Out of The Night

Although it was dark, the whiteness of the snow-covered landscape gave off an eerie light; her eyes, straining to see through the driving snow clogging the windscreen-wipers, were beginning to ache, and she was conscious of how much her car was slipping and sliding despite her low gear… How much further before she reached the highest point of the road? She tried to remember if she was right in thinking there was a small lay-by not far ahead, and whether it would be more sensible to pull in there or risk going on.

She hadn’t seen any other cars since it started to snow. Soon, with the wind, the snow would start to drift. If that happened and her car got covered… She bit her lip, telling herself stoically that nothing could be gained from letting her imagination panic her—and then, just when she was beginning to think she might make it, the car skidded violently, out of control, and plunged off the road and down into a deep snow-filled ditch.

She bumped her head as the car came to rest, the seatbelt jerking her backwards painfully, and as she moved cautiously, unfastening it and forcing open her door, she was thankful to discover that she had no real injuries.

As she climbed out of the car and into the snow and surveyed them both rather shakily, she was forced to admit what she had already known: that the only way her car was going to get out of the ditch was by being lifted out. Even with the spade she had in the boot, it would be impossible for her to dig herself out.

Biting her lip with irritation, she acknowledged that there was nothing else for it. She would have to spend the night in the car and hope that by morning the snow had gone and that she would be able to appeal to a fellow motorist for help.

She was just about to get back inside the car when, almost like a miracle, she heard the sound of another car approaching. Instinctively she stepped out into the road to attract the driver’s attention, only realising too late that the sight of her was likely to make them brake and suffer the same fate as herself.

The driver of the battered, long-wheelbase, four-wheel-drive vehicle that swung round the bend obviously thought the same thing, because he glared at her and mouthed something she suspected was far from complimentary—but he did at least stop. Although, when she saw him climbing out of his vehicle, she wondered whether that was a good thing or not. He was huge: well over six feet with shoulders to match, his features concealed by a tousled mop of black hair and an equally unprepossessing beard.

As he came towards her Emily saw that he was glowering at her. He paused frowningly a foot away from her, wiping the snow off his face with a hand that she saw was hard and scarred as though he worked outdoors a lot, and she wondered if he was a local farmer.

‘Just what in hell are you trying to do? Kill us both?’ The sharp, incisive words were not spoken with a local accent or with any kind of accent at all, Emily recognised as she assimilated his angry criticism. It had perhaps been foolish of her to stand in the road, but his anger was surely a little excessive?

‘You young kids, you’re all the same,’ he continued, still glowering. ‘Not a scrap of sense in your heads…’

Emily stared at him. Just how old did he think she was? Despite his grim appearance, she doubted that he was much more than in his early thirties; she was twenty-six—not a lot of difference, and certainly not sufficient to merit his attitude.

‘Now, just a minute—’ she began, but he immediately cut across what she had been going to say, demanding curtly, ‘Have you any idea of how easy it would be for you to freeze to death out here? Look at you, dressed in an outfit more suitable for a…a city disco than these winter hills. Have you any idea just what’s involved in mounting rescue services for idiots like you? Just what it costs in men’s time? The rescue services in these hills are run by volunteers, men already badly pressed for time—men who willingly risk their lives for idiots like you with no more sense than to go driving in weather when any sane person wouldn’t set a foot out of doors…’

Emily listened to him in growing resentment. Just what kind of person did he think she was? The answer was simple. He thought she was some kind of irresponsible, idiotic teenager. Dressed for a disco, indeed. She winced a little, recollecting her own reluctance to don the sweatshirt Gracie had proffered, and wondered what on earth this large angry man would make of Travis’s many-hued jumper—and then decided that it was perhaps as well she would never know.

As for that remark about the rescue services—her own father was one of those volunteers, and she knew all about the hazards they had to face.

Before she could say as much the man was talking again, gesturing towards her car with evident disgust as he said bluntly, ‘Well, you’ve no chance of getting that thing back on the road without a pick-up. By rights I ought to leave you here to give you a taste of what happens to idiots like you when they ignore the warnings of far more sensible human beings, and go out for drives in blizzard weather conditions; but, as you’re all too likely to ignore any advice I might give you about staying put in your car and wander off somewhere causing God alone knows what sort of trouble for whoever has to find you, I suppose I’d better give you a lift.’

A little to her own astonishment, Emily found that she was actually grinding her teeth. She had always considered herself to be a very even-tempered human being; even in the face of Gerry’s cruelty she had remained calm—on the surface at least—but suddenly she was discovering how wrong she had been about herself, and how very satisfactory it would be to fling his arrogant and grudging offer of help right back in his face.

Maturity won out over inclination, though. She had no wish to spend the night in her car…not with the intensity of the blizzard-driven snowstorm increasing with every second that passed…not when she could see for herself that already the snow was drifting and that, if it continued to do so, it might be several days and not several hours before she was rescued from her trapped car.

And so, biting back her ire, she said as coldly as she could, ‘I’ll just get my things from the car.’

Behind her she heard a derisive snort as he muttered under his breath, ‘God, you females…You can’t go anywhere without half a ton of make-up…’

Make-up… A strong desire to giggle overwhelmed her. Her make-up was restricted to moisturiser, blusher, soft pink lipstick, mascara and the merest touch of eyeshadow, and only those because she had grown tired of her mother’s and Gracie’s reproaches that she didn’t make enough of herself. No—what she wanted from her car was the warmth of Travis’s sweater, the rug, and the thermos flask of coffee and the sandwiches Louise had given her.

As she ploughed her way back to her car through snow which had deepened dramatically in the time she had been standing on the road, she pushed her hair off her face, grimacing a little. She had been so busy working with Uncle John that she hadn’t had time for her normal bimonthly trim of the neat bob in which she normally wore her hair. The result was that it had grown down to her shoulders and constantly swung down over her face in a most irritating fashion. Her mother had said that she liked it longer; Gracie had raised her eyebrows and announced that it made her look even more ethereally fragile than usual. Emily thought it was just plain untidy.

She collected her things from her car with efficient ease and saw her unwilling rescuer’s expression change as she returned towards him, carrying the thermos flask and blanket.

‘Typical student,’ he grunted critically. ‘Planning to sleep in your car, I suppose…’

Emily opened her mouth to deny that she had been intending to do any such thing, and to set him right about the other facts he had got completely wrong, and then closed it again as he continued brusquely, ‘I suppose we’d better introduce ourselves as we’re going to be travelling companions. I’m Matthew Slater. Most people call me Matt.’

Later she had no idea what on earth made her say it…what rash folly had prompted the impulse that had her replying, not by introducing herself as Emily Blacklaw, but simply as Francine.

‘Francine.’ She saw the way his eyebrows ro

se and added sweetly, ‘It’s a family name.’

She thought she heard him say under his breath, ‘It would have to be,’ but he had his back to her and was already ploughing his way back to his vehicle.

Automatically following in his footsteps, Emily discovered how very much longer his stride was than her own, but her jeans were already soaking wet from the knees down, and anything that saved her from sinking knee-deep in a fresh coating of snow was worth a little effort.

He made no attempt to relieve her of her possessions, nor to help her in any way at all, she fumed as she struggled against the blizzard buffeting her body and the snow stinging her face. Only when she reached the safety of his vehicle did he offer a helping hand, and then only a grim inspection of her snow-covered frame and the height from the ground to the passenger door.

She supposed that she ought not to have been surprised at the ease with which he picked her up and virtually dumped her on the passenger seat. She was after all only small and slight, and he was extremely large, but there was something so disconcertingly unfamiliar about the sensation of male hands grasping her body…about the scent of male skin dominating even the cold smell of the snow…about the warmth of male breath grazing her skin that, all of a sudden, she felt acutely breathless and helpless.

‘Where were you going, anyway?’ he asked her as he climbed in beside her and relieved her of her possessions, putting them casually in the rear of the vehicle.

It was, Emily now recognised, equipped for rugged terrain, and the pack on the floor behind her looked as though it belonged to a climber or walker. The rear passenger seats had been removed to make room for extra equipment, or perhaps for carrying stock rather than people.

‘Oh, to meet some boyfriend, I suppose. Well, if he’s any sense he’ll have stayed at home. Women…’

He obviously didn’t have a very high opinion of her sex, Emily realised warily.

‘I can drop you off in Thraxton,’ he told her as he closed his door and started the engine.

From there she could ring her parents and organise a garage to pick up her car. She could travel south by train…her mind busy with the arrangements she had to make, she was glad of her companion’s silence as he concentrated on his driving.

His four-wheel-drive vehicle had a very powerful heater. She stretched her toes out towards its warmth, wishing it were possible to remove her soaking wet clammy jeans. The sound of the windscreen-wipers was rhythmic and lulling.

Her eyes ached still from the strain of staring through her own windscreen. Drowsily she mused on how odd it was that she should feel so safe and relaxed with this brusque stranger. Normally she found strange men intimidating, and was sensitive to how she must appear in their eyes, to how they must contrast her lack of looks and sexuality to other women they knew—a sensitivity born of Gerry’s cruelty to her and her subsequent total loss of confidence in herself as a woman. This man had made his uncomplimentary view of her sex so plain, she felt none of her normal constraint. It still amazed her that he should have mistaken her for a giddy teenager prepared to drive miles through a blizzard to go dancing with a supposed boyfriend.

Perhaps she rather liked that false image of herself, she wondered sleepily…perhaps that was why she had given him her second name, instead of her workaday and, to her eyes, very applicable first name. Emily… It suited her, so everyone said. So why was it when this man looked at her he hadn’t seen an Emily but instead had mistaken her for a Francine? She was still sleepily musing over this conundrum when she fell asleep.

The man at her side gave her a frowning look of disapproval and then returned his concentration to his driving.

It had been a mistake to delay his departure from the Cairngorms for that extra day. He had an appointment tomorrow that he must keep, but this was likely to be his last opportunity to go climbing for quite some time. Still, he was paying for his self-indulgence now, having to help out this idiotic female… He grimaced as he looked at her. Tiny little thing…what on earth had possessed her to wear that appalling garment with its dubious invitation? She looked so young and innocent as she slept. His mouth tightened. As he had good cause to know, her sex was adept at promoting fictitious images. He had once thought Jolie just as innocent—until he had found her in bed with someone else three days before their wedding.

She had cried and pleaded with him, begged him to understand, and he, God help him, had been tempted…until he had discovered the real reason she had wanted to marry him. Being wanted for your wealth was one of the penalties paid by the offspring of rich men, his father had told him, adding forthrightly that in any case he considered twenty-one far too young for a man to marry. He had had a miraculous escape, he had added.

Perhaps he had…certainly the experience had soured him against committing himself to any kind of permanent relationship with someone else. There had been women, of course—episodes he was not proud of and which soon lost their savour—but over these last few years there had been no one, and he had been content with that state of affairs. Until now, because for some reason this idiotic female asleep beside him was making him uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was, after all, a man and not a monk!

He wondered how old she was…eighteen? Nineteen? He was thirty-four, and she was not his type anyway. Jolie had been a soignée elegant blonde, tall and slim. This…this child wasn’t much over five feet two, and as for her shape—impossible to see what it was like under that appalling sweatshirt.

When he had picked her up, though, his hands had fitted easily around her waist. Her wrists were fragile and narrow, and she had the longest eyelashes he had ever seen—unless they were false…

As he stole another look at Emily’s sleeping profile, just to make sure that he hadn’t imagined that thick, long sweep of curling lashes, the road dipped for a hundred-yard stretch where it was fully exposed to the full force of the blizzard, and before he could do a single thing about it his Land Rover had run straight into an eight-foot drift of snow.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS Matt’s savage curse that woke Emily, combined with the sudden jarring sensation as the Land Rover’s engine stalled.

As she opened her eyes and blinked sleepily, she realised immediately what had happened, and it was Emily and not Francine who asked automatically, ‘Can we dig our way out, or…?’

Matt gave her a sharp look. Was she serious? The only women he knew would rather die of exposure than risk their long varnished nails by wielding a spade. ‘It might be easier to reverse; the drifts are only going to get worse if we turn back.’

Immediately Emily shook her head. ‘It’s too late,’ she told him calmly. ‘The road will be blocked where it dips down to the river. That’s always the first place the drifts form.’

He gave her another sharp look, but recalling the stretch of road she was referring to had to admit that she was probably right.

‘It looks as if we’re well and truly stuck, then,’ he said tersely. Inwardly he was cursing himself for not setting out earlier. If he had not been having doubts about the wisdom of interviewing for this new job…

Now he had no option but to spend what was left of the night in the close confines of his Land Rover with this idiotic female, who smelled disturbingly of some kind of no doubt expensive French scent.

Emily would have been stunned had she known what he was thinking. The French scent was in fact the rose-scented soap she always used and was so accustomed to that she had no idea of the way it clung so pervasively to her skin.

‘I suppose we ought to get out and check that we can’t dig our way out,’ she suggested cautiously.

‘I’ll do it,’ her companion said tersely. ‘There’s no point in both of us getting soaked.’

Emily wanted to point out that, since she already was, it seemed sensible that she should be the one to check on the extent of the drifting; but she suspected that this arrogant, lordly male would never accept that a woman could do such a task as effectively as a

man, so she said nothing and watched as he opened his door and climbed out.

His inspection of their plight was thorough, she had to admit when he eventually returned. She doubted that she would have had the fortitude to stay outside for so long. Snow clung to his sweater and jeans, turning him into a walking snowman, and she watched as he brushed the worst of it off before climbing back inside.

‘We haven’t a hope of getting out,’ he told her crisply, ‘and God knows how long we’ll be stuck here for.’

‘Probably only until tomorrow,’ Emily told him. ‘They normally try to keep this road open if they can. It’s a pity we can’t pull off the road to leave room for the snow plough,’ she added thoughtfully, causing him to give her a considering look.

Perhaps, after all, she was not as idiotic as he had first assumed; certainly there was no trace of panic in her behaviour at his announcement that they were stuck. He wished grimly now that he had stopped at that garage and bought himself something to eat, but he had been so conscious of how late he had been in leaving.

‘I suppose we’d better keep the coffee until we get cold,’ Emily murmured, speaking her thoughts out loud as she sifted through her brain trying to remember the most important laws of cold-weather survival.

They were more fortunate than most. They had warm clothing, a hot drink, some food, and a certain amount of shelter, although she suspected that the Land Rover would soon become very cold indeed without the engine running. She glanced over her shoulder into the rear of the vehicle, wondering if she had actually seen what looked like a rolled up sleeping-bag there. If so, they were very fortunate indeed. If not…well, she had Travis’s sweater to give her an extra layer of warmth, and, if only she could pluck up the courage to do so, she really ought to remove her wet jeans and wrap the car rug round her legs. It was silly to worry about modesty in this kind of situation, where the cold, wet fabric wrapped around her legs could dangerously lower her body temperature to the point where at some stage during their incarceration she could start to suffer from hypothermia.