Becoming the Prince's Wife (Princes of Europe)

by Rebecca Winters

  And then the rest of the roof peeled off, with a shriek of tin against tin.

  ‘Go,’ she muttered, and started pulling. Heavy didn’t begin to describe it. Sleet was stinging her eyes, her face, every part of her.

  What to discard? Everything but essentials? Nothing Barbara and Henry cherished?

  ‘Don’t be a wuss,’ she told herself. ‘They entrusted you with their island. The least you can do is save their stuff. The path’s reasonably flat. Come on, muscles, pull.’

  She tugged and the trolley moved.

  ‘I can do this,’ she said through gritted teeth, and put her head down into the wind and pulled.

  * * *

  The life raft was in freefall. Ben was falling over and over. It felt like one of those crazy fairground rides, only he’d forgotten to buckle his seat belt. Who had designed this thing? It’d be safe enough on a calm sea but who got shipwrecked on a calm sea?

  He could find nothing to anchor himself to. He was flailing, bashing against the sides of the raft with every bounce.

  He felt ill but he didn’t have time to be ill.

  At least Jake was safe. It was a mantra, and he said it over and over. He had to believe the chopper had pulled his twin to safety. Thinking anything else was the way of madness.

  The raft crashed again, but this time it was different. It was smashing against something solid.

  They’d been miles from land when the yacht had started taking on water. Ben knew what this must be and his nausea increased. The raft would be bashing against what remained of the yacht’s hull. Caught in the same currents, with no way to get himself clear, he’d be hurled against timber at every turn.

  The second crash ripped the side of the life raft. Another wave hurled over him, and the life raft practically turned itself inside out.

  Tossing its human cargo out with it.

  He grabbed one of the ropes around the outside of the raft. The bulk of the craft should stay upright. If he could just hold...

  Another wave hit, a massive breaker of surging foam. No man could hold against such force.

  And then there was nothing. Only the open, smashing sea. The GPS was in the life raft. Chances of being found now? Zip.

  It was no use swimming. There was no use doing anything but hope his lifejacket wouldn’t be torn from him. He could only hope he could still keep on breathing. Hope... Hope...

  There was nothing but hope. He was fighting to breathe. He was fighting to live.

  There was no help. There was nothing but the endless sea.

  * * *

  She had to round the headland to get to the cave. It meant putting her head down and pulling almost directly into the wind. She had no idea how she was doing it, but the trolley was moving.

  Tourists came to this place in summer, beaching their kayaks and exploring. The cliff path had therefore been trodden almost flat. It was possible, and she had terror driving her on. ‘This is mad,’ she muttered, but her words were lost in the gale.

  She was at the point where the path veered away from the headland and turned towards the safety of the cave. Five more steps. Four...

  She reached the turn and glanced down towards the beach, beyond the headland where the storm was at its worst. And stopped.

  Was that a figure in the water, just beyond the shallows? A body? A crimson lifejacket?

  She was surely imagining things, but, dear God, if she wasn’t...

  Triage. Her medical training kicked in. Get the provisions safe, she told herself. She was no use to herself or anyone else without dry gear.

  She had to haul the trolley upwards for the last few yards but she hardly noticed. In seconds she’d shoved the trolley deep inside the cave. At least the cave was in the lee of the storm, and so was the beach below.

  It was wild enough even on the safe side of the island.

  ‘Stay,’ she told Heinz, and Heinz stuck his head out from the plastic bags and promptly buried himself again. Stay? He was in total agreement. It was dry and safe in the cave but outside the scream of wind and ocean was terrifying.

  She had to face it. She wasn’t sure what she’d seen was...someone, but she had to find out.

  The path down to the beach was steep but manageable. Running along the beach on the lee side of the island was almost easy as well. Thankfully the tide was out so she was running on wet sand.

  She could do this.

  And then she rounded the headland and the force of the storm hit head on.

  She could hardly see. Wind and sand were blasting her face, blinding her.

  Was it all her imagination? Was she risking herself for a bit of floating debris? The tide was coming in—fast.

  She’d come this far. There were rocks at the water’s edge. She was pushing her way along the rocks, frantically searching, trying to see out into the waves. Where...?

  * * *

  He was falling and falling and falling. He had no idea how long he’d been in the water, how far he’d drifted, how desperate his position was. All he knew was that every few seconds he had to find the will to breathe. It was as easy and as impossible as that.

  His body was no longer his own. The sea was doing what it willed. Waves were crashing over and around him. The chance to breathe often stretched to twenty, even thirty seconds.

  He could think of nothing but breathing.

  But then something sharp was crashing against his leg. And then his shoulder. Something hard, immoveable...

  Solid. Rocks?

  The water washed out and for a blessed moment he felt himself free of the water.

  Another wave and it must have been twenty seconds before he could breathe. Whatever he was lying on seemed to be holding him down.

  Another wash of water and he was free, hurled away from the sharpness, tossed high.

  Onto sand?

  He was barely conscious but he got it. His face was buried in sand.

  Until the next wave.

  Somehow he lifted his head. Sand. Rocks. Cliff.

  The water came again but he was ready for it. He dug down, clung like a limpet.

  The wave swept out again and somehow miraculously he stayed.

  He couldn’t resist the water’s force again, though. He had to crawl out of the reach of the waves’ power. Somehow...somehow... The world was an aching, hurting blur. The sand was the only thing he could cling to.

  He clung and clung.

  And through it all was the mantra. Make Jake safe. Dear God, make Jake be okay.

  Another wave. Somehow he managed to claw himself higher, but at what cost? The pain in his leg...in his head...

  He could close his eyes, he thought. Just for a moment.

  If Jake was safe he could close his eyes and forget.

  * * *

  And then she found it. Him.

  Dear God, this was no detritus washed up in the storm. This was a dark-haired, strongly built man, wearing yachting gear and a lifejacket.

  He was face down in the sand. He’d lost a shoe. His pants were ripped. Lifeless?

  As she reached him she could see a thin line of blood seeping down his face. Fresh blood. He’d been alive when he’d been washed up.

  His hands were sprawled out on the sand. She knelt and touched one and flinched with the cold. His skin was white and clammy—how long had he been in the water?

  She touched his neck.

  A pulse! Alive!

  She hauled him over—no mean feat by itself—so he lay on his side rather than face down. She was frantically trying to clear sand from mouth and nostrils. She had her ear against his mouth.

  He was breathing. She could hear it. She unclipped his lifejacket and she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest.

  There w
as so much sand. His face was impossibly caked. Wiping was never going to get rid of that sand.

  He’d be sucking it into his lungs.

  She hauled off her raincoat and headed into the waves, stooping to scoop water into the plastic. That was a risk by itself because the waves were fierce. She backed up fast, up the beach to where he lay, then placed her back to the wind and oozed the water carefully around his face. She was trying to rid him of the caked sand. How much had he already breathed?

  Why was he unconscious? That hit on the head? Near drowning? With his mouth clear, she put her mouth against his and breathed for him. It wouldn’t hurt to help him, to get more oxygen in, to keep that raspy breathing going.

  His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, more surely now that she was breathing with him.

  She kept on breathing while the sleet slashed from all sides, while the wind howled and while wet sand cut into her face and hands, every part of her that was exposed.

  What to do? The tide was coming in. In an hour, probably less, this beach would be under water.

  She thought of the trolley, but to pull it on a sandy beach was impossible. This man must be six foot three or four and strongly built. She was five foot six and no wimp, but she was no match for this guy’s size.

  How to move him? She couldn’t.

  ‘Please,’ she pleaded out loud, and she didn’t even know what she was pleading for.

  But as if he’d heard, his body shifted. He opened his eyes and stared up at her.

  Deep, grey eyes. Wounded eyes. She’d seen pain before and this man had it in spades.

  ‘You’re safe,’ she said, keeping her voice low and calm. Nurse reassuring patient. Nurse telling lies? ‘You’re okay. Relax.’

  ‘Jake...’ he muttered.

  ‘Is that your name?’

  ‘No, Ben. But Jake...’

  ‘I’m Mary and we can worry about Jake when we’re off the beach,’ she said, still in the reassuring tone she’d honed with years of district nursing. ‘I’m here to help. Ben, the tide’s coming in and we need to move. Can you wiggle your toes?’

  She could see him think about it. Concentrate.

  His feet moved. Praise be. She wasn’t coping with paraplegia—or worse.

  She should be factoring in risks. She should have him on a rigid board with a neck brace in case of spinal injury.

  There wasn’t time. Survival meant they had to move.

  ‘Now your legs,’ she said, and one leg moved. The other shifted a little and then didn’t. She could see pain wash over his face.

  ‘That’s great,’ she said, even though it wasn’t. ‘We have one good leg and one that’s sore. Now fingers and arms.’

  ‘I can’t feel ’em.’

  ‘That’s because you’re cold. Try.’

  He tried and they moved.

  ‘Good. Take a breather now. We have a little time.’ Like five minutes. Waves were already reaching his feet.

  He had a slash across his face. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze but it looked like it had bled profusely.

  Head injury. He needed X-rays. If he had intracranial bleeding...

  Don’t even go there.

  Priorities. She had a patient with an injured leg and blood loss and shock. The tide was coming in. There was time for nothing but getting him off the beach.

  The sand and sleet were slapping her face, making her gasp. She was having trouble breathing herself.

  Think.

  Injured leg. She had no time—or sight—to assess it. The slashing sand was blinding.

  Splint.

  Walking-stick.

  She made to rise but his hand came out and caught her. He held her arm, with surprising strength.

  ‘Don’t leave me.’ It was a gasp.

  She understood. She looked at the ripped lifejacket and then she looked out at the mountainous sea.

  This guy must be one of the yachties they’d been talking about on the radio this morning. A yacht race—the Ultraswift Round the World Challenge—had been caught unprepared. The cyclone warning had had the fleet running for cover to Auckland but the storm had veered unexpectedly, catching them in its midst.

  At dawn the broadcasters had already been talking about capsizes and deaths. Heroic rescues. Tragedy.

  Now the storm had turned towards her island. It must have swept Ben before it. He’d somehow been swept onto Hideaway, but to safety?

  Would this be as bad as the storm got, or would the cyclone hit them square on? With no radio contact she had to assume the worst.

  She had to get him off this beach.

  ‘I’m not leaving you,’ she said, and heaven only knew the effort it cost to keep the panic from her voice. ‘I’m walking up the beach to find you a walking-stick. Then I’m coming back to help you to safety. I know you can’t see me clearly right now but I’m five feet six inches tall and even though I play roller derby like a champion, I can’t carry you. You need a stick.’

  ‘Roller derby,’ he said faintly.

  ‘My team name is Smash ’em Mary,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to mess with me.’

  ‘Smash ’em Mary?’ It was a ragged whisper but she was satisfied. She’d done what she’d intended. She’d made him think of something apart from drama and tragedy.

  ‘I’ll invite you to a game some time,’ she told him. ‘But not today. Bite on a bullet, big boy, while I fetch you a walking-stick.’

  ‘I don’t need a walking-stick.’

  ‘Yeah, you can get up and hike right up the beach without even a wince,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. Lie still and think of nothing at all while I go and find what I need. Do what the lady tells you. Stay.’

  * * *

  Stay. He had no choice.

  ‘Smash ’em Mary.’ The name echoed in his head, weirdly reassuring.

  The last few hours had been a nightmare. In the end he’d decided it was a dream. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness or that was how it’d seemed. The past was mixing with the future. He and Jake as kids in that great, ostentatious mansion their parents called home. Their father yelling at them. ‘You moronic imbeciles, you’re your mother’s spawn. You’ve inherited nothing from me. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

  That’s how he felt now. Stupid.

  Jake, flying through the air with the blast from the roadside bomb. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Jake on a rope, smashing through the waves.

  ‘Ben, look after your brother.’ That was their mother. Rita Marlene. Beautiful, fragile, fatally flawed. ‘Promise me.’

  She was here now. Promise me.

  Where was Jake?

  This was all a dream.

  His mother?

  Smash ’em Mary.

  There was no way a dream could conjure a Smash ’em Mary. The name hauled him out of his stupor as nothing else could.

  Stay.

  He had no choice but to obey. The nightmare was still there. If he moved, it might slam back.

  He’d lie still and submit. To Smash ’em Mary?

  She’d been so close he’d seen her face. She had an elfin haircut, with wet, short-cropped curls plastering her forehead. She had a finely boned face, brown eyes and freckles.

  She had shadows under her eyes. Exhaustion?

  Because of him? Had she been searching for him—or someone else?

  How many yachts had gone down?

  Memory was surging back, and he groaned and tried to rise. But then she was back, pushing him down onto the sand.

  ‘Disobedience means no elephant stamp,’ she told him. ‘I said lie still and I meant lie still.’ Then she faltered a little, and the assurance faded. ‘Ben, I can’t sugar-coat this. Your leg might be broken and there’s no way I can
assess it here.

  ‘In normal circumstances I’d call an ambulance, we’d fill you full of nice woozy drugs, put you on a stretcher and cart you off to a hospital, but right now all you have is me. So I’ve found a couple of decent sticks. I’ll tie one to your leg to keep it still. The other’s a walking-stick. You’re going to hold onto me and we’ll get you off this beach.’

  He tried to think about it. It was hard to think about anything but closing his eyes and going to sleep.

  ‘Ben,’ Mary snapped. ‘Don’t even think about closing your eyes. You’re cold to the marrow. The tide’s coming in. You go to sleep and you won’t wake up.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ It was a slur. It was so hard to make his voice work.

  ‘Because Jake needs you,’ Mary snapped again. ‘You pull yourself together and help me, and then we’ll both help Jake. Just do it.’

  And put like that, of course he’d do it. He had no choice.

  * * *

  Afterwards she could never figure out how they managed. She’d read somewhere of mothers lifting cars off children, superhuman feats made possible by the adrenalin of terror. There was something about a cyclone bearing down that provided the same sort of impetus.

  She was facing sleet and sand and the blasting of leaves and branches from the storm-swept trees of Hideaway Island and beyond. She had to get this man two hundred yards up a rocky cliff to the safety of the cave. The sheer effort of hauling him was making her feel faint, but there was no way she was letting him go.

  ‘If I had to find a drowned rat of a sailor, why couldn’t I have found a little one?’ she gasped. They were halfway up the path, seemingly a million miles from the top. Ben was grim-faced with pain. He was leaning on his stick but his left leg was useless and he was forced to lean on her heavily. His weight was almost unbearable.

  ‘Leave me and come back when the storm’s done,’ he gasped.

  ‘No way,’ she said, and then, as he propped himself up on the walking-stick, turning stubborn, she hauled out the big guns. ‘Keep going. Jake needs you even if I don’t.’ She didn’t have a clue who Jake was but it shut him up. He went back to concentrating on one ghastly step at a time, and so did she.

  His leg seemed useless. He was totally dependent on one leg, his stick and her support. Compound fracture? Blocked blood supply? There hadn’t been the time or visibility on the beach to see. She’d simply ripped her coat into strips and tied the stick on his leg to keep it as steady as she could.