‘N-n-no,’ I protest. From the look on his face, I know he sees the panic in my eyes and understands exactly what I’m worried about.
‘Lizzy, I’m sorry, but I have to. You’re hypothermic. Do you want to die?’
I’m too exhausted to put up much of a fight, so I let him take off my jacket and then my damp hoodie and then unzip my sodden jeans. Well, I don’t want to die ...
***
‘Why are your mitts so dirty?’
‘Hmmm?’ I reply sleepily.
It’s been half an hour in the Arctic-issue sleeping bag with my frozen limbs entangled with Dain’s toasty, warm ones. It’s a tight fit in the sleeping bag due to his tall frame, but thank God, it’s not as intimate a scenario as I thought it would be. I still have some clothing on: a T-shirt, bra, knickers, and the thick woollen socks he’s pulled on to my feet. Dain’s in black thermals. It’s all very proper—apart from me snuggling against his chest and him rubbing his hands up and down my arms and thighs to get the circulation flowing.
We’ve shared several cups of hot toddy, which, on top of the drama of the day, is making me feel tiddly. My stomach is filled with home-made oat and honey flapjack things he’s brought along. I’m beginning to thaw out. Or just melt into him.
His headlamp has been set up nearby ‘so it’s not so goddamn dark’, and it’s illuminating the tent like it’s a glowing orange bubble. He’s also ‘checking my vitals’, which involves taking my pulse and staring intently into my eyes, looking for signs of persistent wooziness. I’m pretty sure he’ll find it. Being so close to him is making me feel dazed and confused.
On this latest check, he’s also inspecting my hands. ‘Your mitts, they’re filthy.’ He reaches over into the front pocket of his backpack and pulls out a packet of antiseptic wipes. Extracting a couple, he gently cleans the mud from my fingers. Now that I’m defrosted, the blood is flowing freely through my extremities, so I can feel every small cut and blister he touches.
‘I was digging. For Emily’s novel. Under the trees,’ I say through gritted teeth, wincing at the stings. ‘You know, Charlotte’s passage inVillette.’
Dain silently scrubs at my palm before saying, ‘And did you find anything?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there you go. Crazy novel search over.’ He doesn’t say anything else, but I know he was worried about how cold I was. Tucking the soiled wet wipes into the packet, he places it on the ground and snuggles back into the sleeping bag with me again.
‘But it seemed logical. Where else would she hide it but at Top Withens, the proposed site ofWuthering Heights? I thought if there was something to what she wrote, I needed to take action. What if the novel still exists, and it’s languishing somewhere?’
Dain shakes his head as if to say I’m nuts, but I feel one of his thigh muscles contract against mine. The wind, which had lessened, has picked up again, snuffling around the roofless rooms like a dog. The noise increases to a howling crescendo, making the sides of the tent flap. Afraid, I press closer to him.
‘It’s OK, it’s just the wind. It can’t hurt you,’ he says comfortingly, putting an arm around me. Feeling like it’s OK to do so, I snake one of mine round his waist.
‘I don’t like it. It sounds feral.’ I shudder, glad that he’s with me. I’m dreading the fallout with Klint tomorrow (he’s been notified that I’m safe via message, but we haven’t actually spoken).
‘Thank you. I don’t know what would have become of me if you hadn’t shown up,’ I say in a muffled voice, my face now smooshed against his thermal-covered hard chest. I breathe him in. He smells like vanilla and paper, like he’s been browsing in a library; it’s a heady cologne for a book lover.
‘Let’s not think about it. I’m glad you followed my advice and had a fully charged phone.’ He strokes my back, and it feels nice—probably too nice. But I may as well enjoy this since it’s the last time I’m going to see him.
‘You’re kind of the last person I expected to show up after our discussion the other day.’
‘When I heard there was a girl with long curly hair and blue eyes stranded on the moors, I leapt into action,’ he murmurs in my ear. ‘Besides, I didn’t like how we left things.’
His whisky breath tickles my neck, and I shiver. That sounds like he saw an opportunity to be alone with me—something that both pleases and scares the dickens out of me.
‘Me neither,’ I say, trying to breathe evenly. But my heart thuds erratically, and I shift away from him. If Dain feels it beating against his chest, he might decide to take my pulse again, and I’m not sure how I’ll explain a rate of 120 beats per minute.
He touches my damp hair, which has spread out on the top of the sleeping bag. I presume he’s checking if it’s dry yet. ‘Well, since we’re here now’, he says, ‘tell me something about you.’
‘I’m a silly idiot who doesn’t have a waterproof jacket,’ I quip.
He huffs, ‘Obvious. Something else.’
‘I’m an Oxford graduate with a master’s in nineteenth-century American feminist literature,’ I say automatically.
‘I know that already. Tell me something more personal.’
I’m not sure what to tell him, but all of a sudden, there’s a burning need in me to confess. ‘I’m not ... I’m not a good person,’ I choke out.
