Stepping into the Prince's World (6 page)

Frustrated, he found a torch and ventured outside. The wind was still up, catching him in its icy chill, but he'd been in conditions far worse than this during his service. The antenna had been attached to one of the outbuildings and it had crashed down during the storm. It lay smashed across the rocks, and with it lay the remains of a satellite dish.

This had been some communications system. A much smaller one would have been far less prone to damage.

Someone had wanted the best—so they could tune into a football game in Outer Mongolia if they wished. He stared bitterly at the over-the-top equipment and thought they could even have used this to talk to Mars if there had been anyone on Mars to hear.

But not now. A small radio might have been within his power to fix. This, he hadn't a hope of fixing.

In this day and age surely there must be
some
method of communicating with the mainland.

Smoke signals?

Right.

He'd seen the maps. This island was far away from normal shipping channels. There might be the odd fishing trawler around, but after the storm the sea would be churned for days. Fishing fleets would stay in port until things settled.

He thought of his grandparents and felt ill.

There was nothing he could do about their distress.
Nothing
.

He could go to bed and worry about it there.

He did go to bed—in the smallest of the over-the-top bedrooms. He lay in the dark and decided that worrying achieved nothing. He should turn his mind off tomorrow and simply appreciate that he was in a warm bed, his world had stopped rocking and he was safe.

He did manage to turn his mind off worrying.

He didn't quite succeed in turning his mind off Claire.

CHAPTER FIVE

S
HE
WOKE
AND
the sun was streaming into her little bedroom. She was safe in her own bed, Rocky was asleep on her feet—and she was sore.

Very
sore. She shifted a little and her arm protested in no uncertain terms.

She opened her eyes and saw a note propped against a glass of water.

Pills,
it said.
Pain. When you wake take these. Don't try and move until they take effect.

That seemed like great advice. She took the pills that were magically laid out beside the glass and forced herself to relax. If she lay very still it didn't hurt.

Some time during the night Raoul had come into her bedroom and left the pills. He'd checked on her.

Maybe it was creepy.

Maybe it was...safe.

She let the thought drift and found it comforting. No, it was more than that, she thought. He
cared
.

For Claire, the concept of care was almost foreign. She'd been an unwanted baby. Her mother had done her best by her, but there'd been little affection—her mother had been too stressed taking care of the basics. Claire had been a latchkey kid from the time she could first remember, getting home to an empty house, getting herself dinner, going to bed telling herself stories to keep the dark at bay.

She'd gone to bed last night aching and sore and battered, but so had Raoul. She'd seen the bruises. She was under no illusion that he was hurting almost as much as she was, and he must be far more traumatised.

And yet he'd taken the time to check on her during the night. He'd thought about her waking in pain and he'd done something about it.

‘I'm a sad woman,' she said out loud. ‘One act of kindness and I turn to mush. And he owes me. I saved his life. Or I think I did.'

‘You did.'

The voice outside the door made her jump.

‘Can I come in?'

‘I...yes.'

She tugged the bedcovers up to her chin and Rocky assumed the defensive position—right behind the hump of her thigh, so he could look like a watch dog but had Claire between him and any enemy.

And he could be an enemy, she conceded as he pushed open the door. He was back in his army gear. It was a bit battered and torn but it was still decent. He was wearing khaki camouflage pants and a shirt. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his sleeves were rolled back to make him a soldier at ease, but he still looked every inch a soldier. He was shaved and clean and neat, but he still looked...
dangerous
.

He was carrying juice.

‘You have great refrigerators,' he told her, and the image of a lean and dangerous soldier receded to be replaced by...just Raoul. The guy with the smile. ‘I poured myself some juice and then thought I might check if you were awake. It seems presumptuous to forage in the fridge without my hostess's consent.'

‘Forage away,' she said. ‘You gave me drugs.'

‘They're
your
drugs.'

‘They're Marigold's drugs,' she told him. ‘But I'm taking them anyway.' She struggled to sit up, and found with one arm it was tricky. But then she had help. The juice was set on the bedside table as Raoul stooped and put an arm around her, pushing a pillow underneath.

He was so close. He smelled clean. He felt...

Yeah, don't go there
.

‘How sore? Scale of one to ten?' he asked, withdrawing a little.

And she hated him withdrawing, even though it was really dumb to want him to stay. To want him to keep holding her.

How sore? Less since he'd walked into the room, she thought. How could a woman focus on her arm when
he
was there?

‘Maybe five,' she managed. ‘Compared to about nine last night. Five's manageable.'

‘It'll ease. The pills will take off the edge.'

‘How do you know?' she asked curiously, and he shrugged.

‘I'm in the army. Accidents happen.'

‘And sometimes...not accidents?'

‘Mostly accidents,' he told her, and gave that lopsided smile that was half-mocking, half-fun.

She liked that smile, she decided. She liked it a lot.

‘I've been in the army for fifteen years and never had to put a single sticking plaster on a bullet hole. But broken legs and dislocated shoulders, cuts and bruises, stubbed toes and hangovers...as first-aid officer for my unit I've coped with them all. Actually, make that especially hangovers.'

‘Why did you join the army?' She was propped up now. She'd taken her pills. Maybe she should settle down and sleep again until the pills worked, but Raoul was here, and she hadn't seen anyone for four months—surely that was a good enough reason for wanting him to stay? It surely wasn't anything to do with how good he looked in his uniform. And how that smile twisted something she hadn't known could be twisted.

‘Lots of reasons,' he told her. ‘The army's been good for me.'

‘Good
to
you or good
for
you?'

‘Both. Has this island been good for
you
?'

‘I guess.' She thought about it for a moment and then shook her head. ‘Maybe not. Six months is a long time. You just heard me talking to myself. I do that a lot. I guess I'm starting to go stir-crazy.'

‘The least your employers could do is give you a decent bedroom,' he told her, looking round at her bare little room in disgust. ‘You have bedrooms here that are so opulent they could house a family of six and not be squashed, and you're in something out of
Jane Eyre
.'

‘Hey, I have my own bathroom. I bet Jane never had that.' She smiled, the pain in her arm receding with every second—and it had nothing to do with the drugs, she thought. It had everything to do with the way this man was smiling at her. ‘But every now and then I do sneak into one of the guest bedrooms,' she conceded. ‘They all have fantastic views. Rocky and I read romance novels and pretend we're who we're not all over again. But I'm here to get my life back to normal, not indulge in fantasy.'

‘You can't stay here,' he told her.

She took a couple of sips of juice and thought about it. ‘I have a contract.'

‘The contract doesn't hold water. It's unsafe to leave you here alone for six months and now the radio's smashed.'

‘I can get a new one.'

‘Which could get smashed, too. When we figure out a way to evacuate me, you need to come, too.'

‘I can't just walk out.'

‘I assume you can contact Don and Marigold?'

‘I...yes. When I get satellite connection again.'

‘Or when you get to the mainland and email or phone them. You've been injured. You have no reliable means of communication. Any lawyer in the land will tell you you're within your rights to terminate your contract. And,' he said, and grinned, ‘I happen to know a lawyer right here, right now. Don't be a doormat, Claire Tremaine.'

‘I'm not a doormat.'

‘I know that,' he told her.

And here came that smile again.
Oh, that smile...

‘I had proof of that yesterday,' he continued. ‘But for today you're allowed to be as doormat-like as you want. And speaking of wants...would you like breakfast in bed?'

‘No!'

‘Just asking,' he said, and grinned and put up his hands as in self-defence. ‘Don't throw the porridge at me.'

‘Porridge?'

‘I found oats,' he told her. ‘And maple syrup. It's a marriage made in heaven. It's on the stove now.'

‘I thought you said you weren't going to forage without my permission.'

‘I didn't need to forage for these guys. Like the eggs last night, they jumped right out at me. Want to share?'

‘I...' She stared at that smile, at those crinkly eyes, at that magnetic twinkle, and there was only one answer. ‘Yes, please,' she told him. And then she added: ‘But not in bed.'

Because breakfast in bed with this guy around... Some things seemed too dangerous to be considered.

* * *

The transmitter was indeed useless.

They stood in the ruins of the radio shack and stared at the shambles and Raoul said, ‘What on earth was he thinking? He could have had half of this set up in the safety of the house.'

‘But it would have been only half of this set-up.'

Claire was dressed and breakfasted. The painkillers were working; indeed they might not be needed as much as she'd feared, for with her arm held safe in the sling the throbbing had eased to almost nothing. She'd walked outside with him to see the damage. The wind had ceased. The shack holding the radio transmitter was a splintered mess, debris covered the terracing, but the storm was over.

‘He wanted to take over one of the rooms in the house,' she told Raoul. ‘But Marigold wouldn't have it—a nasty, messy radio transmitter in her beautiful house. So he planned to build proper housing, but of course he wanted it straight away, so he was forced to use this.' She looked ruefully at the mess. ‘This was an old whaler's cottage, but it's been a long time since any whaler came near the place.'

‘Or anyone else?'

‘The supply boat comes once a week. They didn't come this Monday because of the storm. I expect they'll come next week, unless the weather's bad. That's why we have decent supplies.'

‘Fishing boats?' he said, without much hope, and she shook her head.

‘I've never seen any. I see an occasional small plane, out sightseeing.' She hesitated. ‘You're thinking of rescue. Are you sure your friends won't realise you were on a boat and be searching?'

‘I'm sure,' he said grimly. ‘There were reasons I wanted to be alone. I seem to have succeeded better than I imagined.'

‘Hey,' she said, and she touched his shoulder lightly, a feather touch. ‘Not completely,' she said. ‘You're stuck with Rocky and me. Want to come to the beach?'

‘Why?'

‘To see if anything's been washed in from your boat.'

‘You need to rest.'

‘I've had four months of resting,' she retorted. ‘Come on, soldier—or can't those bootees make it?'

He was wearing Don's sheepskin bootees. He stared down at his feet and then stared at Claire.

She smiled her most encouraging smile and turned towards the cliff path. Maybe she should be resting, she thought, but there was a reason she was pushing him to come with her.

While Raoul had been in charge—while there'd been things to do—Raoul's smile had been constant. He'd buoyed her mood. He'd given her courage. But now, standing in the ruins of the only way to get messages to and from the island, his smile had disappeared. She'd heard bleakness and self-blame in his voice.

He'd helped her, so the least she could do was help him back. Maybe she should dislocate the other shoulder. She grinned, and he caught up with her and glanced across and saw the grin.

‘What? What do you have to laugh about?'

‘You,' she said. ‘I might need to put a training regime in place if you're not to get miserable. You're stuck here for at least five days...'

‘I can't stay for five days.'

‘Five days until the supply boat's due,' she said inexorably. ‘But Marigold has a whole library of romance novels, and Don has fishing magazines, so cheer up. Meanwhile, let's go see if anything's left of your boat.'

* * *

Rosebud
was an ex-boat.

The last time he'd seen Tom's boat she'd been upturned in the surf. Now she was nothing more than a pile of splintered debris on the storm-washed beach.

The radio shack and
Rosebud
had held his only links to the mainland and both were smashed. He looked out at the still churning sea and knew he had a lot to be thankful for—but at what cost?

‘Will your friend be very upset?' Claire asked in a small voice.

He thought of Tom, and thought of the new boat he could buy him, and he thought Tom would give him heaps of flak and enjoy buying a new boat very much.

‘I guess,' he said.

‘Is it insured?'

He hadn't even thought of insurance. ‘Probably. I don't know.'

‘Will you have to cover the cost? Oh, Raoul...'

And she slipped her hand into his with such easy sympathy that it was impossible for him to say,
No, it's okay, the cost of this yacht is hardly a drop in the ocean of my fortune.

Why would he say that when she was holding his hand and looking up at him with concern?

Um...because otherwise it was dishonest?

Maybe it was, he thought, but she held his hand and he liked it, and he thought if he was to be stuck here for days then he wouldn't mind being treated as an equal.

Time enough to be treated as a royal when he got home.

And the thought struck again. His grandparents... They'd have heard by now. They'd be grief-stricken, appalled and terrified.

Something must have shown on his face, because the hold on his hand tightened.

‘It's okay, Raoul,' she said softly. ‘You can't help any of this.'

‘I could have.'

‘Yeah, but that's in the past. You can't do a thing about that now. Focus on the future.'

‘Like you have? Should I go find me a rock to sit on for six months?'

‘You can have this one if you like,' she told him. ‘I'm over it. Hey, is that a boot?'

It was. Rocky had found it. He was standing over it, wagging every bit of him in excitement. Raoul let go Claire's hand—reluctantly—and went to see.'

One boot. It was half hidden under a clump of seaweed.

‘Let's see if we can find more,' Claire told him, and they hunted at the high tide mark and found the other, washed in after he'd kicked it off in the water. It was dumb, but their find made him feel a whole lot better.