Wedded in a Whirlwind

CHAPTER TEN

MIRANDA drew a breath and for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to let it drop. Instead, with a little shake of her head, she said, ‘Is it still today? It seems a lifetime since I walked up that path, wishing I was somewhere else.’

‘You should be careful what you wish for.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, fishing the phone from her pocket and turning it on to check the time. ‘I’ll remember that for next time.’ Then, with a sigh of relief, ‘No, it’s tomorrow. Just. How long before it’s going to be light?’

He glanced at the screen. ‘A few hours yet.’ He felt her shiver but not with cold. Shock, hunger and thirst were doubtless taking their toll on her reserves. ‘Why don’t you check your messages?’ he suggested in an attempt to reconnect her to reality, the outside world.

‘The battery…’

‘We’re not going anywhere until daylight,’ He assured her, overriding any protest. ‘Read them. Text back. Tell them what you’re feeling.’

‘I don’t think so! Besides, what’s the point if there’s no signal?’ Then, catching his meaning, ‘Oh. I see. You’re suggesting I send them a last message. Something for them to find if we don’t make it?’

Did he mean that? Maybe…

At least she had someone to leave a message for.

‘We’re going to make it,’ he said with more conviction than he actually felt. Who knew what daylight would reveal? They might still have to climb their way out and they were weaker now and he’d be operating pretty much one-handed. He wouldn’t be able to catch her a second time. ‘You’ll be seeing them all before you know it, but sending a message will make you feel better.’

‘You think? And what about you, Nick?’

‘What about me?’

‘Is there anyone you want to leave a last message for? What will make you feel better?’

He knew what she was asking him. Telling him. To leave a message for his parents. He could see how she must find it difficult to understand how he could have walked away, how destroyed he’d felt. But they had been his world. They’d brought him up to believe in the cardinal virtues. Integrity, truth. He’d believed in them. He’d believed in a lie…

‘I’ll take another of those kisses, if you’ve got one to spare,’ he said in an attempt to stop her from pursuing that thought.

Manda heard what she was supposed to hear-a careless, throwaway remark, pitched perfectly to provoke her into giving him another poke in the ribs, to distract her.

But she heard more.

Somewhere, hidden beneath the banter, she caught an edge of something she recognised.

Nick Jago, with no other way to push back the darkness, to distract her from her fear, her hunger, had shared his story. To help her feel a little less alone, he’d exposed a hurt that went so deep he’d cut himself off from his world, even to the point of changing his name.

She understood that kind of pain. How it was tied up with everything you were. Knew how, in order to keep it hidden, you had to wear a mask every day of your life until it became so much a part of you that even those closest to you believed that was who you were.

Until, eventually, you believed it yourself and, unless someone took a risk to save you, took a step into their own darkest place to release a lifetime of unwanted, unused love and give all they had, you would shrivel up until something vital inside you died.

Nick Jago had saved her from certain death. What would it take to save him from the living death to which he’d condemned himself?

He’d answered her question, but could it really be that simple?

‘A kiss?’ she repeated.

The air was still and, above them, in the small patch of sky that was visible, Venus shone like a beacon of hope.

‘Would that be a kissing-it-better kiss?’ she asked, softly, lightly, matching his careless tone. ‘Or are we talking about a make-the-world-go-away kiss?’

Jago had been deliberately provoking. He’d counted on that to divert her, keep her from the saying the words he did not want to hear, to force him to face a situation that he had blanked from his mind.

He’d anticipated a swift response too. The seemingly endless pause between presumption and response was unexpected, a touch unnerving.

But then her teasing tone as, finally, she’d repeated, ‘A kiss?’ had reassured him and, braced for whatever she chose to visit upon him, the butterfly touch of her fingers on his cheek, the caress of her thumb over his lips as she took him at his word, asked him what he truly wanted, warned him that this was anything but a reprieve.

He’d barely drawn breath, determined to apologise, reassure her that he’d been joking-put a stop to something that had, in the time it had taken to say it, spun out of control-before her lips touched his with a pressure so soft that he could almost have imagined it.

And then breathing seemed an irrelevance as the slow, penetrating warmth of it heated his lips, seeped into his veins, spread through his body like liquid silk until he was feeling no pain.

It was a kiss of almost unbearable sweetness that gave and gave, growing in intensity while the tips of her fingers slid down his neck, seeking out the pulse point beneath his jaw. And her touch, when she found it, sent a current of pure energy through him, as if she was somehow concentrating her entire being into that one spot.

It was as if, for years, his entire body had been somehow lying dormant, barely ticking over, waiting for this. Waiting for Miranda Grenville to come down into the dark to kiss him into life. Wake him with a touch.

Only her feather-light fingertips, her breath, her lips, touched him, seeking out the hollows, the sensitive places beneath his chin, his throat, stirring not just his body, but something deeper.

She took endless time, her lips, her tongue, lingering as she made her way down the hard line of his breastbone, slipping shirt buttons as she moved lower, her silky hair brushing against his chest as she laid it bare to the chill night air.

For a moment she lay her hand over his heart and it, too, leapt to her touch. Then it was not her hand, but her mouth against his breast, breathing her warmth, her life into the cold, angry core that had for so long masqueraded as his heart. It was an almost unbearably sweet agony, like that of a numb limb coming painfully to life.

‘Miranda…’

He gasped her name out but whether he wanted her to revive him or leave him in the safety of the cold and dark place where there was no feeling he could not have said.

‘Nick?’ Jago was aware that Manda was speaking to him, that there was an edge of concern to her voice. ‘Are you okay?’

Was he? He was feeling a touch light-headed. Not particularly surprising under the circumstances. That hadn’t been a mere kissing-it-better kiss…

‘Nick!’ she repeated more urgently.

‘Fine,’ He murmured. ‘More than fine.’ He hooked his arm around her. ‘Lie down,’ he said, pulling her up to lie against him, her hair against his cheek. ‘Try and get some sleep.’

Manda lay with her cheek against Nick Jago’s chest, his arm pinning her down so that she couldn’t move without disturbing him. And he seemed to have drifted off almost as soon as he’d said the word.

If it was sleep.

For a minute back there she’d thought he’d drifted out of consciousness. But his heartbeat was steady beneath her ear and his breathing seemed okay…

She closed her eyes. Tried not to think of the aches and pains that she’d temporarily managed to block out, but now she’d stopped concentrating on Nick had returned with a vengeance.

The fact that she was hungry. Thirsty. She hadn’t had anything to drink other than a few sips of water since lunch. A lunch she’d done little more than toy with. Sleep, if she could manage it, would be a great idea.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the slow, steady beat of Nick’s heartbeat until, gradually, it began to lull her.

It was the light that woke her. Searingly bright against her lids, she moved instinctively to escape it, for a moment completely disorientated. Hurting everywhere. Her neck stiff.

She lifted her head to ease the ache and realised that she was lying against the supine figure of a man.

Nick Jago…

She sat up with a gasp as it all came back with a rush. Tried to speak, but her mouth was dry, her lips cracked and it took a couple of goes before she could manage his name.

‘Nick? Wake up! It’s morning!’

Manda disentangled herself, scrambling quickly to her feet, forgetting all aches and pains in her eagerness to explore this promise of a way out.

Then, when he didn’t respond, she looked back.

‘Jago?’ He was drowsy, slow to stir. Slow to stifle a groan. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, remembering his hurt shoulder. That he’d had a bang on the head.

‘Barely,’ he muttered. ‘There are alarm clocks that use fewer decibels than you. Your wake-up technique could do with a little polishing, Miranda.’

‘I just haven’t been putting in the practise,’ she said, glancing back.

The sun, barely over the horizon, had found a chink in the shattered walls and for a moment it was concentrated on their corner of the dark interior and she caught her first real glimpse of the man with whom she’d spent the long night. Whose hand had brought her from the depths. Whose arm had held her safe.

His face was craggy rather than handsome, not helped by the fact that he needed a shave. His nose was, as they’d already discussed, interesting. His chin, stubborn. His eyes, she saw, in the moment before he blinked and lifted a hand to shade them from the light, were a fine grey. As for his mouth…

His mouth, she thought, looked exactly the way it had felt as she’d traced it with her thumb. The way it had felt when he’d kissed her. Tender, determined, sensuous. As if it had been a long time since he’d smiled.

He leaned his head back against the wall and, suddenly concerned, she said, ‘Are you really okay?’

‘I’d be better if you sat down instead of flirting with that big empty space out there in the dark.’

She glanced at the wall, with its tantalising promise of light, then dropped to her knees and pushed his hair back from his forehead to check his injury. There was a brutal graze, bruising, a slight swelling. Then, as the rising sun moved, the light suddenly disappeared, plunging them back into deep shadow.

‘I think you’ll live,’ she said, dropping her hand.

‘I know I will,’ He replied softly. ‘You gave me the kiss of life.’

‘Did I? When we get out of here…’

‘When we get out of here you’ll find the child you filmed on the streets. And I’ll get in touch with my parents. Is that a deal?’

‘It’s a deal,’ she said.

And, as if to seal their pact, he reached out and touched her lips with the edge of his thumb. ‘Hello, Miranda Grenville.’

‘Hello, Nick Jago.’

‘No!’

‘What? I’m sorry…’

‘When someone has saved your life they have the right to know who you really are.’ There was a pause, during which she swallowed desperately. ‘I was born Nicholas Alexander Jackson-the good, solid English name that my grandfather chose for himself within weeks of arriving in England.’

Jackson…‘But…’ She’d actually met his father at some reception or other. Ivo had introduced him, told her afterwards that he and his wife worked quietly these days, without any public fanfare, to raise funds for a charity that helped runaways. Used their own wealth, inherited from the same grandfather who’d gone on to found a giant food conglomerate…

‘What?’

She shook her head. Telling him that his father had changed would be pointless. He had to be open to the possibility before he could hear it. See for himself. And he’d made that commitment. It was enough.

‘Nothing. Just, thank you for telling me. Nick,’ she added.

He drew in a deep breath and it was her turn to say, ‘What?’

‘It’s just been a very long time since anyone’s called me that.’ Then, briskly, ‘Right. So, what do you say? Shall we get out of here?’

‘Yes. Please.’

Jago made it to his feet. Last night he’d thought he’d never make it out of here, but now, with even the small amount of light filtering through the broken walls, seeping down the shaft, anything seemed possible.

He looked around. He’d hoped for a way out through the original entrance but, even if it hadn’t been completely blocked by falling masonry, it was on the far side of the gaping chasm where the great eagle below had broken away. But above them was the promise of a small patch of sky and he stood up to take a better look.

‘Careful,’ he said, reaching back to offer a steadying hand as Miranda rose beside him. ‘I don’t want to lose you now.’ And then, as she took it, he turned back.

With the narrow beam of sunlight behind her, her face in shadow, all he’d seen of her had been the halo effect as it had lit up hair that was no longer sleek but suffering from the effects of twenty-four hours without the benefit of a comb.

Thick, dark, tousled.

He’d guessed that she was tall, but not quite how tall. No more than half a head shorter than himself. Tall, slender but with a steel core of strength about her. Well, he knew that. He’d experienced that. As a girl she might have broken down under the twin assaults of rejection and guilt, but this woman had come through a living nightmare with courage, humour, compassion.

Now, the light from above shimmered through the haze of dust motes and he could see that her black halo of hair was veiled with stone dust. There were streaks of dirt, like warpaint, decorating her cheek, her neck.

She did not have the instant, softer sensual attraction of a woman like Fliss. She had a different kind of beauty-taut, tempered in the fire-and she’d still be beautiful even when she was ninety.

She was beautiful now.

‘What?’ she asked, catching him staring, lifting her hand to her cheek, suddenly self-conscious of how she must look and that was when he saw her hands.

They were small, the fingers long, slender, elegant, well cared for-the remains of polish still clung to what was left of her nails-were a mess. The skin torn, knuckles bruised and broken.

She saw where he was looking and, mistaking his reaction, she spread her hand, regarding it with distaste. ‘My manicurist is going to have a fit when she sees this,’ she said, taking a step back to that woman who’d roused him with her scream, God alone knew how many hours ago.

Putting the mask back in place before she returned to the outside world.

‘Don’t!’ he said. He was not a man given to fanciful gestures, but he would not let her slide back into that dark place any more than he would have left her to fall and he reached for her hand, holding it across his palm. ‘Don’t do that, Miranda. You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. We have no secrets. We know one another.’ And then he bent and kissed her fingers, saluting her wounds as a badge of the courage she’d shown last night. ‘We will always know one another.’ ‘I…’

He saw her throat move as she swallowed, for once lost for words.

He waited.

‘I…Yes.’ And it was not the sophisticated woman of the world but an echo of the shy young woman she must have been. ‘Thank you.’

In danger of saying-doing-something that was totally out of place, he turned and looked up the shaft to the outside world. It seemed a very long way and, having seen the state of her hands, he wondered if she was up to this second climb.

If he was.

But he knew there was no point in suggesting she wait while he went for help.

‘Are you ready?’

She nodded. Then said, ‘No! Wait!’

And she took her tiny cellphone from her pocket, opened it and quickly entered a brief message. Then, when she saw him watching her, she started to shrug, stopped and said, ‘It’s not that I doubt we’ll do this, Nick. But I could get knocked down crossing the road. Or the plane could-’

‘Optimistic soul, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘My parents were killed when the yacht they were on sank. They were just gone. Nothing.’ She paused, looking up at him as if asking him to understand. ‘Suddenly life seems very precious, Nick. I want the people I love to know how I’m feeling now. That I’m…happy.’ And then she reached up, pressed her cheek to his. ‘Thank you for last night. For listening. For knowing me…’

For a moment she was in his arms and they clung to one another. Any two people would do the same, he told himself. Except he knew it was more than that. They had connected in the darkness. Bonded. Exposed themselves in ways neither of them had ever done before.

What had happened had forced them to look at their lives, confront the dark spaces, consider a different future.

‘Okay. I’m ready now,’ she said, taking a step back.

He grabbed her wrist as she disturbed loose stones that, endless seconds later, clattered to the floor below, then, without a word, he took the phone from her and keyed in a message of his own before handing it back.

‘I don’t have a cell number for my father, so I’ve sent it via your brother…’

She smiled. ‘You won’t be sorry.’

He didn’t answer, just said, ‘I’ll go first. Stick close. Whatever happens behind you, just keep going.’

Manda knew how to concentrate.

She concentrated her world into Nick’s voice, giving her a running commentary of his moves. She concentrated on his feet, his boots, one step ahead of her. And, one move at a time, she finally found herself not so much climbing out of the shaft as falling, tumbling, rolling sideways down a steep slope until his body brought her to a halt.

He said nothing, just took her hand, and she lay still while she regained her breath. Only then did a giggle explode from her. They’d survived, overcome all the odds, made it back from the dead.

Somewhere above them in the canopy a bird, or maybe it was some small mammal, joined in, setting up a cacophony of raucous laughter that echoed around the forest.

It just made her laugh all the more.

‘What?’ Nick said, turning to look at her.

She just shook her head, unable to answer him, unable to do or say anything. Laughing so much that tears were pouring down her cheeks.

And after a moment his beautiful, strong, sensuous mouth-the one that looked as if it hadn’t smiled in centuries-twitched in sympathetic response. Then widened into a smile and then he too was laughing.

Jago wasn’t sure when Miranda’s laughter tipped over into tears. It didn’t surprise him. There were always two sides of any emotional roller-coaster and hers had been a dark ride. He just held her hand so that she knew he was there and, after a while, hiccupping, sniffling a little, she rubbed a sleeve over her cheek. Then looked at the once white linen, the smears where sweat and tears had mingled with dust, a little blood where a loose stone had caught her cheek.

‘I’m filthy,’ she said.

‘You’re gorgeous.’

She turned to look at him. ‘So are you.’

‘Filthy?’

‘Filthy. Gorgeous. Gorgeously filthy. What we could both do with is a shower. You run a very slack establishment if you don’t mind my saying so. I was lured to Cordillera with the promise of beautiful beaches, thrilling scenery and every comfort known to man.’

‘Put your complaint in writing. I’ll give you the name of the Minister of Tourism.’ Then, because he didn’t want to think about that, because he was alive and he didn’t want to feel bad about anyone-not Fliss, not even Felipe Dominez-he said, ‘In the meantime, if you can stagger a hundred yards or so, I can offer you the basic facilities, always assuming that nature hasn’t messed with the plumbing.’

‘Plumbing?’

‘There’s a stream at the bottom of this hill. Cold and cold running water.’

‘Water! What on earth are we waiting for?’ She didn’t exactly leap up, but made a very good stab at it. She barely winced as her knee buckled. ‘Which way?’

He forced himself to his feet. ‘This way,’ he said, leading her down through the mess of dead leaves and shattered branches that littered the forest floor, towards the sound of running water.

She was limping, he noticed and taking her hand to give her support, he asked, ‘How’s your knee?’

‘Thirsty.’

The walk down the steep path to the bottom of a small side valley nearly finished them both, but the sight of water pouring over a small waterfall and into a pool brought him to a halt.

‘What is it?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He’d expected change, devastation. ‘Apart from a few leaves floating on the water, it seems untouched…’

‘Well, that’s great,’ she said, urging him on and as one, they flung themselves down beside the pool, scooping up water in their hands to slake their thirst.

Manda drank, splashed water over her face, then lay still, her sore fingers trailing in the cool water.

‘Better?’ Nick asked.

‘I didn’t believe water could taste that good. Is it safe?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been drinking it for five years without any ill effects. It comes from a spring just below the main building of the temple and I ran a standpipe to the site.’

‘Maybe someone should bottle it.’

‘Maybe they should.’ He rolled on to his back. ‘It was considered sacred by the people who lived here and the original temple building was built over it to protect it. Then, as the power of the tribe grew, new buildings were added and the water was channelled through them for cleansing rituals.’

‘So why wasn’t there any down in the basement, where we needed it?’

‘Over centuries of neglect, the original spring gradually silted up. But water, being water, it found another way.’ Then, ‘Maybe we should make a move. There will be people looking for us.’

‘We’ll hear them,’ she stalled, not wanting to move.

The pool was unbelievably beautiful. There were ferns growing where the water splashed on to the rocks. Tiny blue flowers, epiphytes growing in the misted air and huge ivory lilies that filled the air with their scent. Trees bearing berries that looked good enough to eat…

It felt untouched, new.

‘You know those people, centuries ago, wasting all that time and energy building huge stone temples had it quite wrong.’

‘They did?’

‘You don’t need stone to make a temple. This is the real deal. The sky, the earth. Fruit and flowers…’ She stopped, her eye caught by a flash of shimmering colour as a dragonfly skimmed the pool. ‘Water.’

She scooped up another mouthful and then, realising that it wasn’t enough, she sat up and reached for her shirt buttons.

‘Miranda? What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to immerse myself. Soak in the water through my skin. And then I’m going to indulge in a little cleansing ritual of my own.’

Her fingers were stiff and awkward and she doubted they’d be up to the task of refastening them, but she’d worry about that later. For now, her only goal was to totally rehydrate herself. Be clean.

Her bra proved more difficult and she turned her back to Jago.

‘Are you going to just lie there and watch a woman struggle?’ she demanded. Before he could make any kind of move, the hook gave way and she peeled it off, tossed it aside. She’d revealed the darkest secrets of her soul to this man, her body was nothing…

Jago could not take his eyes off her as she stripped off her clothes, transforming herself without a hint of self-consciousness into Eve, before she stepped carefully down into the clear water of the pool. Standing for a moment, as if soaking it up, before kicking off to swim across to the waterfall.

The water streamed from her shoulders as she stood up, turning her pale skin to ivory satin against the jet of her hair. And then she turned and looked over her shoulder at him and said, ‘This is an equal opportunities cleansing ritual, Nick. There’s plenty of room for two.’