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Back downstairs a restlessness drove her and on impulse she pulled on an old anorak, scribbling Ian a note on the message pad her mother kept in the kitchen. Perhaps a walk would help to clear her brain, and at least the activity would give her something to do other than brood.
Storm knew the countryside round her home like the back of her hand, and let her feet take her automatically along the narrow sheep trails lacing the hills behind the house.
The old ruined monastery nestling next to the river which ran through the village was a favourite childhood haunt, and the remnants of the once proud walls offered some protection from the biting wind. Her anorak wasn’t really warm enough for this weather, Storm acknowledged as she huddled in the lee of the building watching some birds searching for food.
As a child she had rebuilt the monastery in her imagination, pretending it was still the bustling community it had once been, trying to picture the lives of the monks who had lived here. They would have been a rich, happy band, for in the Middle Ages the wool from Cotswold sheep had been worth its weight in gold and this monastery had owned many rich acres. But with the Dissolution had come poverty, the community disbanded and the monks left to roam and scavenge a living where they could.
Stiff and cold, Storm got to her feet. She had walked farther than she intended and already it seemed to be getting dark. The winter afternoons were so short, and as she started to walk back needle-sharp flurries of rain were driving against her body, soaking through her thin jacket within minutes.
On her outward journey Storm had barely noticed the steep climb to the monastery, but going back the rain made the narrow path treacherous, and several times she slipped in the mud, acknowledging that her shoes were not really suitable for serious walking.
She was shivering and cold, her hair plastered to her skull by the driving rain. She tried to walk faster, conscious that Ian must be wondering where she was. She hadn’t realised how long she had been sitting dreaming of the past.
A bird flew out of the undergrowth in front of her, startling her, and she slipped in the mud, her hands going out to break her fall. The impact of the hard ground knocked the breath from her body, and she lay there for several seconds trying to find the strength to get to her feet. As she sat up a sharp pain lanced through her right ankle. Shivering with cold, she tried to move her foot. The pain was excruciating, but she was able to do so, so at least she hadn’t broken the bone, she told herself thankfully, but there was no way she was going to be able to walk the two or three miles home.
Biting hard on her lip, she managed to drag herself a few yards, but it was hopelessly slow progress, draining every ounce of energy. She tried to stand up, wondering if she could limp slowly down the path, but after a few paces she knew that there was no way she could make it. She tried to remember how far it was to the nearest house. She was too far down the hills to be near a farm, and with a feeling of hopeless despair she acknowledged that she could do nothing but wait for someone to find her. Fighting down her hysteria, she refused to dwell on how long that might be. Ian knew she had gone for a walk, but he had no idea where. Even if he had already raised the alert it would be hours before anyone found her. Cursing herself for being so stupid, Storm willed herself to keep calm. It would only be a matter of time before she was found; all she had to do was to try and keep warm and as dry as possible. She managed to crawl to an outcrop of rocks which provided some shelter from the wind and rain, but her teeth were chattering fiercely by the time she had done so, and she acknowledged that if the temperature dropped much further she had scant chance of retaining much body heat.
After what seemed like an eternity a hazy sleepiness started to engulf her, and although she knew she ought to fight against it, it seemed much easier and pleasanter to give in and close her eyes. She slept, tormented by images of Jago, some so real that she cried out despairingly, begging him to leave her in peace. At one point she even thought she heard his voice calling her name, and she croaked an instinctive response.
Someone was shaking her roughly, rubbing her arms and legs until needle-sharp pains lanced through them. She tried to escape the briskly impersonal hands, but they would not set her free.
‘Open your, eyes Storm,’ someone commanded.
It was too much of an effort to disobey. Storm opened them relu
ctantly, and looked straight into the icy grey depths of Jago’s. She shivered violently and was pulled against him, something warm and soft sliding over her cold body. She fingered it absently, smothering hysteria. Wool! It was something woolly off the sheep whose paths had led to her downfall!
She started to laugh helplessly, shocked into abrupt silence as Jago hit her with his open palm.
‘No hysterics,’ he told her curtly. ‘What happened?’
The sharp stinging pain brought her back to reality. ‘I fell,’ she told him, ‘and I think I’ve sprained my ankle, but how…’
‘No questions now,’ he told her, swinging her up against him. ‘Lie still.’
It seemed easier to give in than to argue, and besides, her mind was too tired to battle with the problem of how Jago of all people had found her on this isolated path. His heart beneath her cheek made a soothing sound and she felt herself relaxing into his warmth.
‘Wake up, Storm,’ he told her roughly, shaking her, and she thought she heard him add, ‘I’m not going to lose you now,’ but she knew that she must be mistaken.
It was a relief to see the welcoming lights ahead of them, and she made no demur when a door opened and warmth seeped through her. She was lying on something and it was far too much effort to open her eyes again. She could hear Jago moving about and caught the faint, distant ‘ping’ as he lifted a telephone receiver. Odd words impinged upon her consciousness, but without form or meaning, and then Jago was back, squatting on his haunches at her side, forcing her to open her eyes and listen to him.
‘I’ve rung the doctor, and your brother. The doctor’s going to come round later and check you over, but I don’t think you’ve broken anything.’ His eyes narrowed as Storm shivered convulsively. ‘We’ve got to get you out of those wet clothes…’
‘Ian…’ Storm murmured, wanting him to take her home, but her plea was ignored as Jago lifted her in his arms, the sleeves of the jumper he had wrapped round her covering her hands.
‘Keep still,’ he told her roughly as she twisted in his arms.
Despite her cold, despite everything, the moment he touched her a yearning ache sprang to life. Her hands linked behind his neck, an overwhelming urge rising inside her to bury them in the thick darkness of his hair. She trembled suddenly, her aching ankle forgotten, wondering at the sudden compression of Jago’s mouth as he felt her involuntary response.
He didn’t take her to the blue and grey bedroom and for that she was thankful, until she realised that the bed he was placing her on was his own, the cream and brown decor undeniably masculine, his leather jacket thrown carelessly over a chair.
‘If I hadn’t found you when I did, do you realise what would have happened to you?’ he asked mercilessly, watching her. ‘When Ian came over here and told me what you’d done I could barely credit it.’
‘Ian came here?’ Her attention was riveted on him, despite the terrible cold in her body. She licked her lips warily.
‘You little fool!’ he said roughly. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me he was your brother instead of letting me think…’ He broke off as she turned away to hide the weak tears filling her eyes. ‘Get those wet clothes off. There’s a bathroom through there,’ he told her nodding towards a closed door. ‘You’ll have to make do with one of my sweaters until Ian gets here with your clothes.’
‘You should have taken me straight home,’ Storm protested, but he ignored her, and strode to the door, where he turned to eye her critically. ‘There wouldn’t have been much point. Ian’s over at Harmers. He came over to see me before he went to pick up Julia. He told me you’d gone out—I wouldn’t have been in myself, but I’d been to London and wanted to collect some papers I left here. When it got dark and there were no signs of life from your place I rang Ian at Harmers to find out if he had any idea where you might have gone.’ His voice was exceedingly grim. ‘He told me that particular path used to be one of your favourites. It’s lucky for you he’s got such a good memory.’
