Follow a Stranger (10 page)

somewhere in the house a loud voice replied in fierce

tones.

Soon the old man reappeared, carrying a little table.

They sat around it, drinking black coffee and nibbling

slices of honey-drenched pastry sprinkled with almonds.

Marc mentioned Pallas and Spiro Pyrakis bared his

teeth.

“Has she begun to work yet, the lazy, idle girl?”

“Miss Caulfield is her teacher. Ask her,” said Marc

lightly, leaning back, his hands on the arms of his chair.

Pyrakis looked at her, one thick brow raised. “What do

you think of her?”

“She is beyond me,” Kate confessed. “I think she has

great promise.”

He gestured impatiently. “Of course, but the

temperament! She will not work. A musician needs tena-

city, humility, stamina. Pallas lacks them all.”

“Kate has great confidence in her!” said Marc.

“Kate?” Pyrakis stared at her, his blue eyes caressing.

“What a brusque name for such a feminine creature. I

would call her ...” he paused, looking her up and down

slowly until she was once more bright pink. “Penelope!”

he announced in triumph. “Yes, Penelope. She has that

gentle, stubborn look of Homer’s Penelope. Prepared to

wait until eternity for her man. Fragile, delicate but

unbreakable. That is what I like in some blonde

Englishwomen—that look about the mouth that puts up

the fence against all intruders.” He grinned wickedly, at

Marc, his eyes acute. “You have seen it, eh?
Oriste
? It is

so inviting. How can one resist that cool, sweet mouth?

Any more than a little boy can resist the sign which says

no walking on the grass, eh?”

Marc did not answer, but his face was set in rigid lines

as he stared back at Pyrakis, and the other man lifted his

thick black brows slowly, speaking in Greek.

Marc reddened, but did not reply.

Pyrakis turned back to Kate, his expression more

serious, and said, “So you have confidence in Pallas? Does

she yet care about her work? Does she work hard for you?

Does she worry?”

“I think she is so afraid to care that she pretends to be

indifferent,” said Kate, looking at Marc. “She thinks her

family will never let her have a career, anyway.”

Pyrakis turned to Marc, enquiringly. “Why does she

think that, my friend?”

Marc shrugged. “We told her she would have to prove

herself before we agreed. We did not say she could not

try.”

Pyrakis nodded and looked at Kate again. “You must

make her work, little one. Be cruel, be ruthless, but make

her work.” Then he stood up, flexing his fingers. “Now I

shall play to you.”

He walked to the great piano which dominated one side

of the shadowy room, lifted the lid and laid his hands on

the keys, flat, unmoving.

She had seen this odd trick of his before, at London

concerts. He said it was because he wanted to feel the

piano before he began to play it, to sense the willingness

of the keys.

He lifted his hands again and then broke into a series

of fast, dizzying chords which startled her and were

totally new to her ear.

“This is his own,” Marc whispered.

Pyrakis played for an hour, totally absorbed, as though

he had forgotten them, his untiring hands wrenching

brilliant response from the piano.

When he stopped playing and swung round to face

them, Kate was trembling with excitement. She could not

speak, but her face spoke for her.

“I must go now, for my siesta,” Pyrakis said. “You will

lunch with me afterwards?”

“I’m sorry,” Marc apologised, “but I have just noticed

the sky. A storm is in the offing. We must make a dash

for Kianthos, I’m afraid.”

Pyrakis shrugged. “A pity, I shall feel deprived. I was

looking forward to more of Miss Kate’s company. She is

excitingly responsive, like a well-tuned violin.” He kissed

her hand, then, saying something in Greek to Marc, bent

and kissed her on the mouth.

Marc took her elbow. “We must hurry. I’ll see you,

Spiro.”

He marched her back down to the harbour very fast,

his face coolly shuttered, and helped her into the yacht.

They set off at once. Kate looked back at the island, its

hills now dark and menacing with the approaching storm.

Then she sighed. She would remember that meeting

with Pyrakis all her life.

Marc shouted to her to come and help him, and she

hurriedly obeyed.

She had done little sailing before, but she was light on

her feet, and quick-witted, so they worked together in

comparative harmony.

“I don’t like the look of that sky,” he said anxiously. “I

hope we get back before that wind veers, or we may be

blown right off course. I wish I had noticed the sky

earlier.”

They were within sight of Kianthos when the wind

suddenly began to blow strongly, beating them to and fro

as if the boat were a matchstick. Kate caught a glimpse of

Marc, through a turmoil of whipped spray, and heard him

shouting to her, but the wind blew his words away.

Then the boat seemed to fly upwards, like a toy in the

grip of a giant, and she was thrown across the deck,

cracking her head with such violence that she lay still,

her eyes shut, the pain crashing over her unbearably.

She lay crumpled against the side of the yacht for a

moment or two, waiting for the pain to subside. Dimly,

she heard Marc shouting anxiously, “Kate, Kate, are you

badly hurt?”

She got herself up on one knee, staggering as pain

shot through her head, and he bellowed at her to stay

down.

“I can manage, but if you go overboard in this sea I

shall not be able to do a thing about it!”

They fought their way doggedly, the coast shim-

mering through mountains of spray, but the wind was

driving them off all the time.

They rounded a sheer cliff and Kate gasped in horror

as she saw black rocks rising up, their jagged points like

broken teeth above the water. Marc was desperately

trying to avoid them, but the wind was too strong.

A grinding crash, the sound of splintering wood, and

Kate again felt herself thrown about like a rag doll. This

time icy water engulfed her. Panic made her strike out

furiously, arms flailing. The cold water seemed to be

dragging at her, pulling her downwards.

Then Marc swam up at her side, grabbing her by the

throat from behind, turning her on to her back in a deft

rolling movement.

“Keep quite still,” he ordered. “Relax. Let yourself

flop, but trust me ...”

Panic was choking her as she felt herself, helpless,

being towed like a stranded whale, but she forced

herself to obey him.

He swam strongly, but she realised how tiring it

must be, and when they had passed the black rocks and

were nearing the misty shoreline, she called to him to

let her swim alone now.

“I can manage,” she assured him.

He released her, and she swam beside him until they

were in shallow waters.

Panting, shivering, coughing, they lay on the sands,

the sea flinging vengeful breakers after them. She

heard a booming sound close by, like the breaking of

waves, but realised it was her own heart.

Marc turned over on to his side and looked at her.

“How do you feel?” he panted.

She laughed breathlessly, “Rotten. My chest is

almost bursting after all that exertion.”

“Can you walk? There is a goatherd’s hut on the cliff.

We’ll get food and dry clothes there. The path is not as

steep as the path at To Angkistri.”

Kate flushed, remembering that day, and struggled

to her feet. The wind whipped through her wet clothes.

She shivered.

Marc was watching her with concern. “Perhaps you

ought to wait here,” he said.

She felt panic sweeping over her again. “No,” she said

quickly, “don’t leave me here alone ...”

His face softened and he held out his hand. “Come

on, then.”

What, she wondered, as she climbed the cliff path at

his side, had happened to her hatred and resentment?

From their first meeting she had had a picture of him

as an arrogant, overbearing tyrant whose every word

put her back up. She had detested his self-assurance,

his sarcasm and scornful dismissal of women as mere

playthings. When had all that changed?

She flinched away from too close an examination of

her new feelings. That she no longer bristled at the sight

of him was sufficient food for thought at the moment.

The goatherd’s hut was built of warm creamy stone,

rough and unfaced, but as solid as the rocks beneath it.

The one small window was shuttered and the door

closed.

There was no answer to their knock, so Marc pushed

the door open and shouted. No reply came. The small

room beyond was empty. A wooden ladder led up into

the tiny attic bedroom, from which wisps of straw

protruded, leading Kate to conclude that it was a hay

loft as well as a bedroom.

Marc went out again and walked round the hut,

shouting. Then he came back, shrugged. “Nobody in

sight. I’ll get a fire going. There’s an outhouse with

plenty of dry wood stacked up.” He opened a large

wooden cupboard which took up the whole corner by the

fireplace and produced a thick oiled wool sweater, which

he flung to her, telling her to put it on while he got the

wood.

Gladly she slipped out of her wet clothes and into the

sweater. It was obviously intended for a huge man, and

fell to her knees, the sleeves hanging far below her

wrists. But it was comfortingly warm and she huddled

into it with gratitude. She rummaged in the cupboard

when she was dressed and found a pair of rough

trousers and a long white shirt which she thought would

fit Marc.

He came back, laden with wood, and grinned at her,

his glance running over her sweater and the long bare

legs beneath. “You do look a picture,” he teased.

She slipped her feet, shuddering, back into her

sodden plimsolls, then took her wet clothes outside to

hang on the wire line which stretched between two

small posts. When she got back Marc had coaxed the

fire into life and was standing beside it, in the goat-

herd’s baggy trousers, the shirt in his hand. She stood

at the door, looking at the bare brown shoulders turned

towards her. Under the smooth tanned surface of his

skin his muscles rippled as he moved. Her breath

caught as she felt an insidious warmth deep inside her,

and Marc, hearing the little sound, turned quickly.

“You don’t mind being alone here with me like this?”

he asked, slipping into the shirt.

“Why should I?” she answered offhandedly.

He buttoned the shirt front, staring at her with

narrowed eyes. “Some girls might feel ... threatened ...

being alone with a man in such circumstances. This is a

very isolated spot.”

She forced a laugh. “I have too much common sense.

You’ve just narrowly escaped drowning, after all. You’re

cold, tired and hungry. The last thing on your mind is

sex, I would say.”

He grimaced. “I see,” he said on a strange note. “It is

just as well you have so much ... what did you call it?

Common sense. Rather uncommon, I would have said.

But I would hate to be stuck here with a female who

expected rape at any minute.”

“What we both need is food,” she said lightly. “I

wonder where the goatherd keeps it?”

Marc opened a drawer and produced a flat loaf of

dark bread, sugar, a tin of anchovies and some goat’s

cheese in a yellow dish.

“Giorgiou always keeps his food there,” he ex-

plained, “and there is coffee here ...” producing a

wooden tub. While Kate sliced the bread on the small,

home-made table, he ground the coffee and opened the

anchovies.

She toasted the bread, spread it with cheese and

anchovies and held it in front of the fire until the

anchovies curled slightly, and the cheese bubbled.

They ate the meal by the fire, sitting on low stools.

The black coffee was hot and sweet. It ran through her

like fire, making her sleepy and content.

“Are we going to try to get back to the villa tonight?”

she asked.

Marc shook his head. “We wouldn’t make it. The