Читать книгу Stepping Into The Prince's World - Marion Lennox - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTWO DAYS INTO the worst storm to have hit the island since the start of her stay Claire was going stir-crazy. She hadn’t been able to step outside once. The wind was so strong that a couple of times she’d seriously worried that the whole house might be picked up.
‘You and me, Rocky,’ she’d told him, when he’d whimpered at the sound of the wind roaring across the island. ‘Like Dorothy and Toto. When we fly, we’ll fly together.’
Thankfully they hadn’t flown, and finally the wind was starting to settle. The sun was starting to peep through the clouds and she thought she might just venture out and see the damage.
She quite liked a good storm—as long as it didn’t threaten to carry her into the Antarctic.
So she rugged up, and made Rocky wear the dinky little dog coat that he hated but she thought looked cute, and they headed out together.
As soon as she opened the door she thought about retreating, but Rocky was tearing out into the wind, joyful at being allowed outside, heading for his favourite place in the world. The beach.
The sea would look fantastic. She just had to get close enough to the beach to see it. The sea mist was so heavy she could scarcely see through it—or was it foam blasted up by the wind? She could scarcely push against it.
But she was outside. The wind wasn’t so strong that it was hurling stones. She could put her head down and fight it.
Below the house was a tiny cove—a swimming beach in decent weather. She headed there now, expecting to see massive damage, expecting to see...
A boat?
Or part of a boat.
She stopped, so appalled she almost forgot to breathe. A boat was smashed and part submerged on the rocks just past the headland.
The boat wasn’t big. A weekend sailor? It must have been trying to reach the relative safety of the beach, manoeuvring into the narrow channel of deep water, but the seas would have been overwhelming, driving it onto the rocks.
Dear God, was there anyone...?
And almost as soon as she thought it she saw a flash of yellow in the water, far out, between the rocks and the beach. A figure was struggling through the waves breaking around the rocks.
Whoa.
Claire knew these waters, even thoughtshe’d never swum here. She’d skimmed stones and watched the tide in calm weather. She knew there was a rip, starting from the beach and swinging outward.
The swimmer was headed straight into it. If he was to have any chance he had to swim sideways, towards the edge of the cove, then turn and swim beside the rip rather than in it.
But he was too far away to hear if she yelled. The wind was still howling across the clifftops, drowning any hope of her being heard.
Was she a heroine?
‘I’m not,’ she said out loud. But some things weren’t negotiable. She couldn’t watch him drown—not when she knew the water. And she was a decent swimmer.
‘You know where the dog food is, and the back door’s open,’ she told Rocky as she hauled off her coat and kicked off her boots. ‘If I disappear just chew a hole in the sack. Tell ’em I died trying.’
But she had no intention of dying. She’d stick within reach of the rocks, where the current was weakest. She was not a heroine.
Her jeans hit the clothes pile, and then her windcheater. Okay, then—ready, set, go.
* * *
He was making no headway. The current was hauling him out faster than he could swim.
Raoul had been born tough and trained tougher. He hadn’t reached where he was in the army without survival skills being piled on to survival skills. He couldn’t outswim the current, so he knew he had to let it carry him out until it weakened—and then he had to figure out a way back in again.
The problem was, he was past exhaustion.
By the time he’d reached this island the yacht had been little more than a floating tub. The torn sails were useless. He’d used the motor to try and find some place to land, but the motor hadn’t had the strength to fight the surf. Then a wave, bigger than the rest, had hit him broadside.
The boat had landed upside down on the rocks. He’d hit his head. It had taken him too long to get free of the wreck and now the water was freezing.
If he let the current carry him out, would he have the strength to get back in again?
He had no choice. He forced his body to relax and felt the rip take him. For the first time he stopped trying to swim. He raised his head, looking hopelessly towards the shore. He was being carried out again.
There was someone on the beach.
Someone who could help?
Or not.
The figure was slight—a boy? No, it was a woman, her shoulder-length curls flying out around her shoulders in the wind. She had a dog and she was yelling. She was gesticulating to the east of the cove.
She was ripping off her windcheater and running down to the surf. Heading to the far left of the beach.
If this was a local she’d know the water. She was heading to the left and waving at him.
Maybe that was where the rip cut out.
She was running into the water. She shouldn’t risk herself.
He tried to yell but he was past it. He was pretty much past anything.
The woman was running through the shallows and then diving into the first wave that was over chest high. Of all the stupid... Of all the brave...
Okay, if she was headed into peril on his behalf the least he could do was help.
He fought for one last burst of energy. He put his head down and tried to swim.
* * *
Uh-oh.
There’d been a swimming pool in the basement of the offices of Craybourne, Ledger and Smythe. Some lawyers swam every lunchtime.
Claire had mostly shopped. Or eaten lunch in the park. Or done nothing at all, which had sometimes seemed a pretty good option.
It didn’t seem a good option now. She should have used that time to improve her swimming. She needed to be super-fit or more. There was no rip where she was swimming, but the downside of keeping close to the rocks at the side of the cove was the rocks themselves. They were sharp, and the waves weren’t regular. A couple picked her up and hurled her sideways.
She was having trouble fighting her way out. She was also bone-chillingly cold. The iciness of Bass Strait in early spring was almost enough to give her a heart attack.
And she couldn’t see whoever it was she was trying to rescue.
He must be here somewhere, she thought. She just had to fight her way out behind the surf so she could see.
Which meant diving through more waves. Which meant avoiding more rocks. Which meant...
Crashing.
* * *
Something hit him—hard.
He’d already hit his head on the rocks. The world was feeling a bit off-balance anyway. The new crack on his head made him reel. He reached out instinctively to grab whatever it was that had hit him—and it was soft and yielding. A woman. Somehow he tugged her to face him. Her chestnut curls were tangled, her green eyes were blurred with water, and she looked almost as dazed as he was.
He’d thumped his head and so had she. She stared at him, and then she fought to speak.
‘You’d think...’ She was struggling for breath as waves surged around them but she managed to gasp the words. ‘You’d think a guy with the whole of Bass Strait to swim in could avoid my head.’
He had hold of her shoulders—not clutching, just linking himself with her so the wash of the waves couldn’t push them apart. They were both in deadly peril, and weirdly his first urge was to laugh. She’d reached him and she was joking?
Um... Get safe first. Laugh second.
‘Revenir à la plage. Je suivrai,’ he gasped, and then realised he’d spoken in French, Marétal’s official language. Which would be no use at all in Tasmania’s icy waters. Get back to the beach. I’ll follow, he’d wanted to say, and he tried to force his thick tongue to make the words. But it seemed she’d already understood.
‘How can you follow? You’re drowning.’ She’d replied in French, with only a slight haltingness to show French wasn’t her first language.
‘I’m not.’ He had his English together now. And his tongue almost working.
‘There’s blood on your head,’ she managed.
‘I’m okay. You’ve shown me the way. Put your head down and swim. I’m following.’
‘Is there anyone...?’ The indignation and her attempt at humour had gone from her voice and fear had replaced it. She was gasping between waves. ‘Is there anyone else in the boat?’
Anyone else to save? She’d dived into the water to save him and was now proposing to head out further and save others?
This was pure grit. His army instructors would be proud of her.
She didn’t have a lifejacket on and he did.
‘No one,’ he growled. ‘Get back to the beach.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Go.’ He should make her wear the life jacket, but the effort of taking the thing off was beyond him.
‘Don’t you dare drown. I’ve taken too much trouble.’
‘I won’t drown,’ he managed, and then a wave caught her and flung her sideways.
She hit the closest rock and disappeared. He tried to grab her but she was under water—gone.
Hell...
He dived, adrenalin surging, giving him energy when he’d thought he had none. And then he grabbed and caught something...
A wisp of lace. He tugged and she was free of the rocks, back in his arms, dazed into limpness.
He fought back from the rocks and tried to steady while she fought to recover.
‘W...wow,’ she gasped at last. ‘Sorry. I...you can let go now.’
‘I’m not letting go.’ But he shifted his grip. He’d realised what he’d been holding were her knickers. He now had hold of her by her bra!
‘We surf in together,’ he gasped. ‘I have a lifejacket. I’m not letting go.’
‘You...can’t...’
He heard pain in her voice.
‘You’re hurt.’
‘There’s no way I can put a sticking plaster on out here,’ she gasped. ‘Go.’
‘We go together.’
‘You’ll stretch my bra,’ she gasped, and once again he was caught by the sheer guts of the woman. She was hurt, she was in deadly peril, and she was trying to make him smile.
‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘And if it stretches too far I’ll get an eyeful—but not until we’re safe on the beach. Just turn and kick.’
‘I’ll try,’ she managed, and then there was no room for more words. There was only room to try and live.
* * *
She couldn’t actually swim.
There was something wrong with her arm. Or her shoulder? Or her chest? She wasn’t sure where the pain was radiating from, but it was surely radiating. It was the arm furthest from him—if he’d been holding her bra on that side she might have screamed. If she could scream without swallowing a bucket of seawater. Unlikely, she thought, and then wondered if she was making sense. She decided she wasn’t but she didn’t care.
She had to kick. There was no way she’d go under. She’d risked her life to save this guy and now it seemed he didn’t need saving. Her drowning would be a complete waste.
Some people would be pleased.
And there was a thought to make her put her head down, hold her injured arm to her side as much as she could and try to kick her way through the surf.
She had help. The guy still had his hand through her bra, holding fast. His kick was more powerful than hers could ever be. But he still didn’t know this beach.
‘Keep close to the rocks,’ she gasped during a break in the waves. ‘If you don’t stay close you’ll be caught in the rip.’
‘Got it,’ he told her. ‘Now, shut up and kick.’
And then another wave caught them and she had the sense to put her head down and kick, even if the pain in her shoulder was pretty close to knocking her out. And he kicked too, and they surged in, and suddenly she was on sand. The wave was ripping back out again but the guy was on his feet, tugging her up through the shallows.
‘We’re here,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, lady, six feet to go. You can do it.’
And she’d done it. Rocky was tearing down the beach to meet them, barking hysterically at the stranger.
Enough. She subsided onto the sand, grabbed Rocky with her good arm, held him tight and burst into tears.
* * *
For a good while neither of them moved.
She lay on the wet sand and hugged her dog and thought vaguely that she had to make an effort. She had to get into dry clothes. She was freezing. And shouldn’t she try to see if something was wrong with the guy beside her? He’d slumped down on the sand, too. She could see his chest rise and fall. He was alive, but his eyes were closed. The weak sunshine was on his unshaven face and he seemed to be drinking it up.
Who was he?
He was wearing army issue camouflage gear. It was the standard work wear of a soldier, though maybe slightly different from the Australian uniform.
He was missing his boots.
Why notice that?
She was noticing his face, too. Well, why not? Even the pain in her shoulder didn’t stop her noticing his face.
There was a trickle of blood mixing with the seawater dripping from his head.
He was beautiful.
It was the strongest face she’d ever seen. His features were lean, aquiline...aristocratic? He had dark hair—deep black. It was cropped into an army cut, but no style apart from a complete shave could disguise its tendency to curl. His grey eyes were deep-set and shadowed and he was wearing a couple of days’ stubble. He looked beyond exhausted.
She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and she thought he looked mean.
Mean?
Mean in the trained sense, she corrected herself. Mean as in a lean, mean fighting machine.
She thought, weirdly, of a kid she’d gone to school with. Andy had been a friend with the same ambitions she’d had: to get away from Kunamungle and be someone.
‘I’ll join the army and be a lean, mean fighting machine,’ he’d told her.
Last she’d heard, Andy was married with three kids, running the stock and station agents in Kunamungle. He was yet another kid who’d tried to leave his roots and failed.
Her thoughts were drifting in a weird kind of consciousness that was somehow about blocking pain. Something had happened to her arm. Something bad. She didn’t want to look. She just wanted to stay still for a moment longer and hold Rocky and think about anything other than what would happen when she had to move.
‘Tell me what’s wrong?’
He’d stirred. He was pushing himself up, looking down at her in concern.
‘H...hi,’ she managed, and his eyes narrowed.
Um...where was her bra? It was down around her waist, that was where it was, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to do anything about it. She hugged Rocky a bit closer, thinking he’d do as camouflage. If he didn’t, she didn’t have the strength to care.
‘Your arm,’ he said carefully, as if he didn’t want to scare her.
She thought about that for a bit. Her arm...
‘There...there does seem to be a problem. I hit the rocks. I guess I don’t make the grade as a lifesaver, huh?’
‘If you hadn’t come out I’d be dead,’ he told her. ‘I couldn’t fight the rip and I didn’t know where it ended.’
‘I was trying to signal but I didn’t know if you’d seen me.’ She was still having trouble getting her voice to work but it seemed he was, too. His lilting accent—French?—was husky, and she could hear exhaustion behind it. He had been in peril, she thought. Maybe she had saved him. It was small consolation for the way her arm felt, but at least it was something.
‘Where can I go to get help?’ he asked, cautious now, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
‘Help?’
‘The charts say this island is uninhabited.’
‘It’s not,’ she told him.
‘No?’
‘There’s Rocky and me, and now there’s you.’
‘Rocky?’
‘I’m holding him.’
Silence. Although it wasn’t exactly silence. The waves were pounding the sand and the wind was whistling around the cliffs. A stray piece of seaweed whipped past her face like a physical slap.
What was wrong with her arm? She tried a tentative wiggle and decided she wouldn’t do that again in a hurry.
‘Do you live here?’
‘I caretake,’ she said, enunciating every syllable with care because it seemed important.
‘You caretake the island?’
‘The house.’
‘There’s a house?’
‘A big house.’
‘Excellent,’ he told her.
He rose and stared round the beach, then left her with Rocky. Two minutes later he was back, holding her pile of discarded clothes.
‘Let’s get you warm. You need to put these on.’
‘You’re wet, too’ she told him.
‘Yeah, but I don’t have a set of dry clothes on the beach. Let’s cope with one lot of hypothermia instead of two. Tug your knickers off and I’ll help you on with your jeans and windcheater.
‘I’m not taking my knickers off!’
‘They’re soaked and you’re freezing.’
‘I have my dignity.’
‘And I’m not putting up with misplaced modesty on my watch.’ He was holding up her windcheater. ‘Over your head with this. Don’t try and put your arm in it.’
He slid the windcheater over her head. It was long enough to give her a semblance of respectability as she kicked off her soggy knickers—but not much. She should be wearing wisps of sexy silk, she thought, but she was on an island in winter for six months with no expected company. Her knickers were good solid knickers, bought for warmth, with just a touch of lace.
‘My granny once told me to always wear good knickers in case I’m hit by a bus,’ she managed. Her teeth were chattering. She had her good arm on his shoulder while he was holding her jeans for her to step into.
‘Sensible Granny.’
‘I think she meant G-strings with French lace,’ she told him. ‘Granny had visions of me marrying a doctor. Or similar.’
‘Still sensible Granny.’ He was hauling her jeans up as if this was something he did every day of the week. Which he surely didn’t. He was definitely wearing army issue camouflage. It was soaking. One sleeve was ripped but it still looked serviceable.
He looked capable. Capable of hauling her jeans up and not looking?
Don’t go there.
‘Why...? Why sensible?’ she managed.
‘Because we could use a doctor right now,’ he told her. ‘Your arm...’
‘My arm will be fine. I must have wrenched it.’ She stared down. He was holding her boots. He must have unlaced them. She’d hauled them off and run.
She took the greatest care to put her feet into them, one after the other, and then tried not to be self-conscious as he tied the laces for her.
She was an awesome lifesaver, she thought ruefully. Not.
‘Now,’ he said, and he took her good arm under the elbow. Rocky was turning crazy circles around them, totally unaware of drama, knowing only that he was out of the house and free. ‘Let’s get to this house. Is it far?’
‘A hundred yards as the crow flies,’ she told him. ‘Sadly we don’t have wings.’
‘You mean it’s up?’
‘It’s up.’
‘I’m sorry.’ For the first time his voice faltered. ‘I don’t think I can carry you.’
‘Well, there’s a relief,’ she managed. ‘Because I might have been forced to let you help me dress, but that’s as far as it goes. You’re carrying me nowhere.’
* * *
It had been two days since he’d set off from Hobart, and to say he was exhausted was an understatement. The storm had blown up from nowhere and the boat’s engine hadn’t been big enough to fight it. Sails had been impossible. He’d been forced to simply ride it out, trying to use the storm jib to keep clear of land, letting the elements take him where they willed.
And no one knew where he was.
His first inkling of the storm had been a faint black streak on the horizon. The streak had turned into a mass with frightening speed. He’d been a good couple of hours out. As soon as he’d noticed it he’d headed for port, but the storm had overwhelmed him.
And he’d been stupidly unprepared. He’d had his phone, but the first massive wave breaking over the bow had soaked him and rendered his phone useless. He’d kicked himself for not putting it in a waterproof container and headed below to Tom’s radio. And found it useless. Out of order.
Raoul had thought then how great Tom’s devil-may-care attitude had seemed when he and Tom had done their Sunday afternoon sail with his bodyguard in the background, and how dumb it seemed now. And where was the EPIRB? The emergency position indicating radio beacon all boats should carry to alert the authorities if they were in distress and send an automatic location beacon? Did Tom even own one?
Apparently not.
Dumb was the word to describe what he’d done. He’d set out to sea because he was fed up with the world and wanted some time to himself to reflect. But he wasn’t so fed up that he wanted to die, and with no one knowing where he was, and no reliable method of communication, he’d stood every chance of ending up that way.
He’d been lucky to end up here.
He’d put this woman’s life at risk.
He was helping her up the cliff now. He’d kicked his boots off in the water, which meant he was only wearing socks. The shale on the steep cliff was biting in, but that was the least of his worries. He’d been in the water for a couple of hours, trying to fight his way to shore, and he’d spent two days fighting the sea. He was freezing, and he was so tired all he wanted to do was sleep.
But the woman by his side was rigid with pain. She wasn’t complaining, but when he’d put his arm around her waist and held her, supporting her as she walked, she hadn’t pulled away. She wasn’t big—five-four, five-five or so—and was slight with it. She had a smattering of freckles on her face, her chestnut curls clung wetly to her too-pale skin and her mouth was set in determination.
He just knew this woman didn’t accept help unless there was a need.
‘How far from the top of the cliff?’ he asked, and she took a couple of deep breaths and managed to climb a few more feet before replying.
‘Close. You want to go ahead? The back door’s open.’
‘Are you kidding?’ His arm tightened around her. He was on her good side, aware that her left arm was useless and radiating pain. ‘You’re the lifesaver. Without you I’m a dead man.’
‘Rocky will show you...where the pantry is...’ She was talking in gasps. ‘And the dog food. You’ll survive.’
‘I need you to show me where the pantry is. I think we’re almost up now.’
‘You’d know that how...?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ he agreed humbly. ‘I was just saying it to make you feel better.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘No, thank you,’ he said, and held her tighter and put one foot after another and kept going.
* * *
And then they reached the top and he saw the house.
The island was a rocky outcrop, seeming almost to burst from the water in the midst of Bass Strait. He’d aimed for it simply because he’d had no choice—the boat had been taking on water and it had been the only land mass on the map—but from the sea it had seemed stark and inhospitable, with high cliffs looming out of the water. The small bay had seemed the only possible place to land, and even that had proved disastrous. What kind of a house could possibly be built here?
He reached the top of the cliff and saw a mansion.
Quite simply, it was extraordinary.
It was almost as if it was part of the island itself, long and low across the plateau, built of the same stone. In one sense it was an uncompromising fortress. In another sense it was pure fantasy.
Celtic columns faced the sea, supporting a vast pergola, with massive stone terraces underneath. Stone was stacked on stone, massive structures creating an impression of awe and wonder. There were sculptures everywhere—artworks built to withstand the elements. And the house itself... Huge French windows looked out over the sea. They were shuttered now, making the house look even more like a fortress. There was a vast swimming pool, carved to look like a natural rock pool. In this bleak weather it was covered by a solid mat.
He wouldn’t be swimming for a while yet, he thought, but he looked at the house and thought he’d never seen anything more fantastic.
If he was being honest a one-room wooden hut would have looked good now, he conceded. But this...
‘Safe,’ he said, and the woman in his arms wilted a little. Her effort to climb the cliff had been huge.
‘B... Back door...out of the wind,’ she managed, and her voice was thready.
She’d fought to reach him in the water. She’d been injured trying to save him and now she’d managed to get up the cliff. He hadn’t thought he had any strength left in him, but it was amazing what a body was capable of. His army instructors had told him that.
‘No matter how dire, there’s always another level of adrenalin. You’ll never know it’s there until you need it.’
He’d needed it once in a sticky situation in West Africa. He felt the woman slump beside him and needed it now. He stopped and turned her, and then swept her up into his arms.
She didn’t protest. She was past protesting.
The little dog tore on ahead, showing him the way to the rear door, and in the end it was easy. Two minutes later he had her in the house and they were safe.
