Follow a Stranger Page 8

  “What a brusque name for such a feminine creature. I

  would call her ...” he paused, looking her up and down

  slowly until she was once more bright pink. “Penelope!”

  he announced in triumph. “Yes, Penelope. She has that

  gentle, stubborn look of Homer’s Penelope. Prepared to

  wait until eternity for her man. Fragile, delicate but

  unbreakable. That is what I like in some blonde

  Englishwomen—that look about the mouth that puts up

  the fence against all intruders.” He grinned wickedly, at

  Marc, his eyes acute. “You have seen it, eh? Oriste? It is

  so inviting. How can one resist that cool, sweet mouth?

  Any more than a little boy can resist the sign which says

  no walking on the grass, eh?”

  Marc did not answer, but his face was set in rigid lines

  as he stared back at Pyrakis, and the other man lifted his

  thick black brows slowly, speaking in Greek.

  Marc reddened, but did not reply.

  Pyrakis turned back to Kate, his expression more

  serious, and said, “So you have confidence in Pallas? Does

  she yet care about her work? Does she work hard for you?

  Does she worry?”

  “I think she is so afraid to care that she pretends to be

  indifferent,” said Kate, looking at Marc. “She thinks her

  family will never let her have a career, anyway.”

  Pyrakis turned to Marc, enquiringly. “Why does she

  think that, my friend?”

  Marc shrugged. “We told her she would have to prove

  herself before we agreed. We did not say she could not

  try.”

  Pyrakis nodded and looked at Kate again. “You must

  make her work, little one. Be cruel, be ruthless, but make

  her work.” Then he stood up, flexing his fingers. “Now I

  shall play to you.”

  He walked to the great piano which dominated one side

  of the shadowy room, lifted the lid and laid his hands on

  the keys, flat, unmoving.

  She had seen this odd trick of his before, at London

  concerts. He said it was because he wanted to feel the

  piano before he began to play it, to sense the willingness

  of the keys.

  He lifted his hands again and then broke into a series

  of fast, dizzying chords which startled her and were

  totally new to her ear.

  “This is his own,” Marc whispered.

  Pyrakis played for an hour, totally absorbed, as though

  he had forgotten them, his untiring hands wrenching

  brilliant response from the piano.

  When he stopped playing and swung round to face

  them, Kate was trembling with excitement. She could not

  speak, but her face spoke for her.

  “I must go now, for my siesta,” Pyrakis said. “You will

  lunch with me afterwards?”

  “I’m sorry,” Marc apologised, “but I have just noticed

  the sky. A storm is in the offing. We must make a dash

  for Kianthos, I’m afraid.”

  Pyrakis shrugged. “A pity, I shall feel deprived. I was

  looking forward to more of Miss Kate’s company. She is

  excitingly responsive, like a well-tuned violin.” He kissed

  her hand, then, saying something in Greek to Marc, bent

  and kissed her on the mouth.

  Marc took her elbow. “We must hurry. I’ll see you,

  Spiro.”

  He marched her back down to the harbour very fast,

  his face coolly shuttered, and helped her into the yacht.

  They set off at once. Kate looked back at the island, its

  hills now dark and menacing with the approaching storm.

  Then she sighed. She would remember that meeting

  with Pyrakis all her life.

  Marc shouted to her to come and help him, and she

  hurriedly obeyed.

  She had done little sailing before, but she was light on

  her feet, and quick-witted, so they worked together in

  comparative harmony.

  “I don’t like the look of that sky,” he said anxiously. “I

  hope we get back before that wind veers, or we may be

  blown right off course. I wish I had noticed the sky

  earlier.”

  They were within sight of Kianthos when the wind

  suddenly began to blow strongly, beating them to and fro

  as if the boat were a matchstick. Kate caught a glimpse of

  Marc, through a turmoil of whipped spray, and heard him

  shouting to her, but the wind blew his words away.

  Then the boat seemed to fly upwards, like a toy in the

  grip of a giant, and she was thrown across the deck,

  cracking her head with such violence that she lay still,

  her eyes shut, the pain crashing over her unbearably.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She lay crumpled against the side of the yacht for a

  moment or two, waiting for the pain to subside. Dimly,

  she heard Marc shouting anxiously, “Kate, Kate, are you

  badly hurt?”

  She got herself up on one knee, staggering as pain

  shot through her head, and he bellowed at her to stay

  down.

  “I can manage, but if you go overboard in this sea I

  shall not be able to do a thing about it!”

  They fought their way doggedly, the coast shim-

  mering through mountains of spray, but the wind was

  driving them off all the time.

  They rounded a sheer cliff and Kate gasped in horror

  as she saw black rocks rising up, their jagged points like

  broken teeth above the water. Marc was desperately

  trying to avoid them, but the wind was too strong.

  A grinding crash, the sound of splintering wood, and

  Kate again felt herself thrown about like a rag doll. This

  time icy water engulfed her. Panic made her strike out

  furiously, arms flailing. The cold water seemed to be

  dragging at her, pulling her downwards.

  Then Marc swam up at her side, grabbing her by the

  throat from behind, turning her on to her back in a deft

  rolling movement.

  “Keep quite still,” he ordered. “Relax. Let yourself

  flop, but trust me ...”

  Panic was choking her as she felt herself, helpless,

  being towed like a stranded whale, but she forced

  herself to obey him.

  He swam strongly, but she realised how tiring it

  must be, and when they had passed the black rocks and

  were nearing the misty shoreline, she called to him to

  let her swim alone now.

  “I can manage,” she assured him.

  He released her, and she swam beside him until they

  were in shallow waters.

  Panting, shivering, coughing, they lay on the sands,

  the sea flinging vengeful breakers after them. She

  heard a booming sound close by, like the breaking of

  waves, but realised it was her own heart.

  Marc turned over on to his side and looked at her.

  “How do you feel?” he panted.

  She laughed breathlessly, “Rotten. My chest is

  almost bursting after all that exertion.”

  “Can you walk? There is a goatherd’s hut on the cliff.

  We’ll get food and dry clothes there. The path is not as

  steep as the path at To Angkistri.”

  Kate flushed, remembering that day, and struggled

  to her feet. The wind
whipped through her wet clothes.

  She shivered.

  Marc was watching her with concern. “Perhaps you

  ought to wait here,” he said.

  She felt panic sweeping over her again. “No,” she said

  quickly, “don’t leave me here alone ...”

  His face softened and he held out his hand. “Come

  on, then.”

  What, she wondered, as she climbed the cliff path at

  his side, had happened to her hatred and resentment?

  From their first meeting she had had a picture of him

  as an arrogant, overbearing tyrant whose every word

  put her back up. She had detested his self-assurance,

  his sarcasm and scornful dismissal of women as mere

  playthings. When had all that changed?

  She flinched away from too close an examination of

  her new feelings. That she no longer bristled at the sight

  of him was sufficient food for thought at the moment.

  The goatherd’s hut was built of warm creamy stone,

  rough and unfaced, but as solid as the rocks beneath it.

  The one small window was shuttered and the door

  closed.

  There was no answer to their knock, so Marc pushed

  the door open and shouted. No reply came. The small

  room beyond was empty. A wooden ladder led up into

  the tiny attic bedroom, from which wisps of straw

  protruded, leading Kate to conclude that it was a hay

  loft as well as a bedroom.

  Marc went out again and walked round the hut,

  shouting. Then he came back, shrugged. “Nobody in

  sight. I’ll get a fire going. There’s an outhouse with

  plenty of dry wood stacked up.” He opened a large

  wooden cupboard which took up the whole corner by the

  fireplace and produced a thick oiled wool sweater, which

  he flung to her, telling her to put it on while he got the

  wood.

  Gladly she slipped out of her wet clothes and into the

  sweater. It was obviously intended for a huge man, and

  fell to her knees, the sleeves hanging far below her

  wrists. But it was comfortingly warm and she huddled

  into it with gratitude. She rummaged in the cupboard

  when she was dressed and found a pair of rough

  trousers and a long white shirt which she thought would

  fit Marc.

  He came back, laden with wood, and grinned at her,

  his glance running over her sweater and the long bare

  legs beneath. “You do look a picture,” he teased.

  She slipped her feet, shuddering, back into her

  sodden plimsolls, then took her wet clothes outside to

  hang on the wire line which stretched between two

  small posts. When she got back Marc had coaxed the

  fire into life and was standing beside it, in the goat-

  herd’s baggy trousers, the shirt in his hand. She stood

  at the door, looking at the bare brown shoulders turned

  towards her. Under the smooth tanned surface of his

  skin his muscles rippled as he moved. Her breath

  caught as she felt an insidious warmth deep inside her,

  and Marc, hearing the little sound, turned quickly.

  “You don’t mind being alone here with me like this?”

  he asked, slipping into the shirt.

  “Why should I?” she answered offhandedly.

  He buttoned the shirt front, staring at her with

  narrowed eyes. “Some girls might feel ... threatened ...

  being alone with a man in such circumstances. This is a

  very isolated spot.”

  She forced a laugh. “I have too much common sense.

  You’ve just narrowly escaped drowning, after all. You’re

  cold, tired and hungry. The last thing on your mind is

  sex, I would say.”

  He grimaced. “I see,” he said on a strange note. “It is

  just as well you have so much ... what did you call it?

  Common sense. Rather uncommon, I would have said.

  But I would hate to be stuck here with a female who

  expected rape at any minute.”

  “What we both need is food,” she said lightly. “I

  wonder where the goatherd keeps it?”

  Marc opened a drawer and produced a flat loaf of

  dark bread, sugar, a tin of anchovies and some goat’s

  cheese in a yellow dish.

  “Giorgiou always keeps his food there,” he ex-

  plained, “and there is coffee here ...” producing a

  wooden tub. While Kate sliced the bread on the small,

  home-made table, he ground the coffee and opened the

  anchovies.

  She toasted the bread, spread it with cheese and

  anchovies and held it in front of the fire until the

  anchovies curled slightly, and the cheese bubbled.

  They ate the meal by the fire, sitting on low stools.

  The black coffee was hot and sweet. It ran through her

  like fire, making her sleepy and content.

  “Are we going to try to get back to the villa tonight?”

  she asked.

  Marc shook his head. “We wouldn’t make it. The

  terrain is too difficult. I would not care to try in the

  dark.”

  “You would try if you were alone,” she guessed.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “As that situation does

  not arise there is no point in discussing it. We must

  stay here until dawn. Giorgiou is bound to be back

  then. He is probably visiting his sister in the village.”

  He threw some more wood on the fire and the flames

  leapt upwards. She watched them, feeling lazy and at

  ease.

  “You can sleep upstairs,” Marc told her. “The bed is

  only a straw mattress, but you must have some sleep.”

  She looked at the wooden ladder. Yawning, she got

  up and went towards it, then heard a distinct scam-

  pering above her head.

  Marc leapt towards her as she screamed, and she

  flung herself into his outstretched arms without think-

  ing, clinging to him, shuddering. “Rats! I saw one ... its

  tail ...” She was almost physically sick, her teeth

  chattering with repulsion and horror.

  He held her tightly, one hand clenched on her

  shoulder, his thumb moving over her thin-boned

  shoulder blade. “You’re quite safe,” he whispered, his

  mouth just above her hair.

  “I hate them,” she stammered. “Horrible, creeping

  things ...” burying her face in his chest with tightly shut

  eyes.

  “Kate, stop this,” he said, in suddenly hardened

  tones, holding her away from him. “You have been brave

  up till now. Stop it!”

  The shock of his sudden coldness snapped her back to

  self-awareness. She was scarlet at once, realising what

  she was doing. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly, and drew

  away from him, her eyes on the floor.

  “I am relieved to see you have some feminine re-

  actions,” he said, reverting to his teasing. “For a girl

  who came so calmly through a violent storm, shrugged

  off the possibility of rape with the utmost scorn and has

  been so level-headed and sensible all day—you amaze

  me! Who would have thought you would jib at rats!”

  She could not control the quick shiver which ran over

  her. “I ... I don’t like them,” she said.
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  “Obviously,” he nodded. “But they are clever little

  creatures, you know. I would have expected you to be

  kinder about them, such animal lovers are the English!”

  She saw that he was attempting to put things back

  on a normal footing, and tried to respond. “They’re like

  some men,” she said, lightly, “clever but loathsome!”

  He grinned. “Present company excepted, I hope?”

  Kate laughed. “Did that come too near home?”

  He grimaced. “I’ll get some straw and make a bed on

  the floor.”

  Within ten minutes they were both lying on warm

  dry straw, near the hearth, covered by a heap of thick

  blankets.

  The room was dark, except for the glow of the fire,

  and Kate felt her eyes growing heavy. She could feel

  every little movement Marc made, hear his regular

  breathing. How strange, she thought sleepily, to be here

  like this with him. She giggled at the thought of what

  Miss Carter would say if she could see them.

  “What’s funny?” Marc asked softly, turning his head

  towards her.

  She told him, still laughing.

  “And your fiancé?” he asked. “Would he be shocked?”

  He paused, then added, “Jealous, perhaps?”

  “Peter? Good heavens, no, why should he be? He

  trusts me.”

  Marc was silent for a moment, and she thought he

  had gone to sleep, but then he spoke again, making her

  start, his tone sharp and unpleasant.

  “Oh, he trusts you, does he? But what about me? Does

  he trust me? A stranger of whom he knows nothing?”

  She opened her mouth, but how could she bear to let

  him know that Peter was too absorbed in his work to

  care what she did?

  He waited for her to answer, then said, “You have

  been engaged for a long time. When do you plan to

  marry?”

  “Oh, some time next year,” she said vaguely. “We

  haven’t actually fixed a date.”

  He spoke abruptly, his voice hard. “When I get

  married I shall do so with all possible speed. No long

  engagement for me. I want to be certain of my girl.”

  Was he thinking of his French girl-friend, the model?

  “Do you hope to marry soon?” she asked.

  He hesitated for several minutes before replying. “It

  is in my mind,” he said slowly, at last. “But there are ...

  problems.”

  “Your girl-friend isn’t ready for marriage yet?” she

  suggested. So he was thinking of the French girl. Kate