Setting Him Free

by Alexandra Marell

  Taylor checked the window then sat on the seat, watching her transfer her own things into a spare carrier bag. If I beg, will he take me? No, she thought. He'd fare better on his own, physically at least. She still didn't know if she'd made him realise he deserved some kind of life, no matter how much he thought otherwise.

  Without looking up, she could feel his soul-searching stare prickling her spine, making her heart race and her fingers fumble as she attempted to close her make-up bag. She must look like hell.

  "Just going to make myself beautiful," she said, standing up. "Don't want you to remember me like this."

  Taylor grabbed her around the waist. "I want to remember you exactly like this. You don't need make-up to be beautiful."

  "Can I take a photo of you, then? Would that be okay?"

  "I guess."

  Taylor sat for a photograph and then she put the camera on delay and sat with him while it recorded the moment. Soon these images would be all she had of him. She stared at the camera screen. So this was what they looked like together? Good, happy even, like any normal couple.

  Then there was nothing left to do but hand him his bag.

  "Time to go." I'm not going to cry, she thought with grim determination. "I'll see you in August, Taylor. Your birthday or mine. I don't care which."

  He shook his head. "Not leaving yet. Not until that rescue party turns up."

  Why was he being so stubborn? "You have to go," she said. "If you stay until they arrive, they'll see you. Please, Taylor." She pushed him with both hands. He stood firm.

  "And what if I leave you, and they don't turn up? You don't know how to survive out here. I do. I'm not leaving you until I know you're safe."

  Her eyes were so misted up she couldn't focus. She hit him weakly on the side of his good arm. "Why won't you go? I'll be okay."

  Then she felt herself folded against him and she held on tight and whispered over and over, "Go, don't go, go, don't go." Already feeling the ache of him not being there.

  They rocked together, drawing out the moment. Taylor telling her silently how much this all meant to him. Danielle answering him without words. Nothing could have said it better than this.

  Suddenly he froze. She heard it, a split second later. A strange clicking sound, intruding on their moment. Quiet and distant, becoming louder and closer. A helicopter. Taylor's eyes locked with hers. They'd come.

  Again, time became liquid. His goodbye kiss was heart-breakingly slow and tender, and then he was scrambling for the bag and running for the open doorway. Neither of them had time to think past getting him away from of the plane. With one last kiss he climbed out. She watched him anxiously then threw down the bag.

  "I'll hide in the trees," he said. "Want to make sure you get off safe. I'm not going until they've got you."

  "Thank you. They must have seen the plane. Now go. I don't want them to spot you. Go!"

  "Goodbye, Danielle. I'll never forget you."

  She heard the words and then he was gone. The helicopter circled, low over the treetops, disturbing the branches, whipping up leaves. Danielle sat down, suddenly light-headed. She'd forgotten to give him her address or her phone number. So much she'd wanted to say. Not enough time. They hadn't even decided which beach to meet on, and now they couldn't because he was gone.

  Danielle leaned back, feeling bereft and very alone. Last night she'd been so sure of seeing him again. Now? He was on his own. Didn't have her to give him pep talks and keep him going. It would be easier for him to find her than it would for her to find him, but would he come back to her? Or would he get some stupid notion into his head about her being better off without him? Every moment they were apart made that more of a possibility.

  It already hurt. All she had left of him were the photographs and the ring with the family crest. Not much, considering the impact he'd made on her, but maybe... Smiling through tears she'd been determined not to shed, she gathered up her reserves, took a steadying breath and fingered the crest on the ring. Maybe he had wanted to be found. Maybe she could find him from this? Trace the family. There had to be places, old family haunts, seaside holidays from his childhood. People were her thing. She knew human nature. Sooner or later he'd go back. One last visit, maybe make some kind of attempt to reclaim his past. She just had to narrow it down and wait. She could play the spy game too. All she had to do was find that beach.

  Chapter 9

  Fifteen days later, Danielle finally made it back to the States. Fifteen days of crying and sleepless nights, holed up at one of the quieter resorts, unable to face her frantic family. Her mom called every day, begging her to come home. She couldn't. Not yet. She needed time to make a bridge between Taylor and the real world. To sort out the tangle of feelings their meeting had left her with. And to get herself into some sort of state that would allow her to go on without him.

  She missed him. That went without saying, but she hadn't realised quite how it would be. He'd given her life a different kind of purpose. Made her care in a way she never had before. And, dammit, he needed her. How could he think of not finding her? Now all she could do was sit and wonder where he was, and whether she'd dreamed the whole thing.

  Every night she slept in his Tropicana tee-shirt, remembering what a fuss he'd made about wearing it. Her mom continued to call and plead. On the fifteenth morning after the rescue Danielle finally gave in and went home to her worried family.

  * * * *

  Two weeks after the crash Taylor stepped off a trawler onto the north-east coast of England. It took even less time to decide what to do. Without Danielle the future was bleak, so he'd do the job. Do what was necessary. She didn't have to know. Then he'd go find her. And his soul? That was so black, what difference would one more stain make? He stood at the window of his stone cottage, remembered that last kiss, and missed her with an intensity that made him ache.

  With angry stabs, he punched in the numbers on the telephone keypad. Numbers that would make him what he was. A fair exchange. A life for a life. If some poor bugger had to die so he and Danielle could be happy, then so be it. The thought made him slam the receiver down, then pick it up again and redial. Don't think about it. Just do the job and walk away, like you used to. No sweat.

  An upper-crust voice answered, asked what he wanted.

  "Lord Carrington." Taylor put thoughts of Danielle from his mind and concentrated on the business at hand. She didn't have to know about this. "Message for him. Just tell him I'm back."

  * * * *

  "You look tired, Danielle."

  Danielle continued studying the file. "Thanks for the compliment, Marc. I can always rely on you."

  "You're welcome." Her boss perched on the corner of the desk. "Go take a break. You hardly had any time out after the plane crash."

  "I'm fine, really." Danielle made an even bigger show of perusing the document. Why didn't he just go? His concern was touching, but she didn't need it right now. All she needed was to be left alone.

  Marc deftly slipped the document from between her fingers and held it high in the air when she tried to retrieve it.

  "You need to take a break. And, as your boss and friend," he added, "I'm ordering you to take one."

  Danielle stood and snatched the file back from him. "And this work's not going to do itself. Just let me get on with my job, Marc. That's all I ask."

  "Danielle." He said it kindly, gently and she couldn't bear him being so sweet about all this, refusing to believe her protestations of being okay and back to normal. She had everyone else fooled, but not Marc. He'd never been in a plane that had literally dropped out of the sky. Couldn't know the guilt that came with surviving when others had died. And he would never understand what she'd found and lost. But still he looked right through her and seemed to know she was hiding something.

  The strain of it all was killing her. Missing Taylor, wondering where he was, what he was doing. The ritual of thinking about him at ten o'clock. Endless phone calls to England, following-up lea
ds on the family crest. Everything focused on August.

  Everyone wanted her to be okay. She knew that, so she smiled and pretended she was. Told them they could all stop worrying about her and would they please leave her alone? Most of them did. Her family, her work colleagues. They all joined in with her little deception and commented on how well she was looking, and wasn't it wonderful how quickly she'd got over it, and hey, you'd think she'd never been away.

  Everyone except Marc.

  Danielle slumped back into the chair, wearily pushing her hair from her face. "You couldn't understand what I'm going through."

  Marc lifted his hand and attempted to stroke her cheek. He let it drop when she turned away. "I think I can. Look at me Danielle. I died in a car crash ten years ago."

  That got her attention. "You did what? How?"

  "Technically I was dead. Para-medics brought me back. If they'd arrived a few minutes later I wouldn't be here now. I was the only one to survive, so yes, I do know what you're feeling."

  Danielle nodded slowly, "I survived without a scratch and two nuns died. Surely they deserved to live more than me?"

  He shrugged, and stood up. "Maybe there's something you need to do. I don't know. Maybe it was important that you survived and not them." This time he did stroke her cheek, a light, lingering touch. A brief look of pain clouded his features. He quickly turned away. "I think you know what it is. Go sort out this, whatever it is you can't tell me. I can't bear seeing you like this."

  Danielle brought her hand to her cheek, staring at him wide-eyed.

  "Marc, I can't..."

  "No, don't say anything." He clapped his hands together, suddenly back in full boss-mode. "Take yourself off for a couple of months. Combine it with a business trip. Look out some hotels for me. Full expenses, of course." His voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "Remember to come back when you're done."

  Danielle walked slowly around the desk. "Thank you."

  Marc nodded and turned back to her. "No sweat. You're my best employee, and more. I don't want to lose you is all."

  She managed a smile, feeling his pain, knowing this was hard for him too.

  "Where will you go, Danielle?"

  "England."

  * * * *

  Taylor stretched out his legs and leaned back against the wooden bench. A few gulls screamed and squabbled over a half-eaten burger, the sound of children's laughter floated up from the shingle beach. He stared out at the cold, grey sea, took a long drag from his cigarette and tried to focus on what he was about to do. There'd be photographs, places, dates. All the information he needed to turn things around. Get it over with, get it done. That was the plan. Then go and find Danielle. He could do this.

  He didn't look up as the black Rolls Royce drew up alongside the promenade. Ignored the elderly gentleman who got out and shuffled painfully slowly towards him. He continued smoking and staring at the waves crashing on the beach. A typical early summer's day in the north of England, grey and overcast. Wouldn't have mattered if the sun had been out. He wouldn't have noticed.

  All his energy went into either thinking about Danielle or about what he had to do to see her again. He missed her with a quiet desperation. Spent what seemed like hours thinking of her, trying to remember the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin under his hands. At night he lay alone in his bed, wondering how someone he'd been with for barely a day could have made such an impression on him that it felt as if a part of him was missing. He shook his head to clear the images, dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his boot. Self-pity? He was turning it into an art form.

  The old man sat down, carefully leaning his stick on the side of the bench. Reaching into his coat, he took out a large envelope. "Do you want this?" he said quietly.

  "No, not really." Taylor continued to stare at the sea. "But I'll have it anyway."

  The old man nodded in approval. "The weapon?"

  "Sorted."

  The envelope slid across the bench. Taylor picked it up and stared at it for a few moments before slipping it under his jacket. "And the file?"

  "Safe."

  "But you can get it for me?" He couldn't keep the note of anxiety out of his voice. Knew how these people worked. What a bunch of double-dealing back-stabbers they were.

  "You'll have to trust me on that one." The old man picked up his stick and hauled himself up. He nodded at the plaster cast on Taylor's broken arm. "I heard it was a bad break. Is it healing?"

  Taylor looked at the old man for the first time, eyebrows raised. "Like you'd care?"

  "Now, now," the old man chided. "You're family. I worry about you."

  That made Taylor laugh out loud. "I'm touched, Grandpa."

  "No need to take that tone. You've caused me no end of trouble, young man. If the Prime Minister had found out, well, the scandal, you know."

  "Yes, I noticed how you stood by me. Thanks for the support." Taylor stood up and raised his broken arm. "Soon as this is off, I'll sort your little problem. And you'd better get me that file or the shit will really hit the fan."

  The old man's face softened for a moment. "Taylor, you know I'd help you if I could. Do you think I like seeing you like this?"

  "I don't think you give a toss. What would it have taken? A couple of phone calls? You could have helped me." Taylor looked away, hating having to beg. "You still can."

  The old man leaned over and patted him. "It's too complicated, my boy. Just do the job. By far the easiest way."

  "Get me the file." Taylor spoke so quietly, his voice was barely audible. "Don't make me do this."

  The old man sighed and dropped his hand. "I don't have that kind of influence any more."

  "Like hell you don't." Taylor heard the note of regret in the old man's voice. Knew this was his one and only chance, and would have got down on his hands and knees if he thought it would make any difference. "Forget politics and do something real for once. You know who killed Helen. Get me my life back."

  He held his breath. There was that spark of hope again. Okay, so he'd just made a monumental fool of himself, but for a brief moment he actually believed his grandfather might do it. Might actually care.

  The old man stared at him, long and hard, before shaking his head. "I can't," was all he said before turning and walking back to the waiting car.

  * * * *

  "So. Miss Wilson, is it?" The old man extended a wrinkled hand toward Danielle. "I believe you're writing a book about the English aristocracy?"

  "Yes." Danielle stood up and shook hands, wondering if she should curtsey, or something. "Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Lord Carrington. I know you're a busy man."

  The old man indicated the chair. "Sit down, please. I'm never too busy for a beautiful young lady."

  Danielle nodded graciously. She could see where Taylor got it from. Lord Carrington had the same smile, and his blue eyes still had a youthful twinkle in them, even though he had to be well into his eighties. She made herself comfortable in the wingback armchair, hoping she looked casual and relaxed. Lord Carrington lowered himself into his own chair and reached for a telephone.

  "Will you take tea, my dear?" He chuckled when he saw her staring at the phone. "We don't ring those little silver bells any more. Yes, Sandra, tea for two in my study."

  He switched off the phone and placed it on the end table. Danielle continued to smile, rehearsing the story in her head. Trying not to feel intimidated by the ostentatious wealth on display all around her. The heavy period furniture, ornate silverware, the portraits boasting of a heritage going back hundreds of years. Danielle could well imagine that someone in this family had been present at every significant turn of British history. This would take every ounce of nerve she had.

  Lord Carrington wasn't what she'd expected. From what she'd managed to find out, he'd been a hard-nosed politician with a reputation for ruthlessness that would have put Attila the Hun to shame. She found it hard to reconcile those stories with this frail old man who gave off
such waves of genial, grandfatherly charm.

  Maybe he'd mellowed with age? In any case, it made her job easier. She'd been prepared to be scared to death by him. So, start with the family crest, then some general chit-chat about the family, bring the conversation round to traditions, rituals, holidays...

  Tea arrived on a silver tray, was poured and served. The cup shook in her hand. The old man was still smiling kindly, wheezing slightly on every inhale, his fingers tapping absently on the arm of his chair. His gaze direct and unwavering. They sipped politely for a few moments, then Danielle swallowed the butterflies that were threatening to fly right out of her stomach, put down her cup, and reached into her purse for a notepad and pen.

  "Can we start with the family crest? It's a very interesting configuration. How old it is?"

  "Ahh, the family crest. That dates back to the Norman invasion. I assume you mean the one on the ring?"

  Danielle faltered, regained her composure and gave a little laugh. "There's a ring?"

  "Yes, there's a ring."

  "You mean like a signet ring?"

  "Exactly. A family tradition going back centuries. All the males in this family are presented with one on their sixteenth birthday."

  Danielle gripped her pen and willed herself calm. "Would you describe it for me?"

  "I have a better idea." Lord Carrington leaned back into his chair. "Why don't you?"

  There was a moment's silence during which Danielle realised what an idiot she'd been. Like a lamb in a lion's den. The old man stared straight back at her. Not so genial now. A hardness that hadn't been there before set his face in stone.

  "There is indeed a ring. And, I think Taylor gave it to you. He wasn't wearing it when I saw him. Am I right, Miss Radley?"