Hope's Betrayal (31 page)

Nothing. No
Hope.

 Behind him was
woodland, ahead the cliff. Hardly daring to look, he peered over the edge, but
trees clung to the slumped rock face, obscuring the view of the beach below. He
straightened. No one in their right mind would attempt that descent. Hope would
never try it, especially with Jasper in tow. He walked away from the edge.
Somehow he had missed her, somewhere they'd taken a different turning. He must
go back to the fork in the path and start again. With a grimace of pain, he
retraced his steps.

He hadn’t gone
more than twenty feet when a noise in the undergrowth made him stop and listen.

"Who's
there? Hope?" His skin prickled. The rustling grew louder and then
bursting threw the bracken came a flurry of tan-and-white fur.

"Jasper!
Boy am I pleased to see you."  Huntley fell to his knees and ruffled the
dog’s ears while Jasper tried to lick his nose. But as he fussed the dog,
Jasper yelped. "You're hurt? Where’s your mistress?”

Jasper’s ears
pricked up.

“Where’s Hope?”

With a bark,
Jasper ran to the path leading back to the lookout, and waited expectantly,
wagging his tail.

"Well I'll
be damned, you understood. You're not just a useless lapdog after all. Good
boy!"

On three legs,
Jasper barked and trotted toward the cliff path.

In the failing
light, the descent down the cliff face was only for the foolhardy. In places
the path was no more than a ledge, zigzagging back and forth across an almost
vertical descent. George disregarded caution. Skidding and sliding, grabbing at
tree roots to break the fall. Choake had already forced Hope down this path, he
was sure of it. His own safety meant nothing, he must get to Hope.

Huntley slid the
last few feet and landed awkwardly, biting back a yelp of pain, as he dived for
cover behind a fallen tree. Lying low he took stock; his hands were lacerated
by sharp rocks and his bad leg burned like it had been branded, but at least he
wasn't seriously hurt. Sometime during the descent, without him noticing it had
become fully night. Far behind him, high up on the path, Jasper had stopped,
and yet Huntley's skin crawled, alive with the distinct impression he was not
alone.

Crouching low,
he surveyed the cover. The foot of the cliff was littered with rocks and fallen
trees, ahead a wide sandy beach shelved down to the sea and mist rolled in off
the surf.  In the darkness, nothing moved except for the restless churning of
black waves and the crash of breakers. Huntley's eyes grew used to the darkness
and began to make sense of shapes on the shoreline: a fallen tree, draped with
seaweed. As Huntley watched, a shape disengaged from the trunk, a man walking
around it—tall, with wide shoulders. Then, for a split second, Choake's
aristocratic profile was silhouetted against the glittering sea, and Huntley
gasped in recognition. So, if Choake was here, where was Hope?

Huntley’s heart
picked up a pace as he strained to make out more. Choake was preoccupied,
bending over a pile of rags lying on the fallen tree.

"Sweet
Lord, no!" Huntley felt dizzy at the realisation that those rags were
actually Hope. In a blind rage, Huntley gripped the pistol in his belt.

It would be a
difficult shot in the dark, especially at this distance. He needed to get
closer, which meant crossing open sand. Huntley thought quickly. The blanketing
shadow of the cliff favored him. Was Choake alone? How was he armed? Huntley
searched up and down the shore, but saw no one. And then with chilling clarity,
he realised the tide was coming in and the oak was already part submerged—there
was not a moment to waste.

 Choake bent over
Hope, talking to her. It would be a gamble but with Choake distracted, he
should get close enough for a clear shot. Huntley crept forward, aware Hope's
life depended on stealth. After the downhill scramble his leg burned viciously,
but he bit his cheek against the pain, the metallic taste of blood filling his
mouth as he inched closer.

Halfway across
the open beach, and utterly exposed should Choake look up, Huntley prayed like
he'd never done before. Fortune favored him. He was so close now as to hear the
low rumble of Choake's voice above the sound of the waves. Huntley listened,
hoping to hear Hope answer and know she was still alive. Ten feet away now,
Huntley stopped. He waited for his heart to slow, lest his shaking hand
affected his aim. Slowly, an inch at a time, he stood and with deadly intent,
straightened his arm, took aim at Choake's heart…and fired.

The flint
flashed, sparks fizzled in the dark. Huntley tensed for the kickback—but
nothing happened. He pulled the trigger again. Nothing. Then all hell broke
loose, as with impossible speed, Choake saw him and sprinted across the sand.
With the excruciating pain in his leg, Huntley was struggling to even stand,
and so with relative ease Choake grabbed the pistol and tossed it into the sea.

“Damn your
interference, Huntley.”

Bellowing with
rage, Huntley launched himself at Choake. The two men grappled. Stumbling,
rolling, tumbling, neither giving an inch in a deadly dance. They fell as one.
Sprawled on the beach, Choake reached out and threw a handful of sand into
Huntley's eyes. Temporarily blinded, Huntley heard the swoosh of a heavy object
swinging through the air and instinctively rolled aside.

This reflex
saved his life, as the blow caught his ribs not his head. Even so, white heat
filled his lungs, the pain beyond comprehension. Choake swung again, but this
time Huntley was ready, and grabbed the club to pull Choake off balance. In
that split second, Huntley drew his knife for the counterattack.

But through some
devilish means, Choake had a rock, using it as a shield to deflect Huntley's
blows. He pressed Huntley backwards, who stumbled on his bad leg. Then Choake
was on him, gripping his wrist, crushing the bones against one another until
Huntley lost his grip and the knife fell from his hand. As Choake bent to
retrieve it, Huntley kicked the blade out of reach. In white fury Huntley
picked up a rock and smashed it against Choake's head—who crumpled like a leaf.

Huntley stood
over his prone form, willing him to move, for then he could hit him again. But
Choake lay still, and Huntley refused to beat a downed man. Sweat poured from
Huntley's brow, as recovering his breath, he turned to Hope.

What Huntley saw
shocked him to the core. The tide had advanced at a sickening pace,and where
once the sea danced around Hope’s slippers, now her skirts floated like a
ballooning jellyfish.  With Hope tied on the fallen tree, the sea covering her
hips and lapping along her back and shoulders—another few minutes and the water
would close over her head.

*****

The fallen tree
was at an angle on the shelving beach. Hope lay on the trunk, her arms bent in
a backward embrace. The sea already reached Hope's waist, and each subsequent
wave lapped higher and higher. Huntley stumbled into the water but his bad leg gave
way and he fell. With grim determination, he grabbed at the tree and hauled
himself upright, the water up to his thighs. He shook the wet hair from his
face.

"Hope!
Hope, can you hear me?"

With a jolt of
fear, Huntley realised her wrists were tied together under the submerged side
of the trunk.

“Hope, I’m going
to free you. Do you hear me?”

Weakly, Hope
turned her head—there was blood matted in her hair.

“Hope, it’s
going to be alright, do you hear?”

She nodded
slowly, and in the gloom he could see her smile as if to reassure him. Pressing
his head against the trunk, George felt under the water for the wrist bindings.
But his fingers rapidly became numb in the cold water and he fumbled to make
sense of the knot.

Hope’s struggle
to free herself had tightened her bonds. Breathless with cold, Huntley worked
feverishly by touch alone; salt water smashing against his cheek. By some
miracle, he traced the main loop and wormed his thumb inside to loosen it. The
saturated fibres were swollen and tight. Grunting with effort, George pulled
and teased at the rope as the skin was shredded from his fingers. Each fraction
of an inch giving a victory, as desperation gave him strength. A wave broke in
his face. The saltiness filled his nostrils, stinging the back of his throat.
Spluttering and choking, he gasped for air. The tide had risen further, Hope's
hair floating around her shoulders like silky seaweed. He redoubled his
efforts.

Taking a deep
breath he dived under the tree. He worked at the knot, which gave little by
little. With agonising slowness he won, his lungs fit to burst, as he undid the
final loop. Her hands were free. His head broke the surface and greedily gulped
down air.

"Hope?"

Huntley stood,
the sea lapping around his chest, the tug of the swell making it difficult to
keep his footing. Her arms hung limp on either side of the trunk, rising and
falling with the sea.

"Hope?"

She shivered
hard and her eyes flickered open.

"He tied my
legs too."

The blood
drained from Huntley's face.

“Dear Lord.”

He closed his
eyes against the truth. Already the sea caressed her neck, whispering against
the pale skin of her jaw. He would have to dive to free her feet, and to untie
the saturated knots would take too long.

“You tried.” Too
weak to sit Hope smiled and lifted a trembling hand from the water to touch his
cheek. “Thank you.”

“No! This isn’t
over!”  Huntley reached for the dagger in his belt. Nothing. He ripped at his
clothing. Nothing. Now the sea tugged and dragged at his chest, the shingle
shifted beneath his feet as the greedy waves ate at the sand. Think! In a
moment of clarity, he remembered the struggle with Choake, the crushing grip on
his wrist, dropping the dagger and kicking it away.

“Stay here!”

“I'm not going
anywhere.”

Salt water kissed
her lips

Dragging himself
ashore, Huntley's leaden limbs no longer seemed part of him. Exhausted, he fell
onto his hands and knees in the sand and panted like a dog. Utter determination
drove him on, even it meant crawling. He scanned the beach, trying to remember
the precise spot of the scuffle. Then, momentarily the cloud cleared from the
moon, and beside a rock, glinting like a gift from the gods was his knife. New
strength poured through his veins as he struggled to his feet, pounced on the
dagger and turned back to the sea. 

With the last of
her energy, pushed up on her elbows, back arched, Hope struggled to keep her
head above water, just the oval of her face visible, as at any moment the waves
threatened to close over her.

With no time to
lose, Huntley dived under the waves. The strength of the oncoming tide
surprised him as it pushed him back toward the beach. Breaking the surface for
air, he gripped the knife between his teeth, tried again—this time pulling
himself along the trunk into the deeper water. He found the rope and forced the
blade between the trunk and Hope's bonds. Working like a demon he sawed,
straining every muscle to cut and hack. His lungs burned and his mind screamed
for air, but he wouldn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts. Time stood still.
Seconds stretched into minutes as he worked. He felt light-headed, no longer
knowing which way was up. He worked on—for if Hope died—he had no reason to
live.

At long last
something gave, the tension slackened. With a frantic last effort, his lungs
bursting, he pushed the rope away to free Hope. Pushing against the seabed, he
broke the surface of the water to draw down great, greedy drafts of night air.
The relief of escape from the watery grave was exhilarating. Gathering his
breath, he turned to share his relief. Tendrils of Hope's hair rose to the
surface, marking her grave. Her watery face shimmered, pale as a moon, beneath
the waves. He was too late.

*****

With an
anguished cry, George plucked Hope from the water. Her lifeless body hung limp
in his arms as he staggered to dry land. But he wasn’t ready to give up.
Collapsing onto the sand, with the last vestiges of his strength, he pushed
Hope onto her side. He had seen sailors who'd fallen overboard having water
pumped from their lungs. If only he could remember how to do it. He grasped
Hope’s waist and tried to lift her, it stood to reason if her head were lower
than her chest, the water may run out. He was rewarded with a gurgling,
rattling cough. Encouraged by this success, he heaved her higher. She coughed
some more and then fell quiet.

Exhausted and
unable to hold her weight any longer, George sagged to his hands and knees. He
leaned his cheek against her mouth to feel for her breathing. Nothing.

“I won’t let you
die.”

Taking a deep
breath, out of sheer pigheadedness, he resolved to blow life back into her. Her
lips were icy cold and tasted of death, but he refused to give up. As he blew
into her mouth, it gave him satisfaction to watch the rise and fall of her
chest, it was almost as if she lived. He worked until he felt faint and was
close to passing out. He sat back on his heels and stared at the stars, trying
to tell which were real and which were spinning in his head. Never had he felt
so alone, hovering on the brink of desolation. If Hope was dead he might as
well walk into the waves, end it all now, for a lifetime without her would be
worse than death. But a quiet choking sound interrupted his melancholia.