don't let my imagination run away with me, Ethan.'
This was unarguable: Hannah Smith was the most placid, practical female that he had, in his thirty-six years, ever met. He frowned—after a year's marriage he still thought of her as Hannah Smith, not Kemp. If anyone had suggested to him this morning that she was capable of throwing herself from a moving vehicle he'd have laughed at the absurdity of such an idea.
Hannah was not exactly timid, although her reserved manner made people initially assume she was, but she was not the sort of woman calmly to wade through muddy fields and brambles after extricating herself from a dangerous situation. At least he hadn't thought she was. Would she have told him about it at all if he hadn't witnessed her return? Had she intended appearing at breakfast just as if nothing had happened?
'We should contact the police.'
'Why? Nothing happened. I expect they'd write me off as a neurotic female.' If Ethan could think it, why not total strangers? 'I would like to get my bag back, though—my wallet's in it.'
'Wouldn't you like to see that swine get his just deserts?' he growled incredulously. He found it hard to identify with a tum-the-other-cheek philosophy.
'Like?' she said quietly. She raised her head and at first he didn't realise the tears glistening in her hazel eyes were tears of rage. This only became obvious when she spoke and her voice shook with suppressed fury. 'What I'd like to do is make him endure, just for five minutes, the sort of helplessness and terror I...* She bit down hard on her lower lip to stop it trembling. 'We rarely get what we like, Ethan.'
'That's a depressing philosophy.' The depth of her passion shocked him; that she had any passion at all shocked him! More than shocked him—it made him uneasy. What other surprises lurked beneath the placid exterior?
'It's just an observation. Now, if you don't mind I'd like to go to bed.'
He kept a hold on her elbow, as though he expected her to collapse at any moment At the door of her bedroom she slipped the robe off her shoulders.
"Thank you. Sorry if I got it grubby. Goodnight, Ethan.' This polite, but firm, dismissal appeared to make him change his mind about what he was going to say. She smiled vaguely at him as she disappeared into her bedroom. A few seconds later she heard the sound of Ethan's bedroom door slamming.
Her lip curled with distaste as she stripped. Even if she could have salvaged the clothes, she'd have put them out with the rubbish. As it was they hung off her like rags.
A glance in the full-length cheval-mirror shocked her. Her glossy brown hair had pulled loose of its neat French braid and was liberally anointed with mud. The long scratches along the right side of her face showed through the dirt. The streaks of mascara that gave her the look of a startled panda blended in with the general grime. The amount of flesh exposed through the gaping holes in her shirt was nothing short of indecent. No wonder Ethan had been shocked—she looked appalling!