Follow a Stranger

by Charlotte Lamb

  warm-hearted, a real Greek. And I like cars. I was always

  homesick, you know? I mean, the States is great, but I’m a

  Greek.” He pulled up with a jolt and she looked around her

  with great interest. They were on the mountain slope now,

  the track nothing but a whitened ribbon between grass and

  rocks, pitted and scarred.

  “This is as far as I can take you, miss. You want I

  should walk up there with you? You follow this track to the

  top. But it gets difficult as you get higher. You might slip,

  or get dizzy.”

  “No, thank you,” she smiled. “I have climbed before and

  I have a good head for heights. You’d better get back—I

  think Miss Pallas wants you to drive her somewhere.”

  He saluted. “Okay by me. I’ll be back at four o’clock. You

  got a watch, miss?”

  She showed it to him and he nodded. Then he stood by

  the car, watching her intently as she began the steep climb

  to the top. After a while he clearly decided she was

  competent enough, because she heard the sound of the

  engine, and the grinding of the wheels on stones as he

  turned back the way they had come.

  The climb was more difficult that she had anticipated.

  Several times she slipped, her hands clutching at the face,

  but each time she managed to steady herself. She kept

  going, breathing quickly, her hands scratched and

  bleeding slightly, her knees and back aching.

  When she reached the top she sat down, panting, and

  stared back the way she had come. From here the climb

  looked dizzyingly steep, and she wondered how she had

  had the nerve to attempt it—and also how she was to get

  down! Then she shrugged. Sufficient unto the day was the

  evil thereof...

  She found Peter lying on his face, stretched flat out, the

  only part of him which moved his hand, which was

  delicately scraping at the dusty covering of soil which lay

  everywhere over the ruins.

  He turned his head to squint at her as she approached,

  and, without a sign of surprise or enquiry, said, “Careful!

  I’ve begun marking out the ground plan with string. Don’t

  trip over it or you’ll pull out the pegs and I’ll have it all to

  do again.”

  “You’ve been busy,” she commented, staring around

  her.

  The site was laid out on a flattish plateau, in a

  vaguely rectangular shape, with three broad stone steps

  running all the way around the building. The roof had

  been supported by the usual pillars, some of which still

  stood, in more or less battered condition, rearing up

  towards the open blue sky, tapering to their plain

  capitals, their stone flaking away along the sides. Blocks

  of stone lay everywhere, among the wiry grass and

  yellow flowers. It was touching to Kate to see how the

  stone steps were hollowed out by generations of reverent

  feet, although this place had been deserted for so long,

  slowly crumbling under the pressures of wind and

  weather.

  “I only have two weeks to make this preliminary

  investigation,” he pointed out. “Now you’re here, Kate,

  pass me that plastic bag. I’ve found something

  interesting.”

  She ran and picked up the top bag from the pile laid

  ready, a stone keeping them from blowing away,

  returned and handed it to Peter, who gently pushed an

  encrusted object inside the bag.

  “That was outside the temple area proper,” he said.

  “Give me my map. Over there ...” waving a vague arm.

  She fetched the map and Peter carefully marked the

  spot where he had found his first object.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked, staring at it. “A

  coin?” It was that shape.

  He shrugged. “Possibly. We can’t tell until it’s

  cleaned.” He grinned at her. “It’s a temptation to look for

  other things, but I must get on—until a proper

  accredited expedition is organised the site mustn’t be

  disturbed. But as the coin was outside the temple that

  won’t matter too much. Now, I want to finish my map

  today. I’ll measure and you can jot down the

  dimensions.”

  “Have you had breakfast?” she asked resignedly.

  “What?” He stared at her as if she were talking in a

  foreign tongue, then blinked. “Oh, breakfast. Yes, I had a

  roll when I first got up.”

  “At crack of dawn, by the amount of work you’ve done,”

  she scolded. “What is there for lunch? I’ll get you

  something.”

  He protested, but she insisted, and at last he gave in,

  and sat down with her to eat the stew she heated over the

  little oil-stove. Marc had sent up a number of tins, she

  found, as well as eggs, cheese and bread. There was no

  reason why Peter should not eat well.

  After lunch they resumed work. They continued to work

  for the rest of the afternoon, breaking only for a cup of

  black coffee at two o’clock, and soon had the whole site

  mapped out. Peter crawled around on his knees,

  measuring the ground, and Kate carefully marked down

  the measurements on his rough sketch map. Then they

  noted down all the positions of pillars, fallen stones and

  other objects, then measured the pillars, their heights,

  breadths, capitals.

  Kate’s shoulders and arms were aching. Her eyes kept

  blurring and she was hot and weary. But Peter seemed

  beyond such ordinary human weakness. Frowning,

  absorbed, intent, he worked on as the sun grew warmer,

  rose higher and higher, and then began to move down the

  sky again.

  She glanced at her watch and found, to her relief, that it

  was half past three. She wanted to get back down the peak

  before Jake arrived, so she said goodbye to Peter, who

  answered briefly, hardly realising what she had said, she

  suspected.

  Kate was glad to see no sign of the car below. Taking a

  deep breath, she began to lower herself, clinging to the

  grassy outcrops of stone, her fingers clawing fiercely, feet

  feeling for support. She had to climb down backwards. It

  was impossible to walk down. She was only a short way

  from the top when she heard the car engine in the

  distance. It appeared to be racing along the bumpy narrow

  track. Stones rattled and flew as the wheels spun. She

  wondered if Jake had intended to get here early to help her

  down, and then, hearing the car stop with a ferocious jerk,

  turned her head to smile at him.

  The smile froze on her face. It was not Jake, but Marc,

  who had leapt out of the driving seat of the khaki jeep

  drawn up far below her.

  His expression as he looked up at her was grim. She

  could see, even from this distance, the tight clenching of

  his jaw and teeth. The flash of the hard grey eyes.

  He was bitterly angry, that much was obvious.

  Shock made her move too quickly. She felt her hands

  slip, felt the tearing pain of the rock biting into her skin,

  h
er feet slithering helplessly down. Panic blotted out all

  thought for an instant, during which time she grasped

  desperately at the rock face and spread-eagled herself

  against it, toes curling into the niche they had somehow

  found.

  Stones rattled downwards nearby. She heard quick,

  harsh breathing. Then an arm clamped round her and she

  was pulled against a cool blue shirt, her face buried

  against Marc’s chest.

  For a second there was a silence, then he asked roughly,

  “Are you badly hurt?”

  Kate lifted her head, without looking up at him, and

  pushed herself back a little. “No,” she whispered. “I’m so

  sorry ...”

  She heard his teeth snap together and felt the raging

  fury inside him, although he said nothing. She felt singed

  and weary. He was right to be angry with her. She had

  been silly to attempt the climb.

  “Do you think you can make the rest of the way with my

  help?” he asked tensely.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Slowly, inch by painful inch, they descended. She felt

  his arm tensed permanently to grab her if she fell again,

  and dreaded the interview that must take place at the

  foot.

  Then, at last, they stood upright beside the jeep. Marc

  opened the door without looking at her and she wearily

  tumbled into the passenger seat. He slammed the door and

  walked round to the other side, got in and then sat staring

  at her, his arm along the seat.

  “You stupid little fool!” he said harshly. “Were you mad

  to attempt that climb? I thought you were out exploring

  with Pallas and Sam. It was only when Jake got back that

  I discovered the truth, and I tore the skin off his back for

  letting you go up there alone. I drove here like a maniac,

  expecting to find you in pieces at the foot, only to see you

  stuck up there, like a fledgling bird.’" He glared at her

  with burning ferocity. “If you weren’t in such a state

  already I would gladly teach you a lesson you won’t forget!

  Never try that climb again. Do you hear?”

  She nodded, silenced for once.

  “Show me your hands,” he commanded, after a long

  pause.

  Trembling, she turned them palm up, and heard his

  breath drawn in explosively. “Good God!” he exclaimed.

  They were scraped and bloody, one deep gash at the base

  of her thumb, grass stains on the raw fingers.

  “I wanted to see that Peter was comfortable,” she

  muttered nervously.

  “And I suppose he had you working with him up there?”

  he asked tautly. “Digging and scraping like a mole all day?

  Why didn’t he see you safely down to the car? He must

  realise how dangerous that climb can be—or doesn’t he

  care?”

  “He was very busy,” she said. “If I’d asked him to come

  with me he would have done, but I didn’t ask ...”

  “He’s a selfish, irresponsible idiot!” Marc commented

  savagely. “No decent man would let his woman make a

  climb like that!”

  “I’m not his woman,” she snapped back, “I’m his fiancée.

  But the relationship is one of shared independence, not

  slavery! He’s not a cave man, and I’m not in need of

  protection.”

  His grey eyes stormed at her furiously, the handsome

  features suddenly rigid and dangerous. “You make love

  sound like mild friendship. Is that all there is between you

  two? That isn’t love as I know it!”

  Something twisted inside her, she lowered her eyes. “I’m

  sure it isn’t,” she said in a brittle voice.

  His hands grabbed her shoulders, the curled fingers

  biting into her. For a second she was frozen with panic,

  then he released her with a thickly drawn breath, turned,

  and started the engine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They made the return journey in less than half the time

  Jake had taken, tearing round corners and over bumps in

  the road, jolting and swaying furiously. She clung to her

  seat, eyes shut, aware of Marc’s anger through every

  nerve in her body.

  When they pulled up outside the villa Sam and Pallas,

  who had been sitting on the verandah, rose nervously and

  came down to meet them.

  Marc ignored them both, helping Kate out of the jeep

  with impersonal firmness. She shot a glance up at him

  and found his face under a tight control again, but the

  grey eyes met hers with the glacial expression she always

  found so terrifying.

  “Oh, your poor hands!” exclaimed Pallas, catching sight

  of them. “What have you done to yourself?”

  Marc propelled Kate towards the building, his hand

  clamped on her elbow, taking no notice of his sister. He

  pushed her upstairs and into the large, luxurious

  bathroom.

  “Sit down,” he ordered, and left her alone for a

  moment, returning with a large bottle of iodine and some

  plasters. He ran warm water into the bowl, immersed her

  hands with the gentleness of a trained nurse, carefully

  washed and dried them, then anointed the grazes with

  iodine, while he put a plaster over the deeper cut.

  Kate held her breath until the iodine had stopped

  stinging. “Thank you,” she whispered, her blue eyes damp

  with tears.

  He leaned over her, very tall and overwhelming, his

  eyes on her face.

  “Did it hurt badly?”

  She forced a wavering smile. “No, not at all.”

  “You’re crying!” He somehow made that sound like an

  accusation and she felt, again, anger in him.

  “I got some dust in my eyes on the road,” she said

  quickly.

  He washed her face delicately, wiping her eyes with

  wisps of cotton wool. She felt like a child again, sheltered,

  cherished, vulnerable. Why was it so pleasant to have

  one’s face washed for one? she thought vaguely, enjoying

  the sensation.

  He took her chin in his long fingers and turned her face

  up to him. The savagery she had felt in him had all gone

  now. A warm indulgence lay in his eyes.

  “What a silly child you are,” he murmured, smiling

  quizzically. “You looked like a little girl, with your eyes

  screwed up tight, and your lip between your teeth. How

  do your hands feel now?”

  “Much better, thank you,” she said, very pink. In a

  way, he was more dangerous in this mood.

  He lifted them in his and then bent suddenly and

  kissed them briefly. They quivered in his grip, then were

  pulled away.

  He straightened, still smiling. “What else does one do

  with a hurt child but kiss it better?” he teased.

  She turned blindly and stumbled out of the bathroom.

  In a moment she was in her own room, the door safely

  shut. She leaned against the door, heart pounding.

  I mustn’t let him get under my skin like this, she

  thought, eyes tight shut. He’s only playing some game or

  other. I must keep my defences in place. I must hold on t
o

  my love for Peter.

  That evening, when she came down for dinner, she

  found Marc in the lounge with a small, slender woman of

  fifty or so, whose thick black hair, dark eyes and elegant

  clothes had the mark of the Parisian. Marc glanced up,

  smiling. “Ah, here is Miss Caulfield now, Mama.” He

  stood up. “Miss Caulfield, this is my mother.”

  Mrs. Lillitos smilingly held out a thin hand. “I am so

  pleased to meet you. Pallas has written to me of you so

  often that I feel I know you very well. But I cannot think

  of you as Miss Caulfield—will you let me call you Kate?

  Such a nice name. It always reminds me of Shakespeare.”

  Marc broke in teasingly, “Ah, yes—Henry the Fifth!

  What does he say: There is witchcraft in your lips, Kate

  ...” His eyes provoked her openly, and Kate knew herself

  to be flushing.

  His mother looked round at him, one delicate dark

  brow lifted in enquiry. “Marc! You must not be so

  teasing!”

  He laughed. “Or did you mean Kate from The Taming

  of the Shrew, Mama? Kate, the prettiest Kate in

  Christendom, sometimes Kate the curst?”

  Mrs. Lillitos clicked her tongue. “That was not very

  polite, my son. I am surprised at you. Kate is covered with

  embarrassment. Say you are sorry at once!”

  “Ah, Mama,” he said lightly, “English girls are not

  brought up like our girls, to blush at everything! If Kate is

  pink it is because she wants to slap me, not because she is

  shy.”

  His mother looked from one to the other of them, very

  slowly. A smile pulled at her lips. “Is that so?” she asked

  quietly. “I see.”

  “The first time we met,” he went on gaily, “she spat at

  me like a cross kitten with its back arched. She almost

  stepped under my car, yet she flew at me furiously for

  daring to criticise her!”

  Watching him from under lowered lashes, Kate

  suspected his light tone hid resentment. It was the first

  time had had ever referred to their first encounter.

  “Perhaps you were rude to her, Marc,” his mother said

  mildly. “Was he, Kate?”

  Kate looked at her and was relieved to see that she

  was smiling warmly. “Very rude,” she agreed, smiling

  back.

  “Ye gods!” he exclaimed. “I was the very model of

  restraint! And when we met again she tore my character

  into strips, told me how to run my life and threw me out

  of her home as if I were a burglar!”