Arctic Enemy Part 10

'Guy... that's why he was so hostile to me, isn't it?' she said, understanding suddenly lifting her voice. 'He saw through your plan from the start and thought I was your accomplice, either through design or ignorance. Either way, he couldn't help but feel contempt for me.'

The mask of affection and concern fell completely from Tony's face. 'You can think what you will,' he jeered. 'But can you write such drivel? It's sheer supposition. And a very unattractive picture of you, I might add: an ambitious reporter, struck silly by a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, throws herself at a wealthy man. When she's put in her place, she writes a false and malicious story in revenge.'

'That's not true!' she seethed.

'Isn't it? It's your word against mine, my dear, and I doubt very seriously whether anyone would believe you. Think about it for a moment, Sarah. You haven't got a single fact to back up any of your ravings. There's a word for that, Sarah- slander.' He jabbed a finger warningly in her face. 'If you print a word about these theories of Guy's-or these fantasies of yours about me trying to seduce you-my lawyers will break both you and your newspaper.'

They faced each other, anger snapping like an electric current between them. The harsh jangle of an alarm cracked the silence. 'Now what!' barked Tony, his eyes darting about the room in panic.

'It's the lifeboat call,' said Sarah, her voice a strangled whisper.

He burst past her, almost knocking her off her feet. He jerked open a closet door, pulled out a coat and lifejacket, and fled without a glance at her.

'Well,' she said, following after him, 'so much for the beautiful manners of the well-bred Mr Freeland!'

Stiff and awkward in their life jackets, Katie, Emily and Sarah huddled in the shelter of a stairway, beneath a fringe of dagger-sharp icicles. The officer in charge of their group had done his best to rea.s.sure them that the alarm was only a precaution, but they all sensed that the crisis had reached a critical point.

Katie's eyes were bright with unshed tears, her voice wistful. 'I haven't had a chance to say goodbye to Patrick, you know, Emily,' she said almost apologetically. 'I haven't seen him alone once since the storm hit.'

'Katie,' said Sarah brightly, 'this isn't the end for us-no one has given up! This is just some silly rule. Guy told me so!'

Astonishingly, Emily's voice held no fear. 'I don't see any point in fooling ourselves, Sarah. A person has a responsibility to face something like this squarely. I only wish I could have had one moment with my husband. But I won't, you know... he'll do his duty to the last second. That's just the way he's made.'

'Maybe we can't always say our final goodbyes, my dear,' said Emily. 'But I believe with all my heart that where there's love between a man and a woman, it's not really necessary. Patrick knows your heart and thoughts are with him now, just as John knows mine are with him. The words don't have to be spoken aloud.'

Katie looked gratefully at Emily, one small tear sliding unheeded down her cheek. How lucky these women were, thought Sarah. Even now, faced with the possibility of their deaths, they found a transcending strength in the bonds of love they shared with their husbands.

She and Guy had spoken no words either. At least, none of the right ones. For too long her stubborn pride had kept her from admitting the truth. It was Guy who had commanded her respect and admiration; Guy to whom she had been instinctively drawn. And it was Guy whom she loved.

I love him, she thought, astonished. Yes... I love him, I love him. She said it over and over to herself, at once intrigued and enchanted by the Tightness and simple beauty of it.

The door slid open and a group of men, bulky in oilskins and lifejackets, crowded the deck. Sarah's heart rose squarely to her throat as she picked out his profile.

'Patrick,' said Captain Price, 'you and your men do everything within your power to help Guy.' Then, turning to Guy and laying a hand on his shoulder, he said simply, 'Good luck, son.'

'I can't believe it,' breathed Katie. 'He's actually going out there to try to make that repair!'

They surged forward to the sleet-glazed rail as the men clambered down the stairs to the main deck. Under lines festooned with swords of ice, Guy shrugged off his life-vest and bent to receive the thick safety harness the men heaved over his shoulders.

The reality of the sacrifice he was preparing to make in order to ransom their lives broke over Sarah with equal measures of pride and dismay. She studied his face through misting eyes. Already it was glazed with sharp crystals of ice. His brows and lashes were white and bristling.

His body was about to endure an appalling ordeal. A body she had once, for a brief moment, held so close to her own... and then rejected. If only she could hold him to her once again and comfort him with her own warmth! The rush of longing for him that swept through her left her weakened.

'Sarah?' Katie tugged at her sleeve. 'He'll make it-you'll see.'

'Oh, Katie,' said Sarah miserably, 'it's all wrong between us, and now I'll never be able to make it right!'

'Do... do you care for him, Sarah?' Katie asked gently.

Sarah nodded, blinking back the tears.

'Look! He's going.'

Guy climbed the few steps to the catwalk that ran out to the bow over the tangle of pipes that littered the deck. Patrick made one last check of the tool pack strapped to his back, then gave him two smart slaps on his bottom. Guy turned and raised his hand in a gesture of farewell, and for a second, Sarah was sure his eyes looked up and fixed on hers.

She stretched out her hand as if she might touch him, and opened her mouth to call out his name, to tell him, but the wind stole her words. Devastated, she watched him turn his back to her.

The Enterprise groaned and heaved herself clear of the sea. Guy, the line and clamp of his harness gripped in one hand, sprinted down the long steel path. As the next wave hit, he slammed the clamp -on to a metal safety bar that ran the length of the catwalk. Wedging himself between two large pipes, he held on with all the strength of his legs and arms.

A wall of glittering green water descended on him, hiding him from their eyes for agonising seconds. It finally swirled away, threatening to snap the cable that now looked so pathetically thin and suck him with it.

Again and again he performed the same desperate ritual: fighting forward a few feet, crouching, being pounded and spun around by the sucking, receding wave. It was bone-crushing, exhausting work. They watched his painful progress in silence. Thoughts for their own wellbeing were forgotten as they followed the life-and-death drama of a single man.

When he reached the forward storage tank, he dropped down from the catwalk to the deck and snapped the harness on to a length of pipe beside the damaged valve cover. He had at least partial shelter there from the brunt of the waves. He pulled the tool pack from his back and set to work at once. He was forced to labour slowly and clumsily in insulated gloves, since the frozen metal would have torn the flesh from bare fingers.

He was only a small dot of colour that far away. His progress was followed through binoculars pa.s.sed from hand to hand down the rail. After long, dragging minutes, the man who held the gla.s.ses trained on his distant, toy-like figure gave a shout. Guy was waving his arms in a slow arc, giving them the signal that he had secured the damaged cover. A roar went up from the crowd.

'He's done it-by G.o.d, the man's done it!' someone cried. 'We'll get out of this yet!' And for the first time in many hours, they allowed themselves to hope.

But for Guy there was still the long, deadly run back to safety. He had to make it. After he had saved them, fate would be too cruel if it tore him away from them now. Silence fell on them again as he began to retrace his steps.

He was within one final sprint to the end, close enough for them to see the agony etched across his face. He was drawing on the very last of his reserves. The sinews of his neck stood out in sharp relief. His teeth were exposed in a clenched, hard line. As another dark wall of water rose above him, he lowered his head like a bull, his legs pumping furiously.

This time his luck did not hold. He managed to snap his harness to the bar, but as the water crashed over him, he could not find a hiding place. The pulling force of the retreating wave lifted him off his feet. The safety line pulled tight. Then, as a horrified gasp rose from the crew, it snapped with a noise like the crack of a pistol.

Sarah let out a long, agonised scream, sure she would see him swept overboard. Like a rag doll, he was tossed against a stand of pipes. As the Enterprise rose once more above the water, he was left hanging from the pipes, limp and seemingly without life. In the tiny whirlpools swirling beneath his dangling feet, a pool of blood grew large and tinted the water pink.

Patrick and his men made a desperate dash for him. There would be no second chances, they knew. The next wave would certainly pull him overboard. In the lull before it hit, they cut his swinging form free and dragged him in to safety.

Sarah stood in the doorway to the infirmary. They did not even see her, so fierce was their concentration. They knew his temperature had fallen close to the point where life can no longer be sustained. Warming him would have to come first, before they dealt with the head wound that had drained him of blood and consciousness.

His boots were yanked from him, releasing rivers of icy water. Scissors laid bare his arms and legs. Someone tore away his sweater front, exposing the tangled mat of curling dark hair. The skin that Sarah remembered as so hot and smooth was now frighteningly blue and shrivelled.

Her eyes followed the line of his narrow hip to where it swelled into the powerful muscle of his thigh. How very beautiful he was, she thought, grief constricting her throat.

A blanket snapped down over his body and four pairs of hands began kneading, urging life back into him. Silently, Sarah slipped out into the corridor.

By mid-morning, the storm had abated. As Patrick predicted, the sea was gla.s.sy smooth. Life aboard the Enterprise resumed its peaceful, graceful rhythm. People gathered in little knots to discuss their adventure and Guy's heroism, but an outsider would have seen nothing to indicate that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

Their elation over their own survival was tempered by the knowledge that Guy had not regained consciousness. As soon as the ship was within range of the coast, Sarah watched the Enterprise's Safety Officer leave as he had come. But this time, the helicopter was a Canadian Armed Services' rescue vehicle, and this time the pa.s.senger was strapped to a stretcher. There was no flashing, hostile glance from him. Sarah gazed down on to eyes that were closed and sunken.

He didn't even bother to knock. Sarah looked up from her packing to see Tony barging into her cabin.

'I want to talk to you.'

'Well, I don't want to talk to you.' She slammed the lid of her suitcase shut.

'I have to know what you're going to write about this trip.'

'Do you now?' she replied, retrieving her coat from the closet.

'You know d.a.m.n well I do!'

'Look, Tony, don't you have to go and give a speech or something? I hear there's a huge welcoming committee waiting for you down on the dock.'

'Yes, there is-and I want to make sure you're not going to do something stupid to ruin things.'

Sarah pulled on her kid gloves, meticulously smoothing one finger after another, taking grim satisfaction in the way it made Tony's temper rise. 'What are you worried about? For you, it's been strictly mission accomplished. For all the outside world knows, the only real problem we had was a freak winter storm, and no one's going to blame you for that.'

'Don't toy with me, Sarah. I want to know what's going to be in that d.a.m.n column of yours!'

'Then you're going to have to wait, like everybody else,' she said, clicking her bag shut. 'If you're still here when the man comes for my luggage, tell him I've gone down to my taxi already, would you?'

She closed the door on him and walked quickly down the long, polished hall, her heels making smart, brisk clicks.

All well and good to tell him to wait, she thought, as she emerged into the bright light of the Halifax morning. But the truth was, even she didn't have the faintest idea any longer of what she was going to write about the maiden voyage of the Arctic Enterprise.

CHAPTER NINE.

When the time did come for Sarah to write the story of the Enterprise, it eluded her for days. For a while, she sank into the closest thing to a real depression she had ever experienced.

She wrote a dozen different openings and tore them up in despair. She questioned her abilities, her values, and her responsibilities as a journalist. Oddly, D'Arcy had withdrawn from her during this period of testing, refusing all but the most general support. It had been, she realised only much later, his way of forcing her to come fully of age as a first-rate journalist.

Part of her problem was that so much of what happened during the height of the crisis had taken on the unreal quality of a nightmare. She was dealing with fears that did not materialise, facts that were frustratingly elusive, charges and counter-charges that could not be backed up. As Tony had warned her, there was precious little that she could set forth confidently as hard data.

Finally, with the deadline bearing down on her, she had paid a brief visit to the newspaper's legal office. Afterwards she had gone home, closed her bedroom door, and written solidly for a week.

Curiously, once the decision had been made, the story had seemed to write itself, using her only as a vehicle. It had been there all along, waiting for her, needing only courage to uncover it.

She had wanted to tell a story about challenge and temptation, about courage and sacrifice. She wanted to describe the pressures forced on people by a world demanding fast solutions to problems to which there are no easy answers. And so she had. She a.n.a.lysed the questions unblinkingly, careful not to cast blame she could not prove, but refusing, also, to gloss over the very real difficulties.

Most important of all, she told a story about people-the strong, hard-working men-and women-who deal every day, often putting their lives on the line, with situations that the rest of the world only talks about.

The day she delivered the story to her editor, and sat idly chatting with Trish as she waited for him to read it, a calm had flowed into her. She was unexpectedly at peace with herself. Whatever his judgment, whether he loved it or hated it, she had written the truth as she had seen it.

From across the press room, D'Arcy's eye had caught hers and told her everything. She could have cried. After all the effort, all the private pain and misunderstanding that would never be written about, she at least had the satisfaction of knowing she had not betrayed his trust.

Trish read it, too. 'It's exciting the way you describe the storm. I shiver just reading about it. And isn't it a miracle the way that feller managed to survive... what was his name?' There was curiosity in her voice.

'Court,' said Sarah. 'Guy Court.'

'Yes... did you ever manage to get through to the hospital in Montreal where they flew him?'

'Yes, I did,' she confirmed, her voice as matter-of-fact as she could manage. 'The nurse said it was just a mild concussion. He was able to fly back to London after only a day of rest.'

'Thank heavens for that! I wonder what his reaction to your story would be-he's such a large part of it.'

Sarah's lower lip formed a soft pout. 'It doesn't matter much. Captain Court had his mind made up about what I would write long before I did.'

Trish looked at her quizzically. The sharpness in Sarah's voice seemed quite uncalled-for. 'The phone's been ringing all morning with congratulations for you-I unplugged your extension, by the way,' she said. 'And D'Arcy called. He says the compet.i.tion's green with envy over your scoop. He asked me to remind you about the little celebration dinner date the two of you have tonight.'

'Thanks. I won't forget. Did he say what time?'

'Eight o'clock, at the Chateau Laurier.'

'My, he is in a good mood! He's never taken me any place grander than the office cafeteria.' Sarah stirred her tea round and round. There was nothing she could do except think of Guy. All she was really hoping for was a chance to forget, for a while, that small but persistent ache that had been with her ever since she watched the helicopter bearing Guy's body crab up and away from the ship. She had at least to try, or the memory of him would threaten any relationship she tried to form with another man. No matter how deeply he had touched her, she couldn't allow that to happen. She was quite sure that if and when Guy Court thought of her, he didn't let it stop him getting on with his life.

Guy! she thought. Guy! He was moved to fan whatever it was that burned in her. He drew her out, provoked her, as she did him. It had been an explosive love, but worth the world.

Except now she was left with ashes, and a grief that bowed her like some great, despairing weight. Her days were filled with regrets for a love lost. Her nights were spent dreaming impossible dreams. I'm frightened, she thought, suddenly. I have all these feelings, and I don't know how to cope with them. What am I going to do?

CHAPTER TEN.

'I'm joining Mr Turner for dinner, Karl.'

The maitre d'hotel was instantly attentive. Sarah was familiar to him as a newspaper personality who came with the famous to his restaurant.

'Yes, he left word, Miss Grey,' he said, smiling. 'If you'll follow me, they're already waiting.'

They? Sarah thought. She threaded her way through the crowded dining room, her dress making soft swishing noises. To lift her spirits, she had put on her best, a slip of cream silk crepe, exquisitely tucked and edged in lace, and closed with tiny silk-covered b.u.t.tons. Around her neck she wore a long strand of pearls that matched the clips on her ears.

She spotted D'Arcy sitting at a circular table by the tall windows, involved in a laughing, animated conversation with a man who sat with his back to her.

'Here's our girl at last!' said D'Arcy, beaming. He rose, as did the other man, and for a moment Sarah felt giddy and had to fight an urge to turn and flee. It was Guy.

'I'm sure no introductions are necessary between you two!' D'Arcy was saying.

'h.e.l.lo, Sarah.'

She struggled for her voice. 'h.e.l.lo... I'm glad to see you well.'

'Thank you... yes, I'm fine, now,' he replied, a faint, polite smile lifting the corners of his mouth.