Passage of the Night Read online

  She heaved a sigh, shifted aching shoulders and gave an experimental tug on her fishing-line. Most of the lake was ringed by a tangle of underbrush and trees. Some people might have found the scene God-forsaken. Kirstie had loved it all her life. She knew every tree, shrub, and gorge on that mountain, knew every sound it made.

  A dead, dry twig cracked.

  With a great effort, she managed not to flinch. There was a tiny rustle, like a breeze through a tree branch. The wind had died over an hour ago. The trees were perfectly still.

  Kirstie forced herself to remain seated, making him come to her. Pride wouldn't let her look around. He had stopped perhaps ten yards behind her, and the sensitive skin along her back prickled with tiny needles of apprehension. Never in her life had she been so aware of another person's presence.

  He began to move again. She watched a fine tremor quiver down the length of the fishing-line as she cleared her throat and said steadily, the first thing that came to mind, 'I assume you've already been through the cabin?'

  There was a hesitation. 'Where the hell are we?' enquired Francis in a deceptively mild voice.

  God, he was so furious, so controlled, and the reality of it was worse than all imagining. She could not admit to fear. Kirstie had never cowered before a man in her life, and she wasn't about to start now. With a clearing of her throat, she managed to sound calm as she replied, 'Northern Vermont. This land has been in my family since my great-great-grandfather came over from Ireland. That was the log cabin he built—well, at least most of it is original. There have been additions.'

  She was babbling. As she became aware of it, she put a stop to the words flooding out of her mouth and heard another twig crack. He was circling her, bloodthirsty as a wolf, and she nearly spun where she sat to draw up the gun and stave off that inimicable prowl with the threat of violence.

  'Where are the others?' From over her right shoulder now came the purr of the man's fury.

  Kirstie's head turned sharply to one side in disconcertment. 'What—what do you mean?'

  A rustle, a whisper, a mere hint of movement and she struggled to breathe against a tightening constriction across her chest. 'You're too small,' murmured the wolf, with hideous reason. 'You couldn't have shifted me two feet, let alone managed to lift me out of the back of the car. Let us indulge in an exercise of logic. Two people, maybe three were needed. Plus money, to hire out the helicopter.'

  She hastened to forestall him, appalled at his deductions and the possible consequences to her grandfather, Whit. 'There's no one else involved in this,' she grated harshly, and he moved again. It was enough to make her reach for the gun and turn to face him, on her knees in a wary crouch. Lord, he was closer than she had realised, and, confronted with the dangerous glint of warning in her grey eyes, he froze. 'It's my helicopter and my responsibility. You want to blame someone for the mess you're in, you look at me.'

  His carved lips drew back over white teeth in an animalistic parody of a grin. The straight black hair that had been so immaculate in the basement car park now fell over his forehead in an ebony wave. 'I have. Should I be impressed?'

  That cut so accurately that she nearly shook her head. No, Francis, there was nothing impressive about this sordid scene, only shame and the unavoidable clash of hate. However, she merely replied, her eyes opened to their very widest, 'That depends on whether you refer to your own performance of this afternoon, or mine. For such a clever man, you were remarkably easy to snare.'

  Even from where she knelt, the gun heavy in the clasp of one diminutive hand, she could see how the lean muscle in his cheek leapt in reaction. 'Indeed,' he said, making a mockery of courteous speech. 'Let us give credit where credit is due. Like most people, I tend to treat the wrong side of the barrel of a gun with the utmost caution. How astute of you to realise it. If you wish for a real test of wit, try laying down the weapon and facing me without it.'

  The rock was digging into her knees. 'But, Francis,' she protested, as she rose to her feet, his caustic stare following her every move, 'then you would have the unfair advantage. After all, you said it yourself. I'm much too small. Pitted against you, I'd be all but helpless.'

  'God help anyone who considered you helpless,' he uttered with unflattering sincerity. He sounded a little disorientated, and frustrated as hell. Kirstie couldn't blame him. She bit her lip, grinding the butt of the gun into her palm as though she could crush out her unwilling sympathy for Francis Grayson as easily.

  'Temper, temper,' she tutted mildly.

  It was touching a lighted match to a fuse. He exploded with the rumbling growl Of a thunder clap. 'I've just awakened after being drugged. I found myself with a pounding headache, in a strange helicopter with a missing radio, miles from anything familiar. I was unbound, there was a bottle of aspirin in the empty seat beside me and a note telling me that I was free to go whenever I liked. I ask you, am I supposed to swallow this farce calmly?'

  She said with a distinct snap, 'You can swallow it however you like! The nearest town is six days' walk to the south. Backpacks and compasses are in the cupboard under the stairs. If I were you, I'd wait until morning before starting out. Wandering around at night on this mountain can be dangerous, and you're bound to be feeling groggy still.'

  'What I want, damn your contrary hide, is an explanation!' he shouted.

  It was for this that her conscience would not allow her to leave, but even conscience had its limits. Kirstie sighed and replied with obvious patience, 'That is what I'm here for. Do you like lake trout?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'This,' she said, indicating the rod by her left foot, 'is a fishing-rod. It is attached to the line in the water, on the end of which is a hook I baited with a worm about twenty minutes ago. Very soon a hungry fish should be paddling along, and '

  'Perhaps you have acquaintances who find you amusing,' he broke in, with harsh sarcasm. 'I assure you I do not! I meant, what did you mean by your first statement?'

  Kirstie had her own brand of sarcasm in plenty, and she indulged it by pretending surprise. 'Francis, I would have thought it was obvious when you found yourself mobile and free to leave. The exercise is complete, the kidnapping a success! There are plenty of provisions inside, and the wildlife is so shy that you are quite safe to venture forth weaponless. Surely you have already asked yourself why I've bothered to wait around, instead of heaving you out of the helicopter and flying off again, because I assure you there was no need.'

  The evening shadows were deepening rapidly and the temperature dropping, but he had shed his suit-jacket. His white shirt shone out in stark contrast to the profuse greenery behind him. Both the rolled sleeves and his stance, with hands resting casually on those angled hips, appeared to be habitual. His baffled fury did not. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, for it was pretty clear that he wasn't much used to being crossed.

  Francis stared at the petite woman in front of him. She held herself so tensely that every line of her body vibrated. Her short blonde hair stood up in untidy peaks. It looked as if she simply hadn't bothered to use a comb that day, or—and this observation was made with the utmost reluctance—as if she had run her fingers repeatedly through her hair, in either worry or terrible doubt.

  His hard green stare was sceptical as he scoffed, 'You stayed just to talk? I find that hard to believe.'

  She said with undisguised contempt, 'You would. The concept involves a certain sense of responsibility for one's actions, a trait that seems to be distinctly lacking in your own personality.'

  Underneath his still present anger, she could see his mind racing. 'Curiouser and curiouser. You sound as though you hate me,' he commented, almost absentmindedly as his straight black brows lowered in a frown. 'But I could swear that we've never met.'

  Her smile was feral. 'Hate you?' she replied with an angry little laugh. 'I don't grant your existence so great an acknowledgement!'

  'You acknowledged it enough to break several laws!' he retorted. As he fel
t surprisingly unsteady on his feet in the foul aftermath of the drug she had given him, he just sat where he stood and dropped his head into his hands. Kirstie watched, feeling strange. Those long fingers dug into his temples, as if by sheer determination he could force his headache away. 'And, like a fool, here I am trying to make sense out of it! For God's sake, why?'

  'Louise Philips.' She dropped the name, like two hard stones, into the conversation and watched the ripples of shock spread out. His head reared back with the force of it. 'She is why.'

  'God! No wonder you looked so familiar. You must be her sister. You are, aren't you? I should have seen the resemblance before,' he whispered, staring at her incredulously. 'But that doesn't make any sense! Louise is no reason for what you've done!'

  'Isn't she?' Kirstie countered in a swift attack. 'You certainly seem to have a convoluted morality. Should I call it a convenient morality? Is there any reason for what you are putting Louise through, other than bloody-minded selfishness? Perhaps you can't grasp concepts like loyalty, consideration, simple kindness, but even you should understand sheer desperation.' Silence greeted that rejoinder, and the line of her mouth grew ugly. To think that she was feeling guilty for what she had done to him. She might as well have saved herself the effort. Kirstie picked up the rod and reeled in the line. She said abruptly, 'The explanation is over with.'

  'Over with!' he exclaimed, surging upright. To Kirstie's overwrought mind, it appeared that he just kept rising and rising forever, until he stood above both trees and building in a magnificent tower of rage. 'You haven't even begun to explain yourself!'

  She raked him with a steel-claw glance. 'What else did you expect—an apology? This may come as a great shock, but I don't have to justify my actions to you!'

  'You sure as hell should justify them to somebody!' he snapped. 'Maybe it would curb that distinctly criminal tendency of yours!'

  'And you are so very whitely washed?' she sneered in retaliation. 'Only the sinless are supposed to cast the first stone, Francis!'

  His eyes flashed emerald fire. 'I am a man, not a saint. I have never claimed to lead a blameless life, but at least I've always been inside the law! You're the one holding the gun in your hand!'

  'Just call it self-protection!' she snarled.

  He barked out an angry laugh. 'As I recall, that wasn't the case earlier this afternoon! How is that for a convenient morality?'

  Simmering with fury, not the least of which was directed at herself, Kirstie turned to stalk back to the cabin, the fishing-rod slapping against her thigh with each stride. Francis kept wary pace several feet to the left of her.

  'I did wrong,' she said after a moment, with careful control, and then turned on him grey eyes that were ferocious with self-condemnation and antipathy. He sucked in an audible breath at the sight. 'And I'm not proud of that. I've never done anything so wrong as what I've done today! I knew it before I did it, I went ahead and did it anyway, and I would do it again if I had to. Somebody had to stop you. You were tearing her apart!'

  'But how? Everything you've said indicates that you feel you have some reason for doing what you're doing, but it isn't apparent to me! Listen to me! Can't you see that we seem to be talking two different realities here?'

  She would not let him get to her. Unravelling at the edges, feeling every one of his questions chip away at her control until she felt like turning on him and shrieking like a fishwife, Kirstie clenched her teeth and said nothing.

  Goaded by her stony lack of reaction, Francis strode ahead and slapped a hand on to the cabin door, effectively stopping her in her tracks. He turned his face, clenched with concentration, towards her. 'Look at it logically. Life doesn't get as crazy as this.'

  'Get away from the door,' she ordered him through gritted teeth.

  He held up both hands in a gesture that in anybody else would be conciliatory. 'Just wait a minute,' he said sternly, clamping down his own anger with iron force. Then, as she made a sudden, uncontrolled movement, 'Calm down, all right? All I want you to do is answer one question. Aside from everything else, how is putting me out of action for six or seven days going to keep me from contacting Louise after I get back to New York?'

  She ran a suspicious stare down the length of his taut body. 'What is the point of all this?'

  He leaned forward a little and she drew back. 'Try to stretch your imagination. Pretend for a moment that I don't know anything.'

  Oh, he was good. He was very, very good. He was the essence of troubled spirit and earnest effort. Kirstie could have felt concern, if she hadn't actually known Francis better. Was it any wonder that Louise had been so taken with him, until the mask had dropped and he had revealed his true colours?

  The thought made her smile with grim triumph. 'Clutching at straws now?' she asked, with a gentleness that was no kin to tender feeling. His stare was so intent, it was blinding. The pressure from it made her burst out, 'Look—the pretence isn't going to do you any good. With her wedding a week from tomorrow, and you effectively cut off from civilisation, there isn't a thing you can do to stop it now. Give it up, Francis. Can't you see you've lost?'

  A pause. Dusk was settling in fast, lending them the deception of its blackness like a cloak, but she was still quite able to witness his reaction. For the second time that day he showed shock beyond all barriers. He looked as if she'd slapped him. Oh, why did he look as if she'd slapped him? Beyond all reason or determination, Kirstie's heart began an apprehensive pounding.

  After a moment, Francis said blankly, 'What wedding?'

  CHAPTER TWO

  It wasn't fair.

  Despite all the racing her mind had done just half an hour ago, it refused to work fast enough to handle all the implications of what Francis had just said. When the pieces did begin to fall into place, with a vertiginous sensation that was almost physical, she wished they hadn't.

  It was so impossible, it couldn't be true. Francis just stared as she shook her head and laughed angrily, both at her own gullible reaction and at him. 'Oh, no, you don't,' she told him, hardly aware that she was backing away. 'You can't take me that easily. You knew all along that she was getting married.'

  So much reaction and emotion packed into the man in such a short space of time made his eyes unreadable. All he said was, quietly, 'I didn't.'

  That plain statement sounded damnably honest. She cried out against it. 'Why are you lying?'

  'Why would you think I'm lying?' he asked, still in that lethally quiet voice.

  'Because nothing else makes sense!' A shiver ran all over her body at his own savage laugh, reminding her that they were all alone miles from anywhere, and all that lay between them was a thin veil of deception.

  'Join the club. It is not a nice feeling, is it?'

  The tension from the day, her sleepless night, the man in front of her all combined to make Kirstie's composure snap. 'I don't need to stay for this!' With an abrupt violence, she threw down her fishing-rod and whirled towards the helicopter. She wouldn't listen to this man's lies, wouldn't let him ruin her thinking. She would go home, and Francis Grayson could go to hell.

  She ran across the thick tangled grass to the wide, flat clearing where the helicopter rested, some forty yards away from the log cabin. Here and there the ground was split and rocky; white pines and red spruces at either end of the clearing flashed past the edges of her vision.

  At the helicopter, she scrambled into the pilot's seat and strapped herself in. Her fingers flew over the controls to switch on the night lamps; she knew the machine so well, she did not even bother to look.

  Francis stood well to one side, put his hands in his pockets and watched. He was thrown into sudden harsh illumination, but Kirstie spared him only a quick glance as she put the gun in her lap and started the helicopter.

  Or, at least, she tried to start the helicopter. The overhead blades did not begin their familiar throbbing. The engine did not even turn over. With a horrible premonition that she was wasting her time, she tried
again. 'I don't believe this,' she whispered. Her hands began to shake. She clenched them into fists and drove one into the bubble of glass with bruising force. 'Damn him!'

  Francis strolled up beside her. He smiled as she turned to stare at him. 'Leaving me alone in the helicopter,' he said equably, 'was the second mistake you've made.'

  'Stay away from me!' she snapped, grabbing the gun and bringing the muzzle of it around to him. 'What did you do to the engine?'

  'That would be telling. What are you going to do about it?' Kirstie ground her teeth as she glared at him. Francis took a deliberate step closer. She shrank back in her seat and raised the gun higher. Then, his eyes very light, he asked her once again, 'Could you really have struck me over the head earlier?'

  The moments ticked by. Kirstie knew than that he had her, completely, for she had run out of bluffs. She was suddenly very tired and didn't care if he saw or not. The hand holding the gun lowered until it was lying in her lap. Her lips twisting wryly, she answered him with a shake of her blonde head.

  Francis walked forward, curiously without any trace of anger. He reached over and disengaged the gun from her unresisting fingers with care. It was a point thirty-eight revolver. He checked it and did not seem surprised to find it unloaded. Snapping the carriage back into position, he looked at her and said, 'Now that we've got that out of the way, we'll sit down and you can start explaining things.'

  Gathering strength from somewhere, Kirstie flipped off the helicopter's lights and unbuckled her straps. It was now very dark and the night air was musical with a multitude of insects. Francis stepped back, and as she climbed out she had the presence of mind to notice that the gun had disappeared into his pocket. She refused to look at him as they walked back to the cabin, where she bent to retrieve her fishing-rod. Once indoors, she groped for the light switch and flipped it.

  Francis had moved to the centre of the room, turning as the yellow-hued lights came on. Look at him, she thought, standing there like that, his black hair tousled, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his face lined with tiredness but containing, above all else, determination. She could hardly bear the sight of him, and she turned away.