"Then we're likely to have visitors. Sooner or later. We'll just have to hope Travers gets here sooner."
"If he doesn't?"
He wanted to reassure her. To tell her he wouldn't let anyone touch her, hurt her. But he couldn't, even though he knew he was more than capable of protecting her. "Then we've got a gimpy schoolteacher and a broken bird against a bunch of very nasty bad guys," he said flatly. "What do you think will happen?"
She was still dazed and confused by the tumultuous events of the afternoon, by her too-long period of unconsciousness. Otherwise she never would have reached over and plucked the sunglasses from his face, looking into his eyes as if she knew him. "I think we'll be fine," she said in a small, sure voice. And then she lay back again, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. In her hand she held the sunglasses that were his shield against the world.
And his shield against innocent young woman who could see far too much.
Chapter 6
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He must have been the British equivalent of a Boy Scout, Francey decided later. His efficiency was almost frightening as he bundled her off into the overgrown island.
"One thing's for sure, we can't sit out on the beach and wait for them," he said. "Might as well send a telegram. Cecil tells me there's a fresh-water lagoon not too far inland. We'll camp there and trust Travers will have better luck finding us than the men who are after you."
Francey struggled to her feet, pushing her hair away from her face. She felt dazed, oddly sleepy, considering the extremity of their situation. "How far inland?"
"Why don't you sit here while I scout out on the situation?"
She didn't want to admit to the fact that she was frightened without him. There was no reason to put such faith in him, no reason at all. Except for the merciless chill she sometimes surprised in his blue eyes, which told her he was quite capable of anything. "I'd rather come with you, if you don't mind," she said.
"Suit yourself. I can't promise that they won't find us eventually, but it'll take them a while."
"How do you know that? Maybe they were watching us. Maybe they're on the other side of the island…"
"The other side of the island is protected by coral reefs. It would take an island man to get through them, and I don't think it's a St. Anne native who's after you. Is it?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know? Or won't tell me?"
She bit her lip, hoping the small amount of pain would help clear her fogged brain. "I'll tell you," she said. "I owe you that much."
"You do indeed. But it can keep until we get off the beach. We're going to be here a while—we'll have plenty of time for bedtime stories."
She looked at him sharply, wondering what he meant by that. But he'd already turned and headed toward a narrow path cut through the underbrush, a box of supplies on his shoulder. He was barefoot, wearing his rumpled white linen trousers and a pale blue shirt, and his gait was completely steady. Obviously his so-called wound was a fake.
Would she be following her executioner into the jungle, away from witnesses? Absurd. If he'd wanted to kill her, he'd had innumerable chances. She was being a hysterical, paranoid ninny.
"Are you coming?" He'd paused at the edge of the thicket, his expression patient.
"I'm coming," she said, reaching down to scoop up the blankets she'd been lying on.
It seemed to take him no time at all to set up a rudimentary camp. Even with the sun dipping low, the air was warm, torpid, the gentle trade winds that abounded around St. Anne cut off by the heavy greenery surrounding the lagoon. It was a small, translucent pool of water, warm from the midday sun, and Francey knelt beside it, sluicing some over her face to help wake her up.
"The weather's supposed to be good for the next few days," Michael said in a diffident voice. "I thought we might not bother with any sort of shelter for the time being. Unless you'd rather I rigged something up."
We, she thought. Was she going to be sleeping with him? It was all part and parcel of this gathering sense of unreality. "I'd like to sleep under the stars," she said.
He nodded, moving back to the boxes of stores that had been left there. "The one thing Cecil didn't manage to provide is a change of clothes," he said, his back to her. "You might want to rinse out your dress in the lagoon. If it's like my clothes, it's probably all stiff and sticky from the salt spray. You needn't worry about the drinking water—Cecil brought plenty of that. We can use the lagoon for bathing."
"That's a good thing," she said. "I'm all stiff and sticky, never mind my clothing." But she made no move to unfasten her dress. She was wearing her French bathing suit underneath, a reminder of the innocent day they'd planned, but some idiotic remnant of modesty kept her from moving.