Bridegroom On Loan. Emma Richmond
BENT in half, eyes screwed shut, arms outstretched, breath held, she waited. She could almost feel the weight of it, almost hear the settling of tortured metal, but not quite. Not above the howling of the wind that was now not only outside the car, but in.
Cautiously opening her eyes, she squinted sideways. From what she could see, which wasn’t very much, the tree had crushed the door and the back of the seat and now lay at an angle above her. Not touching her, but an inch or so above her hunched back. The car roof had been crumpled, the windscreen and side windows were gone and glass was showered across her thighs. The odd thing was, she felt quite objective about it all. Not panicky, or hysterical, just objective. She wasn’t hurt—at least, she didn’t think she was. Cramped, lying awkwardly, but not hurt. It was also like being in a wind tunnel. Dust and grit were whirled about her and she had to squint her eyes shut to avoid damage.
She was an independent girl, used to fending for herself, and it didn’t even occur to her that she might wait until someone came along to help.
Cautiously raising her head, she encountered metal, and lowered it again. The gear lever was digging into her hip. She shifted slightly, the car groaned, and she lay still.
The tree was heavy, she told herself, so the car wasn’t going anywhere. She also thought that the tree had done all the crushing it was going to do. So…
She tried to lever her feet up on what was left of the driver’s seat, and couldn’t. Tried to wriggle out from under the crushed metal, and couldn’t. Curved over like a bow, face down, she was effectively stuck—unless she could push the seat back.
Her long dark hair hanging over her face, shoulders hunched, she groped under the seat to locate the lever, pulled—and the seat shot back with the force of a rocket. Dumped head-first on the floor, she cursed, then swore as the car alarm went off.
This was silly.
And why was it, she wondered, that the English always considered how they looked before considering how they felt? Weird.
She managed to get her upper half on to the cushion, managed to lower the seat back—and then wondered whether you could actually open a hatchback from the inside. Well, she decided crossly as she struggled to free herself, if she couldn’t she would just have to wait until someone came! Which probably wouldn’t be until it got light, or the storm blew itself out. Which didn’t sound imminent, although that terrifying roaring and shrieking had gone. A tornado? That was how it had seemed in those few jumbled impressions she’d had before the tree struck. Not that she’d ever seen a tornado first hand, only on news reports, and certainly never in England.
‘And will you shut up?’ she yelled at the car alarm.
She was wearing herself out with the effort to get free, a temper tantrum imminent, when light flickered across her and was gone.
Startled, she flung up her head. ‘Hello?’ she called.
‘Carenza?’ A torch was shone in the crushed side window and she twisted towards it.
‘Can you see me?’ she shouted stupidly.
‘I can see you. Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m stuck!’
Beck, she thought in relief, and if there was one person you needed in a crisis it was someone like Beck. His jacket was being whipped and snapped like rigging on a yacht, hair blown every which way as he reached in to remove the ignition key, and the alarm thankfully stopped its strident call.
Moments later, the rear of the car was lifted, the back seats shoved flat, and the car dipped alarmingly as he crawled into the small space.
‘Which part of you is stuck?’
‘My hips; I don’t have enough leverage.’ And she was definitely going on a diet when she got out of this.
He put down the torch, grasped her upper arms, braced his feet, and pulled. One foot against the splintered dashboard, she pushed, ignored the pain of being squashed like a sausage, and eventually came free.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Just let me get my breath…’
‘No time.’ He sounded terse, urgent, and for once she didn’t argue, just allowed him to drag her free. Into mayhem—and another tree that looked in imminent danger of toppling.
He grabbed her arm and dragged her away from danger. Eyes shut to protect them from the whirling dust and debris, fingers clutched into his coat, she stumbled blindly where he led. Speech and coherent thought were impossible; they needed all their energy for walking, or staggering, to safety. Impossible to stand upright, hair almost tugged from its roots by the force of the gale, they could only go in the direction the wind was blowing. She fell twice and was ruthlessly dragged to her feet, but without Beck she would never have managed.
Power lines were down and were shooting blue sparks across the grass. Avoiding them, detouring round so many fallen trees, climbing over those they couldn’t, virtually blind in the pitch-darkness, he forced her on, until thankfully, blissfully, they were in the lee of a building. Exhausted from the battle, they remained there a few moments to catch their breath.
‘All right?’ he shouted.
She nodded against his shoulder.
‘Ready?’
She nodded again, and he urged her along the side of the stone wall, then round the corner where the full force of the wind hit them again. Anchoring her against his side, he halted again, fumbled in his pocket for his keys, unlocked the door and thrust her inside. It took all his strength to shut the door behind them, and the transition from violence to calm left her almost uncomprehending.
She found that she was shaking. Untangling her hair with her fingers, she tucked it behind her ears, savoured the ability to breathe normally. She still couldn’t see a thing. But she was aware of him beside her. More aware than she had any right to be.
She heard him flick a switch, but nothing happened. He didn’t say anything further, and neither did she. He took her arm and led her blindly across the room and into another one. Low burning coals in the fireplace gave some illumination and he steered her towards an armchair.
His shadow was huge, unreal as he bent to toss a log on the fire, stir it into life, and then he said quietly, ‘I’ll make some coffee.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was as quiet as his.
The wind sounded somehow worse from inside, as though it were angry that its prey had escaped. And I’ll huff and I’ll puff, she thought tiredly, and I’ll blow your house down. Leaning back, jumping nervously at every crash from outside, she stared at the fire. Flames were beginning to lick round the log. Hungry, devouring, but she was alive, safe, and in the house of Andrew Beckford, known to his friends as Beck. Her employer. A man she’d been avoiding for the past few weeks of working for him. Because it was best.
The first time they’d met, last November, she had thought it would be just another job, another client. She hadn’t expected to like him. From the little she had known about him—that he was a marine archaeologist, respected mountaineer, explorer, a crewman in one of the Tall Ships Races—she had expected him to be arrogant, condescending, and he hadn’t been like that at all. A tall man with steady grey eyes and brown hair, he exuded a quiet confidence. There had also been an air of sadness about him, of hurt, and, like the fool she sometimes was, she’d allowed her heart to rule her head and agreed to work for him. She should have refused, because when she had discovered that he was engaged to the beautiful Helena it was too late.
She could hear the soft movements he made in the kitchen. With no electricity, he must have gas, or an Aga if he was able to boil a kettle, but it was an absent thought.
When he returned carrying two mugs, she turned her head to watch him. He handed her one, and went to stand by the fireplace, staring down into the fire. The flickering shadows curved his face into a mask, made it unfamiliar, stark; only