Stepping Into The Prince's World. Marion Lennox
meant he was only wearing socks. The shale on the steep cliff was biting in, but that was the least of his worries. He’d been in the water for a couple of hours, trying to fight his way to shore, and he’d spent two days fighting the sea. He was freezing, and he was so tired all he wanted to do was sleep.
But the woman by his side was rigid with pain. She wasn’t complaining, but when he’d put his arm around her waist and held her, supporting her as she walked, she hadn’t pulled away. She wasn’t big—five-four, five-five or so—and was slight with it. She had a smattering of freckles on her face, her chestnut curls clung wetly to her too-pale skin and her mouth was set in determination.
He just knew this woman didn’t accept help unless there was a need.
‘How far from the top of the cliff?’ he asked, and she took a couple of deep breaths and managed to climb a few more feet before replying.
‘Close. You want to go ahead? The back door’s open.’
‘Are you kidding?’ His arm tightened around her. He was on her good side, aware that her left arm was useless and radiating pain. ‘You’re the lifesaver. Without you I’m a dead man.’
‘Rocky will show you...where the pantry is...’ She was talking in gasps. ‘And the dog food. You’ll survive.’
‘I need you to show me where the pantry is. I think we’re almost up now.’
‘You’d know that how...?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ he agreed humbly. ‘I was just saying it to make you feel better.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘No, thank you,’ he said, and held her tighter and put one foot after another and kept going.
* * *
And then they reached the top and he saw the house.
The island was a rocky outcrop, seeming almost to burst from the water in the midst of Bass Strait. He’d aimed for it simply because he’d had no choice—the boat had been taking on water and it had been the only land mass on the map—but from the sea it had seemed stark and inhospitable, with high cliffs looming out of the water. The small bay had seemed the only possible place to land, and even that had proved disastrous. What kind of a house could possibly be built here?
He reached the top of the cliff and saw a mansion.
Quite simply, it was extraordinary.
It was almost as if it was part of the island itself, long and low across the plateau, built of the same stone. In one sense it was an uncompromising fortress. In another sense it was pure fantasy.
Celtic columns faced the sea, supporting a vast pergola, with massive stone terraces underneath. Stone was stacked on stone, massive structures creating an impression of awe and wonder. There were sculptures everywhere—artworks built to withstand the elements. And the house itself... Huge French windows looked out over the sea. They were shuttered now, making the house look even more like a fortress. There was a vast swimming pool, carved to look like a natural rock pool. In this bleak weather it was covered by a solid mat.
He wouldn’t be swimming for a while yet, he thought, but he looked at the house and thought he’d never seen anything more fantastic.
If he was being honest a one-room wooden hut would have looked good now, he conceded. But this...
‘Safe,’ he said, and the woman in his arms wilted a little. Her effort to climb the cliff had been huge.
‘B... Back door...out of the wind,’ she managed, and her voice was thready.
She’d fought to reach him in the water. She’d been injured trying to save him and now she’d managed to get up the cliff. He hadn’t thought he had any strength left in him, but it was amazing what a body was capable of. His army instructors had told him that.
‘No matter how dire, there’s always another level of adrenalin. You’ll never know it’s there until you need it.’
He’d needed it once in a sticky situation in West Africa. He felt the woman slump beside him and needed it now. He stopped and turned her, and then swept her up into his arms.
She didn’t protest. She was past protesting.
The little dog tore on ahead, showing him the way to the rear door, and in the end it was easy. Two minutes later he had her in the house and they were safe.
THE FIRST THING he had to do was get himself warm.
It seemed selfish, but he was so cold he couldn’t function. And he needed to stay switched on for a while yet.
He laid his lifesaver on a vast settee in front of an open fire—miraculously it was lit, and the house was warm. She was back in her dry clothes and after her exertion on the cliff she wasn’t shivering.
He was. His feet and hands were almost completely numb. He’d been in cold water for too long.
She knew it. She gripped his hand as he set her down and winced. ‘Bathroom. Thataway,’ she told him. ‘You’ll find clothes in the dressing room beside it.’
‘I’ll be fast.’
‘Stay under water until you’re warm,’ she ordered, and now the urgent need had passed he knew she was right.
He’d been fighting to get his feet to work on the way up the cliff. He’d also been fighting to get his mind to think straight. Fuzzy images were playing at the edges and he had an almost overwhelming urge to lie by the fire and sleep.
He was trained to recognise hypothermia. He’d been starting to suffer in the water and the physical exertion hadn’t been enough to raise his core temperature. He had to get himself warm if he was to be any use to this woman or to himself.
‘You’ll be okay? Don’t move that arm.’
‘As if I would. Go.’
So he went, and found a bathroom so sumptuous he might almost be in the palace at home. Any doubts as to how close he’d come to disaster were dispelled by the pain he felt when the warm water touched him.
There was a bench along the length of the shower. Two shower heads pointed hot water at him from different directions. He slumped on the bench and let the water do its work. Gradually the pain eased. He was battered and bruised, but he’d been more bruised than this after military exercises.
With his core heat back to normal he could almost think straight. Except he needed to sleep. He really needed to sleep.
There was a woman who needed him.
He towelled himself dry and moved to the next imperative. Clothes. This was a huge place. Who lived here?
The master bedroom was stunning, and whoever used it had a truly impressive wardrobe. There were over-the-top women’s clothes—surely not belonging to the woman who’d saved him? He couldn’t see her in flowing rainbow chiffon—but the guy’s wardrobe was expansive, too. He found jogging pants that stretched to fit and the T-shirts were okay. There were even socks and sheepskin slippers. And a cardigan just like his grandfather wore.
Exhaustion was still sweeping over him in waves, but at least his head was working. It had to keep working. He was dehydrated and starving and he needed to fix it. He found the kitchen, found a stack of long-life milk in the pantry and drank until the hollow, sick feeling in his stomach receded. Feeling absurdly pleased with himself, he headed back to the living room.
She was lying on her back, her eyes closed. He could see pain radiating out from her in waves.
‘Hey,’ he said, and she turned and managed a weak smile.
‘Hey, yourself,’ she managed. ‘They look a whole lot better on you than Don.’