Stepping into the Prince's World (3 page)

She thought, weirdly, of a kid she'd gone to school with. Andy had been a friend with the same ambitions she'd had: to get away from Kunamungle and
be
someone.

‘I'll join the army and be a lean, mean fighting machine,' he'd told her.

Last she'd heard, Andy was married with three kids, running the stock and station agents in Kunamungle. He was yet another kid who'd tried to leave his roots and failed.

Her thoughts were drifting in a weird kind of consciousness that was somehow about blocking pain. Something had happened to her arm. Something bad. She didn't want to look. She just wanted to stay still for a moment longer and hold Rocky and think about anything other than what would happen when she had to move.

‘Tell me what's wrong?'

He'd stirred. He was pushing himself up, looking down at her in concern.

‘H...hi,' she managed, and his eyes narrowed.

Um...where was her bra? It was down around her waist, that was where it was, but she didn't seem to have the energy to do anything about it. She hugged Rocky a bit closer, thinking he'd do as camouflage. If he didn't, she didn't have the strength to care.

‘Your arm,' he said carefully, as if he didn't want to scare her.

She thought about that for a bit. Her arm...

‘There...there does seem to be a problem. I hit the rocks. I guess I don't make the grade as a lifesaver, huh?'

‘If you hadn't come out I'd be dead,' he told her. ‘I couldn't fight the rip and I didn't know where it ended.'

‘I was trying to signal but I didn't know if you'd seen me.' She was still having trouble getting her voice to work but it seemed he was, too. His lilting accent—French?—was husky, and she could hear exhaustion behind it. He had been in peril, she thought. Maybe she
had
saved him. It was small consolation for the way her arm felt, but at least it was something.

‘Where can I go to get help?' he asked, cautious now, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

‘Help?'

‘The charts say this island is uninhabited.'

‘It's not,' she told him.

‘No?'

‘There's Rocky and me, and now there's you.'

‘Rocky?'

‘I'm holding him.'

Silence. Although it wasn't exactly silence. The waves were pounding the sand and the wind was whistling around the cliffs. A stray piece of seaweed whipped past her face like a physical slap.

What was wrong with her arm? She tried a tentative wiggle and decided she wouldn't do
that
again in a hurry.

‘Do you live here?'

‘I caretake,' she said, enunciating every syllable with care because it seemed important.

‘You caretake the island?'

‘The house.'

‘There's a house?'

‘A big house.'

‘Excellent,' he told her.

He rose and stared round the beach, then left her with Rocky. Two minutes later he was back, holding her pile of discarded clothes.

‘Let's get you warm. You need to put these on.'

‘You're wet, too' she told him.

‘Yeah, but I don't have a set of dry clothes on the beach. Let's cope with one lot of hypothermia instead of two. Tug your knickers off and I'll help you on with your jeans and windcheater.

‘I'm not taking my knickers off!'

‘They're soaked and you're freezing.'

‘I have my dignity.'

‘And I'm not putting up with misplaced modesty on my watch.' He was holding up her windcheater. ‘Over your head with this. Don't try and put your arm in it.'

He slid the windcheater over her head. It was long enough to give her a semblance of respectability as she kicked off her soggy knickers—but not much. She should be wearing wisps of sexy silk, she thought, but she was on an island in winter for six months with no expected company. Her knickers were good solid knickers, bought for warmth, with just a touch of lace.

‘My granny once told me to always wear good knickers in case I'm hit by a bus,' she managed. Her teeth were chattering. She had her good arm on his shoulder while he was holding her jeans for her to step into.

‘Sensible Granny.'

‘I think she meant G-strings with French lace,' she told him. ‘Granny had visions of me marrying a doctor. Or similar.'

‘Still sensible Granny.' He was hauling her jeans up as if this was something he did every day of the week. Which he surely didn't. He was definitely wearing army issue camouflage. It was soaking. One sleeve was ripped but it still looked serviceable.

He looked capable. Capable of hauling her jeans up and not looking?

Don't go there.

‘Why...? Why sensible?' she managed.

‘Because we could use a doctor right now,' he told her. ‘Your arm...'

‘My arm will be fine. I must have wrenched it.' She stared down. He was holding her boots. He must have unlaced them. She'd hauled them off and run.

She took the greatest care to put her feet into them, one after the other, and then tried not to be self-conscious as he tied the laces for her.

She was an awesome lifesaver, she thought ruefully.
Not
.

‘Now,' he said, and he took her good arm under the elbow. Rocky was turning crazy circles around them, totally unaware of drama, knowing only that he was out of the house and free. ‘Let's get to this house. Is it far?'

‘A hundred yards as the crow flies,' she told him. ‘Sadly we don't have wings.'

‘You mean it's up?'

‘It's up.'

‘I'm sorry.' For the first time his voice faltered. ‘I don't think I can carry you.'

‘Well, there's a relief,' she managed. ‘Because I might have been forced to let you help me dress, but that's as far as it goes. You're carrying me nowhere.'

* * *

It had been two days since he'd set off from Hobart, and to say he was exhausted was an understatement. The storm had blown up from nowhere and the boat's engine hadn't been big enough to fight it. Sails had been impossible. He'd been forced to simply ride it out, trying to use the storm jib to keep clear of land, letting the elements take him where they willed.

And no one knew where he was.

His first inkling of the storm had been a faint black streak on the horizon. The streak had turned into a mass with frightening speed. He'd been a good couple of hours out. As soon as he'd noticed it he'd headed for port, but the storm had overwhelmed him.

And he'd been stupidly unprepared. He'd had his phone, but the first massive wave breaking over the bow had soaked him and rendered his phone useless. He'd kicked himself for not putting it in a waterproof container and headed below to Tom's radio. And found it useless. Out of order.

Raoul had thought then how great Tom's devil-may-care attitude had seemed when he and Tom had done their Sunday afternoon sail with his bodyguard in the background, and how dumb it seemed now. And where was the EPIRB? The emergency position indicating radio beacon all boats should carry to alert the authorities if they were in distress and send an automatic location beacon? Did Tom even own one?

Apparently not.

Dumb was the word to describe what he'd done. He'd set out to sea because he was fed up with the world and wanted some time to himself to reflect. But he wasn't so fed up that he wanted to die, and with no one knowing where he was, and no reliable method of communication, he'd stood every chance of ending up that way.

He'd been lucky to end up here.

He'd put this woman's life at risk.

He was helping her up the cliff now. He'd kicked his boots off in the water, which meant he was only wearing socks. The shale on the steep cliff was biting in, but that was the least of his worries. He'd been in the water for a couple of hours, trying to fight his way to shore, and he'd spent two days fighting the sea. He was freezing, and he was so tired all he wanted to do was sleep.

But the woman by his side was rigid with pain. She wasn't complaining, but when he'd put his arm around her waist and held her, supporting her as she walked, she hadn't pulled away. She wasn't big—five-four, five-five or so—and was slight with it. She had a smattering of freckles on her face, her chestnut curls clung wetly to her too-pale skin and her mouth was set in determination.

He just knew this woman didn't accept help unless there was a need.

‘How far from the top of the cliff?' he asked, and she took a couple of deep breaths and managed to climb a few more feet before replying.

‘Close. You want to go ahead? The back door's open.'

‘Are you kidding?' His arm tightened around her. He was on her good side, aware that her left arm was useless and radiating pain. ‘You're the lifesaver. Without you I'm a dead man.'

‘Rocky will show you...where the pantry is...' She was talking in gasps. ‘And the dog food. You'll survive.'

‘I need
you
to show me where the pantry is. I think we're almost up now.'

‘You'd know that how...?'

‘I wouldn't,' he agreed humbly. ‘I was just saying it to make you feel better.'

‘Thank you,' she whispered.

‘No, thank
you
,' he said, and held her tighter and put one foot after another and kept going.

* * *

And then they reached the top and he saw the house.

The island was a rocky outcrop, seeming almost to burst from the water in the midst of Bass Strait. He'd aimed for it simply because he'd had no choice—the boat had been taking on water and it had been the only land mass on the map—but from the sea it had seemed stark and inhospitable, with high cliffs looming out of the water. The small bay had seemed the only possible place to land, and even that had proved disastrous. What kind of a house could possibly be built
here
?

He reached the top of the cliff and saw a mansion.

Quite simply, it was extraordinary.

It was almost as if it was part of the island itself, long and low across the plateau, built of the same stone. In one sense it was an uncompromising fortress. In another sense it was pure fantasy.

Celtic columns faced the sea, supporting a vast pergola, with massive stone terraces underneath. Stone was stacked on stone, massive structures creating an impression of awe and wonder. There were sculptures everywhere—artworks built to withstand the elements. And the house itself... Huge French windows looked out over the sea. They were shuttered now, making the house look even more like a fortress. There was a vast swimming pool, carved to look like a natural rock pool. In this bleak weather it was covered by a solid mat.

He wouldn't be swimming for a while yet, he thought, but he looked at the house and thought he'd never seen anything more fantastic.

If he was being honest a one-room wooden hut would have looked good now, he conceded. But this...

‘Safe,' he said, and the woman in his arms wilted a little. Her effort to climb the cliff had been huge.

‘B... Back door...out of the wind,' she managed, and her voice was thready.

She'd fought to reach him in the water. She'd been injured trying to save him and now she'd managed to get up the cliff. He hadn't thought he had any strength left in him, but it was amazing what a body was capable of. His army instructors had told him that.

‘No matter how dire, there's always another level of adrenalin. You'll never know it's there until you need it.'

He'd needed it once in a sticky situation in West Africa. He felt the woman slump beside him and needed it now. He stopped and turned her, and then swept her up into his arms.

She didn't protest. She was past protesting.

The little dog tore on ahead, showing him the way to the rear door, and in the end it was easy. Two minutes later he had her in the house and they were safe.

CHAPTER THREE

T
HE
FIRST
THING
he had to do was get himself warm.

It seemed selfish, but he was so cold he couldn't function. And he needed to stay switched on for a while yet.

He laid his lifesaver on a vast settee in front of an open fire—miraculously it was lit, and the house was warm. She was back in her dry clothes and after her exertion on the cliff she wasn't shivering.

He was. His feet and hands were almost completely numb. He'd been in cold water for too long.

She knew it. She gripped his hand as he set her down and winced. ‘Bathroom. Thataway,' she told him. ‘You'll find clothes in the dressing room beside it.'

‘I'll be fast.'

‘Stay under water until you're warm,' she ordered, and now the urgent need had passed he knew she was right.

He'd been fighting to get his feet to work on the way up the cliff. He'd also been fighting to get his mind to think straight. Fuzzy images were playing at the edges and he had an almost overwhelming urge to lie by the fire and sleep.

He was trained to recognise hypothermia. He'd been starting to suffer in the water and the physical exertion hadn't been enough to raise his core temperature. He had to get himself warm if he was to be any use to this woman or to himself.

‘You'll be okay? Don't move that arm.'

‘As if I would. Go.'

So he went, and found a bathroom so sumptuous he might almost be in the palace at home. Any doubts as to how close he'd come to disaster were dispelled by the pain he felt when the warm water touched him.

There was a bench along the length of the shower. Two shower heads pointed hot water at him from different directions. He slumped on the bench and let the water do its work. Gradually the pain eased. He was battered and bruised, but he'd been more bruised than this after military exercises.

With his core heat back to normal he could almost think straight. Except he needed to sleep. He
really
needed to sleep.

There was a woman who needed him.

He towelled himself dry and moved to the next imperative. Clothes. This was a huge place. Who lived here?

The master bedroom was stunning, and whoever used it had a truly impressive wardrobe. There were over-the-top women's clothes—surely not belonging to the woman who'd saved him? He couldn't see her in flowing rainbow chiffon—but the guy's wardrobe was expansive, too. He found jogging pants that stretched to fit and the T-shirts were okay. There were even socks and sheepskin slippers. And a cardigan just like his grandfather wore.

Exhaustion was still sweeping over him in waves, but at least his head was working. It had to keep working. He was dehydrated and starving and he needed to fix it. He found the kitchen, found a stack of long-life milk in the pantry and drank until the hollow, sick feeling in his stomach receded. Feeling absurdly pleased with himself, he headed back to the living room.

She was lying on her back, her eyes closed. He could see pain radiating out from her in waves.

‘Hey,' he said, and she turned and managed a weak smile.

‘Hey, yourself,' she managed. ‘They look a whole lot better on you than Don.'

‘Don?'

‘Don and Marigold own this place.'

‘Not you?'

‘I wish.' She grimaced again. ‘Actually, I
don't
wish. I've run out of good coffee.'

‘You think it's time for introductions?' he asked, and she winced and tried for a smile.

‘Claire. Claire Tremaine. I'm the island caretaker.'

‘I'm Raoul,' he told her. ‘Raoul de Castelaise.' Now surely wasn't the time for titles and formalities. ‘Soldier. I'm pleased to meet you, Claire. In fact I can't begin to tell you
how
pleased. Tell me about your arm.'

‘I guess...it's broken.'

‘Can I see? I'll need to lift your windcheater.'

‘I don't have a bra on.'

‘So you don't. You want me to find you a bra?'

‘I don't care,' she muttered. ‘Look at my arm. Don't look at anything else.'

‘No, ma'am.' He sat on the edge of the settee and helped her sit up, then carefully tugged off her windcheater. She only had her good arm in it, so it came off easily.

She'd ordered him not to look at anything else. That was a big ask.

Too big.

She was beautiful, he thought. She looked almost like an athlete, taut and lean. Her chestnut curls were wisping onto her naked shoulders.

She looked vulnerable and scared.

He headed back to the bathroom and brought out a towel, wrapping the fluffy whiteness around her so she was almost respectable but her arm was still exposed.

She hugged the towel to her as if she needed its comfort. The bravado she'd shown since the moment he'd met her in the water seemed to have disappeared.

She
was
scared?

Yeah. He was a big guy. Apart from the dog, she seemed to be in this house alone. She was semi-naked and injured.

Why
wouldn't
she be scared?

‘Can I tell you that my grandmother thinks I'm trustworthy?' he told her, tucking in the edges of the towel so it made an almost secure sarong. ‘She tells the world what a good boy I am, and I'm not about to mess with her beliefs. I
am
trustworthy, Claire. I promise. If only because my grandmother's presence seems to spend a lot of time sitting on my shoulder. You're safe with me.'

And she managed a smile that was almost genuine.

‘Scary Granny, huh.'

‘You'd better believe it. But I can handle her.'

‘And you love her?'

‘You can believe that, too.'

And her smile softened, as if she really did believe him. As if somehow his words really had made her feel safe.

‘Are you French?' she asked.

‘I'm from Marétal. It's a small land-locked country near...'

‘I know it,' she said, in an exclamation of surprise. ‘Your army's taking part in the international army exercises in Tasmania. I looked it up.'

‘You looked it up?'

‘I get bored,' she admitted. Her voice was still tight, but she was making a huge effort to sound normal. ‘I was listening to the Tasmanian news on the radio. They listed the countries taking part. I didn't know where Marétal was. So you're part of that exercise.' And then her voice grew tighter. ‘Are there...are there any other soldiers lost overboard?'

‘Only me—and it wasn't an army exercise,' he said ruefully. ‘Despite the camouflage, I'm off duty. I took a friend's boat out from Hobart and got caught in the storm. I had two days being flung about Bass Strait, finally made it to the lee of your island and you know the rest. But my friend—the guy who owns
Rosebud
—is in Nepal. He doesn't know I took his boat and I didn't tell anyone I was going. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I broke all the rules and the army would agree that I've been an idiot.'

‘You've paid the price.

‘It could have been a whole lot higher.'

He was watching her arm while they talked. She was supporting it with her good hand, holding it slightly away from her body. Her shoulder looked odd. Squared off.

‘Idiot or not, you might need to trust me with your arm,' he suggested. ‘Can I touch it?'

‘If you don't mind me screaming.'

‘I'll be gentle,' he told her, and lightly ran his fingers down the front of her shoulder joint, thinking back to his first-aid courses. Thinking of anatomy.

‘It feels dislocated,' he told her.

‘It feels broken.'

‘It probably feels worse than if it was broken.'

He put his fingers on her wrist and checked her pulse, then did it again at the elbow.

‘You look like you know what you're doing,' she managed.

‘I've been in the army for years. I'm a first-aider for my unit.

‘You put on sticking plasters?'

‘Sometimes it's more than that. When we're out of range of medical help this is what I do.'

‘Like now?'

‘I hope we're not out of range. You said you have a radio. Two-way? We must be within an hour's journey for a chopper coming from the mainland. Tell me where it is and I'll radio now.'

‘Or not,' she said.

‘Not?'

‘No.' She winced. ‘I know this sounds appalling... We have a radio—a big one. We also have back-up—a decent hand-held thing that's capable of sending signals to Hobart. But last time he was here Don—the owner—was messing around with it and dropped his beer into its workings. And the main radio seems to have been wiped out in the storm.'

‘He dropped his beer...?'

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘If it had been Marigold it would have been a martini.' She closed her eyes. ‘There's a first-aid kit in the kitchen,' she told him. ‘I think I need it.'

‘I doubt aspirin will help.'

‘Marigold is allergic to pain.
Very
allergic. She's been known to demand morphine and a helicopter transfer to the mainland for a torn toenail. I'm thinking there'll be something decent in there.'

There was. He found enough painkillers to knock out an elephant. Also muscle relaxant, and a dosage list that seemed to be made out for the Flying Doctor—Australia's remote medical service. The list didn't actually say
This much for a dislocated shoulder
, but he had enough experience to figure the dose. He made her hot, sweet tea—plus one for himself—then watched her take the pills he gave her.

‘Stay still until that works,' he told her.

He found a blanket and covered her, and watched her curl into an almost foetal position on the settee. Rocky nestled on the floor by her side.

He tried to think of a plan.

Plans were thin on the ground and he was still having trouble thinking straight.

The drugs would ease her pain, he thought, but he also knew that the longer the shoulder stayed dislocated, the higher the chance of long-term damage.

In the Middle East he'd had a mate who had...

Um, no
. He wasn't going there.

He did a further tour and found the radio in a truly impressive study. Claire had been right: there was no transmission. He headed outside and saw a wooden building blasted to splinters. A huge radio antenna lay smashed among the timber.

No joy there.

‘You're on your own,' he muttered, and pushed away the waves of exhaustion and headed back to the living room.

She was still lying where he'd left her, but her rigidity seemed to have lessened.

He knelt beside her. ‘Better?'

‘Better,' she whispered. ‘Just leave me be.'

‘I can't do that. Claire, we're going to have to get that arm back into position.'

‘My arm wants to stay really still.'

‘And I'm going to have to hurt you,' he told her. ‘But if I don't hurt you now you may have long-term damage.'

‘How do I know it's not broken?'

‘You don't. I don't. So I'm using basic first aid, and the first rule is
Do no harm
. We were taught a method which only sometimes works, but its huge advantage is that it won't hurt a fracture. If there's a fracture the arm will scream at you and you'll scream at me and we'll stop.' He hoped. ‘Claire, I need you to lie on your front and let your arm hang down. We'll put a few cushions under you so your arm is high enough to hang freely. Then I'm going to gradually weight your arm, using sticking plaster to attach things like cans of beans...'

‘Beans?'

‘Anything I can find.' He smiled. ‘In an emergency, anything goes. My first-aid trainer said if I ask you to grip the cans then your arm will tense, so I just need to stick them on you as dead weights. Then we'll let the nice drugs do their work. You'll lie back and think of England, and the tins of beans will tug your arm down, and if you relax completely then I'm hoping it'll pop back in.'

‘Think of England?'

‘Or sunbeams,' he told her. ‘Anything to take your mind off your arm.'

She appeared to think about that for a moment, maybe choosing from a list of options. And then she opened her eyes and glanced up at him, taking in his appearance. From head to toe.

‘Nice,' she whispered. ‘I think I'll think about
you
. If you knew how different you look to Don... Don fills his T-shirt up with beer belly. You fill it up with...you.'

‘Me?'

‘Muscles.'

Right.
It was the drugs talking, he thought. He needed to stop looking into her eyes and quit smiling at her like an idiot and think of her as a patient. As one of the guys in his unit, injured in the field.
Work
.

Nothing personal at all.

But he needed to get her relaxed. He knelt beside her and pushed a damp curl from her eyes. She was little and dark and feisty, and her freckles were very, very cute. Her hair was still damp from her soaking. He would have liked to get her completely dry, but he was working through a list of imperatives. Arm first.

‘H... How does this work?' she muttered.

‘The socket's like a cup,' he told her. ‘I think your arm's slipped out of the cup, but it still has muscles that want it to go back in. If we weight it, and you're relaxed, then your muscles have a chance to pull it back into place.'

That was the theory, anyway.
If
it worked.
If
the arm wasn't broken. But the weighting method was the only safe course of action. To pull on a broken arm could mean disaster. Gradual weighting was the only way, but she had to trust him.

And it seemed she did.

‘Do it,' she said, and smiled up at him. ‘Only we don't have baked beans. How about tins of caviar?'

‘You're kidding?'