6 pm

Small Village in Shropshire

It's late in the afternoon when he comes round and finds himself in an unfamiliar room. Adrenaline surges though him and he surreptitiously looks around, instantly alert to any sources of danger. He sees her sitting by the window reading a book, the sun falling over her shoulder onto the side of her face, and it all comes flooding back – this is his guardian angel. She's as beautiful as an angel, he can't help thinking and tries to roll over to face her, a groan of pain escaping him and alerting her of his return of consciousness. Immediately she's on her feet and at his side, her cool hand touching his forehead as she smiles.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," she says quietly. "You had me really worried for a while there. How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a bus," he murmurs, his voice gravelly from lack of use.

She smiles. "You look it too."

"Thanks a lot. I thought nurses were meant to make the patient feel better," he jokes.

"Well, I didn't sign up to be a nurse," she answers haughtily. "All I wanted to do was have a well deserved break and do a little star gazing."

"Sorry," he murmurs, but when he lifts his eyes to hers, he sees the merriment in them and realises she's teasing. And what a pair of eyes they are – a sparkling, blue-grey, beautiful like a stormy sea. His breath catches and she turns away with a blush, embarrassed by the admiration that's clearly visible in his gaze.

"Would you like something to eat?" she asks hurriedly. "I've made some chicken soup."

"Thank you," he replies quietly. "That would be grand."

She leaves the room and he watches her go, wondering who she is and thinking about her beautiful face until exhaustion overtakes him and his eyes close once more.

9 pm

When he wakes again, it's almost dark. She's sitting in her chair, but she's moved it closer to him, away from the window. Her eyes are closed and she's leaning back, her hands clasped together in her lap. She's young – probably in her early twenties. Her shoulder-length, chestnut hair frames her round face, her lips are beautifully formed, and he can't help imagining what they would feel like against his. His eyes travel down her body as he takes in the light blue shirt that tastefully displays the curve of her breasts and the long skirt that reaches to her ankles. He wonders again who she is. It's certain that he owes her his life, and he cannot help but be impressed by the way she'd handled the whole situation. She'd had the guts to stand up to armed men and the presence of mind to use the van to get him out of there. Then she'd taken care of him, dressing his wounds and watching over him. He lifts up the covers gingerly and looks down, only to discover that he's wearing only his trunks, which surprises him and causes a red tinge to appear on his cheeks. His right thigh is bandaged as is his shoulder, and the left side of his face is painful and, from experience, he knows that he has a black eye. He lifts a hand to it and feels the plaster on his cheek along with two days' worth of beard growth. She was right to say he looks like a bus has hit him. Sighing he covers himself again and leans his head back against the pillow. The sound rouses her and she opens her eyes.

"Hi," she says, sitting up and smiling at him, her cheeks creasing into the most gorgeous dimples.

"Hi," he replies, his voice still low, slightly mesmerised by her.

"If I get you some soup now," she teases, "do you think you'll be able to stay awake long enough to eat it?"

He smiles, or tries to, the bruising and cuts making it a rather painful experience, resulting in a more crooked smile than is usual for him. "I think I can manage that," he says.

She stares at him for a moment, surprised at how much his face transforms when he smiles, even if only half his face seems to be taking part in the exercise at the moment. Then recollecting herself, she blushes and walks out of the room, leaving him to wonder what she was thinking.

Soon she returns with a tray which she places on the bedside table before turning to him and asking, "Would you like some help sitting up?"

"I can manage," he murmurs and slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, clenching his jaw against the pain.

She holds the pillow against the headboard for him as she tries to control her reaction to seeing his naked upper body when the covers slip off him as he moves, strong muscles smoothly moving under his skin, bunching to accentuate his handsome physique and obvious fitness. Not having much interest in sport herself, she's never hung out with men with abs like his before. Maybe there are some compensations for the mind-numbing boredom of watching a game of rugby, she concludes with a rueful smile.

He grimaces slightly at the pain from his shoulder and thigh as he shuffles back and leans against the pillow. When he's settled, she wordlessly places a pillow on his lap and the tray on top of it.

"Eat," she orders and sits back down in her chair to watch him, fighting the desire stirring in her at the sight of him, sternly telling her body in no uncertain terms that it's never going to happen.

He takes his first mouthful and it tastes so good that he moans in appreciation, eliciting a smile from the young woman, and he realises that he doesn't even know her name.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Ruth," she replies, "And yours?"

"Richard," he lies after a momentary hesitation. He really wants to tell her his real name, but given the situation he's in, he decides that he can't break cover, regardless of how much he wants to.

She hides a smile, remembering the results of her guessing game, then frowns as another memory surfaces. "Are you working for the Security Services?" she asks.

"No," he replies, hiding his surprise at the accuracy of her statement. "Like I said, I'm a journalist. I was doing an undercover piece." Her eyes quickly scan his chest, flitting over the scars on display before she raises her eyebrows at him and he can tell that she doesn't believe him. "Really," he assures her. "I got discharged from the army about five years ago, and I've been doing this kind of undercover work ever since."

"But that's stupid," she replies without thinking, and realising what she's just said, she colours and adds, "I mean it's dangerous. You could get killed."

He purses his lips. Most women he's told the lie to think it rather brave. None have ever called him stupid. "My body craves the adrenaline rush," he says simply. It's true. He could never survive in an office job after so many years in the service, in the field. He thinks he might literallydie of boredom and the inaction.

She shakes her head and changes the subject, saying, "When you're done, I should change your dressings."

"Okay," he murmurs and turns back to his soup.

It tastes so good and warms up his insides so perfectly that he polishes it off quickly and has another bowl before he's done.

"Don't lie down," she says. "I'll just get the first aid kit and we'll look at your shoulder first."

She takes away the tray and returns shortly, handing him some painkillers and a glass of water.

"I hope you don't have any allergies," she says. "I only have Paracetamol in the house."

"No allergies," he confirms, swallowing the pills gratefully – the throbbing from his leg is becoming unbearable.

She takes the glass from him and sets it aside before she sits on the edge of the bed beside him. Carefully, she unwinds the bandage, keeping her eyes determinedly on his wound and her concentration on the task at hand. Her body might be responding strongly to this attractive stranger, but she will not allow herself to give in to it. She knows nothing about him and she's pretty sure that all the information he's given her so far is a lie. Ruth can feel his eyes on her as she works, and she can't help the butterflies that have taken up residence in her stomach though she does her best to ignore them.

He watches her face and sees her frown slightly in concentration as her slender hands work to replace his bandage. Christ, but she's beautiful. He could never resist a beautiful woman, but he's never had this much trouble controlling his reaction, particularly not while on operation. He has to actually close his eyes and focus his full attention on calming himself, surprised that his body has the energy to respond to her in this way at all, particularly with the pain gnawing at his insides.

"Am I hurting you?" she asks with concern.

"No," he replies. "How does it look?"

"You'll live, but you'll probably have another scar for your collection."

He opens his eyes at that and their gazes meet. His eyes are a dark hazel colour, beautiful and mesmerizing, and in their depths she can see the admiration and desire he's feeling. He can feel his self-control slipping as he gazes into her stunning, intelligent eyes, the way she's looking at him leaving him in no doubt that she's experiencing the same attraction towards him that he's feeling for her, and it makes it so much harder to hold back. He almost reaches for her, but luckily for both of them, she clears her throat and murmurs something about his thigh wound before he does something they'll both regret later, not least because his lip is likely to begin bleeding – a sure way to ruin any kiss.

"Lie down then," she orders and he obliges, turning his attention to moving without hurting himself instead.

Once he's moved down and covered his chest, she pulls the covers off his right leg and he feels her cool hand wrap around his ankle and lift his leg up. She slides the cushions down, under his calf and lowers his leg onto them. Then, slowly, she unwraps the bandage and he can feel her fingers brush his skin as she moves, making it harder and harder to control his body's response to her. His breathing deepens, becoming more laboured.

"Are you okay?" she asks with concern at his reaction, which she attributes to the pain he must be experiencing.

"Fine," he manages to choke out.

"Sorry," she murmurs, hating the fact that she's hurting him. "It won't take a minute."

Christ! He hopes that she doesn't accidentally lift the covers too high and see the evidence of his desire for her.

"It's healing nicely," she says, ducking her head down to look at the wound, reluctant to remove the original dressing. "I don't see any redness. I'll just put another piece of gauze on top. I'm a little worried it'll start bleeding again if I pull this one off. We should get you to a doctor in the morning."

He nods, unable to trust his voice not to betray him, and she finishes her task, her fingers brushing against his skin again and testing his self-control even further. When she's done, he quickly covers himself with the duvet, and clearing his throat, he murmurs his thanks.

"You're welcome," she replies with a smile and adds, "Now get some rest."

"I should call the office first," he says. "They'll be wondering where I've got to. Do you have a phone I could use?"

"Of course. I'll just get rid of these," she replies and walks out of the room to put the used bandages in the rubbish, thankfully leaving him on his own for a few moments to calm himself.

"Here," she says as she carries the telephone over to the bedside table, and then adds, "Oh, and there's this too," and reaching into her bag she pulls out the gun and the extra clip which she places on the bedside table. She really doesn't want to have to get rid of them herself, and she's not scared he'll use them against her – not anymore. He's been nothing but kind and grateful for her help.

"Where did you get the clip?" he asks in surprise.

"From the pocket of the man with the hat," she murmurs uncomfortably, shuddering at the memory.

"Thank you," he replies and there is admiration in the tone of his voice. "That was good thinking."

She smiles at him before putting the bag over by the wardrobe. Then she leaves the room and closes the door behind her. When he's sure he's alone, he dials the Grid and gets through to Malcolm.

"Hello, Chief, it's me," he says, making sure that if Ruth is listening into the conversation from behind the door, she won't hear anything that won't fit with the story he's told her.

"Christ, it's good to hear from you," Malcolm replies and he can hear the relief in his voice. "We were beginning to get worried."

"I'm afraid that story I was working on will be delayed slightly," he says, getting straight to the point. "I was compromised; I've no idea how. I got some good stuff, but unfortunately, I also got some injuries from the ensuing fight."

"Is this line secure?" Malcolm asks.

"As far as I'm aware."

"I'm tracing your call now and will get someone to you right away," Malcolm replies. "Are you safe?"

"Yes."

"Are you alone?"

"No."

"Right. How many?"

"One," he smiles.

"And I bet she's very pretty too," Malcolm mutters enviously, hearing the smile in Harry's voice.

"Aye," he replies with a chuckle. "She is that. How much longer do you need?"

"A few seconds. Five, four, three, two, one. Got you. House belongs to a Mr Archibald Harbinger. Any sign of him about? And what the blazes are you doing in Shropshire anyway?"

Harry frowns, his mind filling with pictures of Ruth laughing with a man, playfully teasing him and calling him Archie. He blinks, forcing himself to focus. "No sign of him. And no idea on the last one. I wasn't aware that's where I was. They were told to take me somewhere remote and deal with me. I guess this is the best they could manage."

"Right. Well, help is on the way. Sit tight."

"Not much choice there," he mutters, hanging up the phone. He sighs heavily, lies down, and closes his eyes again, grateful for the exhaustion. He's a terrible patient and cannot abide being confined to bed, so it's a blessing really that he's finding it so easy to sleep. He knows from experience that by tomorrow he'll be climbing the walls with frustration, unless perhaps he can convince his guarding angel to entertain him. Now there's a happy thought...