The Barbarian (19 page)

He tore his eyes
away from Trouble. "You mean does the zoo know she’s escaped?"

"Be sensible.
Isn’t there a restraining order or something?"

He shifted
uncomfortably on the little bar stool, which had a wonky leg and made him feel
slightly sea sick. It didn’t help that the old wound on his backside was
suddenly hurting again. The sight of her, just like the mention of her name,
always made that wound smart. "It’s been six years. Even she can’t hold a
grudge that long," he muttered under his breath.

Still, he thought,
maybe he should call his solicitor—or the police. Just in case. His gaze
hastily scanned the length of the bar for any stray bar tools, but they were
all packed away out of sight. Of course, she could always grab a bottle and
break it over his head, couldn't she?

Instead his
ex-wife pretended not to see him there, took her drink and walked across the
room to stand by the bay window, where she looked out at the mix of sea spray
and drizzle.

"We should
leave," his companion hissed, setting down her glass.

He straightened
his shoulders. "Why should we?
 
Let
her
leave."

"I thought
she was in a mental hospital."

He smiled at that.
"Just another rumor. Mind you, she probably ought to be in one. Having
lived with her for four years I can tell you that with certainty." It had
been a rollercoaster. One that had a screw loose and sent everyone involved plummeting
through the air. Some hadn't touched earth again yet.

The woman across
the room downed her martini in one gulp and stared out at the gloomy evening
while munching on her stuffed olive.

Suddenly his
companion said, "Did you know she was here?"

He almost spilled
his beer. "Why would I come here if I knew?"

She shrugged and
inspected her French manicure. "Just seems like one heck of a
coincidence."

"You were the
one who said the place looked nice as we drove by yesterday."

She flipped her
hair back. "Well, I don’t think it’s so nice now."

He pointed to the
flyer on the wall. "There’s a play tomorrow. You’ll like that."

Sulkily, she
glanced over her shoulder. "I hate Shakespeare."

"How can you
hate Shakespeare?"

"It’s old and
irrelevant."

"Like
me?"

She fluttered her
lashes. "Don’t be silly. You’re not that old."

"Ah. You’d be
surprised how old I am." Just then he was feeling every one of those
years. Hundreds of them. Shakespeare, irrelevant?
 
That meant she didn’t understand it, but at
least she didn’t pretend. He could almost hear his wife—ex-wife—scornfully
pointing the age difference out, laughing at him. Well, he’d just remind her
that she fell for him too once when she was too young to know better. When they
both were.

A handful of other
guests entered the bar and there was momentary chaos as they all ordered drinks
at once. While his young companion eyed the newcomers, he sipped his beer and
stole another surreptitious glance across the room at his ex-wife. She looked
good, better than ever. Women always looked that good, he thought, when they
weren't available. Sad fact of life. His life anyway.

What was she doing
there?

The same thing as
him, of course. Reminiscing. It was ten years ago this weekend when they met.
Right here in this hotel. A decade ago. Damn.

His current
companion was an adolescent at that time, he mused.

Across the room
his ex-wife drank her martini in unladylike, deliberate gulps. Was she alone?

She put down her
empty martini glass and walked over to the arched doors that lead to a small
stone patio. There was a prowling grace to the way she moved. It always amazed
him that she could move so elegantly on heels that high, as if they were a part
of her.

"Will you get
me some roasted peanuts?" his companion asked. "I’m just going to the
ladies."

He smiled absently
and nodded as she slipped off her stool and went to find the toilet. When he
turned back to look for his ex-wife and one time attacker, she was outside, in
the rain, walking across the sodden grass, her heels sinking in. She’d get
soaked.

"Didn’t that
used to be whatsername?" someone exclaimed at the other end of the bar.

"No."

"Who?"

"You know the
writer who shot her husband—that actor—when she caught him with another
woman?"

"Yeah, that
prick. The arsehole. What's his name?"

He quickly tugged
his baseball cap further over his brow and hunched over his pint glass.

"Nah. It
can’t be her. What would she be doing in a place like this?"

"She stabbed
him, by the way. She didn't shoot him."

"You
sure?"

"Looks like
her."

"Doesn't she
live in
America
?"

"I thought
she was in the nuthouse."

"All writers
are crazy."

The voices faded
away, while he watched her stride across the grass, her arms swinging.

And then, as it
occurred to him that she was heading directly for the edge of the cliff, he
also realized she wasn’t slowing down.

****

There was a
tumbling stone ruin at the edge of the cliff. At one time it must have been
further inland from the treacherous edge. So many hundreds of years had passed
since it was built that the cliff rock was worn away by the relentless tide and
now those ancient stones teetered so dangerously at the overhang that they were
cordoned off by yellow tape and a rash of rusty, pitted warning signs.

It saddened her to
see that ugly tape swinging in the windy rain, spoiling the beauty of the old
stone. The last time she came here, ten years ago, this castle ruin drew her
like a magnet. On that occasion it was sunny and the sky was that extraordinary
shade of blue—the shade that must have been responsible for making man first
think about trying to fly. And she was there on holiday with friends, a giddy
young girl of twenty-two. Ready to fall in love.

"Look out
," he'd shouted to
her as he strode across the grass, hands in his pockets, the sun shining on his
handsome face. "
You'll fall off the
cliff."

That anyone should
pay attention to her at all was amazing. But that
he
should was frankly unbelievable. The famous actor, a man with a
new girlfriend every month. She'd recognized him at once from the photos she
always greedily perused in
OK
magazine
and
Hello.
Her first thought was that
one of her friends had put him up to it. For a joke at her expense.

But they hadn't.
He was simply the chivalrous sort that loved women, thought it was his job to
help them out. All women, unfortunately. Couldn't stop helping them. That was
his problem, she thought wryly. The needier they were, the more useful he felt.
No doubt, when he first saw her—with her frizzy hair, scowling expression,
complete lack of social graces and an excess of inappropriate shoes—he thought
he'd hit pay-dirt in the needy department.

Someone had
persuaded him, or possibly blackmailed him, into being the guest star that
weekend in the local amateur production and he loved being the center of
attention, naturally. She often thought he approached her on that sunny day at
the cliff edge because she
wasn't
looking
at him, wasn't fawning over him. She was too busy daydreaming, writing plots in
her head. Living in another world.

Ten years ago. How
could the time have passed so quickly? She wondered if the castle ruins
remembered her. Those stones had been there for a long time; no doubt they'd
seen a great deal of life come and go.

She sighed and
moved her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears so she could see the
ruins again. In today's grim weather they looked mournful, but still
mysterious, breathtaking, inspiring. She'd aged too in the ten years since her
last visit, but this pile of stones would always be more beautiful. Her
grandfather, so she'd been told, was born in this part of the country and lived
around there until he went away to war, met her grandmother and eventually
settled near
London
.
Perhaps she felt a family connection to the area and that's what brought her
back here again.

Out of nowhere, a
large black lab tore by her. She shouted a warning, thinking the dog might fall
over the cliff edge, but it stopped, sniffing at the wet grass. It began to dig
enthusiastically, tail swinging so hard its entire back end moved with it.
 
She looked over her shoulder, but there was
no one in sight. The dog had no collar. Maybe it was chipped. Nice dog.
Beautiful coat.

While it scratched
at the damp earth, flinging clods of mud and grass, the rain slowly eased and
the grey clouds blew by. Soft streaks of sky, the color of forget-me-nots,
slipped into view at last. She sheltered her eyes from the last pinpricks of
drizzle and saw then that she was not alone at the ruin.

A man sat on a
stone ledge, looking out at the
Atlantic ocean
,
his back to her.

Maybe it was
his
dog?

The animal barked
excitedly, nuzzling into the hole it had dug. Where was the tour guide today,
she wondered. Protective of this ruin, they wouldn't appreciate big holes dug
by a dog—neither would they like to see a man perched on the stones, defying
all the warnings.

"Excuse
me," she shouted. No response from the man on the stones. He was soaked,
she realized, his t-shirt stuck to his back and muscular shoulders.

The sun shyly
peeked from behind a cloud and he seemed edged in silver for a moment. Like an
angel.

"Excuse
me!"

The dog ran to her
feet and dropped something.

She stooped to
inspect the muddied object and the dog barked again, backing away, front legs
going down, waiting for her to throw whatever it had retrieved. She wiped it
part way clean with the bar napkin she still held in her hand. It seemed to be
some sort of necklace made of metal and ... bone?

The dog suddenly
took off, as if it heard a whistle, forgetting its prize. On his stone perch,
the man had slowly turned and saw her standing there.

She caught her
breath. She'd seen him before. Somewhere.

"What am I
doing here?" he said, frowning, bewildered. "How did I get
here?"

Why ask her? She
had no idea what she was doing there either. Did anyone ever know?

She walked slowly
up to him, picking her way through the tufts of grass in her impractical high
heels. "Is this yours?" She held out the necklace. Now why do that?
What made her think...?

His eyes lit up.
"Yes."

He snatched it
from her. His hand was large, dirty, definitely in need of a manicure.
Astonished, she saw tears in his eyes.

"This I
know," he said. And then he pointed over his shoulder, "The sea too.
That I know."

She eyed him
thoughtfully. Was he drunk? A wandering stray from one of the other, cheaper
hotels along the coast? Suddenly he brought the necklace to his lips and kissed
it. Then he looked up at her and his eyes were very dark, sucking her in. Just
like those ruins always did.

"I am Remy,
" he said.

"That's
nice," she replied dubiously.

"Nice?"
He squinted up at her, wet hair in short, sharp points, stuck to his brow.

"You know,
these ruins are out of bounds. That's what the tape is for." She pointed.

He didn't look,
but kept his gaze fastened on her face. "Where is my warhorse?" He
had incredible eyes, long lashed, mesmerizing. The tears had gone; perhaps it
was just rain caught in his eyelashes. "I remember now, I was
wounded," he said, "in the thigh. A witch cured me."

Wonderful. He'd
probably offer to show her his wound next. "Yes, well. I wouldn't sit there,
if I was you. The stone could give way. Can't you read English signs?"
She'd noted a faint accent, possibly French, but more German—more guttural.

"I need my
horse," he insisted.

"Yep! Excuse
me. Gotta go." She turned away, desperately in need of another martini,
but he stood suddenly and grabbed her hand.

"Take me to
it," he said.

"There are no
horses here."

He towered over
her. "My horse, woman!"

Oh, that did it!
She took a step back toward the hotel. But two hands held her waist and lifted
her. Screamed curses did not help as he tossed her over his shoulder and bore
her across the grass.

Things were
getting misty around the edges. Blood rushed to her head. She began to think
the barman must have mixed her a triple instead of a double, because she felt
quite limp and unwilling to protest as her captor strode all the way to the car
park and set her down on her teetering heels again.