by Liz Fielding
Within minutes thick gouts of red muddy water were spilling off the hillside and pouring onto the road, churning up the loose dust on the surface and washing it away as the flood continued on down the hill.
Brodie’s hands tightened on the wheel as potholes that had been filled with loose earth were washed out and the car began to bounce and shift on the uneven surface. Emmy clutched at her seat and fervently prayed that there would be no lightning. Neither of them mentioned turning back. There was nowhere to turn on the narrow track.
‘May we should stop,’ Emmy suggested, nervously. ‘Just until it eases.’
‘This could last for hours.’
She groaned. ‘It’s all my fault. We could have been here hours ago. Yesterday, even, if I hadn’t lied about flying—’ she broke off with a little scream as lightning flashed behind the hill swiftly followed by a low rumble of thunder. Brodie stopped the car and turned to her.
‘Emmy, sweetheart—’ he began, but whatever he was about to say became redundant as another, more vivid flash had her diving into his arms, hiding her face in his shoulder.
‘Hold me, Brodie. I can’t bear it.’
She was trembling against him. She might have lied about her fear of flying, but this was real enough. He unfastened his seatbelt and then hers, pulling her into his lap to hold her, cradling her against him, holding her close as he murmured softly against her hair, against her neck. Words of comfort, words of love that he knew she could not hear.
The noise was unbelievable. A fierce tattoo of rain, the gusts of wind that rocked the car so that she made tiny, mindless sounds against his chest. And then there was the thunder, moving closer with each succeeding flash of lightning, each time a little louder, until a crack directly above them seemed to match the lightning and split the sky. And the rain continued like an impenetrable wall of water.
Emmy was whimpering against him, clawing at him with her hands so that he was forced to capture them, tuck them against his chest so that he could hold her tightly. She was beyond reason and he couldn’t blame her. Faced with the uncontrollable forces of nature anyone who said they were not scared would be lying.
Something heavy hit the top of the car, denting it so that the roof caved in behind them, but worse, shifting the back end round where the ground had been washed from beneath the wheels.
‘What was that?’ Emmy cried out, her nails digging through his shirt.
A sheep. It must have lost its footing on the slope above them and he’d seen the poor creature as it rolled on down the hillside. ‘Nothing. The branch of a tree,’ he told her. If anything the rain was coming down harder and as the car shifted again, sliding towards the downward slope, he knew they would have to make a move, one way or another. He glanced at the girl cowering in his arms. He would have to make the choice. Start the car, try and drive on; or get out before they joined the sheep in the bottom of the gully.
Not much of a choice. Driving was near to impossible with visibility down to nothing. If the road had been washed out ahead of them he would never see it. And Emmy was close to hysteria.
‘Emmy.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he shouted above the noise of the storm. She didn’t appear to hear him. ‘Darling, please …’ It was no use. The daring girl who had shimmied two floors down a drainpipe without turning a hair, was now quite unable to help herself.
He released the door catch and the door was immediate whipped away from him by the wind, banging hard against the bank. He didn’t bother to shout any more. He half leaned, half fell out of the car with Emmy, dragging her clear, holding onto her as it slewed round with a rending of metal as the underside dragged against the lip of the road and slipped over the edge.
It remained there, poised, rocking for a moment. Emmy screamed as it slipped another foot or so, but then it stuck, caught on a tree stump, or rock perhaps. Whatever, it wouldn’t stay there for long.
Emmy, shivering with terror and now with cold, was already soaked to the skin, her mud-splattered jeans and t-shirt clinging to her. ‘Wait here,’ he shouted, pushing her back against the bank. ‘Don’t move.’ She stared at him, wide-eyed, terrified, the rain pouring down her face, her red hair plastered against her head, her skin almost transparently white. He knew then that he loved her, would die for her if need be, but this was not the moment for crazy declarations of love. Instead he bent down and kissed her, hard, on the mouth.
Emmy momentarily forgot the storm, her terror, all she felt was the heat that had surged through her as Brodie kissed her. But even as she made to grab him, hold him by the shirt front and kiss him back, he turned away and dived across the road towards the car.
‘Brodie!’ Her voice was dashed away by the wind and he didn’t hear it. ‘I love you, Brodie,’ she shouted. He half turned, as if her words had finally penetrated the noise of the storm, but without warning the ground beneath him gave way and he disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER TEN
EMMY flung herself to the ground and crawled across the road to the edge. ‘Brodie,’ she called, her voice hoarse, her breathe blown away by the wind. ‘Please come back. Oh, darling, please don’t be hurt. I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt…’
His face suddenly appeared just below her. There was a smear of mud across his cheek and the rain was dripping over his dark brows, down his nose and running off his chin. He dashed it away with his shirt sleeve, but the torrent was so strong that it made little impression. ‘I thought I told you to stay over there,’ he gasped out, fighting for breath. But down at ground level, protected by the bulk of the car, the wind wasn’t so strong.
‘I thought you’d fallen. I thought—’ She hesitated, aware that she had exposed raw feelings that she needed to examine, think about. Had he heard her? There was nothing in his expression to suggest that he had.
‘What did you think, Emmy?’ She shook her head and after a moment he shrugged. ‘I was just rescuing your bag before the car fell down there into the river.’ He held out his hand to help her down. ‘Come on there’s a hut—’
She slapped away his hand, scrambling to her feet. ‘My bag? You risked your life for a few clothes?’ She couldn’t believe he could be so stupid. How dare he risk his life when she loved him! ‘You stupid, idiotic…’ — she struggled for a suitably scathing insult — ‘…man!’ she yelled at him, anger obliterating her fear of the thunder still crashing around the hills, the distant flashes of lightning. ‘How could you!’
He pulled himself up onto the road. ‘A simple thank you would have done,’ he said, when he was certain she was finished.
But she wasn’t finished with him. She was far from finished. ‘Thank you?’ She glared at him. ‘You expect me to thank you? What would I have told your mother if the car had come down on top of you, Brodie? That you died because I couldn’t survive without a change of knickers!’ She swung angrily, flinging her fist at his shoulder. ‘What kind of a mindless bimbo do you think I am?’ She swung again, but evidently he had had enough because he moved and she missed.
She let out a yell as her feet went from beneath her and she found herself sliding on her bottom down a mudslide. Then she had no breath to waste on anything as trivial of yelling for help. Every time she managed to grab a mouthful of air it was knocked right out of her again.
But Brodie came after her anyway, grabbing at her t-shirt to slow her, pulling her on top of him as they bumped and bounced over the uneven ground so that he took the worst of the pounding until the ground levelled out and they slithered to a halt in a tangle of arms and legs.
For a moment they stared at one another, breathless, grinning a little at the crazy roller-coaster ride they had just taken and survived.
‘Let’s go back and do that again, Brodie,’ Emmy murmured, finally as her heart began to return to something like normal.
Brodie’s smile faded. ‘I’ve got a much better idea.’ She was poised above him, her hips pressed against his and she didn’t need a phras
e book to interpret his meaning.
The rain hammering down on them, washed away the worst of the mud and as he carefully lifted the strands of hair away from her mouth, her cheeks, his touch sent fingers of heat racing through her, a new rare heat that sent her spirits soaring, her pulse hammering in her ears. There were moments, perfect moments in life that were a special gift and she knew without a doubt that this was one of them.
And because of everything that had happened, because of Kit and her father and because she recognised that Brodie was in a situation that made it impossible for him to make the first move, she would have to take the lead.
His eyes never left hers as she pushed the black strands of hair back from his forehead, as she lightly touched a graze where a stone had caught his cheek, as she ran her hands down his throat, growing darker, luminous with desire.
He made no move as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it back so that the rain poured over his naked chest, lowering her head to touch his slick golden skin with her lips. No move, but she felt the sudden catch in his breath, the vibration of a low growl deep in his throat as her teeth teased momentarily at his skin, as the tip of her tongue swirled in the hollows of his neck.
Suddenly desperate to feel the rain on her own naked skin, she sat up, raised her arms and pulled her ruined t-shirt over her head. Then she reached behind to unfasten her bra and when it swung free, held the tiny scrap of lace at arms length and let it fall.
She felt him shudder with suppressed desire as she swayed forward until the taut peaks of her breasts touched him. But still he held her only with his eyes as, slowly, she lowered her mouth to his.
She made no immediate move to kiss him, but touched the sensuous curve of his lower lip with her tongue.
It was running with rainwater and she took it between her own lips sipping from it, like a humming bird taking nectar from a flower. Then she dipped her tongue into his mouth and after that the question of who was taking the lead was no longer a question that either of them were interested in.
There was just an urgency to be free of clinging denim, wet muddy cotton chinos, to feel skin against skin and for long moments they hungrily explored each other with hands and lips until Brodie, ignoring Emmy cries of protest as he stopped kissing her for a moment, picked her up and carried her towards the dry-stone built shepherds hut.
It was dark inside the borie, but dry and, out of the wind, much warmer. And the floor was thickly covered in a bed of dried heather and herbs that smelt sweet as they lay down together.
‘Brodie,’ Emmy began, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the sudden silence out of the wind. But he covered her lips, first with his fingers and then with his lips and after that there was no need for words. The moment was perfect, the man was perfect and she loved him.
That was all that mattered.
Explanations would wait.
Everything would sort itself out.
Later.
Emmy woke to a golden light edging around the door of the borie. She lay there for a while, content just to be close to him but when, after a while, he hadn’t stirred, she eased herself from Brodie’s arms and knelt up to peer cautiously out. The storm had passed and the sun was making everything steam. She eased her head out of the door, the brilliant light making her very conscious of her nakedness, but there was no one about and, spotting her bag lying a few yards away, she made a dash for it.
Brodie still hadn’t moved, showed no sign of waking as she pulled on not-quite-dry underwear and a crumpled dress.
She knelt down beside him, put out a finger to touch his cheek and then hesitated, remembering the tired hollows beneath his eyes, in his cheeks. Two nights sleeping on a sofa had taken their toll. She wouldn’t disturb him. Instead she pulled the baggy rugby shirt she wore at night out of her bag and tucked it round him.
She sat for a while, smiling as she watched the even rise and fall of his breathing. His hair had dried in rumpled curls and she was unable to resist the temptation to tease one out, see it spring back. ‘Oh, Brodie, darling Brodie,’ she murmured. ‘I do love you so much.’
She glanced at her watch, tilting it towards the slightly open door so that she could see the time. It was just after five. They should be moving soon or it would be dark and she had no idea how far they would have to walk.
She wondered what had happened to the directions to the farmhouse. She had been reading them when the storm had started. Had she dropped them? Or pushed them into her jeans pocket? She rose quietly and let herself out of the hut. Their clothes were scattered where they had torn them off and blushing, just a little, at the memory of her wanton behaviour, she gathered them up. The paper was not in her pocket.
She dropped the clothes inside the hut door and climbed up to the road where the car remained, wedged against a large rock at a crazy angle to the sky. The floor of the car by the front seats was on a level with her head and peering through the open door on the driver’s side she saw the piece of paper he had given her where it had fallen as he had pulled her into his arms. She reached across and caught it between outstretched fingers, jumping back quickly as the car seemed to rock a little.
She looked at the directions and realised the farmhouse wasn’t very far. Less than a kilometre according to the directions the police had given him. She looked along the road, steaming as it dried out in the sun. She looked back at the hut.
She could be at the farmhouse in ten minutes. She would be back with Kit and a truck to pull the car back onto the road before Brodie had woken up. It would be something to make up for what she had done this morning. She blew a kiss back towards the borie and then turned and hurried towards the farmhouse.
Brodie felt as if he’d been in a concrete mixer but he didn’t care. He was warm and fulfilled and quite unbelievably happy and he turned to Emmy, planning to wake her with a kiss, pull her into his arms and tell her just how much he loved her. But Emmy wasn’t there.
For a moment it didn’t sink in.
He shrugged off the rugby shirt and then pulled it over his head. He saw her bag, open where she had rifled through it for something to wear. He saw the pile of wet clothes by the door, fished out damp boxer shorts, soggy shoes and stepped into them before going outside.
‘Emmy,’ he called. The ground was steaming and it was like looking through a golden mist. ‘Emmy?’ But there was no answer and he let out a loud, animal bellow as pain and anger washed over him.
Selfish, spoilt, determined to get her own way she had tried everything to shake free of him. Each time he had found it so easy to forgive her, to understand. Even this morning, locked up in the police station, he hadn’t believed it was personal, had been so sure that once he saw her with Kit it would all fall into place and he would know exactly what she was up to.
But now she had used him and betrayed him. Now it felt very personal and whatever happened in the next few hours he was determined that Miss Emerald Carlisle would not get her own way. And once he had dealt with Kit Fairfax, he would make it his business to see that she suffered for what she had done.
He looked down at himself. First he would change into dry clothes. He wasn’t about to confront either of them looking like a refugee from some disaster.
His own bag was still in the car and he climbed back up to the road. Then he stripped off, rubbed himself clean with his polo shirt and dressed in a fresh shirt, the lightweight suit he had worn on the train — trousers neatly sponged and pressed by Madame Girard — and a pair of clean, dry shoes. He knotted a tie about his neck and combed his hair.
Not quite his usual standard of grooming for a business meeting, but it would have to do. Then he took his briefcase from the rear seat and slammed the door irritably behind him before setting off down the road towards the farm.
Behind him there was a rending of metal, a crash as the rock propping the Renault in place finally succumbed to the undermining effects of the rain, the weight of the car and gravity.
Brodie didn’t
bother to turn and look.
He wasn’t sure how far he would have to walk, but he reasoned that if Emerald had decided it was worth taking the risk of running for it, it couldn’t be that far.
It wasn’t.
After about half a mile, the track curved round the hill and he saw the farmhouse below him. It was grey stone, the roof that wonderful mottled mixture of faded pink and brown rounded tiles that from a distance looked like knitting, the ridge like some crooked seam.
Behind it a cypress tree provided a dark exclamation point, in front there was a neat courtyard that suggested careful husbandry. And away to the right neat rows of olive trees, leaves silvering as the remnants of the storm’s wind lifted them gently.
Fairfax had, apparently, inherited a well-cared for and prosperous estate. It was going to take more than a hundred thousand pounds to buy him, but perhaps Mark Reed was right. Maybe money, property, would be all that was needed to change Gerald Carlisle’s mind, Brodie thought, ice cold, when love had been unable to move him.
How on earth had he come to believe that the daughter was so different from the father? They were cut from the same cloth, wilful, selfish people who cared for nothing or no-one, only getting their own way.
He crossed the courtyard, rapped at the open door and walked in without waiting for an invitation. Emerald Carlisle and Kit Fairfax turned, startled, wine glasses in their hands. There was an overnight bag by the door.
‘I’ve obviously arrived in the very nick of time,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have wasted time toasting your great escape.’
‘Brodie!’ Emmy exclaimed, putting down her glass and rushing across to him. ‘We were just coming to fetch you in the jeep. Kit is going to pull the car back onto the road—’
‘The car is down at the bottom of the gully. It will take more than a jeep to get it up.’