“What a brusque name for such a feminine creature. I
would call her ...” he paused, looking her up and down
slowly until she was once more bright pink. “Penelope!”
he announced in triumph. “Yes, Penelope. She has that
gentle, stubborn look of Homer’s Penelope. Prepared to
wait until eternity for her man. Fragile, delicate but
unbreakable. That is what I like in some blonde
Englishwomen—that look about the mouth that puts up
the fence against all intruders.” He grinned wickedly, at
Marc, his eyes acute. “You have seen it, eh? Oriste? It is
so inviting. How can one resist that cool, sweet mouth?
Any more than a little boy can resist the sign which says
no walking on the grass, eh?”
Marc did not answer, but his face was set in rigid lines
as he stared back at Pyrakis, and the other man lifted his
thick black brows slowly, speaking in Greek.
Marc reddened, but did not reply.
Pyrakis turned back to Kate, his expression more
serious, and said, “So you have confidence in Pallas? Does
she yet care about her work? Does she work hard for you?
Does she worry?”
“I think she is so afraid to care that she pretends to be
indifferent,” said Kate, looking at Marc. “She thinks her
family will never let her have a career, anyway.”
Pyrakis turned to Marc, enquiringly. “Why does she
think that, my friend?”
Marc shrugged. “We told her she would have to prove
herself before we agreed. We did not say she could not
try.”
Pyrakis nodded and looked at Kate again. “You must
make her work, little one. Be cruel, be ruthless, but make
her work.” Then he stood up, flexing his fingers. “Now I
shall play to you.”
He walked to the great piano which dominated one side
of the shadowy room, lifted the lid and laid his hands on
the keys, flat, unmoving.
She had seen this odd trick of his before, at London
concerts. He said it was because he wanted to feel the
piano before he began to play it, to sense the willingness
of the keys.
He lifted his hands again and then broke into a series
of fast, dizzying chords which startled her and were
totally new to her ear.
“This is his own,” Marc whispered.
Pyrakis played for an hour, totally absorbed, as though
he had forgotten them, his untiring hands wrenching
brilliant response from the piano.
When he stopped playing and swung round to face
them, Kate was trembling with excitement. She could not
speak, but her face spoke for her.
“I must go now, for my siesta,” Pyrakis said. “You will
lunch with me afterwards?”
“I’m sorry,” Marc apologised, “but I have just noticed
the sky. A storm is in the offing. We must make a dash
for Kianthos, I’m afraid.”
Pyrakis shrugged. “A pity, I shall feel deprived. I was
looking forward to more of Miss Kate’s company. She is
excitingly responsive, like a well-tuned violin.” He kissed
her hand, then, saying something in Greek to Marc, bent
and kissed her on the mouth.
Marc took her elbow. “We must hurry. I’ll see you,
Spiro.”
He marched her back down to the harbour very fast,
his face coolly shuttered, and helped her into the yacht.
They set off at once. Kate looked back at the island, its
hills now dark and menacing with the approaching storm.
Then she sighed. She would remember that meeting
with Pyrakis all her life.
Marc shouted to her to come and help him, and she
hurriedly obeyed.
She had done little sailing before, but she was light on
her feet, and quick-witted, so they worked together in
comparative harmony.
“I don’t like the look of that sky,” he said anxiously. “I
hope we get back before that wind veers, or we may be
blown right off course. I wish I had noticed the sky
earlier.”
They were within sight of Kianthos when the wind
suddenly began to blow strongly, beating them to and fro
as if the boat were a matchstick. Kate caught a glimpse of
Marc, through a turmoil of whipped spray, and heard him
shouting to her, but the wind blew his words away.
Then the boat seemed to fly upwards, like a toy in the
grip of a giant, and she was thrown across the deck,
cracking her head with such violence that she lay still,
her eyes shut, the pain crashing over her unbearably.
CHAPTER FIVE
She lay crumpled against the side of the yacht for a
moment or two, waiting for the pain to subside. Dimly,
she heard Marc shouting anxiously, “Kate, Kate, are you
badly hurt?”
She got herself up on one knee, staggering as pain
shot through her head, and he bellowed at her to stay
down.
“I can manage, but if you go overboard in this sea I
shall not be able to do a thing about it!”
They fought their way doggedly, the coast shim-
mering through mountains of spray, but the wind was
driving them off all the time.
They rounded a sheer cliff and Kate gasped in horror
as she saw black rocks rising up, their jagged points like
broken teeth above the water. Marc was desperately
trying to avoid them, but the wind was too strong.
A grinding crash, the sound of splintering wood, and
Kate again felt herself thrown about like a rag doll. This
time icy water engulfed her. Panic made her strike out
furiously, arms flailing. The cold water seemed to be
dragging at her, pulling her downwards.
Then Marc swam up at her side, grabbing her by the
throat from behind, turning her on to her back in a deft
rolling movement.
“Keep quite still,” he ordered. “Relax. Let yourself
flop, but trust me ...”
Panic was choking her as she felt herself, helpless,
being towed like a stranded whale, but she forced
herself to obey him.
He swam strongly, but she realised how tiring it
must be, and when they had passed the black rocks and
were nearing the misty shoreline, she called to him to
let her swim alone now.
“I can manage,” she assured him.
He released her, and she swam beside him until they
were in shallow waters.
Panting, shivering, coughing, they lay on the sands,
the sea flinging vengeful breakers after them. She
heard a booming sound close by, like the breaking of
waves, but realised it was her own heart.
Marc turned over on to his side and looked at her.
“How do you feel?” he panted.
She laughed breathlessly, “Rotten. My chest is
almost bursting after all that exertion.”
“Can you walk? There is a goatherd’s hut on the cliff.
We’ll get food and dry clothes there. The path is not as
steep as the path at To Angkistri.”
Kate flushed, remembering that day, and struggled
to her feet. The wind
whipped through her wet clothes.
She shivered.
Marc was watching her with concern. “Perhaps you
ought to wait here,” he said.
She felt panic sweeping over her again. “No,” she said
quickly, “don’t leave me here alone ...”
His face softened and he held out his hand. “Come
on, then.”
What, she wondered, as she climbed the cliff path at
his side, had happened to her hatred and resentment?
From their first meeting she had had a picture of him
as an arrogant, overbearing tyrant whose every word
put her back up. She had detested his self-assurance,
his sarcasm and scornful dismissal of women as mere
playthings. When had all that changed?
She flinched away from too close an examination of
her new feelings. That she no longer bristled at the sight
of him was sufficient food for thought at the moment.
The goatherd’s hut was built of warm creamy stone,
rough and unfaced, but as solid as the rocks beneath it.
The one small window was shuttered and the door
closed.
There was no answer to their knock, so Marc pushed
the door open and shouted. No reply came. The small
room beyond was empty. A wooden ladder led up into
the tiny attic bedroom, from which wisps of straw
protruded, leading Kate to conclude that it was a hay
loft as well as a bedroom.
Marc went out again and walked round the hut,
shouting. Then he came back, shrugged. “Nobody in
sight. I’ll get a fire going. There’s an outhouse with
plenty of dry wood stacked up.” He opened a large
wooden cupboard which took up the whole corner by the
fireplace and produced a thick oiled wool sweater, which
he flung to her, telling her to put it on while he got the
wood.
Gladly she slipped out of her wet clothes and into the
sweater. It was obviously intended for a huge man, and
fell to her knees, the sleeves hanging far below her
wrists. But it was comfortingly warm and she huddled
into it with gratitude. She rummaged in the cupboard
when she was dressed and found a pair of rough
trousers and a long white shirt which she thought would
fit Marc.
He came back, laden with wood, and grinned at her,
his glance running over her sweater and the long bare
legs beneath. “You do look a picture,” he teased.
She slipped her feet, shuddering, back into her
sodden plimsolls, then took her wet clothes outside to
hang on the wire line which stretched between two
small posts. When she got back Marc had coaxed the
fire into life and was standing beside it, in the goat-
herd’s baggy trousers, the shirt in his hand. She stood
at the door, looking at the bare brown shoulders turned
towards her. Under the smooth tanned surface of his
skin his muscles rippled as he moved. Her breath
caught as she felt an insidious warmth deep inside her,
and Marc, hearing the little sound, turned quickly.
“You don’t mind being alone here with me like this?”
he asked, slipping into the shirt.
“Why should I?” she answered offhandedly.
He buttoned the shirt front, staring at her with
narrowed eyes. “Some girls might feel ... threatened ...
being alone with a man in such circumstances. This is a
very isolated spot.”
She forced a laugh. “I have too much common sense.
You’ve just narrowly escaped drowning, after all. You’re
cold, tired and hungry. The last thing on your mind is
sex, I would say.”
He grimaced. “I see,” he said on a strange note. “It is
just as well you have so much ... what did you call it?
Common sense. Rather uncommon, I would have said.
But I would hate to be stuck here with a female who
expected rape at any minute.”
“What we both need is food,” she said lightly. “I
wonder where the goatherd keeps it?”
Marc opened a drawer and produced a flat loaf of
dark bread, sugar, a tin of anchovies and some goat’s
cheese in a yellow dish.
“Giorgiou always keeps his food there,” he ex-
plained, “and there is coffee here ...” producing a
wooden tub. While Kate sliced the bread on the small,
home-made table, he ground the coffee and opened the
anchovies.
She toasted the bread, spread it with cheese and
anchovies and held it in front of the fire until the
anchovies curled slightly, and the cheese bubbled.
They ate the meal by the fire, sitting on low stools.
The black coffee was hot and sweet. It ran through her
like fire, making her sleepy and content.
“Are we going to try to get back to the villa tonight?”
she asked.
Marc shook his head. “We wouldn’t make it. The
terrain is too difficult. I would not care to try in the
dark.”
“You would try if you were alone,” she guessed.
He shrugged his shoulders. “As that situation does
not arise there is no point in discussing it. We must
stay here until dawn. Giorgiou is bound to be back
then. He is probably visiting his sister in the village.”
He threw some more wood on the fire and the flames
leapt upwards. She watched them, feeling lazy and at
ease.
“You can sleep upstairs,” Marc told her. “The bed is
only a straw mattress, but you must have some sleep.”
She looked at the wooden ladder. Yawning, she got
up and went towards it, then heard a distinct scam-
pering above her head.
Marc leapt towards her as she screamed, and she
flung herself into his outstretched arms without think-
ing, clinging to him, shuddering. “Rats! I saw one ... its
tail ...” She was almost physically sick, her teeth
chattering with repulsion and horror.
He held her tightly, one hand clenched on her
shoulder, his thumb moving over her thin-boned
shoulder blade. “You’re quite safe,” he whispered, his
mouth just above her hair.
“I hate them,” she stammered. “Horrible, creeping
things ...” burying her face in his chest with tightly shut
eyes.
“Kate, stop this,” he said, in suddenly hardened
tones, holding her away from him. “You have been brave
up till now. Stop it!”
The shock of his sudden coldness snapped her back to
self-awareness. She was scarlet at once, realising what
she was doing. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly, and drew
away from him, her eyes on the floor.
“I am relieved to see you have some feminine re-
actions,” he said, reverting to his teasing. “For a girl
who came so calmly through a violent storm, shrugged
off the possibility of rape with the utmost scorn and has
been so level-headed and sensible all day—you amaze
me! Who would have thought you would jib at rats!”
She could not control the quick shiver which ran over
her. “I ... I don’t like them,” she said.
/>
“Obviously,” he nodded. “But they are clever little
creatures, you know. I would have expected you to be
kinder about them, such animal lovers are the English!”
She saw that he was attempting to put things back
on a normal footing, and tried to respond. “They’re like
some men,” she said, lightly, “clever but loathsome!”
He grinned. “Present company excepted, I hope?”
Kate laughed. “Did that come too near home?”
He grimaced. “I’ll get some straw and make a bed on
the floor.”
Within ten minutes they were both lying on warm
dry straw, near the hearth, covered by a heap of thick
blankets.
The room was dark, except for the glow of the fire,
and Kate felt her eyes growing heavy. She could feel
every little movement Marc made, hear his regular
breathing. How strange, she thought sleepily, to be here
like this with him. She giggled at the thought of what
Miss Carter would say if she could see them.
“What’s funny?” Marc asked softly, turning his head
towards her.
She told him, still laughing.
“And your fiancé?” he asked. “Would he be shocked?”
He paused, then added, “Jealous, perhaps?”
“Peter? Good heavens, no, why should he be? He
trusts me.”
Marc was silent for a moment, and she thought he
had gone to sleep, but then he spoke again, making her
start, his tone sharp and unpleasant.
“Oh, he trusts you, does he? But what about me? Does
he trust me? A stranger of whom he knows nothing?”
She opened her mouth, but how could she bear to let
him know that Peter was too absorbed in his work to
care what she did?
He waited for her to answer, then said, “You have
been engaged for a long time. When do you plan to
marry?”
“Oh, some time next year,” she said vaguely. “We
haven’t actually fixed a date.”
He spoke abruptly, his voice hard. “When I get
married I shall do so with all possible speed. No long
engagement for me. I want to be certain of my girl.”
Was he thinking of his French girl-friend, the model?
“Do you hope to marry soon?” she asked.
He hesitated for several minutes before replying. “It
is in my mind,” he said slowly, at last. “But there are ...
problems.”
“Your girl-friend isn’t ready for marriage yet?” she
suggested. So he was thinking of the French girl. Kate
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