by Sara Craven
Allie found a flat boulder and sat down, with her back to the wind, aimlessly shifting her shells into various patterns, and wishing that her life could be so easily rearranged. The question she had to ask herself was—how long could she go on living with Hugo? Especially when being treated as some kind of scapegoat in this ludicrous pretence of a marriage.
She’d been emotionally blackmailed into becoming his wife, standing beside his hospital bed as he begged her not to leave him. Told her that he needed her—depended on her.
Manoeuvred and manipulated by his mother, and hers, too, she hadn’t known which way to turn. Had been warned that she could be risking his chance of recovery if she walked away. Except there was no chance, and everyone knew it. Especially the medical staff.
So I let them convince me, she thought drearily. Told myself I was necessary to him, and, even if I didn’t love him, I told myself I could at least have compassion for all that strength and vigour, destroyed for ever by a stupid collision on a polo field. That I couldn’t—let him down.
At the time, she reflected bitterly, it had seemed—easier. But how wrong she’d been.
Shuddering violently, Allie swept the shells off the rock into oblivion, almost wishing that she could go with them. Because there was no pattern to her life, and no solution either. Just endurance. Because, however unhappy she might be, Hugo was in a wheelchair, requiring permanent nursing, and she still couldn’t abandon him. She’d have to go back.
But she would at least make the most of this all too brief release. She glanced at her watch, realising it was time she was getting back to the house. She was getting hungry, and besides, Tante would be wondering where she was.
She jumped down from her rock and turned, her hand going to her mouth, stifling a cry. While she’d been sitting there, daydreaming, the sea had been coming in—not gently, but in a strong, steady rush, as she knew it sometimes did along this coast. Tante had warned her about it in the past, insisting that anyone staying at the house must always check the tides before using the beach.
But I didn’t. I didn’t give it a moment’s thought. I assumed it was on the ebb…
She looked at the waves, already encroaching at each end of the cove, cutting off her retreat whichever way she turned, and felt sick with fear. There was seaweed on the boulders behind her too, indicating how far the sea could reach.
Oh, God, she thought, I must do something. I can’t just stand here, watching the water level rise.
She realised she might have to swim for it, although she knew she’d be struggling even if the sea was like a millpond. On the other hand, if she wasted any more time, she risked being washed against the jut of the overhanging cliff, she realised, swallowing a sob in her throat.
Then, suddenly, there was rescue.
The horse seemed to come from nowhere, eyes rolling, head tossing as it galloped through the waves, urged on by its rider. As they reached the strip of sand where Allie stood, transfixed, the man leaned down, hand extended, spitting an instruction at her in a voice molten with fury.
She set a foot in the stirrup that he had kicked free, and found herself dragged up in front of him, left hanging across the saddle, with her head dangling ignominiously, his hand holding her firmly in place by the waistband of her trousers.
She felt the horse bound forward, and then there was water all around them, the salt spray invading her eyes and mouth, soaking the drift of her hair, chilling the fingers that were gripping the girth until they were numb.
She could feel the fear in the chestnut’s bunched muscles—sense the anger in the air from its rider—although he was talking constantly to his mount, his voice quiet and reassuring.
She was scared and aching, every bone in her body shaken as the horse plunged on. She closed her eyes against the dizziness induced by this headlong dash, praying that he would not stumble. That the drag of the sea would not defeat him.
She never knew the exact moment when the almost violent splashing of the water stopped, but when she next dared to look down, she found herself staring at sand, and the beginnings of a rough track leading upwards.
Then the horse was being pulled up, and her rescuer’s hold on her was suddenly released. She raised a dazed head, realising that he was dismounting, and then she herself was summarily pulled down from the saddle, without gentleness, and dumped on the stones.
She sank to the ground, coughing and trying to catch her breath. She felt sick and giddy from that nightmare ride, aware too that her clothes were sodden, and her hair hanging in rats’ tails.
She looked up miserably, tried to speak and failed, silenced by the scorching fury in the blue eyes, and the battery of fast, enraged French that was being launched at her without mercy.
As he paused to draw breath at last, she said in her schoolgirl’s version of the same language. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’ Then she put her face in her hands and burst into tears.
He swore murderously. She could interpret that at least. Then there was a taut silence, and a clean, if damp, handkerchief was thrust between her fingers.
‘You are English?’ He spoke more quietly, using her language, his voice clipped, the accent good.
She nodded, still not trusting her voice.
‘Mon Dieu.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet you come here to a dangerous shore—alone, and at such an hour, to stroll as if you were in a London park? Are you quite insane?’
She lifted her head. Looked up at him as he stood, soothing his horse with a paradoxically gentle hand.
He was slightly younger than she’d thought, probably in his early thirties, but no friendlier for that. She assimilated a beak of a nose, a formidable chin with a cleft, and a strong mouth with a sensual curve to its lower lip. And his eyes were truly amazing—a colour between azure and turquoise, fringed by long lashes. And brilliant now with the temper he was trying to control. But more, she thought, for the horse’s sake than hers.
She said huskily, ‘I should have been more careful, I know. But I was thinking about—something else.’
He gestured impatiently. ‘But I warned you to go back. Why did you ignore me?’
‘I—didn’t hear what you said—not properly.’
He muttered something else under his breath. ‘You are no doubt accustomed to people shouting at you,’ he added contemptuously. ‘And have learned to disregard it.’
Allie sank her teeth into her lower lip. Yes, she thought, but not in the way you imagine.
‘Again, I’m sorry.’ She wiped her face with the handkerchief, detecting a faint fragrance of some masculine cologne in its folds.
‘I did not believe it when I looked down from the top of the cliff and saw you there in the Cauldron,’ he said harshly. ‘We call it that because when the tide is full the water seems to boil over the rocks.’
Allie shuddered. ‘I didn’t know. I—I’ve never gone that way before.’ And I wouldn’t have done so this time if I hadn’t been trying to avoid you…
‘I was almost tempted to leave you,’ he went on. ‘Instead of risking my life, and my even more valuable horse, to come to the aid of a stranger and a fool.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, don’t spare me. Please say exactly what you think,’ she invited, with a trace of her usual spirit.
‘I shall,’ he told her brusquely. He added, ‘Roland, you understand, does not care for the sea.’
Then perhaps you should have left me. It would have been one answer to my problems…
The thought ran like lightning through her head, but was instantly dismissed as she contemplated the shock and grief that Tante would have suffered if the sea had indeed taken her.
Besides, when faced with it, oblivion had not seemed nearly so desirable, and she knew she would have fought to survive.
She swallowed. ‘Then Roland’s a true hero.’ She got slowly to her feet. ‘And—thank you for having second thoughts,’ she added with difficulty. She smoothed her hands down her wet trousers, and stopped as a
sudden realisation dawned. ‘Oh, God, I’ve lost my shoes. They were in my pockets.’
‘I hope you do not expect me to go back for them,’ he said with asperity.
‘Oh, no,’ Allie returned, almost poisonously sweet. ‘I think saving my life places me under quite enough obligation to you for one day.’
‘Or perhaps not,’ he said slowly. ‘Where are you staying, mademoiselle?’
For a moment, this form of address threw her. Then she remembered her discarded wedding ring. He would naturally assume she was single, and she should put him right instantly. But…
‘Why?’ she asked, still edgy. ‘Are you hoping to be rewarded for bringing back the stray?’
The firm mouth curled. ‘You mean there are people who would pay to have you returned to them? Incroyable. However, I hope it is not too far,’ he added smoothly. ‘It could be an uncomfortable journey in bare feet.’ He watched the variety of expressions that flitted across her face with an appreciation he did not bother to disguise. ‘Or would you prefer to ride back to your accommodation on Roland?’
Neither, she thought. I’d much rather the past hour had never happened. I wish I was back in my room at Les Sables, turning over to sleep again.
‘Please make up your mind, mademoiselle.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I am not a tourist. Unlike you, I have work to go to.’
One day, she promised herself. One day, I’ll think of something to say that will wipe that smirk out of your voice.
Except that presupposed they would meet again, which was the last thing she wanted—to keep running into a man who regarded her as a bedraggled idiot.
She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I think I’d better accept your offer. As long as Roland has forgiven me for his unexpected dip.’
‘He has a nature of the most amiable.’ He cupped his hands. ‘Put your foot here,’ he directed, and as she nervously complied he tossed her up into the saddle as if she were thistledown, then began to lead Roland up the slope. ‘You had better tell him where he is to take you,’ he added over his shoulder.
She said unhappily, ‘I’m staying with Madame Colville at Les Sables.’ She could just imagine Tante’s reaction when she turned up, barefoot on the back of a strange horse, looking like a piece of sub-human flotsam. She added unwillingly, ‘I’m her great-niece.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I did not know she had such a relation. But then she is my father’s patient, not mine.’
She frowned. ‘Patient? You mean you’re a doctor?’
‘You find it hard to believe? Yet I assure you it is true,’ he said. He made a slight inclination of the head. ‘Remy de Brizat at your service.’
As she hesitated, he added, ‘Now you are supposed to tell me your name, mademoiselle. Or is it a secret?’
Not a secret, she thought. But not the whole truth either, which is very wrong of me. But perhaps this is my morning for behaving badly. And anyway, we’re unlikely to meet again, so what harm can it really do?
She said, quietly and clearly, ‘I’m called Alys, monsieur. Alys—Colville.’
‘Alys,’ he said reflectively. ‘A charming name—and French too.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘In England, I’m plain Alice.’
At the top of the slope, he halted Roland and stood looking up at her, his smile faintly twisted. ‘You are wrong,’ he said softly. ‘You could not ever be plain—anything.’
There was an odd, tingling silence, then he added briskly, ‘Now, move back a little, Alys, if you please, so that Roland can take us both.’
She did as she was told, feeling awkward, and hoping the exertion would explain the sudden surge of colour in her face. Remy de Brizat mounted lithely in front of her.
‘Hold on to me,’ he instructed. ‘The medical centre in Ignac opens in one hour, and I must be there.’
Reluctantly, she put her hands on her companion’s shoulders, then, as the big horse moved off, she found herself being thrown forward, and hastily clasped her arms round his waist instead.
‘Ça va?’ he queried over his shoulder, as Roland’s stride lengthened into a canter.
‘I think so,’ Allie gasped, clinging on for grim death, and heard him laugh softly.
It wasn’t really that far, she realised, as the grey stones of Tante’s house came into view. If she’d been wearing shoes she would have walked it easily, and saved herself the embarrassment of being forced to hug her unwanted rescuer, let alone be forced to travel with her face pressed against his muscular back.
When they reached the cottage, he insisted on dismounting and lifting her down.
‘Thank you,’ Allie said stiffly, trying not to overbalance. ‘For—everything. I—I owe you a great deal.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Dr de Brizat.’
His brows rose. ‘Not Remy?’
‘It’s hardly appropriate,’ she said, in a tone borrowed wholesale from Grace. ‘After all, we’re hardly likely to see each other after this.’ She added pointedly, ‘I don’t intend to dice with death a second time.’
‘Very wise, ma belle.’ He took her hand and raised it swiftly to his lips, making her start at the casual intimacy. The pressure of his mouth and the graze of his unshaven chin against her fingers was an experience she could have well done without. ‘Because tradition says that now I have saved your life it belongs to me, and I think you should live it to the full, and that I should help you to do so.’
He swung himself back into the saddle and grinned down at her. His teeth were very white against the darkness of his skin. ‘And eventually,’ he told her softly, ‘you will call me Remy. I promise it. Au revoir, ma chère Alys.’
And, with a word to Roland, he cantered off, leaving Allie staring after him, aware of the sudden, uncomfortable flurry of her heartbeat.
As she went into the cottage Tante was just coming downstairs, trim and elegant in black tailored trousers and a white silk shirt, her silver hair confined at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon bow.
‘My ears are playing tricks on me,’ she complained. ‘I thought I heard a horse outside…’ She stopped, her eyes widening in alarm as she surveyed Allie. ‘Mon Dieu, chérie—what has happened to you?’
Allie sighed. ‘I stupidly let myself get cut off by the tide,’ she admitted. ‘In a place called the Cauldron.’
‘Alys.’ Tante sat down limply on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘People have drowned there. You could have been one of them.’
Allie forced a smile. ‘Except that your doctor’s son came riding by, and gallantly carried me off across his saddle bow.’ She stretched, wincing. ‘I’m now a walking bruise.’
‘It is no joking matter. You could have lost your life.’
‘But I didn’t. I’m simply minus a pair of shoes.’
Tante shuddered. ‘You must never take such a chance again.’
‘Believe me,’ Alice said grimly, ‘I don’t intend to.’
‘And it was Remy who saved you?’ Tante made the sign of the cross. ‘I shall go to see him, thank him for giving you back to me.’ She brightened. ‘Or, better, I shall invite him to dinner.’
Allie shifted restively from one bare foot to another. ‘Is that strictly necessary? I did thank him myself, you know.’ After I’d taken a hell of a tongue-lashing.
Tante pursed her lips. ‘Madame Lastaine, who keeps house for the doctors at Trehel, is no cook,’ she stated decisively. ‘Remy will be glad of a good meal, le pauvre.’
‘He seemed perfectly fit and healthy to me,’ Allie said coolly.
Tante gave her a long look. ‘Dear child, you seem—put out. Is it possible that you are blaming Remy in some way, because he did not let you drown?’
Allie bit her lip. ‘Naturally, I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean I have to like him. Or that I have any wish for another encounter,’ she added clearly, tilting her chin. ‘And I hope his patients don’t expect to receive any sympathy when they go to him.’
Tante’s brows rose. She said mildly, ‘
I have never heard of any complaints about his attitude since he returned to Ignac. Au contraire. He is said to be skilful, and well-liked.’
Allie paused on her way to the stairs. ‘He’s not always worked here, then?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.
‘After he qualified he worked for a medical charity, firstly in Africa, then in South America. But it was always understood that he would one day fulfil the wishes of his father and grandfather and join the practice in Ignac.’ Tante’s smile was bland. ‘I have always found him both charming and considerate. However, I shall not invite him here against your wishes, chérie.’
‘Thank you.’ Allie hesitated, her fingers beating a tattoo on the stair-rail. ‘I just feel we’re—better apart, that’s all.’
‘D’accord.’ Tante’s gaze shifted from her great-niece’s flushed face to her restless hand. ‘I notice that the sea took more than just your shoes, ma mie,’ she remarked. ‘It seems that your wedding ring, too, has gone.’
Allie’s colour deepened. ‘Not—entirely. It’s upstairs. I—I simply decided not to wear it, that’s all.’
‘Ah,’ Madelon Colville said meditatively. ‘I am interested that you found that a simple decision.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Allie took a deep breath. ‘I took it off because I wanted to find the person I used to be—before my marriage. Somewhere along the way she seems to have vanished, but I really need to have her back.’ She lifted her head. ‘To be—Alys Colville again. Even if it’s only for a little while.’ She hesitated, sighing. ‘But I suppose that’s impossible. Everyone round here—all your neighbours—friends—will know I’m married. You must have mentioned it.’
‘I told no one, mon enfant,’ Tante said quietly. ‘It was not news I ever wished to share. I have always believed that mistakes in one’s family circle should be kept private. And I had known for some time—long before his tragic accident—that you did not love this man. Your letters made it clear.’
‘But I hardly mentioned him.’
Tante’s smile was kind. ‘Exactly, chérie.’ She paused. ‘When I received the invitation to your wedding I wrote to your mother, begging her not to allow you to ruin your life. Saying that such a marriage would have profound difficulties, even if you adored each other.’