Follow a Stranger (17 page)

heralding the coming dawn, but the stars still flashed, far

off, like tiny diamonds, and the moon sailed, like a slice of

lemon, above the shadowy hills.

They picked their way carefully back over the rocks

which littered the road. Marc helped her into the jeep,

climbed in and began reversing slowly, sounding his horn,

to warn anyone coming up the road behind them. At a

convenient widening he managed to turn the jeep and they

drove home fast.

Kate swayed with the movement of the jeep, her head

feeling almost loose on her shoulders. So much had

happened tonight and she had worked with such intent

concentration that she had lost sight of everything else but

the job in hand. Now the loss of a night’s sleep was catching

up with her. Her eyes were raw and dry, as if rubbed with

sand, and her throat hurt.

The greyness in the sky grew as they drove. “It will be

morning soon,” Marc murmured as they drew up outside

the villa.

Kate climbed out and stretched, yawning. Through the

trellised tunnel at the side of the house she could see the

green lawns of the garden, glistening with rain, and on a

wild impulse she ran round into the cypress-lined garden.

She stood, breathing in deeply, enjoying the fresh night

scents.

Marc came up behind her. “You English lunatic,” he said

softly, “come into the house. You have been up all night and

you are asleep on your feet.”

She laughed and turned back. “I wanted to feel ...” she

paused, not knowing quite how to describe the feeling she

had been possessed by at that moment.

“Alive?” he suggested gently. “I understand. It was grim,

wasn’t it? Nature can be very cruel.”

“Yes,” she whispered, remembering the child in the

bloodstained dress. She had found out later that the child

had lost her father in the rock fall. His body had been found

in the rains of his house. Only the arrival of her weeping,

white-faced mother had snapped the little girl out of her

dangerous state of suspended grief, and they had clung

together, loudly weeping, yet comforting each other.

Marc propelled her by the elbow into the villa. They went

into the kitchen, which was large, beautifully equipped and

tiled in orange and black.

Marc made Kate sit down while he put the kettle on the

stove. “A cup of tea is what the English love most,” he

teased. “That will restore you!”

She sighed longingly. “It sounds heavenly! My mouth is

as dry as a kiln.”

He stood over her, very tall and dark. “Pyrakis said your

mouth was cool and sweet and inviting,” he reminded her

softly.

Kate was too weary to respond. She shook her head, so

that her blonde hair fell loose from the band that had held

it in place all evening.

Marc knelt down beside her and took off her muddy

wellingtons, flung them behind him carelessly, and took off

her damp socks. He treated her, she thought, as if she were

a small child. Then he brought her a bowl of warm water

and some soap. “Wash your face—it will make you feel

better,” he said, “and then soak your feet. We don’t want

you catching a chill.”

He stood with his back to her, making the tea with slow,

deft movements. She carefully washed her hands and face,

feeling relief as the sticky grime and perspiration were

peeled off, leaving her skin cool and clean. Then she put the

bowl on the floor and let her feet soak gratefully. They were

sore and hot, and the water lapped round them deliciously.

She looked down at her clothes with a grimace. Her

white sweater was filthy. Blood stains, mud, green streaks

of grass, made it look as though she had been in a major

disaster. The jeans were in no better condition. One leg was

matted with dried blood and the bottoms of both were black

with mud from the wet roads.

“I look a sight,” she said, yawning.

Marc put a fragrant, steaming cup of tea in front of her.

A slice of lemon floated on the top. She yearned foolishly for

English tea, milky and sweet, but this was better than

nothing. As she lifted the cup to her lips Marc muttered

something, and she looked up, eyes enquiring.

“The veins are standing out on your wrist like whipcord,”

he said curtly.

Kate looked incuriously at her wrists. He was right.

Beneath her pale skin blue veins stood out visibly. “They

always do when one is tired,” she pointed out. “I expect

yours do, too.”

He shrugged. “I am more used to late nights, perhaps.

You must stay in bed all day tomorrow. We do not want you

to be ill again. This has been an unfortunate holiday for

you.”

In more ways than one, she thought miserably. She

drank her tea and stood up to reach the towel he had placed

on the table for her. Marc walked to the side of her chair

and took it from her grasp, crouched down and lifted one of

her feet. She sat down again, suddenly, in case she fell over.

“I’ll do that,” she said quickly.

He took no notice of her. Gently, slowly, he wiped the foot

dry, holding it on his knee. Then he put it down on the floor

and took the other, and did the same.

Kate stood up quickly, her heart quickening. She

suddenly could not bear to be here with him any longer. It

was too agonising to have him being so kind in that

impersonal fashion. She did not want him to treat her as a

child. She was a woman.

“Good night, then,” she said brightly, edging towards the

door.

He smiled at her. “Sleep well. I’ll tell Sophia not to wake

you. You can stay in bed as long as you like.”

She nodded and opened the door.

“Kate,” he said suddenly, moving towards her. She

halted, looking round uneasily at something in his voice

which she could not quite identify.

“I haven’t thanked you yet,” he said quickly. “You worked

like a Trojan tonight. I am very grateful to you.”

“It was nothing,” she dismissed. “Anyone would have

done it.”

“Not quite,” he shook his head. “Only someone kind and

brave. You got filthy, you are very tired and you were very

upset by some of the things you saw. Don’t push my thanks

away, Kate.”

She flushed, then smiled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be

curt.”

“You are tired,” he nodded. “Go to bed, my ... my dear.”

Kate looked up, smiling at him, and he slowly bent his

head towards her. Her heart quickened into a thunder. She

waited, lids drooping, lips slightly parted.

Then a voice behind them said sharply, “Marc, what is

going on here?”

Marc straightened, stiffening, and his eyes went over

Kate’s head to the woman standing behind her, in the open

doorway.

Marie-Louise repeated her question, in a high, shrill

tone. “Why are you here, in the middle of the night, dressed

like that? Where have you been?”

Kate turned blindly and pushed past her without a word.

As she fled up the stairs she heard Marie-Louise say, “You

haven’t been making love to the little schoolteacher, have

you, darling? You really must not flirt with people like

that—they don’t understand your little games! They take

them seriously and get hurt.”

She slept all the next day, dreaming constantly of Marc. She

seemed to be fighting her way towards him, through thick

jungle, constantly aware of snakes underfoot which

uncurled and slid away from her, hissing, making terror

flare inside her. She kept catching sight of him, tall, dark

and elegant in formal clothes, with a woman on his arm.

Jealousy and despair made her fall back, sobbing, but then

she would hurry onwards. Always he was just out of her

reach.

Then, just before she woke up, she finally caught up with

him, and he turned and looked at her with cold, indifferent

eyes. She gave a cry of pain—and woke up, the cry still on

her lips, to find herself in the darkened bedroom.

She sat up and looked at the tiny jade clock which stood

on her bedside table. It was four o’clock, she saw. She

swung her legs out of the bed and went to the window. The

shutters swung back, letting the sunshine stream into the

room. The light made her blink and her head throbbed. She

sat down on the end of the bed, stretching sleepily.

There was a knock on the door a moment later. Kate

called, “Come in,” expecting Sophia, but it was Mrs. Lillitos

who entered, smiling at her as she slowly limped across the

room.

“I was in my room when I heard your shutters open,” she

said. “I have rung down for your breakfast, my dear.”

Kate laughed. “Breakfast? I’m afraid I’ve slept later than

I intended. I’m so sorry.”

“Nonsense. You had every right to sleep after being up

all night. I slept very late myself. I thought we might eat

together in here.”

Kate smiled, “That would be very pleasant.” Sophia came

in shortly afterwards, with a large tray, and smiled warmly

at Kate.

“
Kalimera, kyria
!”

Kate had begun to learn a little Greek from Sophia since

her arrival, and was able to answer. “
Kalimera
, Sophia!”

Mrs. Lillitos laughed. “Ah, you are learning Greek. That

is very good.”

“I only know a few phrases which Sophia has taught

me—good morning, good night and so on ...”

“One must make a start somewhere,” said Mrs. Lillitos,

looking oddly delighted.

Sophia laid the tray down on the long table under the

window. She whipped off the cloth which covered it,

revealing orange juice, toast, coffee and boiled eggs. A pot

of English marmalade made Kate laugh. “It looks delicious,

Sophia.
Efharisto
!’

“Thank
you
,” Sophia emphasised, smiling, and went out.

“We are all grateful to you for what you did last night,”

Mrs. Lillitos explained. “Sophia has a nephew who lives in

Etrusci. You comforted his wife while she waited to hear if

he had survived.”

Kate thought back to the horror of the night before. “The

tiny, dark girl who was very pregnant? Oh, I wish I had

known she was related to Sophia. I might have said

something more comforting. I felt so helpless, not being able

to speak the language. But her husband was safe, so all

ended well.”

Mrs. Lillitos smiled. “I think she understood your

feelings, even if she did not know what you were saying.

You have such very expressive eyes, Kate. They are the

mirror to your heart.”

Kate flushed hotly. Were they? she wondered uneasily.

And if so, had Marc read their message last night, and seen

her helpless love for him? Humiliation and shame burnt in

her chest. She made herself eat her breakfast, although it

almost choked her.

Marc tapped on the door as they finished. He was

looking alive and vital this morning, his blue sweater and

casual dark blue slacks very neat compared with the clothes

he had worn last night. He grinned at Kate. “How are you?

You look very pretty.”

She became hotly aware of the scantiness of her

nightdress and looked around for her dressing-gown.

“Come back, later, my son,” his mother said sternly.

“Kate is
en deshabille,
and not ready to receive male

visitors.”

“I only came to tell her that her fiancé has arrived. I sent

for him this morning.” His grey eyes danced challengingly.

“I thought she might want to see him.”

Kate felt her nerves jump, but she kept her face under

control. “Thank you,” she managed to say stiffly.

His mother went slowly to the door. “Come down when

you are ready, my dear,” she said gently. “There is no

hurry.”

The door closed and Kate was alone. Now there could be

no doubt left in her mind about Marc’s feelings towards her.

If he had cared about her at all would he have sent for

Peter? Was this his way of telling her that he was not

interested in her and that she should concentrate on her

fiancé?

Of course, he did not know, and she would never tell him,

that she had decided to break her engagement.

She had faced this decision days ago. It had been a

mistake to become engaged to Peter. It was fortunate that

she had realised it in time. It would have been a disaster if