It Happened In Paradise. Nicola Marsh
even one whose avowed aim was to lead her little charges astray.
As if…
Unless spoiling them rotten came under that heading. Not just with toys, sparklies, outings and treats. She was going to really spoil them with words, hugs, being there for them when they needed a hand in the dark, by giving herself. She was going to love them, cherish them. And make sure they knew it.
Given a chance.
She sucked in her breath as she faced the very real possibility that she might never see them again. The knowledge that if she didn’t she would have no one to blame but herself. She’d been weak, running away, unable to face up to the demons that haunted her.
Who was she to judge a man like Jago?
If she had to spend much time in this ghastly place, she would probably be driven to blur reality by whatever means came to hand. Or leave.
But maybe he couldn’t do that.
He was after all working here…
‘O-okay,’ she managed. ‘Pax?’ He responded with a grunt. Obviously she was going to have to work harder on her social skills. ‘So, macho man, what’s the plan?’
‘Give me a minute.’ Then, ‘I don’t suppose you have painkillers about your person by any chance?’
‘In my bag,’ she said. ‘Wherever that is. Until we get some light you’ll just have to suffer.’
No. Even in extremis she just couldn’t bring herself to play nice…
‘That’s a pity. I don’t think too well with a headache.’
‘That must be extremely limiting.’ Then, as he began to move, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Not far,’ he assured her dryly at the sudden rise in her voice. ‘My supplies were stored at the far end of the temple. I want to see if I can find anything useful.’
‘Another bottle of cheap brandy?’
‘This isn’t the Ritz, lady. You’ll have to take what you can get.’
‘Mine’s water, since you’re offering.’
The drink thing was getting old, Jago thought. Okay, she was scared—she had every right to be; he wasn’t overcome with an urge to burst into song himself—but a woman with a smart mouth wasn’t about to provoke much in the way of sympathy. Even if it was a mouth that had promised heaven on earth.
‘If I find any, I’ll save you a mouthful,’ he said, making a move.
‘No! Hold on, I’m coming with you,’ she said, grabbing a handful of shirt, and the sudden note of desperation in her voice got to him.
‘There’s no need, really,’ he said. Disengaging her hand from his shirt front and putting his mouth to her ear, he whispered, ‘I promise if I find some I’ll share. Scout’s honour.’
Furious, she backed off. ‘You’ve never been a scout. Anyone less “prepared”…’
‘Tell me, are you always this disagreeable?’ he enquired.
‘Only when I’ve been trapped underground by an earthquake.’ He didn’t answer. ‘Okay. I have a low tolerance of incompetence,’ she admitted. ‘Not that I’m saying you’re incompetent. I’m sure you’re very good at…’
‘Getting drunk?’
She gave a little shivery sigh. ‘N-no. You’re no more drunk than I am.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘although I’ll admit that I did consider drowning my sorrows if it’ll make you happy. Fortunately for both of us, I thought better of it but it’s likely the bottle broke when the earthquake hit so be careful where you put your hands and knees. And don’t grab at me, okay? I’m not going anywhere without you.’
‘No,’ she said again. Then, ‘I’m…sorry.’
Anything that difficult to say had to be sincere and by way of reply he wrapped his fingers about her wrist.
It was slender and he could feel the delicate bones beneath her skin, the rapid beat of her pulse. It was a wonder that something so fragile could have survived undamaged as she had fallen through the roof. She had been lucky. So far.
‘Yes, well, maybe we could both do better. Now, let’s see if we can find a light.’ As she made a move to stand up, he held her down. ‘On your knees, Miranda. Breaking an ankle down here isn’t going to improve matters.’
‘Know-all,’ she muttered.
‘You know, maybe you should try not talking for a while,’ he suggested.
‘You should be so lucky,’ she replied, grinning despite everything. Riling this man might be the last fun she ever had so she might as well enjoy it. ‘So, have you any idea where you are?’
‘I know where this was yesterday,’ he replied, bringing her back to earth with a bump. ‘Once we reach one of the walls I’ll have a better idea of the situation.’
Keeping his free hand extended in front of him, Jago swept the air at head height; it would be stupid to knock himself out on a block of stone. Easy, but stupid and he’d used up his quota of stupid for this lifetime.
Despite the blackness, he sensed the wall a split second before he came into contact with it and, placing his hand flat against the surface, he began to feel for the carvings that would tell him where he was.
‘I’ll need both hands for this,’ he said, but rather than abandoning her while he searched for something that would tell him where he was, he turned and pressed her fingers against his belt. ‘Just hang on to that for a moment.’
Manda didn’t argue. His belt was made from soft, well worn leather and she hooked her fingers under it so that her knuckles were tucked up against his waist as he moved slowly forward, her face close enough to his back to feel the warmth emanating from his body.
‘Well?’ she demanded after what seemed like an endless silence. He didn’t answer and that was even more frightening than his silence. ‘Jago!’
‘I think I’ve found the eagle,’ he said.
‘The eagle?’ Manda remembered the unfinished carving on the stone beside the path.
‘It had a special place in the life of the people who lived here, watching over them.’
‘In return for the entrails of young virgins?’ she asked, trying to recall the stuff she’d heard in the television interview of the well-endowed archaeologist.
‘You read the Courier?’ He didn’t bother to disguise his disgust.
‘Not unless I’m desperate. Should I?’
‘Someone wrote a book about this place and the Courier ran excerpts from it. It was pitched at the sensational end of the market.’
‘They wouldn’t be interested otherwise. And no, I didn’t read it, but I did catch a few minutes of the author when she was doing the rounds of the television chat shows a few weeks back. Very striking. For an archaeologist.’
‘Yes.’
‘I take it you know her?’ Then, when he didn’t answer, ‘Who is she?’
‘No one who need worry about becoming a virgin sacrifice,’ he replied and there was no disguising the edge in his voice. He was, it seemed, speaking from experience. Was she the reason he’d been thinking about taking to the bottle? She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know and, rapidly changing the subject, she prompted, ‘Tell me about the eagle. The one that you’ve found.’
He turned away from her, looking up. ‘It used to be above the altar stone.’
‘So?’
‘In