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‘Really, Hebe,’ Alex said mildly as they staggered on, ‘I find it hard to believe that your mother could have brought you up with such a cavalier attitude to other people’s property.’
She was almost too exhausted to laugh, but she managed a hoarse croak as they reached the hut. Alex yanked at the door, found it locked and without hesitation picked up a stone and battered the catch until it opened.
The hut was primitive, dirty and smelled strongly of fish. Hebe thought she had never seen a more beautiful sight. In one corner was a pile of nets; without a word they walked towards it and fell down on the rough tarred heap. Alex dragged some free, wrapped Hebe in it, dragged more over himself and before he had finished she was asleep.
Hebe woke to find she was alone. She felt the hollow next to her where Alex had slept, but it was cold, although the netting seemed to hold little warmth in any case, so it was no indication of how long he had been gone. A faint dawn light showed around the edge of the ill-fitting door. She lay still for a few minutes, trying not to cry and reflecting that she had just passed the night with the man she loved and had no recollection of a moment of it: no memory of the warmth of his body next to hers, no touch of his hand to treasure.
How long had he been gone? She rubbed the sleep out of her sore eyes and found a rough earthenware pot beside her, full of water. She took a grateful drink and walked cautiously across the heavily shadowed floor to the door. It creaked open easily to her touch and she stood for a moment, looking out across a turbulent sea. But the wind had dropped, the clouds had largely gone and the sun was coming up on what promised to be a lovely May day. Hebe sent up a silent prayer that all was well on the Audacious, then looked up and down the beach.
A mule was plodding towards her, led by a tall figure in a slouch hat and rough clothing. There was a blanket thrown across his shoulders and he was wearing culottes cut off just below the knee, flapping over bare calves and feet.
Hebe shot back inside, her heart banging wildly. A Frenchman! She looked around in the gloom for a weapon, remembered the water pot, and with it raised over her head ran to stand behind the door. There was a muttered curse outside as the man remonstrated with the mule in what sounded like some form of argot. Then the door creaked open.
She drew a deep breath, stepped forward and brought the pot down, only to find herself thrown on to her back on the nets, the pot shattering against the boards of the wall and the man’s weight full on her. Hebe brought up her knee with vicious intent and was stopped just in time by a shout of ‘Hebe!’
‘Oh, Alex, I thought you were a Frenchman,’ she gasped, struggling in his grip. After a moment he seemed to recall the position they were in and stood up.
‘I feel sorry for any Frenchman who decides to attack you,’ he said with a grin.
‘Did I hurt you?’ she asked, getting to her feet and attempting to smooth down her disastrous skirts.
Alex gave a smothered snort of amusement. ‘I think my manhood is safe on this occasion.’
Hebe decided that if she was going to be thrown into maidenly confusion by everything he said in these circumstances she would have a very uncomfortable journey. ‘You reacted incredibly fast.’
He glanced at her sideways. ‘I am normally reckoned to be reasonably alert, Circe, but even so, I seem to have a second sense for where you are. Come along, let us have some breakfast outside where I can keep an eye on things.’
Wrapped in the blanket, Hebe hunkered down in the shelter of the hut and devoured the odd breakfast Alex had managed to steal. Some incredibly high cheese, half a loaf, some form of preserved fish that had seen better days, a handful of olives and a piece of sausage that appeared to consist largely of garlic and fat.
‘Delicious,’ she said warmly, her mouth full, accepting the small pitcher in a woven straw casing that he handed her. She took an incautious swig and subsided, gasping. ‘What on earth is that?’ she managed to say after she got her breath back.
Alex sniffed cautiously and then took a healthy gulp. ‘Goodness knows, distilled goat by the taste of it.’ He munched on the bread for a while. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t find you any clothes, but you should be warmer wrapped in
the blanket.’
‘Where did you find these things?’ Hebe gestured at his clothes, the food and the mule. Then she saw there was a long-barrelled musket hanging from its saddle and a wicked-looking knife in Alex’s belt.
‘A poor sort of farm up along there a couple of miles. I don’t think there’s a woman in the household.’ Alex tossed down the heel of the loaf and got to his feet. Although his face was half-turned to her, Hebe caught the slight grimace of pain that twisted his mouth for a moment.
‘Alex, are you hurt?’ Now she looked closely, there was a trace of blood on his shirt. He had left in a perfectly decent, if salt-stained shirt, now he was wearing one of rough weave.
‘No.’ He tightened the girth, his back to her. Hebe got silently to her feet and reached out to touch his side under the stain. There was a hissing indrawn breath and he swung round to look at her, blue eyes dark. ‘A scratch.’
‘Let me look.’
‘No.’
‘Let me look!’
With a resigned shrug he unbuttoned the shirt and revealed a long, angry-looking cut across the bottom of his ribs on the left hand side. ‘That is not a scratch.’ Hebe regarded him, hands on hips. ‘Honestly, men are so… And I’m not wearing any petticoats.’
Alex’s frown vanished and his lips quirked into what Hebe could tell was about to be a suggestive smile. She gave him a repressive look and added, ‘Bandages.’
‘Doesn’t need anything.’
‘Yes, it does, it will chafe on that rough shirt. What did you do with your own shirt?’
With the sigh of a nagged man, Alex fished it out of the saddle bag. Not only was it slashed, but it was covered in blood.
