Stepping Into The Prince's World

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?’

‘No. But there are tinned tomatoes as well.’ Then she appeared to brighten. ‘And we have tins of truly appalling instant coffee. It’d be great if they could be useful for something.’

She smiled up at him and he thought of the pain she was suffering, and the sheer courage she was showing, and the fact that she was smiling to make him smile...

And he smiled back at her and backed away—because a man had to back away fast from a smile like that—and went to find some truly useful cans of coffee.

* * *

Somehow he stayed businesslike. Professional. Somehow he followed the instructions in his head from first-aid training in the field. He taped on the weights. He watched for her to react from too much pain, but although she winced as he weighted her arm she didn’t make a murmur.

He put on as much weight as he thought she could tolerate and then he sat beside her and waited.

‘What do we do now?’ she asked.

‘Relax. Forget the arm. Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a story.’

‘What sort of story?’

He thought about it. He needed a story that would make her almost soporific so the arm would totally relax.

‘How about Goldilocks and the Three Bears?’ he suggested, and she choked.

‘Really?’

‘Has anyone ever read it to you?’

‘I guess...not for a very long time.’

‘Same for me,’ he told her. ‘So correct me if I get the bears muddled. Okay, here goes.’

And he sat by the couch and stroked her hair and told her the story of the three bears. It was a simple story—not long enough—so he had to embellish it. He had Goldilocks as a modern-day Bond girl, escaping from villains. He had his bears trying to figure the villains from the good guys, and he put in a bit of drama for good measure.

In other words he had fun, blocking the fuzziness in his own head with the need to keep her attention. And as Baby Bear found Goldilocks, and good guys and baddies were sorted, and baddies were dispatched with buckets of Mama Bear’s too-hot porridge, and they all settled down for toast and marmalade, Claire’s arm did what he’d desperately hoped it would do. It clicked back into its socket.

In the silence of the room, between breaks in the very exciting narrative, they actually heard it pop.

The relief did his head in.

It was almost as if he hadn’t realised what stress he’d been under until the arm clicked back into place. The sound was like an off switch, clicking in his brain.

For the first time in his life he felt as if he was going to faint. He put his head between his knees—because it was either that or keel over. And Claire’s fingers touched his hair, running through the still damp strands. Caressing.

‘It’s done,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you,’ he managed. ‘I couldn’t have borne it if you’d suffered permanent damage saving me. Claire, I need to fix you a sling.’

‘Raoul... First... Lie here,’ she whispered. ‘Please... Just...hold me.’

He’d been in deadly peril for two days. For a few hours earlier today he’d been sure he’d drown.

He was past exhaustion. He was past anything. Maybe Claire knew it. Maybe Claire felt the same.

‘Sling first,’ he muttered, and managed to tie her arm so it wouldn’t slip, but then he was done.

‘I need to sleep,’ Claire murmured. ‘The drugs... My arm... It’s all okay, but... Raoul, stay with me.’

She was lying on the huge settee, tousled, part-wrapped in a fleecy towel, part-covered by the huge blanket he’d found. The fire was putting out a gentle warmth.

He fought for sense but he was losing. He managed to toss more logs on the fire and then he stared into the flames thinking...nothing. Goldilocks and the three bears seemed very far away. Everything seemed very far away.

But Claire was edging sideways to give him room to lie with her.

There was no choice. He sat down on the settee and she put her hand up and touched his face.

‘We’re safe,’ she whispered. ‘Nice. Stay.’

He lay down, but the sofa wasn’t big enough to avoid touching. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he put his arms around her.

She curled into him with a sleepy murmur.

‘Nice,’ she said again. ‘Sleep.’

* * *

He woke and it was still daylight. Was it late afternoon or was it the next day? For now he didn’t know and didn’t care.

He was still on the settee. The room was warm. He was warm. The fire was a mass of glowing embers.

He was holding Claire.

There were aches in his body, just waiting to make themselves known. He could feel them lurking. They’d make themselves known if he moved.

But for now he had no intention of moving. He lay with the warmth of the woman beside him: a gentle, amazing comfort. Her towel had slipped. He was lying on her uninjured side. Her naked body was against his chest and he was cradling her to him. She was using his chest as a pillow.

He had a T-shirt on but it didn’t feel like it. Her warmth made it feel as if she was almost a part of him.

He could feel her heartbeat. Her hair had dried and was tumbling across his chest, and her breathing was deep and even.

After the perils, the fear, the exhaustion of the last two days, he was filled with a sense of peace so great it threatened to overwhelm him.

He’d been in dangerous situations before. He’d had moments when he’d ended up sleeping tight with other members of his unit, some of them women. He’d held people when they’d been in mutual danger.

But he’d never felt like this, he thought. As if this woman was right.

As if this woman was part of him.

That was a crazy thought, he decided, and he hadn’t even taken any drugs. What was going on?

He must have moved a little, because Claire stirred and opened her eyes and shifted a fraction. She didn’t move far, though. She was still cradled against him.

Her heartbeat was still his.

‘Nice,’ she said, as she’d said before she’d slept, and it was like a blessing.

‘Nice?’

‘The wind’s died.’

It had, too. He hadn’t noticed.

He had sensory overload.He couldn’t get past the feeling of the woman in his arms.

‘Pain?’ he asked, and she seemed to think about it.

‘Nope,’ she said at last. ‘Not if I lie really still.’

That suited him. They lay really still. Rocky was snuffling under the settee. Maybe that was what had woken them.

Or other, more mundane things.

‘I need the bathroom,’ she murmured, and he conceded that he did, too. And the fire needed more logs. And, to tell the truth, he was so hungry he could eat a horse—the milk and tea had barely hit the sides—but he was prepared to ignore everything if she’d stay where she was. But now Rocky had his paws up on the settee and was looking at them with bright, expectant eyes.

‘That’s his “feed me” look,’ Claire murmured, and she moved a little so she could scratch behind his ear with her good hand. And then she said, in a different voice, ‘I’ve lost my towel.’

‘So you have.’ It was hard not to sound complacent.

She tugged back, hauled the blanket up across her breasts and tried a glare. It wasn’t a very big glare. Those drugs must have packed a fair punch, he thought. She still looked dazed.

Actually...beautifully dazed. She had wide green eyes that seemed to be struggling to focus. She had skin that seemed almost translucent. Her lashes were long and curled a little, and her nose was ever so slightly snubbed.

‘You noticed,’ she said accusingly, and he shook his head.

‘No, ma’am. I’ve been looking at Rocky all the time.’

‘Liar.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She grinned, and he thought that if she’d had two good hands she might have punched him. But one was still pretty much tied up. He was safe.

‘Life,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

‘We fought to keep it. We might as well get on with it.’

‘You mean we need to feed the fire, go to the bathroom, feed the dog, find something to eat ourselves...’

‘And think of some way to contact the mainland.’ Her smile faded. ‘Will people be looking for you?’

He thought of his minders. At midday, when he’d spoken to Franz, he had been supposed to be with his unit. His minders had therefore been off duty. At six that night they’d have rung to check his itinerary for the following day.

He’d have been expected to be back well before six. They’d have rung and someone would have told them he was off duty. Then they’d have contacted Franz. ‘He’s off duty as of this morning. I believe he’s planning on returning home,’ he would have told them, and then someone would have been sent to check his kit and discovered it was still where it was supposed to be.

It would have taken his minders about thirty seconds after that to panic.

‘What is it?’ she said, and pushed herself up, wincing a bit as she moved her arm.

‘What?’

‘Your face. Someone’s looking for you right now. Someone’s terrified. Your wife? Partner? Family?’

‘I don’t have a wife or partner.’

‘Family? Parents?’

‘My parents died when I was five, but I do have grandparents.’

‘Back in Marétal?’

‘Yes.’ He closed his eyes, thinking of the fuss when his grandparents discovered he was missing. Then he thought of how long he’d been gone. After all this time it wouldn’t be fuss. It would be horror. ‘I imagine they’ll know I’m missing.’

She was sitting up now, blanket tucked to her chin, concentrating on the problem at hand. ‘Don’t worry too much,’ she told him. ‘The wind’s died. I suspect you’ll be mortified, but the Australian Air Sea Rescue services are good. They can probably track the wind and the currents and get a fair idea of your direction. If I was them I’d be checking the islands first. There’s only about ten. Any minute now we’ll have choppers overhead, searching for one lost soldier.’

He felt sick.

‘Don’t worry,’ Claire said again. ‘I imagine it’s embarrassing, getting rescued twice, once even by a girl, but you’ll just have to cop it.’

‘I won’t,’ he told her.

‘Are you going to tell me how you can avoid it?’

‘I already have avoided it,’ he said, goaded. ‘I didn’t tell anyone I was going sailing. What’s more, I took my friend’s boat. My friend’s currently trying to climb Annapurna Two in Nepal. He won’t know I’m missing and he won’t know his boat’s missing. No one knows I went to sea. I could be anywhere and my...my grandparents will be devastated.’

His grandparents?

This wasn’t just about his grandparents, he thought. His bodyguard consisted of two skilled, decent men who’d feel as if they’d failed. The top brass of the army would be mortified. His friends would be appalled. And, back home, the media would be in a feeding frenzy. Heir to the Throne Disappears! It didn’t bear thinking about.

He would have groaned if it would do any good.

It wouldn’t.

‘Raoul...’

‘Mmm?’

‘We all do dumb things,’ she told him, and put her good hand on his knee. ‘Some dumber than others. But, hey, you’ve lived to be embarrassed. The supply boat’s due next Monday. You’ll climb aboard, they’ll let everyone know, and by the time you reach Hobart the fuss will have died down. You might need to apologise to a few people and go home and hug your grandparents, but it’s no big deal. So one soldier’s gone AWOL? If they don’t think you’ve drowned then they’ll probably assume you’re in a bar somewhere. Or with a woman.’

And then she had the temerity to grin.

‘Actually, they’re both true. You’re very much with a woman, and if you go through that door there’s a truly excellent bar.’

‘I think I need it,’ he said, and she chuckled and tried to stand.

She wobbled a bit and he rose to steady her.

‘What did you give me?’ she demanded. ‘I feel like I’ve had enough drugs to down an elephant.’

‘Or to not scream when your arm went back in. You were very brave.’

‘I was, wasn’t I?’ she said smugly. ‘So I’m brave and you’re lost. And my arm’s back to where it belongs. They’re the givens. For the rest...we just have to get on with it.’

‘I really can’t get off this place until next Monday?’

‘We can try and fix the transmitter,’ she told him. ‘Are you any good with electronics?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m vetoing that as a plan straight away,’ she told him. ‘I have no intention of saving you twice. Now, Raoul...?’

‘Yes?’

‘Put some logs on the fire while I feed Rocky. We have life to get on with.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, because there was nothing else to say. Nothing at all.

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