‘WE’LL get out. I’m not promising you that it will be quick, or easy.’ Jago knew there was little point in putting an optimistic gloss on it. She had seen the devastation for herself in the flare of the match. ‘Even if, in the confusion, your tour party don’t immediately miss you, I have no doubt that your family are already making things hot for officials at the Foreign Office.’
Her response was a tiny shivering sigh. ‘I’m afraid if you’re relying on that to get us out of here, we really are in trouble. I…I’m sort of taking time out from my family. They have no idea where I am.’
‘Are you telling me that you didn’t even send your mother a postcard?’ he asked, tutting.
‘I don’t have a mother, but even if I had…’ She broke off. ‘I mean— Wish you were here? Would you?’
‘Point taken,’ he said, his pitiful attempt at levity falling flat. He should have known better. He hadn’t just taken time out from his family, he’d walked out of their lives fifteen years ago and never looked back. ‘Not to worry. If no one misses you, there are plenty of people who know I’m out here.’
He hoped that would hold her for the moment. That she wouldn’t realise that if the whole island had been hit as hard as this there wouldn’t be anyone with the time or the energy to care what had happened to him, to any of them. Not until it was too late, anyway.
He continued to hold her hand. Her skin, beneath his own callused palms, was soft. Her fingers long and ringless. Then, as his thumb brushed over the pads of her fingers, he realised that they had taken a pounding. They were rough, the skin torn, her nails broken where she’d clawed at the ground as she’d fallen.
She must have been hurt, he realised, but she wasn’t complaining.
‘Come on,’ he said, with a briskness he was far from feeling. ‘This won’t buy the baby a new bonnet.’
And this time when she laughed it was with wry amusement. ‘When was the last time you bought a baby a bonnet, Jago?’
‘Now that, Miss Grenville, would be telling.’
‘Manda.’
‘Excuse me? You’ve decided that I’m a friend?’
‘I’ve decided that I don’t like being called “lady” or Miss Grenville and I never liked Miranda.’
‘Why not?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Please yourself. Shall we get on?’
There was a long pause, then he released her hand. ‘I’m moving to the left.’
She shuffled after him, studiously ignoring a stream of muttered oaths as the floor shook beneath them once more. He turned and caught her before she went down this time, holding her against him, tucking her safe against his shoulder. With her face pressed into his chest, his body protecting her from falling debris, Manda felt ridiculously secure, despite the fact that some vast megalith could at any moment crush the pair of them.
‘We really must stop meeting like this,’ Jago murmured when everything was quiet, continuing to hold her, her face buried in the hollow of his shoulder, her cheek tight against the heavy cotton of his shirt. The beat of his heart a solid base counterpoint to her own rapid pulse rate and in the darkness she clung to him as if to a lover.
She should move but, afraid of more aftershocks, her courage failed her and she couldn’t make herself pull away.
It was Jago who moved first. ‘Keep your eyes closed,’ he said, shaking off the grit and rubble that had fallen on him.
‘Okay, now?’
‘No. Wait…’ He rubbed his hands clean against his shirt then, very gently, laid them over her face, brushing away the dust from her lids and lashes.
‘Okay?’ he asked.
‘Okay,’ she said, close to tears as she slid her hands into his hair, a thick mop of unruly curls, using her fingers to comb out the small pieces of stone. Sweeping her fingertips across a wide forehead, pausing at an impressive bump.
It was little wonder he had a headache, she thought, wishing she hadn’t been quite so horrible about that, and on an impulse she kneeled up to kiss it better, before sweeping the pads of her fingers over dusty eyelids, bony cheeks, down the length of a firm jaw. Feeling the stubble of a day-old beard. Discovering the landscape of his face, imprinting its contours in her memory.
He grasped her wrist as she rubbed her thumb across his mouth, stopping her, and for a moment they remained locked together, the pad of her thumb against his lower lip. Then, without a word, he dropped her hand, looped his arm about her waist and turned away, moving slowly along the face of the wall, apparently exploring the carvings with the tips of his fingers as he continued to try and make sense of their surroundings.
‘My stuff should be along here,’ he said after a while.
‘Well, let’s get to it,’ she said, feeling as if she’d been holding her breath since that moment when anything might have happened. She made a move forward but he didn’t let go, stopping her. ‘What are we waiting for?’ she asked scratchily. ‘Your pack of matches won’t crawl out all by itself and jump into your hand.’
‘True, but blundering off into the dark isn’t going to help and if we’re not careful we could bring the whole lot down on us.’
‘True. And if we stay here talking about it long enough another aftershock might just save us the job,’ she replied impatiently. His closeness had become too intimate and she tried to tug free. His grip tightened just enough to warn her to keep still.
‘Slow down,’ he said, his arm around her waist immovable, powerful. Controlling. Their brief moment of rapport now history.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Despite your little pep talk back there, I do realise that no one is likely to be looking for us any time soon.’
‘Do you? Really?’
‘What’s to understand?’
She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Only time would tell whether she had been lucky or unlucky, but one thing was sure, she wasn’t going to sit around and wait for someone to come and dig them out.
‘I’ve seen these things on television, Jago. I know that out there it’ll be total chaos and, until we get any indication to the contrary, we have to assume we’re on our own. The longer we sit around doing nothing, the weaker we’ll get.’ Then, with a surge of excitement. ‘No, wait!’
‘What?’
‘In my bag! I’ve got a cellphone…’
‘Miranda—’
‘If it survived the fall.’
‘And if we could get a signal up here,’ he replied heavily, brutally crushing the wild surge of hope.
‘There’s no signal?’
She felt, rather than saw him shake his head, heard the muttered oath as, too late, he recalled the blow he’d sustained.
‘Are you okay?’ The chances were that he was suffering from concussion at the very least.
‘I’ll live,’ he replied. ‘Is there anything else that might be useful in this bag of yours?’
She suspected he’d asked more to keep her from falling apart again than for any other reason. She wasn’t fooled into thinking that it was personal, that he’d felt anything beyond lust when he’d kissed her. She mustn’t make that mistake ever again.
He’d protected her from falling masonry because, injured, she’d be even more of a liability. Even a speck of dust in her eye could have caused problems and he needed her fit and strong, not a feeble hysteric.
Heaven