A Christmas Escape Read Online Free PDF Page A

could not help. The only service he could offer would be to keep secret that he had heard anything.
    When could he move without rattling stones and letting her know there had been someone there? Not knowing who it was might be even worse for her.
    He heard footsteps approaching from the other way: a heavy tread. The next moment there was a voice: certainly not Bailey returning. It was a moment before he recognized it was Bretherton’s.
    “I’m so sorry,” Isla said clearly. “Dust in my eyes.” She made a mighty effort to compose herself and sound normal.
    “I suppose it’s partly ash,” Bretherton replied. “There must be centuries’ worth of it around here.”
    “Yes, of course,” she agreed. “I keep thinking that one day I’ll walk up there and look. It’s quite a long way.”
    “You mustn’t go alone,” he warned her gently. “If you slipped and hurt yourself, it could be ages before anyone found you. Please promise that you won’t do that!”
    She gave a rough little laugh, as if it hurt. “I promise you, Colonel, I won’t. Maybe I’ll go up one day when Mr. Finbar does.”
    “That would be a good idea.” He did not offer to take her himself.
    Charles wondered how long they had known each other. Was it before this trip to Stromboli? She called him “colonel” even in what they assumed to be complete privacy. There was a shyness in her voice but a warmth also. She liked Bretherton. Or perhaps she simply liked anyone who spoke to her kindly.
    There were a few moments of silence; then Bretherton spoke again.
    “Are you sure there is nothing I can do to help?”
    She took a deep breath. “There’s nothing anyone can do,” she said softly. “But thank you for asking. It…it’s kind of you.”
    As Bretherton started to move, Charles left as quietly as he could, hoping his footsteps were masked by the sound of the other man’s.
    Back in his room, he collected a light jacket and put on his stronger boots, suitable for climbing on the harsh ash and boulder-strewn paths up toward the summit of the mountain.
    He enjoyed stretching his legs and walking in the open. For the first half mile or so the path climbed only very slightly; then he felt it in the back of his legs as it became steeper. He was surrounded by tall, dry grasses of many sorts, grown from seeds long ripened and blown away by the wind. There were no flowers—it was far too late in the year—but he could see the husks of old seed heads, shells of where there had been flowers. There were also, in places, low scrub bushes that might well be green in the spring but were now dry and only faintly aromatic.
    He stopped for a few moments, giving himself a rest, and time to turn slowly and look at the view. To one side of him the cone of Stromboli rose into the unbroken blue of the sky, almost symmetrical, at least from this point. It would be a stiff climb, but perhaps another day he would do it. It would be good for him to pit himself against it.
    But what if he failed? What if a miserable creature like Bailey could do it, and he couldn’t?
    Why should that bother him? Wasn’t he used enough to failure to take it in his stride? He ought to be. What had he ever succeeded at? His elder brother had died a hero in the Crimea. His sister was possibly even braver; she had gone out there as a nurse, voluntarily. No one had made her go. In fact, several people had tried to stop her. Not that trying to stop Hester had ever gained anyone a victory.
    She had fulfilled her dreams, even magnified them. And no one had arranged a suitable marriage for her! The idea made him smile, perhaps a little ruefully. She had married the man she loved—a highly unsuitable man he had seemed at the time—but she was truly happy.
    Charles had stayed at home and done what he could to help his parents, without any success at all. That was almost too painful even to think of, and yet he did, even knowing how it would hurt.
    It had been one of those wretched tricks