warm-hearted, a real Greek. And I like cars. I was always
homesick, you know? I mean, the States is great, but I’m a
Greek.” He pulled up with a jolt and she looked around her
with great interest. They were on the mountain slope now,
the track nothing but a whitened ribbon between grass and
rocks, pitted and scarred.
“This is as far as I can take you, miss. You want I
should walk up there with you? You follow this track to the
top. But it gets difficult as you get higher. You might slip,
or get dizzy.”
“No, thank you,” she smiled. “I have climbed before and
I have a good head for heights. You’d better get back—I
think Miss Pallas wants you to drive her somewhere.”
He saluted. “Okay by me. I’ll be back at four o’clock. You
got a watch, miss?”
She showed it to him and he nodded. Then he stood by
the car, watching her intently as she began the steep climb
to the top. After a while he clearly decided she was
competent enough, because she heard the sound of the
engine, and the grinding of the wheels on stones as he
turned back the way they had come.
The climb was more difficult that she had anticipated.
Several times she slipped, her hands clutching at the face,
but each time she managed to steady herself. She kept
going, breathing quickly, her hands scratched and
bleeding slightly, her knees and back aching.
When she reached the top she sat down, panting, and
stared back the way she had come. From here the climb
looked dizzyingly steep, and she wondered how she had
had the nerve to attempt it—and also how she was to get
down! Then she shrugged. Sufficient unto the day was the
evil thereof...
She found Peter lying on his face, stretched flat out, the
only part of him which moved his hand, which was
delicately scraping at the dusty covering of soil which lay
everywhere over the ruins.
He turned his head to squint at her as she approached,
and, without a sign of surprise or enquiry, said, “Careful!
I’ve begun marking out the ground plan with string. Don’t
trip over it or you’ll pull out the pegs and I’ll have it all to
do again.”
“You’ve been busy,” she commented, staring around
her.
The site was laid out on a flattish plateau, in a
vaguely rectangular shape, with three broad stone steps
running all the way around the building. The roof had
been supported by the usual pillars, some of which still
stood, in more or less battered condition, rearing up
towards the open blue sky, tapering to their plain
capitals, their stone flaking away along the sides. Blocks
of stone lay everywhere, among the wiry grass and
yellow flowers. It was touching to Kate to see how the
stone steps were hollowed out by generations of reverent
feet, although this place had been deserted for so long,
slowly crumbling under the pressures of wind and
weather.
“I only have two weeks to make this preliminary
investigation,” he pointed out. “Now you’re here, Kate,
pass me that plastic bag. I’ve found something
interesting.”
She ran and picked up the top bag from the pile laid
ready, a stone keeping them from blowing away,
returned and handed it to Peter, who gently pushed an
encrusted object inside the bag.
“That was outside the temple area proper,” he said.
“Give me my map. Over there ...” waving a vague arm.
She fetched the map and Peter carefully marked the
spot where he had found his first object.
“What do you think it is?” she asked, staring at it. “A
coin?” It was that shape.
He shrugged. “Possibly. We can’t tell until it’s
cleaned.” He grinned at her. “It’s a temptation to look for
other things, but I must get on—until a proper
accredited expedition is organised the site mustn’t be
disturbed. But as the coin was outside the temple that
won’t matter too much. Now, I want to finish my map
today. I’ll measure and you can jot down the
dimensions.”
“Have you had breakfast?” she asked resignedly.
foreign tongue, then blinked. “Oh, breakfast. Yes, I had a
roll when I first got up.”
“At crack of dawn, by the amount of work you’ve done,”
she scolded. “What is there for lunch? I’ll get you
something.”
He protested, but she insisted, and at last he gave in,
and sat down with her to eat the stew she heated over the
little oil-stove. Marc had sent up a number of tins, she
found, as well as eggs, cheese and bread. There was no
reason why Peter should not eat well.
After lunch they resumed work. They continued to work
for the rest of the afternoon, breaking only for a cup of
black coffee at two o’clock, and soon had the whole site
mapped out. Peter crawled around on his knees,
measuring the ground, and Kate carefully marked down
the measurements on his rough sketch map. Then they
noted down all the positions of pillars, fallen stones and
other objects, then measured the pillars, their heights,
breadths, capitals.
Kate’s shoulders and arms were aching. Her eyes kept
blurring and she was hot and weary. But Peter seemed
beyond such ordinary human weakness. Frowning,
absorbed, intent, he worked on as the sun grew warmer,
rose higher and higher, and then began to move down the
sky again.
She glanced at her watch and found, to her relief, that it
was half past three. She wanted to get back down the peak
before Jake arrived, so she said goodbye to Peter, who
answered briefly, hardly realising what she had said, she
suspected.
Kate was glad to see no sign of the car below. Taking a
deep breath, she began to lower herself, clinging to the
grassy outcrops of stone, her fingers clawing fiercely, feet
feeling for support. She had to climb down backwards. It
was impossible to walk down. She was only a short way
from the top when she heard the car engine in the
distance. It appeared to be racing along the bumpy narrow
track. Stones rattled and flew as the wheels spun. She
wondered if Jake had intended to get here early to help her
down, and then, hearing the car stop with a ferocious jerk,
turned her head to smile at him.
The smile froze on her face. It was not Jake, but Marc,
who had leapt out of the driving seat of the khaki jeep
drawn up far below her.
His expression as he looked up at her was grim. She
could see, even from this distance, the tight clenching of
his jaw and teeth. The flash of the hard grey eyes.
He was bitterly angry, that much was obvious.
Shock made her move too quickly. She felt her hands
slip, felt the tearing pain of the rock biting into her skin,
h
er feet slithering helplessly down. Panic blotted out all
thought for an instant, during which time she grasped
desperately at the rock face and spread-eagled herself
against it, toes curling into the niche they had somehow
found.
Stones rattled downwards nearby. She heard quick,
harsh breathing. Then an arm clamped round her and she
was pulled against a cool blue shirt, her face buried
against Marc’s chest.
For a second there was a silence, then he asked roughly,
“Are you badly hurt?”
Kate lifted her head, without looking up at him, and
pushed herself back a little. “No,” she whispered. “I’m so
sorry ...”
She heard his teeth snap together and felt the raging
fury inside him, although he said nothing. She felt singed
and weary. He was right to be angry with her. She had
been silly to attempt the climb.
“Do you think you can make the rest of the way with my
help?” he asked tensely.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Slowly, inch by painful inch, they descended. She felt
his arm tensed permanently to grab her if she fell again,
and dreaded the interview that must take place at the
foot.
Then, at last, they stood upright beside the jeep. Marc
opened the door without looking at her and she wearily
tumbled into the passenger seat. He slammed the door and
walked round to the other side, got in and then sat staring
at her, his arm along the seat.
“You stupid little fool!” he said harshly. “Were you mad
to attempt that climb? I thought you were out exploring
with Pallas and Sam. It was only when Jake got back that
I discovered the truth, and I tore the skin off his back for
letting you go up there alone. I drove here like a maniac,
expecting to find you in pieces at the foot, only to see you
stuck up there, like a fledgling bird.’" He glared at her
with burning ferocity. “If you weren’t in such a state
already I would gladly teach you a lesson you won’t forget!
Never try that climb again. Do you hear?”
She nodded, silenced for once.
“Show me your hands,” he commanded, after a long
pause.
Trembling, she turned them palm up, and heard his
breath drawn in explosively. “Good God!” he exclaimed.
They were scraped and bloody, one deep gash at the base
of her thumb, grass stains on the raw fingers.
“I wanted to see that Peter was comfortable,” she
muttered nervously.
“And I suppose he had you working with him up there?”
he asked tautly. “Digging and scraping like a mole all day?
Why didn’t he see you safely down to the car? He must
realise how dangerous that climb can be—or doesn’t he
care?”
“He was very busy,” she said. “If I’d asked him to come
with me he would have done, but I didn’t ask ...”
“He’s a selfish, irresponsible idiot!” Marc commented
savagely. “No decent man would let his woman make a
climb like that!”
“I’m not his woman,” she snapped back, “I’m his fiancée.
But the relationship is one of shared independence, not
slavery! He’s not a cave man, and I’m not in need of
protection.”
His grey eyes stormed at her furiously, the handsome
features suddenly rigid and dangerous. “You make love
sound like mild friendship. Is that all there is between you
two? That isn’t love as I know it!”
Something twisted inside her, she lowered her eyes. “I’m
sure it isn’t,” she said in a brittle voice.
His hands grabbed her shoulders, the curled fingers
biting into her. For a second she was frozen with panic,
then he released her with a thickly drawn breath, turned,
and started the engine.
CHAPTER FOUR
They made the return journey in less than half the time
Jake had taken, tearing round corners and over bumps in
the road, jolting and swaying furiously. She clung to her
seat, eyes shut, aware of Marc’s anger through every
nerve in her body.
When they pulled up outside the villa Sam and Pallas,
who had been sitting on the verandah, rose nervously and
came down to meet them.
Marc ignored them both, helping Kate out of the jeep
with impersonal firmness. She shot a glance up at him
and found his face under a tight control again, but the
grey eyes met hers with the glacial expression she always
found so terrifying.
“Oh, your poor hands!” exclaimed Pallas, catching sight
of them. “What have you done to yourself?”
Marc propelled Kate towards the building, his hand
clamped on her elbow, taking no notice of his sister. He
pushed her upstairs and into the large, luxurious
bathroom.
“Sit down,” he ordered, and left her alone for a
moment, returning with a large bottle of iodine and some
plasters. He ran warm water into the bowl, immersed her
hands with the gentleness of a trained nurse, carefully
washed and dried them, then anointed the grazes with
iodine, while he put a plaster over the deeper cut.
Kate held her breath until the iodine had stopped
stinging. “Thank you,” she whispered, her blue eyes damp
with tears.
He leaned over her, very tall and overwhelming, his
eyes on her face.
“Did it hurt badly?”
She forced a wavering smile. “No, not at all.”
“You’re crying!” He somehow made that sound like an
accusation and she felt, again, anger in him.
“I got some dust in my eyes on the road,” she said
quickly.
He washed her face delicately, wiping her eyes with
wisps of cotton wool. She felt like a child again, sheltered,
cherished, vulnerable. Why was it so pleasant to have
one’s face washed for one? she thought vaguely, enjoying
the sensation.
He took her chin in his long fingers and turned her face
up to him. The savagery she had felt in him had all gone
now. A warm indulgence lay in his eyes.
“What a silly child you are,” he murmured, smiling
quizzically. “You looked like a little girl, with your eyes
screwed up tight, and your lip between your teeth. How
do your hands feel now?”
“Much better, thank you,” she said, very pink. In a
way, he was more dangerous in this mood.
He lifted them in his and then bent suddenly and
kissed them briefly. They quivered in his grip, then were
pulled away.
He straightened, still smiling. “What else does one do
with a hurt child but kiss it better?” he teased.
She turned blindly and stumbled out of the bathroom.
In a moment she was in her own room, the door safely
shut. She leaned against the door, heart pounding.
I mustn’t let him get under my skin like this, she
thought, eyes tight shut. He’s only playing some game or
other. I must keep my defences in place. I must hold on t
o
my love for Peter.
That evening, when she came down for dinner, she
found Marc in the lounge with a small, slender woman of
fifty or so, whose thick black hair, dark eyes and elegant
clothes had the mark of the Parisian. Marc glanced up,
smiling. “Ah, here is Miss Caulfield now, Mama.” He
stood up. “Miss Caulfield, this is my mother.”
Mrs. Lillitos smilingly held out a thin hand. “I am so
pleased to meet you. Pallas has written to me of you so
often that I feel I know you very well. But I cannot think
of you as Miss Caulfield—will you let me call you Kate?
Such a nice name. It always reminds me of Shakespeare.”
Marc broke in teasingly, “Ah, yes—Henry the Fifth!
What does he say: There is witchcraft in your lips, Kate
...” His eyes provoked her openly, and Kate knew herself
to be flushing.
His mother looked round at him, one delicate dark
brow lifted in enquiry. “Marc! You must not be so
teasing!”
He laughed. “Or did you mean Kate from The Taming
of the Shrew, Mama? Kate, the prettiest Kate in
Christendom, sometimes Kate the curst?”
Mrs. Lillitos clicked her tongue. “That was not very
polite, my son. I am surprised at you. Kate is covered with
embarrassment. Say you are sorry at once!”
“Ah, Mama,” he said lightly, “English girls are not
brought up like our girls, to blush at everything! If Kate is
pink it is because she wants to slap me, not because she is
shy.”
His mother looked from one to the other of them, very
slowly. A smile pulled at her lips. “Is that so?” she asked
quietly. “I see.”
“The first time we met,” he went on gaily, “she spat at
me like a cross kitten with its back arched. She almost
stepped under my car, yet she flew at me furiously for
daring to criticise her!”
Watching him from under lowered lashes, Kate
suspected his light tone hid resentment. It was the first
time had had ever referred to their first encounter.
“Perhaps you were rude to her, Marc,” his mother said
mildly. “Was he, Kate?”
Kate looked at her and was relieved to see that she
was smiling warmly. “Very rude,” she agreed, smiling
back.
“Ye gods!” he exclaimed. “I was the very model of
restraint! And when we met again she tore my character
into strips, told me how to run my life and threw me out
of her home as if I were a burglar!”