The Daughter of Night (11 page)

Hester stirred and turned over to see a black head on the pillow beside her. Demetrios' eyes were open and watching her every move, almost searching her face as though he would know what she was thinking.

'Was it good?' he asked lazily.

The question brought back memories that made the blood beat more quickly in her veins and the colour sweep up to mantle her face. She recalled his expert lovemaking, the thing he had stirred within her—a thing which had grown with every caress until it clawed at her insides, demanding satisfaction. She had hoped to be able to control it, this wild hunger but it had been uncontrollable so that now, there wasn't a part of her he didn't know, hadn't touched, kissed and fondled.

She turned her head to the window—but that had been last night, a hot passion in the night, an appetite to be fed, a need to be satisfied; but now it was morning, with the sky a faint, clear blue and a weak sun climbing the sky with no warmth in it. Hester shivered and drew the covers more closely about her naked body.

'I don't know,' she said as though she was really thinking about it and not just saying the first hurtful thing which came into her mind. 'How
could
I know? Unlike you, I don't have any standard of comparison.'

'Which is just as it should be.' Demetrios wasn't a whit abashed and he turned on to his back, pushing back the covers and putting his hands behind his head. The movement disclosed his wide chest and the dark curling hair that covered it—hair which had tickled her nose last night—it was silly how she could remember a little thing like that. She stole a glance at his profile outlined against the white of the pillow— one dark eye, almost hidden beneath a drooping lid with the thick fringe of lashes for a curtain, his nose, rather big and with a flaring nostril, the sensual curve of his mouth and his uncompromising chin, now a faint blue in the morning light.

If she touched it now, it would rasp beneath her fingers, but last night it had been as smooth as silk. Her brows furrowed as she pondered whether there could possibly be some sort of sex maniac lurking beneath her calm, practical exterior—she, Hester Marsh, who'd never been very much interested in men! Her thoughts went wandering on, over her memories of the rest of his body—the flat stomach, the narrow hips, long powerful legs—the thing stirred inside her and she bit her lip in desperation as he curled an arm about her.

'I tried to make it good for you—to be as gentle as I could. I know it isn't always satisfactory the first time for a woman…'

'My misfortune—being one, I mean.' She kept it light as though he hadn't carried her up to heaven and leapt with her into a whirling abyss of the sweetest pain she had ever known—so sweet, it had ceased to be a pain and become bliss. Physical gratification was one thing, she argued it out with herself, but surely there was more to love than that, there
had
to be, and so far, she had known nothing of that softer, sweeter side. Maybe for Demetrios, it didn't exist. She could have wept at the thought, and to cover her emotion, she became practical and consoling.

'Never mind, I daresay you did your best!' She glanced at her watch, rather surprised to find it still going; surely everything should have stopped dead in its tracks last night. 'It's half past six and you said the plane took off at nine. Don't we have to be there a while beforehand? Perhaps we'd better start getting ready.'

'Oh, God,' he rolled over onto his face and from the pillow, his voice came muffled, 'I've married a practical woman!'

'Certainly,' she kept her voice flat and precise. 'That was the object of the exercise, wasn't it? I could hardly do the job you've lined up for me if I was an empty-headed little flibbertigibbet. By the way,' she nodded at the dressing table, 'there are those pearls, I picked them up, although I shouldn't have, not after the way you treated my necklace. I've tied them up in a hankie, you'd better put them somewhere safe,' and she turned her back so she wouldn't see him slip out of bed. The sight of so much completely nude flesh might upset her libido and bring on a strong attack of the lusts!

The brown boat, tied up now to a bright orange buoy and floating serenely on the wine-dark sea, had come to rest at last and Hester pulled herself up the narrow, steep little companionway that led from the small cabin, to emerge on the deck with a sigh of relief.

She hadn't really trusted this small craft, and although Demetrios had assured her there was a diesel engine for emergencies, it seemed he preferred the sail. As soon as they were clear of the harbour at Piraeus, he had cut the engine and hoisted the rust-red, almost triangular sail.

'Mediterranean rig,' he had caught her doubtful, apprehensive look at the bellying canvas, 'a descendant of the old lateen sail and quite safe in these waters. One man can handle it easily,' he assured her.

'Hmm, I thought you could have run to a proper yacht,' Hester answered acidly. 'When I climb out of this cockleshell, I'm going to smell of fish!'

'Sardines, a few herring and the occasional octopus,' he corrected. 'Who did you think you'd married, one of the Onassis clan?'

He had changed out of his conservative travelling clothes into a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt—and he wore nothing beneath them! He'd done it in the small cabin, in front of her—in front of her back which she had turned on him with a makebelieve insouciance— unashamed of nudity. 'Change yourself,' he'd advised, 'then you won't mess up that dress. It suits you, I like it.'

'When I can have a bit of privacy, I will.' Her nose had wrinkled fastidiously. 'I'm not used to all this togetherness,' but he had only laughed at her modesty, his hands on her shoulders, turning her away from the small porthole out of which she had been looking— turning her back to face him. He had shifted his grip so that he had a hand free and begun to undo the buttons of her yellow cotton shirtwaister, and his eyes had gleamed with appreciation as he had pushed the dress from her shoulders. He had hooked a long finger into her front-fastening bra and tugged gently while watching the warm tide of embarrassment stain her cheeks.

'Get it off,' he'd advised. 'It's going to be hot and you're not used to it. You'll perspire and all this confining stuff will bring you out in a rash.'

The little hook which secured the garment parted and she had struggled to pull the two halves together, but he had only laughed again. 'Nice,' he'd teased, his hand cupping the soft weight of her breast. 'Quality
and
quantity—I'm a fortunate man!' And with an abrupt movement, he had gone and she was alone, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her dry mouth and her breast throbbing from his touch.

Angry with him—but mostly with herself for being so easily roused, she'd scrabbled through her case for a tee-shirt and a pair of shorts, meanwhile casting doubtful glances at the bra. Demetrios was right, it was hot and going to be hotter, there seemed to be little air in the tiny cabin and already her body was covered with a film of perspiration. As she changed, she measured up the two bunks with her eye—too narrow, she decided, and felt a vicarious satisfaction— and anyway, she'd have the place to herself. Somebody had to drive the boat or whatever one did with boats—which reminded her, she didn't even know where she was going.

'An island,' he had answered when she had made her way on deck to phrase the question politely, formally and in a chilly little voice. 'Very small, too small to have a name. It's one of the Naxos group and we'll be there in about fourteen hours. There's food in the galley, enough for an evening meal, and some fruit and bread for breakfast. There's some wine as well, although you can make some coffee if you want it, there's a small spirit stove in the galley. Better let me do that,' he advised. 'The stove's a bit temperamental and I don't want you burning us down to the water line.'

After an evening meal of cold meat and fruit, eaten alfresco under the shadow of the sail, and after the sail had been stowed and the engine nudged into life, Hester had gone down to the little cabin and looked longingly at the narrow bunks. They looked very comfortable and the pillows, when she had punched one of them experimentally, were soft but heat and the lack of air drove her back on deck, the pillow in her hand and a blanket trailing behind her. Darkness had fallen much more quickly than it did in England, and she dragged the blanket about her and made herself comfortable on the planking.

'You won't lose your way?' After she'd said it she could have kicked herself for sounding so ingenuous, but Demetrios, seeing her bewildered gaze on the empty seas around them, nodded understandingly.

'No, sweetheart, I shan't lose my way.' He had looked down at her as she had hooked the pillow into a more comfortable position. 'I'd join you, but one of us has to see we go in the right direction or we'll end up in Africa.'

Some time during the night, she had woken and had felt terror rising in her; she would have given all she had for the sight of a London bus and the feel of a pavement under her feet, but there had been the comforting glow of Demetrios' cigarette in the darkness and she'd gone back to sleep, feeling perfectly safe despite her unaccustomed surroundings.

Now she was scrambling out of the little dinghy which had bobbed along behind them all of the way, secured by a light line from the stern, and she struggled her way up some steps, roughly cut and slippery, to a solid rock platform hewn out of the same rock. An old man and two donkeys were waiting there, the donkeys wearing straw hats through which their large, furry ears poked, waggling now and then to set the tassels which ornamented their cone-shaped coverings swinging.

'One of them's for you.' Demetrios had finished greeting the old man and was busy loading the cases on to the larger donkey. He pointed at the smaller of the two animals. 'That one.'

Hester approached it cautiously, walking round to what she called the front end where, under the brim of the ridiculous straw hat, two large, beautiful, wise and long-suffering eyes looked at her sadly.

'
You're
going to carry me?' she murmured, and the donkey drooped its head in patient resignation. She walked round to the back of the animal and slapped gently at a thickly coated flank—a cloud of dust rose and hung in the warm, still air and she glanced down at her long legs, very chic in narrow tan cotton pants. 'Not until you've been Hoovered, you won't,' she muttered, and turning to Demetrios, 'It's not
big
enough—and anyway, I'd rather walk. It'll be good for me, stop me getting fat!' And then she blushed as his eyes slid over her, lingering on the curves of her breast and hips.

'You've got something there,' he agreed amiably. 'An hour-glass figure—it would be a pity if the sand all ran to the bottom. It's a long way, mostly uphill, and the track's rough, but Aphrodite will think she's in heaven with nothing to carry. I'll put your case on her back so she remembers she has to work for a living.'

The old man approached her and offered a plastic bottle of liquid and she thanked him. '
Parakalo
,' she said hesitantly, and was rewarded with a smile which deepened the sun browned wrinkles.

'You speak Greek?' Demetrios sounded surprised.

'Only please and thank you,' she shook her head, 'and I can't always remember which is which. I came on a package tour about three years ago. The usual thing—Athens, the Acropolis and about four trips to places of interest, but at least I saw the Acropolis, I even walked around it—I wasn't hustled out of a plane, into a taxi and whisked through to Piraeus at the speed of light,' she added in an injured tone. 'I even went out on my own one day and tried to have a meal in a cafe in Omonia Square, but all the places were full of men, there wasn't a table anywhere without men stuffing themselves, and it was only half past eleven in the morning!'

Demetrios' lips twitched, but he merely pointed at the bottle and advised her to save the contents for later. 'Since you won't ride, you'll probably need it.'

The sun was hot on her back and already she could feel trickles of perspiration running in the hollow between her breasts—the track was more than rocky, it was dangerous; loose stones slipped under her rope-soled sandals and she twisted her ankle several times and cast an envious look at little Aphrodite—a ridiculous name for a donkey—whose neat little hooves clicked along surefootedly beside her. Within half an hour, she was exhausted and called a halt.

'I'm going to have a rest and a drink,' she stated firmly as she grabbed at the plastic bottle, retiring with it to the side of the track where she rested herself with her back against half a mountain. 'This isn't my idea of a Greek island, it's more like part of some weird lunar landscape! I've heard that Greeks, when they've made enough money, always try to buy themselves an island. Did you buy this one? Because if you did, you've been had!'

The fresh, slightly warm lemon juice ran down her throat like milk and Demetrios took the bottle from her, wiping the mouth before he drank. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed—a throat that seemed browner already, whereas she—she glanced down at her bare arms—she was going an unbecoming red.

Another half hour's walking and the track took a sharp twist and descended slightly to a huge, bowl-like depression where great rocks reared dark and menacing against the deep blue of the sky and in the middle of them, a gold-coloured pinnacle like a flat-topped cone thrust upwards.

It was an awesome sight and Hester gazed at it fearfully. 'Oh, very picturesque,' she said chattily. 'I think I've seen something like this before. I can't remember the name of the place, I think the guide called it Meteora, and there was a monastery on top of the highest rock.'

'There's one on top of this one,' Demetrios waved to where she could just make out the glint of a red-tiled roof that crowned the peak. 'We live up there.'

'In that other one,' she muttered darkly, 'they had a basket thing on ropes to pull people up.'

'So do we,' he grinned at her, 'but there are also some steps, six hundred to be precise.'

'And you keep your poor little daughter up there? How mad can you get?'