Liz Fielding - Wedded in a Whirlwind

‘It wouldn’t be fair, Nick.’

‘You’ve thought about it, then?’

She didn’t deny it, but shook her head anyway. ‘It’ll be tough enough for her to move on, for her new parents, without me turning up and bringing it all back.’

‘Maybe you could keep an eye on her from a distance. It would put your mind at rest. And you’ll be there in case she ever needs a fairy godmother.’

‘Kids don’t need fairy godmothers, Nick. They need real mothers who are there for them every day, rain or shine, doing the boring stuff. Parents who earn love the hard way every day of their lives.’

He knew she was right. Knew she was talking about more than a little girl whose life she’d changed.

‘You think I was hard on my parents, don’t you?’

‘Yes. No…I don’t know.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘I don’t know anything, Nick. I’m just imagining what would happen if one of them was sick. If your mother needed you. Your father wanted to make some kind of peace…’ He thought she’d finished, but then, very quietly, she said, ‘Suppose you’d died here without ever having told them how much you love them-’

‘I don’t!’

‘Of course you do, Nick. It only hurts if you love someone.’

Her words seemed to echo around the chamber, filling the space, filling his head, until, almost in desperation he said, ‘We’re not going to die. Not today.’

M IRANDAdrew a breath and for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to let it drop. Instead, with a little shake of her head, she said, ‘Is it still today? It seems a lifetime since I walked up that path, wishing I was somewhere else.’

‘You should be careful what you wish for.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, fishing the phone from her pocket and turning it on to check the time. ‘I’ll remember that for next time.’ Then, with a sigh of relief, ‘No, it’s tomorrow. Just. How long before it’s going to be light?’

He glanced at the screen. ‘A few hours yet.’ He felt her shiver but not with cold. Shock, hunger and thirst were doubtless taking their toll on her reserves. ‘Why don’t you check your messages?’ he suggested in an attempt to reconnect her to reality, the outside world.

‘The battery…’

‘We’re not going anywhere until daylight,’ He assured her, overriding any protest. ‘Read them. Text back. Tell them what you’re feeling.’

‘I don’t think so! Besides, what’s the point if there’s no signal?’ Then, catching his meaning, ‘Oh. I see. You’re suggesting I send them a last message. Something for them to find if we don’t make it?’

Did he mean that? Maybe…

At least she had someone to leave a message for.

‘We’re going to make it,’ he said with more conviction than he actually felt. Who knew what daylight would reveal? They might still have to climb their way out and they were weaker now and he’d be operating pretty much one-handed. He wouldn’t be able to catch her a second time. ‘You’ll be seeing them all before you know it, but sending a message will make you feel better.’

‘You think? And what about you, Nick?’

‘What about me?’

‘Is there anyone you want to leave a last message for? What will make you feel better?’

He knew what she was asking him. Telling him. To leave a message for his parents. He could see how she must find it difficult to understand how he could have walked away, how destroyed he’d felt. But they had been his world. They’d brought him up to believe in the cardinal virtues. Integrity, truth. He’d believed in them . He’d believed in a lie…

‘I’ll take another of those kisses, if you’ve got one to spare,’ he said in an attempt to stop her from pursuing that thought.

Manda heard what she was supposed to hear-a careless, throwaway remark, pitched perfectly to provoke her into giving him another poke in the ribs, to distract her.

But she heard more.

Somewhere, hidden beneath the banter, she caught an edge of something she recognised.

Nick Jago, with no other way to push back the darkness, to distract her from her fear, her hunger, had shared his story. To help her feel a little less alone, he’d exposed a hurt that went so deep he’d cut himself off from his world, even to the point of changing his name.

She understood that kind of pain. How it was tied up with everything you were. Knew how, in order to keep it hidden, you had to wear a mask every day of your life until it became so much a part of you that even those closest to you believed that was who you were.

Until, eventually, you believed it yourself and, unless someone took a risk to save you, took a step into their own darkest place to release a lifetime of unwanted, unused love and give all they had, you would shrivel up until something vital inside you died.

Nick Jago had saved her from certain death. What would it take to save him from the living death to which he’d condemned himself?

He’d answered her question, but could it really be that simple?

‘A kiss?’ she repeated.

The air was still and, above them, in the small patch of sky that was visible, Venus shone like a beacon of hope.

‘Would that be a kissing-it-better kiss?’ she asked, softly, lightly, matching his careless tone. ‘Or are we talking about a make-the-world-go-away kiss?’

Jago had been deliberately provoking. He’d counted on that to divert her, keep her from the saying the words he did not want to hear, to force him to face a situation that he had blanked from his mind.

He’d anticipated a swift response too. The seemingly endless pause between presumption and response was unexpected, a touch unnerving.

But then her teasing tone as, finally, she’d repeated, ‘A kiss?’ had reassured him and, braced for whatever she chose to visit upon him, the butterfly touch of her fingers on his cheek, the caress of her thumb over his lips as she took him at his word, asked him what he truly wanted, warned him that this was anything but a reprieve.

He’d barely drawn breath, determined to apologise, reassure her that he’d been joking-put a stop to something that had, in the time it had taken to say it, spun out of control-before her lips touched his with a pressure so soft that he could almost have imagined it.

And then breathing seemed an irrelevance as the slow, penetrating warmth of it heated his lips, seeped into his veins, spread through his body like liquid silk until he was feeling no pain.

It was a kiss of almost unbearable sweetness that gave and gave, growing in intensity while the tips of her fingers slid down his neck, seeking out the pulse point beneath his jaw. And her touch, when she found it, sent a current of pure energy through him, as if she was somehow concentrating her entire being into that one spot.

It was as if, for years, his entire body had been somehow lying dormant, barely ticking over, waiting for this. Waiting for Miranda Grenville to come down into the dark to kiss him into life. Wake him with a touch.

Only her feather-light fingertips, her breath, her lips, touched him, seeking out the hollows, the sensitive places beneath his chin, his throat, stirring not just his body, but something deeper.

She took endless time, her lips, her tongue, lingering as she made her way down the hard line of his breastbone, slipping shirt buttons as she moved lower, her silky hair brushing against his chest as she laid it bare to the chill night air.

For a moment she lay her hand over his heart and it, too, leapt to her touch. Then it was not her hand, but her mouth against his breast, breathing her warmth, her life into the cold, angry core that had for so long masqueraded as his heart. It was an almost unbearably sweet agony, like that of a numb limb coming painfully to life.