Liz Fielding - Wedded in a Whirlwind

‘No.’ And, pressed hard up against him, deprived of sight but with all her other senses working overtime, she said, ‘I seem to be in rather more trouble than I thought.’

‘You have no idea,’ He murmured, his mouth so close to her ear that the stubble on his chin grated against her neck and she could feel his breath against her cheek.

She remembered the feel of his lip against her thumb and it was a struggle to keep from swallowing nervously.

Nerves might be a justifiable reaction under the circumstances, but he’d know it was prompted by her nearness to him, rather than the situation they were in, and that would never do.

Instead, she turned her head so that she was face to face with him in the dark, so close that she could feel the heat of his skin and, lowering her voice to little more than a whisper, she said, ‘Do we have time for this, Jago?’

In the intensity of the silence, she could have sworn she heard the creak of muscle as his face creased into a grin. A grin that she could hear in his voice as he said, ‘Tough little thing, aren’t you?’

And, in spite of everything, she was grinning herself as she said, ‘You have no idea.’

For a moment they knelt in that close circle with every sense intensified by the darkness, aware of each other in ways that only those deprived of sight could ever be.

The slight rise and fall of Jago’s chest, the slow, steady thud of his heartbeat through her palm.

She could almost taste the pulsing heat of his body.

There was an intimacy, an awareness between them that, under different circumstances, would have had them ripping each other’s clothes off.

Or maybe these were exactly the circumstances…

‘Okay,’ Jago said abruptly, leaning back, putting a little distance between them. ‘We need your light, no matter how small it is, and the water. I want you to quarter the floor. Keep low, hands flat on the floor to steady you in case there’s another shock. Watch out for broken glass.’

‘Yes, sir!’ If her knees weren’t so sore, she’d have snapped them to attention. ‘What are you going to be doing in the meantime?’

‘Putting my feet up and waiting for you to get on with it?’ he offered, since they were back to sarcasm city. No doubt it was a lot safer than the alternative. ‘Or maybe I’ll be trying to find a way out. There must be an opening somewhere.’

‘Wouldn’t we be able to see it if there was?’ she asked, in no hurry to let go of her only contact with humanity. To be alone in the darkness.

Or was it letting go of Jago that was the problem? Maddening and gentle, dictatorial and tender by turns, she was becoming perilously attached to the man.

‘This chamber is at a lower level so it may not be obvious, especially if it’s dark outside. The chances are that we’re going to be climbing out, so you’d better be wearing sensible shoes.’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘I hope you’re kidding…’

Of course she was kidding! As if anyone with an atom of sense would go walkabout wearing open-toed sandals in a tropical forest that was undoubtedly infested with all manner of creepy-crawlies.

‘Leave me to worry about my feet,’ she replied. ‘Just get us out of here.’

‘Trust me.’

‘Trust? Trust a man?’ And, suddenly aware of the ridiculous way she was clinging to his hand, she let go. She did not cling…‘Now you’re really in cloud-cuckoo-land.’

‘Believe me, if I was in the mood to laugh, I’d be in hysterics at the irony of being forced to rely on a woman,’ he assured her without the slightest trace of humour, ‘but in the meantime I suggest we both take a trip with the cuckoos and pool our resources until we get out of here.’

And, as if to make his point, he found her arm, sliding his down it until he reached her own hand, picking it up and wrapping his fingers around it. Reconnecting with her in the darkness.

An unexpected wave of relief swept over her and it was all she could do to stop herself from tightening her grip, holding him close.

‘What do you say, Miranda? Shall we suspend hostilities, save the battle of the sexes for the duration?’

She wanted to ask why he insisted on calling her Miranda. A compromise between Ms Grenville and the ‘friendly’ diminutive, perhaps. Couldn’t he bring himself to be that familiar?

Instead, she said, ‘Sure. Consider it a date.’

‘It’s in my diary,’ he assured her, ‘but right now we need to move.’

‘Yes. Move.’

Having let go once, put on the independent act, Manda found it much harder to prise herself free a second time. That was how it had always been. Pretending once was easy…

He made no attempt to rush her or, impatient, pull away as she slowly prised her fingers free, one at a time. Amazingly, he remained rocklike as she forced herself to peel herself away from the warmth of his body. While she fought the desperate need to throw herself at him as a cold space filled the vacuum where, a moment before, there had been warmth.

Fighting a slide back into the dark sink of desperation, the clinging neediness.

She’d been there and knew how far down it could take her, but it was a tough call. The darkness amplified everything. Not just the tiny sounds, the movements of another person, but the emotion. The fear. And, as she finally let go, mentally casting herself adrift, she sat perfectly still for a moment, taking time to gather herself as Jago moved away from her.

Holding in the scream.

She needed no one. No one…

‘Any time in the next ten seconds will do.’

Jago’s voice came out of the darkness as astringent as the bitter aloes that one especially hated nanny had painted on her fingernails to stop her biting them. She’d chewed them anyway, refusing to submit, suffering the bitterness to spite the woman. Five years old and even then using her body to take control of her world.

The memory was just the wake-up call she needed and, using the wall as her starting point, she began to edge carefully forward on her hands and knees, casting about in wide sweeps, seeking her bag. Distracting herself from the pain in her knees as she shuffled along the broken floor by thinking about Jago.

So he found her response about trusting a man worthy of derision, did he? It had to mean that some woman had done the dirty on him in the past. The sexy creature selling her dumbed-down book on the ancient Cordilleran civilisation? He’d sounded bitter enough when she’d raised the subject.

She stopped herself from leaping to such obvious conclusions.

To the outside world she had no doubt that her trust problems would have looked that simple, too. Dismissed as the result of a couple of disastrous relationships with men who had commitment problems. She’d seen the grow-up-and-get-over-it looks from people who hadn’t a clue.

Nothing was ever that simple.

It wasn’t the men. They were no more than a symptom…

She jumped as loose stones fell in a clatter.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked nervously. What would she do if he wasn’t?

‘Just peachy,’ he replied sarcastically.

Cute. ‘You don’t actually live down here, do you?’ she asked in an effort to keep him talking.

‘No. I’ve got a house down in the village,’ He admitted, ‘but I keep a camp-bed here. I can get a lot more writing done without the constant interruptions.’ His voice seemed to come from miles away. And above her. ‘It’s about fifteen miles back.’

‘Yes, we drove through it.’

She hadn’t given a thought to the villagers. She’d seen them working in their tiny fields as they’d driven by. Small children, staring at the bus. Skinny dogs, chickens, goats…

‘I hope they’re okay down there,’ she said.

‘Me too, even though they’re probably blaming all this on me. Stirring up the old gods. Making them angry.’

‘Is that what you’ve been doing?’

‘Not intentionally. They’ll have to look further afield for those who’ve been taking their name in vain.’

Definitely the blonde, then…

‘They’re not getting excited about the possibility of getting rich off tourism?’ she asked.

‘The younger ones, maybe. The older people don’t want to know.’

‘Oh.’

Manda’s fingers brushed against something on the floor. A bottle. Glass and, amazingly, intact. She opened it, hoping it was water. She sniffed, blinked. ‘I’ve found your hooch,’ she said. ‘The bottle wasn’t broken.’

‘Good. Take care of it.’ His voice came from above her. ‘We’re going to need it.’

She didn’t ask why, afraid that she already knew the answer.

JAGO’S foot slipped, dislodging more loose rubble that rattled down to the temple floor, eliciting a small, if quickly contained, cry of alarm from his companion.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. The pause was a fraction too long. ‘Miranda!’

‘Y-yes…Sorry. I thought it was another aftershock.’ Then, ‘Can you see anything?’

By ‘anything’ she undoubtedly meant a way out.

‘Not a lot,’ he replied, relief driving his sarcasm.

He was prodding gently, hoping to find a way through, but having to be careful that he didn’t bring the rock ceiling down on top of them. As far as he could tell, however, the far end of the temple where his working supplies were stored was completely blocked off.

Their only escape route appeared to be up through the shaft, always assuming that it hadn’t collapsed. He couldn’t see the sky. And just for a moment he considered what it would have been like to come round, alone in the darkness, not knowing what had happened.

‘I could really do with that light,’ he said. Then, ‘Any chance in the near future, do you think?’ No reply. ‘Miranda?’

‘I’ve found my bag.’

She didn’t sound happy.

‘What’s up?’

‘Everything is soaking.’

‘You can’t expect me to get excited about a ruined bag, no matter how expensive.’

‘No. It’s just…The water bottle split when it fell.’

He just about managed to bite back the expletive that sprang to his lips. It was not good news. ‘If there’s anything left, drink it now,’ he instructed.

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll manage. Just tell me you’ve found the light.’

In the silence that followed, his mind filled in the blanks; a picture of her tilting her head back as she swallowed, the cool, clean water taking the dust from her mouth.

‘What about the damn light, Miranda?’ He demanded in an effort to take his mind off it.

In answer, a tiny glow appeared in the darkness.

A really tiny glow that did no more than light up the tips of ghostly pink fingers, shimmer off the pale curve of her cheek.

She’d said it was small, but he’d been hoping for one of those small but powerful mini-torches. The kind of sterling silver gizmo that came in expensive Christmas crackers. Women who carried designer bags that had a year-long waiting list didn’t buy cheap crackers for their Christmas parties. They bought the kind that contained expensive trinkets for people who had everything. At least they did back in the days when he had been on the guest list.

Maybe she’d gone for some kind of kitsch irony last Christmas because this light must have come out of the budget variety sold in supermarkets, just about powerful enough to illuminate a lock in the dark.

He fought down his disappointment and frustration. This was not her fault. Miranda Grenville had come out on a sightseeing trip, not equipped for a survival weekend.

‘Well, that’s great,’ he said, and hoped he sounded as if he meant it. ‘I thought it might have been ruined.’

He eased himself back down to the temple floor and carefully made his way across to her with the light as his guide.

‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him. It went out. ‘You have to squeeze the sides to make it work.’

‘Very high-tech,’ he observed, then wished he’d kept his mouth shut as she found his wrist, slid her fingers down to his hand and guided it to the bottle she was holding.

‘Here. I saved you some water. Careful, it’s on its side.’ Then, before he could take the drink that he was, admittedly, desperate for, she said, ‘Wait. I’ve got some painkillers in here somewhere. For the bump on your head.’

‘You don’t have faith in the kissing-it-better school of medicine?’ He asked, while she fumbled about in the dark for a pack of aspirin, popped a couple of pills from the plastic casing. It was extraordinary how, deprived of sight, the other senses became amplified. How, just by listening, he could tell exactly what she was doing.

‘Yes. No…’ Then, ‘No one ever kissed me better…’ she placed the pills into his hand, taking back the light so that he had both hands free to swallow them ‘…so I couldn’t say how effective it is. It’s probably wiser to be on the safe side and use the pill popping approach, wouldn’t you think?’